harmony

I haven’t been able to listen to music since all of this started. I have been telling myself it’s because I’m enjoying the temporary new quiet of the world, but that’s not the whole truth. I’m not sure I understand fully why I’m struggling, but it has something to do with the power music has to transport you through time and space. Just a chord or two can turn you into the person you were the last time you heard a song and bring to life a memory you forgot you ever had. And maybe some of it is that I don’t want to connect good music to the memories I’m making right now. Like: what is the right soundtrack for the plague?

A couple of weeks ago, I realized I needed to move my car. I hadn’t driven it in a while and it was parked in kind of a weird location on the street instead of its usual spot in front of my apartment. I love my car. It’s an Audi RS3 — nardo gray, of course. Five cylinder. Sport package. It is a limited edition and to get it, I had to call in a favor from a friend to have an executive at Audi put in the order for me. When I picked it up at the dealership, I found in the glovebox a build sheet from the factory in Germany that said, “Customer: VIP.”

I got in with the intention of relocating it just a couple hundred feet down the block, but the alcantara steering wheel felt like a hug in my hands and I decided to take the long way -- via Malibu. I turned onto the unusually quiet PCH, opened the sunroof and put the hammer down. For a moment, there was no virus or quarantine, just the smell of the fresh ocean air and a great car deep in the boost on a beautiful stretch of empty road.

It’s the kind of experience that famously benefits from musical accompaniment so, at my turnaround, I plugged in my phone and pulled up Spotify. I had binge watched the Hulu remake of High Fidelity in February and had been enjoying the soundtrack, so I hit play.

It didn’t work. I skipped through a few tracks and found the indie pop vibe, with its jangly guitars and angsty, lovelorn lyrics, grated on my nerves. Apropos of the moment, Sting singing, Don’t Stand So Close to Me had been running through my head for days, so I tried that. Hated it. Somehow The Sugarcubes’ Birthday wound up playing and Bjork’s plaintive yowl stabbed me in the cry. Tears streaming down my face, I turned the stereo off and continued on in silence.

But that was weeks ago. Venturing down an Instagram rabbit hole today, I found that a dear old friend from high school is playing the 30-day music challenge. Her pick for a song that reminds her of summertime brought back sunny joy from our high school years together and it made me smile. So, interrupting my multi-day sourdough how-to Instagram story with a musical interlude, I chose 99 Red Balloons for pick No. 1 – a song I like with a color in the title. Let’s disregard for a moment that I picked a live version performed in German and “Luft,” as any Porsche enthusiast knows, does not mean “red.” But whatever: it’s my game. It’s the version I like, and it makes me think about red balloons. So, close enough.

I was the kid that carefully tore each paper stitch of all the Advent Calendar windows the day I got it just to see what was in there -- before closing them all back up and pretending to be surprised when I “opened” them for my parents each day. So, of course I started looking ahead in the 30 Day Music Challenge. Songs, I remembered today, have the power to make people happy. So maybe this would be a good thing.

For Day 2, I’m meant to choose a song with a number in the title. I thought maybe I blew it with that Day 1 choice but quickly realized my favorite Elvis Costello album is My Aim is True and Less than Zero will do just fine. And for Day 3, my summertime, I have to go with Arcade Fire and Wake Up.

It was the summer of 2010. Arcade Fire had just released The Suburbs and were still riding their breakout wave of Funeral. I was coming off of a breakup and was determined to find peace with being solo, so I had bought one ticket to the show, just for me. The venue was simple: a big outdoor stage overlooking a lawn located on tiny Toronto Island. Getting there is a cheerful little adventure. You walk onto a 50-year-old wooden-decked ferry and take a 15-minute ride to the island from the city’s downtown. You make your way a couple hundred feet up a path from the dock and you’re at the stage. I arrived early that summer evening to find people sprawled out on blankets catching the last rays of summer to the lazy serenade of cicadas.

Janelle Monae was the opener. It was her Canadian debut and she was a complete surprise to me. Her energy was wild and I have never before – or since -- loved every minute of an opening act the way I did hers. She hit the stage as the sun went down around 8 p.m. and the breeze picked up just enough to cut the humidity and keep the mosquitoes away. Tightrope blew my mind.

Arcade Fire was the show I needed that day, with its orchestral harmonies that soared into the night sky. I became exhausted with joy. The performance felt intimate but there had to be 15,000 people there, so I packed myself up to get a seat on the ferry as the encore started. Sound travels over water, and I knew there was a good chance I’d still be able to hear the band even from the opposite shore. As I boarded the boat, Arcade Fire struck the opening chords of Wake Up and as we pulled away from the dock, everyone on that island began singing along. I never even heard Win Butler’s voice. It was an incredible chorus, thousands strong, that bathed that perfect summer night in harmony.

Tonight, alone in my apartment, I heard those same opening chords and burst into tears. I just couldn’t reconcile being both here now, and there then. Is that kind of experience over now? Will we tell our grandchildren these tales of how we used to gather to hear music?

I thought I had this, but I don’t. I’m still not ready for music.