For Those Who Never Quite Belonged

I've been listening to a lot of music lately.

That's not exactly news. I think there's been music playing somewhere around me for most of my life.

Sometimes I wonder how much of it I would remember if I couldn't remember the songs.

Probably less than I'd like.

The first song I ever learned on guitar was Nutshell, by Alice in Chains.

I had watched their MTV Unplugged performance so many times that, at some point, just listening wasn't enough anymore. I wanted to know what it felt like to play it.

I'm still not sure my fingers appreciated that decision.

For a long time, it was my favorite song. It was also the one I kept coming back to when things weren't particularly great.

I don't know if I'd call it my favorite anymore.

Not because I stopped loving it. I think I just stopped recognizing myself in every part of it.

That's a strange thing about music. A song can stay exactly the same for years, while the person listening to it changes almost completely.

And somehow, it still feels familiar.

There are other songs like that.

The Drugs Don't Work, by The Verve, is one of them.

I won't get into why. Some songs are better left without an explanation.

But I remember the feeling of hearing something that seemed to understand a little more than I did.

Then there's Call Me a Dog, by Temple of the Dog.

I've always loved Chris Cornell's voice. There's something about the way he sings that makes even the simplest words sound like they cost him something.

I think I like music that doesn't try too hard to pretend everything is fine.

Maybe that's why I've always liked heavy metal, grunge, and all the strange things somewhere in between.

Rob Halford once talked about how everybody is welcome in heavy metal.

I really like that.

I've spent a lot of time feeling a little out of place. Not necessarily anywhere specific. Sometimes you can be surrounded by people and still feel like you missed some instructions everyone else received.

Music never seemed to ask for those instructions.

You could just listen.

Or play badly until you got a little better.

I did a lot of that.

Somewhere along the way, a few songs started reminding me of people rather than places.

Fake Plastic Trees, by Radiohead.

Lover, You Should've Come Over, by Jeff Buckley.

I can't really separate them from certain memories anymore.

It's funny how that works. You find a song, listen to it a hundred times, and eventually it belongs to a moment you can't get back.

The song is still there, though.

So you listen again.

Lately, I've been listening to Beginning of the End, by Judas Priest, more than almost anything else.

I like the contradiction in that title.

I've also been feeling a little more free lately.

I finally got my driver's license. Which means I can now spend an unreasonable amount of time deciding what to listen to before going somewhere.

A pretty important responsibility, if you ask me.

I've been trying new things, building things, making mistakes, and occasionally remembering that there's a world outside my computer.

I still spend a lot of time programming.

Sometimes I'll have a terminal open, a guitar somewhere nearby, and a song playing that I've heard more times than I can count.

I like building things from nothing. I like figuring out why something doesn't work. I like the moment when it finally does.

But I also like things that don't have to work.

Songs that end without making everything better.

Words that don't explain themselves.

A few notes that sound slightly wrong but somehow feel right.

I think there's room for all of that.

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this.

I guess I just wanted to write about music.

And about how some songs seem to know us before we know ourselves.

Maybe one day I'll listen to the songs I love right now and feel the same distance I feel with Nutshell.

I hope I still love them.

Even if they don't sound quite the same anymore.