There are two words I live in terror of seeing trending on social media. They popped up with no warning a year or so ago in association with a TV series that had made a splash with a new generation of fans, and for a moment I couldn't draw breath.
These two words, this name, this woman belongs to me, to me alone. And the day I lose her will be the day a part of my heart is broken beyond repair.
Kate Bush.
I've written here before at my thrill at and admiration of a younger movement of listeners who also fell in love with her when Running Up That Hill became a hit all over again on Stranger Things. I'm happy for them. I hope they dug a little deeper than just that one song.
But even if they didn't, the singular, tickling pleasure of knowing that others understood a deep and powerful passion of my own was a moment of grace shared. Decades and difference didn't matter anymore: all we needed was the music to understand each other, and we did.
I cherish every memory of my years travelling with Kate through her career, her fugitive writing mirroring the torments of my teenage soul. I play her now only a little less than I did back then. She cannot die. Kate must live forever.
I see you, Swifties
This week, as I watched Swifties from all over Australia fret and freak as the battle to secure tickets to Taylor Swift's Eras tour raged online, I had a feeling akin to watching a younger swimmer struggle through the same surf that had taken you years to master. Could you help? Could you get them through it? No — sink or swim.
The battle to get into the room with the one person in the world who truly sees their soul was their battle alone.
Not all of them will make it. We just hope they'll be ok.
And it came as a shock to learn that logging on early or being there first counted for nothing: you were let in from the "lounge" to buy tickets entirely at random, making a bitter struggle even more gutting.
I know this is unforgivably analogue of me, but the entire scene did make the olden days of camping and queuing for tickets outside the Hordern Pavilion or Festival Hall look a bit more equitable: at least showing up first, or 50th, counted for something. Is it time to go back to that?
There's little more I can add to the reams of words and works devoted to the science, psychology and analysis of fandom and the particular thing that is the love affair between a girl and her music idol. And don't doubt it: this is love — real love. Requited, understood and sacred love.
From Carol King to Prince; from the Beatles to Harry Styles, the covenant between artist and fan is solemn and cherished: a mutually declared commitment that the adorer and the adored need and know each other, and bring meaning to each other's existence simply by continuing to be in relationship.
One makes the music, the other receives and makes whole the music with their finely-tuned understanding.
And very little communicates meaning, feeling and affect with more power than music. I know any generation of music fan shares that.
Musical memory is powerful
I know of someone who is a bit older now who made sense of a very troubled part of her life only through the West Coast Gothic canon of Lana del Rey. Her music was the only thing that nourished her, calmed her, and gave her a sense that there was at least one person in the world who understood her.
She queued for hours at the stage door of Lana's Melbourne show, and when the singer finally appeared, she had a photo taken with her and then quickly whispered something in the megastar's ear.
What did she say? "I'll never tell. It's for Lana and me."
Many Gen Xers have felt the same for years about Madonna — the one female artist of my generation who was savagely, unapologetically self-styled, self-created, shape-shifting and sexually aggressive.
She may just seem weird and rather unlikeable now (it's still always rather shocking when another pop star is unabashed at publicly declaring how horrible she is to work with) but even with all that, news this week of her hospitalisation was a shock. Surely nothing, no bacteria even, could knock off Madonna? At least not without her personal approval?
Even when the life choices of our heroes, like Madonna, make it harder and harder for us to love them, our passion stays in a pristine, pubescent form: like scent, musical memory is powerful. It time-travels.
I know just what that's like. My heart has already been irreparably broken in two places to lost loves: George Michael, Prince. I fear for the next blow.
So today I wish all the Swifties in the world the longest, happiest time together with the one person in their life who truly sings to their soul.
This weekend we have direction to the Queensland cane fields, the alpine snowfields, the blowhole of Kiama and the mysterious town of Betoota. I can never quite find that one on the map…
Have a safe and happy weekend and I thought you could use the floating beauty of Sydney electronic duo Vallis Alps in your playlist. Their debut album is out in August and this earlier drop is simply lovely: it begs for a long car trip on these wintry days. Go well.
Virginia Trioli is presenter on Mornings on ABC Radio Melbourne.