The more I talk about memorable songs with other people, the more I realize how deeply personal and unique my memories of them are. My specific nostalgia surrounding certain songs is woven by threads of my experiences, and have shaped the way I remember–and will remember—these songs.
It was at a third-grade Girl Scouts “pretend sleepover,” for example, when I first heard the song “Complicated” by Avril Lavigne. I had no idea who she was and what the song was even called until maybe ninth grade, but I had parts of the song stuck in my head at random times throughout my childhood. I specifically remember humming it to myself outside my house, as I balanced one foot in front of the other and pretended that the crack in my driveway was a tightrope. I had the lyrics wrong for years, but the memories of singing it resonate any time Lavigne’s name or song comes up in conversation.
Sometimes songs do more than remind me of specific memories. Some songs represent actual events or people in my life—to the point where the song remains solidified in meaning. Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me,” for example, is about my fifth grade crush. The angst of liking him is so converged with that song that it can never be about someone or something else. Kelly Clarkson’s “Breakaway” represents a major life choice I made in high school, and “How to Save a Life” by The Fray is about a moment the downward spiral of my mental health due to this decision lent itself to running away from home and seeking refuge at my aunt’s house across town. I lived there for three months.
Songs can be deeply personal, so much so that it plays a role in shaping identity. My late aunt’s favorite song, for example, was Don McLean’s “American Pie.” She died when she was seventeen, two years before I was born. As her namesake, I took it upon myself to memorize all eight and a half minutes of the 1971 classic. I printed out the lyrics and laid the papers out in a row on the floor of our piano room. I was hungry for the meaning of the lyrics, as if understanding the song would bring me closer to understanding her. The song became an integral aspect of my perception of her identity, and as a result, became part of my personal identity. I hid my love for the song because I knew hearing the lyrics made my mother cry, but secretly, whenever I felt like I needed guidance, I would play it over and over, grasping for strands of Auntie Lisa that I could hold onto and never let go.
Since then, my music tastes have changed. And in a few years, I’ll have new memories with new songs. But for now, I’ll turn up the volume on these songs from my past and pretend my life is as simple as it was back then, one balanced step at a time.