Resonance in Retrospect

Most of us have songs that transport us back to the important milestones in our lives. Songs that bring us back to the moments that shaped our aspect; moments that multiplied our joy, moments that left us broken, moments that showed us both our strength and our frailty. These moments, these milestones, often begin with the phrases “the first time” or “the last time.”

• The first time you knew you were in love.

• The last time you saw your mom.

• The first time you experienced heartache.

• The last time you were truly happy.

These moments follow us, find us in the quiet hours, remind us that life is ephemeral, that joy and pain go hand in hand. Besides the obvious reasons, music is remarkable because it can transport us back to those moments, flooding us with a bittersweet mix of happiness and grief. The song may not have even existed when we experienced these firsts and lasts, but something about it, the melody or the lyrics, creates an active connection to those events. For good or bad, those songs make us remember everything in remarkably vivid detail, almost as if we have been transported through time and space, or into some Nietzschean construct of eternal return. The songs in the playlist of my own life may have been written long after I experienced certain events, or they were songs that existed in the pop culture ethos, mere background tracks to the many moments of my life.

1. AGAINST ALL ODDS BY PHIL COLLINS

The First Time I Realized That Moms Are Only Human

My playlist begins in 1984. The place is the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP).

A hospital at night can be frightening, especially for a five-year-old. All that open space, those half-lit corridors, the silence that seems to thicken the air. It’s a thing of childhood dread. While I wasn’t supposed to walk the halls at night, there is a lot you can get away with when you’re small and quiet. Even though I was one of those kids afraid of everything, I was always compelled to explore, especially when I knew no one would bother me. The further I ventured into the darkening hospital, the more it felt like a terrible mistake. This was the year that the knife-fingered dream-controlling psychopath Freddie Krueger first appeared on movie screens, destroying the peace of mind of an entire generation.

I have never seen Freddie terrorize those suburban teenagers – I still refuse to watch it – but I had older brothers, and if there’s one thing older brothers love, it’s messing with the fragile psychology of the youngest. Given that my psyche was already damaged by endless sibling torture and a fantastic fear of almost everything, being in the hospital and not knowing why only amplified my fears. Muscular Dystrophy was as confusing and surreal a concept to me then as people lip-syncing comedians and getting one million likes is to me now.

All I knew was that my life had become a blur of pokes, prods, scans, re-scans, dental molds (how many are really needed?), and invasive explorations of my most intimate anatomy.

Being five, I did not see a world outside myself, so I never considered the mental anguish my mother was experiencing in concert with my own discomfort. That was the night I finally understood, to the extent of my limited understanding, that when you suffer, the people who loved you suffer too. Standing on the edge of shadow, staring down the darkest hallway in the hospital, I compelled myself to turn around before the gloom took me in its maw, and started back to my room, silently vowing never to do that again.

On the way back, I heard people talking, their voices quiet, just above a whisper. They were sitting in the atrium, drinking coffee, and smoking cigarettes (it was the 80s), with tears streaming down their cheeks. One of them I recognized as the mother of Sophia, a little girl with leukemia. But the other woman, I didn’t know her. I had never seen her before, had never seen this tragic, fragile, petite woman whose seams were disintegrating behind a cloud of pale blue smoke. Then she said, “I don’t want to lose my baby,” and I knew who she was.

She was my champion, my greatest friend, the one person who never faltered. My mom. I watched them for about five minutes, frozen, not completely understanding the implications of what had just been said. I don’t even remember returning to the room after that. I do remember staring up at the ceiling, unmoving. I didn’t dare move for fear I would die. To this day, my anxiety alternates between fear of moving because I might die and fear of not moving … because I might die.

Then the boy in the bed across from me woke up screaming for his mom, pulling me right out of my abbreviated existential crisis. Yes, you can have an existential crisis at that age, but it mainly consists of “What will happen to my toys?”

Although I forget the boy’s name, I’ll never forget him. Diagnosed with Duchenne’s Muscular Dystrophy, he was fated to a short life, marked by physical limitations and pain. I watched silently as the boy’s mother soothed him. That was when the enduring connection was struck, when my first collided with a song that would bring me back to that moment for the rest of my life.

In the softest, sweetest voice I’d ever heard, his mother sang, “How can I just walk away from you? How can I leave without a trace? When I stand here taking every breath … with you.”

Even though the song was intended for him, it calmed me down, lulled me to sleep. I still think about her, the loss she would eventually have to overcome, the impossible mountain she would have to climb. How does someone come back from that?

“So, take a look at me now. There's just an empty space … and there's nothing left here to remind me … just the memory of your face.”

2. FAITH BY GEORGE MICHAEL

My First and Last Fist Fight

The year is 1989. The place is Parkway Elementary in Ramblewood, New Jersey.

If there is one thing that gets my goat, sticks in my craw, burns my biscuits, and grinds my gears all at once, it’s bullying. I won’t call him out here because he may have grown into a fine human being, but one kid in my fourth-grade class made Scott Farkus look like Frances of Assisi. Keeping that pop-culture reference in mind, I will refer to this bully as Super Evil Scott for the duration of this narrative. Super Evil Scott had no characteristics that set him apart from other kids. He didn’t have black teeth or yellow eyes and he didn’t wear a raccoon skin cap. Super Evil Scott was as average and unassuming as they come, but the same might also be said for Benito Mussolini.

Super Evil Scott’s antics consisted of pushing smaller kids into urinals, forcing them to stain their trousers, and affixing them with enduring, unflattering monikers such as Yellow Sock Steven and Dribbling Dante. This maniacal little man did have a flair for nicknames. Just imagine what he could have achieved if he had dedicated himself to good. As for me, he gave me the nickname Fat Matt. Certainly not his magnum opus. It was verifiably low-hanging fruit because anyone named Matt with even an ounce of fat will bear this nickname at some point. I remember thinking that someone needed to stand up to this very average tyrant, but I never would have imagined it would be me.

At Parkway Elementary (otherwise known as the scene of the crime), on the outskirts of the playground, behind the kickball field and the jungle gym, there was a large honeysuckle bush where all the little girls would gather, and just like the mythological lotus eaters, would fall into a timeless daze as they consumed the honeysuckle nectar, crafting intricate crowns and necklaces from the flowers. This was a metaphorical no man’s land (a no boy’s land, if you will), and if a boy even scouted the area, he would be scoured by insults. There is something about an insult from a little girl that can make you question the validity of your existence and force you to believe that you are, in fact, a total waste of space.

For Super Evil Scott, however, this was not a deterrent. I will say this for the guy; he was unflappable. I don’t think you can be flapped when you’re born without a soul and the awareness that your final destination is hell. One day, Super Evil Scott got it into his head to strip the entire honeysuckle bush. He was singular in his destruction, sparing none.

The girls begged and pleaded for him to stop, have some compassion, and stop being a butt nugget. But Super Evil Scott was self-aware enough to realize that he was a butt nugget and not even an act of God would deter him from his butt nuggetry. Among the protectors of the honeysuckles was a girl everyone referred to as Juju, and Juju, without venturing into insensitivity, was a large girl. And by that, I mean she was tall and … wide. Not fat, mind you. She simply occupied a lot of space.

On this day, Juju was having none of Super Evil Scott’s nonsense, so she grabbed him by his hair and dragged him toward the playground monitor, Miss Renata, a sweet, octogenarian who paid more attention to her knitting than she did to our daily Lord of the Flies reenactment. Except Juju's quest for justice would never come to fruition. You need to understand something about people like Super Evil Scott; they are slippery in a metaphorical sense and slippery in a very literal sense, borrowing many of their attributes from serpents.

Despite her considerable height advantage and a power grip that would make Gorilla Glue envious, Super Evil Scott managed to escape. Instead of running away, he remained true to his snake-like nature and struck Juju a blow that still reverberates in the atmosphere above New Jersey. If I say Juju collapsed, it doesn’t nearly demonstrate the drama of the situation. No, she folded like space-time.

A hush fell over the playground. Chins dipped into the dirt. No one could comprehend what they had seen. And then, then I heard it, wafting from Mrs. Gulden’s classroom window. Organ music. This requires a bit of a tangent in the narrative. Mrs. Gulden was in her early sixties, wore leather pants, and was obsessed with U2.

This was in the days before music could be downloaded, so we had to wait for our favorite songs to come on the radio or head down to Sam Goody to pick up the cassette. For this reason, Mrs. Gulden spent her lunch hour listening to the radio, hoping to hear Bono’s voice come through and brighten her school day. That’s what I thought I was hearing at the time, the beginning of a U2 song. I knew who George Michael was, but I had yet to listen to the masterpiece called Faith.

While everyone else stood around in complete shock, I took it upon myself to help Juju. When I reached to pull her up from the ground, however, she slapped my hand away, and something collided with the back of my head. For a second, I thought she had slapped my hand so hard, that it defied all physical reality, helicoptered around my head, and cracked me in the back of the skull. This, obviously, had not been the case. To a chaos broker like Super Evil Scott, anyone who interferes with his anarchy becomes his next target. The organ music stopped as I turned to face him, and a catchy beat kicked in. Operating on pure instinct, I swung my fist into Super Evil Scott’s jaw, and the scuffle began, the song’s lyrics serving as punctuation for each blow.

WHAP!

“Well, I guess it would be nice …”

CRACK!

“ … if I could touch your body.”

POP!

“I know not everybody … ”

SMACK!

“ … has got a body like you.”

I’m not saying the fight was perfectly in sync with the song, but I was so full of adrenaline that I wasn’t processing things naturally. The blow-by-blow memory of the fight didn’t come until a week later. I was also so disgusted with myself that I didn’t even want to think about it. After that, I knew I would never again raise a fist at someone in anger. I still haven’t. I’ve been in some fights – I have five older brothers - but I’ve never fought back. Mostly I cover my face … and other parts.

Super Evil Scott ended up with a bloody nose and a broken tooth. I was largely undamaged because “I had extra padding.” At least that was how Super Evil Scott put it, probably to preserve his bruised ego and controversial reputation. As far as fights went, it was an insignificant scuffle. What wasn’t insignificant was the lesson I learned. Meeting people with an open hand rather than a closed fist will save you from yourself. I believe that. I have Faith in it.

Oh, baby, I reconsider my foolish notion ...

3. COUNTRY COMFORTS BY ROD STEWART

The First Time I Held My Niece

The time is 2001. The place is Brookview Apartments in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

This is a short and sweet one. I may be accused of a tonal shift or inconsistent writing, but liberties in memoirs should be forgiven. It's your story, after all.

When I was younger, I made a vow. Realizing that my disorder was progressive, I decided that having kids would be unfair. I believe children deserve available parents who can help them achieve everything they want in life. That includes parents that can engage them in play, driving them to soccer games and band practice, and all of the chores parents take on that are generally worth it. Now, I’m not saying people with disabilities shouldn’t have children. They absolutely should, if that’s what they want.

For me, the choice not to have kids is based on several factors, some of which are deeply personal. I never expected that life would allow me to help raise a child. But then, the universe intervened, and Lillyanne Devlin came into this world and has been an important part of my life ever since. I’ve changed her diapers, helped her with homework, taken her on road trips, arranged playdates, and even let her paint my nails.

When she was first born, her parents lived in a small apartment near the beach, and every morning I would take Lily onto the balcony and sing her the same song every single time. It’s a song that reminds me that a simple life is a good one. While Rod Stewart has been the butt of many jokes in my lifetime, the man can sing a song, and most of his songs resonate with me somehow. Country Comforts, though, is particularly special to me. It paints a beautiful picture, a tableau of bucolic life, a study of the simplicity and wonder of small-town living. Every time I hear it, I’m brought back to those quiet, beautiful moments with my niece in my arms. Those are country comforts, as well.

And it's good old country comfort in my bones ... just the sweetest sound my ears have ever known.

4. SUPERMARKET FLOWERS BY ED SHEERAN

The Last Time I Talked to My Mom

The time is 2021. The place is Surfside, South Carolina.

How do you talk about your hero without falling apart? You don’t. You embrace the crumble, tell your story with tears streaming down your cheeks, and hope that somehow, some way, you’ll see them again.

When people ask me when exactly my mom started showing signs of dementia, I often tell them about the last time I saw her, a moment that occurred years before her death. I say it was the last time I saw her, not because she physically disappeared, but because, for me, she was changed forever on that day. She didn’t stop being my mom. She’ll always be that. What changed was that her mind was slowly evaporating. One day she called me from a store down the street and said, “I don’t know how to get home.” Then, I thought it was absurd that she got lost less than a mile from her apartment. Now, I understand dementia is an insidious disorder that steals everything from you and decimates the people around you.

The last time I saw my mom, the last time I knew she was herself was when we were in Walmart, and she asked me if she could buy a DVD. I remember laughing, thinking that at 57, she didn’t need to ask anyone’s permission to buy anything. She laughed too, but then this look came over her, this blank expression, and then the blank expression turned to fear. When she went to pay, she had forgotten how to use her debit card, so I had to run the card for her. That … that was the beginning of the end, the start of her decline, the day she started to die.

The last five years of her life were the worst. In her 40s, my mom was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis. She lived in constant pain, but she never stopped moving. But then, the day after my dad died, she slid off the edge of her bed and shattered her hip. She eventually started walking again, but a few years later, she slipped while getting off the toilet and broke her other leg. From that day forward, she was bedridden, requiring almost constant care.

Her dementia worsened. Memories of her life started to fade away. Every day was emotional torture. She had to be constantly reminded that her husband, her parents, and her sister were dead. When you see someone grieving the same event anew every single day, you stop telling them the truth. You say things like, “He’s around here somewhere” or “I’m sure they’ll call.” Saying this makes you feel like a fraud and a terrible person is the understatement of all understatements.

In 2021 she stopped speaking almost entirely. Every day and every night, she would lie in her bed, screaming in agony. On one particular night, while feeling emotionally overwhelmed, I went into her room and had a conversation with her. I say conversation, but it was just me speaking. As I rubbed her forehead, I told her she was the best mom five kids could have ever asked for. I said, “I know you worry about me, but you don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’ll be ok. If you need to let go, then you let go.” In August of that year, she passed away peacefully, holding my brother’s hand and listening to her favorite music.

Emotionally devastated isn’t a sufficient term for the loss of your mom. The words to describe that loss do not exist. I lost my mom, my best friend, my greatest advocate, and yet some part of me was relieved. Relieved that she no longer had to suffer, that she no longer had to be afraid.

Three months ago, my brother told me about a song by Ed Sheeran called Supermarket Flowers. He said when he listened to it, the song destroyed him. Me being who I am, I was skeptical. I’m not a fan of Ed Sheeran. I don’t think I’ve ever listened to one of his songs. But I listened to this one. I listened, and the song shattered me. It still shatters me.

When my mom passed, old flowers were on her window sill, just like in the song. The maker of family albums in my family is me, Matthew, just like in the song. There are so many parallels between Sheeran’s experience and mine. Some people call that synchronicity. I call it a message, fulfilling a promise my mom once made. A promise to let me know she was ok no matter where she was.

“I’m in pieces, and it’s tearing me up, but I know a heart that’s been broken is a heart that’s been loved.”

5. SOMETHING ABOUT YOU BY ELDERBROOK & RUDIMENTAL

The First Time I Realized Memory is Unreliable

The time is past, present, and future. The place is wherever.

The conundrum here is that I don’t know exactly when I realized that memory is as unreliable as a belligerent horse. I recall receiving hints about it over the years. In the film Memento, Guy Pearce’s Leonard Shelby has a great monologue explaining that memory is imperfect. It can change the shape of a room, change the color of a car. Internal and external factors inform these changes. If you don’t believe Christopher Nolan or me, listen to the author of Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro: “Memory, I realize, can be an unreliable thing; often, it is heavily colored by the circumstances in which one remembers.”

Most of the events in this narrative occurred in the distant past, at least from the perspective of a single lifetime. For instance, the fight with Super Evil Scott took place 36 long years ago. A lot has happened since then, and, as we all know, memory is inconsistent and malleable. It can be reshaped by outside influences, rewritten by ego, and obliterated by trauma. Altering events in our minds isn’t dishonesty, delusion, or hysteria. It is simply the nature of memory.

Sometimes we alter our narratives so much that we develop false memories. Sometimes we combine separate events into a single composite memory. In the case of composite memory, the events within the memory are often related. They share a common thread, such as location, or are linked by the emotions they invoke. I first heard the song Faith on the playground at Parkway, and the first time I heard it was through the open window of Mrs. Gulden’s classroom, of that, I am sure. I remember the diffusion of sound. I remember the calm that came over me when I heard that organ music. I also remember the fight, the pain, the strange silence of the crowd. Those things both happened, but whether or not they happened simultaneously is up for debate.

Although the explicit meaning of Thinking About You by Elderbrook & Rudimental is addiction and the intimate bonds that form in recovery once barriers have broken down, the absurdity of the men in this support group line dancing always reminds me of the unpredictable relationship between music and memory. Sometimes we want events to have a soundtrack. I don’t know why that is. Perhaps because we are a culture of moviegoers and background music increases the drama of the situation, making it more meaningful. Or maybe it’s hard to imagine events occurring in absolute silence.

When your world crashes down around you, it feels like chaos, like the apocalypse, but these collapses often occur in quiet stillness. As the coroner wheeled his body out the front door the morning my father died, I bent down, and kissed his head. This memory is always accompanied by Rufus Wainwright’s rendition of Hallelujah, a song my father loved to hear me sing. Our relationship lacked tenderness and intimacy, but when he asked me to sing Hallelujah, I felt close to him. Now, the memories of every happy and tragic moment I shared with him accompany that song.

I miss the company we had ... back when I was still on track . Now I'm making my own paradise ... now the drink is tasting strange ... and the high isn't the same.

THE BEAT GOES ON

Reflecting upon the moments tied to these songs, I am reminded of music’s profound impact on my life. It is a testament to the power of melodies and lyrics that they transport us back in time, eliciting a flood of emotions and memories. Though the songs in my playlist may not have existed during those specific moments, they have become an integral part of the stories I carry within me. Some are scars, some are healing balms.

Music has served as a companion to me, intertwining itself with my experiences, both joyful and heartbreaking. It has been there in the hospital corridors, whispering solace when fear threatened to consume me. It accompanied the fistfight that taught me the futility of anger and the value of empathy. It serenaded moments of pure connection, like when I held Lily in my arms, realizing that simple moments of love are the truest comforts.

Music also holds the weight of loss and grief. It was present in the checkout aisle as I recognized the painful reality of my mother's fading memory. And it continues to be a vessel for my longing and the bittersweet beauty of reminiscence. I find solace in the haunting melodies and poignant lyrics, a connection to a past that shapes my present.

These songs, intertwined with the tapestry of my life, have shown me that music is more than mere entertainment or background noise. It can evoke the deepest emotions, transport us through time and space, and illuminate our existence's fragile and transient nature.

My playlist is not just a collection of songs but a soundtrack to my journey—a symphony of laughter, tears, triumphs, and heartaches. It is a reminder that life's moments, both the firsts and the lasts, are etched in our souls, forever connected to the melodies that bring them to life.

I will continue to listen, to let the songs wash over me, evoking memories and reminding me that every note can transport me back to those significant moments. And as I move forward, I carry the melodies and lyrics with me, knowing that music will always be there, a constant companion, ready to accompany me on this evolving playlist called life.

Here's one for you, Dad:

Maybe I've been here before. I know this room. I've walked this floor.

More Songs From the Playlist of My Life:

• JUMP AROUND BY HOUSE OF PAIN

The First Time I Kissed a Girl

• I WILL NOT LET YOU DOWN BY DON MCGLASHAN

The Last Time I Walked Unassisted

• THE REASON BY HOOBASTANK

The First Time I Thought I Was in Love

• IN THE MEANTIME BY SPACEHOG

The Last Time I Drank Alcohol

• THE LUCKIEST BY BEN FOLDS

The First Time I Knew I Was in Love

You can find the complete playlist, along with some other favorites, right here. Just follow Phil.