Today I will describe one of my favourite songs in the only way that feels right: time travel.
Okay. First, close your eyes.
Just kidding. You can’t read with your eyes closed. Rookie move.
Let’s set the scene.
It’s a Friday evening in the spring of 1985. The sun is low in the sky, casting that golden amber hue over the concrete buildings, making everything look softer, warmer. The air smells faintly of exhaust, blooming trees, and whatever someone’s cooking three floors up.
You just clocked out of work. That heavy, invisible weight that pressed on you all week is already lifting. You feel it loosen as the office door swings shut behind you, rising into the air like steam.
You’re wearing blue jeans, a faded band tee tucked in tight, and sneakers that are perfectly scuffed. A worn leather jacket hangs over your arm. Your hair has volume. It smells of cigarette smoke, hairspray, and whatever else the day left behind. You catch your reflection in a storefront window as you walk to your car looking a little tired, but electric with weekend energy.
You toss your leather jacket onto the passenger seat and rest your hands on the thin steering wheel. You don’t start the engine right away. The sun is low, lighting the buildings and trees from the side, casting long, slanted shadows across the pavement. You squint, not because it’s harsh, but because everything looks golden, like it’s been painted with the last light of the day.
Then you reach for the volume dial. The cassette’s already in the deck, a little warped from constant use. You turn the key. The car hums to life.
You’re driving now. (Don’t close your eyes again)
The roads are uneven. The pavement rises and dips in strange places, but you don’t think much about it. You’re on autopilot. Your body knows exactly how to get there. This route has muscle memory.
Streetlights flicker on, one by one. You pass kids playing soccer on the street. They scramble to the curb as your car approaches, then flood back into the street behind you as you drive past. Someone waves at you. You nod without stopping. The city feels small tonight, like everyone’s in on the same secret.
You’re not even there yet, but you can picture the apartment already. You’ve been a dozen times. Maybe more. The cracked brown tiles in the entryway. That lingering smell of varnish. The kind of apartment lobby that hasn’t changed in decades.
The coat rack will be overflowing, and you can already hear the laughter from the third floor spilling out of the open windows.
You climb the stairs two at a time. You knock once, then walk in without waiting.
And just as you do,
You hear this song playing:
The song is deceptively simple, built on soft synth pads, a steady mid-tempo drum machine, and conversational lyrics. But that’s exactly what makes it brilliant. The minimal arrangement gives everything room to breathe. Nothing feels overproduced or polished to perfection. The emotion arrives naturally, like it’s been waiting for you. The lyrics pulse with connection, restlessness, and anticipation. It’s the kind of sound that fits when you’re heading somewhere familiar.
The longing in their voices feel personal, like someone you know is calling late at night just to ask if you’re still coming over. Because even though you’re time traveling right now, letting the synths and warm apartment light wrap around you, some part of you knows: this moment is temporary.
The party fades. The lights flicker off. And reality -work, routine, morning- waits on the other side. That’s the rule of time travel, after all. It always comes with a return ticket.
On that note, thanks for hanging out in 1985 with me.
Where shall we go next?
Digital Dugme 