Wake him up before I go into the gentle night

Dear Mr. Daniel Ek ,

I do hope all is good in the land of streaming gold.

The reason I am reaching out to you is because I cannot get in touch with Mr. Spot, who still seems to be asleep?!

And I would love it if you could wake him up, as I have so many things I want to say to him.

First, I would start by saying:

– Hey, Spotty, what a sunny morning. Can you make a playlist of Bob Marley’s happy songs and play them for me?

And then, enjoying my coffee I suddenly get notified that peace talks had started in the middle east, I shout out to my friend:

– I want to listen to a live news feed about the peace talks!

And, Spotty being Spotty, he would of course know which peace I am referring to and serve up a radio channel where this is being reported live.

So, you see, an awake Mr. Spot would be valuable to me. Now, writing this to you, I can clearly see my entire relationship with Mr. Spot playing out in my mind’s eye.

Although starting the day with Bob Marley and sunshine, work that day is tough, my brain feels like melting iron when I walk home, and now I need peace, badly:

- Please, Mr. Spot, I start. And then go quiet. I feel so tired, and we have worked so hard over the last few months. I am longing for vacation.

But the good sport Spotty knows me, can hear the tiredness in the tone of my voice, and says in a quiet whisper:

- Sir, if I may suggest. Perhaps some soothing, classical music. Will you let my play your favorite Bach’s cello suites?

- Yes, please, I say and feel my shoulders relax as Yo-Yo Ma’s genius merge with Bach divine music.

Cooking dinner, I am back, energized, and curious. You know, this fricking brain of mine, always craving mental calories, and always in search of new forms of, well, everything, not at least music.

– Hi, Professor Spot, what about the latest art-house jazz from London? Teach me everything you know, I say, and add, create it in podcast format—one hour—and infuse the talk with songs that act as examples.

After one hour my Korean chicken is on the table and I have at least earned a PhD in jazz theory.

I work out that night, heavy lifting, and as usual Spotty selects my favorite push-exercise tunes based on my heartbeat and movement. When he hears me scream in pain, he laughs, and so do I.

Back home, on the couch, I slumber and remember my vacation last year and the sunset in Azenhas do Mar. The warm evening breeze and the gentle swell from the Atlantic Ocean painted in gold and purple by the huge sun setting behind the horizon, while we sat on a cliff and watched the youths dancing in the water to the chill tunes from the beach bar.

I tell Spotty and ask him to play the soundtrack of that memory as I continue to fade into the night of Portugal.

So, life goes, and when I get old, I sit in that same couch, enjoying a whiskey, like old folks do, and reminiscing about times past… And I allow Spotty’s avatar, who sits next to me and look exactly like Stephen Fry in the series Jeeves & Wooster, to hear my thoughts.

– Dearest Spotty, have I shown you the time me and my friends went snowboarding for the first time in the nineties?

– No, sir, he says, but I am sure you are about to enlighten me.

I let him share my memories, how we woke up, hung over, at seven in the morning, every day, because one of the guy’s blasted that song from the stereo.

Here I stop. I am totally blank. What song? What was the name of the band? Punkish. Quite intense, I think it started with someone screaming.

– What year was it? Spotty asks me.

– Mid-nineties. I think the cover art of the album was a yellow x-ray scan of a skeleton.

– Could it have been a song from Offspring's album, Smash?

– Offspring, yes, I remember and chuckle.

– But if it starts with a scream, it might be the song Session, from the prior album, Ignite. Listen, says Spotty in my mind.

I instantly recognize it. Good chap, Spotty. I go on. Hearing the punk rock song from the stereo in the cabin and remembering that my friend not could have us missing the opening of the lifts, and that's why he woke us up that early.

And I show Spotty how my friend made a back-flip but landed on the head in the snow and went blue in the face, but recovered without injuries, and how someone – was it me? – fell in love with an older girl at the After ski. I was so unhappy I just wanted to fall asleep and drift away in the snowdrift by the side of the road, but my friends picked me up and dragged me two kilometers to the cabin in minus fifteen degrees.

When I finish, I drink the last of my whiskey, and my dear friend Spotty says:

– And now, sir, I guess you want me to take you back to that time and place by playing the music that would resonate with that trip? Including Offspring, and perhaps Pearl Jam and why not Nirvana?

Of course I do. And hearing Kurt Cobain sing "he's the one who likes all our pretty songs, and he likes to sing along, and he likes to shoot his gun, but he knows not what it means..." I draw my last breath with a smile on my face, going gentle into that good night.

So, you see, Mr. Ek, it is essential that you wake him up as soon as possible, because I cannot imagine life without Spotty.

Yours Sincerely,

Gunnar Strandberg

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