i first heard the Magnetic Fields in 2004. My boyfriend at the time was a (music) writer, and would gift me with unstoppable mixed-tapes full of jams and heartbreakers–most of which were new to me. Part of the gap in my musical knowledge had to do with a ban on indie rock that was in its homestretch when i met him, so there was basically a genre of really good music at which i had theretofore merely rolled my eyes.

The person i had designated as my untoppleable true love was a purist, and i had followed in his footsteps. Bowie, the Stones, Roxy Music, the Clash, Scott Walker, Neil Young, Morrissey, the Smiths, some reggae, a lot of Soul. This was the late 90s, so Suede, Pulp, the Make-up, and the Verve were allowed, too.  We were academic about our listening. We would find a band, get into them, and then listen all around them.  Who had their influences been? Who were they friends with? What other bands happened because of them?–etc. We bonded over Morrissey and Roxy Music, he placed Bowie and Scott Walker in my lap, we found the Clash, Neil Young, T. Rex, Spiritualized, and Fleetwood Mac together, lived through Suede and Pulp and the Make-up, disagreed about the Red House Painters and Pavement and New Order, and, over the many, many break-up years got into Dylan and Led Zeppelin.  i would put my head on his lap and stretch out on the couch and we would just listen, silenced by how good it all was. i would crawl into his tiny twin bed and he would tap his fingers along the cds, humming, looking, even though he’d already decided on Scott Walker. He would start the cd and climb into bed with me, both of us long and absurdly lean, and press our foreheads against each other and fall asleep. The White Stripes and the Strokes happened. The Flaming Lips, more Spiritualized.  i found the Boss and Thin Lizzy on my own, but somehow everything else that mattered had crossed my path directly because of,  with, or under the real or imagined spell of him. This means that our dislikes were also passionately shared: no Bowie after Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps), we covered our ears at Belle and Sebastian. Yo La Tengo, Wilco, and Modest Mouse were pure snores. Sleater-Kinney were unlistenable. Many, many other bands had good lyrics but just looked stupid or sounded…old. Not old like the Seventies; old like middle-aged. Of course, i would come to change my mind about almost all of this.

Shortly after i started dating my fancy writer, he moved into an attic apartment. June in Florida is hot with the sun. He would leave early to teach and i would lay in bed all day in front of the AC unit, reading his books. There i found Padgett Powell and Joy Williams and Leonard Michaels and Denis Johnson. The Believer had just started, and i found it first on his floor. When he came home, we would rush to the pool and stay there until i had to leave for work. When i got home, i would crawl into bed and read some more. He would start a cd without saying anything while i was running on about some table i’d waited on or some friend of mine, and then suddenly i would shut up and say, what is this? i was sat underneath the quilt his Mom made with squares his Grandma brought home from her factory job–a blanket that became the closest thing i ever had to a transitional object–when i first heard Bonnie “Prince” Billy. i wanted “Hard Life” over and over. He and i, i don’t know how the fuck we didn’t kill each other. Maybe we did, but we also lived for a few years. No one could have kept it up, but that song keeps all of the early desires and empathies and, well, prescience, intact. Interpol: “NYC”–sitting right there. Same spot. “Maps” in the car. “Hey Ya” in the living room while he was cranking out a review. We got so drunk. And played it over and over. And danced our stupid asses off. We’re lucky Jason Molina didn’t turn us into junkies. Joanna Newsom’s first album. The Walkmen. My Morning Jacket.  Finally, on a mixed-tape, the Magnetic Fields.  We were in the car. He was skipping through the songs to make sure i knew what they all were and “I Don’t Believe You” was in the queue. “Stop. Start that one again. Let it play.” How could i not have, but now i knew we were doomed. If Stephin Merritt could write those songs, then there might be others out there. Other people even more terrible and even more perfect and we both knew it,  and we both took the hit and kept demanding newer, more perfect love. The songs had convinced us it was out there. When i lost the first one, i put everything into a bowl and ate it. He became a part of me that will keep me from ever being only me again–thank god. When i lost the second one i thought, how can i ever make my days matter this much again?