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That's A-N-C-H-O-R dot FM slash M-S-I-C-A-N-D-T-A-L-K. A lot of spelling there, but just do it.

We live on a mountain right at the top, this beautiful view from the top of the mountain. Every morning I walk towards the edge

and throw little things off, like car parts, bottles, and cutlery, or whatever I find lying around.

It's become a habit, a way to start the day. The point is that I can't do these words justice. I cannot say them,

let alone sing them, with anywhere near the gravity they deserve or anywhere near the gravity

they possess now that Bjork has sung them. I can't think these words with the gravity they now possess.

I am 19 years old and I am forlornly looking out the third floor window of my freshman year

college dorm room. That's the memory. The point is that the memory is painfully mundane.

Unremarkable dorm room. Unremarkable college green panorama out the dorm room window.

Unremarkable 19 year old. No, to me, the point is that in this

moment, I'm no longer there. I'm no longer looking at what I'm looking at. I'm no longer me. I am

transfixed. I am transported by Bjork, who is singing words that sound mundane when I say them but become transcendent when

she even thinks them.

Whatever I find lying around.

The junkyard of priceless treasure just in the consonants of car parts, bottles, and cutlery.

When Bjork sings the words, car parts, bottles, and cutlery, I'm going to let you in on a little secret.

As a professional rock critic, I am compelled, often to share with the people my deep, incisive, unquestionably worthwhile thoughts on music that I just

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