Summer Haze
ISSUE #245
The crest of summer is here. It’s hot, it’s smoggy, we shoot rockets at the moon. What can I say? It’s a holiday. This weekend is an annual apotheosis—a hazy pinnacle, a warped mirror, sweat laced with psilocybin. We just need music to play while we swim or sit on the porch. Put this one on, float downstream, go fry an egg on the sidewalk.
Nothing complicated here—sometimes the office closes early for a holiday and you have to send your newsletter quickly because you're going to the pool. We have all been there. Cool off, kitties, and enjoy this little pool playlist.
We are makers of tools that map the divine, tracing shadows in chalk before they move. My room is a sundial: it follows the long, slow arc of god. These songs feel the same, organisms themselves.
Professionals like to insist that every year has a Song of the Summer. It's a media thing. They even come to a consensus sometimes, though that's been harder and harder to do the farther we get from 2010.
The Chattahoochee is Atlanta's resident river, and they call it the Hooch, a name as appropriate as any for our 69th issue. It's no Mississippi: it's only about 500 ft. across instead of 2,000.
The songs are like a white noise machine, but instead of rain it's the sound of a summer under the fairy lights. It's a nice vibe to return to on long drives or lonely nights. This playlist has my own version of things; some songs that I think are synonyms. Consider it my thesaurus for the soundtrack.
It's a playlist of what we dub Record Store Songs. These are things I would play if I were ever lucky enough to work the counter at Record Collector, one of Iowa's best and brightest businesses. Almost every record I own is from there. I tried to stop there every time I walked home from class.
After work on a Friday (today, even!), head home, walk to your nearest beer, and open it. Go out to the porch, or to the balcony, or just to the biggest window in your apartment. The key is to be facing the light of the golden hour, in a relaxed and comfortable place. That's when you hit play.
The prompt, to paraphrase, was Songs to Play if I Owned a Diner. I'm sure you can picture it: I'm wearing the paper hat, the white apron, I'm serving well and wiping down tables, singing to customers in my rich baritone like the clerk at the candy shop from Willy Wonka.
The crest of summer is here. It’s hot, it’s smoggy, we shoot rockets at the moon. What can I say? It’s a holiday. We just need music to play while we swim or sit on the porch. Put this one on, float downstream, go fry an egg on the sidewalk.