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Despite the vast amount of time I spend think about music (I’m an abrasive, severe, lonely individual), I don’t actually think that I have a favourite band. I have favoured records and genres, and I have favoured bands over certain time periods, but I don’t actually have a band whose catalogue I entirely revere; really, the best I can do is appreciate a band’s catalogue.

And I’m really jealous of people who actually do have favourite bands – and I suspect that most people actually do. My good friend, excellent blogger, and all-around swell guy Matt, has a favourite band in Green Day, and I’m always awed at his enthusiasm for them (and, truthfully, they don’t exactly have any weak releases). I wonder if I was born without the capacity to actually associate with a band long enough to actually deem them my favourite; I oftentimes wonder if I’m missing a chromosome. Most music fans – and critics – seem to possess a soft spot for a particular band, though, and can see value in their every release. This must be a great feeling, because every time a favoured band releases a new record, it’s like receiving a birthday gift: though you’re unsure of the contents, you know that you’ll probably like it and somehow feel like it’s specifically tailored to you.

I’ve spent years attempting to determine what it’s like to be completely devoted to a band. From my observations, in the wake of each release, a band’s devotee becomes an amnesiac; they forget just exactly how much they enjoy the band. Upon the delivery of a new album, however, they are simultaneously reminded of their love for the band – and, with new material in hand, their affection returns with renewed vigour.

Of course, these are strictly observations: I’ve never really experienced these feelings. I’d guess that it’s comparable to the feeling you get when you wake up in the middle of the night, knowing you have three more hours of sleep before you wake up for the day. Since you can’t exactly enjoy sleep whilst alseep, being jolted into consciousness reminds you of your good fortune; you fall back asleep with a newfound appreciation for slumber.

Aside from my tenuous sleep analogy, I think that I have other approximations for these sentiments.

This week, I got laid off from work. Or, more accurately, I’ve been ‘restructured’ from the company from whom I work. Now, while this isn’t exactly terrible – as I don’t exactly like my job – being unemployed is one of the worst things in the world. Many champion the benefits of being unemployed – waking up in the PM, solo-drinking tetra-packs of wine in full daylight, and not having to use bibs while eating – unemployment is a unique type of stress. It brings forth the very omnipresent reality that I’m about a paycheque-and-a-half away from the streets, and that I’m not as employable as I’d like to think I am.

Though I’m not quite there – I have about month left at my current job – I’m already anticipating the hardships of being unemployed. The constant interviewing – either by phone, or in person – is completely taxing, as you have to method-act and lie your face off to strangers. You come to the realization that you very well might not secure a position as a puppy-hugger, kite-flyer, or with a well-intentioned NGO; you might have to settle with positions as a temporary worker, hired on an as-needed basis, enabling companies to ignore candidates seeking careers and benefits; a go-go dancer in Yorkville; a baby-seal clubber; an administrative assistant at a pharmaceutical company.

And during periods of employment, I always, always forget how terrible unemployment feels.

I suspect that each successive round of unemployment is like hearing a new record from your favourite band; although instead of your favourite band, you’re experiencing the complusion to listen to the worst album you’ve ever heard, released by a super-group comprised of your mortal enemies, rival sports teams, exes, and annoying co-workers for the very first time.