How does one accurately describe their relationship with music in specific terms so that others can and will understand them?

Imagine you're gathered at a dinner table with your family.  It's you, your mother, your father, and your siblings (if you have any), and each one of you has brought a guest in the form of their favorite musician.  Who would be there?  Who would be yet should not have been excluded?  Whose friend is going to garner the most ridicule from the other members of the family?

This was not an easy project to accomplish in many ways.  Discussing subjectivity and art already puts me upon somewhat of a slippery slope, but music is the ultimate art form because everybody listens to music.  This exploration of music and its power to invoke palpable feelings of nostalgia and transcendence in everyday life is admittedly a difficult subject about which one can wax philosophical.  The following essays are unapologetically self-aware and opinionated in terms of how music has influenced several moments that fall within my extensive travel experience.  In the following pages I wholeheartedly attempt to explain how music has enhanced and/or framed my own emotional perspective while driving along certain roads found within America’s system of highways and byways – and in doing so I have compiled playlists that correspond to certain roads. I have come to the realization that anyone who may come upon and/or read this collection may not share the same feelings I articulate in said essays—and that’s totally OK.  So, to that effect, there are a few things I would like to make clear.

First of all, It is not my goal to make you like the same music that I do.  Though the possibility of you becoming enchanted by the pulsing beauty of Boards of Canada or being swept away by Sufjan Stevens’ site-specific folk pop is encouraged, to prescribe it would be incredibly presumptuous and arrogant. Instead, what I have tried to lay out is more or less a template for readers to build upon.  This project was compiled in early 2013, and for obvious reasons the playlists that follow – in conjunction with the accompanying essays – have probable cause to evolve as new music continues to morph and reconfigure itself as time goes by.  Though I feel the broader audience I am trying to reach with this project will, for the most part, at least try to establish some sort of connection with the music I have recommended here, there is definitely a percentage that must be taken into account; one that is completely unaware of said music, as most of it shies away from the mainstream public eye .  It may be difficult for this percentage of readers to connect with such pieces due to lack of awareness and/or possible disinterest.  This is something that cannot be avoided but should ultimately be addressed.

Like many young artists, I developed my specific tastes and preferences early on.

Subjectivity is quite an anomaly.  Within the realm of common discourse, it has the ability to make or break a cognitive argument.  Such emphasis on opinion has swayed many important legal decisions, yet at the same time commands superficial governance when it comes to trivial matters such as what restaurant to eat at or the role of Free Parking when playing Monopoly®. Personal opinion is very fickle.  It can be a wonderful way to start a healthy, stimulating discourse.  But on the other hand, it can be terribly ugly, verging on talk that can escalate into hostility.  In this “Age of Information” that we apparently live in these days, everybody’s got something to say.  Even when it comes to the seemingly inconsequential matters of everyday life—like Internet cat videos, for instance—EVERYBODY has something to say.  Most comments pertaining to such things are pretty run of the mill: “yayyyy”, “super cute!” “wheeee kitty!”.  Yet there’s always some asshole that says something like: “who the fuck cares? It’s just a cat swatting at some snow peas.  Get a life!”  In regard to cat videos, it is hard to believe that anyone really pays attention to what the one naysayer has to say, but when it comes to music – an artform that has proved to be one of the most powerful forms of human expression for centuries – these kinds of opinions resonate pretty dramatically.

Have you ever seen a movie right after it came out, just because you were super curious and excited?  I’m guessing you have. Now let me ask you this…have you done that, and then read a review of that same movie that totally pans it as a failure?  I’m going to go out on a limb and say that that has happened to you too.  That happened to me recently…I went to see Baz Luhrmann’s adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s iconic novel The Great Gatsby.  I went before reading any reviews or anything, and honestly, I enjoyed it.  I really dig Luhrmann’s over-the-top, theatrical style (as exhibited in 1996’s Romeo + Juliet and his Oscar-nominated masterpiece Moulin Rouge!), and Gatsby did not disappoint in that effect.  Personally, I think the story may have been overshadowed by the radical approaches Luhrmann took with the art direction, but all in all, it was a solid film backed up by solid performances by the main actors and a screenplay that more or less stayed true to the original story.  After seeing it, however, I read a few reviews that basically trivialized any and all enjoyment I experienced while watching the film.  I felt cheap.  I felt stupid.  Why did I like this movie so much when so-called “professionals” hated it?  Was I just super dense?  Or did these critics just have something to prove?

There’s no real answer to that question, because it all boils down to subjectivity.  Yeah, some snarky dude at the AV Club is going to give this movie a C+ because he’s paid to do so.  He is paid to write 500 words or so in response to this particular film.  That’s his job.  He’s paid to be witty and aloof, and if the film is imperfect, he can rely on some mildly foul distaste he experienced during certain parts to form a crinkly foundation of an argument.  Music critics are allowed the same kind of unfair freedom.  Pitchfork reviewed the soundtrack of Gatsby, giving it a 4 out of 10, citing inconsistency/lack of cohesion with the film as its major downfalls, yet the reviewer went above and beyond that, actually insulting some of the contributing artists, calling Florence Welch of Florence +the Machine “dreadful” while belittling Jack White’s incredible cover of U2’s “Love is Blindness”, calling it “excruciatingly overwrought.”  As mean (and in my opinion, completely unfair) as that is, that is how the reviewer saw the album, and frankly it is her job to ‘inform’ the masses of her opinion, no doubt swaying countless decisions as to whether or not to purchase download whatever album she is writing about. Now it’s no secret that a certain degree of capriciousness comes with the territory of being a critic—as somebody who has reviewed several albums and live shows myself I can say this with some sense of experience—and to be respected as a critic, one must not be afraid of saying that something sucks. This is probably why I haven’t been invited to the secret coalition of music critics: because I refuse to say that something is bad.

There are few musicians that I actually dislike.  I’m not into modern mainstream pop (though I do like Lady Gaga) and I don’t really do country or rap/hip-hop, though I will admit I gave juvenile country-pop icon Taylor Swift’s Red a shot, and I like the first song… but that’s about it.  I also think rapper Kanye West is an amazing producer, but at the same time he’s a really shitty rapper and lyricist (and he’s pompous as fuck, but that’s beside the point).  I also kind of can’t stand Journey (except for a few songs), and I absolutely cringe at the sound of Phil Collins’s voice.  But that’s pretty much it.  I pretty much dig everything else.  However, if I was given an assignment to review one of these albums, I don’t know if I would be able to do it fairly due to the fact that I find that kind of music distasteful.

Me acting out how I feel about Phil Collins...(obviously)

I’ll listen to pretty much anything at least once, and if I listen to something enough times, chances are I’m going to grow to like it.  For example: French electro/house duo Daft Punk’s new album Random Access Memories came out this past May, and it’s basically amazing.  However, there is this one song called “Touch” that is totally weird and kind of sounds like a deleted track from the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack.  More often than not I skip the song, but it’s started to grow on me actually.  It may be because I am a theatre geek at heart, or it may be because I’ve heard it like 94508209485 times, but now I kind of like it, and I almost hated it at first.

...and then making sure everyone knows how much I hate him (even more obvious).

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that it’s kind of a task for me to find something I really, actually dislike.  The last thing I can consciously remember being outwardly averse to (besides Kanye West) was M.I.A.’s 2010 album MAYA, which in my opinion was a garbled, self-gratifying mess.  Still, that was years ago, and I didn’t even write a bad review of that (though I should have).

As a former music “journalist”—I put that in quotes because I don’t know if I can really categorize myself as such, for many reasons—I find myself disheartened more and more each day.  It’s gotten to the point that I hate reading album reviews.  I find that most of the reviews I read are terribly unfounded and incoherent, and those who actually attempt to make an argument lose themselves in their own pretension.  I can’t tell you how many of my favorite albums have been basically panned by their reviewers, and perhaps if I hadn’t heard of such artists or groups beforehand, I would be deterred from listening to their albums due to bad reviews.  This is problematic on many levels.  First of all, the reviewer often assumes that they know what’s best and that their word is for the most part absolute truth and approaching these pieces in such an aggressive manner inspires feelings of inaptitude and inferiority within the reader.  Such blatant subjectivity can also be damaging to the well-being of the artist or group in question, as a sub-par review can hinder album and ticket sales.  And this is all based on one person’s opinion.

When I review pieces, I try to take a non-violent approach, highlighting personal high points while at the same time praising the artist or group in whatever respect(s) they have succeeded in.  Yes, there may be instances within the piece I am reviewing that are dissonant to me, or those that may not work for me personally, but I don’t find this as an opportunity to attack or belittle.  I have no trouble stating my own personal friction with such occurrences, though at the same time I cannot discredit them as unfounded or ill-advised, because for all I know, those parts that rub me the wrong way may be someone else’s favorite parts.  It’s terribly discouraging to read a bad review of an album you love.  It makes you feel stupid, insignificant.  That’s the kind of subjectivity that I find damaging, and hopefully it’s the kind that is to be avoided in this collection of essays.

Perhaps the greatest thing about music is that everyone reacts differently to it.  When it comes to live music it’s a little different; at a show there is more or less a sense of community, of comrardery.  Knowing that all the people around you are in the same place as you for the same reason is noticeably comforting and powerful.  Yeah, there are kids in Brooklyn who go to shows just so that they can say that “they were there,” having little to no knowledge of the acts they saw, but even those kids have the ability to be penetrated by that formidable urge to silently connect with the performers in front of them and the enraptured mass surrounding them (though they probably wouldn’t admit it).

Dancing to my own drummer, ca. 2005.

Music in the personal, private space, however, is a whole different kind of chestnut.  It can be beautifully isolating, in which we shut ourselves off from the rest of the world and bask in its bliss-inducing bubble; or it can be a facilitator for sharing and conversation with friends.  I love sharing music with friends, but at the same time there are moments in my life when I love nothing more than to listen to Joni Mitchell’s Blue in the dark and sobbing my eyes out.  It all has to do with theories pertaining to space and place, both mental and physical, and what kind of comforts we are willing to allow ourselves.

There are those who believe that music pre-dates written/spoken language.  If this is true, it might explain why music touches all of us in different ways.  The same way written/spoken word affects people might parallel why music speaks to us all differently.  Oddly, unlike with language, personal interaction with music seems to completely disregard genetic patterns.  Depending on environmental cues, a child may be drawn to the music their parents listen(ed) to, though there doesn’t seem to be any hereditary evidence mapping music’s personal and emotional influence through genetics.  For instance, my parents brought my sister and I up on music like The Beatles, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Harry Nilsson, etc...  And while I often feel nostalgic when listening to, say, Magical Mystery Tour, when I hear Quadrophenia—an album I heard basically every day when I was four—I don’t feel much.  I certainly don’t feel the same kinds of feelings my parents would feel when they heard it.  Again, this is where subjectivity acts as a double-edged sword.  I can’t know how my parents feel when listening to Quadrophenia, because it came out way before I was born.  They probably first heard it on some random friend’s turntable while they were on Quaaludes.  I first heard it when I was four, driving up to Maine.  These are totally different experiences, but at the same time, they hold some kind of random significance.  Personally, Quadrophenia is probably the least memorable Who album in terms of my childhood and inherent nostalgia, but for all I know, it could have been my mother’s favorite Who album (though I’m pretty sure Tommy was).  But I still remember it, and its presence in my past is kind of remarkable, considering how not-a-big-deal it was to me.

Portrait of the Traveler as a young (fisher)man.

I think it’s safe to assume for the most part that we all have a favorite song, in some shape or form.  It doesn’t have to be an absolute favorite (that’s really tough), but within us all there is some song that makes certain moments perfect.  For me, it’s Boards of Canada’s “Dayvan Cowboy” while driving through a mystifying, winding landscape, or Pink Floyd’s “Us and Them”, watching a lone candle dance and flicker in the dark beneath a ceiling fan that threatens to extinguish it, or Led Zeppelin’s “Friends” churning in the background as I gather with friends to play Rummy 500 at my dining room table.  If I had to pick ONE favorite song, it would have to be Rufus Wainwright’s “Poses”, because it is perhaps one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard, and no one has dared cover it.  It may not be plausible to assume that everyone can pinpoint moments and songs that sync up to experiential perfection as I just have, but I feel safe in saying that I am not alone in recognizing “perfect” moments when one’s surroundings inexplicably coincide with a piece of music or two, creating a sublime illustration that echoes delicate whispers of exhilarating bliss.

When I first got my driver’s license, all I wanted to do was go.  To be honest, growing up in Connecticut there wasn’t a whole lot more to do other than driving, listening to music, and getting stoned.  My senior year of high school was basically made up of some cloudy hybrid of all of those things.  I grew up near the shoreline of Connecticut, which can be a bit daunting when you realize how many judgmental/snooty/preppy people live there, but honestly it wasn’t so bad (the cool people balanced it out).  The shoreline is really, really pretty, but what’s weird about it is that you can drive a mile or so north of the actual beach and it feels like you’re in the boonies.  CT is weird like that: half a mile up the road from the beach is a Dunkin’ Donuts and an inexplicably dense forest.  Yay New England!

Turns out that the back-country roads just north of the shoreline became my refuge.  I would bomb around in my minivan, blaring playlists of music, carefully compiled to enhance the labyrinthine rural routes, elevating me to some sort of ecstasy as I glided along, throwing caution to the wind every now and then to stare out my sunroof (god I miss my sunroof) at the fluttering leaves above me.  It was here I discovered music had the ability to playfully coexist with environment, and it is this relationship that I’ve been wanting to explore since then.  Now, it seems, I have been given that opportunity.

In the following essays I try to prescribe certain music in an effort to enhance a few of America’s highways and byways, namely California’s Pacific Coast Highway and North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Parkway, as well as a playlist for driving at night.  I do not do this out of vanity or because I think that my opinion is the be-all-end-all when it comes to this sort of thing.  Yet this is where subjectivity comes into play once more: obviously I cannot expect every reader to experience the same emotions I am about describe, nor can I assume that I can accurately soundtrack these highways and byways to suit everyone’s needs.  I try my best to give background on the artists I talk about at length—namely electronic duo Boards of Canada, American folk-rock outfit Bright Eyes, and the incomparable Sufjan Stevens—and in doing so I hope to make sense of these choices I have made.  There is reasoning behind the songs I have chosen in relation to these roads, and though I may suggest these playlists to be played along these routes, if they don’t suit your tastes then I encourage you to build your own playlists to suit your own musical sanctuary.  If anything, they are something to work off of.

In the academic study that follows the essays, I aim to explain how music intersects with theories of space and place, in turn creating an immersive, emotional experience, based on, yes, my own encounters and opinions, but also those of several scholars and musicians in an effort to offer a balanced, diverse account.  My ultimate goal here is to spark some curiosity, and so all I ask is that you keep an open mind, an open ear, and an open heart.  As the Allman Brothers famously said, “the road goes on forever.”

Keep on truckin’.  Embrace each and every discovery.

The Journey Continues Tomorrow ...

Stay Tuned.