“Eww, stop saying that!” My sister wrinkled her nose.
I glanced over at her from the driver’s seat of the RAV4 and laughed. “I just said it’s indie music,” I repeated. “Indie. Why don’t you like that word?”
She grimaced. “I just don’t like how it sounds.”
“Well … okay. I’m still going to play the music though.” I grinned and reached for the volume control to turn up my “feels pt. 2 #angst” playlist. This is my most eclectic playlist in that it’s a combination of several genres (indie, pop and classic rock, among others) and is categorized solely by the fact that these songs are a little sadder or more wistful than almost everything else I listen to. It’s perfect for everything from wallowing in grief over the slightest inconvenience at 2 a.m. to imagining myself in a music video on a rainy-day drive.
My sister is one of the few people for whom I will simply shuffle one of my Spotify playlists and put the phone down (though she does insist on retaining the authority to skip any songs she really dislikes, including most things I use the word “indie” to describe).
Most of the time, when I’m handed the aux (which, for reasons I will shortly explain, happens relatively rarely among my friend group), I spend the whole car ride obsessing over which song to play next, being hyperaware of how people are reacting to each song and becoming the human equivalent of the “I just think it’s neat” meme in trying to justify my all-over-the-place taste in music while trying not to appear too attached to songs the others don’t seem to “vibe with.”
This isn’t just a road trip-related situation, either. Playing music almost anytime someone else is listening along with me makes me feel entirely responsible for their listening experience and whether they love a given song to the same degree that I do.
It should be noted that I am a compulsive perfectionist who also cares desperately (and often wrongly) about other’s perceptions of me, and therefore, this struggle is heightened; I have to choose songs that exactly fit the vibe of the day and somehow please everyone in the vehicle/room. However, my roommates agree that being passed the aux is a uniquely flattering yet frightening responsibility.
Why are we so hesitant to share something we love, even with people we care about?
I think we’re drawn to certain songs because they relate literally or metaphorically to situations or emotions we experience or to those we wish we experienced. That’s why sharing music is such an intimate act. It’s trusting others with a part of your life that you can’t quite put into words. And if that sounds dramatic, maybe it is. But think about the feeling when you play a song and someone pipes up, “I love this one!” Compare that to the regrettable awkwardness when you queue up a song you love and everyone in the car starts talking over it. You either quietly wait it out or eventually hit the skip button (unless you are remarkably secure in yourself or unnaturally detached from the musical experience).
When you find someone with whom you feel comfortable shuffling your playlists, that’s a new level of trust. My sister is one of those few people for me, even though she mocked me for playing “I Want to Know What Love Is” when I picked her up from swim practice. (“You’d make a great soccer mom,” she said as she got into the car. Apparently, this is what today’s youth think of Foreigner.) But most of the time, she and I pass the aux back and forth, revisiting old favorites we can scream together on the highway or excitedly introducing each other to new music.
One evening over the summer, I was playing that angsty playlist (think Lord Huron, Lewis Capaldi, some Coldplay, The Head and the Heart, songs from Taylor Swift’s “Folklore”) while driving her back from lifeguarding at the pool.
“Are you okay?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m fine.” I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, not, in fact, feeling fine.
“Why are you listening to such sad music?”
“Because I like it, okay?”
Clearly unconvinced, she sat back in her seat, added one of our mutual favorite songs, “Burn the Ships” by For King & Country, to the Spotify queue and remained quiet for the rest of the trip, except for singing along.
That did make me feel better. Music is all about shared emotion, and she was willing to bear that with me for the time being. Although it can be uncomfortable to share that experience with many, I’m grateful for those with whom I can, like my sister.
So next time you listen to music with someone else, take a moment to appreciate how vulnerable it might be for them. They’re showing you a tiny glimpse of their life, whether they realize it or not. Let’s not take that for granted.
