Home is where the record player is

Music has been a massive part of my life for as long as I can remember. They say that 'smell' is the sense that is most closely associated with memory. But I feel strongly that 'sound' – and particularly music – must come a very close second. So much music places me in a very specific time, and location.

I remember as a child creeping through the dark to use the toilet in the dead of night, and overhearing my Dad play Beatles songs on his acoustic guitar. As a teenager I remember bonding and connecting with my uncles – me telling them what new "cool" bands I was listening to, and them telling me stories of gigs they’d seen in Belfast in the 70s and 80s (Thin Lizzy! Rory Gallagher! Elvis Costello!)

At High School, my friends and I always took over the far end of the sixth form common room, as that’s where the stereo was. We’d argue over whose cassette to play next (yes, it was the 90s), bond over Radiohead and Nirvana and Sepultura (yes, it was still the 90s), argue over Blur or Oasis, and mock anyone into electronic or dance music (it’s not real music, our teenage brains argued).

And it doesn’t even have to be a band or an album. One note from the soundtrack to Super Mario Kart, and in a Proustian rush I’m immediately whisked back to my teenage bedroom, trying to smash my best time at the Mushroom Cup.

I moved to Edinburgh around 2004. And I think – with very few exceptions – almost all of my friends here I met through music – going to shows, playing shows, and putting on other bands. These days I’d quite happily walk up to one of the independent venues (Sneaky Pete’s, Henry’s Cellar Bar, Summerhall, Leith Depot) on my own – safe in the knowledge that I’m almost guaranteed to bump into someone that I know.

I remember the heady summer of 2009, when The Bowery was open, and it felt like something special was captured in Edinburgh. Going to see as many gig as possible that were just a different configuration of jesus h. foxx, Broken Records, Meursault, Rob St. John, Kid Canaveral, Conquering Animal Sound, Withered Hand, Adam Stafford and/or ballboy.

Around two-and-a-half-years ago I moved into my current flat, following the breakdown of a relationship. I brought my vinyl collection with me, but now I no longer had a record player to listen to them on. After just two short years of deliberating and procrastination, I finally invested in a new turntable and stereo system earlier this year. (Since you ask, it's a Denon DP-300F, with Onyx amp and Cambridge Audio uprights.)

Now I love my flat. I love the space I get to myself. I get on moderately well with my landlord. It’s in a nice part of town where I’m close to a lot of good friends. But it wasn’t until the needle glided down onto that first record, and I was able to sit with a cup of tea in my hand and listen to an album from start to finish – that it truly started to feel like a home. (In case you were wondering, it was Revision Ballads by Savage Mansion – as I needed something loud and poppy and cathartic.)

I firmly believe that the decisions people make about music – who they love, who they hate ('cos sometimes that’s just as important), and how they choose to consume music – says so much about a person, and helps inform their personality. A lot of people would think that this makes me a music snob. And to be honest, they're probably right. But I feel OK being slightly snobby about something that I devote so much of my life to. I remember watching the scene in Diner where Daniel Stern shouts at his new wife Ellen Barkin for not knowing the cataloguing system he has for his record collection, and not being sure if I’m meant to sympathise with her or him.

I once came up with three questions to ask at a wedding, to break the ice and to try and get to know people at your table better. They were: What’s your favourite David Bowie album?; What’s your favourite song whose title is also a girl’s name?; Who is your favourite cartoon cat? Naturally, it’s important to get the Bowie question in early, as ascertaining whether or not they like David Bowie will decide whether you want to continue a conversation with them or not.

Last weekend I attended Ensemble’s Songs to End Homelessness show at St Luke’s in Glasgow. This wasn’t some tokenistic fundraiser gig – this was a project that matched musicians with young people who had been through Loretto Care’s homelessness services, and gave them the opportunity to collaborate on writing songs together. Many of the songs will be on an album later this year.

At the show many of the young people helped perform – and introduce – the songs themselves. After over two decades of going to gigs, I can honestly say this is one of the most moving and powerful events I’ve ever seen. So music can also help a person define themselves and empower themselves, communicate their feelings and ideas, and process their traumas.

Music is so subjective – so it’s hard to talk in superlatives. People listen to enjoy different music, at different times, for different reasons. But for me, the greatest song ever written is This Must Be The Place (Naïve Melody) by Talking Heads.

Earlier this year I got to perform the song with an all-star live backing band (Tigercats! Allo Darlin! Stick In the Wheel!) for one of my closest friends’ wedding. And so a song I have loved for years and know absolutely inside out, suddenly has taken on this deeper resonance and memory. It will now always connect me to that night, and to that friendship.

But that’s what music does to us. Always part of our lives. Always helping us develop new connections, and new memories.

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Bart Owl plays in eagleowl and promotes shows under the name The Gentle Invasion; eagleowl will soon be releasing a cover of Lord Gregory for The Glad Cafe's Raise the Roof album; the next Gentle Invasion night features performances from Ghum, Aufbau Principle and The Leg and will take place at Henry's Cellar Bar, Edinburgh, 17 Jul