Picture this if you will, you're 13 years old, and you discover the most incredible band you've ever heard. You know next to nothing about these California boys, but every song is better than the last, and your discman is perpetually set on 'repeat'. They're five years older than you, but you are beginning to understand each lyric, if only through your own limited experience. Their songs become more and more relevant as you enter high school and live through the same situations you've been singing about all this time. That's when music becomes a bigger part of your life than you ever imagined it could be.
Your days are memorialized in a timeline of rotating albums, every character in your life has their own theme song, every relationship its own soundtrack. But this band is your constant. It's your go-to for any mood, any situation. These songs are home, and as the time passes, you grow up with this band, with these boys.
Your lives aren't stagnant however; the frontman starts a new band. Everything is different but it feels like nothing has changed. The new lyrics give you a new perspective on this man, and a whole new selection of experiences from which to relate. These tracks begin to make a regular rotation in the soundtrack of your life. You start to base big decisions on how the songs predict it will go. You rely on this band for your strength to get through the unthinkable. You lean on his voice as something familiar in uncomfortable situations. And then there are the live shows.
These events where you hear his voice fill the room and you are transported back to the first time you ever heard the song, or the breakup the song got you through, or the night the album kept you safe in a dark place. I call this the nostalgia spiral. Music has a way of recreating experiences through your senses. In most cases this gives you an incredible trip down memory lane, through some of the best and worst times in your life. It's not all pleasant but it's good to be reminded of where you've come from. The nostalgia spiral can last all night, and when it hits you, I wish you luck.
These concerts are where you feel like you belong. You are home. But these nights don't last forever. And when you're driving back to where you came from, or you're laying in your bed, or when you wake up in the morning, you will start to feel the come-down. Hello good friend, post-concert depression, we meet again.
But that could not possibly be the end. The band continues to evolve into new acts as life gets complicated. You're 27, but you still bleed each lyric from your veins, the connection is just as strong, if not stronger. You become more invested in this artist than in most other aspects of your life, you volunteer for his cancer foundation, you spend your time tweeting him and revelling in each response. You speak to him whenever you can, this lyricist, this musician, that as literally shaped your life. Your friends think you're a stalker, his wife probably does too. But to try to explain how deeply his lyrics, his voice, are imprinted on your soul is impossible. A poor attempt to encapsulate a feeling.
But you're not alone, there are others like you. And when you see each other at a show, behind the smiles, behind the eyes glistening with excitement, you can feel the 'day after' depression lurking, just waiting to rear its ugly head. You can sense their upcoming anguish, because you know it all too well. And the bow atop this pile of hurting hearts, is that the only thing that will get you through it is the music. The very thing evoking your sorrow. And so, when you feel this emptiness in the pit of your stomach, put on an album and just breathe. These familiar songs, they will get you through this too.
swim*
Labels: Andrew McMahon, Jack's Mannequin, music, post-concert depression, Something Corporate, the nostalgia spiral
