Two days ago I received an email from a client named Justin that I hadn't spoken to in almost three years. He was asking for a copy of a song from a session that took place in Fort Worth, TX in March of 2010 to put on a cassette to be released at his final performance. Somewhere between March of 2010 and April of 2013 I've moved to Austin, been across the country multiple times, and had two hard drives crash. Things are not looking good for this song. I combed through our emails and found a link(!) from the weekend after the session in 2010 that would have taken me directly to the track if it weren't for the fact that it was a link to megaupload, where nothing exists but tears and memories off all the free downloads with cheeky names that once were. The only thing left to do was to email the Electronic Frontier Foundation about maybe getting the file out of the hands of the US Government (or whomever has those hard drives).
I feel a twinge of guilt about not being able to get Justin the song that he worked so hard to create. I find it very strange and melancholic that two people can work so hard on a project, putting in ten hour days and going hungry to complete a piece of art only for nothing of their work to exist other than the memory of whatever was created. I have a vague recollection of the desired song, a pounding floor tom reverberates through a microphone connected to three delay pedals and a loop station creating feedback that stretches out for what feels like an eternity. It's harsh and beautiful and I wish that it were tangible but for now it lives as a remix in only two pair of ears. Hopefully someone will come through and retrieve the song, I'd like to be able to hear it for what it is and send this unnamed monstrosity out into the world. If nothing else it's a lesson to always click save, drop your file into whatever cloud (or clouds) that you may pray to, burn it to a disc, and buy another external hard drive. If all else fails keep your memory sharp because that's all you really have.