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.