From the category: music
17 July 2023
Because there's been a lot of talk about concerts on my feed lately (thanks to Taylor's "Eras Tour" and Beyonce's "Renaissance Tour"), I felt like writing this long overdue post about seeing one of my favorite bands live. There are only a handful of artists that I have solemnly vowed to witness in the flesh, and Deftones is certainly on that list. I was lucky enough to be in the New England area when they started their 2022 tour with Gojira. Did I spend a little too much on the tickets? Maybe. Did I worry about contracting COVID-19? Heck yes. Was I hesitant about pushing through since I was watching alone? Absolutely not. I wasn't going to pass up the chance; I couldn't forgive myself if I did.
May 13, 2022. Agganis Arena, Boston. As I stood in the crowd, surrounded by the buzzing energy of fellow fans, I felt a surge of excitement course through me. A wave of electric elation that I haven't felt in a long time. (Fear was the next immediate feeling after excitement since I was, I think, the only one masked up within my area. But, oh well. In Pfizer I trusted.) At that point, even the thought of getting knocked down by the Big Bad Flu didn't scare me. I was seeing Deftones. I was finally seeing Deftones.
The venue was small, but the atmosphere was electric. The anticipation was palpable as the lights dimmed and the band took the stage. The raw intensity of their guitar riffs. The drums pound with a thunderous rhythm, rumbling and reverberating through my chest. The bass shredded through the air with incredible energy and emotion. All this coupled with the mesmerizing stage presence and vocals of Chino Moreno. It was a sight to behold. I had tears in my eyes for an hour and a half.
There was a particular period in my life when I truly thought the only type of music that resonated with me was loud, rebellious, clamorous rock music. Limewire opened the gates for all the bands that spoke to the inexplicable rage inside teenage me. I kind of enjoyed having that dark little bubble of blind fury every time I played them on my iPod mini. I just wanted to grow up, be free, and become the version of myself that didn't have to succumb to the system. (Classic teenage angst, amirite? #eyerolls)
The funny thing, though, is that the older I got, the less angry I've gotten. Which isn't to say I'm not incredibly furious at what's happening in the world and that I'm not perpetually anxious about what lies ahead. I am. But I don't know what happened. Somewhere along the way, I've lost all the tools to be angry. I find myself lacking the tools to feel anger as I once did as a raging, hormonal teenager. It's something I never expected and certainly not something I'm happy about. In a strange way, I've developed a coping mechanism of brushing things off, which, I think, has resulted in me losing the ability to channel my anger in a healthy manner. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I've realized that I've lost touch with that aspect of my emotions, and it's left me feeling somewhat unsettled. I've gotten so used to playing the charade, of abiding by the "rules," of wanting to not ruffle any feathers that I've just... completely forgotten how to get angry. Whereas other people need to control themselves when they're angry, I have to will myself to feel mad. At best, I just act passive-aggressively. At worst, I think about all the ways I could've dealt with a situation more easily if I had just been mad, then become even more frustrated with myself after. What is this? What happened to me? Maybe I need therapy.
But in the meantime, I get all the anger I need from the rock and nu-metal bands I still listen to. One of them being Deftones. Their music has become a conduit for me to channel my anger and tap into emotions that I often avoid or struggle to express. Their songs are raw and visceral, delving into themes of confusion, rage, and misery with an intensity that resonates with me on a deep level. Through their music, I find myself confronting emotions that I might not otherwise allow myself to feel, and it's cathartic. It's as if their lyrics and melodies provide a safe space for me to explore the complexities of my own emotions, even the darker ones that I may shy away from in my daily life. When Chino belted out "Let's sail in this sea of charms, let's drown underneath the stars, let's drink with our weapons in our hands," in Rocket Skates, I sing along as if praying with every word. When he wailed, "I'd like to be taken apart from the inside then spit through the cycle right to the end," in Tempest, I scream with all my might. When he pleaded "Take me one more time, take me one more wave, take me for one last ride," in Sextape, I actually cried.
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It was such a meaningful experience for me, finally seeing one of my favorite bands live. A month and a half before that concert, Taylor Hawkins of the Foo Fighters, one of my favorite drummers, passed away all of a sudden. It left me in complete shock, and in a surprisingly intense kind of grief that I've only ever felt for another musician: Chris Cornell. It made me realize how much I actually value seeing my favorite artists perform live. It can be expensive, yes, sure. But their music accompanies me for about 80% of my life — background music for driving, working, doing chores, everything else in between — that the least I could do was give myself the opportunity to immerse myself in them live. To feel the goosebumps on my skin with every riff and every verse. To sing to every line. To jump to every refrain. To feel everything that they intended their audience to feel — and more. Because every line means something different to each one of us. I wanted to give myself that. And I did. I am so glad I did.
I'm writing this post fifteen months late. But seeing as we're still very much in a time of emotional and mental anguish, I realized how important it is to look back on experiences in our life that felt spiritual. That made us connect with the divine and the sublime. It is good to be reminded about what it means to be alive.
Especially after years of being locked up, closing ourselves off from the world, and confronting the harsh realities life has set up for us."I watched a change in you, it's like you never had wings, now you feel so alive."
Deftones has been my pressure valve, releasing the pent-up frustrations, confusions, and longings that simmer beneath the surface. So grateful to have bought tickets, so glad to have ignored the inner voice in my head that wanted to avoid big crowds, so happy to have given in.
Tonight, I feel like more, they sang. And I did.
31 December 2020
2020. What a year! So much has happened, and yet it feels like nothing has happened. Did time and space collide, hijack the rollercoaster we were all on, and kept us going through the loops? It's the last day of the year but it doesn't feel like we're getting off the ride just yet.
But in any case, here is a bunch of things that made me feel less terrible and/or amplified the terrible feelings (in a good, cathartic way) this year.
BoJack Horseman (Netflix)
Did this series really end this year? Did we really see the last of BoJack, Diane, Princess Caroline, Todd, and Mr. Peanutbutter? It had its curtain call last January, and it already feels like forever ago. When I first started watching this show, there were only three seasons so far on Netflix. In between waiting for the new seasons, I'd always feel hopeful: maybe this is the season for redemption, for comeuppance but also recovery. And every finale, I'd be punched in the gut at how much sadder and bleaker things seemed for this crazy group of people you couldn't help but root for. Unarguably, the series finale was the most heartbreaking of them all. Why? Because endings are always hard. But also, because the endings that hurt more are the ones we actually saw coming. When we know things cannot turn out any other way. When the inevitability of anguish can be seen from a mile away, and yet we go through with it because that's life. That's just how it is. Sometimes, life's a bitch and you die, right? But sometimes, life's a bitch and you keep on living. And it was nice while it lasted.
Lana Del Rey
No one else makes music that perfectly encapsulates the psychological phenomena of "the call of the void" better than Lana. Going through her entire discography this year felt like wearing different masks. Each time, it's a mask painted in a shade of gloom and foreboding, but it's actually very freeing, almost like escaping to a world where sadness is the catalyst that turns your charcoal feelings into diamonds. Living in the moment is accepting all the highs and lows of life and making beautiful music because of, in spite of, in pursuit of it. She said it best in Norman F*cking Rockwell: happiness is a butterfly, every day is a lullaby, I try to catch it into lightning, I sing it into my music. I just want to dance.
"Disco sadness"
Speaking of dancing, 2020 was a year of fully surrendering to pop music. I realized that the most powerful songs to cry to are those that force you to move. Why? Because with them, there is no choice other than to dance the pain away. To acquiesce to the pulsating beats, to be consumed by the music - it's both concession and catharsis. (I made a playlist of sad bangers that clocks in at exactly sixty minutes, and which of course include Carly Rae, Jessie Ware, Robyn, and Mark Ronson among others.)
Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino by Arctic Monkeys
...Like Clockwork by Queens of the Stone Age
I dove into these two concept albums this year because I felt like the conceit created for each of them was so interesting. Gentrification and media consumption even in outer space, a lunar wedding, a space motel. A vampire that feels frozen in time. The metaphors perfectly bridge the divide between these bands' hard and soft extremes. It all feels so alien, and yet very much familiar. And oddly comforting. (Plus, Dave Grohl returned as the drummer for this QOTSA album!)
Succession (HBO)
Don't be fooled: this is currently HBO's biggest prestige drama. A media mogul is forced to step down from his media conglomerate, but for him, none of his children are ready to inherit his legacy. High stakes, betrayal, money, family, power But damn it, everything about this show is just so, sooo funny. Which isn't a surprise, given that it is produced by Will Ferrell and Adam McKay. It's this fantastic portrait of a powerful family, full of terrible people, making terrible choices. The sad thing is it reflects the reality that our fates - the information we consume, most importantly - rely on the whims of these few entitled brats. They're all trainwrecks in their own way, but it's so hard to look away.
Jeopardy (Netflix)
There really is no better comfort show than Jeopardy. Okay, coming clean: in grade school and high school, I was always our school's representative for quiz bees, mostly in history and social sciences. (Yeah, I intellectually peaked in high school, haha.) This show just gets me fired up, because it makes wanting to learn fun. One of the phrases (and mindsets) I absolutely hate is "Edi ikaw na madaming alam." It's such a stupid retort that shuts down any discourse. So what if I know things??? Learning is fun!!! Knowing the classics and state capitals is fun!!! Hypothetically winning $20,000 by getting the Final Jeopardy question is fun!!! Alex Trebek will definitely be missed though. Losing him was such a gut-punch in an already horrible year.
A Very Punchable Face by Colin Jost
Before this book, I didn't really have an opinion on Colin Jost. I don't consider him an SNL great, although I do know he's been writing for it since he graduated from Harvard in 2005. I think he's an okay Weekend Update anchor, I know he's dating ScarJo, aaaand that's pretty much it. But I'm so glad I picked up this book, partly because since he was writing about the era of SNL I mostly grew up with (2005-present), I knew much of what he was talking about. Mostly because it was very self-aware of what people perceive as his own mediocrity. He recognizes his privilege. He acknowledges his weaknesses. But he hustles his way through. He consistently out-works anyone else to show that he may not be the best, but he's really good at what he does anyway. (The chapter about his mom being the chief medical officer of the New York Fire Department during 9/11 also made me cry buckets. She saved so many lives but also lost so many others. It was a great illustration of her tenacity and compassion, which was great of Jost to highlight in his book.)
Saturday Night Live
Aside from Jost's memoir, I read another book about SNL this year, "Saturday Night Live and American TV." I also started rewatching old episodes on Peacock (on VPN). And I binge-watched "Creating Saturday Night Live" behind-the-scenes videos on YouTube. Like I've said before, I've always secretly dreamt of becoming a screenwriter for a comedy show. When people ask me about my "what if" - this is one of mine. And SNL will always be that unexplored, unattainable playground.
In the Land of Men by Adrienne Miller
Another "what if." This book is unarguably one of my favorite memoirs from this year. Adrienne Miller lived out what every creative writing and literature major could only dream of: become the literary editor of Esquire. This meant she got to meet, mingle with, and critique some of the best writers of her generation. But this also meant learning how to navigate the very elitist, often classist, and sometimes misogynistic world of the modern-day literati. Her tenuous relationship with David Foster Wallace was the highlight of the book, and while I'm an ardent admirer of the man (I still mourn his passing), I felt that it was only fitting that she wrote about the difficult aspects of being his friend/former flame. Some parts of her story felt emotionally crushing, but it was a necessary story to tell, and I'm glad she shared it with the world.
Big Mouth (Netflix)
I wish I had this show in my adolescence. It would have made me feel less bad about feeling certain things - emotionally and sexually. The premise of this show may seem dumb and wacky (okay, it is), but it's so refreshingly honest and simple. Puberty brings about so many changes. And it's okay to feel worried, anxious, or angry about it. The important thing is to accept that it's all normal. Our body shouldn't define us, but understanding it certainly leads to clarity about who we are. (Connie the Hormone Monster is my absolute favorite! I actually cried when Jessi had her first period because everything Connie said about it was true: it makes you want to listen to Lana del Rey while cutting your hair and screaming at your mom.)
Positions by Ariana Grande
She's my most played artist this 2020. I'm in the 0.1% of her listeners. Need I say more? Much of Ariana's music and disposition mirrors my own struggles. There is something so compelling about a figure who has gone through so many traumatic experiences in such a short time and managed to emerge stronger, kinder, and more self-deprecating even in her vulnerability. It was certainly not easy surviving a terrorist attack, losing your fans, losing your ex, breaking off an engagement. But she manages to distill her feelings of fear, longing, and acceptance into such great pop songs. They're so fun to sing to, to cry to. To find comfort in. To borrow from Pitchfork: "Sweetener dazzled because its joy was defiant. thank u, next caromed through phases of glee and grief, moving from pink champagne bravado into stark confessions. Positions searches for peace. It traces the quiet work of piecing yourself together, the terror of re-learning how to trust." This is Ariana's power for me: the ability to take tangible pain and make something from it, to feel whole again.
Teaching (and putting studying on hold)
I started teaching at a public, city-funded university's law school this year. It was certainly one of the nice detours this year brought. I applied last year given the university's proximity to my office, but at the time there were no openings available. Enter 2020, and an opportunity opened up for Legal Philosophy. Trying to teach my students about justice, fairness, and due process was especially very difficult this year. Considering this government's incompetence and moral bankruptcy, it was challenging to reconcile theory with reality. But it's also comforting to know that this crop of students are compassionate and intelligent, able to see where our institutions fail and how they should navigate their future place in the profession. In many ways, this teaching gig was a welcome detour. If the pandemic didn't happen, I'd probably be abroad, finishing my LLM under a scholarship. I got admitted to three schools this year, but I had to put that dream on hold, but to be honest, I also feel relieved. The country is in such a mess. It's exhausting and it feels unending. But being forced to stay here made me put things into perspective. What is it that I want to do for this place? Is it a dream worth pursuing? And the answer, every day, despite the gaslighting and the emotional abuse our leaders are putting us through, is yes. Our institutions deserve better. We can do better. And we can do our part when we find it in ourselves to point our goals towards that direction: progress.
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The truth was I almost didn't want to write anything about 2020 anymore. I've already done that several times this year. But maybe that's a good thing. While this year may have been hard to process, I grabbed every opportunity to reflect and to write as soon as I felt it necessary. (Not always in this blog, but in my private notebooks, at least.) If anything, 2020 forced me to face my fears head on. I had no other choice. I was stuck in one place, so I had to deal with things right away. And deal with it, I did, with this list of things being just as crucial in taking the edge off as the love of friends and family with whom I've grown closer in many ways this year.
I wish 2021 will be kinder. But even if it isn't, at the very least, after this shitshow of a year, I hope we all are. 2020 was tiresome. I hope we never forget the lessons it taught us: kindness, patience, compassion.
And the fervent hope that things will, should, and can get better. Because what else is there to help carry us through?
"The culture is lit and if this is it, I had a ballI guess that I'm burned out after all."
— The greatest, Lana Del Rey
14 October 2020
Six months ago, it was almost entirely impossible to imagine that I'd be welcoming my birthday month still stuck at home. But here we are, in the middle of October, uncertain still about what lies ahead. Angrier, more anxious than ever.
Not surprisingly, as another way of coping, I've found myself sliding back into a (very, very) old habit. After some herculean house cleaning (my mom's initiative, obviously), I managed to dig up our old Wii and decided to install it in my grandmother's house, particularly in the room I used to stay in for bar review. Needless to say, I was re-hooked, like the sixteen-year-old that I was when we first got the thing in 2007. In less than two weeks, I managed to purchase (secondhand) games, buy a new remote, and set up a whole AV system in that room.
I dove head first into Rock Band the moment the Wii's power button turned green. I cannot genuinely use the idiom "It's like riding a bike," because I never learned how, but I guess I'd have no problem saying "It's like playing fake plastic instruments," because man, I didn't forget.
Muscles having memories has always been interesting to me. It is widely believed that once you learn how to do something physical, over time, it becomes easier and easier to do it without thinking. It feels like your body remembers how to do it. Biologists and neuroscientists propose that it can mean at least two slightly different things: (1) that when you stress your muscles to the point of hypertrophy, your muscles grow new cells which stick around and allow you to continuously perform certain functions, or (2) the parts of your brain responsible for movement develop stronger connections between neurons that function to engage that motion.
Either way, it being a function of muscle cells or brain cells, muscle memory happens. It exists, and it's fascinating. While our brain may not consciously remember certain things, some way, somehow, parts of us do.
The first song I tried playing again was "Everlong" by Foo Fighters. The drums come in at exactly the eleventh second. The snare and the bass come crashing and the entire song just explodes within the first thirty seconds. The instruments and the harmony fuse together so quickly and effortlessly just before the completion of the song's opening minute; no build up, no fancy lead-ins. It so quickly and immediately assembles a spectacle of a song, like a fully-formed Athena coming out of Zeus' skull. It's joyous and infectious and fantastic. All four minutes of it.
So much of instrument-playing requires feeling instead of thinking. While the first few steps of learning is cerebral, once you master the how's, it's the other elements that step in and allow you to continue playing well. I play the piano; I know how to hit the keys at the right time, to look at visual cues and hold a note, to ease the pressure when the piece requires it. But eventually the actual skill will translate into something less analytical, something more reliant on sensations and impulses.
It's a skill that I didn't realize would translate even with fake plastic instruments. But there I was, leaning into the song's rhythm so effortlessly, as if I've been playing the thing for years. (Granted, I was just on Medium.) The feeling of just knowing when to strike — it's consistent, apparently. Tapping into our internal metronome, once unlocked, turns out to be a prowess which never fully departs your muscles.
I didn't forget.
"Everlong" is simple and candid in its message too. It doesn't work its way into a delicately ensconced narrative. It just straight up tells the beloved, Hello, I've waited here for you. No idioms, no analogies, no figures of speech. No thinking necessary.
Music, motion, memory — a lot of these things don't require much contemplation when we get down to it. Purely instincts. That sense of recognition is automatic. Once it is made familiar — embedded in the fiber of our muscles and the maps of our cells — it never quite leaves.
I went through all the other songs in my Rock Band CDs in sentimental haste. As I struck the rubber drum pads one by one, all the memories of playing these songs came rushing back. It was such a glorious, carefree time in my life, jamming it out with my friends on pseudo-instruments. All of a sudden, it felt like a virtual time machine to different points in the past: each track made me relive past heartbreaks, old parties, great entanglements, recollections of a percussionist's hands touching mine, tapping along to the beat.
But more than that, the additional weight of knowing that you aren't only singing along — the visceral, intuitive nature of actually feeling like you were one with the song because your hands, your feet, your muscles remember — it was exhilarating.
I sometimes get lost in the sadness of forgetting. I have a tendency to lose things in my mind — I keep forgetting to lock my car, or where I place my glasses, or what friends gave to me for past birthdays, or the things people dear to me last said. And once they're gone, they're forever lost in the ether. But there is so much comfort in knowing now that something within me isn't consigned to oblivion. My hands, my feet — my body — it remembers. It manages to sway along to a familiar beat. When it recognizes something it has done before, it knows.
Grohl asks, "And I wonder, if anything could ever feel this real forever?"
To this, muscle memory attests. It is quiet and surprising in remembering, potent in its affirmation. And isn't the heart a muscle too?
20 April 2020
The uncertainty of this pandemic is crippling, but the realization of so many things - about ourselves, our work, our friendships, our identities, our government - is just as paralyzing.
Expect me, then, to dive even deeper into what is already very familiar, if only because my brain is wired to seek comfort when all external factors are different, and frightening, and unstable. (Okay, yes, this concerns my current listening habits.)
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| (Photo credit: Carly Rae Jepsen's Instagram) |
To no one's surprise, I slid down the Carly Rae rabbit hole again today. Unlike most people I know, Carly isn't my go-to background pop music (that recognition goes to Ariana). Rather, I find myself diving into her music sporadically, albeit intensely and deeply each time. Sometimes I can go weeks without playing her music on Spotify, but when I do, expect that entire day and the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours to be non-stop CRJ.
In many ways, like a devotee paying homage to its goddess. I busy myself with other things, but when my soul needs replenishing, I come crawling back.
It occurred to me today that I never got to write about the Manila concert last October 23. And I know exactly why: it was so good. So, so good. There was this overwhelming fear of not being able to encapsulate the entire experience; that somehow writing about it dilutes every bit of magic I felt while dancing along with a thousand other entranced bodies.
But this particular Monday, as I dealt with spotty Internet and limited downloaded music on my phone, I couldn't help but relive that entire night. As I pressed "play" on the Carly Rae Manila Setlist, I remembered what it meant to be on the precipice of what it means to truly, fearlessly, and willingly let go. To be in the moment and revel in it
Three nights away from turning twenty-eight, I went into that concert filled with excitement, but also, a lot of uncertainty. I was turning yet another year old, but, in the accounting of moral equations I made in my head, what have I to show for it? No new pursuits, no new hobbies; dreams still significantly a thousand miles away. Nothing that would make a tiny chorus of damned souls from The Bad Place scream, "Darn it!"
All I had at twenty-seven - much like at seventeen - were lots and lots and lots of feelings.
Feelings of inadequacy, of uncertainty, of misguided passions; of righteous anger at the world for its unkindness, of indignant anger at myself for my apathy; of the many shades of sadness that I carry with me as I trudge on through. But also, insane amounts of excitement over the littlest things, like finding old songs to sing along to while driving, or a fresh cup of coffee to start off the week, or a few bottles of beer to cap off a busy day. Feelings of gratefulness, and contentment, over the ease of certain detours and the net effect of all that life has to bring falling on the good side.
I was never one to shy away from expressing my feelings, whether grief or joy, but I always make the conscious effort to hold them in. To process them first. But something about Carly Rae's music defies restraint. Rolling Stone rightfully called her the Queen of Hearts, and it perfectly identifies what it is about her songs that speak to millions of flawed, complex, lost souls:
"I try to create that with the music that I make - a feeling of a moment being so intense that you’re present in it and you’re nowhere else."
It is in encapsulating the simplest of feelings into electrically charged pop hooks that her magic lies. Everyone finds a space in her music; "There I am, and there it is, that's exactly how I feel," we hear ourselves say. She sings the words, and it finds us, knows us, so much so that it would be impossible to not acknowledge how much it sees us.
In "Run Away With Me," for instance, she revels in the privacy of her feelings: “Baby, take me to the feeling / I’ll be your sinner in secret / When the lights go out.” She’s letting you in on a secret, a feeling so big she can’t contain it. In "Julien," she directly acknowledges the reason behind her gloom: "Woke up this mornin', it feels like everyday / I got the blues, babe, not going away / Another bad dream when you were running away / I'm forever haunted by our time." In identifying the reasons behind her feelings, instead of being overwhelmed, she holds power over them.
Her set list was a rollercoaster ride of highs, and even higher highs. She steals a bike and rides all night in "Fever." She heeds her friend's advice in "Boy Problems." She tosses and turns and can't fall asleep in "Gimmie Love." She goes out and never comes back in "Store." She touches herself in "Party for One." She wants to do bad things (to you) in "Want You In My Room." She knows that there is nothing like the feeling of being in love in "Now That I Found You." She cuts through the clouds and breaks through the ceiling in "Cut to the Feeling." She attempts to comfort oneself while openly longing for both the chaos and certainty of love in "Real Love."
She feels it all and she lets us feel it all too.
The axis around which her songs revolve is the vulnerability that comes with longing. So much about life requires things to be in black-and-white: yes or no? Here or there? Stay or go? But Carly exists in the space in between. She acknowledges the small moments before that "yes," the hesitation before that jump, the wanting before the satisfaction. And she legitimizes this space: to feel these things is just as legitimate as our biggest fears and desires.
In one of her songs, she asks:
"Is this too, is this too, is this too much?"
And like devotees witnessing an apparition, we waved our hands in the air in reckless abandon to affirm what our hearts have always known: no, in the midst of music and love and euphoria, nothing is ever too much.
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P.S. The truth was, another highlight of the concert was knowing that you are surrounded with like-minded fans, also knowing every word, also feeling every beat. I saw literally almost a hundred friends that day - and the number of selfies I took is proof of that - from the lines, to the lobby, to the seats. It was, as my blockmates accurately put it, the grand UP Law alumni homecoming. It was such a delight seeing all of them, in all their unabashed fangirl/fanboy glory! Friends working in firms, in the government, in private corporations, studying for the bar, waiting for bar results - name it. Not even our own school could bring us all together for one event; but trust in the power of Carly Rae to convene all the millennial Iskos and Ateneans in one venue.
03 January 2020
Hills to Die On: In which I try to defend trivial, nonsensical things I am entitled to like despite a small but very vocal aspect of society's — i.e. the Internet's — disapproval. Yes, in the grand scheme of things, none of this matters, but it's still fun to pretend that people will care about the things you are only slightly passionate about. |
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| (Photo credit: u/amirkolta from r/vinyl) |
It wasn’t until the last few months of 2019 that I realized how much I still liked this album. Forced to listen to CDs again after my old City’s bluetooth transmitter kicked the bucket, I dug up some old albums and decided to give them another chance at life. Songs About Jane was the first CD I popped into the player (because it was the only one whose CD was in the proper case, HAHA.)
Like any other late-twenties millennial out there, once upon a time, I thought Maroon 5 was the beacon of artistry. By that, I mean, at thirteen years old, I found Adam Levine hot. But, even then, I recognized how different their music sounded from the rest of the songs topping the charts. Let me set the scene: It was 2004. R&B was everywhere. Locally, everyone was crazy over acoustic-anything. The more mellow the sound, the higher the chance of it ending up on someone’s burned mix compact disc.
Enter This Love’s pulsating piano and guitar riffs within the first five seconds of the song.
Behold, a sudden rush of hormones. So this is what it feels to have your heart thumping loudly along to pulsating drums. Couple that with achingly sad, yearning lyrics all throughout the album: “I’ll fix these broken things / repair your broken wings / and make sure everything’s alright.”
I am not embarrassed to admit that Maroon 5 was my "gateway" to “accessible” rock. In sixth grade, I already had a feeling that pop and R&B were not cutting it for my faux angst; I wanted something else, something angrier and sadder and louder. But somehow, at the time, I wasn’t ready to fully embrace The Gorillaz and Linkin Park just yet. Maroon 5 hit the mark perfectly with this album, because it had lush melodies, funky guitar lines, and a solid rhythm section — which later on became the foundation of my affinity for rock music. It had lines I couldn’t relate to (yet) but Levine’s soulful wails kind of made me believe that I did. I didn’t know what it was like to be entangled in a love that had taken its toll on me… but I sure as hell could imagine how painful it was. She said goodbye too many times before. Cue faux hysteria.
I listened to this album way too much in sixth grade. But the emotional weight of this twelve-track classic hit me in college. Suddenly, after real heartbreaks, after experiencing what it meant to be trapped in relationships that just slowly stopped making sense, this album just kept firing on all cylinders. Feeling trapped? Harder to Breathe. Another fight? Shiver. A bad decision? Tangled. The calm before another storm? She Will Be Loved. Feigned reassurance? Sunday Morning.The conceit is simple: we loved once, and we loved hard. We thought it was worth saving, until it no longer was. And suddenly we are left to deal with a messy, reluctant unraveling. What do we make of all the things we fought for and all the damage it left behind?
I guess Maroon 5 still makes songs about all these feelings. (Or maybe not anymore, judging by the sad, lame "Memories" I heard on the FM once — because, again the bluetooth transmitter is busted — which is saved only by... drum roll... nothing. It is a terrible song; yeah, I said it.) But none so powerful (or as earnest) as the ones on this album. Here, you clearly hear Jesse Carmichael’s keyboards acting as the spine holding together each verse. James Valentine is given enough spotlight to allow the guitar to sing alongside Adam. Drummer Ryan Dusick and bassist Mickey Madden do more than enough to give each song a consistent ebb and flow, reminiscent of the pushing-and-pulling that characterizes the bad romances they sing about.
It’s funny — or, actually, sad — to look at this album now, and how much it dwarfs all the succeeding albums in comparison. I liked the band enough to see them in concert in 2011 (Hands All Over era), and at the time they still weren’t that bad. But they were never Songs About Jane-good again. Which sucks, but is also kind of poetic.
Because the last time I truly listened to this album, I had my iPod plugged into some asshole’s car. Now I’m driving my own. And I’m never going to be Songs About Jane-miserable again.
Which isn't to tempt fate and say I'm never going to experience any kind of pain again. But it is to say, I’m a whole different person now. I’m no longer the sixth grader who pretended to hurt over this album; nor am I the teenager still grieving over relationships that were doomed from the start. The wake of each heartbreak eventually led me to a rude awakening: Songs About Jane is not the manual for great relationships. Unlike before, I’m no longer listening to this like a devotee living out the gospel. And thank God.
But I can listen to this album again and feel affirmed that I was young and stupid once. That once, I could claim naïveté, and revel in the invincibility of my innocence. That once, I believed being someone’s destruction also meant being their saving grace. And that once, those feelings were powerful. It made you feel alive. It’s bittersweet to remember the head space I was in when Songs About Jane still meant something to me. But even more so when I think about Maroon 5’s trajectory since this album. I don’t know if they will ever go back to this sound; I don’t even know if they acknowledge that this was the kind of music that propelled them to success in the first place. The longing, the confusion, the defiance, all contained in lush instruments that encapsulate what it means to desperately grasp on to final chances. The story-telling. This album is cohesive. (Since this album, they’ve slowly become a more singles-driven band.) Somehow, their new sound just does not capture all that.
But once upon a time, our fates — my longing and their music — intersected tangentially, and it was glorious. I’ve long stopped liking the band, but this album is a hill I am willing to die on. It’s nice to remember what it’s like to feel invincible, even in the face of a destructive, exhilarating, uncertain love. Yes, Songs About Jane — and everything that came along with it: for all it once was, and for all that it never turned out to be.
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