Why I Listen to Sad Sad Songs
The late 90s and early 00s were very good to me. My best friend found an Internet radio where he could listen to Casey Kasem’s Top 40. Getting pure, undistilled American music recommendations in Latin America in the 90s was a huge feat in and of itself. I remember calling into local radio shows to ask for Tonic’s “If You Could Only See,” even though I owned the CD, just to have DJs tell me that it wasn’t “that kind of show.”
What kind of show would that be then, Juan Fernando? What kind?
We had a small but rather tight group of friends in college back then. We’d spend most of our time at school, or in my car, driving back to my place 30 minutes away to get some Ocarina of Time time.
It was in this particular car that every day my best friend would show me some of the new bands he’d found. These were the LimeWire days. A few months after Metallica had huffed and puffed and taken Napster off the grid.
The music he found was astonishing. These new bands were like grabbing Tonic, taking their anti-depressants away, and covering them in nail polish and guyliner.
He discovered the Goo Goo Dolls, brought to me the greatness that was Matchbox Twenty, and we reveled in Barenaked Ladies’ “One Week” for years.
I’ve heard that the music you listen to as a young person stays with you forever and it makes sense. I’ve seen it first hand. I could be drunk off my ass, but if Iris starts playing, I know all the damn words.
There’s a special kind of healing energy in music, and I believe everyone is attuned to a specific type. What is this type? It only depends on how it makes you feel.
For me, it’s always been sad songs.
I remember singing Yellowcard’s “Only One” in the car on the way to drop off my girlfriend at the time at her house, and thinking “I could do this all day.”
The singing, not the girlfriend.
There is just something about belting out a sad song that tickles my bloodstream.
The Mehagoesverguenfest Playlist
Back in that day, we were still using tapes. Making one was a tedious process, but one that I did with love.
Find a song. Download it. Properly edit the metadata so that WinAmp wouldn’t fuck up the titles. Burning it to a CD in a format that would play in my car (usually took a couple of tries to get it right).
Remove CD from tray, realize Windows had crashed, throw CD in bin. Realize you hadn’t saved the CD burning project. Restart and try again.
If I could fit 16 songs on a CD, I considered myself super lucky. After a few somewhat successful mixtapes, I created my opus maximus: A CD called Mehagoesverguenfest.
I can’t really explain the name. It’s like a three-level portmanteau in Spanish. But if I were to translate it to English these days it would probably be a simple “FUCKMEUPFest.” It was bad. In the sense that it was good and painful and cathartic.
I got drunk to that CD more times than I’m comfortable admitting. And I probably threw in more Lifehouse than was necessary.
I’ve re-created the playlist on Spotify. And sinceI’m no longer constrained by 650 Mb of storage, I went a little overboard.
Fortunately, people apparently kept making music after the 90s.
Don’t tell that to your uncle who thinks good music stopped at Pink Floyd though. They break out in hives if you even mention Ariana Grande.
So while the original Mehagoesverguenfest remains, I’ve created more playlists to accommodate the different states of mind of my life. Because music evolves, just as one is supposed to. But as long as it’s sad, you bet your tiny violins I’ll be there listening to it.
Science, Bitch
Recent studies have been conducted to try and understand why people love sad music. And when I say people, I mean they totally did this study for me and my benefit.
One of the theories they came up with, and my personal favorite is that music releases dopamine, the neurotransmitter associated with food, sex, and drugs. You know. The fun stuff.
But there’s also a belief that it releases prolactin. A neurotransmitter associated with grief. So essentially your body gets all dressed up for a funeral but then realizes it’s been canceled.
Fun science stuff.
I think for me the answer is a lot less scientific.
The Errant Knight
You looked like you’d been softened. Like you never really loved the pain.
- “Barricade” by Stars
I’ve been a softboy for most of my life. I have no problem admitting it. I’ve written sonnets and poems and drawn more pictures for people I liked than I can count.
And I’ve written songs. God, so many songs. Sometimes they’d even start with one person, be shelved, and then someone else would come in to replace the lost muse (lost…fired…what’s the difference?). The point of the song was to feel something. Anything.
I’ve always thought of myself as a “journey” and not a destination. I’m the person who leaves before people notice my impossible defects and annoying faults. One eye is droopier than the other, man. And it’s only gonna get worse with age.
So that is why I turn to sad songs. For preparation. To fight that battle before it’s even begun.
One of my favorite songs these days is Whispering Still by Charity Children, which I’ve probably mentioned on this blog about — oh — 150 times. The chorus has a line that says “I close my eyes and go.”
Cause when it’s time to make decisions, that’s usually what I’ll do.
Sad songs prepare me for the bad places in life. They soften the blow. Because I’ve seen it before. Because I’ve sung this song before.
Bad places are what makes me grow.
The songs I listen to are just what I use to prevent stretch marks.
