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In This Life: A Conversation with Sandro Perri
In This Life: A Conversation with Sandro Perri
Late September of last year, I’m crossing Forbes Avenue via the skybridge. I had just pressed play on “In Another Life” without bothering to check its 25-minute runtime. I’m in line at Sorrento’s at 1:00 AM on a Saturday in October, humming that same melody. I’m taken back to my first encounter with the music of Sandro Perri, 10 minutes into the track, completely lost in the melody. In November, I’m driving to Akron, reflectively leaning against the backseat window, as pre-sunset fog wisps by, as if it was born from the music. A year later, I’m driving to Philadelphia, completely unaware that I’ve only known this song for a little over a year, my perception time completely out of calibration. That’s the beauty of Perri’s music. Retroactively dubbed an exercise in “infinite songwriting,” it’s only fitting that the puttering synth melody has lived inside my head ever since I first heard it.
In This Life: A Conversation with Sandro Perri
Late September of last year, I’m crossing Forbes Avenue via the skybridge. I had just pressed play on “In Another Life” without bothering to check its 25-minute runtime. I’m in line at Sorrento’s at 1:00 AM on a Saturday in October, humming that same melody. I’m taken back to my first encounter with the music of Sandro Perri, 10 minutes into the track, completely lost in the melody. In November, I’m driving to Akron, reflectively leaning against the backseat window, as pre-sunset fog wisps by, as if it was born from the music. A year later, I’m driving to Philadelphia, completely unaware that I’ve only known this song for a little over a year, my perception time completely out of calibration. That’s the beauty of Perri’s music. Retroactively dubbed an exercise in “infinite songwriting,” it’s only fitting that the puttering synth melody has lived inside my head ever since I first heard it.