For Proust, of course, it was the scent of the biscuit – specifically a madeleine – which, early on in the seven-volume A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu, triggers a whole host of memories, prompting the narrator to wang on a bit, to say the least (no, I’ve not read it either).

The olfactory glands clearly are hardwired straight into our memory banks – I was reminded of this today when the smell of hyacinths took me back to my childhood, when these were frequently in our house around this time of year (Mrs F isn’t a fan, so the current ones were a present currently flowering away on the kitchen windowsill: looks like I’ll be the one washing the dishes until they’re past, at least).

As a writer, you’re taught to mention what your scene smells like, to further immerse the reader. However, I would contend that music has a similar effect, and even more so when it comes to inspiring emotions in you. A couple of examples have happened to me recently:

1. The flight back from South Africa was long, and overnight, and experience on the way down had taught me that self-medication with red wine wouldn’t make any difference to the chance of a good sleep. Fortunately I had my phone charged, and I chose Pink Floyd’s ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ as my companion for one of the eleven hours I had to while away.

Now, I’m not a massive Floyd fan – shortly after this album, for me, they veered into portentousness – but it is a classic album in the truest sense, and it took me right back to a particular group of friends I came up to Uni with from school, and listening to this album in the dark – to get the full effect, you understand.

Here’s the whole album, in case you want to try it. It’s aged really well, even the more experimental bits where a bloke who sounds like Rowan Atkinson (but isn’t) can be heard saying ‘I definitely was in the right,’ and there is of course the track with the backing singer having some sort of aneurysm (or something else ending -sm) which had a powerful effect on a young chap of an impressionable age.

2. On Tuesday, I was at a concert at Greyfriars Kirk, the 17th century church in the centre of Edinburgh where Alison volunteers as a meeter and greeter. This was the Scottish Chamber Orchestra Chorus’s ‘Snow on Snow.’ Yeah, I know. I’ve said before how middlebrow I am, and the prospect of little irreligious me sitting through some modern choral music wasn’t one I would’ve chosen for myself.

Reader, how I glad I was I went! There’s a reason why they sing in church, and it’s the acoustics. I bet the SCO chorus wished they could roll up that sound and take it with them wherever they go. I can’t stress enough that this was not music that I could engage with in almost any way, and yet it had an incredibly powerful effect. In the midst of singing the last piece, Lux Aurumque by Eric Whitacre (no relation to Roger, my sister advises) the choir marched from the front of the church in a line until they were all around us. Talk about surround sound! The piece itself capered about through various modalities way beyond the ken of this rock n’ roller, eventually resolving into C and F major. I’d post a bit of it (I took a sneaky recording of some of it on my phone) but I might well sample it some time.

3. One of my experiments for the future this year has been joining a choir. It hasn’t quite worked out for me (mainly because I’ve not devoted enough time to practise) but we did a concert, of sorts, last weekend at the Farmer’s Market on Castle Terrace. The programme was varied, but it did include Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah.’

I know, I know. Just about every choir does it. For a while it was an open mic staple too. What surprised me though was how much emotion welled up in me singing it – so much so that I struggled to do so. It just inspired thoughts of Leonard, and his life and example. I don’t know why I’m surprised really, given how much I love the song, and its writer – previous posts about the film of the song and blubbing over a beautiful choral version of it elsewhere on this blog.

Actually, even my own songs have on occasion moved people to tears, and not just because of my ‘Marmite’ voice. There’s something about music – and combining it with words that mean something – that, like smell, can stir powerful emotion. When you sit in a church and feel the hairs going up on the back of your neck at the sound, it would take a sceptical heart of stone to think there wasn’t something at work beyond the here and now.

Next year, I may go on something of a sceptic’s quest for spiritual meaning. I’m not betting against music remaining my religion, however.

Hope you all have a good winter break and spend time with the people you want to spend it with. All the very best for 2024, and thanks for reading.