You could say that I owe my life to Blur. Before hearing their self-titled album, listening to music was a quagmire. I felt like I was encased in an amber resin, solidified in this state, surrounded by a sickening yellow hue. This solid could only be dissolved by Damon Albarn’s mockney accent. 

In the eighth grade, the only music I listened to was Joji and some miscellaneous bedroom pop. Reflective of my pre-teen years, but a tell of my underdeveloped listening habits. This was replaced in early high school by lots and lots of Eminem (please appreciate the vulnerability of this confession) and whatever was trending on TikTok at the time. Gradually, I expanded my tastes to shoegaze and grunge and indie rock and the likes, but still, I knew there was far more to explore, though initiating that exploration was not easy. I had established a comfort zone, a protective shell of tracks bound by the walls of my “Liked Songs” playlist that felt almost impossible to break out of. There was a certain anxiety I felt around venturing outside of what I already knew I liked, and I had no idea why, or how to get rid of it.

It seemed as if none of my friends could relate to this.  They were all sharing songs and newly discovered artists with one another, and of course with me, but I never let myself absorb their recommendations as well as they were able to with one another. I had playlists and burned CDs made for me by my dearest companions full of stuff I’d never heard of in my life, stuff that was curated specifically for my enjoyment, but most of it didn’t stick after the first listen, if I listened at all. My unwillingness was isolating. It felt like they were better than me for knowing cooler bands and having better taste, but this was an isolation I had put onto myself.

“Beetlebum” was the first song off Blur that I really listened to. I think at some point or another we’d all heard “Song 2” on the radio or the internet or floating around the collective hivemind, but “Beetlebum” was my first conscious tapping-in to Blur. It was the eleventh grade. I remember listening to it on the bus back from an overnight school trip. Shuffled alongside The Smiths and Radiohead, the song felt so cool, so fresh, so full of life. The satisfaction I took from this song somehow felt different from anything else. Perhaps it’s the rhythmic build up to the chorus, or that sweet release when it finally arrives, or more likely both of those combined with those high “Oooooooh-oooooohs” that flow lightly behind Albarn’s falsetto. It’s the kind of song that you’d picture being sung to you by your cool rockstar crush as he performs on stage with his garage band, which is probably exactly what I was daydreaming about as I looked out the bus window.

When I started seeing my high school sweetheart at the beginning of 2024, I felt those daydreams come to fruition. He wasn’t in a band, but he was still cool in a way I hadn’t encountered before. He listened to alternative music, had a CD collection of his own, and wore these knit sweaters that charmed me so. Our first ever conversation was about music. We exchanged Spotify profiles and favourite albums and artists and made a joint playlist where we’d each add one new song a day. I put “Beetlebum” on that playlist. Music brought us together. He also kind of resembled Albarn in the “Beetlebum” music video with the same light brown hair and taste in clothing. I felt my own sweet release once we started dating. Suddenly every song was about us. 

The next track I heard off of Blur was “You’re So Great.” It was the epitome of a love song. The acoustic guitar gives it an intimate quality, like it’s being played directly to you and for your ears alone. “You’re so great and I love you.” What more is there to say? I stumbled upon the track shortly after my initial discovery of “Beetlebum,” but I didn’t fully appreciate it until a year later when I finally gave the rest of the album a play through.

It was November of 2024. I was on the GO train back to Toronto from my friend’s place in Hamilton. The car was deserted. I had recently bought a Blur tee from the clearance section of Hot Topic despite only knowing a few of their songs. It was initially going to be a gift for my boyfriend, but I realized he probably listened to even less Blur than me, so I kept it for myself. This was a new strategy of mine to escape my crushing inability to listen to new music. I figured that if I already owned the shirt, I kinda had to listen to the band. I searched up Blur on Spotify and found the only album whose cover I recognized, that amber-like yellow of their self-titled, and played it on shuffle. Suddenly the once mysterious allure of “Beetlebum” made a lot more sense. The other tracks were all equally enthralling, each in their own way. “Death of a Party” had this melancholic air about it and the lyrics were all too relatable. “Dancehall” was sleazier, slouchier; I pictured it blasting during a hot car ride through the Mojave Desert. “M.O.R.” made me want to jump and dance and shout. Though there was one track that stood out in particular.

“Cowboy Song” was like a mythical, mind-boggling slap in the face. Humbly tucked away in Disc 2 of the album’s special edition, it coming up on shuffle felt like striking gold. The whiny vocals, buzzing sounds, and synth vibrations were hypnotic. I could feel it making its way into my core and through my veins. My newfound love for this song only pushed me deeper into my obsession with the album. 

I listened to Blur front to back on repeat for days. If it wasn’t playing through my headphones, I was hearing it play in the back of my mind. Equally on my mind was the thought of breaking up with my boyfriend—I’d known I needed to end things for a while. The long distance was torturous and I felt us drifting apart but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I clung to the memories of what we were, the hope of what we could be if I just stayed. Winter break was approaching and I was finally going to be able to see him again. I kept listening to the album.

My favourite track for drowning out the pain was “Bustin’ and Dronin’.” Albarn’s vocals slowly get more distorted and overpowered by the humming in the background until they cut off at 2:38, leaving the rhythmic buzzing to take over the next four minutes. “Theme from Retro” and “Swallows in the Heatwave” take second and third place. 

The break came and went. We had a good time, a naively blissful time. On our anniversary, I posted the basket of goodies he made me on my Instagram story to “You’re So Great” and wondered if we could make it work. When I got back to Toronto I snapped out of it. I wanted to slip away. A few days later, I finally called him on the phone and ended it. Then I mourned, crying in bed at night, relieved but sad and incredibly guilty all at once. February was a Blur (Special Edition) listening high and a difficult month emotionally. But as the days passed, the streams and whatever feelings I still had for my ex slowly trickled down. Come July, I wasn’t listening to any Blur at all.

Somewhere along the way, my anxiety around new music also left. I started listening to things that I’d never imagined myself listening to before. Underground rap, breakcore, hyperpop—everything was so fresh, so foreign, and for the first time ever, that plunge into the unknown actually felt good. When my friends gave me songs to listen to, I’d put them on right away instead of banishing them to obscurity. I listened to the CDs I’d bought years prior and never played. It was like my own personal renaissance, and I have Blur to thank for it (my failed relationship too). When I look back on our final months together, I can’t help but see the world in a slightly yellowed hue, Damon Albarn’s voice guiding me along like a fairy godmother. Luckily, now I’m at a place where I can reminisce fondly. Thank you to my ex. Thank you, Blur. Every good thing must end.