Music Has the Right to Children: The strange nostalgia of an album that feels like a memory
You ever hear a piece of music and feel like you've somehow already known it your entire life? That's Music Has the Right to Children in a nutshell. Boards of Canada's 1998 debut full-length isn't just an album - it's an auditory ghost, lingering somewhere between childhood memory and late-night existential pondering. Even if you weren't raised on grainy VHS tapes and old PBS educational programs, something about these songs makes you feel like you were.
But here's the kicker: Music Has the Right to Children doesn't rely on cheap nostalgia tricks. There's no forced sentimentality, no winking 'Hey, remember this?' moments. Instead, it seeps into you, slow and unassuming, like a half-remembered dream that grows clearer with time. Let's get into why this record still holds up almost three decades later.
Warm, worn, and just a little unsettling
Boards of Canada, the Scottish duo of brothers Michael Sandison and Marcus Eoin, have a way of making music sound aged, like it's been sitting in a dusty attic somewhere, quietly absorbing the past. Their secret weapon? A deliberate embrace of imperfection. Tape warble, degraded synths, and decayed loops make everything feel organic - like you're listening to an old cassette you found in a drawer rather than something meticulously produced in a studio.
Take Roygbiv. At barely over two minutes, it's a deceptively simple track: a rubbery bassline, warm synth chords, and a melody that could've been lifted from an old science documentary. But that's exactly what makes it special - it sounds like pure happiness, albeit tinged with the awareness that happiness is fleeting. It's the musical equivalent of remembering a childhood summer but realizing you can't go back.
Then there's An Eagle in Your Mind, a track that stretches and morphs like a hallucination. It's got this eerie, meditative quality - like it should be playing in the background of some long-lost educational film about space exploration. The chopped-up vocal samples make it feel both human and alien, reinforcing that subtle unease Boards of Canada are so good at sneaking into otherwise beautiful melodies.
The sound of a broken future (or a forgotten past?)
One of the most fascinating things about Music Has the Right to Children is how it balances warmth with a creeping sense of unease. Some tracks feel like watching an old home movie - fuzzy, comforting, drenched in golden-hour light. Others feel like you've stumbled upon a glitch in the matrix.
Turquoise Hexagon Sun leans into that dreamlike haze, looping delicate synths over and over like a lullaby that never quite resolves. Meanwhile, Sixtyten pulses with a hypnotic, mechanical beat, as if you've wandered too far into the machinery of your own subconscious.
But the real MVP of unsettling beauty? Telephasic Workshop. This one practically radiates with some kind of cryptic energy - chopped vocal snippets that sound like they're trying to say something just out of reach, layered over a rhythm that feels both familiar and alien. It's the sonic equivalent of tuning into a radio station that doesn't exist anymore.
Why this album still matters
It's tempting to call Music Has the Right to Children an 'ambient' album, but that's not quite right. It's too melodic, too rich with detail, too emotionally direct. At the same time, calling it 'electronic' feels a little reductive - it doesn't have the crisp, futuristic polish of a lot of late-'90s IDM.
What makes it special is its ability to evoke something deeply personal in each listener. For some, it's childhood nostalgia; for others, it's an eerie, dystopian loneliness. And for a lucky few, it's both at the same time.
Final Thoughts
If you're new to Boards of Canada, start here. If you already love this album, well, you probably didn't need me to convince you of anything. Either way, it's a record that deserves to be revisited - not just because it's a classic, but because every listen unearths something new.
FINAL SCORE: 8.5/10