Monday, August 11

I didn't expect to grieve so heavily for Briggs. I hadn't lived with him for four years when he died, but his passing stirred up a emotions I didn't realize I'd been harboring. My brother says "cats are different, they span multiple eras." He's right. Briggs was the last connection to several different parts of my life. 

This morning I'm a little more myself. I listen to Robert Shaw Chorale's ridiculous, but transcendent Sea Shanties album, then Jules Shear's debut. Next up is Joan Shelley's beautiful self-titled album from 2017. I get halfway through the first song then remove it from the platter. Too sad. 

The past couple of nights I've found unexpected comfort watching social media clips of the Oasis reunion tour. They were never a band I cared about. I wasn't into the songs and the constant in-fighting and drama always put me off. Now, I’m drawn to the sense of bonhomie surrounding this tour. Massive stadiums drunk on lager and nostalgia, shouting out every word, the Gallaghers seemingly getting on well. I open my Instagram feed to videos of Liam balancing a tambourine atop his bucket hat and Noel in a button-up polo shirt looking like a weekend dad-rocker. I’m oddly moved by all of it. Are Oasis our saviors?