Drowning out the voices in my head…

I suppose one of the minor drawbacks of commuting long distances on one’s own may be the descent into total madness. Such commuting (and this may only be for high-altitude commuting as through the Tipperary mountains) does have the tendency to allow a singleton commuter to engage in frequent “conversations” with himself.

Now such internal dialogues can be most useful if they, for example, form the basis of preparation for upcoming meetings (also known as “inevitable altercations with work colleagues”) – allowing a commuter to counter many potential arguments that may be put forward by those poor types who are disadvantaged by living close to their workplace. Often involving the acerbic playing of many parts, the imitation of people’s voices during such solo skits may well be the second sign of madness (the first sign of madness is Suggs coming up the driveway of course).

The real worry however, as I established recently for myself, is when inner dialogue involves the pathological replaying of old or even ancient conversations. Last week I found myself coming up with the perfect rejoinder to a rather spurious point that a member of the managing classes put to me. Sadly the point was put to me several years ago – it was a good comeback though…  No good can come from such behaviour, I know this, I’m not an idiot – I’m just a commuter.

These inner conversations lead to the driving down of one’s patience as well as the accelerator pedal – a poor combination. But they spring from legitimate needs to self analyse and (mostly) to fill time and these are deep-rooted needs amongst the commuting brethren. So what to do?

Well, as with all things in life, the answer comes from Walter Becker (going solo from Steely Dan) and Paul Buchanan (playing under the name The Blue Nile) respectively. Of course! Replace your own ancient conversational regrets and internal dialogues of despair with those of seriously talented and doggedly introspective musicians. These guys wear their hearts on their sleeves and have produced several great albums of gut-wrenchingly honest examinations of past misdemeanours, or in Becker’s case, what seems to be borderline criminal activity (excellent!)

The albums here represent the heights of both parties; deceptively uncomplicated arrangements (which apparently took forever to achieve) accompanying lyrical frankness delivered with vocals that bear witness to their authenticity. The effect is to push aside your own squeaky inner voices and instead force you into a world of other people’s conversations and arguments with dead hang-gliding friends, strangers inhabiting lonely Scottish cityscapes, or long gone paramours.  All these play out on musical landscapes that defy the simple pigeonholing techniques of modern music criticism and the lyrics provide levels of warm wistfulness (in Buchanan’s case) or ice-cold vitriol (in Becker’s case)  that could be bottled, sold at a premium and then most likely banned.

Both The Blue Nile and Walter Becker have many great moments in their back-catalogues (Becker was in Steely Dan for goodness sake) that deserve many listens, but Hats by The Blue Nile and 11 Tracks of Whack by Walter Becker are their finest moments. These albums often leave me driving open-mouthed but saying nothing.