Review Summary: Could you feel it all again?
“Can you hear what I hear? It’s calling you my dear, out of reach” (2000)
Five years old, in the backseat of a grey Mitsubishi Magna, on a road trip to Thredbo – when the radio signal starts to crackle as you exit the city borders, your Dad puts a home-made mix in the tape machine. You remember Nine Inch Nails, Pet Shop Boys, Smashing Pumpkins, Placebo, Prodigy, and more. You arrive in town and “Lady” by Modjo plays all the time on the radio; the house beat feels never-ending. You watch Rage on the caravan park TV and get scared by the skeletons in the video to “Hey Boy Hey Girl” by the Chemical Brothers. You hear “Pure Shores” by All Saints and the melody unconsciously embeds itself in you, but the specificity of the moment escapes you until you hear it again in adulthood and the memories come rushing back.
“Could you remind me of a time when we were so alive? Do you remember that? Do you remember that?” (2007)
Your first year out of primary school, in the front seat of the Mitsubishi (which doesn’t know it only has a year left of life). Mum is driving you to a swimming lesson and you hear “Misery Business” on the radio and immediately know you have your first favourite band. Later that night you’re on the family computer, dodging viruses on Limewire to piece together Paramore’s discography, track by track. You love
Riot!, but there is an angsty, teenage melancholy in
All We Know Is Falling that speaks to your 12-year-old self. You remember walking your dog, Lucky, in the rain, while listening to “Franklin” – you sit on top of some wooden picnic furniture, pondering the lyrics and letting the raindrops saturate you. Lucky splashes in the puddles.
“The brightest stars burn out the fastest, but maybe we could still outlast it all” (2018)
The worst year of your life. You met the love of your life last year, you get your first real job, and you finally feel like a grown-up, but things come crashing down in April. Just like it always has been, music is there for you, and now so is your boyfriend – you’re all brought together in a moment of catharsis in July. Downstairs at the Oxford Art Factory, at what might be the smallest concert you’ve been to, you see Hatchie touring her debut EP a few weeks after release. Even with only five songs released, her timeless sound has a hold on you… it takes you back to childhood, before transporting you forward to a time you’ll be okay again. You hold hands and smile while she plays “Sugar & Spice”. It feels like she’s looking directly at you.
“It’s the memory of the real thing you had known since you were five” (2025)
You discover this new band. Weirdly, it’s via an out-of-the-blue message from a friend you haven’t spoken to since COVID lockdowns (but still think of from time to time). They recommend “300 Dreams” by After, and clearly they know you well because you’re instantly swept away by the overflowing nostalgia in those three minutes. You listen on repeat, singing along: “oh look at the state of me, I’m always falling down.” A few months later you get engaged by the sea in Italy. It catches you by surprise, and the moment’s exuberant joy warms your soul like the summer sun warms the Mediterranean. Nostalgia takes a backseat as you romanticise the present. You do laundry, drink Peronis and eat local pesto in bed.
“And you could always get the details wrong this time, but I don’t mind. And everything you said, everything you wanted, a whole life inside your head… everything you said, everything you wanted, could you feel it all again?” (2026)
