To Be A Time Traveller…

I recently found myself staring at this picture of my home city from the 1950’s and – not for the first time – being absolutely fascinated by history, place, and the passage of time.

Plymouth’s Royal Parade in the 1950s.

Specifically, this photograph is interesting to me because of just how high quality it is. I don’t know if it’s been artificially touched up or if somebody just had a cracking good camera, but it’s so high quality that it feels all the more relatable. I know that road, but the cars on it are different. I know those buildings, but the shops inside have changed. I know those trees, but they’re massive great things in comparison. I’ve sat on the bench where the man in the hat is sat. A man seventy years removed from this very moment, long since dead and buried. And that’s fascinating.

If I had a time machine – oh, if I had a time machine. I won’t bore you with tales of where I’d go, but 1950s Plymouth would be one of the earlier stops. I can just imagine how surreal it’d be to explore the city before my father was born, before anyone in my family stepped foot in the city, before the people in my life existed. I know exactly which streets I’d visit. I know exactly where I’d go.

One of the main things I’d do is just listen. Find a spot, people-watch, catch snippets of passing conversation. The day-to-day of the average person in the 1950s isn’t exactly long-lost lore, but I’d be interested in all the little things you don’t think about, the unexpected tidbits that catch you off-guard and remind you that certain shops used to exist, certain people were still around, and of course, there would be plenty popular topics of conversation that people just don’t consider anymore, things that weren’t important enough to be noted in history but were a common talking point at the time.

I am, of course, romanticising things somewhat. Day-to-day life in the 1950s must have felt as unspectacular to someone living their life then as the 2020s do to us now. But maybe there will be people in the 2090s rifling through old photos and videos from the 2020s, perhaps not eager to come and visit due to our… current issues, but feeling their own bout of nostalgia for a time which they never saw for themselves.

The thing that gets me, looking at all those people walking down past the shops, is the fact that history isn’t just the division of separate eras or decades – it’s a direct line from A to B. I like to imagine myself as a fly on the wall, albeit one with an exceptionally long lifespan and an attention span far greater than one I have now. Imagine sitting on that wall and watching people arrive for work, or meetups with friends, coming and going day-by-day as the world ever so slightly, imperceptibly changes around them. We already know, from our perspective, the differences the years brought – some good, some bad – and we categorise them by decade or by technological advancement. But every single day, the invisible web of cause and effect changes infinitesimally, and nothing is ever the same as it was the moments before.

My point is that ultimately, the Royal Parade in that picture and the Royal Parade I know are the same place. (I mean, give our take the thousands of lightyears hurtling through space in the meantime – we’re talking relative place, right? No smart-arses in the comments!) It’s tempting to see history only through the lens of the major events and the stereotypical aesthetics we associate with certain decades, but this picture really brought it home for me that the past is so much closer than we tend to think. The houses we’ve lived in for half our lives have been lived in by multiple families in the past. The streets we live on have seen countless stories unfold throughout the years. And given everything going on in our lives on a day-to-day basis, it’s so easy to forget that, and assume that the present is something that’s been the state of the world forever. Not when you think about it for more than half a second, obviously, but just passively – what’s now just is.

Lately, I’ve realised just how much old media I’ve been consuming. I’m reading Amazing Spider-Man from its 1960’s origins, and watching Classic Doctor Who from a similar starting point. Since subscribing to Britbox for that, I’ve also found myself weirdly intrigued by the smattering of old EastEnders episodes they have available. It’s all due to the same fascination I have with that picture at the top of the blog post. I’ve always been fascinated with ancient history, but it’s only in the last few years that recent history has really grabbed my attention. Not the World Wars or the politics, or anything like that – but the mundane, every-day history of the average life.

Musical Time Travel

Sometimes, when you listen to a song you haven’t heard in years, you find yourself transported back in time to the last time you heard it, remembering with new-found clarity how you felt at the time. Of course, this happens with other senses too, with sight (visiting a place from your past), with taste, and most potently, of course, with smell. But I personally find that music is the most common trigger, as it’s not everyday that I smell a loaf of bread and find myself in a bakery from 2004.

My favourite example of musical time travel is my personal experience with the band Gorillaz. I bought their self-titled album when I was very young (because of the cartoon cover of course) and, as their particular genre of music didn’t take hold of me at that age, the reminiscence was all the more strong when I revisited them in 2012. I fell into listening two particular songs which complemented my then-maudlin state of mind: Gravity and Starshine. Their album Demon Days was also a nostalgia trip for me back then, but rather than listening to Feel Good Inc. and Dare over and over as I had before, I fell into listening different songs on the album such as November Has Come, All Alone, White Light and the narrative masterpiece Fire Coming Out of the Monkey’s Head.

Now, I’m not telling you about these individual songs just because I like them so much. Here’s the point: Gravity and Starshine reminded me of a childhood long past, and transported me around eight years back in time, fueling the fires of nostalgia and triggering memories that had long since faded. The Demon Days songs listed, however, were new to me at the time, as I’d only really listened to the first half of the album before. I listened to all of the above songs at the same time in my life. Now, if I were to go back and listen to them again it would be another nostalgia trip, as it’s been so long. This time, however, I’d be remembering events that took place in 2012, when I went through my last phase of listening to them, both the new and the old. (It’s also worth noting I’ve not familiarised myself with the first eight tracks of Demon Days since my childhood, and therein lies a potential nostalgia trip back to those times.)

Music is the same as anything else; too much of a good thing dulls your appreciation to it. The aurora borealis is beautiful, even as a picture, but make that picture your desktop background and within a week it won’t hold the same awe that it used to. Remove yourself from that picture for a few months, however, and the next time you make it your background it may once again be beautiful… for a few days, at least. But the thing with music is that, at least for me, it can capture your thoughts and feelings like a snapshot, and becomes a sort of time capsule after your appreciation for it wanes, waiting for your taste to swing back its way in a few years time to barrage you with the echoes of your past state of mind.

The nostalgia that old music can bring is a blessing, but the way it is automatically overwritten in the mind – or at least, I must stress, my mind – is saddening. I feel like I have a limited supply of music left I can use to transport myself back into the very earliest depths of my past. Linkin Park’s teenage angst was revisited a few years ago, as was Nickelback’s… distinct… sound. I figure I have the first half of Demon Days, Coldplay’s first few albums and, because it’s just stellar music, The Simpsons’ Yellow Album left until all of my earliest nostalgia is overwritten with modern associations that the subconscious must so relentlessly pursue. On the other hand, I’ve not listened to The Killers since my few months of binge-listening to them when I first started University, and some of Avenged Sevenfold’s albums are probably due for a revisit. Alternatively, I could simply keep finding new music, leaving a trail of nostalgic albums in my wake, growing more potent in their power of reminiscence by the month.

It only now occurs to me that if I’m the only one who experiences this sensation, the last 700 words may well paint me to be a madman. I hold confidence that I’m not alone, though. Whether I mean I’m not alone in the musical sense or the insanity sense, I’ll leave you to decide for yourself!