It’s May 2013. I’m sitting in a café in Nova Scotia, Canada, checking my emails, sipping on a cup of tea. My two brothers are there, too. We haven’t seen each other for a while, and they’re talking about music again. I can never keep up when they do this. Every band they mention is so obscure it sounds as if they’re making them up on the spot.
Their conversation goes something like this**:
‘Have you heard Candleface’s new album?’
‘I’m not into that gravelpit rock-sock scene as much as you are. You listened to that Scissorpen tune yet?’
‘They remind me so much of Heads of Frink.’
‘I know. Bit more alt-prog-stargaze-noodle, though.’
And then I say: ‘Hey. I just got this crazy email.’
‘Yeah?’ one of them says.
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘It’s from the guy who said he’d take Lost & Found to that publisher’s head office for me? It says: “Um, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but an editor from the publisher just rang me on a Sunday and said: If I don’t get to publish this book, I’ll cry.” ’
‘That’s pretty cool,’ one brother says.
‘Yeah,’ says the other.
‘Yeah,’ I say.