Playlists are my love language (part #2)
I used to refer to myself as a music elitist (insert eye-roll emoji here). I can relate to the scene in the 2000 movie High Fidelity where music snob Rob (played by John Cusack) talks about the "do's and don'ts” of making a great mixtape —it is an art.
The secret to making a great playlist is to bring your main character energy and give yourself permission to approach everything as the central protagonist, the heart of the narrative. You can respect the musical journey and showcase life’s little moments in music.
My method sometimes involves days to get it right. Beta testers, examining the sound travel through different mediums and making sure the pulse of each tempo mixes well to create a flow.
Que up your tunes with care, and they will lift your mood. If you want to get strategic about it, here are some recommendations:
Decide on the purpose or theme of your playlist.
Road trip? Work out? Low Monday at work and need Cat Power to serenade you with her haunting hums?
Explore the library and start adding tracks.
I start with three; then, I know where I’m headed. Hone your playlist to fit the moment.
Customize and curate.
Emotional connection is key. This process may involve obsessively rearranging tracks, deleting and modifying songs, and fumbling through Spotify’s ( or other platforms’) algorithm and the recommendations that make your personalized listening experience joyous.
Fine-tune, baby.
Listen to your playlist from start to finish. Blast it in your car, plug it in your ears, and have it piping in the background while you overload your browsers (and brains) with multiple tabs at work. Does it make you want to move, soar, daydream, or go back in time? Anticipating the parts you remember and enjoy about a song is rewarding. Musing over the past can help you feel connected to who you were, who you are in the present, and who you will be in the future. What better way to tap into that than through music?
This brings me to The Cure and Robert Smith.
My older sister introduced me to The Cure when she was in high school. Crowned with hair held aloft by industrious cans of hairspray, she stomped around town in combat boots—and embodied the very essence of punk. While The Cure may have been born out of punk, of all the subcultures in the post-punk era, I could never quite get if they were goth ( they look goth!), punk-pop, or new wave. They were a far cry from the cookie-cutter pop symphonies that had woven their way into my repertoire, and I thought they were oddballs initially, yet quickly realized that’s what made them cool. Watching my sister listen to them made me giggle as she fell into such a blissful altered state, gushing over Robert Smith’s voice and spidery hairdo.
Robert Smith could teach a masterclass on emotive songwriting. The songs are packed with melodic bass lines, smoky strangulated vocals, and lyrics with existential angst. Smith still has one of the most distinctive voices in pop and rock.
Eventually, I came around, and The Cure’s Disintegration became an icon in my music repertoire. I now have it on vinyl, and the whole album is embedded in a dedicated playlist that is a cathartic and uplifting listening experience.
Disintegration was mysterious and seductive. I spent many nights listening with my boyfriend while sprawled awkwardly across his single matchbox of a bed in his college dorm room. He was a theatre major, charismatic and handsome, yearning for the spotlight. One night when he reached for the album, it wasn’t there. His lips went tight, and his face was white, and he mumbled that it was in his friend Alicia’s room. She was a member of the swoon-over-my-boyfriend club. I had witnessed the swoons after his performances and appearances at parties. I knew that if that album was in another girl’s room, it was likely they weren't “running lines.”
Disintegration grew exponentially in meaning for me, morphing between heartache post-breakup and enchantment, with a sheer emotional grandeur present in the tracks. Like an old photograph, Disintegration has the power to transport you back to when you first heard it. It left these four tracks imprinted on my soul.
Ｌｏｖｅｓｏｎｇ
An iconic baseline. It's an open show of emotion, with every instrument surrounded by air. It captured my heart and touched on my rom-com fantasies about relationships. But whether you are feeling loved or lonely, Lovesong can speak to you. I now strum The Cure's melodies on my ukulele, though it's doubtful that I'd earn Robert Smith's nod of approval.
Ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅｓ Ｏｆ Ｙｏｕ
Echoing guitars and dreamy synths. Bewitching. It made me lovesick, and I played it repeatedly, aiming to squeeze out any anguish between the notes. “If only I thought of the right words” and “Death of your heart” pretty much summed up my young adult angst.
Ｌｕｌｌａｂｙ
Jangly guitars and staccato violin make this track’s mood feel hypnotic. Apparently, this song was written about monsters, and although it's creepy, it's crazy sexy. It makes me want to crawl across the floor or tiptoe like a thief while singing it. Is that strange?
Ｆａｓｃｉｎａｔｉｏｎ Ｓｔｒｅｅｔ
A peculiar track with delay pedals on the instruments and vocals to create organized chaos, yet lots of instrumental pauses to keep your mind spinning. Modern rock at its best.
The Cure won many souls with their spellbinding ability to make people feel, leaving a trail of captivated hearts in their wake.
When you can't find the words, fashioning a playlist steps up as the storyteller. Music ( and playlists) have a universal love language, like a love letter, that can resonate with people on a deep level, strum on the heartstrings of connection, and foster a sense of shared experience.
