Music or Memory by Charlie Melkonian

If you ask anyone what their favorite song is, chances are they will name something they first listened to when they were young; a song from adolescence; a track that marked a formative period of change and growth. 

Accompanied by that song, there is likely a story, an experience, a vivid moment in time. For my dad, it was opening Aja at seventeen, and hearing Larry Carlton’s soulful “Black Cow” intro lick. For my mom, it was dancing in her twenties at Studio 54 to Whitney Houston and Cyndi Lauper. For my sister, it was listening to Celine Dion on volume 11 while getting ready to go out. For me, it was The Brook and The Bluff’s albums First Place and Yard Sale. 

In freshman year of college, I would listen to music every break between classes. It was post-pandemic, and meeting so many new people was at once terrifying and exhilarating. I had to continuously check my crew neck for sweat stains throughout the day. At that time, I had just discovered The Brook and The Bluff; I made a playlist of my favorite songs of theirs, and used it as an excuse not to talk to people in the fifteen minutes I had before my next class. 

Once those awkward hellos and phone-filled silences turned into friendships, the music I had relied on to evade conversation became a staple of my nights out. I would play “Halfway Up” and “Misnomer” over the bridge into Williamsburg. In the car home, I repeated the same few songs (much to my girlfriend’s distaste) and rolled down the window dramatically. We both didn’t care that we’d heard them already; we were nineteen, and nothing mattered but the journalism midterm coming up next week. 

Now that that period has come to a close, and I am one year post-grad, I use these songs as a vehicle for memory. When taking walks on the Hudson, or squeezing between two people in sweaty subway cars, I remember those first friendships I formed when I decided to take my AirPods out. I remember those nights that ended at 2 AM, stumbling to the nearest and cheapest pizza spot. I remember sitting on my yoga mat, avoiding eye contact with a group congregated next to me, and hearing the irony of and I worry‘bout everything blasting in my ears. 

There’s a reason that these songs evoke strong positive emotions in me. Kelly Jakubowski, a professor of Music Psychology, writes, “...we aren’t primarily so interested in the music of our youth because we think it’s better than music from other eras, but because it is closely linked to our personal memories.” 

In my experience, music, more than any other art form, feels “personal” to me. With narrative art, whether it be a play or a novel, I can relate to the characters, but I don’t mistake them for me; we are two separate entities. With music, it is easy to forget that a song wasn’t written for you, that the feelings described in the lyrics, evoked by the melody and harmony, aren’t your own. 

In a Rolling Stone interview, singer-songwriter John Mayer remarks: “...The most you can hope for [as a pop artist] is for somebody to go, “Oh, I think very fondly on that time in my life.” In this way, music becomes interwoven with narrative, blended with memory. 

The Brook and The Bluff still remain a favorite band of mine, though my taste has evolved over the last five years. I've gained a new appreciation for instrumental music, whether it be straight-ahead jazz, 70s fusion, or neo-soul. But when I listen to the first few double stops of “Halfway Up,” I experience a feeling that can only be described in a cliched abstract: youth.

It is like your favorite comfort movie: though you may appreciate the artistic value of a low-budget indie, or an Italian neorealist classic, you will always return to “When Harry Met Sally” when you are sick, or sad (or, of course, on New Year's Eve).

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On a rare night out five years later, driving over the bridge, I scroll way down on Spotify, and find my old playlist, very originally titled: “Favorite brook and the bluff songs.” And I worry ‘bout everything, so I never can fix a goddamn thing. 

I am back on the yoga mat. I am sweating in my grey crewneck. I hear a muffled voice. I take out an AirPod. Hey, are you doing anything Friday night?