{"id":3112,"date":"2025-04-23T22:00:08","date_gmt":"2025-04-23T22:00:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wers.org\/wecb\/milkcrate\/2025-4-22-the-soundtrack-of-my-life\/"},"modified":"2025-04-23T22:00:08","modified_gmt":"2025-04-23T22:00:08","slug":"2025-4-22-the-soundtrack-of-my-life","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/orgs.emerson.edu\/wecb\/milkcrate\/2025-4-22-the-soundtrack-of-my-life\/","title":{"rendered":"The Soundtrack of My Life"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Graphic by Charlie Desjardins<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n

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By Charlie Desjardins<\/h1>\n

I\u2019m 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\u2014the 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 \u201csoundtrack of my life.\u201d<\/p>\n

Help me, please.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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(A total idiot, photographed by himself.)<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n

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I first encountered this hellish exercise during sophomore year of high school\u2014back when Chamber Choir instructors could give out homework and blame it on \u201chybrid learning.\u201d Make a video essay about The Temptations! Learn a love song and sing it to me! Record every voice in the choir singing \u2018Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer\u2019 and stitch them together! <\/em><\/p>\n

And then\u2026 Pick the ten songs that define your humanity and tell me why! <\/em><\/p>\n

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 \u201cdefine my humanity\u201d? My motherfucking humanity? I thought this was supposed to be busy work\u2014not a deeply personal journey of self-discovery and psychological torment! If I wanted that, I\u2019d have taken AP Bio instead!<\/p>\n

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\u2019m 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. <\/p>\n

How do you boil sixteen years of livin\u2019 into fifty minutes of hearin\u2019? 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\u2019ve 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<\/em> theme? Do you pick songs you heard live, or songs exclusively heard via vinyl on a broken record player?<\/p>\n

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:<\/p>\n

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(in no particular order)<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cMisunderstanding\u201d by Genesis<\/p>\n

\u201cOb-La-Di, Ob-La-Da\u201d by The Beatles<\/p>\n

\u201cWould?\u201d by Alice in Chains<\/p>\n

\u201cLanded\u201d by Ben Folds<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Entertainer\u201d by Billy Joel<\/p>\n

\u201cCadillac Ranch\u201d by Bruce Springsteen<\/p>\n

\u201cEl Scorcho\u201d by Weezer<\/p>\n

\u201cAmish Paradise\u201d by \u201cWeird Al\u201d Yankovic<\/p>\n

\u201cMessage in a Bottle\u201d by The Police<\/p>\n

\u201cSubdivisions\u201d by Rush<\/p>\n

\n

Looking back, I have many issues (this is neither the first nor last time I\u2019ll say this sentence). Who was I to define my life at sixteen when I could hardly drive a car yet? I\u2019m far better-suited to embark on this journey today\u2014especially after four years of maddening thought and nightmares\u2014and adopting a set of stricter guidelines has made everything so much smoother. They are, as printed below:<\/p>\n

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  1. \n

    Do I enjoy listening to the song right now?<\/em><\/p>\n<\/li>\n

  2. \n

    Can I connect the song to important life moments or memories?<\/em><\/p>\n<\/li>\n

  3. \n

    Would I feel comfortable having this song\u2019s lyrics printed on my gravestone?<\/em><\/p>\n<\/li>\n

  4. \n

    Could I explain this song\u2019s importance to a date without scaring her off?<\/em><\/p>\n<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

    As a wise man (myself) once said (I wrote this in my Notes<\/em> app while high): \u201cFear is the flower of knowing.\u201d I\u2019m terrified of what may unfold over the next hour, but I\u2019ll be fine as long as I know how stupid this all is.<\/p>\n

    Time starts\u2026 NOW!<\/p>\n

    \n

    (in no particular order)<\/em><\/p>\n

    SONG ONE: \u201cMessage in a Bottle\u201d by The Police<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    Let\u2019s begin with this list\u2019s only repeat. I\u2019ve been telling people for years that \u201cMessage in a Bottle\u201d is my favorite song, and there\u2019s about a million good reasons for that. The Police\u2019s three-pronged brilliance is practically unmatched in human history (save for the Pierce-Garnett-Allen Celtics), and \u201cMessage in a Bottle\u201d 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 \u201cMessage in a Bottle,\u201d like with all great rockers, lies in its laughably effortless flow\u2014a 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 \u201csending out an SOS\u201d refrain with an electric reggae joy so infectious it transcends all notions of effort. It\u2019s an example of a perfect song, and in a world with so little perfection, I feel as though I need to celebrate that.<\/p>\n

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    \n

    SONG TWO: \u201cTunnel of Love\u201d by Bruce Springsteen<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    I\u2019m 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<\/em> stunner \u201cBrilliant Disguise\u201d here, and the same goes for \u201cGlory Days,\u201d \u201cI\u2019m on Fire,\u201d \u201cCover Me,\u201d \u201cThe River,\u201d \u201cBadlands,\u201d and \u201cAtlantic City\u201d (the best song he\u2019s ever written). Why did I pick this one? \u201cTunnel of Love\u201d 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! <\/p>\n

    \u201cTunnel of Love\u2019s\u201d musings on heartbroken funhouses double as a metaphor for Springsteen\u2019s 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\u2019s probably the most claustrophobic song he ever dared to record, and it\u2019s dark heart is life-changingly depressing if you ignore all the bells and whistles. <\/p>\n

    The great part? There\u2019s a whole lot of bells and whistles. All break-ups should be accompanied by Nils Lofgren ripping brilliant guitar solos.<\/p>\n

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    SONG THREE: \u201cDog\u201d by Ben Folds<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    Where did this song come from, and why isn\u2019t 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\u2019s music, it wasn\u2019t 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\u2019t develop crippling anxiety and depression, I might even say those two years were worth it! I\u2019ve picked \u201cDog\u201d 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\u2019s \u201cBeautiful Things\u201d and we\u2019d all sleep a little better at night.<\/p>\n

    \n

    SONG FOUR: \u201cCome Dancing\u201d by The Kinks<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    Growing up, we listened to two CD\u2019s in my dad\u2019s car and two CD\u2019s only: Genesis\u2019 Turn It On Again: The Hits<\/em> and The Kinks\u2019 Come Dancing with The Kinks: The Best of 1977-1986<\/em>. I picked Genesis\u2019 \u201cMisunderstanding\u201d on the first iteration of this list, but a truly sickening case of overplay has sent me running into The Kinks\u2019 loving arms. With a classical sensibility fitting for both royalty and footloose teenagers, \u201cCome Dancing\u201d is the Davies brothers (the bastard children of the British Invasion) paying tribute to their late sister over a stunning bed of sunshine. <\/p>\n

    Rarely has pop music reached such piercing, authentic heights. <\/p>\n

    To this day, whenever somebody asks what makes me happy, I point them to the big band breakdown at this song\u2019s tail-end and watch intently to see if they like it as much as I do. Maybe I\u2019m cheesy. Maybe I like feeling gooey. Sue me. If nostalgia is old people attempting to replicate their idealized pasts, \u201cCome Dancing\u201d is that past\u2014only this time, it actually exists.<\/p>\n

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    SONG FIVE: \u201cSecond Hand News\u201d by Fleetwood Mac<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    What\u2019s your greatest accomplishment? Mine is seeing Fleetwood Mac\u2019s original lineup in concert, jolly and unscathed. As America\u2019s most acrimonious mainstay, the Mac\u2019s music has soundtracked a fair share of drama in my lifetime as well, growing to define my family\u2019s tense relationships with each other and the most jarring friend-breakup of my (or anybody else\u2019s) lifetime. Nowadays, I keep a copy of Rumours<\/em> on my dorm room wall to signify just how petty and emotional my friend group is, and I\u2019m thinking about leaving it there for the new tenants next semester. The two rules I\u2019ve learned about life: it\u2019s necessary to have an imperfect band that echoes our own imperfections, and it\u2019s equally necessary to have Lindsay Buckingham write kick-ass soft rock jams. <\/p>\n

    This one, the plucky \u201cSecond Hand News,\u201d has always been my favorite, and if you listen close enough you can literally hear Buckingham\u2019s spittle flying at Stevie Nicks (the third best singer\u2014fight me\u2014in this version of Fleetwood Mac). Honorable mentions go to any song human angel Christine McVie has ever sung.<\/p>\n

    \n

    SONG SIX: \u201cHappy Hour\u201d by The Housemartins<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    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\u2019s martial arts studio on Friday evenings, my dad would turn on 92.5 The River and \u201cHappy Hour\u201d would play at the top of the 5 PM hour like clockwork\u2014an 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 \u201chappy hour\u201d was or why the singer was hyped for the barmaid being \u201ca she,\u201d but I knew I liked the way those guitars jangled. It\u2019s tight, catchy, and light as air\u2014an ideal single really, and probably the thing that caused me to fall in love with radio\u2019s intoxicating randomness. Nowadays I\u2019m equally bad at karate, but I can finally do jumping jacks without farting, and I\u2019ve secured an internship at The River this summer. The circle has finally closed itself.<\/p>\n

    \n

    SONG SEVEN: \u201cTicket to Ride\u201d by The Beatles<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    Songs are like people: there\u2019s 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\u2019 1<\/em> greatest hits album. <\/p>\n

    I don\u2019t know where I would be if she never bought me that CD, and I don\u2019t really want to think about it. <\/p>\n

    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 \u201cShe Came in Through the Bathroom Window?\u201d 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\u2019d be happy if \u201cTicket to Ride,\u201d my favorite song on that immortal 1<\/em> CD, played as I was falling. Then, awaking in whatever afterlife I find myself in, I\u2019d have to give my Knee-Knee a big bearhug and thank her for the music.<\/p>\n

    \n

    SONG EIGHT: \u201cLate in the Evening\u201d by Paul Simon<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    I remember it like it was thirteen years ago\u2014which it, of course, was. I was sitting in my dad\u2019s car on a rainy Lowell afternoon, soccer jersey stained green and orange cleats stained brown, when Steve Gadd\u2019s opening Mozambique drum fill corrupted me forever. Maybe this isn\u2019t true, and maybe I\u2019m just grafting my own memories onto a heroic origin story. Regardless, I\u2019ve been a drummer for a very long time, and I\u2019ve 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.<\/p>\n

    Also\u2014shoutout to the legend Paul Simon, and shoutout to songs about guitarists smoking J\u2019s outside clubs and then proceeding to blow people\u2019s faces off.<\/p>\n

    \n

    SONG NINE: \u201cYou Might Think\u201d by The Cars<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    BOSTON REPRESENT! I\u2019m so glad one of our city\u2019s 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\u2019 MTV-shaded opus Heartbeat City<\/em>, finds the group in unabashed love mode, begging a real shitty-sounding woman to take them\u2014even though she\u2019s essentially making fun of us over and over again. For students at Emerson College, this is a tale as old as time!<\/p>\n

    I think I first heard the Weezer cover of this song on the Cars 2<\/em> 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\u2019s more to life than Weezer. I can\u2019t point to \u201cYou Might Think\u201d as representing a specific moment in my life, but rather a collection of moments\u2014the silly crushes, the sillier relationships, the moments of stupidity and rejection. It\u2019s an uncool song that knows how uncool it is, and that\u2019s a lesson we all need to learn if we ever want to mature.<\/p>\n

    \n

    SONG TEN: \u201cBaby Can I Hold You\u201d by Tracy Chapman<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    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. <\/p>\n

    Since I can recall, I\u2019ve had these strange, pink memories of being swaddled in a blanket and rolled away on some wheelchair. I know it\u2019s impossible to remember your own birth, and while I certainly don\u2019t, 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\u2019ll eventually be able to watch memories in a large IMAX theater someday.<\/p>\n

    This song is for my mom\u2014the human that birthed me, and a big fan of Tracy Chapman. I think I\u2019m slowly becoming more of a mama\u2019s boy as I get older, and I can\u2019t wait for her to read this and text me something backhanded like \u201cI always knew you liked me!\u201d As for my dad\u2014he\u2019s cold as ice, so I associate him less with music and more with the sterile clattering of a train on a steel rail.<\/p>\n

    (I hope he realizes this is a joke. I need to stay on the family insurance plan as long as possible.)<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    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 \u201csoundtrack of my 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