In the five weeks that have passed since the death of my dad, I've found many things difficult. One of the most unexpected is the inability to enjoy music. I had thought, perhaps, that music might be a great consolation at such a time - a way of having said for me what I cannot express myself.
However, this is not so. Over the last few weeks I have found that all the music I enjoyed two or three months ago now sounds flat and empty. Songs are too wordy, or too familiar or too strange. Their music is too elitist, or too rough and ready, or not complex enough or too down-to-earth. Nothing works; nothing sounds right.
As a result, I now find myself feverishly exploring new works by artists I have heard of in passing or previously ignored in favour of things I was more certain of. Occasionally something surfaces which makes a connection, but it doesn't last for long. The next track on the album is too challenging, perhaps, or too mundane, and the process begins again with a new name in the search box.
In the meantime I look at my collection of CDs and search for one which will sing lullaby to this very peculiar situation. They speak now only of the past, and of someone else's tastes. Whoever that person is, I wish that I could hear him singing.