Tilting my head back, I blinked hard to stop the sudden tears.
“Oh, I feel so down
When you’re not with me…”
Listening to The Blaze’s performance of “Eyes” last week in downtown LA, familiar emotions overcame me. I was transported back one year ago to summertime in Amsterdam, when sweaty days meant discussing ancient philosophy and high nights brought liberated adventures. “Eyes” was on repeat, holding me through the heartbreak I was then experiencing. Hearing it — now and forever — floods me with vivid memories and poignant feelings of that time in my life and that sad, delicate, unfettered version of myself.
I let the tears fall and smiled, knowing the memories and feelings of my life are saved so movingly in music.
The connection between music, memories and emotions is well-established. Music triggers the limbic system, a brain system responsible for processing emotions and memories. The memory-inducing effects of music are so powerful that music may be used to treat memory disorders like dementia. Scientific literature, though, is not necessary to understand — to believe — the connection. Simply open your playlist, scroll far back in time, and feel it all come back. Music never lies. The feelings are present, honest and confronting.
Music has had a profound effect in my life since childhood. I was raised on Annie Lennox and Macy Gray, Sinéad O’Connor and Prince, The Cranberries and Uncle Kracker, US and Sade. “Why” by Annie Lennox places teenage me in the passenger seat of my dad’s old red Jaguar convertible, cruising along the coastline, laughing at our discordant pitches. “Why” continues to make me feel free and uninhibited, released from the restraining insecurity which accompanies coming-of-age.
Music which once eased my sadness continues to do so today. As a little girl, going to preschool each day entailed a tantrum and an unrelenting grip on my mom until she would wrap little me in her arms and sing “You Are My Sunshine.” As I’ve grown up and moved much farther from home than the preschool building, I’ve turned on Jasmine Thompson’s cover, feeling the comfort of my mom’s embrace and crying away the sadness, fear and pain of parting.
Music has taught me to sing wholeheartedly in the moment. When Uncle Kracker’s “Drift Away” comes on, I’m five years old, sitting in the backseat of a black Mercedes C-Class, watching my sister’s sweet brown eyes catch the light, her squishable olive cheeks moving rhythmically through the lyrics:
“I don’t understand the things I do
The world outside looks so unkind
And I’m countin’ on you
You can carry me through…“
Oh, how I want to reach out and warn her of the plights of the world soon coming her way, exposing the truth to the lyrics she so innocently sings. But I can’t. I cannot change the past and I cannot brace myself or others for the future. All I can do is sit in the presence of the moment and sing along.
Experiencing my past emotions — my past selves — through music has granted me invaluable compassion for myself. I can re-encounter my feelings with openness. I can give those versions of me a hug; I hold myself in moments of grief, sadness and insecurity with the wisdom I have cultivated precisely from those experiences. This would not be possible for me without music, for music is my portal to those raw feelings.
Music-evoked memory is ingrained in each of our anatomies, available to us all. Yet this universal experience is also deeply personal, like a fingerprint: common to all but unique to each. While writing this piece, listening to the songs and artists I share, I cried and laughed out loud. I felt alone and I felt connected. I felt beautiful and I felt ugly.
Music frees us from worry about the fleetingness of the moment. The beat captures more than any photo can. It captures the sensations, visuals, emotions, voices, pleasures and pains not just of the few minutes it plays, but the expanse of time during which it is repeatedly played. Music comforts us, it teaches us important lessons, it allows us to experience past versions of ourselves, weaving together the narrative of our lives.
For you, it may be smell or taste or another sense which brings you so vividly back, but for me it’s music. I feel pretty listening to “Danza Kuduro” because I’m dancing on a beach, tequila blushing my underage cheeks and a beautiful boy pulling me close. I feel lonely listening to “Wiseblood” by Zola Jesus because I’ve just moved across the world, away from all familiarity. I feel anxious listening to “On Verra” by Nekfeu, because the words don’t fall from my lips as easily as they do from my French-speaking friends. How scary and wonderful the power of music is.
Capture moments with music and stay in the moment. Sing along disharmoniously. Share your music with those around you and listen closely when others share music with you. For some, including me, the story of our life is told most accurately, most tenderly, through songs. We share music to share parts of ourselves. Allow me to capture this moment between us with more lyrics from Uncle Kracker:
“Give me the beat boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your Rock ‘n’ Roll
And drift away
Won’t you take me away?”
Contact Ariana McCaw at amccaw@oxy.edu.
