At present, my sinuses are so tightly packed with mucus that my entire skull feels as if it has been filled with hot cement—cement that is slowly, inexorably hardening and expanding, crushing blood vessels, pushing teeth from jaw, eyeballs from socket. My entire head is literally visibly swollen; the pain is excruciating.
I believe I have what is commonly known as a “summer cold.”
And while I am confident this horrific illness will eventually come to pass (just as soon as I drill a hole in my forehead to alleviate some of this intense, slow-building pressure), I am also forced to live with it for the time being, which means loading my body with unfamiliar, potentially dangerous chemicals, driving to and from work half-blind, and—most notably—piecing together a soundtrack for my suffering. And because this “summer cold” is surely, in fact, some strain of highly contagious, civilization-decimating plague that will also fell you, dear Reader, sometime in the near future, I thought it appropriate to share with you some of my favorite sick-time albums. I hope you too will appreciate this fine music, as your body betrays you and your mind gives way to desperation and, finally, lunacy. Enjoy!
advertisement
Radiohead, Kid A
While ill, I like to severely distort and confuse my consciousness, which means combining odd arrays of OTC drugs, sleeping long and random hours, watching entire seasons of television shows in marathon bursts, and Radiohead. Kid A is a surreal experience—equally beautiful and horrifying—and it so closely mirrors and complements illness that one might imagine it was conceived in a fever dream. It is contemplative and calming, detailed and expansive…simply breathtaking music, perfect for fever, night sweats and succumbing to the torturous, mind-bending throes of any debilitating malady.
Miles Davis, Sketches of Spain
I understand that NyQuil is most frequently consumed by teenagers at parties as an inexpensive, easy-to-obtain and effective inebriant, but in truth, it can also serve to temporarily alleviate the symptoms of cold or influenza. Its myriad potential side effects (dizziness, blurred vision, mild hallucinations) merely offer pleasant distractions from one’s suffering. That said, it is imperative that one have appropriately meditative and hallucinatory music to amplify those effects. Sketches of Spain is not Miles’ most psychedelic record (that would probably be Big Fun), but it is my favorite, and more importantly, it is psychedelic enough to get lost in, relaxing enough to nod off to, but substantial and engaging enough to keep one’s attention through prolonged stretches of confusion and fear.
Stars of the Lid, Stars of the Lid and Their Refinement of the Decline
It is important to remember that when you get this “summer cold,” your symptoms will mirror mine—and therefore, not only will you be dehydrated, dizzy and prone to crying jags, but your head will be stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, so that any harsh, grating, high-decibel or especially upbeat music will sound like the repetitive dissonance of a jackhammer on pavement, causing a throbbing, violent cranial pain. (I say this from direct personal experience, as one of my officemates is currently selfishly listening to Iron Maiden’s “Number of the Beast.”) As such, it is recommended you avoid anything that might contain such elements. Instead, search out artists like Boards of Canada, Eluvium or Stars of the Lid, whose last album, Stars of the Lid and Their Refinement of the Decline, is one of the loveliest, airiest, most serene works of ambient/drone that I know. Furthermore, at 120 minutes long, it requires little effort on the part of the listener: Just press play and drift off into whichever bizarre and dreamlike straits your mind chooses to wander.
Bob Dylan, Time Out of Mind
When I am sick, I don’t fight it or pretend to be healthy—no, I like to feel it, fall prey to it, wallow in it. (How better to gain the pity and charity of friends and loved ones?) There are few records that sound so much like illness as Bob Dylan’s 1997 comeback, Time Out of Mind, and fewer still that make the prospect seem so acceptable—welcoming, even. Dylan was in failing health while recording the album, and those conditions are present in the haunted, skeletal songs. (Coincidentally or not, the three albums Dylan has recorded since Time Out of Mind—2001’s Love and Theft, 2006’s Modern Times and this year’s Together Through Life—have been comparatively exuberant, life-affirming works.) It is a sad, desolate record—a thing for the ailing, the infirm. On “Not Dark Yet,” Dylan stares down death on the horizon, knowing that no matter how much he slows down the rhythm, his destination awaits him. “It’s not dark yet,” he sings, “but it’s getting there.” And while this “summer cold” may not end in such a lonely, morbid place, it nonetheless helps to have none other than Dylan himself providing such mournful reassurance.
When I am sick or just really tired I can not concentrate and can not take complication or anything intense. Mid 1960′s to mid 1970′s (pre disco) Top 40 usually does the trick