29. Ghost Hardware, Burial (2007)

The sound of winter. Cold winds. The walk from Penton Street through the N1 Centre, my wet feet on grey paving, a silver crown of thorns suspended in the air. The bus home, the sky black, the voices cutting in, swirling into my ears like water into a plughole. An album so chilly but also comforting, bleak but also bracing, stitching all the sounds from the city effortlessly together, and this track in particular, the one Rob and I would play every morning in the office before it filled with clatter and noise, now taking me home. The two-step rhythms the sound of an approaching train on the North London Line, the swooshes its doors opening, the ghostly vocals in its corners the angels on my shoulders, taking me into the crowd, holding me closely, taking me to the East.