The music continues

I’ll never be able to give enough credit to the music that has shaped, soothed, and inspired my life. I’ve clung to it for as long as I can remember, as entertainment, creative expression, and emotional regulation. Sometimes the lyrics feel written just for me, and I internalize them as if they were my own. Other times, it’s simply the way the music sounds and feels, regardless of the words, that moves and motivates me.

I continue to revisit favorite songs, artists, and concerts—walking myself back through the chapters of my life where music was always playing in the background. Those reflections have sparked long, nostalgic conversations with friends as we compare the eras and experiences that soundtracked our lives. Somewhere in those conversations, an idea took shape. I’ve decided to expand these reflections into a book. More stories. More memories. More music. Yes, another book.

“I Want a New Drug” by Huey Lewis and the News

In fifth grade, I got my first clock radio for Christmas. It was one of the best presents I could have imagined. The clock was digital with bright red numbers glowing from my desk the moment I opened my eyes. Those numbers felt like independence. Modern. Grown-up. I could set my own alarm and wake myself up to music every morning. It didn’t get better than that.

Back then, maybe still today, radio stations played popular songs on a predictable rotation. For a stretch, I woke up to the same few songs every morning. And to this day, those first wake-up songs transport me instantly back to being nine years old, half awake in my childhood bedroom, staring at those red numbers in the dark.

The quintessential song from that era was Huey Lewis and the News’ hit “I Want a New Drug.” At the time, I assumed it was literally about drugs. It felt slightly edgy for an elementary school kid, which only made me like it more. Mostly, though, it was upbeat and impossible to ignore, the kind of song that could pull you out of sleep and into the day with energy.

More than ten years later, I saw Huey Lewis and the News live at the Star Theater in Merrillville, Indiana. The show was pure fun—singing, dancing, the easy joy of a band that knew exactly how to entertain. When they played “I Want a New Drug,” the nostalgia hit instantly. For a moment, I was back in fifth grade, waking up in the dark to that clock radio.

Only this time, I was already awake. And I was dancing.

“Stand” by R.E.M.

By the time I entered eighth grade, I was starting to carve out my individuality. I noticed my interests and clothing were diverging from those of my friends, and my musical tastes were definitely different. They were all into hard rock and metal, while I felt stuck in pop. Still, I was curious. I listened to almost anything I was exposed to, and thanks to my parents and a few older friends, that exposure was pretty eclectic.

Right as I was searching for my musical direction, Edie Brickell & New Bohemians released their debut album, 10,000 Maniacs released their fourth, and R.E.M. released Green, their sixth. The common thread in their modern rock, the sound that would soon be called alternative, was exactly what I had been looking for.

The lead single from R.E.M.’s new album, “Stand,” hooked me immediately. I hadn’t explored this genre much before, but once I did, I became obsessed. As soon as I bought the cassette, I played it over and over until the tape began to stretch. I would sit in my bedroom with my purple jambox and listen for hours. I watched R.E.M. on any music show or MTV appearance I could find and quickly became a superfan. Before long, I had tracked down their earlier albums and discovered they already had a massive underground following.

Life has a way of coming full circle. After moving to Georgia years later, I found myself meeting people who knew the band, people who had recorded with them or, more casually, gotten drunk with them. It always feels like indirect contact with some kind of musical royalty. When I visited Athens a few years ago, I kept one eye open for a band member, just in case.

“More than Words” by Extreme

My first trip to Germany was in 1991, when I was fifteen. I was getting more and more into music, starting to almost obsess. Just before I left, I heard a new song that was sweet, simple, acoustic, and built around two beautiful voices harmonizing over a guitar. I didn’t catch the name of the song, or maybe I did, since it’s repeated in the lyrics, but it didn’t stick. The band was new to me and their name was forgettable at that time.

So off I went to Germany with a few tapes from Madonna and Technotronic, but that new song stayed with me like a hum in the back of my head. I spent the first week trying to remember the title and the band, pulling at half-formed lyrics that wouldn’t come together. It was driving me crazy.

One day I mentioned it to Brittany, another American exchange student, and instantly she knew what I meant: “More Than Words” by Extreme. Even better, her boyfriend had made her a mixtape before she left for Germany, and the song was on it. For the next week, every time I saw her, I asked if I could listen to the tape. She happily obliged.

When school let out for the summer, I realized I wouldn’t see Brittany again and wouldn’t hear the song for another two weeks until I returned to the United States. Or so I thought. During my final week in Germany, I met Sascha, a friend of my host brother and a fellow music lover. He listened mostly to Nine Inch Nails and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but by chance he also had the Extreme album with “More Than Words” on it. I was thrilled that someone else knew and loved the song.

The next day I saw him, he had recorded the album onto a cassette for me to take home. I was so impressed by the gesture. Two days later he surprised me again. This time he played the song on the guitar and sang it. I had never had anyone sing to me before. I hadn’t really been around friends or family playing music live, other than in marching band, and it felt exciting and impressive.

If I’m totally honest, that was probably what sealed it for me, along with the long brown hair and the Birkenstocks. Sascha stayed in touch over the years through my host brother. After nine years of friendship, we dated for two years and married in 2002. Sadly, in 2018 we separated after almost twenty years as a couple.

I listened to the cassette Sascha gave me constantly for months after I returned to the United States and eventually bought the album myself. Unexpectedly, I also became a huge fan of Nuno Bettencourt, the lead guitarist, and saw the band twice in concert in 1992 and 1993. That song became a marker in my life, romantically and musically.

“Aperture” by Harry Styles

I have gone through a very difficult time in my life over the last few years, clouded by a gnawing depression that later developed into a deep depression after an emotional rupture that destabilized my life. In these dark years, I have struggled to find joy in general and in things that once mattered deeply to me like TV, movies, books, and music. It’s a little hard for me to understand and even harder for me to explain, but I wasn’t able to seek out new music or new artists, or at least very few. And when I did, I would play them on repeat constantly. I had to keep my stimulation limited and controlled. I have since learned this behavior is connected to anxiety.

Once the life event occurred that destabilized me, I lost my will to live and my ability to find the healing properties of music like I once did. As a teenager, I used to lock myself in my bedroom, play my music, and read the lyrics in the cassette and CD jackets. I memorized everything. I tried to match my voice to theirs. It was therapy. When I first moved to Atlanta and felt so alone, I played music constantly to fill the silence, feel the pain, and find joy.

In this acute depression, I couldn’t listen to music except when I ran. I could tolerate it then because the need to drown out the city’s static was greater than my need to avoid the pain. Part of me thinks running was the safest time to listen—to let the music in, feel whatever came up, and try to wash it out with limit-pushing exertion. If friends tried to share songs with me, I couldn’t even press play. It felt too painful. Every artist and every melody reminded me of a lifetime that had passed and nothing had accumulated. Music felt scary, risky, and not something I could tolerate. I didn’t want to feel any more than I absolutely had to. I bubble-wrapped my nervous system so tightly that no feelings could disturb me if I wanted to recover.

Then in January of this year, Harry Styles released a new song, “Aperture.” The curiosity of his new album piqued my interest. I listened. Multiple times. And I enjoyed it. I didn’t cry. I didn’t get nervous. My mind didn’t wander. I listened to new music by an artist I appreciate.

I’m hopeful that music is finding its way back to me.