The first time I heard the album I was 15. I was sitting with Justin Nawn in his car before choir rehearsal. He was 18 with tight-fitting vintage jeans and long curly blonde hair. His car was littered with CD’s.
He was God. And he had taken it upon himself to structure my musical education.
I remember sitting there with him, in the dark in my gray wool pea coat, snow drifts pilled around us, and the lights of our high school casting a yellow glow on the parking lot. He pressed play and closed his eyes slowly.
The small car was filled with music, and it was like nothing I had ever heard before. It seemed to embody my dramatic teenage angst without being silly or stereotyped. It was anxious and beautiful and unexpected and romantic and profane. And I held onto each lyric like it was the word of Christ. And I remember feeling like magic was happening.
For weeks after, I listened to the album on repeat. I would steal all of the candles in my parent’s house and bring them up to my bedroom. I’d turn off all of the lights and lie on the floor, just listening and trying to soak up the very awake feeling that it gave me.
And still, that’s vaguely the feeling that I have whenever I look back on that year. Everything was magic and snow covered and scored by the words of Isaac Brock.
But I also remember getting older and it no longer being able to feel the songs so strongly. I grew more mature and correspondingly more disillusioned. I stopped looking for God in things—even in Justin Nawn. And The Moon and Antarctica became less and less a perfect reflection of my aching teenage soul, and more and more just a really great album.
Now when I hear the songs I feel warm and nostalgic. I can smell the cold and feel the anticipation of things to come—but it’s different now. It’s not magic, but it’s still alive for me. I can hear my 15-year-old self in those harmonies and each time I hear them, I try to listen to what she’s saying.
Leave a Reply