One of the great things about music is its vastness: there's simply not enough time in the world to listen to every single thing that has ever been recorded. Consequently, great music sometimes slips through the cracks, only to be picked up, dusted off, and enjoyed far into the future.
I found out about Broadcast a few months ago when I heard "Come On Let's Go" in a store, from their 2000 debut The Noise Made By People. Their lead singer, Trish Keenan, has an arresting voice: mysterious, a little bit airy, but instantly recognizable. The song sounds like a precursor to the current fascination in underground music, diffusing Phil Spector-like pop through a darker, more modern lens.
I was late to the Broadcast party, but that didn't stop me from diving head-first into that debut and eventually their ever-expanding discography. It quickly became the soundtrack to cold, misty, quiet December nights where the rain refracts Christmas lights into a million different directions. I was excited for the new sonic adventure. However, this morning came the news of Keenan's sudden death. It's especially shocking in this case; while I wouldn't call myself a Broadcast super-fan, I was falling fast for their beautiful sound. Now, my musical exploration of Broadcast has a definite ending point; now, the band--which prided itself on boundary-pushing--is frozen in time.
Besides the personal connection, it's a tragedy for Keenan, her bandmates, her family, and her fans. Here was an artist steady in her resolve and cut down too soon. She left behind a small legacy, one that just might do for you what it did for me: stop you in your tracks and force you to take notice. That's a rare gift. We had just met, but the music isn't fleeting.
Download:
Broadcast :: Come On Let's Go
Broadcast :: Echo's Answer
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