The teeth of time are biting, and I feel it

A lot of the time, lyrics don’t necessarily speak to me. I love a great melody. I’ll happily sing along to a chorus I barely understand. And some of my favourite tracks? I’m still trying to decipher them (I’m looking at you, Africa by Toto and 45 by Bon Iver).

But truly seeing myself in a song? That’s rare.

So much music is about falling in love, longing, or heartbreak.

But what about the weighty, demanding responsibilities of your late 30s? The push and pull of routine? The quiet negotiations of adulthood?

That’s why Teeth of Time by Joshua Burnside hit differently. Burnside isn’t writing about youthful abandon — he’s writing about the slow march of time, the contradictions of the ‘good life,’ and the thoughts we rarely say aloud.

It captures how happiness and sadness can exist in the same room, and how everything can feel both fleeting and endless all at once.

And if you’ve ever caught yourself staring into the metaphorical mirror, wondering, "Is this it?" while simultaneously feeling grateful for what you have, Teeth of Time might resonate.

Parenthood: the beautiful weight of it all

One particular moment stopped me in my tracks. In The Good Life, he sings about driving around in the summer heat, trying to lull a child to sleep.

It’s a quiet, unremarkable act that countless parents have done before and are doing right now. But in Burnside’s hands, it becomes something more: a symbol of contentment and constraint. The inescapable ebb and flow of being a dad.

"Beat well, heart of little lentil
Growing fast inside the belly of
The one I love the most
I will not lie, the path ahead is daunting."

Then, hearing these words in Nothing Completed, I’m taken straight back to that strange, surreal time before my child was born. The excitement, yes, but also the quiet, gnawing fear — and side dish of intense anxiety — that no one really tells you about.

There’s no roadmap, no guarantees, just the hope that you’ll do your best, and that love will be enough.

And the road ahead is daunting. Ever since the mid-2010s, it feels like many of the old certainties — about politics, right and wrong, and how things are supposed to work — seemed to have fallen apart.

The future used to feel like a continuation of the past, a steady line moving forward.

Now, it feels like anything could happen, and not necessarily for the better.

“The golden light of dawn so bright
Peaked through the blind and onto
Your little face I wondered what
The future will bestow you.”

And then your child arrives, and the abstract becomes real.

I’ve had that exact moment described in Teeth of Time/Mountain — standing over the cot in the half-light, wondering who they’ll become. Wishing I could protect them from every heartbreak, every disappointment, while knowing that I can’t, that I shouldn’t.

Life’s ups and downs

Up and Down was the first track I heard on Chris Hawkins’ BBC Radio 6 show — my daily wake-up call and a crash course in new genre discovery.

Musically, it immediately grabbed me with fingerpicked nylon guitars and a hummed lament-like melody you can’t help but join in with.

And then the lyrics — which deal with everyday scenarios and their built-in contradictions. The title alone speaks to how life refuses to be pinned down into one state of being.

Life used to feel like a steady climb. Then, in my mid-30s, time started pressing down — suddenly, things weren’t so linear anymore.

A loved one dying. A health scare. The greys staring back at you in the mirror. Your parents suddenly ageing in front of your eyes. And then you start wondering — what’s the end goal here?

“Up and down we're going, going nowhere fast
We sit and wait and wonder, when will come our chance?
Washing all the dishes, waiting for the bus
Time moves awfully slowly, then suddenly it's up
Death is deep and empty, but forever isn't long
Some will make a hundred, some not even one.”

Teeth of Time understands this. It doesn’t shy away from the lows but doesn’t dwell in them, which is a lesson for us all. There’s a warmth here, a quiet kind of hope woven into the melancholia.

Well, I thought I had it all sussed out, but I'm not sure to be honest
Well, I'm mostly okay, well today, I'm not quite right to be honest

You think you’ve got it all figured out, but one day, realise you haven't — like hitting 'game over' in Super Mario. All momentum is lost, and you’re back to square one.

And then, in the humdrum of daily life, people ask how you are. At work. At family gatherings. “Fine!” “Good!” What else can you say?

All the while, your mind is simultaneously chattering about mortality and an endless list of failures. Sometimes, we really just want to say, “I'm not quite right to be honest.” But bringing up the fact that your mind is as dark as the ocean floor isn’t exactly the done thing.

Is this the good life?

In our hyper-optimised world, where we have endless opportunities for comparison, it can be hard to know what a ‘good life’ really is.

Yeah, you’ve got food and shelter, and you’re safe. You’re better off than a significant portion of the global population. But you weren’t up at 5 a.m. cold plunging, smashing personal bests, networking over rooftop cocktails, and making six figures before breakfast.

“I've got everything I need
But I can't sleep I can't sleep
Doom scrolling 'till half past
Three
Living the good life”

Because the truth is, you’re tired. Exhausted. Overdosed on caffeine. Underdosed on meaning. Worried about yourself. Worried about your kid. Worried about the war in Ukraine. The cost of living. Inflation. Fearful you’ll never hit your potential. Frustrated by the fact you’re scared to try.

“Living the life, the good life
With the house, the kid, and my good wife
Gonna try and not drink tonight
But the good life makes me
Thirsty”

For many, alcohol becomes the pressure valve.

On paper, you have everything you need, yet there’s still that pull, that thirst. Maybe it’s for a break from the relentlessness of life or for a moment where you don’t have to be anything — where you can exist outside of all the roles you have to play.

It’s not about indulgence; it’s about escape.

But then the shame hits. So you tell yourself you’ll stop — until the next time.

“Gonna take a break someday
Go somewhere quiet
And far away
Where the hills overlap
In the yellow light
Gonna live that good life”

But no matter what you’re going through, though, there’s always a future ideal.

For me, at this stage in my life, it’s not about material things, parties, and Instagrammable moments.

As Burnside says, maybe it’s about stepping away from the relentless cycle of city life, reconnecting with nature, and getting back in touch with yourself — free of distractions, comfortable in your own skin, flaws and all.

A good life, after all

The balance of contentment and unease is maybe the most relatable thing about this record.

We’re always holding contradictions in our hands. The desire for stability, the fear of stagnation. The comfort of routine, the itch for something more.

Teeth of Time doesn’t try to resolve these tensions — it just sits with them. And in doing so, it makes them feel a little less lonely.

To finally have these feelings articulated in a way that I can understand almost feels like a relief.

That’s the power of music or art. Someone creates something that feels meant just for you, communicating what you’ve felt but could never define or express.

And in that moment of connection, in a fragmented and often lonely world, you realise that the good life might just be within reach.