The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
b-side
Thursday, October 11, 2018 — 5B

The greatest social currency in 
my life circa 2011 was the amount 
of likes and comments I got on 
my Facebook profile. Looking 
back on it now, social media of the 
early 2010s is sort of a prehistoric 
wasteland, but to my tween self, 
it was fertile terrain rife with 
possibility. My first post was an 
unmistakable splash, more striking 
than a David Hockney canvas.
“If you think I’m cute, like my 
status.” It got six likes. I rode that 
high for just as many days.
I had established a clear brand 
with hits such as “English. Boring.” 
and an automated announcement 
that my new occupation was 
“Pokémon Master” at “Kanto 
Region.” This was a time when 
people would take the sans serif 
inquiry of “What’s on your mind?” 
at the top of their feeds to heart, 
but there was an unspoken social 
contract that one’s thoughts had to 
be sublimely curated to entertain 
the masses. For personal and 
unchecked raw emotion to seep 
into one’s status updates was a 
character assassination. And when 
I first downloaded Spotify, an 
attempt on my life was made.
This article has no concern 
with establishing primacy in the 
great music streaming service war, 
because I only want to establish 
for context I was a relatively early 
adopter of Spotify (and have a 
starred playlist dating back to 2012 
to prove it). Back in those naïve 
years, when the three curves on 
the Spotify logo were still white, 
the app had a sneaky feature where 
it could publish your listening 
activity to your Facebook profile 
in a rash of pathogenic posts. Like 
most embarrassing things, I was 
notified of it through the teasing 
of my friends who reported to me 
that their feed was plagued with 
undying notifications all prefixed 
by “Robert Mansuetti listened to.”

I ran to the family computer 
when I got home, typed my troubles 
into Google with the fastest fingers 
in the west and triple checked that 
the “feature” had been turned off. 
I pleaded to the most convenient 
higher power that my mom had 
not been online recently enough to 
prompt a conversation about how 
I’ve been “rotting my brain” with 
2Pac, J. Cole and other explicit 
rappers.
However, I discovered a terrible 
tool that day. Two deadly words: 
“Private session.” It was a foolproof 
way 
to 
prevent 
any 
further 
ridicule for my musical tastes 
from my peers. Little did I know 
that clicking the off button was 
tantamount to curling the index 
finger of a monkey’s paw.
My Spotify history has mostly 
remained private since then. The 
rare occasions when I went public 
were in service of haughty masters; 
I wanted to flex on my friends 
my 
superior 
(i.e. 
superficial) 
knowledge of classic rock or the 
golden age of hip hop. For a brief 
time I was a card-carrying member 
of “the wrong generation,” a period 
of my young idiocy I look back on 
with shame. Ironic, because shame 
was what I was trying to hide when 
I switched out of a private session.
I was afraid people would 
think I’m lame for listening to 
the Jupiter movement of Holst’s 
“The Planets” or songs off the 
“Les Mis” soundtrack. I was 
afraid people would think I’m 
queer for listening to the likes of 
Lady Gaga or Katy Perry or any 
other “girly” popstar. I was afraid 
people would think I have no 
taste if I listened to “Pumped Up 
Kicks” or “Somebody That I Used 
to Know” non-ironically after 
trashing its popularity at school. 
I had slowly built up a reputation 
as a knowledgeable source of 
music recommendations for my 
peers, one who went against the 
popular status quo of 14-year-olds 
and thought he could blow your 
world right open. The last thing my 

anxious self wanted was for that 
cool part of me to crumble.
The common thread that made 
me question my fears was that they 
were focused on how I perceived 
other people’s opinions of me. I 
asked myself, “Besides the middle 
school teasing, has anyone ever 
negatively commented on my 
choice of music?” The answer was 
a simple no. Plus, the fact that the 
number of connected friends I 
have on Spotify is comparatively 
lower than my count of Facebook 
friends and that most everyone 
listens to music on their phone 
nowadays and can’t even see their 
friends’ history was enough for me 
to make my Spotify history public, 
from now until the heat death of 
the universe.
The private session is a paradox. 
Many people swear by it and equate 
accidentally forgetting to click 
the option to social suicide. Yet in 
hiding behind this digital wall, the 
enriching social aspect of music — 
sharing recommendations, geeking 
out over your faves, finding new 
common ground with new friends 
— is completely obliterated.
Many a time I’ve accidently 
stumbled upon great music by 
simply clicking on the various 
songs my friends were listening to. 
If I love you as a person, what’s to 
say I won’t love your favorite music? 
Although my musical perception of 
the world was quite myopic in my 
early teenage years, it was slowly 
expanded by sharing it with others. 
It’s criminal to not to pay attention 
to the suggestions of others and 
only listen to the same handful of 
artists for the rest of your lifetime.
So, if you’re up to it, make a 
vow to only break out the private 
session in case of emergencies. 
Sure, people may see you’ve been 
listening to “Still Into You” for the 
past 15 minutes, but c’mon: In 2018, 
everyone likes Paramore. Instead 
of both listening to After Laughter 
ashamedly in the confines of our 
bedroom and our headphones, let’s 
dance to it together.

On spending time alone

INTERSCOPE RECORDS

MUSIC NOTEBOOK

How I stopped worrying & 
loved my Spotify history

ROBERT MANSUETTI
Daily Arts Writer

PERSONAL NOTEBOOK

Ann Arbor & the terrific, 
feel good, very great day

It’s mid-Oct. in Ann Arbor, a 
crisp Saturday morning in the fall. 
Instead of waking up to tailgate 
music 
pounding 
outside 
your 
window, it’s the soft autumnal 
glow through your shades and the 
rustling of a strong wind through 
dry leaves that brings you out of 
your sleep.
It’s 10:00 a.m. and you climb out 
of bed, feeling physically worn but 
mentally rested from the activities 
of Friday night. In your phone are 
texts and photos from your friends 
— stories, jokes and moments 
captured from another late night 
out.
You throw on your softest top, 
the one you may have spent too 
much money on, but you swear is 
worth every cent. Stepping outside, 
you head down State St. You pass 
your old dorm, where you met your 
best friend for the first time in a 
tipsy bathroom stupor. You pass 
a family of three taking pictures 
on the grass. You wonder if the 
bouncing toddler with them will 
find as much love here as you have.
As you turn the corner onto E. 
Liberty, you see the mural you’ve 

seen a thousand times over. You 
muse on whether you’ll ever figure 
out who each person is. It has been 
two years and at this point, you’re 
too afraid to ask. Or maybe you just 
like the mystery.
Walking further and further 
down 
Liberty, 
the 
bustle 
of 
backpack-clad 
20-year-olds 
and athletes on mopeds fades to 
30-somethings with dogs and 
elderly couples linking elbows. 
They smile at you, nod their heads, 
remembering the times when they 
were that young. You keep walking.
As you hit Main St., Ann Arbor 
comes alive. You smell cherries, 
candles, old books, the unwavering, 
underlying scent of freshly-cooked 
breakfast food. As you turn the 
corner you stop into your favorite 
book store. Alongside the scent of 
espresso and ink, you discover new 
books, new ideas, new journeys to 
embark on. A young woman sits 
on a bench twiddling her glasses 
and flipping through a book about 
France. You hope she makes it 
there. You exit the store.
You continue to walk as the sun 
breaks through the morning fog. 
You close your eyes as it hits your 
face, its warmth washing over 
you like a sip of hot tea. As you go, 
the smells and sights of Main St. 

dwindle. Coffee and lamp posts are 
replaced with apple cider and brick 
roads.
You walk into the Farmer’s 
Market and feel as though you’ve 
walked into a field ripe with 
harvest. A toddler reaches out for a 
sugar-coated donut. His dad turns 
him away, but the vendor smiles 
and sneaks him a piece. Your walk 
down the aisle is a mirage of color, 
a new shade hitting your eyes as 
you go table to table. You stop at a 
woman who reminds you of your 
grandmother. She hands you warm 
cider and a sense of comfort. You 
continue.
On your way back home you 
don’t notice what’s going on around 
you. An old dog plays fetch with his 
young owner. Neighbors greet each 
other at the grocery store. A second 
date starts off at brunch. You keep 
going.
That night you’re resting on your 
couch. There is a knock at the door 
and your friends tumble in before 
you can even stand up. They’re 
chattering and laughing and in the 
middle of a trifling fight that started 
on the way over. Wine is poured, 
games are played and memories 
are recounted. You’ve heard these 
stories a million times before. You 
don’t care. You’re happy.

SAMANTHA DELLA FERA
Daily Arts Writer

PERSONAL NOTEBOOK

COLUMBIA RECORDS
Playing alongside John 
Mayer, night after night

Two pops start the evening 
session: One comes from my 
guitar’s connection with its 
amplifier, the other from the 
record player’s needle settling 
onto the vinyl. The record 
starts spinning with its silent 
preamble while I tune my guitar 
and adjust the volume. John 
Mayer’s guitar sounds, and all 
is well. Its classic tone wades 
through the speakers to make 
it to my ears. Mayer’s guitar 
has been heard by millions, but 
when I play his records, it’s just 
the two of us.
Like most ’90s babies, I 
had heard John Mayer’s hits 
through childhood: “Your Body 
Is a Wonderland,” “Waiting on 
the World to Change” and so 
on. It wasn’t until the summer 
before coming to the University 
that I really started to connect 
with Mayer himself.
Mayer’s 
2006 
album, 
Continuum, 
resonated 
with 
me 
that 
summer. 
I 
found 
myself listening to the album 
all the way through, several 
times 
a 
day. 
Continuum 
included Mayer’s own lyrical 
masterpieces in addition to a 

cover of Jimi Hendrix’s “Bold as 
Love.” I loved each song on the 
record and ended up buying it 
on vinyl to add to my collection.
Continuum led me to retrieve 
the dusty acoustic guitar from 
the basement and teach myself 
how to play guitar — that was 
one of the greatest decisions of 
my life.
That grew into a passion for 
the instrument and a greater 
love for the blues. I invested 
in a used Fender to try to use 
the electric guitar for voicing, 
like I heard John Mayer do. 
All because of my love for 
Continuum.
I was playing guitar every 
morning and every night.
I found myself returning 
to Continuum as I started to 
drown in my first semester at 
the University. I tried teaching 
myself a few of the songs on the 
record, but it was more difficult 
than I thought it would be. I 
didn’t know how to play each 
song note for note, but I could 
find the particular song’s key 
and play my own rendition 
as the record was playing. I 
had discovered for myself an 
entirely new way to experience 
music.
The G chord that introduces 
“Gravity” sounded the same 

as the G chord on my guitar. 
I could mirror the melody of 
“Slow Dancing in a Burning 
Room” in conversation with 
Mayer through my Fender. I 
could echo the somber notes of 
“Stop This Train.” The two of us 
could speak the same language.
The more that I listened to 
and accompanied the album, the 
more that I felt as though Mayer 
and I were on the same page. 
We were both struggling with 
anxiety, regret and uncertainty 
about the future. We were 
communicating 
through 
the 
blues scale.
In a way, John Mayer was my 
therapist; my guitar could voice 
what my vocal cords couldn’t 
muster.
Every now and then, I will 
return to Continuum to calm 
my anxieties, even if it is only 
to remind myself that the first 
strums on “Stop This Train” 
still sound that way.
After my fingers tire and 
several 
records 
have 
been 
flipped, I call it a night. Mayer 
and I might have talked for 
hours, or just a few minutes. 
Expressing myself with John 
Mayer, someone who shares my 
love for blues guitar and over-
analysis, clears my head and 
calms my nerves.

ZACHARY WAARALA
For the Daily

I love to be alone.
Headphones 
in. 
Blankets 
tucked up to my chin. Air 
conditioning on high. A book 
in my hands, with a spine 
that cracks. A vanilla-scented 
candle, or pumpkin (if it’s 
Oct.), burning on my bedside 
table. Maybe listening to Vance 
Joy. Drifting in and out of an 
uncommitted sleep. Just me 
and my thoughts. Just me and 
my words.
I like to go shopping alone. 
Browsing in and out of stores 
with nobody urging me to go 
from one place to another, to 
hurry up or slow down. Just on 
my very own time. Bookstores 
are the best for solo browsing. 
Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t 
have too many distractions if 
I happen upon a bookstore, 
unsure of what I’ll select as 
my next literary adventure. I 
need time in my own mind, to 
browse and mingle with the 
characters on the pages. I can 
only make a selection if all my 
attention is on the shelves in 
front of me.
I like to get coffee alone — 
watching the people cycle in 
and out of the cafe — on their 

phones, with a lover, on a first 
date. I jot down what I notice, 
and all I worry about is the ink 
of my pen, my almond milk 
cappuccino and this flaky, 
chocolate croissant. It is much 
easier to people watch alone. 
It’s much easier to write poetry 
alone. It’s much easier to make 
my cappuccino last for hours 
when there’s nobody there to 
tell me they’re bored of sitting 
and overhearing conversations 
about baby showers and car 
accidents and expensive trips 
to Whole Foods. 
This is what it means to me: 
to recharge.
I digress. I love to be around 
people — I thrive off of lovely 
conversation, a dining room 
table set for dinner with five 
chairs too many and long drives 
as the leaves change with 
my brother in the passenger 
seat, talking the whole way as 
the scenery molds and shifts. 
But having time for myself is 
essential in my day to day when 
I sometimes feel as though 
the walls of my own mind are 
caving in on me. It is a rarity to 
get more than a few moments 
of alone time each day. I never 
realized how much I took alone 
time for granted until I was 
thrust back into the routine of 
college life after my summer of 
solitude.

In St. Louis this past summer, 
I spent most of my time alone. I 
went on long, dragging, hot and 
procrastinating runs — going 
for as long as my legs would 
allow, just to kill the time. 
When I was let off work early 
I walked around Forest Park, 
as the Midwest heat beat down 
on my sunburned shoulders 
and sunburned cheeks and the 
sweat dripped from my hairline 
down my face. St. Louis is 
dangerously hot in July, but I 
learned to love the feeling of 
walking by myself in the heavy 
heat. I would walk through the 
free zoo, slowly, noticing and 
wondering. I would stare at 
the elephants and hang around 
the giraffe exhibit. I would 
smile at the little kids tugging 
on their mother’s shorts and 
squealing with delight. I’d 
wonder about when I was their 
age. I’d walk from the zoo to 
Jeni’s for ice cream, and I’d sit 
on the bench outside, all alone, 
and lick my butter cake ice 
cream cone that melted down 
my fingers and hands. I went 
on bike rides when I needed to 
clear my head, happened upon 
the art museum when I was 
bored and spent hours in the 
coffee shop at the intersection 
of Skinker and Forest Park 
Parkway, tucked in the corner 
that was always vacant.

ELI RALLO
Daily Arts Writer

I always ended up in the 
bookstore, on the floor, with 
my legs tucked under me, 
paging through the novels 
to 
decide 
what 
was 
next 
to read. The hours flew by 
in the bookstore, whereas 
they 
dragged 
whenever 
I 
was anywhere else. When 
I challenged myself to stop 
spending money on books, I’d 
venture downstairs and sort 
through the $1 used books, 
buying any collection of poems 
that had a nice title.
I learned to enjoy eating 
alone — dining in and eating 

out, 
tacos 
and 
breakfasts, 
hamburgers 
and 
oatmeal 
bowls 
and 
anything 
with 
bell peppers. I spent a good 
amount of time in the aisles 
of Trader Joe’s thinking of 
how I’d be able to master my 
next unexpected and original 
recipe. I always ate against the 
ceiling to floor windows in my 
kitchen, watching the sunset 
bleed through the peaks in the 
trees.
Even when the sun goes 
down on a St. Louis summer 
day, it’s still too hot.
But now, here in Ann Arbor, 

as the seasons change and 
my entire life seems to be an 
unfinished to-do list, I long 
for the heat, its lasting burn 
through the mindful, peaceful, 
quiet days. The way it felt on 
my shoulders and back as I 
strolled alone and unfettered 
through the lush green park 
— nowhere to go, nobody to 
answer to, not a deadline in 
site. Just me, my mind, the 
lone bench in the zoo near 
the giraffes and a Jeni’s ice 
cream cone waiting for me — 
promised to myself in the near 
future.

MUSIC NOTEBOOK

