I’m really lucky to have found one of my best friends at the time I did. I had a flirtation/obsession with this groan-worthy thing called music blogging for a reasonably long stretch of time (and I still dabble. Rarely). Basically I would rattle off a few paragraphs about whatever band had my attention and go to shows a few times a week and was constantly sleep deprived. But it just all made me feel really really alive. In that time, I was writing a lot of live reviews but I mean everyone knows people don’t want to read about concerts. They want to look at sweaty lead singers and guitar players in tight pants. Maybe just me?
Anyway, I made this friend because I walked up to her at a concert and basically asked if I could steal her photos. She obliged, and really quickly I realized I found someone pretty special. Not only is she literally the most talented music photographer I’ve seen, but she’s hilarious and impossibly sweet and balances out my negativity with the sort of optimism normally I’d make fun of. I’m a lucky chick and found someone who makes my life better and ALSO matches me musically. Well, almost. I don’t get why everyone loves Radiohead, I just don’t.
What I’m getting at is that my favorite friendship is centered around music, and it got me thinking about how my most notable relationships revolve around the same thing. For instance: My first love and I bonded over a mutual love of Dashboard Confessional and the first time I saw Ben Gibbard perform was with him. Embarrassing for both of us looking back, I’m sure. I was deep cleaning my apartment this last weekend and found a mix CD “the one who got away” made for me 7 years ago. Yeah, I don’t own a CD player anymore and the disc itself is probably too scratched to shit to play anyway, but remembering him singing those songs to me in his car as we drove to Olympia to meet his parents left me in the fetal position for a god 15 minutes on Saturday. Yes, even after all these years. I can blame it on feeling dizzy from the cleaning flumes okay! On the other end of the music compatibility spectrum I once knew it wouldn’t work out with a guy because he didn’t understand why “I Want to Know Your Plans” was a better love song than “I Will Follow You Into the Dark.” Like, dude. I love Gibbard but c’mon.
Ready for a cliché? I just made it up, but I’m just about positive that someone wearing too much black eyeliner has probably said it on Tumblr.
I don’t want my life to play out like a romantic comedy because the only part of movies I seem to like anymore are the soundtracks. I want to punctuate my monumental and my momentary everyday moments with a melody sung by someone like the aforementioned Mr. Ben Gibbard and I’ll never apologize for that. I guess I really like the idea of a soundtrack to a love story, and just because Cameron Crowe isn’t directing my life doesn’t mean I don’t deserve Tom Petty playing in the background while playing it so uncool with a handsome dude that I met on Tinder obviously. Most romantic.
Wanna hear an embarrassing story about my love affair with music? READ ON. When I saw The Postal Service live for the second time, it was the summer of 2013 and I had a complete and total meltdown. I’d seen them 2 months earlier at Heaven’s Amphitheater and happily and thoroughly danced my ass off through their set. YAY FESTIVAL BEERS. It was a decade in the making since I’d fallen in love with this imaginary band through my high school boyfriend’s speakers (Dashboard Confessional guy is responsible for A LOT of my music taste today…), and man hearing “Clark Gable” under the Gorge’s stars made me feel 16 all over again.
I wasn’t expecting the second Postal Service show I attended that summer to smack me sideways, but as Gibbard and Jimmy and Jenny made their way through the night I couldn’t keep it together. That band that night made me realize that these moments, these real important music moments, these moments are the things I want to share with someone. Albeit the right person. As I left Key Arena that evening with two of my favorite fellow music gals, including the one I started this post writing about, I cried. IN PUBLIC. Guys, that never happens. I prefer to cry alone in my apartment while watching Jennifer Lopez movies like any other normal person. But back to my story: I cried, nay, SOBBED, because it occurred to me that I’d never get to share that important music moment in my life with a man I love, and it made me impossibly sad.
I have a rule: never give a shitty guy a great song. Anyone who’s ever made a mixtape knows that I mean – once you assign a song to someone you’re involved with romantically, you’ll never really get it back. “Call It Off” “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” “Nicest Thing” “A Bite Out Of My Bed” “Green Eyes” “Something” – this is a snapshot of the elephant graveyard living within my iTunes library. These are songs I assigned to former lovers that I’ll never get back, not all the way at least.
So thus my rule: I try to avoid getting my men and my music tangled unless they’re really deserving. How pissed would I be if I lost another amazing song to a man that lasted barely longer in my life than the track itself runs?
I used to be a music blogger. My life doesn’t revolve around reverb and finding a new favorite band every single week anymore. That being said music is still probably the biggest part of my person. Other than wine and rent it’s also what I spend the most money on in any given month. When I think about dating now, I think about music. I want moments with men to intersect with good music as often as possible, but I stand by my original policy: don’t give a shitty guy a great song. I just wouldn’t mind meeting a decent dude who appreciates a well written chorus.
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