Movement & Location

People move for all kinds of reasons—a job, a relationship, to be closer to family. Sometimes it’s just a matter of changing scenery or finally taking up residence in a city you’ve long loved.

I recently moved for my records.

You read that right. I mean, we can say it was for other reasons, like a growing desire to get away from apartment living, or crummy neighbors who don’t understand how sonorously subwoofers carry across thin walls, or to be closer to the “action” of downtown Durham. All of those hold a degree of truth.

But the reality is that I moved for my records.

I moved because I’m a considerate and selfish listener. Considerate because, when I know there are people living around and beneath me, I’m not going to play my music very loud. And selfish because, really, what’s the point of listening if you can’t do that at least a few times? Headphones only go so far. Sometimes, like say when you’re cooking, you want to crank Stevie Wonder all the way up so the bass line vibrations of “Sir Duke” lend themselves to the very best sauce possible.

In all the years I’ve rented, I’ve never rented a house. It was mostly apartments and duplexes—and they were nice apartments and duplexes, but shared walls meant being aware of your neighbors, so inevitably there were limitations to what, when, and how I could play my stereo. Like a kind of musical Goldilocks, it was always a little too much: Don’t play records too early or too late, certainly not too loud, and never too long.

I hadn’t planned on renting a house because, as a disturbing new study has found, rental markets are horrendous. Even in cities where it’s mildly more affordable than the coastal metropolises, it’s still not very. But when luck threw a good find my way, the slight uptick in rent seemed like a reasonable tradeoff if it meant enjoying my space—and my stereo—more.

Forget a room of one’s own, here’s to a house.

So I moved for my records.

I’ve documented before what they mean to me. In fact, in that prior blog post, I shared the thrill of getting to play one of my favorites, Punch Brothers‘ 2012 album Who’s Feeling Young Now?, loudly on one of my last nights in New Orleans, when I knew my neighbor was at work and the volume wouldn’t bother her.

Since moving into my new place, I haven’t played the album. In fact, it’d been some time since I’d put it on. The opening track “Movement and Location” is too true to hear sometimes. The lyrics, partially, but I mean more the music itself. When I hear that opening agitated fiddle-banjo phrasing and the bass pacing around in a kind of antsy delirium, something in my stomach but more likely my soul goes, “This!”

Punch Brothers approach bluegrass with a classical twist, building breathtaking arrangements and time signature changes that elevate the genre. I adore their entire catalogue, but “Movement and Location” has long been my favorite song of theirs. Maybe it’s the subject matter—the energy of migration, a choice I’m fond of and have discussed elsewhere on this site—or maybe it’s such a beautifully realized and rendered song between its emotional build and pace and vitality.

It’s not that “Movement and Location”—or any song or album, for that matter—sounds better loud, but there’s a certain release when you don’t have to worry about whether your music is imposing on anyone else. I know I tend to overthink these things, but I also know what it’s like to be on the other side, to hear an inconsiderate neighbor start blaring their music at the worst possible time. I never want—or wanted—to be that person, so as much as I could slip into an album when I played one, I could never really let myself go.

The other night, a solid month into my new living situation, I played Who’s Feeling Young Now?, which inevitably brought me back to that night in New Orleans when I cranked the volume. This time, it wasn’t a brief escape while my neighbor was out. I didn’t have to be considerate or concerned that my stereo was disturbing anyone. I didn’t have to worry about the time of night and who I might be bothering. It was divine. I’ve long known the thrill of movement, but the thrill of location was mine at last.