Words by Indigo Baloch
I’m waiting for a 64 bus. 23 minutes to kill, but the time passes like seconds. It’s been a day where my luck is off by just moments and yet something has pushed me through all the waiting, the reluctant patience.
I woke this morning unable to find my keys. Sloppy, groggy, I’d left them in the laundry room of my apartment—completely unknowing, careless. My friend offers to grab us coffee, but the cafe she drives to is closed. It’s that kind of day.
Then I’m reminded there’s a new String Machine song that has been loved into existence and released. I put it on as I gather my things, keys located, cognitive function regained (if only slightly). I’m bobbing my head as I toss my water bottle, wallet, and (yes) keys into my bag. Things come together and shift in the right direction.
Nothing soothes me like this. Nothing is quite so meditative as this. I’ve heard it live—like a whispered secret, running sound for a simple gig, them teasing the tune. But hearing it fully, pulsing through my headphones; is revelation. It’s poetry, it’s consuming—the way only String Machine can be.
The song isn’t without its twinge of sadness, but that’s String Machine—the careful balance between light and dark, dancing through the tears. Whatever sadness may be lingering, all that’s left now is cathartic release. You forcefully shake it out of each of your limbs to the steady, playful beat.
I’m telling you about perhaps the most underrated band of our time. A band I feel in the very sinew and marrow of me when it’s on, when they’re playing, when I’m even just speaking to them. I’m telling you about something rare and crucial. Something that can turn an unlucky day into something precious. Suddenly I’m grateful to wait 23 minutes in the rain in December, under my pattering umbrella, cozy in my headphones, listening to something that fills my entire body with relief—a smile curling under my mask, easy and natural.
I’m surely confusing the strangers on the street, watching me sway to silence, unable to hear this private concert. But I feel so full and warm like a carefree little cat, ready to tuck into a perfect circle of happiness and comfort. My only complaint: that the song isn’t endless. That it’s not a constant loop, this gentle hand on my shoulder that I never want to lift. I could leave it there for years and never tire of its kind, certain presence.
photo credit: David McCandless