2020 is proving to be a pretty strange year. I see this in everyone I know: we all thought it was our year. We all thought the words in All Time Low's Weightless would prove true, once and for all, for the first time since its release. We all thought that maybe it wasn't our weekend, but it was going to be our year, and this time, we meant it.

Only to be punched square in the jaw by a global pandemic that stopped all of us from doing, virtually, everything we had set our minds to.

It won't be our weekend, and it sure as hell won't be our year either.

While we had to learn to live indoors and rediscover hobbies for the sake of having hobbies, I plunged myself into new music. Keeping in touch with new releases was a resolution of mine for the year, global pandemic or not, and the abundance of free time made it a reality. 

The Australians of Slowly Slowly have entered my life through the recommendation of an also Australian friend, and have stayed put right where they are thanks to an excellent third full-length record, unique songwriting and earworm choruses in the best possible way.

I'm usually a lyric person, as opposed to a melody person, and it's always been that way. If 2010-me had been under the needle of a tattoo gun, she'd embarrassingly be covered in song lyrics from head to toe, and 2020-me would look like an azlyrics.com page, minus the purple parts. However, I'm also a human person, and a solid chorus can make its way into my brain, never leave, and be the reason why I get hooked on music. 

This is kind of what happened with me and Slowly Slowly.

Quite simply put, I dare anyone to listen to Jellyfish, Safety Switch, or Creature of Habit, whichever part you prefer, and not have it stuck into your brain for the rest of eternity. I am currently listening to Race Car Blues, yet again, and I can guarantee you that my brain will have a little karaoke along the lines of "That's pretty weird, right, that's pretty strange, but have you ever seen a jellyfish? Now that shit's crazy" for a solid fifteen hours, at the very least.

One of the major strengths of Race Car Blues is how desperately catchy it all is. Every track has what it takes to move into one of the rooms of your brain, only to never leave. To every song, you want to sing along, or tap your toes to the beat, or bang your head, which are all activities I may or may not have done during my government-allowed walks, to the confusion of a lot of people, I expect. If you're anything like me, music means a live performance, and while I'm waiting for the world to be allowed live music again, I can only imagine what every song in Race Car Blues sounds like live. (Yes, I know there are videos to help me out, but they're not the real thing.)

The lyric person I am fell into heaven the first time she heard Race Car Blues. Ben Stewart has one of the most unique ways with words I have ever heard, and this is what made me stick around, what made the cool become quite excellent. Every time I listened to it, at first to cure the itch for the choruses that had entered my brain, I would find sentences and phrases I hadn't noticed at first, and, when I started paying more attention, I got hooked, and probably a little mindblown, too.

There is the downright quirky, random, and wonderfully strange, in the best possible way, like Jellyfish, which I may have interpreted has a weird little love song, and, upon watching the music video (a foolproof sign that I'm in too deep), I have swiftly decided that if love wasn't matching bowling shirts and being "tight, two peas in a pod, two hooks sinking down from the same little fishing rod" or buying swimming pools to skateboard in when you're dead, I didn't want it. 

There is also the downright beautiful, introspective and wonderfully, well, wonderful, in Superpowers. Superpowers is some sort of reflection on the downsides of having commonly desired superpowers (being invisible, stopping time, flying and the like) and realising that all that we see as human flaws and shortcomings (having to work at something, struggling, or death) are what gives us purpose, and that maybe, just maybe, the point of all of this is to do what you want to do, because, what else are you going to do? The line "You'd lose all context with no saviour, it's imminent death that keeps you at best. You need a fire underneath you, or nothing's gonna teach you a reason to open your eyes" stuck with me and, in my flawed little brain with all its dark parts, is a welcome reminder that, well, if I just do the things I want to do for the right reasons, I might just be alright.

The pair doesn't fit in any of these descriptions, but it would be criminal to write about Race Car Blues without speaking of Creature Of Habit, both parts are fine. Both somehow fit into the downright quirky, random, and wonderfully strange category, but what made them stick with me is the stream of consciousness in the words. (I should have known that my English degree would come in handy at some point in my life, who would have guessed it would be for music not-reviews) The verses of both these songs feel like the uncensored thoughts in Ben Stewart's brain, and that's why I love them so much. They feel so truthful, so human, so honest and unfiltered, a jumble of a human brain. 

But also, I cannot help but wondering how joyous it feels to sing along to "Ben's got a gig, did you hear he's got a gig? We should all go, yeah they're getting pretty big. Something 'bout Slowly, or maybe it was Softly, fuck my life, this is always gonna haunt me" in the middle of a crowded room as opposed to the middle of the French countryside. (Just so we're clear, I don't sing outside)

And that's the heart of the matter.

This is my view on Race Car Blues as I've listened to it on loop for a solid two months and never heard of any of it live, never travelled with the chance to listen to it in different places to see how it fit in the background, never put any solid memories aside from the quarantine on it.

Ask me again about this record when I've finally stood in the middle of a crowded room and heard it performed by the musicians, live. Ask me when I've listened to it outside of the four walls of a bedroom or a flat, and my view, favourite songs, everything, could change.

That's the heart of the matter, and the most wonderful part of music.

Circumstances can change everything.

The truth about Race Car Blues is that it reminds me of a very specific moment in my life, back when it wasn't even released yet, and I love that part of it, because at least, it won't just be the soundtrack of my lockdown forever. 

As I mentioned earlier, Slowly Slowly have been recommended to me by an Australian friend, who I met when I went to Tasmania in November, months before I even knew who the band was. And, because, now, Slowly Slowly are so intricately linked with the recommendation, they have become the accidental soundtrack of a weekend when I didn't know who they were yet. 

Their music, the weird and the wonderful, the introspection and the singalong parts, takes me back to one of the best weekends of my life.

It takes me back to the loveliest view outside of the plane windows, the tiny airport in Hobart with the cute little statue, the Salamanca Markets and their stalls full of homemade trinkets and Tasmanian devils, the signs about travelling to Antarctica, my friend's house, the swords on the bedroom ceiling and the vintage tea cups in the kitchen, the afternoon we spent making cookies. 

It takes me back to bubble tea on the porch, to the perfect gig with the perfect company, even though it was an entirely different band on the stage, to kindness. 

It takes me back to our little group sitting outside, eating chips and talking under the stars, and exchanging music recommendations in the back of a darkened taxi, and not even Slowly Slowly yet. 

It takes me back to the phosphorescent stars on the ceiling of my bedroom and going to the beach at eight in the morning, of driving to Richmond and eating pie and salted caramel ice cream in a tiny village that looked like Stars Hollow, to the oldest bridge in Australia and the eels and the clearest water.

It takes me back to the wallabies that fought for my attention and the zebra called Beyoncé and to the sushi restaurant, and my friend's daughter sleepily saying she's worried about Brexit and climate change, because she's the greatest kid I've ever met. 

It takes me back to the top of the windiest mountain and snow in spring, to the supermarket when we decided to have an Australian picnic, to TimTams and Twisties and ducks who wanted a slice, too, to the botanical gardens that looked like a Monet painting and the loveliest flowers. It reminds me of the people who have made this weekend one of the best of my life, and it smells of the promise that one day, I'll go back to Hobart, and I'll listen to Race Car Blues, and I know it'll feel just right. 

In the meantime, I can only listen from the quiet of my little countryside enclave and wonder how it all sounds like on a stage, I can imagine how glorious some parts would sound when sung along by a whole crowd, I can see myself crying at times, of joy or heartfelt emotion, I can picture myself crowdsurfing to some parts with the eternal grace of a beached whale, when I don't even know if people have moshpits and crowdsurfs to this band.

I really hope they do.