My music listening
is dominated by two weekly Spotify playlists
four days apart.
The fear of missing out,
of not discovering that new song
that becomes an instant favorite,
of not finding that rare artist or band
I fall deeply in love with
as if I found them myself
in some obscure hometown club.
Still, I miss the days
of dedicating weeks
or months of my life
to a handful of cassettes
or CDs,
the sneaky way
a soundtrack would worm
its way into my heart
over time,
certain less favorite tracks and artists
becoming more precious with each listen,
the way a disappointing album
would suddenly break open
and reveal its genius
on the tenth or twentieth listen,
soundtracking my life to a single song
rewound over and over again,
the same one or two favorite discs
never leaving my car stereo for years and years.
Natasha Bedingfield giving me the strength
to attend my first pride festivals.
The soundtrack to Hamilton
making me feel like my life mattered too.
I miss borrowing
or being gifted music.
I miss the way indifference would turn into love.
Playing Mark’s copy of Weezer’s blue album
until I was a total fan.
Hearing Dave Matthews’ song
“Dancing Nancies” for the first time
on Kelly’s headphones
at his insistence.
Guillermo giving me an album I wouldn’t have bought for myself: Pearl Jam’s Ten.
Emily lending me all of her Bob Dylan collection
one by one
so I could fall in love with each album slowly
my freshman year of college.
Stephanie turning me on to
Better Than Ezra’s Friction, Baby.
I miss having long romances
with entire albums.
Listening to Tom Petty’s Full Moon Fever
on repeat with Danny
on the plane to Japan.
Picking up Northern State’s Dying In Stereo
because of a Rolling Stone review.
Buying The Hold Steady’s
Boys And Girls In America
because it was on some
year-end best-of lists.
The slow unfolding dance
is now more of a race,
fun in its own way
but not the same.
I feel like we listen to music in private
but don’t share it and talk about it as much anymore.
I don’t swap playlists with friends
the way we used to make mix tapes.
No one shares new songs with me anymore
or gushes about what band(s)
they are digging.
I love having access to a non-stop,
24 hour listening station.
But it was also cool
having only one CD
as my best friend
for a three hour car trip.
I have less stamina for concerts
than I did in my youth.
I will keep seeing Lucinda Williams
and John Hiatt until they stop touring.
But festivals are out.
I only have so many years left
of standing for three hours straight
or more
to see Taylor or Bruce.
What I wouldn’t give
to know what music
Danny’s enjoying now,
what happened to Emily,
and the name of every band
in Mark’s collection
before he died.
He would have loved all this.
Hearing rarities without
having to buy imports,
mainlining new music the second it drops.
In some alternate reality,
he’s alive and well
and at peace,
texting me new artists
who always become the next big thing.
Here’s to old friends far away
and the music we brought into each other’s lives.
