My Afterglow Moment: Labbi Siffre and Overcoming Homesickness
Living alone in London pushed me into the deepest homesickness I’d ever known, but somewhere between the overheated flat and panic-filled Tube rides, I found an unexpected lifeline in the gentle reassurance of Labbi Siffre’s music.
Written by Caroline McConnico
Illustrated by Audrey Buckley
Sometimes I wake up straight in bed after a bad dream about getting on the wrong train. My pulse heightens and sweat drips behind my neck as my transportation line terminates, leaving me in a crowded tube station with no signal. I am trying to message my boss, but I really just want to call my mom, knowing she’s dead asleep back home. I start to panic, shaking and fighting back tears as I sheepishly ask someone for directions. Their answer is abrupt and unhelpful, and I am starting to accept the fate of never leaving the underground.
When I awake from these nightmares I remind myself none of it is real. I am not alone in a foreign country. My roommates sleep an arms length away from me in their beds, available if I need anything. Instead of panicking, I’ll grab my laptop and turn on the playlist that kept my heart beating this past summer: An ode to Labbi Siffre and his simple comfort.
I lived abroad in London this summer while interning at a lifestyle magazine. I was there for eight weeks, spanning June and July, also known as the hottest English months. I lived in an apartment with five other girls, each with our own bed and bathroom, although the latter is a generous label for my three-square-foot chamber consisting of a toilet and shower. We shared one common area with a couch and kitchen, where I did the majority of my DoorDashing. We had no air conditioning, no rules, and all of the growing pains. I spent the first couple of weeks living in fear that I would die in my sleep or get sick, not understanding how the healthcare system worked. Suffice to say it was a rough time.
I have always struggled with separation anxiety and homesickness, but this was the first time it was crippling. I felt stuck in a world full of strangers, paranoid about my every move, and physically sick at the idea of leaving my apartment. It took every ounce of strength to get out of bed everyday. The simplest tasks were monumental obstacles, like finding my next meal and working the English washing machines. I would call my family everyday, seeking advice or looking for a virtual shoulder to cry on. The biggest encouragement I received was to go out on my own and do something fun for myself, whether that be window shopping, trying a new restaurant, or just spending more time outside. These sidequests did indeed help and I found freedom in pushing myself.
One day, while trying to cheer myself up in Notting Hill’s winding neighborhood of white flats and flat whites, I hit shuffle on my playlist to hear Labbi Siffre’s “Bless the Telephone.” Not only did I feel the quiet comfort he so graciously presents, but I felt the unique empowerment akin to remembering someone loves you. The message, though fairly elementary, reminded me of the countless phone calls I had made to my loved ones. Lines like “How a phone call can change your day / Take you away / Away / From the feeling of being alone / Bless the telephone,” imbued the renewed feeling of quiet calls with my parents, with their consistent reassurance that I was going to be okay. I had such a clear picture of the cobblestone street when this song started playing. Suddenly, I was watching everyone around me live their lives, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like they could see me too.
I started listening to this song everyday, along with Siffre’s other charming tunes, including “Crying Laughing Loving Lying” and “Cannock Chase.” These songs were not only companions, but reminders that simple can be beautiful. They were reinforcing the idea that the little things I was doing everyday were enough to keep me going.
Learning that Siffre is from the area in London I was living in was the icing on the musing cake, and ever since, I have become thoroughly obsessed with the relatively obscure singer-songwriter. As an openly gay artist, his soft power has made him an activist in the LGBTQ+ community, with his work often addressing themes of racism and homophobia. His background has made him a prolific poet with thoughtful lyrics central to his music. I am continuously inspired by him and his message as an artist struggling to be heard and understood.
What makes Siffre’s music existentially valuable is simplicity, the prime example of something basic done exceptionally well. His basic arrangements and use of harmony are easy sidekicks to the message he quietly punches. His unpretentious guitar chords are vehicles for intricate lyricism and deep meanings only he can so gracefully convey.
Siffre woke me up in London. I looked around, and I realized I had somehow made friends while panicking everyday. I made memories with those friends and still keep up with them. A lyric from “Cannock Chase” comes to mind for this specific time: “I've been down for, oh, so long / It seemed like my soul was dead and gone / But it's alright / I'm back in the fight.” I continued this fight when I got home too: I started seeing a therapist and taking medication for my anxiety. I am still learning how to handle lacking control and having irrational nervousness, but now I know I can navigate uncomfortable situations by appreciating the power of simplicity, just like Labbi Siffre encourages.