Symphonic Nostalgia
My brain transforms songs into time capsules.
I manage to stuff months’ worth of memories and feelings into the three minute songs I hear on the radio. The love songs I consumed in my many hopeless romantic phases, reminiscent of all the relationships that never happened. The upbeat ballads of summer vacation filled with the sticky, humidity of Houston heat. I can tell you exactly where I was (physically and emotionally) each time Taylor Swift dropped a new album. Maybe this is why I never felt the need to curate some well-loved objects in a box to bury in the backyard; my Spotify playlists are already my time capsules.
I call it symphonic nostalgia: the inability to detach a song from the memories I’ve connected with it. It’s a blessing and a curse. I can relive the best moments of my life through tuning in to one song. My first slam poetry performance: see Beyoncé’s “Spirit.” Purchasing my first pair of roller skates: see Bastille’s “Quarter Past Midnight.” But symphonic nostalgia has also ruined some of my favorite songs. Songs I jammed out to with friends before friendship breakups, before dates that went bad, before the many mental-breakdowns of junior year. Playlists populate my Spotify that I cannot bear to hear to anymore, including my roller-skating playlist, an eighty-eight song, five-hour beast, that I used to play to everyday whether I wore skates or not. Too much happened since I created that playlist, and now all the songs leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
Going into 2020, I made a pact with myself to not listen to my roller-skating playlist anymore because it just made me too sad. Instead, I’d create a year of new playlists. One for every month. Each full of my favorite songs at the time. I started with “JAN 2020.” Its eye- catching title made me giddy every time I opened Spotify. I couldn’t wait until I finished my list of 12 highly stylized playlists, capturing my 2020 experience.
Saying that a lot happened in 2020 could be the understatement of the century. The year shrunk my junior and senior year and general faith in humanity, but I kept making playlists. By “JUL 2020,” I started to lose my drive. Finding new songs every month became an exhausting
chore rather than a fun, rainy day activity of music discovery. When I stood on the precipice of forgetting my playlist new year’s resolution, I would go back to “JAN 2020” and listen. I transported myself to a whole other time through that playlist. This time-travelling excursion convinced me to keep going.
By “DEC 2020,” I completed 12 playlists, each with around 12 songs of all sorts of genres. Songs I heard on the radio. Songs I stole from my friend’s Spotify playlists. Songs from my favorite artists. Songs from new artists. My 2020 playlists form the most magical time capsule. I captured the weirdest year of my life in music.
As 2021 began, I debated whether I should create “JAN 2021” or not. Were my playlists a one-time or annual thing? Then, I had an idea. It’s not magnificent enough to call genius, but I think I’ll call it a genius idea anyway. In 2021, I will have two playlists per month. One will be the 2021 playlist. The other will be the 2020 one.
In 2021, I will face my symphonic nostalgia head on, listening to playlists from an entirely different time. Already, my mission challenges me more than I expected. Some songs leave my chest heavy and tear ducts working overtime. But I listen even when it’s hard. Because I remember who I was when I made “JAN 2020” and that girl is so different from the one who made “JAN 2021.” I can see how I’ve grown as a human being through my music taste. So even when songs break my heart, I let myself hurt when listening to them. When songs make me smile, I let myself dance around my room. Though I didn’t intend it, these songs have become a part of me. And my Spotify will keep all those memories forever.