Popagandhi

While talking about music earlier in the night, the conversation turned to ‘music that we grew up with’, music that changed us, music that define periods of your life. We all have those, music that have made us who we are now. Like when you walk through a mall and hear a certain song and it triggers specific memories, for the better or worse.

1996: I ‘discover’ music, age 11. Strange sounds coming out of brother’s bedroom? Beautiful. Turns out to be MxPx. “Life In General” is the definitive album of my youth, henceforth. I spend the next few years making mixtapes of punk, ska and grunge music by personally taping the tracks onto cassettes; I spend too much time with my nose in photocopied punkzines (remember those??!), and trying to figure out why people thought I was odd. (Took me some time to realize the thumping music coming out of earphones that were surgically attached to my ears could have done it. Punk is only cool when you’re a 16 year old with a band, not when you’re 11. Not in 1996 anyway.) To this day, I still know all the words to the songs on this album; I still hum them to myself when I’m not thinking about it, and I still think “Do Your Feet Hurt” is the most romantic song ever written — I mean, Mike Herrera sings, “take a ride on my Vespa, I’ll take you home” with panache. The image of a tiny scooter (preferably in a pastel colour) becomes symbolic with romance henceforth, all the way into adulthood.

Chick Magnet

Move to Bremerton

1999: Some albums are so important they define music for that decade, or even that whole entire century. Because they’ll still seem fresh and important decades later, one can take your time to figure out what these albums really mean to you. Radiohead’s “OK Computer” was one of these albums. 1999, and I’ve had my heart broken for the first time. You can see the appeal, then: sprawling corridors of emotions behind every wonderful song on this landmark album. This album changed my life. Five years after, in 2004, I’m sitting at the Sydney Entertainment Centre watching Radiohead, alone. I love all the newer songs too, but when I hear Thom Yorke play “Exit Music” by himself with Phil on drums, and later the whole band playing “Paranoid Android”, I start tearing and I tell myself: I can die in peace now.

2004: I’ve just left my long-term, long-suffering boyfriend. For women. Not one woman, but women. In general. I don’t know who. Or what, or how. I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. It’s dark and I can see no way out of this mess, I hate myself, and I’m going home at eight every morning hating myself even more for the night before. The Arcade Fire, “Funeral”, that album famously put out by band members who had all lost family members around the same time. The first time I heard this album in its entirety I… literally shook. It was powerful. It put a name to grief, and called it “Neighborhoods” — all four of them.

Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)

Neighborhood #2 (Laika)

Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)

2006: I’m in Bangladesh, Sirajgonj district. Quite positively going mad, suddenly in rural South Asia doing more than the travelling I was used to, and… having to find my feet. For a week I sink myself into this, the lepers, the flood victims, the children with polio, acting like I actually know what I’m doing. When Friday — the Bangladeshi week starts on Sunday and ends on Friday — comes around, I’m ready to drop dead. There are riots outside my door. The only alcohol around for miles, I found, was by sneaking some taka to the Malay-speaking Bangladeshi around the corner (newly returned from 7 years in KL, and with better Malay than mine); he’s had to cycle to the next village to buy a bottle of contraband Indian whiskey wrapped several times in a blue towel. I find out I’ve just spent $120 (Singapore dollars) on a long distance call only to be broken up with. The only person I can speak to is a 30 something year old British hippie who recommends a dosage of his cure-all, one that works in any situation, he guarantees. Bob Dylan. He’s right; Bob Dylan cures everything.

It’s All Over Now Baby Blue

It Ain’t Me Babe

Joan Baez’s version

2008: It’s not a Vespa, but that decrepit rental scooter we rode to that fancy bar overlooking the Andaman was quite enough for me. Your helmet didn’t fit, that scooter wobbled dangerously, but I was happy. Even if I ran the risk of running out pages on my passport whenever I want to see you. Riding home at 1am in the Langkawi darkness, I smacked your helmet down so it wouldn’t fly off, and made three important decisions I never mentioned. That was when I held you tight and decided I can’t ever let go. That I’m the luckiest. That I’ll buy you Rogaine if you ever lose your hair. You’re four pages on my passport and counting, but I want there to be more. Much, much more.

The Way I Am

Anyone Else But You

What are the songs and albums that define you, then? Leave a comment!