This evening, after their show at the Lizard Lounge in Cambridge, MA, the “band and songwriting collective” Cuddle Magic quietly cleaned out a few old, abandoned rooms — one in my ear, which had only been used for storage, and one in my heart, a guest room only occupied for a few weeks at a time by women whose faces have grown hazy in my mind — and moved in, subletters for the indefinite future.
They keep to themselves, mostly, but I do like what they’ve done with the place. The lighting is dim and warm, and it filters through a thin haze of aromatic pipe smoke. The small beds are always carefully turned down — though they are young, artistic types, they are extremely tidy. They have brought antiques and decorative furnishings that vaguely recall cities I might have traveled to, decades not too far past. Though I have never seen anything exactly like them before, it is impossible not to feel that everything has been put in its right place, and that all of it belongs together.
There’s an instrument rack that might supply a folk rock band, a wind quartet and a Javalese Gamelan all playing at once, with several electric keyboards to spare. I often hear their music quietly echoing up through the floors. Though I cannot count the beats without becoming confused, I cannot help but move with it. Phrases end when they need to end, and begin again when it is time for them to begin. The pace is always slow, but the drive is powerful. Harmonies are stacked four or five deep, and voices blend inseparably with bass clarinet, synthesizer, viola, and trumpet, one starting as another leaves off. They sit comfortably in the grey space between chordal and atonal, refusing to fall back on progressions or to create dissonance for its own sake. Quite simply, they play notes, and the notes combine to make music.
They speak tersely, but they have a lot to say. In moments of realism, their dialogue encompasses the quiet despair of an interminable search for love and its many twisting detours. In moments of fantasy, they rave softly about the moon or repeat indecipherable mantras: “cotton candy money.” Somewhere in between are the little things that never seemed important until I heard them in that beautiful composite voice: the sound of the printer, a particular stack of cardboard boxes.
Cuddle Magic makes me remember things. It could be the way in which they suddenly fall silent to listen to a single instrument or voice; it could be the way they articulate syllables like words and words like insights; something they do makes me remember times when small things were vital, times when I stood on a moment like a razor, unable to look forward to back.
I hope they stay on here. I will be impressed if they can make rent — though the time is right for their music, it is unbrandable and made for small rooms. But I will keep them as long as I can. I will probably become acquainted with the band members individually, each an extraordinary music maker with a unique share of skills and quirks. But I am glad I haven’t yet. For tonight, I am enjoying Cuddle Magic as an indivisible unit, settling into their special new space and playing for me from not so far away as I fall asleep.