When it gets warm, I go on walks. I've lived in the southern half of Broad Ripple for going on four years now. Aside from in the house my parents own (and are selling soon), that's the longest I've ever lived in one place. And yet it still doesn't really feel like a mapped territory. And so I go on walks, usually with headphones in, music playing.
These are not new songs. Several of them I've put in playlists more than just once. But they are songs I hear or want to hear while I'm mapping blocks I've never walked on. Or looking up through still-stripped trees into the dusk.
Sometimes I walk without my headphones, but there's still a sort of music around, or a clatter anyway. A city neighborhood getting ready for how hot it's going to be, cracking windows, taking walks, singing to itself until it falls asleep or drinks deep.
The closer here is a track I recorded one late summer Saturday at Indy CD & Vinyl. I remember very distinctly putting my gear in the trunk of my car and going on a walk down through Broad Ripple until I made it to the water. I've said this before as a joke, but I really mean it: there's something, to me, about finding bodies of water in urban spaces. It feels incongruous. Everything around is all shoring up, constructing, growing taller, and then right there across the block is still body upon which nothing but ice in winter can grow. These songs sound like facing the water to me.
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