The first memories I have of music are of sitting in the backseat of my Dad’s forest green Honda Civic with my brother, and my Dad driving us home from the library on Sundays after church. And I remember it was always hot because the air conditioning never seemed to work during the summer. We spent a lot of time at that library, but it’s funny because I don’t really remember a lot of the books I brought home and read. But, I do remember the music that always played on that 15 minute ride home almost every Sunday. Hearing songs like, “Satellite” by Dave Matthews, “Help Me Ronda” by The Beach Boys, or “Beautiful Day” by U2, catapult me back like a time machine.
Back then, I wasn’t a personal fan of a lot of that kind of music. And my cooperation was based less in that deep down I really didn’t mind ol’ Dave or Bono, and more in knowing that if I behaved on the way home the chances of a 7-11 Slurpee were exponentially greater. My go-to was stuff like Yellowcard, Simple Plan, and early (and good) Maroon 5. But since my dad drove us, he obviously got to ‘DJ’ too. Everyone knows that rule. My dad’s CDs together made up the soundtrack to my kid and young teenage life. Whenever I hear Sheryl Crow, I think of the distant sounds of “If It Makes You Happy” coming from my dad’s stereo system inside the house as I swam in the pool outside. If I hear Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” I’m automatically in the car on the way to school playing this game with my dad where we used to punch each other’s arms back and forth. It’s crazy how much of a memory we can attach to a single song.
What does that all mean to me? That music is more than just a combination of instruments and sounds… it’s a portal.
Nowadays, I’m actually a fan of a lot of those bands and singers that my dad used to listen to. But what’s funny, is that my dad rarely listens to any of those that I mentioned (minus Neil Young, of course). It’s weird how music preference can change so much over just a short span of time. I always make fun of my dad for this because it’s hard to understand how you can go from loving something one day to rarely even trying to access it a few years later. But lately, it’s started to make a little bit more sense to me.
I think that the music you choose to listen to is a way to overlay the emotion you feel or the emotion you want to feel onto the events happening in your life. Sometimes you want to pop on some Bruno Mars’ “Uptown Funk”, walk down the street, and imagine yourself in a music video (you hate it, but you actually love it.) And then other times you want to sit in a coffee shop, look out the window, listen to Bon Iver and hope that it starts raining. It really just depends.
I was listening to a podcast on ‘NPR Music: All Songs Considered’ the other day, and this particular episode was people telling their stories on how a song saved or changed their life. Some talked about stopping a suicide and others about song lyrics helping them to make a tough life decision. At the end of the show the hosts came to a conclusion, and one that I definitely agree with: music allows you to access emotions that are buried behind the random thoughts inside your head. Listening to music is like jumpstarting your car, but instead of a battery, it’s a song, and in place of the car, it’s your mind or your heart.
I recently saw a picture of a sign that said, “Drinking beer makes you feel like you’re supposed to feel without drinking beer.” Well, for me and for a lot of people I’m sure, music does that, too.
The first time I played the drums in a band at a live show, I was going through a pretty rough patch in my life. But for those 15 minutes, I forgot all about the thing that had been clouding my head for the past weeks. I was on stage, in front of friends and strangers, playing music, and feeling like I was frickin’ Ringo Starr. I’d accessed an emotion that had been hidden before and all because I knew how to hit some animal skins with two wooden drumsticks and keep time with the bassist.
Just the other day, I went to a high school Battle of the Bands competition here in Shanghai. One of the first bands I saw was this group with two guys and two girls probably about 15 or 16 years old. And the lead guitarist was killing it, moving all over the stage and wearing a bright red tie and sunglasses (it was an indoor venue). I thought, “I wouldn’t have the guts to do that when I was his age, and maybe not even now,” (that’s why I’m a drummer). The concert’s goal was to raise money for a charity organization so they had the kids in the bands walk around with boxes to collect donations. I was standing by the snack bar when I saw this lead guitarist kid coming in my direction. So, I went up and donated a few dollars. While putting the money in the box I started talking to him. He was gracious for the donation, but his voice was shaky and he didn’t really say much. I thought he’d be this super confident kid, but I then realized that my assumption had been shaped completely by what I had seen him do on stage just minutes before.
It had to have been the music.
The music had changed this kid, even for just 10 minutes. He’d stepped into this music portal a nervous teenager and stepped out a star who soloed like John Mayer. Nothing phased him. He owned that room. He knew that a lead guitarist doesn’t stand on the corner of the stage without moving. He knew that a lead guitarist is the guy who transforms a solo artist with backing musicians into a full-on Rock and Roll band. The music made him the most confident version of himself and gave him the excuse to let go. And that’s pretty cool, right? Runners get “runner’s high,” and musicians get goosebumps and audible bliss.
For some people music is something that just plays on volume 3 on their computer at work. For others, and for me, music can make a completely random meeting of the eyes on the metro seem like the beginning of a love movie, or make a bus ride home on a random Tuesday a trip you’re your childhood memory lane. Music can take you any kind of place and make you any kind of person. All you have to do…
is feel it.
Stefano Montali 