I’ve had three recent encounters with trains.
The first was in the Mojave Desert. Blinding heat, socially very-distant. We spotted it from afar, way up ahead and miles away. In the expanse of the desert, we could watch the train grow closer and larger as we, driving, continued along the open road. This went on for miles until unbelievably, our paths met at the same point, and we rolled to a stop just as the rail crossings lowered. The train blasted in front of us.
Train two was south of Shasta, by the campground, next to the river. It appeared in the early evening, and with horns blaring it rolled to a stop. We stood at its side, hopped up on some rungs, and marveled at the feat of construction. We were drinking wine.
The third was near the Oregon–California border, along highway 97. Driving parallel alongside a moving train is trippy. I tried to keep my eyes on the road but the train demanded my attention. My perception of speed blurred.
Trains. Sheer masses of iron and steel. The freight containers green, orange, brown, all of them rusted. Each one the same, each one different. One after the next, seemingly endless. What was behind those doors? Where were they headed?
Under the strange cloud of quarantine, these days pass by like train cars – each one the same, each one different. Our only choice is to keep moving in the same direction.
The beautiful new album from Mtbrd plays like a train. Smooth beats move one after another, without any notice one track has passed to the next. Seamless. Start at the beginning and in the blink of an eye you’re on track 10. Each one the same, each one different.