Sunday, September 11, 2011

Everyone, on the count of three

It's a ridiculous but common thing to think, that a love of music makes one anymore special than another.

Everyone needs music to feel sane. Everyone hums to themselves in a moment of nervous silence. It's that magic of it that makes everyone feel special, but what is the most beautiful about it.

It's the feeling that you get in your gut when you hear your favorite song. The feeling of everything settling at the first sound of violins in Jesus, Etc or Cat Steven's voice in The Wind, or Conor Oberst screaming, "let's fuck it up boys, make some noise!" in Road to Joy and you scream along as you drive your car. It's playing Blackbird on your guitar and the wonder of being able to create beauty. It's listening to something brand new and wanting to jump out of your skin, you love it so much. It's hearing a verse and thinking, holy shit, if this isn't my life. It's not being able to get a lyric out of your head and scribbling it all over everything you own for days. It's going to a concert of your favorite band and then jumping for joy when its over just because you were there and you felt the energy and it will continue to make you high for hours. It's being happy for no reason other than a song you love just came on the radio and you didn't even know how much you needed to hear it. It's meeting someone who loves a band, a musician, a song, just as much as you and sharing that even for a moment.

When people try to separate themselves by proclaiming that no one feels music like they do, that they need it to breathe as if no one else does too, they're entirely missing the point. Music is togetherness. Even listening to a record alone in your room in a time of melancholy is a bond with that artist, with anyone who's ever played that song and ever will. Music is for remembering and soothing and the past and the future and for friends and lovers and joy and sorrow and pain and in every moment of every life, a connection.