That’s the epiphany of the week. I had this idea that I would make a mix or two of my favorite songs of all time. I started arranging them on my laptop, playing them as I went along.
Huh, I thought. Some of these are a little upsetting. I guess that’s okay.
I plowed through a few more and started to feel a bit tired. This was perhaps going to be less of a fun project than I had originally presumed. After a few stretches and sips of coffee, I was glancing around me for a distraction. Every damn song that fired away at me was making me feel just a little more terrible. It was like a rainbow of hideous emotions.
I’m not a person that listens to music around the clock. This is probably why. It’s goddamn overwhelming.
At this point, I tried to redirect myself to some of my favorite old rockabilly songs. Maybe Fats Domino or Buddy Holly could help me out?
Turns out that trying to follow up all that emotion with some jolliness is an absurdity. At this point, you’ve pretty much fucked yourself. It’s like hearing that the dog died and then saying, but hey, no big. Let’s all put on some party hats and maybe eat some popsicles! No. Not going to work.
Apparently, if you write a song about having the worst possible life, I will immediately love it and then hope never ever to hear it again. I’m not sure that psychological terror should be a prerequisite to me embracing a song, but I guess that there is something to be said for being aware.
I started pulling songs off of the playlist. No, Tegan and Sara. No more. Remove Amy Winehouse, remove The Gits. “Jealous Guy?” Not on my watch, Mr. Lennon. Cat Stevens and Jim Croce, take your soulfulness elsewhere.
The list was essentially now pared down to just George Harrison singing, “My Sweet Lord.” I’m not even religious. I hit repeat. Welcome to my playlist of non-depressing favorite songs of all time. It’s apparently just this one.