S
o I’m not sure if all three of my
readers are aware, but I’m kind
of into music a little bit.
I grew up listening to “The Free-
wheelin’ Bob Dylan” in my living room
while building cities out of alphabet
blocks, Legos and a Thomas the Tank
Engine wooden train track set. I like
to ask people, “What was the first song
you remember hearing in your entire
life that wasn’t a children’s song?” cause
you learn a lot about someone by what
was played in their house growing up.
The most popular answers I’ve gotten
have been The Beatles and Motown
(mine was “I Feel the Earth Move” by
Carole King).
Now, in my sophomore year of col-
lege, I have consistently surrounded
myself with new releases, tried and true
favorites at almost every waking hour
of the day. As I write this column, Ken-
drick Lamar’s masterpiece To Pimp a
Butterfly is on rotation on my turntable.
The album artwork is lying on top of my
red fire truck milk crate containing my
favorite selections from my dad’s vinyl
collection he left for me when he moved
out and albums I have dug out of bins at
record stores.
However, we live in a digital world
and I can’t bring the crate everywhere I
go. To make up for this, I never leave the
house without headphones.
“Put Your Records On” — Corinne
Bailey Rae
If there’s anything I’ve put an exor-
bitant amount of time into, it’s Spotify
playlists. I spend so much time combin-
ing Spotify playlists, asking for recom-
mendations from friends and waiting for
new albums to come out (if you haven’t,
please listen to The Decemberists’ new
album and talk to me about it).
One of the most important moments
of my day is when I leave my dorm,
arrive in the lobby of South Quad
Residence Hall, dig into my pockets,
unwrap my inevitably tangled head-
phones, plug in, hit “shuffle” on my
monthly playlist and step outside. That
first shuffle pulls the trigger on my
racing pistol and sets me off for the
daily grind.
Last week, as I headed downstairs
— ready to enter the world — I reached
into my left pocket, the designated con-
tainer for my precious headphones. My
hand wriggled around in my loose over-
alls pockets but I didn’t feel the worn
white plastic of the cable.
Oh no.
“Empty” — Kevin Abstract
I stood in the lobby in disbelief. I was
already late by Michigan Time’s standards
(R.I.P.) and most definitely did not have
time to run up to the fifth floor of South
Quad to dig around in my drawer and find
my headphones. I knew exactly where
they were — lying motionless, balled up in
the left pocket of the red pants I wore the
day before. If only they knew how much I
depended on them to function.
They were probably lonely, resting in
a busted modular furniture drawer, pur-
poseless. No electricity running through.
They were cold and just wanted to be
used to bring joy or sadness or anything
in between — depending on the song.
I was frozen in place. People bumped
into me as they left the lobby, embarking
on their respective journeys while I had
the equivalent of cinderblocks strapped to
my feet. If I couldn’t soundtrack my walk
to class, what was the purpose of going?
“If I Ain’t Got You” — Alicia Keys
I knew the playlist the moment I got up
that morning.
I was a little groggy because I was up late
reading and even my shower and breakfast
couldn’t get me out of that sleepy haze. I
knew it had to have a good beat or an amaz-
ing, belting chorus. In the wise words of that
Old El Paso tortilla commercial, everyone
seems to know, “Why don’t we have both?”
I could not get Alicia Keys out of my head.
It was driving me insane. But no headphones
meant Alicia would have to wait. I tried play-
ing it from my phone’s speakers and pretend-
ing I was on the phone but I couldn’t hear the
horn section well enough — a crucial part of
the instrumentation of “If I Ain’t Got You.”
It was useless. I was going to have to face
that cold, arduous world alone. No music to
accompany my strides. I mustered up the
appropriate amount of courage for the situa-
tion, pulled my hat over my ears and pushed
through the lobby’s main doors. Maybe the
walk wouldn’t be too bad after all.
“Everything
is
Awful”
—
The
Decemberists
I was so incredibly wrong. The sounds
of the outside world were nothing com-
pared to my typical musical style. Cars
honked at pedestrians, blue buses sped by,
almost splashing walkers with rainwater
pooling in the gutters and there was nei-
ther rhyme nor reason to the walk.
I heard so many conversations that
were not meant for my ears. I am a very
large fan of eavesdropping, some things
are best left unheard. Here’s an example:
“Sometimes I eat strawberries whole,
including the leaves, so I can get my daily
serving of fruits and vegetables at the
same time.”
Let’s be real. I didn’t need to know this
fact about someone, and though they gave
me content for this column, it was not what
I would have preferred hearing on my way
to class. That’s just a fact of life.
I was left without a purpose. I couldn’t
match my pace to the beat or nod my head.
I couldn’t pretend to play air piano to make
people think I was like every other virtu-
oso at the University of Michigan. I was a
fish out of water.
“Naked” — Ella Mai
I felt bare without those white earbuds
leading a trail to my phone in my pocket.
Wishing I had turned around when I had
the chance, the sensory overload of vehi-
cles and odd fruit-based preferences was
a lot to handle when I was already a little
dazed from my morning.
Moving past my “Bob Dylan in the liv-
ing room” days, I had always found a way
to bring music wherever I went. Being an
only child means a lot of things, but one
trait is pretty consistent among all single
children I have ever talked to about the
subject — it’s lonely as hell.
On long car rides to Kalamazoo, where
almost all of my extended family lived at one
point, I would sit in the backseat, straining
my eyes trying to read everything I could
see as the sun began to set. When it became
no use and my parents wouldn’t let me turn
the inside car overhead light on because it
“distracted other drivers,” I would pull my
yellow Sony Sport Discman out of my back-
pack. I’m pretty sure it was my dad’s before
I adopted it. Flipping through my binder of
CDs, I somehow always went back to my
“I Love the ’80s” CD. Popping in the CD
and placing those cheap foam headphones
over my ears, I’d press play and track one,
“I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” by Joan Jett and the
Blackhearts, would weave its way to my
eardrum and practically force me to tap my
feet, singing the wrong words (I thought
she said “juice box” instead of “jukebox” for
a very long time).
But on my walk, I noticed a lull in cars
and people walking to class. That’s when I
heard the beauty of the walk without head-
phones: birds chirping, the Burton Tower
in the distance, the crunch of snow still
waiting to melt.
“I Like The Way This Is Going” — Eels
At that moment, I was cast back to my
Alternative Spring Break trip to Harlan,
Ky., a few weeks ago. I would wake up early
in the morning, the sun just rising, and I
would stand on the porch, listening to the
sound of the breeze rustling the dense for-
ests ahead and the river running behind
our compound. After realizing how long I
had been drifting off into space, I rushed
to the separate bathroom building, imme-
diately started a playlist on my speaker and
hopped in the shower.
I cherished those brief moments of bliss
in Kentucky, looking at the cows next door
and imagining a world where I could live in
that exact space and time for years on end.
Why couldn’t I do the same in Ann Arbor?
I’ll be the first to admit I heavily depend
on music to survive the weeks at school. It’s
a release of stress, a culmination of emo-
tions and a method of expression unlike
any other. However, stopping and listening
to the tiny soundbites we often block out
unconsciously creates a soundtrack of its
own — one more authentic and without
order, reason or control.
Maybe I’ll forget my headphones
more often.
Wednesday, March 21, 2018// The Statement
7B
BY MATT HARMON, DAILY NEWS EDITOR
Soundtracking: Forgetting your headphones
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY KOFFSKY