We used to talk about how if only we could have a soundtrack to our lives. Like in movies, when something romantic happens, a beautiful melody of love would suddenly queue up and set the mood. Or if something silly happens, there would be a “zoing” sound followed by “womp womp”. We used to imagine if we could orchestrate a soundtrack to our life, playing appropriate tones with little bubbles of notes hovering by our heads, signaling when an interesting scene was about to take place. We would laugh so hard.
Music brought so much joy and sound to color our lives. It has such a mysterious emotional attachment. When you left, I could not listen to any music. It was so painful to hear any kind of music. Especially songs that we once shared together (which was a lot) would tear at my heart as a memory of us jamming to it while getting fancied up to go out. Or how you fiddled with the radio while driving, which terrified me. Or how often we would just share songs we enjoyed and listen to them separately, adding independent commentary.
For many months, I avoided music. Staying alone, I preferred silence, reflecting the stoicism that I felt. Music just hurt too much. Songs would trigger uncontrollable emotions in me and cause a breakdown. Sitting in a restaurant once, it had the most amazing mix of older radio hit songs. Song after song of our favorites made me smile, yet tears would stream down my face. I wanted to listen to them, but I couldn’t because it was painful. I stopped listening to music. Pandora, Spotify, YouTube faded away from my apps. Dust coated my electric piano. A world without you meant the soundtrack of my life was at a heavy silence.
We shared so many favorite songs and artists, so at least I do have that google doc we put together. Another saving grace is that you already drafted a wedding playlist for me (we were so forward thinking!). You loved music — I wish I had your extensive playlists: your Cleaning playlist, your Breakup playlist, your Road Trip playlist. You were the best at putting together playlists, as if you were designing the soundtrack for our lives. I’m not that into pop music, but you were, and all my concert experiences were with you. From Lady Antebellum at the Rodeo to David Guetta at Fling to John Legend at Gutmann’s Party. There should have been so many more concerts.
I like to believe that you sent the first song to me, trying to help me out of the silence. The first full song that I finally made it through was Carrie Underwood’s Cry Pretty. It was so unbelievably accurate that I didn’t even realize I was coming out of my music-less reverie. I cried through the entire song. I cried through her lyrics. I cried through our Carrie Underwood memories. Music made me cry and true to that song, there is no way to cry pretty. Listening to her music again was a painful cure of facing these emotions. It was a reminder of how we shared so many of her songs; she is one of my favorite artists. I convinced you to go to her concert at MSG with me. You were not as enthused, but I’m forever glad you went with me.
I think what truly jarred me out of this music-less sadness was Taylor Swift’s new Reputation album. It was already out before you died, but we weren’t really listening to her songs. I remember one of our conversations were about how strange the music videos were, and how edgy she’s gotten. Her music didn’t fit our groove then. We didn’t get too many chances to listen to her new songs together after that. But when the album became available on Netflix, I decided to give it another chance and listened to it. It hurt a lot, being forced to accept that there is a new TSwift album that you and I won’t enjoy together. It hit me hard — how she could still make new songs even though we won’t be listening to them on loop. It was a surreal realization that, out there, the music world continues to move on. It was the painful truth. No matter how strong the memories of TSwift are associated with our friendship and all our impromptu karaoke sessions, she’s going to continue making new albums. Our memories don’t matter in the world of music. They are memories that I have to hold on to myself. Every old song made me cry, reliving our impressions or emotions. Every new song made me cry, longing to share and get your opinion. If only there was a way to stop all these artists from making new songs. It didn’t seem fair that they could continue to make music when you weren’t here to enjoy them.
Remember how when I was in Hong Kong, I got hooked on watching American Idol for the first time and had you vote for me since it was during US hours and I couldn’t? My pop music experience is intertwined with memories of our friendship. The various road trips that we took, singing to our favorite songs while driving. The karaoke parties we went to, laughing at ourselves. Our college experience is partially defined by the era of music we listened to, music that we would play on repeat (Let It Go, Trouble Trouble…). I introduced Chinese songs; we danced to Luis Fonsi. Our friendship consisted of an era of songs that are stuck in a certain time period. Like you. You are also forever stuck in an era in the past, where, even if I tried to stay in a soundtrack of silence, the outside world continues to carry on, and with each new album, it’s another step further away from memories with you. Even Avril Lavigne came back and made a new album (?!).
One of the last songs that you shared with me, was Thomas Rhett’s Marry Me. It’s a beautiful song, made all the more beautiful because I knew how it related to the way you were feeling, with lost romance, in a nostalgic way. I always remember the first time I listened to it, after you sent it to me. I was standing at my dresser, watching the YouTube video on my laptop, looking up the lyrics and messaging you after the song finished. It was a good song and resonated well with the way you were feeling. Sometimes we communicated that way — using songs to better express how we felt. Other people’s music and lyrics could be just right in capturing our fickle emotions.
It’s so sad that, since u been gone, I discover this, like many things, that music is another aspect that stays stagnant. You will never hear another top 40 song. You will never rock to another Luke Bryan song. Our friendship buzzed to pop culture music during the short span of a few years. I have gradually started to listen to music again. The irony of music therapy: I feel like I’m trying to recover from the pain of music, rather than music helping me recover from pain. I have to somehow figure out what the new cool songs are, without your usual up-to-date recommendations. New songs and new artists with limited association to our memories are easier. Yet I must hold back the instinct to share a song with you. Or perhaps I still send you the song and bear the pain of seeing the message unread. Old songs, I’m learning to listen to again without the tears. After all, they are good songs.
Life deserves to have music playing — whether a leading melody or the background beat, I know that I have to let the lyrics back in. Meanwhile, hopefully you are listening elsewhere and occasionally directing the next track to play in my life.
