You know that moment when a song ends, and you can hear the refrigerator again? You’re standing in the kitchen with a dish towel in your hand, and for a second the room feels too quiet. So you play the song again. You know exactly when the drums are going to come in, and you want to feel what happens when they do. The dishes can wait another four minutes.
I put on songs for about six seconds somewhere in the middle. I’ll listen to the whole thing because I like the way it gets there. A voice goes a little ragged on one word, or the piano comes back after being gone long enough that you’ve almost forgotten it. My favorite is when the drummer waits a beat longer than you expect. I know it’s coming and I still hold my breath. Then I realize I’ve been drying the same damn plate.
Sometimes, by the time that part comes around, you’re somewhere else entirely. You’re driving with the windows down and nobody expecting you home at a particular hour. You can see exactly what the light looks like on a road you’ve never been on. Change the song and the whole thing falls apart. Put it back on and the road is right where you left it. Even the light is the same. You made up the road, and somehow it takes that particular sound to make you feel like you’re on it. That’s the part I can never quite explain.
I’ll admit there’s a particular kind of evening when I’m fussy about what comes on next. Somebody’s offhand remark is still rattling around in my head hours after they’ve forgotten making it. I’ll skip songs I love because I can tell from the first two seconds where they’ll take me. Then the right one comes on, and my shoulders drop. Out on that road, I can turn just because I feel like it. I can stay out as long as I want. Most nights, that means playing the song again.
Go a couple of days without putting on music you actually want to hear, and you might notice how much you count on it. You’ve had the radio on in the car and heard whatever was playing at the grocery store. Then you put on a song you’ve been wanting to hear, and a singer takes a breath right where you needed one. That’s when you realize how wound up you’ve been.
It can sting a little when the last chord fades, and you realize how much of Tuesday you spent looking forward to those few minutes. You can love the people in your life and still wish it were easier to feel the way you do with your headphones on. Maybe you just want an hour that feels like yours. And maybe what gets to you is how often you have to put on a song and go somewhere in your head to get it.
I don’t think every song you play twelve times owes you a revelation. Sometimes the bass comes in at exactly the right moment, and you want to hear it again. And sometimes, for reasons you’d have a hell of a time putting into words, that’s the first moment all day you’ve felt like yourself. I’d play it again, too.