Hey there,
If you didn't already know, I have been writing a sex and dating column, which is far from as glamorous as it sounds. I am forbidden to write in the first person or to detail my own romantic life. But this is a newsletter, so all bets are off, and I'm here to share the greatest tragic love story you'll ever hear about a missed connection in the music scene.
It was a warm girls' night out at Harwood Arms in July; Spain and Portugal were set to face off in a Round of 16 World Cup match. I was wing-womaning for my friend, not particularly interested in meeting my own international inamorato.
Late in the night, a man with a thick accent approached my table, asking for a lighter. I learned he was a playlist curator at Apple Music, a Russian expat stationed in Austin, in town for a few games. After buying the table a round, he sat down, and I learned the playlist he curates is one of my favorites, and I was speaking to the man who has single-handedly shaped my taste in music for years.
We spent all night talking about our favorite bands and the best shows we'd been to. Then he grabbed my phone, looked through my song library, and hand-curated a personal playlist of Russian deep cuts for me. Swoon.
But I never caught his name, and never got a phone number. I've launched a full search party built of journalists, and no one has found anything. We've searched Instagram and LinkedIn; I've even emailed Apple Music's media contact. To no avail; he can't be found. This is my last-ditch effort.
So, if you happen to know a 30-year-old Russian playlist maker at Apple Music who loves soccer and an American Spirit, let me know, and I'll make sure you're invited to the wedding.
— Alyssa Fields, Associate Music & Culture Editor
