Essay: A Waking Dream: A Meditation on Travel, Memory and The Beat Escape’s Life is Short The Answer’s Long

An extremely condensed version of this piece was originally published in Asian Arts Initiative‘s Sound Type compilation in 2024.

I meant to post this some time ago but life happened. But as we close out the year, it felt kind of fitting to post this.

One day, I hope to maybe expand on this piece, provided that I have the time to do so.

Hopefully y’all enjoy it — and there may be more of this someday.

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A Waking Dream: A Meditation on Travel, Memory and The Beat Escape’s Life is Short The Answer’s Long

Unkempt, in threadbare clothes, with holed shoes and sun-cured hide, my costume is permanent: the traveler, the man from far away. 

• Paul Salopek 

Initially releasing singles like “Seeing Is Forgetting” and “Half Empty Happiness” under an intentional cloak of mystery, Montréal-based DJ, production and electronic music artist duo The Beat Escape quickly received attention for crafting moody, atmospheric and minimalist synth pop that’s deeply indebted to 1980s synth pop while evoking the somnambulant sensation of a half-remembered fever dream. 

Their full-length debut, 2018’s Life is Short The Answer’s Long saw the duo shedding much of the mystery around – and in turn, about – themselves. In promotional materials, the Canadian outfit, which is comprised of Adam Ohr (vocals, keys) and Patrick Lee (vocals), keys) revealed their origins: a short film they collaborated on while they were in college. 

 “We made a short oddball work; a video piece that followed two characters through a psychedelic waking dream,” the duo recalled. And since that initial collaboration, Ohr and Lee have worked together on a series of creative endeavors that combined their mutual interests in music and visual art, including a lengthy local DJ set, which led to the creation of The Beat Escape. 

Over the past two decades, I’ve covered music as a music journalist and critic through a dizzying series of now, long-defunct publications and websites, a handful of renowned sites that still exist and my own blog, The Joy of Violent Movement (JOVM), which turned 15 in 2025. For the bulk of that period, I balanced working full-time at three different New York-based publishing houses with being a full-time journalist and photographer. It was a very much a Clark Kent/Superman sort of life: I’d start the day as a thoughtful, mild-mannered, coffee drinking, sleep-deprived, spectacled book editor.  When the business day ended, I’d run into a phone boo – er, bathroom and change to a band t-shirt or a sweatshirt, jeans and dirty, well-worn Chuck Taylors. I’d turn into a beer drinking, shot-chasing, music journalist and photographer covering shows across the metropolitan area three, four, sometimes five nights a week. Did I mention that I was sleep-deprived?  

I wrote about “Seeing Is Forgetting” in December 2016, pointing out the song’s dream-like quality and its mix of 1980s synth pop, New Wave and contemporary dream pop. At the time, I had been working for a major academic publisher for about eight or nine months. I hated the job. I had two bosses, who didn’t like or respect each other: Peter, an ineffectual yet very posh, Dutch-based Brit, who I quickly discovered was a lazy, deceitful, sad bastard and an autodidact when it came to languages. And Aleta, a bitter and seething, “let-me-talk-to-your-manager” Karen type, who was abusive, insulting and condescending. Aleta routinely made it obvious that she didn’t care for Peter. It was odd to me, because we both reported to Peter.  Oddly, what they had in common was an embarrassing lack of self-awareness. 

In my little work unit, there were two other miserable souls. There was another editor, Merry. Merry was one of the weirdest people I’ve ever met: During my first five weeks working for the company, she said approximately 12 words to me. Initially, I couldn’t tell if she hated me, was a racist or if she were just socially awkward. Later, I found out that she was considered a weirdo, and that people routinely snickered at her. Aleta had an assistant, Emily. Emily was a snooty suburban type, who used “like” way too much, and was 13 or 14 years younger than me. I found her to be insufferable. Emily and Aleta had this habit of giving me incomplete or wrong information about book projects I was inheriting, presumably attempting to ensure I’d fail. 

I was frequently aggravated by the daily and weekly micro-aggressions from my teammates and from white colleagues. And unlike my previous publishing jobs, there wasn’t much editing or direct collaboration with authors or editors. I spent much of my workweek endlessly writing emails. 40%-60% of my day involved begging some overwhelmed, overworked and underpaid researcher to contribute to a book project. Occasionally, that overwhelmed, overworked and underpaid researcher would show some interest in working a book with me. Predictably, that researcher would flake on me, disappearing from the face of the earth as quickly as I found them. And inevitably, weeks and sometimes months of follow-up would ensue. I’d write emails that read, “Dr. Such-and-such, we discussed a potential book project on glioblastoma and ion pump inhibitors. Is this something you’re still interested in?” Or “Please check your spam folder for the DocuSign link. If you don’t sign soon, it’ll disappear.” Or “Dr. X-Y-Z, I’m following up on the chapter you promised to Dr. D-E-F. Will you still be able to submit it, because right now, it’s late. And it’s delaying the publication time for the book. We all would like the timely publication of such exciting developments in the field.” 

Then there were the egregiously dumb, mind-numbing, time-wasting, virtual meetings Peter would hold with the larger, global group. Half the meeting would be Peter demanding and cajoling us to get the company more book projects.  “We must make our numbers! You must make your numbers!” 

The same month that “Seeing Is Forgetting” was released, my ineffectual and deceitful boss invited me to his office in Dordrecht, The Netherlands. I’d fly out to The Netherlands in mid-January for two-and-a-half days of meetings, team building and meals with Dutch, British, Korean and Australian colleagues. The company would pay for my flight, meals and transportation for the business parts of the trip through their travel agency and corporate credit cards. The benefits of working for a large, multi-national conglomerate, right? 

Dordrecht is a roughly hour train ride southeast of Amsterdam and included a transfer in Rotterdam. It quickly became obvious that it might be the only chance I had to see one of the world’s most beautiful cities. “Fuck it,” I thought to myself. “Book a room for a couple of days. Party, bullshit, see great art, admire beautiful people, eat delicious things, see live music and wander one of Europe’s great capitals.” I desperately needed an escape. I was haunted by the bitter bust-up of a romantic relationship a few months before. Donald Trump was about to be inaugurated for the first time. I wanted – no, needed something, anything different. 

I caught a cold before my flight to The Netherlands. But the meetings and the opportunity to be in Europe again were too important to be missed. Plus, added emphasis here y’all: IT. WAS. FREE.  From experience, if it’s free and there aren’t strings attached, take advantage. 

As the flight was making the final approach to Amsterdam Schiphol International Airport, I was surprised that it was 3:00am/4:00am dark at 7:00pm. But I quickly remembered that we were very far north; the furthest north I had been to date.  By the time, I had gone through customs and retrieved the suitcase I borrowed from a new girlfriend, I began to feel as though my head was completely underwater. But I was in Europe. And I was going to make the best of the time there. 

While waiting for a train to Amsterdam, I was pleased to see an incredible amount of diversity working for the rail system: A brother, a sister, a Middle Eastern appearing man and a white man were standing around, killing time and chatting before quickly dispersing back to their work. 

Amsterdam, The Netherlands 8:00am Central European Time: I walked out of Amsterdam Centraal Station in a jet-lagged, awe-inspired daze. It’s still dark, but the sun is slowly rising over the horizon. It’s confusing. It’s a bit unsettling. But Europe! 

Three brothers, who were furtively smoking weed, came out from behind a nearby building. It was obvious that I was an American traveler, who just arrived. I asked these brothers if they knew where I could get breakfast. One pointed me in the direction of a nearby McDonald’s. “Thanks,” I replied before walking off. 

I stopped to pull out a lovingly beat-up and well used Canon Rebel T3i from my backpack. I snapped a bunch of photos and then took a couple of selfies, which I sent back home to friends and family with the caption “Hallo from beautiful Amsterdam!” Then a must-needed post on Facebook and Instagram, which I followed with a Google search for breakfast near me. 

Google came up with an interesting result that was a 15 or 20-minute walk from where I was. 

Koffehuis de Hoek, Amsterdam, The Netherlands 8:45am Central European Time: Lugging a suitcase, a messenger bag with some personal items and a backpack with two laptops, charging cords, batteries, I arrived at the front door of a cute café, located within a hundred feet or so of the Prinesengracht, the fourth and final of the city’s four oldest canal rings. 

I know the café doesn’t open until 9:00am. I’m unusually hesitant. I’m a foreigner in a strange land. Sure, I’m a privileged traveler with an American passport. But I’m a Black man in a very White place. Caution seemed necessary. I must have made a pitiful sight: A cold, uncertain and lost traveler, trying to figure out what to do. 

An exceedingly Dutch waitress – tall, blonde, blue-eyed – waved me into the café with a welcoming smile. “Come in! It’s cold,” her face seemed to say. Hot coffee was necessary. I ordered a very Dutch breakfast. While drinking coffee and waiting for my meal, I pulled out a beaten-up journal and started scribbling some thoughts and observations down. 

A few minutes later, an elderly café regular came in, shook my hand and sat down at his regular table. I noticed a woman, across the street with a small child, who reminded me of the former lover. Ghosts linger. They arrive and caress your face, pluck your heartstrings or tear your heart out at the most inopportune and unpredictable times. 

The radio had been on for some time, playing a morning show. Although the broadcast was entirely in Dutch, the format was eerily familiar: Some banter, some quips and laughter. Some talk about weather and traffic. This was followed by music. At one point, the main radio host announced the next song as Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.”  My exceedingly Dutch waitress sang along and danced while serving customers. I had been in the country two hours. American culture is ubiquitous and inescapable. 

After breakfast, I walked through Dam Square, passing the Dutch Royal Palace, the Nieuwe Kirk (New Church) and Madame Tussaud’s Amsterdam location, before stopping in a busy Starbucks to warm up and charge my phone. I was reminded of a business trip to Frankfurt-am-Main for another publisher, three-and-a-half years earlier. 

In my free time, I’d wander through the Römerberg and Hauptwatche sections, longing for a face like mine the in crowd, a Black man, a foreigner in a strange land. One rainy afternoon, I stood by the banks of the Main River with holes in my Chuck Taylors. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe where I was and what I was seeing. I was a Black boy from Corona, Queens – and I was in fucking Europe. My first full day in the German city, I passed by a promotional car activation that featured b-boys and b-girls breakin’ to local hip-hop. 

Was it good? Not particularly. But it was earnest. The kids wholeheartedly believed in what they were doing. A few hundred feet away was a McDonald’s. About half a block away from that McDonald’s was a Dunkin’ Donuts. The McDonald’s was constantly packed. The Dunkin’ Donuts would be packed. But the authentic German bar and restaurant that had liter steins of beer for €9.00 would be empty. 

During my fourth night in town, I was meeting a friend, a native Frankfurter, who was a tall, leggy blonde bombshell with a lilting, Heidi Klum-like accent that made her sound like she was simultaneously singing and laughing. She may be the only friend, who would laughingly needle and cajole me about elements of my personal life. As I was walking up the stairs of the S-bahn 3 stop at Hauptwache, I heard a Christmas village vendor playing The Notorious B.I.G.’s “One More Chance.” 

For a brief, delusional moment, I felt as though I were home, getting off an F or a 7 train at Bryant Park or an R or a 6 train at Union Square. Then I looked up and saw a skyscraper that had an L.E.D. sign with the temperature. It read 8º Celsius. “No, wait. Not home,” I remember thinking. “Is 8º Celsius really cold?” (It’s quite chilly. It’s about 40º Fahrenheit.) American culture is ubiquitous, whether it’s rock ‘n’ roll, pop, hip-hop, dance music, you name it, and you’ll hear it or see it. But let’s not forget the American culture that has taken the world by storm is Black culture. 

A sleety rain began to fall as I was heading back to Amsterdam Centraal. I needed to catch a southbound train to Rotterdam, where I could transfer to a train to Dordrecht. I felt miserable: My head had been clogged up for about 8 hours. And I had been up for close to a full day, if you counted when I got up back in New York, the seven-hour flight and the six time zones I crossed.  

My train sped through a series of sleepy yet beautiful Dutch towns, which were announced with hilariously cheerful public address announcements. “Abcoude!” (Pronounced Ab-cou-da.) “Den Haag!” (The Hague!), Haarlem! Bruekelen! (WHERE BRUEKELEN AT?!) And on and on. We pull into Rotterdam Centraal Station, and I quickly figure out which platform I need for the Dordrecht-bound train. 5 minutes pass. 10 minutes pass. 15 minutes pass. 25 minutes pass. Now, I’m getting concerned that something is wrong, I noticed an announcement on the bottom of the arrival and departure screen. It’s in Dutch. But for some reason, I didn’t think much about it. Then 40 minutes pass. I see the same announcement. On to Google Translate to find out what this sign says. 

The announcement warned travelers of track work on the Dordrecht line. Now, I’m at a loss. And I’m becoming a bit frantic. Eventually I found two young transit workers of color. At this point, I’ve been in Rotterdam for an hour – and I have no idea how I’m supposed to get to my destination. 

The transit workers apologetically informed me that I need to take a northbound train a few stops. From there, I’d have to catch a southbound bus that would take me to a train. And that train would stop at Dordrecht. Exceedingly complicated, right? 

Travel forces you to roll with the punches as much as humanly possible. For every trip in which everything is perfect, there trips that can teeter between disastrous or hilarious, depending on your outlook. And if you add language barrier, it’s confusing, lonely and frustrating. Years later, I was in Rouyn-Noranda, Québec for a festival. I almost lost my passport. I had a camera malfunction. I almost lost a memory card wallet. I also met some fantastic friends, had some great meals, saw a lot of interesting music. It was completely worth it — and hilarious.

Dordrecht-bound passengers took the northbound train and got on a charter bus. A cheerily brusque bus driver took my suitcase and put in the underneath luggage compartment. And within a few minutes, we were driving through the Dutch countryside. 30-40 minutes later, we get to the Dordrecht-bound train. 

The transit authority had set up a complimentary soup service for passengers. It was cold. It was a long day for everyone. And it was profoundly kind and thoughtful. My hands were full. Shamefully, I never got that soup. This was very different. Back home, MTA workers would tell commuters to fuck themselves. Commuters would tell the MTA workers to fuck themselves – harder. Those Dutch are something else. 

Villa Augustus Hotel, Dordrecht, South Holland, The Netherlands 4:00pm Central European Time: Dordrecht is a banana-shaped island at the confluence of three rivers, which eventually feed into Amstel River and the North Sea. Located in the province of South Holland, Dordrecht is one of the oldest towns in one of the country’s oldest provinces. 

It is a sleepy, prototypically Dutch town, the sort of town where you’d see both kids and adults commuting to work or school by bicycle, while obeying traffic laws. It’s quiet enough to hear church bells ring throughout the town.  

The Villa Augustus Hotel is located at the banana-shaped island’s northern tip – and at the confluence of the three surrounding rivers. Most of the hotel’s room were in a converted water tower built in the mid 1800s. Two one-story buildings were off to the right side of the main building and were near an Alice in Wonderland-inspired maze-like garden, from which the hotel’s restaurant grew vegetables and herbs for its menu.

At this point, I had been up about 35 hours straight. And I wasn’t feeling well. I figured I’d take an hour or so nap. But that nap turned into 4 hours. I completely missed dinner. The front desk was able to convince the kitchen to quickly whip up something for me. 

Dordrecht 

I found the international colleagues to be charming, friendly and welcoming. Far more welcoming and friendlier than my colleagues back in New York. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised by that. 

When the Dutch colleagues learned I was from New York, they quickly became curious about what I thought about them and their country. Fun fact: You’ll win over the Dutch by telling them they’re better than the Germans. 

I wound up quickly becoming friends with two colleagues, who I would work with the most often: Ilse and Ines. Ines had photos of her family on her desk. She immediately warmed up when I asked about her kids. Ilse and I discovered that we had the same birthday. “Birthday twins!” We happily exclaimed.

After two-and-a-half jetlagged days of meetings, I was itching to get back to Amsterdam. During lunch in the company cafeteria, I looked at the window and saw that it started to snow. Church bells from the church across the street began to ring upon the hour. I felt as though I had been dreaming.  

I bolted out of the office and headed to Dordrecht Centraal Station for a westbound train to Rotterdam. At Rotterdam Centraal Station, I mistakenly got on an express train. The conductor checked my ticket and looked at me with a mix of pity and frustration that seemed to say “Oh, you idiot.” She then went on to explain that I had to pay a €10 transfer fee. But I got to see windmills and the Dutch countryside in the snow – and I got back to Amsterdam faster. Win, win! 

Amsterdam

I returned to the city of canals on a Wednesday evening. As I was about to check into my room, a couple was checking in. I overheard part of the conversation they had with the desk clerk: They told the clerk that they were in Amsterdam for the third time. In their body language and how they were talking, they were deeply fond of the city. 

Matt, a friend of mine, was a frequent visitor to Amsterdam. He gave me a detailed suggested itinerary that included some restaurants, a coffee shop for weed (when in Rome, right), a couple of live music venues and some culturally significant locations that I needed to see. With any of the local businesses he suggested, he told me to tell the proprietors that he sent me. 

I trusted his taste. My first night, I stopped a restaurant he suggested. The food was fantastic. I drank three pints of 10% ABV beer that were some of the most drinkable pints I had in some time. I chatted a bit with the owner, whose face lit up when I mentioned my pal back in New York, Matt. 

Stupidly, I didn’t tell my bank that I would be overseas. I couldn’t use my card or access money until I resolved it. And I needed to drop off some things back at room. Walking back to my room, I crossed one of the city’s over 100 canal bridges.

Halogen streetlamps and the lights of the surrounding buildings cast a twinkling orange glow on the canal below. For a major city, Amsterdam’s streets are for the most part, very quiet when it’s not obvious tourist on holiday season. Walking the winding streets of Dordrecht and Amsterdam, I felt a deep sense of peace that I had never felt while back in the States. As a musician friend, who later visited described it “I didn’t feel like a zoo animal.” It was the most apt description of what my experience was that I had heard.  

I resolved the issue with my bank card, dropped off some things and hit the streets. I stopped at an Irish pub that I came across for a couple of pints of Guinness and watched part of an Irish league football match with a collection of folks, whose very lives seemed to depend on the game. The vibe was a bit off. 

So I went to a bar that Matt told me for some local music. There was an enormous bouncer at the door, who reminded me of Meta World Peace (now known as Metta Sandiford Artest), checking IDs and taking in a €2 cover. The ID check struck me as being hilarious: The legal drinking age in The Netherlands is 18. I was a few months shy of my 38^th birthday. But, okay, cool. We’ll go along. Once I entered the bar, every patron was completely shitfaced. It was 10:30pm. 

A local band was on stage. Their set featured an eclectic array of covers that went back a couple of decades. But it was soulless and calculated to please drunk Brits and Americans.  And the band, who may have been drunk or disinterested, could barely play their respective instruments. They were arguably one of the worst bands I’ve seen in some time.  

A drunk British gal flirted with me. I got her WhatsApp. But she seemed so drunk that I wasn’t convinced that she’d really remember me. It didn’t matter. I was heading home to a much more dysfunctional and fucked up America in about 35 hours. For now, an escape.

I stopped at The Sugar Factory. Coincidentally, it was their hip-hop night. These young Dutch cats were spinning pioneering and golden-era hip-hop – NWA, A Tribe Called Quest, Nas and on and on. “I can fuck with these cats,” I thought. One more time y’all: America is inescapable, and its culture is ubiquitous. And if you don’t believe me, hip-hop is the lingua franca of just about anyone under 65. 

The Sugar Factory, Amsterdam, The Netherlands 3:45am Central European Time: The club is still rocking. I really wanted to stay until closing time, whenever that was. But I was only in town for another day and a half or so. I needed somehow fit visits to the Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum and the Anne Frank House in the same day. 

The next day, after seeing the Dutch Masters and experiencing the heavy gut punch of the Anne Frank House, I stopped at an Indonesian spot near the city’s infamous Red-Light District. After dinner, I wandered through a portion of the Red-Light District. Scantily clad prostitutes gyrated with come hither glances in storefront windows. “Come here, darling. I know what you desire. Come. Come. Baby, come.” 

Arrogant, cocksure men suddenly turn into shy, insecure schoolboys. “Me?” 

“Yes, sweetheart. Come. Come. Here.”

I walked past a prostitute, who was gyrating to Shakira’s 2006 smash-hit “Hips Don’t Lie” through a small, tinny Bluetooth speaker. It made me stop in my tracks. I looked at her with an easily translatable expression that read “Wait, what? Really?”  

Did I enter some surrealistic time warp in which everything was somehow 2006? Did someone spike my booze? Or my food? 

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Starting with that business trip to Dordrecht, 2017 was the beginning of an 18-month period of relentless business travel. There was a weird 75-hour period, where I was in Pennsylvania twice: A rather disastrous camping trip in the Poconos with my girlfriend, in which someone in our group nearly drowned. I returned home for a few hours and then went down to Philadelphia for a meeting with an editor at Temple University’s Fox Chase Cancer Center. 

A few months later, I was in Washington, DC for a conference with my two Dutch colleagues Ilse and Ines. It was a profoundly uncomfortable experience. Ilse and Ines had been at odds with each other. Ines was also at odds with a colleague in the Sales and Marketing Departments. Each person individually would complain to me about the other – or about the entire conference.  “Yep, I understand,” I’d say with the knowledge that I’d be heading back to New York, where I wouldn’t see these people again for several months. 

That business trip, I reconnected with a cousin on my father’s side of the family, who recently moved north to Silver Spring, MD. I hadn’t seen her in 15 years. I took the Metro up to Silver Spring, where she picked me up and took me to Baltimore, where there was an amazing light art exhibit by the harbor. 

I had an editor at Johns Hopkins University, so I’d try to come down every few months for work and to visit my cousin.

2018 was a year, wasn’t it? 

In the lead-up to Life is Short The Answer’s Long’s April 2018 release through Bella Union Records, I wrote about two more of the album’s singles: 

• The album’s lead track “Sign of Age,” a somnambulant track anchored around an eerily lush production featuring oscillating and undulating Giorgio Moroder-like synth arpeggios, a swirling shoegazer texture-like synth melody and a relentless motorik groove paired with Benedictine monk-like vocals that sound like they’re reverberating off concrete walls and floors. The song evokes the sensation of drifting along in a narcotic haze while resembling a dreamy mix of minimalist synth pop and spectral shoegaze. 
• “Moon in Aquarius,” the album’s second track, which is anchored around a fluttering mellotron-like synth melody, atmospheric background synths and a skittering motorik pulse. Yearning, reverb-soaked vocals ethereally float over the dreamily brooding production. The song evokes the mesmerizing sensation of the road unfurling before you, the white lines and dividers flashing by in a blur. 

From the album’s three previously released singles, I knew I’d really dig the album. I received a promotional copy of the album in late March, around my birthday and before an 8-day trip to Chicago, which was split between business trip and vacation. I was immediately obsessed. I played the album while in Chicago, and from that point on, I could picture my view of the United Center from my West Loop hotel room, a few blocks away. But it was mixed with a vividly hallucinogenic dream I once had, where I was in a car driving to an H-shaped, steel and glass building in a super futuristic city that was a mix of New York, Chicago and Philadelphia. I can remember how the sun glinted off the building as my car rapidly approached the building. 

The year featured multiple trips to Philadelphia and Baltimore for meetings, including an 8-day stint between the two cities: 6 of those days were in Philadelphia for a major conference. I remember as I was heading to Philly, I had the uneasy sensation that I was heading to the wrong town for the wrong day. I’d wake up in a hotel room and not be sure what city I was in or why I was there. 

40: Or 2019 is when some shit got real 

I got fired from the academic publisher the previous October. I was unemployed and couldn’t find work. Eventually, the unemployment insurance ran out. I burned through meagre savings. By the time, I turned 40 in March, I was unemployed and broke. My best friend Abdul, who celebrated is 40^th in February suffered a stroke a few weeks after his birthday. 

I didn’t know what else to do. Work has long been a source of solace and comfort. As the year progressed, a handful of peers tragically and very suddenly died: The Los Angeles-based frontwoman of a JOVM mainstay act suddenly died. No cause was made immediately available. The frontman of a New York-based JOVM mainstay act died that year, too. I found out about him months after he died. 

While at a show at TV Eye, I ran into the New York-based frontman’s bandmate. We had a conversation about the frontman, and he told me that the frontman had suffered through worsening mental health, which led to erratic, unpredictable behavior and then, even worsening physical health. There was a sense that the frontman’s death was simultaneously predictable and ordained yet preventable. 

In early September of that year, a publicity company I worked with invited me to Montréal for M for Montréal as a festival delegate. This meant that the festival would play for my flight and accommodations, as well as a couple of group happy hours and a group dinner. Free shit is the best right? And we’re talking about a free international trip, y’all. Who could say no? Well . . . I almost did. 

I was flat broke. But I was at my girlfriend Catherine’s apartment in Richmond Hill, when I told her about the trip and my reservations. She looked at me and practically said, “Look fool, you need to go. This is a real opportunity for you. I’ll front you some cash. it’s not a big deal.” 

Right before, I was about to head to Montréal, I learned that Teddy, a mutual friend of Abdul and me, died. I remembered what a former boss and dear friend told some time before, “You know you’re getting old when your friends start dying.” 

LaGuardia Airport (LGA) to Pierre Elliot Trudeau Montréal Airport (YUL), November 2019: The flight from LaGuardia to Pierre Elliot Trudeau is a short flight, barely an hour. If you’re not making a connection, clearing customs at Trudeau Montréal is a fairly automated process that involves a touch-screen kiosk, which takes your picture and spirts out a receipt. You then go over to hand a bored, disinterested and almost illegally Canadian or Québecois stereotype as a customs agent. Barely looking at you, the customs agent takes your receipt and places it on top of a pile of customs receipts. What happens to those receipts? Who knows? Maybe there’s a massive pile of customs receipts lying in a ditch in Gatineau, Sherbrooke, Dorval or Rouyn-Noranda. 

Montréal, Québec, November 2019: So, say you’re visiting a new city, and you want to get a sense of it as a local. How do you do it? Walk! Walk as much as humanly possible. Ride whatever public transportation options are available. Try to find out where locals eat and drink and stop there. And if you work in music, like I do, ask touring musicians. They almost always can suggest some super cool or super cheap local spot. 

For my first three, three-and-a-half days of my trip, I walked everywhere I possibly could while playing Life Is Long The Answer’s Short, because – well, Montréal needed a soundtrack. 

Now, the shimmering motorik pulse and strummed guitar in “Limetone Alps” reminds me of the approach into Montréal over the St. Lawrence River and of walking from my hotel near the Quartier Chinois and Boulevard Rene Levesque to University of Québec, Montréal on Rue Sainte-Catherine. The industrial Trans Europe Express-like chug of “More Dreams” reminds me of flying through puffy morning clouds on a Montréal-bound flight late last year; and of taking the Orange Line Métro at Place D’Armes to Avenue Mont Royal near Rue Sainte-Denis. “Moon in Aquarius” now also reminds me of the 45-minute express bus ride from Trudeau Montréal International, and of the hushed and reverential silence of Basilica Notre Dame in Vieux Montréal — and of the serene blue of its ceiling.

Montréal Part Deux, November 2022: Three years later, I was back in Montréal for my second M for Montréal.  My first full day back, it had snowed seven inches, adding a dream-like sheen to everything. Now, the brooding “Thousand Pound Shoes” reminds me of walking a small snow-covered park in the Hochelaga-Maisonneuve section for a showcase at a famous, local bowling alley and of standing outside of La Sala Rossa, a few blocks down waiting for an Uber and watching the snow gently fall. 

Nearly seven years after its release, Life Is Short The Answer’s Long has become a major part of the soundtrack for a significant portion of my life. For me, it evokes a wild and messy life of heartache and lingering ghosts, of drug and alcohol fueled exploits, frenetic blurs of places and people and feverishly vivid dreams. 

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