Raven, a common depiction of bad luck. Image by rawpixel.com, licensed CC0 1.0 Universal.
Having a hard time? Finding no joy in your favorite things anymore? Feel like things just keep getting worse and worse? If you feel like any of these things is accurate, you should know that it’s okay. Sometimes, everything goes wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it. I know it isn’t always a comfort but these things happen sometimes.
If any of my readers are anything like me, then good and bad things usually happen in big clumps. I can have weeks or even months of almost nothing bad happening and suddenly a storm of bad luck rains down on me. Likewise the other way; sometimes I just have consistently bad luck and suddenly the sun comes out and I have a slew of good things coming my way.
Old Radio. Image by Alan Levine, licensed by CC A2.0 Generic.
Everyone is different: tastes, habits, needs, wants etc. It stands to reason that everyone does things differently and treats things differently. Music is no exception. So how do different people use music in their lives?
Some people use music for a soundtrack to their lives while others use it as background noise and I know people who don’t really even like music.
I personally use music as a soundtrack to my life. I carefully pick and queue exactly what I need to make the moment feel a specific way and make sure it fits the vibe. Sometimes I let my playlists shuffle and I get a surprise but it almost always is still part of the soundtrack style I strive for.
If I have a bomb fit on and I feel really good about myself, I’ll usually have music in my earbuds that reflects that. Same with if I’m driving to campus on a rainy autumn morning. I need the music I listen to to reflect how I feel and how I am as a person. This is what makes life rich for me.
"Björk jouant 'Isobel' à l'Accor Arena de Paris le 8 septembre 2023" by Vmv2705, permission via CC ASA 4.0 International license, cropped by blog.
Once, while driving to a venue whose name I can’t recall, my friend turned to me and began to say “I wish Glass Animals would perform more songs from How To Be a Human Being.” I agreed with her idea, not just because “How To Be A Human Being” is my favorite Glass Animals album, but because many artists have begun going on tours to commemorate the anniversary of an album’s release. Typically, artists perform newer tracks in order to promote their newer albums, yet some choose to play work that is almost exclusively older. If you’re a fan of an artist who hasn’t released new music in years yet is currently on tour, it’s likely an anniversary tour!
Okay Kaya drawn by Jessica Ganis, 2022, permission via CC ASA 4.0 license. Cropped to fit this blog post.
Note to readers: this blog contains brief mentions of sex, pedophilia, arson, drug abuse, gun violence, involuntary commitment, and more while discussing music that covers such themes.
Listeners now may not recognize how old the concept of an album as a narrative device is. The history of the concept album is murky, the history of strictly narrative albums with characters, setting, and a climax are murkier. Some say, including literary review writers at the University of Connecticut, that “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” by The Beatles started the idea. Paul McCartney (alongside Boston-based radio station WERS) traces the Beatles’ inspiration to Frank Zappa’s “Freak Out!” released in 1966.
Album cover for “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” by The Beatles.
Fiona Sturges at The Independent goes further, saying that commercially available song collections including a broader narrative may have originated with Woody Guthrie in the 1940s. If you consider musicals or opera as part of this history, you can go back centuries. Even in spite of its unclear origins, the narrative album continues to be a significant and growing part of contemporary music.
Two classic Russian books, "Dunno on the Moon" and "Alice in Wonderland." Image by Sophia Dutton-Rodkin
Whether English or Spanish or Swahili or Japanese, learning a new language is always going to be a challenge. One of the best ways to help with language learning is to immerse oneself in media content with that language being the primary.
Nostalgia for the past is by no means a new thing. It isn’t just kids these days who believe they were born in the wrong generation, because culture has always been cyclical to a degree. The style of the 00s making a comeback with the “Y2K aesthetic” craze is no surprise at all. Many fashion scholars reference the idea of a 20 year cycle. The 50s heavily borrowed from the style of the 1930s, which borrowed in turn from the 1900s. Despite this, nostalgia today feels different somehow.
Walking into clothing stores is jarring, with the most chic decade changing from rack to rack. 60s style babydoll dresses hang right next to a bedazzled tank top right out of an early 2000s pop music video. Right next to that rack is a shelf of neatly folded sweaters with orange and brown stripes, which makes my mom cringe. “I haven’t seen that color combo since the 70s,” She says.
Fleetwood Mac "Rumors" album on record player. Image by Sophia Dutton-Rodkin
What does it mean to have a diverse musical palate? Does it mean liking many artists in one genre? Many genres but few artists? Many similar genres? A few wildly different ones? As someone who loves exploring different genres, I don’t think there is a “right” answer.
Everyone is allowed to like whatever they like. There is no right or wrong answer to the question: What is good music?
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” – Margaret Wolff Hungerford.
A less literal paraphrase might be along the lines of: “Good music is in the heart of the listener.” Everyone has different upbringings and experiences and tastes. There might be some music that is objectively bad but if someone likes it there has to be a reason behind it. Maybe they are noticing something others aren’t.
12 week old puppy (Daphne) sleeping on lap of piano player. Image by Sophia Dutton-Rodkin
Any musician worth their salt could say with full confidence that practice is the cornerstone of success. Practice at home, in the dorms, in the practice rooms and even in between classes. While your roommates might think you’re strange, it doesn’t matter if you aren’t disturbing anyone. In my case, the one most affected by my practice would be my lovely lady, Daphne. She’s an Australian cattle dog mix and she both loves and hates when I play music.
The ability to coin it is just the tipping point; what is with these things that make our lives “easier?”
Is there something to be said about the valor and experience of having to do something, go somewhere or be someone?
When I talked to New York’s lo-fi dram pop duo Phantom Handshakes, they talked about being inspired by the “in-betweens,” the liminal spaces of work and play, walking on the street or on the train.
What do we gain by having it all at our fingertips?
Wilson from Raleigh’s Thirsty Curses mentions Christine Rosen’s “The Extinction of Experience: Being Human in a Disembodied World,” elaborating on the advantages of “the trivial” — when you stop for gas, chatting with someone near you; meeting thy neighbor.
Proponents of the digital sphere talk about finding niche communities and meeting people you never would’ve before, and I wonder how good of a thing that is.
By nature of living in the same area, you’re likely to share more in common with your neighbor than someone through the phone.
I also want to posit about our associations of pleasure; it worries me that increasingly, our brains are accustomed and acquainted to eliciting pleasure from the silicon, plastic, glass, heavy metals and the like that go into these handheld dopamine machines.
When there are so many people in this world to love, to get attached to, to feel ties to and advocate for, I worry about machine-learning in our brains, making it so that the way we feel good is through touching plastic plugged in to some ether.
Beyond this, I wonder what that feel-good is.
Is dopamine the most sustainable neurotransmitter? I dont think so. Mostly built on action potential, it’s probably the reason we all feel so fried, so constantly tube-fed and sedated, which averages “content.”
Furthermore, what are the distinctions between art, entertainment, content and media? Where do we fit within that ecosystem? Where do we want to?
I encourage the harder route, the longer path, the possibly more scenic one, enjoying the effort of critical thinking in the hope it might dig us out of our incompetency hole.
Cover for "The Lonesome Crowded West" by Modest Mouse
I don’t remember how I found Modest Mouse, and maybe that part doesn’t matter. I just remember how I felt: lonely, disconnected, achy in that way only teenagers on the precipice of young adulthood can ache.
It was almost winter, and everything was crisping up and preparing for death. I trodded up and down the roadside, shapeless in layered flannels, and gave myself windburn.
I had no destination in mind; I would simply walk as far as the grass would take me, pretending I had some greater purpose. Occasionally, I’d listen to music.
I’m on my way to God don’t know
My brain’s the burger, and my heart’s the coal
I’m trying to get my head clear
I push things out through my mouth
I get refilled through my ears
“Heart Cooks Brain,” by Modest Mouse
“Heart Cooks Brain,” an ode to emotions dominating logic. The song sounded the way I felt: lumbering, wind-chapped and just a little pathetic. There was a thread of humor there, too, a shock of self-deprecation highly attractive to my melancholic teenage self.
The song came from Modest Mouse’s sophomore album, “The Lonesome Crowded West,” listed by Pitchfork as one of the greatest albums of the 1990s.
It’s a long album — with a runtime of over an hour — and despite its various stylistic shifts, it manages to maintain a cultivated sense of honest disillusionment throughout.
I think of dried out autumn leaves and the scent of car exhaust, or clumps of fur falling off a squirrel carcass. Ephemeral things. An orange sun dragging across a bleached-bone sky. The ineliminable passage of time. Nostaglia like a knife through your ribs.
When you’re a teenager, misery feels eternal. Time flows like concrete. Everything smarts like you’ve rubbed yourself raw with pumice. You put on eyeliner and pierce your own ears and buy a digicamera, because all of these things are Acts of Self-Actualization and they’re the only things you can do that seem to matter in your state of semi-powerlessness.
You’re a kid-but-not-quite, teetering on the precipice of ego death, writhing in your ill-fitting skin. You’re barely autonomous, and no one understands you, so you commune with radio waves. You look for salvation in strange places and in strange music. The act of listening transforms into the art of ritual and you keep the magic to yourself so no one can steal it.
Live in trailers with no class
Goddamn, I hope I can pass
High school means nothing
Taking heartache with hard work
Goddamn, I am such a jerk
I can’t do anything
“Trailer Trash,” by Modest Mouse
My friends didn’t “get” Modest Mouse, and I didn’t bother trying to make them understand. Sure, everybody knew “Float On,” but the band’s other stuff? Too abstract. Too weird.
Maybe they were right. Isaac Brock’s penchant for colorful metaphor — (“eating snowflakes with plastic forks“) — and reedy, sometimes staggering voice wasn’t for everyone. Especially in “The Lonesome Crowded West.”
The album wore many hats. Sometimes it was plain indie, slow-paced and stripped down (“Out of Gas“). Other times, it was almost punk (“Sh– Luck”) or straight-up folk (“Jesus Christ Was an Only Child“).
The multitextural quality of the album was one of its principal appeals. It wasn’t a cohesive narrative, per se, but it was like an impressionist painting; stepping back from the flurry of discordant brushstrokes revealed a harmonious picture.
Life gets lonelier when you’re an adult. The energy to sustain social relationships, let alone make new ones, is often far too finite. It often seems unsurmountable.
Over the summer, I moved to the country. As I puttered away from the city and through miles and miles of farmland, I felt lonelier than ever. Familiar landscapes and familiar people melted into sprawls of tobbacco fields and sunbleached barns.
In the first few weeks of the new semester, I spent these drives near tears, languishing in the agony of complete and utter solutide. My chest ached like a bruise. I felt as frivolously miserable as a teenager with a bad haircut. I was borderline inconsolable, on the verge of total breakdown.
So naturally, I cranked up the radio.
Out of gas, out of road
Out of car, I don’t know how I’m gonna go
I had a drink the other day
My opinions were like kittens, I was giving them away
“Out of Gas,” by Modest Mouse
The feeling of comfort I felt as a teenager returned as the album progressed. I hummed the chords as I drove farther and farther from the city. The lyrics were tired like I was tired, but the beat’s energy lured me away from that Edge of Young Adult Madness and into a state of tacit acceptance.
The idea of a “Lonesome Crowded West” is intentionally oxymoronic, and more real than ever. The breakdown of community leaves us isolated even as the bloated bellies of our cities progressively swell.
Whether it be the result of neoliberalism, socioeconomic instability, climate change or TikTok, the loneliness epidemic is rewriting the mechanics of our social culture and leaving young people fractured and disconnected.
I see the themes of “The Lonesome Crowded West” reflected in my own lonesome crowded East. We’re all overworked and overtired, watching the landscape be rendered unrecognizable in real time. We ache for lost familiarity and hunger for the new and exciting.
Things are different and things are the same in the best and worst ways. So it goes.
