music as memory
dear readers,
When I was younger, I was obsessed with music, though not because I was good at it.
For many years I had struggled, somewhat valiantly, with piano lessons, playing the ukulele, and singing in the school choir, and I ruined many a great song with what I can only describe now as absolutely diabolical timing. The beat of a metronome still makes me feel slightly ill. This says more about me than rhythm itself, though I remain bitter about the fact that I was very literally being instructed exactly when to hit a note or string and yet still getting it wrong (almost) every time.
It bothered me rather a lot, as a young child.
My father played violin for years, and my grandfather played trumpet in a 50s band, so music always felt, to me, something that I was supposed to be miraculously good at.
Instead, I found myself disappointed that I could not become the kind of effortless, careless musician I saw in the people I heard on the radio in the car every morning. In reality, I lacked both the discipline, and, I suspect, the musical ear to translate what I saw on the page into anything coherent.
However, I still adored listening to music. Rather loudly, I must admit.
I went through what I imagine are fairly standard phases of childhood listening. I started off with whatever was playing on the radio, then older classics that my parents happened to play, followed by folk pop, and then burgeoning access to the internet. When I finally gained musical "consciousness" and started listening intentionally, I realised how magical music could be. It was the first time I really paid attention to lyrics, which opened up a whole new world for me.
Then came the era of lockdowns and essentially uninhibited internet consumption, and I discovered the peak of bedroom pop. As you can imagine, I was blasting Clairo, Dayglow, Claire Rosinkranz, sobbing along to the feelings and experiences that I had never had, creating imaginary narratives in my head with no basis apart from the lyrics of the songs and everything I had absorbed from classical romance novels and BBC period dramas.
At the time, the closest I had come to any real romantic experiences was a shared joke with a boy that I had immediately turned into something far more significant than it ever was, a fact which he, quite understandably, had absolutely no knowledge of, and which I now find more endearing than embarrassing, although it is probably both.
Eventually, as my tastes and ideas changed once again, I got into the habit of listening to albums obsessively for a few weeks at a time, then never touching them again for at least 6 months. Now, as these songs pop back up again occasionally, they bring a wave of nostalgia with them. Each brings back both memories of the time that I listened to them, as well as the exact version of me that first listened to them, and the person I thought I would become by now.
While none of my daydreams at the time quite materialised in the way I hoped they would, I discovered something more about the power of music.
Last year, I was stuck with my father in a standstill traffic jam for approximately 90 minutes. We passed the time by listening to each other's Spotify playlists, and at some point, "Bittersweet Symphony" by The Verve came on. He began talking about what the song had meant to him when it was first released, during a period in his life that was, by his own account, quite difficult, and lacked a clear resolution.
The song had not made anything better, and had not, of course, attempted to, but it had nevertheless remained with him, and had, in some way, made it possible for him to keep going, despite what he was facing.
But in that conversation, I realised that I understood exactly what he meant.
For the few months prior to our conversation, I had been listening repeatedly to "Do Not Wait" by Wallows.
I, too, was going though a tough patch, and I listened to the song in a way that was less about enjoyment, and more about repetition, as if the very act of replaying it created the stability that I needed at the time. Just like Bittersweet Symphony for my father, it did not make things better, and I don't think I even wanted it to.
But it gave me something to hold onto, nonetheless. The concept of that a future version of myself existed, was waiting for me, and in some way had my own back, was incredibly impactful, because it too gave me a reason to keep going. Because the only person I could trust was myself, and I suppose that is the only way it can ever really be.
Some music does not exist to always make you feel happier or sadder, or to resolve anything, or even be fully understood in the moment, but rather to exist with you in parallel, quietly, and persistently.
I still can't play a single piece of music, and I'm certainly not musical in the way I once thought I should be. But I don't think that matters as much as I used to believe it did. I am forever grateful for the fact that people can make music, and put it into the world, because even if I'll never be one of them, I will always be one who needs it.
signed in invisible ink, luminula