There’s an expiration date to various music. Songs you can no longer listen to post-partum from some significantly twisted tryst. I am the said survivor of a certain sexperience. I’ve recently found out that the expiration date for said song’s hiatus should not exceed four years. I came to this conclusion when I no longer had to swiftly change stations upon the uninvited airwave appearance in various acoustic forms. That’s the best slash worst part of all music, its ability to DeLorean you back to some significant time without warning. And, as much as this little lyrical lifestyle allows for the resurgence of something entirely blissful, it can just as easily invite the unwanted resurrection of something a little less than holy. So when the City of Angels is suddenly overrun by an unavoidable soundtrack to your life, hurry up and switch stations at supersonic speed, lest your sample CD gets stuck on repeat and you become one of those misguided mademoiselles fervently stating that they just don’t make music like they used to.