Music in lockdown: A restorative force in the wake of political anxiety
- Amber Lane
- Feb 4, 2021
- 11 min read
Covid has dissected society at its core. It's caused a wave of confusion and anxiety. Millennials have been forced to think deeper about their career prospects. The governments juggling of information has sparked a burning outrage for change. A shattered sense of hope and optimism loom as we are forced to endure nearly a year of lockdown. Young people are forced to ask themselves burdening questions about their future:
What is next?
Will i still find a job?
Do I go back to university?
Do I move back home with my parents?
The one thing that still holds truth is music. It is eternal, and reminiscent of history and our past experiences. It transcends class and race. It binds communities together and provides relief from personal and social struggles. Musical sound has been a voice for the subdued and segregated, holding grounding in the belief that there are better days to come. I have often found myself staring at the clock on my wall, waiting for the time when society can get back on its feet and continue to culturally reshape the music scene. I miss the gigs, the festivals and singing to myriads of new faces. Online music events fail to encapsulate the mental and physical rush, that desecrates societies structured decorum.
There is beauty however, in the notion of private experience. The belief that music takes the individual on a journey of new discovery. New tastes and sounds exhibit more flavour and challenge our preconceived notions of identity and belonging.
Below are responses from creatives, who provide an insight into their own personal experiences with music in lockdown.
Max Carlo Zevo Dobson
We are currently living through a historic era where hugging your loved ones could have you branded an outlaw. Closeness is a luxury of the past which we mourn and dream of in imperfect solitude. For months on end the world has been shut inside, away from collaboration and sharing. In the four (or more, depending on the ambitiousness of your home) walls we find ourselves in, waiting out what seems to be an apocalypse we pray is temporary, emotions have run thick, with little to no output. A silver lining which wraps around the misery of our current time has been our ability to pause and seek within, finding expressions of love, togetherness, pain and loss in music. Whether it has been a promise to properly listen to a classic album from start to finish or discovering a whole new plethora of contemporary sounds. Music seems to hold a blueprint of survival which we can download and translate to help us understand what we’re feeling, how to deal with such feelings and what we have to look forward to. Sometimes it’s in the lyrics, hearing someone accurately describe the pain you’re feeling, proving you’re not alone. Sometimes it’s in the rhythm, an almost innate, biological reaction to a beat serving as river to flow down, from dancing in the kitchen to hosting a brisk walk. Sometimes it can even act as a ticket to fragile moments for nostalgic tourism, listening to music that reminds you of someone you’ve lost, indulging yourself in dewy memories or train yourself to rip the melody from the trauma and allow the music to mean new things to you. For me, it has been about using music to realise my mental state. A slow, melancholic blues number can certainly hold your hand in sadder times, even seem to thicken the atmosphere of a cold, lonely bedroom. A favourite band’s live album, Elton John’s 11/17/70 or Simply Red’s Live at Ziggo Dome can act as old friends, bringing new kicks to familiar songs. Even hearing crowds in the background seems to fill a certain void.
But why music? Of all the pastimes that seem to pose at our finger tips, from banana bread bonanzas to meandering through mountains of lost literacy, music has been an authoritative lead in our search for inner peace. Could it come from scientific explanations, with information racing through the prefrontal cortex, unlocking the cheerful connotations you previously experienced with this song? Could it be a mob mentality, a social pressure for you to love the music your friends love, to listen to the artist the world dictates is trending? I will attempt to untangle these treacherous ties and tantalising thoughts with a simple answer, it’s you. Only you can love your favourite song the way you do, only you see the memories triggered by melodies and muses, only you listen to that song to feel close to that person again. Music is a miracle of media, an ancient tradition that uses the secret coding of the universe as passwords to our true inner selves. So turn off the news for tonight, put on your favourite record and slow dance with yourself, you deserve it, we all do
Liza Kupreeva
For me, the beginning of lockdown coincided with the beginning of a Master’s degree. Instead of new opportunities, experiences and meetings, I was alone in my childhood home, reverting back to an almost pre-adulthood state of existence.
The first lockdown was the time of increased digital engagement, saturated with Zoom quizzes, Netflix watch-parties and online masterclasses. Nothing really succeeded in diverting me, and in no time, I was excusing myself claiming “prior engagement” – by which I meant drinking half a bottle of wine in front of the TV. What did sustain my interest was collaborative playlist making on Spotify with a group of friends. The rules of our playlist, “Corona Cruising”, were simple: one song per day, no repeat artists, should relate to the currently situation but must remain upbeat. What I loved about this project was that it required an active engagement with the music we listened to. It made us choose, plan, research, and newly appreciate the music that we once, perhaps, took for granted. Crucially, it also made us share with others and gave us an assurance that someone will actively listen.
It was during this lockdown that I began listening to IDLES, spurred on by the addition of “Mr. Motivator” at the early stages of the playlist. IDLES was one of the bands I frequently heard about and was encouraged to explore, but which I firmly ignored due to my “lack of time” that was actually the lack of effort. “Mr Motivator” was the ultimate exercise song. It was also the ultimate washing-up song. Or walking around the flat song. It was great; it reminded me of better times, it made me want to explore more and to share music with others. It was a “banger”.
When I looked up IDLES on YouTube and watched their live performances, it was like I was washed over with a wave of unquenchable energy that came from a whole spectrum of human emotion. What struck me most, was that despite the euphoric stage-presence, this palpable energy did not come from a sense of joy, but rather from a darker place of uncertainty, anger and disappointment. The magic of IDLES is the ability to utilise these feelings and transform them into means for survival. This is perhaps most evident in their first two albums “Brutalism” and “Joy as an Act of Resistance” which utilise difficult personal experiences and social realities in creating a narrative of resistance. This resistance is not sustained by anger, but rather a firm resolve to prevail and rise above. It is also permeated with a sense of fun – a striking diversion from what one would normally expect from a band reminiscent of The Sex Pistols.
Overall, listening to IDLES provided me with an enormous sense of catharsis, which expressed itself in everything that I did. It made me want to move and shake myself out of a stupor that I slipped into at the beginning of the lockdown. The energy which this music radiated – alive and defiant – was the absolute opposite of my everyday experience yet was exactly what I needed. It was, indeed, a joy and an act of resistance.
Louisa Streeting
Music has always been a quick form of escapism from the perils of the outside world. Drawn to to different playlists or albums for various moods, music conjures up a myriad of emotions inside of us. Our listening habits are undeniably more fragmented in the 21st century. Admittedly, I have many long, jumbled playlists I mindlessly put on shuffle for the different frames of mind I find myself in. While locked down during the ongoing coronavirus outbreak, I spent a lot more of my time carefully listening to full albums, reappreciating the distinctive stories told by each artist. There are certain musicians I revisited time and time again as supportive and uplifting pieces of music during a strange time.
Despite the lack of touring and live shows, some artists still boldly released their new albums for awaiting fans. Little Dragon’s album New Me, Same Us arrived in March shortly after the UK entered their first lockdown. The bouncing basslines of ‘Hold On’ and ‘Are You Feeling Sad?’ were cool and reassuring, evoking hues of summer with the album’s laid back attitude. Upon reflection, the record reminds me of being outside on those government-permitted walks, soaking in Spring’s crisp, cool sunshine. I associate this time with blissful ignorance, unaware of the pending second and third parts of the UK lockdown to come.
With a lot of time spent inside this year, like many people I spent hours on end at my make-shift desk, silently enjoying the work-from-home environment. While I work, I find instrumental music to be quietly contemplative without being depressing. The absence of lyrics helps me to concentrate and process with a clearer head. I was immediately drawn to Ólafur Arnalds’ music, an Icelandic composer famed by his soundtracks and who has trickled into mainstream audiences. His 2018 album re:member merges contemporary electronic sounds with classical traditions, creating an elevating feeling that often motivated me to work. Despite initially relishing in the shorter distance from my bed to my desk, the lack of separation from home life started to lose its appeal. I began to even miss the banalities of the morning commute, being able to listen to my disjointed playlists and shutting my brain off completely.
As we neared the end of 2020, I bizarrely started listening to Bee Gees’ record Children of the World over and over again. As a genre I feared to be quashed from the lack of parties and clubbing, I found disco immensely uplifting when the nation briefly came out of the nation’s second lockdown in December. Something about Barry Gibb’s falsetto has an ironic yet timeless quality to it. The opening track ‘You Should Be Dancing’ comes with a whole new meaning in 2021. Despite a new veil of hope offered by the vaccine rollout in the UK this year, we are a long way off from cramming altogether on a sweaty dance floor. But the very prospect of it instils us with an ounce of hope for normal life.
Amber Lashley
During the many lockdowns we've been through since March last year I found myself searching for new artists to listen to and diving into discographies just to pass the time, because of this I both discovered and rekindled a love for so many artists. A number of these now remain as some of my favourites such as Shame, A Tribe Called Quest, Big Piig, Snail Mail, Slowthai and Black Country, New Road, which are only a few I'm still gladly stuck on.
If I had to pick one artist who helped me cope with lockdown and kept me hooked from the start of it until now, it would undoubtedly be the Dublin band Fontaines D.C. After only ever hearing (and loving) their most well-known track 'Boys In the Better Land' and suddenly having an unholy amount of free time, I listened to their album 'Dogrel'. For the weeks after I would only ever listen to that album and all I wanted to do was tell people about it. My favourites from the album were definitely 'Sha Sha Sha', 'Too Real and 'The Lotts', but their song 'Roy's Tune' has ultimately become one of my all-time favourites. My timing was seemingly perfect because after only a few months of pouring over 'Dogrel' I got my hands on their newest album, as they released 'A Hero's Death' in July. I listened to the whole album driving around in my car and was blown away by it, specifically 'A Lucid Dream' and 'You Said'. Although I am looking for new music all the time it is relatively rare for me to find an artist who becomes one of my favourites, it is even more rare for me to be such a fan that I regularly listen to their entire discography. With there being such a struggle to stay entertained during lockdown and also being someone who was working in retail most days, having an artist who you can listen to before you go somewhere and after you get back, who releases music you love, and broadcasts live shows you can enjoy really counts for something. Looking back music is something that really helped keep me and my brain occupied during all the scary yet simultaneously boring times we were faced with last year.
Enjoying their music so much also helped me cope because it made me get excited about things I could do after we finally return to everyday life. Both albums are the kind that would make you imagine hearing the songs live, so as soon as I heard their music all I wanted to do was go to one of their shows. I even bought a ticket to their show for Banquet Records, and then another to Alexandra Palace, both of which are of course being constantly pushed back but I'm adamant that once it’s safe, it will be completely worth the wait.
Written by Amber Lashley
ig - @amber_lashley
email - amberlashley1@outlook.com
With lockdown, came silence: a turning down of my audio as the general noise went up outside. It was a valid noise, a hurt noise, a compelling noise, a scared noise - a rage as the doors closed. And once the locks locked - my silent silence.
I spent 2 weeks with my sonus unplugged, and my earphones wrapped haphazardly in a drawer: I was mesmerised, consumed, by the news. The absurdity of hearing our Chief Medical Officer say 20,000 dead would be a positive outcome...and still the noise, rising outside the door, changing, augmenting and spilling into my home as we sandbagged our doorways. With retrospect, my 14 days with no music was the loneliest I’ve ever felt, and then when I lost my job, and my partner lost her job, within the space of a week, music was, as it always had been, a succor to the madness, and I needed to be absorbed.
I’ve always felt drawn to dynamism - the forcing of matter or progress, by vigorous means, and I’ve found music the most capable of manifesting it. After my COVID silence and confusion I sought something - dynamism wasn’t enough, I wanted to sink into an artist and let the music roll me like a wave. I wanted something other than the huge bastard swinging pendulum of shitty fate to move me.
So, I returned to Cloudkicker.
Back in 2012 when I was busying myself riffing and touring around the South of the UK in my university band, the gorgeously produced Cloudkicker - the instrumental project started by Ben Sharp in 2008 - caught my attention: the brute drive of the record The Discovery; all bruising audible hits, rolling, rolling, rolling riffs and some of the most complete guitar arrangements I had ever heard.
Cloudkicker, back then, led me down a black hole of technical musicocity and introduced me to a whole new way of appreciating modern alternative music without the need for a singer. I’d always floated at the edges of instrumental music as an end, rather than a means, and in my enthusiasm for loud, fuck-you rock music, caustic punk, riffs and the pit, I had found something...classically all consuming. Listening to Cloudkicker then made me just shut up, and listen.
Then life got in the way, I guess. A dead band, new jobs, a new house, a relationship, a dog. I had all but forgotten Cloudkicker, and their 14 other records, in my rush to exit the mire of music and attempt to craft a career out of the glowing embers of my own musical dumpster fire. I found love. I found music could be a hobby, not an obsession, and I could enjoy it without analysing it.
And then…
Two weeks into lock-down and I let the music back in. I had one of the ChilledCow playlists on serenely in the background and like a flash I suddenly found myself scrawling like a maniac through Spotify, trying to find something - a...sound. What was it? It was...it wasn’t new, it was something from when I was touring...something that just...and like a light turning on, it was “Amy, I love you” from the Beacons record. Call me a raw nerve - I felt the cold love return. And I had so many more records to listen to. Yes, it’s insular, yes, it’s music to forget to, yes, it’s tapestry music, yes, it’s experimental, yes, yes, yes. It’s mine, again.
Written by Jack Spurway
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