The Nits
Hat

There are days when, for a series of even silly reasons, everything seems to go wrong. And maybe it's only early afternoon. Then there are two things to do: either you float around dejected and sad for a few more hours, or you look for a medicine that clears your head. That day I opted for the latter, so I parked the car near the bridge over the blondish river, and shortly after, I entered the old music shop. In such cases, if we aren't looking for something in particular but just trying to cheat life a bit, we tend to gravitate towards one section rather than another based on our mood. Mine led me towards the used vinyl records. The label on the shelf said: "Pop-Rock." My head said: "Why not?! After all, it means there's a bit of everything?" To be honest, I didn't want to buy anything; I had very little in my pocket. The covers passed under my fingers, with dust swirling, unknown faces, known faces, horrible covers, beautiful covers. The browsing halted over a dark shape, immersed in the cold orange light of a room. A yellow chandelier of sighs, not mine but equally understandable. Yes, the cover was very beautiful, truly suggestive. That day, she and I seemed like two adjacent pieces of a puzzle. Written on it was in lonely red and yellow: "The Nits. Hat." I had no idea which was the name of the group and which the album title. And obviously, I had no clue about the world living between the grooves of that vinyl. However, I was intrigued by the print date: 1988. The late eighties, then. A blurred and anonymous period, seemed to fit perfectly. Nothing else really mattered. And it only cost 3 euros. It was doable, the decision was made, after all, you sometimes need to follow your instincts. I went to the counter, pulled out one of the recent inventions of the world from my pocket, and paid. I couldn't be disappointed; the puzzle had never lied in the past.

By now, it was almost dark. At home, I put on the vinyl, waiting for the musical world that would come from it shortly. Usually, the first time I listen to an album, I'm always curious about the opening. For instance, at the time, before pressing play and listening to it, I said to myself: "So, 'Faust I' is considered one of the greatest masterpieces of recent music, I wonder how it starts?" And indeed, that hiss did not lie. This time, however, with the mysterious vinyl, the opening seemed simpler than one might imagine. I was saved. "The train" made me think of a classic folk ballad, something I didn't expect, to be honest. However, the general atmosphere was more suspended and slowed down, suitable for the evening. The singer's voice made me think of a strange Lou Reed, as did the track "The Dream". I could hear a bit of "New York" in it and a touch of "The Blue Nile" of "Hats." Indeed, hats were also involved here. The fifth track of the album, precisely "The Hat", seemed to come directly from Paul Buchanan's head, but the final effect was simple and more comprehensible; in the end, it was more mine. With the light yet ever-pulsating drums, and the bass and guitar gently inlaying the progressive approach of the evening. Completing it all were the excellent frescoes painted in "Blue", "The Bauhaus Chair" (which winks at Al Stewart), and "The House"; beautiful choruses, dreamy atmospheres, all pleasantly accompanied by essential and well-used keyboards. That album was just what was needed: a straightforward and golden simplicity, in what was an ordinary moment of passage in this life.

The last track ends with the words "Time's slipping away...", time is sneaking away. It's true, this is absolutely undeniable.

But that day, I had cheated life a little, and I say it without rancor, as its longtime friend.