The Soundtrack of My Life
Graphic by Charlie Desjardins
By Charlie Desjardins
I’m sitting alone in a ten-person conference room in 172 Tremont, staring down the barrel at my own life. By my side sits a large cup of dark roast—the beverage equivalent of strapping a rocket to my ass. For the next hour, whether I live, die, begin convulsing, or get stricken down by electrical shock, I will wade through the waters of stupidity and select ten songs that comprise the “soundtrack of my life.”
Help me, please.
(A total idiot, photographed by himself.)
I first encountered this hellish exercise during sophomore year of high school—back when Chamber Choir instructors could give out homework and blame it on “hybrid learning.” Make a video essay about The Temptations! Learn a love song and sing it to me! Record every voice in the choir singing ‘Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer’ and stitch them together!
And then… Pick the ten songs that define your humanity and tell me why!
I could go on and on about my complicated relationship with Mrs. Blake, who revealed my crush in front of a full audience at our Spring concert, though I truly believe giving us this assignment was the worst thing she ever did. What kind of existentialist-ass prompt is that? Ten songs that “define my humanity”? My motherfucking humanity? I thought this was supposed to be busy work—not a deeply personal journey of self-discovery and psychological torment! If I wanted that, I’d have taken AP Bio instead!
While others finished their lists by the end of the period, I sat there motionless, white as a sheet, my heart thumping with the pitter-patter of acid rain on a white sand beach in Hell. Because my existence is practically pasted together by the music I love (ie. I’m annoying), picking ten fun-sized chunks of my sharing-sized soul and pasting them on a shitty Google Slideshow felt comparable to cutting off my own toes.
How do you boil sixteen years of livin’ into fifty minutes of hearin’? What does that criteria even look like? Do you place more emphasis on songs you loved as a child, or songs you love now? How about songs you’ve heard so much that you can hardly stand them? Or poor-quality songs? Camp singalongs? Musical theater tunes? The United States National Anthem? The Jeopardy theme? Do you pick songs you heard live, or songs exclusively heard via vinyl on a broken record player?
In the end, I spent two torturous weeks examining these questions and came out on the other side with a list that felt wildly incomplete:
(in no particular order)
“Misunderstanding” by Genesis
“Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” by The Beatles
“Would?” by Alice in Chains
“Landed” by Ben Folds
“The Entertainer” by Billy Joel
“Cadillac Ranch” by Bruce Springsteen
“El Scorcho” by Weezer
“Amish Paradise” by “Weird Al” Yankovic
“Message in a Bottle” by The Police
“Subdivisions” by Rush
Looking back, I have many issues (this is neither the first nor last time I’ll say this sentence). Who was I to define my life at sixteen when I could hardly drive a car yet? I’m far better-suited to embark on this journey today—especially after four years of maddening thought and nightmares—and adopting a set of stricter guidelines has made everything so much smoother. They are, as printed below:
Do I enjoy listening to the song right now?
Can I connect the song to important life moments or memories?
Would I feel comfortable having this song’s lyrics printed on my gravestone?
Could I explain this song’s importance to a date without scaring her off?
As a wise man (myself) once said (I wrote this in my Notes app while high): “Fear is the flower of knowing.” I’m terrified of what may unfold over the next hour, but I’ll be fine as long as I know how stupid this all is.
Time starts… NOW!
(in no particular order)
SONG ONE: “Message in a Bottle” by The Police
Let’s begin with this list’s only repeat. I’ve been telling people for years that “Message in a Bottle” is my favorite song, and there’s about a million good reasons for that. The Police’s three-pronged brilliance is practically unmatched in human history (save for the Pierce-Garnett-Allen Celtics), and “Message in a Bottle” is the band operating at a brain-melting, swaggering peak: Stewart Copeland punishes his hi-hats with furious excitement, Andy Summers paints with creamy guitar licks, and Sting is Sting (a very positive thing). Yet the lasting power of “Message in a Bottle,” like with all great rockers, lies in its laughably effortless flow—a flow that relies on the power of unity. That final minute is maybe (probably, even) the greatest example of a band melting together and going for it, hammering away on that “sending out an SOS” refrain with an electric reggae joy so infectious it transcends all notions of effort. It’s an example of a perfect song, and in a world with so little perfection, I feel as though I need to celebrate that.
SONG TWO: “Tunnel of Love” by Bruce Springsteen
I’m going to leap out a window (this is satire, Emerson College). Bruce Springsteen matters more to me than water, and I can imagine this is what it feels like to enter divorce proceedings and choose which child you like more. I could have easily put fellow-Tunnel of Love stunner “Brilliant Disguise” here, and the same goes for “Glory Days,” “I’m on Fire,” “Cover Me,” “The River,” “Badlands,” and “Atlantic City” (the best song he’s ever written). Why did I pick this one? “Tunnel of Love” is an equally brilliant tune to everything listed above, and I think it synthesizes every part of what makes The Boss such an enduring songwriter: moody synths, detached masculinity, and achy pop melodies. Added bonus: do you remember that divorce analogy I made earlier? Boy, do I have a song for you!
“Tunnel of Love’s” musings on heartbroken funhouses double as a metaphor for Springsteen’s own failing marriage, and I can honestly say that this song gives me a horrible, receding hairline-esque midlife crisis every time I hear it. It’s probably the most claustrophobic song he ever dared to record, and it’s dark heart is life-changingly depressing if you ignore all the bells and whistles.
The great part? There’s a whole lot of bells and whistles. All break-ups should be accompanied by Nils Lofgren ripping brilliant guitar solos.
SONG THREE: “Dog” by Ben Folds
Where did this song come from, and why isn’t it better known? You could ask those exact same questions about Ben Folds, a cult hero-rock pianist whose music has entertained my family for decades. While I always loved Ben’s music, it wasn’t until he started livestreaming on YouTube during the pandemic that I finally got down on one knee. I can honestly say that these weekly mini-concerts made quarantine a little bit brighter, and if I didn’t develop crippling anxiety and depression, I might even say those two years were worth it! I’ve picked “Dog” because it effectively serves as a Ben Folds thesis statement: rollicking drums, relentless key-mashing, and an irresistible, lighter-than-air sarcasm. It also only has 312,000 plays on Spotify. If onlys and buts were candies and nuts, this one would replace Benson Boone’s “Beautiful Things” and we’d all sleep a little better at night.
SONG FOUR: “Come Dancing” by The Kinks
Growing up, we listened to two CD’s in my dad’s car and two CD’s only: Genesis’ Turn It On Again: The Hits and The Kinks’ Come Dancing with The Kinks: The Best of 1977-1986. I picked Genesis’ “Misunderstanding” on the first iteration of this list, but a truly sickening case of overplay has sent me running into The Kinks’ loving arms. With a classical sensibility fitting for both royalty and footloose teenagers, “Come Dancing” is the Davies brothers (the bastard children of the British Invasion) paying tribute to their late sister over a stunning bed of sunshine.
Rarely has pop music reached such piercing, authentic heights.
To this day, whenever somebody asks what makes me happy, I point them to the big band breakdown at this song’s tail-end and watch intently to see if they like it as much as I do. Maybe I’m cheesy. Maybe I like feeling gooey. Sue me. If nostalgia is old people attempting to replicate their idealized pasts, “Come Dancing” is that past—only this time, it actually exists.
SONG FIVE: “Second Hand News” by Fleetwood Mac
What’s your greatest accomplishment? Mine is seeing Fleetwood Mac’s original lineup in concert, jolly and unscathed. As America’s most acrimonious mainstay, the Mac’s music has soundtracked a fair share of drama in my lifetime as well, growing to define my family’s tense relationships with each other and the most jarring friend-breakup of my (or anybody else’s) lifetime. Nowadays, I keep a copy of Rumours on my dorm room wall to signify just how petty and emotional my friend group is, and I’m thinking about leaving it there for the new tenants next semester. The two rules I’ve learned about life: it’s necessary to have an imperfect band that echoes our own imperfections, and it’s equally necessary to have Lindsay Buckingham write kick-ass soft rock jams.
This one, the plucky “Second Hand News,” has always been my favorite, and if you listen close enough you can literally hear Buckingham’s spittle flying at Stevie Nicks (the third best singer—fight me—in this version of Fleetwood Mac). Honorable mentions go to any song human angel Christine McVie has ever sung.
SONG SIX: “Happy Hour” by The Housemartins
I was never good at karate. I was never going to be. Growing up a lanky chunkster with prodigious banana bread-eating talent, I was better built for complaining about exercise on the ride home than actually exercising. Driving away from Sensei Louie’s martial arts studio on Friday evenings, my dad would turn on 92.5 The River and “Happy Hour” would play at the top of the 5 PM hour like clockwork—an intoxicating experience each time. I had no reference point for who the fuck The Housemartins were, and I had even less of an idea of what “happy hour” was or why the singer was hyped for the barmaid being “a she,” but I knew I liked the way those guitars jangled. It’s tight, catchy, and light as air—an ideal single really, and probably the thing that caused me to fall in love with radio’s intoxicating randomness. Nowadays I’m equally bad at karate, but I can finally do jumping jacks without farting, and I’ve secured an internship at The River this summer. The circle has finally closed itself.
SONG SEVEN: “Ticket to Ride” by The Beatles
Songs are like people: there’s a whole lot of them, and most of them suck, but the good ones stick around forever. I lost my Knee-Knee when I was 13, but she continues to live on through hazy snapshots: long trips to museums, McDonald's cinnamon buns, and The Beatles’ 1 greatest hits album.
I don’t know where I would be if she never bought me that CD, and I don’t really want to think about it.
We burst forth into this world grabbing at air like a Tootsie Roll, and The Beatles were one of the first bugs I ever caught. I listened to that album until it snapped, and I prided my young self on being the preeminent John Lennon scholar in the state of Massachusetts. Did I have a Beatles lunchbox? Funny you should ask! Did I tell my kindergarten teacher that my favorite song was “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window?” How did you know! Did people always say I looked like George Harrison? Yes, and they continue to! It seems my life is inexplicably intertwined with The Beatles, and it might be that way until I croak or eat it off a cliff. If so, I’d be happy if “Ticket to Ride,” my favorite song on that immortal 1 CD, played as I was falling. Then, awaking in whatever afterlife I find myself in, I’d have to give my Knee-Knee a big bearhug and thank her for the music.
SONG EIGHT: “Late in the Evening” by Paul Simon
I remember it like it was thirteen years ago—which it, of course, was. I was sitting in my dad’s car on a rainy Lowell afternoon, soccer jersey stained green and orange cleats stained brown, when Steve Gadd’s opening Mozambique drum fill corrupted me forever. Maybe this isn’t true, and maybe I’m just grafting my own memories onto a heroic origin story. Regardless, I’ve been a drummer for a very long time, and I’ve played this drum part so much I practically snore with the timbre of a Cuban conga. Writing this, I miss my drumset like Freud misses his wet nurse, and I hope it thinks of me fondly.
Also—shoutout to the legend Paul Simon, and shoutout to songs about guitarists smoking J’s outside clubs and then proceeding to blow people’s faces off.
SONG NINE: “You Might Think” by The Cars
BOSTON REPRESENT! I’m so glad one of our city’s biggest bands was a bunch of nervy new-wavers with stuttering voices and power pop-stained underoos, and I maintain that Ric Ocasek has been responsible for more glee in my life than Lexapro. This song specifically, off of The Cars’ MTV-shaded opus Heartbeat City, finds the group in unabashed love mode, begging a real shitty-sounding woman to take them—even though she’s essentially making fun of us over and over again. For students at Emerson College, this is a tale as old as time!
I think I first heard the Weezer cover of this song on the Cars 2 soundtrack, and my adolescent brain thought it was one of the best things I had ever heard. Then I heard the original, and I quickly realized there’s more to life than Weezer. I can’t point to “You Might Think” as representing a specific moment in my life, but rather a collection of moments—the silly crushes, the sillier relationships, the moments of stupidity and rejection. It’s an uncool song that knows how uncool it is, and that’s a lesson we all need to learn if we ever want to mature.
SONG TEN: “Baby Can I Hold You” by Tracy Chapman
My final choice is also my strangest choice. I think, after all this reminiscing, I need a song that represents everything and nothing at the same time.
Since I can recall, I’ve had these strange, pink memories of being swaddled in a blanket and rolled away on some wheelchair. I know it’s impossible to remember your own birth, and while I certainly don’t, some schizophrenic part of me remembers the minutes right afterwards. Is that even possible? I like to think it is, and I like to think we’ll eventually be able to watch memories in a large IMAX theater someday.
This song is for my mom—the human that birthed me, and a big fan of Tracy Chapman. I think I’m slowly becoming more of a mama’s boy as I get older, and I can’t wait for her to read this and text me something backhanded like “I always knew you liked me!” As for my dad—he’s cold as ice, so I associate him less with music and more with the sterile clattering of a train on a steel rail.
(I hope he realizes this is a joke. I need to stay on the family insurance plan as long as possible.)