The greens and golden browns of the Scottish Highlands flitted past the tour bus windows. Paddy, the guide, pointed to one side of the bus, then the other, and each in turn took their cue to sing out “da da da da” to I’m Gonna Be (500 miles).
When I was 16-years old, I sat patiently in the chilled interior of a church for my grandmother’s funeral to begin. While I waited, a slideshow of pictures took turns filling a large screen. The slow, somber notes of You Are My Sunshine played from the speakers.
As a child, my bare feet paced between the cold linoleum and deep green carpet of the basement floor. I was smiling, my father adjusting the tonearm of his record player to put on Tennessee Bird Walk.
There are parts of my life forever associated with a song.
I grew up in a house filled with music. When my father was home, he’d spend the nights playing records from his large collection that filled the shelves of four walls. Music was a large hobby of his, and over time, I came to understand that it was the most powerful tool in our ability to connect with one another. Through the years, my father would make mix tapes on CDs to play in his truck. Over time, he made some for me. I still have them and listen to them from time to time. Some of the songs still carry the nostalgic crinkling of a record playing.
When I got older, I started to make my own mix tapes. I’ve made well over a couple dozen and listen to them regularly. While nothing beats holding a physical CD in my hands, I discover new songs on the radio and online all the time. Hungry to find the next song I’m destined to leave on repeat for months, I discovered new loves for subsects of expansive genres and small independent artists.
Last year, I discovered an artist named Haley Heynderickx. I think I found her through Spotify, but I can’t be sure because her music also quickly filled my youtube algorithm. In late winter, I was listening to her music to drown out a particularly difficult week I was having. Between songs, I thought: I would see her in concert. So out of curiosity, I looked her up to see if she was touring.
Three days. She was coming to the state theater in three days to open for another act.
I bought a last minute ticket.
I’m not sure what the right word is to explain what I was feeling. Calm, maybe, but her music carries that vibe. I was just glad I bought the ticket, so no matter how short a time I could see and hear the person who brought sound to the difficult feelings I had been experiencing. Sitting beside me at the concert was a couple who had never heard her perform before. They whispered about her music, and how it was perfect for those days they spent chilling in their backyard. I watched them return from the break with her album in hand. I was happy they liked her music as much as I did, and I feel that way at every concert I go to. It’s such a freeing experience to have a stadium full of people connect to the same things that I do.
I think that’s why music is so important to me because for all those moments where I was living my life with a song playing in the background—I think I remember them so well because the song was playing. The truth is, there’s countless times when a song was playing and I don’t remember it, but music offers just a little snippet of a shared experience, and sometimes my individual experience is amplified by the fact that someone today, or 10, 20, 30 years ago could relate to the same feelings as me. There’s nothing profound to me about the Tennessee Bird Walk, except that it was a silly song that my father played for me to make me laugh. And as I pan through my internal rolodex of life memories, these are the ones that stand out. These little moments of meaning.
There are lots of reasons I make mix tapes with the biggest one being that I simply like to, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t sit in my car before a long drive and thumb through my options, thinking What feels right today?
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