Discs on the ground.

I was standing there in P Town looking at these janky burned CDs some guy had dropped out of his bag while getting onto the bus. Before anybody could do anything about it, the doors shut and the bus disappeared down the street, because that’s what buses do. They don’t care about unfinished business. So there I was staring at these discs on the ground thinking, well, I gotta check these out. You never know. Sometimes the universe drops something at your feet, and sometimes you probably ought to leave it there, but I didn't. I picked them up.

I took them back to my apartment, cleaned them off, put one in the CD player, and suddenly I’m listening to Aphex Twin tracks. Then boom there it was. Cylob, “Cut the Midrange, Drop the Bass.” I don't know why that song became one of my favorite songs. It just got inside my mind. That phrase especially drop the midrange. I kept thinking about it. The song didn’t really play so much as latch on. It climbed into my skull, found itself a chair, and apparently decided it was staying.

Then, because the universe is largely administered by petty thieves and bad timing, I lost the disc.

Gone.

Not misplaced. Gone into that same parallel dimension where socks, Bic lighters, sunglasses, and several important pieces of paperwork apparently spend eternity together. But I figured, alright, fine. I know what the song is now. I'll just buy it. Very reasonable. Very adult. Except this was somewhere around 1996, Back then, trying to locate one obscure electronic track was closer to acquiring pharmaceuticals with a poem and a handshake.

So now I'm in Portland, wet, gray, slightly feral, heading toward this record store on Burnside somewhere between 13th and 14th. Mid-block, kind of tucked away in there like it didn’t necessarily want to be found. You couldn’t even approach the place properly. I remember circling the block in the rain like I was casing it.

And it was pouring. Portland rain. Coming down in sheets.

I went inside thinking, alright, these guys will know. Record store people were smug everywhere, but Portland. The level was extraordinary. The room practically came with a monocle. Still, I figured I'd say “Cylob, ‘Cut the Midrange, Drop the Bass,’” and somebody behind the counter would slowly nod like I'd just spoken the password.

Instead blank faces. Nothing.

I started explaining the song, and for some reason I was explaining it with my hands. I don't know what I expected my hands to contribute to the investigation. I’m standing there making little electronic music gestures in the air, trying to describe this thing that has been haunting me, and these guardians of the vinyl kingdom are looking at me like I'm explaining a UFO sighting to an alien.

No recognition. No spark. Nothing.

That was when the whole thing became a little strange, because now I knew the songexisted. I had heard it. I knew its name. But apparently nobody else in the room knew what the hell I was talking about. And there’s something faintly threatening about that situation. When you've experienced something clearly enough to remember it but can't produce the evidence anymore, the world starts looking at you differently.

So I bailed. Full retreat.

The mushrooms I'd gotten at the park earlier were beginning to give me what I can only describe as the cosmic wink, and standing in a Portland record store arguing with indifferent clerks about an invisible electronic song suddenly seemed like poor tactical planning. I needed something dependable. Chocolate. Coffee. Something warm and earthly that might keep me from becoming a soggy sad boy wandering Burnside while the buildings started developing opinions.

Eventually I learned the track was connected to Aphex Twin's label, but back then that information came through mail order catalogs, rumors. And I just found it on the Internet in less than 15 seconds.  

I love it.

I love the internet.