Just one?

Whenever I go to small-ish shows where phone cameras are scarse and attendees are utterly lost in the music, I think about this photography book I found while doing research into the DC Punk scene. Dance of Days: Two Decades of Punk in the Nation's Capital is one of the most compelling books I’ve ever come across, primarily because its brutal pages all beg that question. How many people have to witness something for it to be considered an historical event?

Does it have to be documented in some way to prove it happened? Do there have to be photos, videos, and plastic drink cups? Precious artifacts to suggest, “Oh, yes. One night, in early April of 2025, three-hundred bodies crammed into an event space and watched six master musicians play one of the greatest live shows ever crafted.”

Well—the only evidence I have to prove I went to the that particular show is four vinyl records, an XL band-tee, a lime green wrist-band, and a ridiculous, kick-ass story.

I know an opening act is worth their weight in gold if I don’t feel the urge to check my phone at any point during their set.

Sister Ray is easily the best opener I’ve ever seen, save for maybe Turnover opening for Men I Trust back in 2019. She’s witty, talented, and perhaps the best songwriter I’ve ever had the pleasure to discover live. Her voice slips out and hangs in the air like the sweet smell of fresh blue-berry muffins. Her lyrics toe the exact right line between poetic and raw, leaving you haunted and doleful and desperate to know more. The music lulled everyone in the room into a cocoon of soulful serenity. It was was exactly what we needed to transition into The Weather Station’s particular brand of ethereral, exitential, jazzy rock.

Like Sister Ray said, this was a room full of people who love music. Not just stars or songs or passive playlists—music. Those are always the best rooms to be in, period.

Let’s go back for a second, though.

Initally, I was bummed I missed out on seeing Anna Tivel (whom I also adore) open for The Weather Station at the Bowery Ballroom on Tuesday, April 1st. Of course, I’d neglected to buy tickets in time, and that show sold out several months ago. Thankfully, they added a show the following evening at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. I jumped at the chance and bought two tickets. Being a massive fan of The Weather Station’s sound and lyrical genius, I expected a good show. Hell, I even expected a great one.

Except—this show was perfect.

I mean it. There was not a single moment, word, or note out of place. From the moment I arrrived at the venue, to the moment I stepped on the train platform to go back home to Manhattan, the entire experience was pitch perfect.

Did the bartender give me more rum than coke in my rum-and-coke? Yes.

Did I let a rando Gen X man smoke me out in the middle of the floor? Also, yes.

Did I spend a small fortune on vinyl and band merch? Yeah. You bet I did.

Should I have done those things? Hmm, maybe not, but it’s been a week and I’m sitting here, listening to Humanhood on vinyl, wearing my XL Weather Station band t-shirt, and cannot bring myself to feel a single ounce of regret. In fact, the spiritual, airy side of me believes I was supposed to see this show.

Half-way through the set, I had the distinct feeling that I, along with everyone else in that room, was meant to be there. Something from deep in the recesses of my cross-faded mind said the following—

Music is why we’re alive, maaaan.

All of this material—organic and non—has been developed, invented, and created for this moment, right here. The stars have aligned and I am bathed in electric golden light, watching six incredible musicians connect over something real—so innately human.

There is no sweeter sound than that of a woman’s soft, but powerful vocals laid over a solid bass line and precious woodwinds. I can’t explain it exactly, but something told me this particular blend of voice, instruments, and reverb was created by the universe so that I could finally admit to myself that music isn’t just why we’re—as in the human race—alive.

Music is why I’m alive—why I’m here.

It was instanteous. It was like someone turning a light on after several days in a blackout. It was inticing and inviting and authentic. It was—yeah, maybe a direct result of smoking that random guy’s weed, but it happened nonetheless. I lit up on the floor of the most beautiful music hall I’ve ever seen with a total stranger and you know what?

I felt so seen.

I had the strangest impression that I must have seen one of Mozart’s operas back in whenever the fuck or heard Miles Davis play with John Contrane at the Café Bohemia in September of 1956. I must have been a Gen X dude named Jason born in 1965 and heard Sonic Youth or Stereolab play in their hay days.

Seeing this concert, hearing this band, it all made me think, “Wow. This is a story I’ll tell my unsuspecting, cooler, younger co-worker with a lip ring one day.” (Unless climate crisis kills us all first, which is likely.)

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Abby, you were stoned. Of course it was a great concert.”

To that I say, “Eh.”

I’ve been to plenty of concerts stoned and never felt as good as I did at this one. Everything just made sense there, okay?

The opener was great and a true stunner. The music overall was mind-blowing. The band’s chemistry was off the charts. The mix was crafted by the music Gods themselves. The crowd was thoughtful and proud and alive. There wasn’t a still foot in the house. The energy was flowing just right.

Even in spite the strangest hot/cold, rainy weather outside, the temperature inside was excellent. No notes. I didn’t have to take off my big-ass, Levi’s Trucker Coat.

The funniest part of the night was when this random Gen X man went on and on to me about TOOL, Pavement, Taylor Swift, and his new Dominican girlfriend. Finally, just as the show started, he offered me some of his drug of choice.

“You have a vape?” I asked, knowing how most Gen Z music goers sneak weed into the venues.

He guffawed and said, “I’m Gen X. We don’t do vapes.”

“Can I quote you on that?” I asked playfully.

“Sure, who gives a fuck? Here,” and then he handed me a lighter and a glass pipe.

It was—dare I say it—the perfect show.

After it ended, I met Tamara Lindeman by the merch table. While I paid for my vinyl stash, I told her my favorite Weather Station album was How Is It That I Should Look At the Stars?

She said, “Really? That’s the dark one. No one likes that one.”

“I do.” I reassured her. “It’s stunning. One of the most beautiful albums I’ve ever heard, really.”

Then, we bonded over our shared love of XL band t-shirts. I told her I liked to sleep in them and got embarassed immediately after I admitted it. I couldn’t believe I’d practically told her my plan was to jump into my linen bed sheets that very night and snuggle deep into her band-tee. She laughed anyway and showed a smile I’ve never seen on her face before—bright, shining. (The Weather Station’s music is dark and exitential as fuck, okay?) It was so, so beautiful.

I think she must have known I was stoned because she told me to be careful when I replaced the cellophane shrink wrapper over the album she signed for me. I didn’t even ask her to sign it. She just offered to and wrote “To Abby, 💛Enjoy💛”

I didn’t even dread the hour-long train ride home afterwards.

Photo Sources:

• The Music Hall of Williamsburg

• “‘Humanhood’ Review: The Weather Station’s Existential Songs” from the WSJ

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Bandits on the Run describe themselves as “indie-folk-pop-americana outfit,” and I whole-heartedly agree. The terms “multi-hyphenate” and “multi-instrumentalist” do not even begin to describe the sheer power these three wield together. They opened a show in January with a truly startling live performance of their song, “Spellbound,” as if to designed entrap the audience in their rhapsodic snare. You cannot help but stare at this trio as they twist and turn around each other like fates.

As is typical of the local New York music scene, I’d heard about Bandits through a friend of a friend of a coworker. They announced a monthly residency at the Bowery Electric for the entire Spring season. Every second Monday of the month, they grace New York with their invigorating presence, alongside carefully curated opening acts of their choice.

Back in January, I took the 6 train to Bowery Electric and descended the stairs to the basement venue. I stood there, a little too high and quietly drinking a Diet Coke, surrounded by larger groups of fan hopefuls wearing band merchandise and talking quietly about the premature closing of the Broadway production of Swept Away. For those of you who don’t follow Broadway news, Swept Away is the latest example in a long string of unfair closures because no one can afford the operating costs and exorbitant rent of a theater off 42nd Street. (For the record, I saw it in previews, and it was incredible.)

Adrian Enscoe, otherwise known as the guitarist from my bad joke, starred in that production, alongside Broadway favorites Stark Sands and John Gallagher Jr. The classical cellist is his wife, Sydney Shepherd, a powerhouse soprano and actress in her own right. They are joined by their poetic, accordion-wielding alto, Regina Strayhorn, who acts as the band leader of sorts. Her stage presence alone could sell out a stadium tour. Together, the three of them create musical magic.

The show felt like a party. It was a celebration of their hard work and serendipitous, subway busker connection. You couldn’t help but smile along as those three spoke to each other with unbridled admiration and support. Surrounded by their fans, family, and friends, they talked to the audience as if everyone was in on the joke. Giggles and harmonies filled the room. The energy flowed seamlessly, despite hours of standing in cramped quarters. It was a beautiful thing to witness, in its own eccentric way.

Something similar happens anytime I trek to Brooklyn on the L Train for a show.

Brooklynites fill the rooms of Union Pool, Purgatory, Elsewhere, and Baby’s All Right to sway in unison to the music of beloved bands discovered on a random Wednesday night. Old friends and acquaintances run into each other and exchange warm hellos. Strangers bond over their shared appreciation for the music and craft beer. The aura of community is palpable. For me, despite not knowing anyone, there is a familiar current running just beneath the worn-hardwood floors—sort of like, I could know everyone.

Last week, I was fortunate enough to see Brooklyn favorite, h. pruz, open for Maine-based Dead Gowns.

h. pruz is one of those bands that grows on a listener like moss—slowly and patiently. More than once, I found myself leaning in to watch as the four players, Hannah, Felix, Rick, and Elijah, blended their sounds together seamlessly to create something entirely transcendent. The energy between the four of them was noticeably lucid and altogether lovely.

Band chemistry is such an important aspect of the live show experience, especially for local bands looking to grow an audience. Without it, something is fundamentally missing. Both the Bandits and h. pruz occupy this impeccable space.

Though, compared to the Bandits and their boisterous personalities and full-bodied harmonies, h.pruz fills the room with a dreamlike airiness, like being let in on a secret in the wee hours of the morning. Hannah is a remarkable singer, guitar player, and songwriter. At first, their stage presence is quiet and seemingly unassuming. A less-informed person might underestimate them. They would be wrong.

As soon as Pruzinsky begins to pick at the strings of their acoustic guitar, some of the most beautiful, unbelievable sounds emerge. Their characteristic starling voice and bare-faced lyrics follow in quick succession. The room fills with the well-mixed flavors of electric guitar, bass, and stripped down percussion, leaving only the subtlest notes of freshness, wildflowers, and honey crisp apples in their wake.

You lean your back on the bar, eyes and ears drawn to sounds you can’t accurately identify or describe. As they end their set, you turn to your concert companion and whisper, “Well, what did I tell you?”

They agree.

It must be seen to be believed.

There’s more!

Here are a few other New Yorkers you should be listening to—like, right now!

^^^(I cannot get enough of their new song!!)

‘Till next time!

Thanks for reading, and if you have any recommendations, thoughts, or queries, send ‘em my way! I’d love to hear from you!

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Nashville has often been called “Music City,” due to its long-recognized and foundational role in the history of country music, blues, and rock-and-roll. Home to several of the world’s most famous country music venues, including The Grand Ole Opry & The Ryman Auditorium, Nashville is more or less the Mecca of Music in the United States. For many aspiring singer-songwriters and musicians looking to be the next Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, or dare I say it, Taylor Swift, moving to Nashville seems par for the course these days.

Despite the well-documented and varied local music scenes present in New York, LA, DC, Portland, and Chicago, something about Nashville screams “This city is all about good, live music! F*** the elitist bullshit.” Compared to New York’s special brand of hipster, highbrow intellect and LA’s strict diet of gluten-free glitz & glam, Nashville seems like a more down-to-Earth place to base oneself. (For the record, I’m a gluten-free Southerner living in NYC, so I say this with all the love in my heart.)

I first became aware of Nashville when I was a little kid living in Southwestern Virginia. I remember listening to Nashville born-and-bred country and blues on the radio when my family would drive the four hours to Knoxville from Marion, VA to visit my grandparents. My dad, despite being the son of a staunch New Jersey Democrat, loved old-school country and bluegrass music. The intros and lyrics to both “Rocky Top” and “My Tennessee Mountain Home” are forever branded into my memories of that time because of just how often he played them.

My dad’s family lived and breathed music in all its forms. Both of my uncles studied music in college and took us to regional marching band competitions where high school band kids battled it out to be named champions of…walking synchronously and playing instruments at the same time…I guess!

The point is: as a long-time fan of the music of Dolly Parton, Chet Akins, and Miley Cyrus, Nashville’s music scene has always been on my radar (and for good reason!) But, as I grew up and my music taste evolved into new genres, new scenes, and new interests, I let my appreciation for Nashville country fade into the background of my typical listening habits.

That is, until I heard Stephen Day for the very first time on a late night in November of 2016. I’ve been chasing that high ever since.

This issue of Beyond The Algorithm is dedicated to Stephen Day, Rusty Clanton, and every other Nashville Nobody who’s played every venue they can, from the tiniest of house shows and chair-less bars, to the Bowery Ballroom and the Troubadour. All of them deserve every ounce of success one can possibly reach in this crazy business. They are some of my favorite artists, period, and more people should know about them!

1. Stephen Day is easily one of my favorite artists of all time. I’ve seen him evolve so spectacularly over the last nine(!) years. From hearing his first stripped down debut album in my tiny freshman dorm room, to sharing his newest single with coworkers who’ve never heard of him, I like to say I grew up with Steve. I’ve seen him live five times, all in different cities across the East Coast. (I’m seeing him play the Bowery Ballroom tonight, and yes, I will probably cry.) I’ve met him too, and he’s as kind, talented, and bubbly as you might expect a well-mannered boy from Georgia to be. From writing bluesy acoustic numbers at Belmont University, to releasing one of the grooviest albums of 2024, Steve keeps the bangers coming. On a personal note, Steve has written some of the sweetest love songs closest to my heart. I highly recommend “Autumn Song” and “Is There Anywhere It Ain’t Coming Down?”

2. Rusty Clanton is arguably the best songwriter of his peer group, possibly his generation. Don’t believe me? Take a listen to his EP, Big Bear, Little Bear. You will hear the magic soon enough. Rusty was my first, real taste of the singer/songwriter genre on my own terms. I discovered him on YouTube in 2013, when being a YouTuber was still something boomers thought wasn’t a real job. Rusty’s brand—scratch that. Rusty didn’t need to brand himself. He oozes authenticity and vulnerability. His songwriting spoke to me in a way few had up until that point. It was late one night when I found his song “Novels.” That first music video was just Rusty playing guitar on the side of the highway in New Mexico. It’s stunning in its unassuming subtlety. To this day, it is one of my favorite love songs. I cannot recommend it enough.

3. Despite being based in Nashville, Kaley Rutledge —or De Joie— created one of the most vulnerable and touching four-song EPs about her month-long trip to Western Europe. With August, Rutledge seamlessly blends her personal story with her travels abroad. Each song, named for a famous European city, somehow captures its namesake’s spirit. “Paris” is a revelatory love song; “Amsterdam” is a wistful letter home to a lost lover. “Oslo” rejoices; it speaks to the healing freedom one can find after heartbreak. “Bern (River Lament)” stands apart from the other three in its unabashed sadness and self-awareness. The pairing of orchestral strings and auto-tuned vocals make for a slow, underwater trip into one’s own depressive episode. In all, it’s one of the most cohesive EPs I’ve ever heard. It stands apart from so many others in my mind. Kaley’s other work is just as artistically and musically fulfilling, especially her sophomore EP, Winter, which features a sweet cover of “All I Have To Do Is Dream” with the one and only, Rusty Clanton!

4. Adia Victoria is one of the only reasons I’m willing to tell people I’m from the South. Her Southern gothic, indie blues sound always brings me to a singular place as a Southern transplant living in a Northern city. Her work is the perfect blend of Angela Davis and Flannery O’Connor, punctuated by a deep appreciation for the sounds and culture of bluegrass. As a massive plus, she’s collaborated with Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit, The National, and Margo Price. I highly recommend checking out “Magnolia Blues” and “South’s Gotta Change”

5. Olivia Barton, of TikTok fame, deserves more credit for her mastery of expressing all parts of the human condition. Her lyrics speak to a lived experience I can’t help but empathize with—which is what good art should do. Olivia’s Spotify bio identifies her songwriting style as “stream of consciousness journal entries,” and I have to agree. I really believe William Faulkner and Elliott Smith would equally enjoy and laud Barton’s quiet, tearful meandering. It’s honest, it’s real, and it makes me cry every time I listen. I highly recommend new listeners try “Baby Pictures.” The haunting lyrics in tandem with the understated piano chords and rolling guitar make for a crushing self-reflection on family dynamics and artistic expression. (Olivia, I forgive you for making the move to LA while I finished writing this piece 😅)

But wait! There’s more!

Looking for some Nashville-based punk, metal, and alternative recommendations? Check out the rest of these incredible artists below!

‘Till next time!

One of these days, I’m going to get myself down to Nashville and see all of these folks in their natural habitat. I’d probably die of happiness if Stephen Day, Rusty Clanton, and Kaley Rutledge formed a super group. This is my direct appeal: Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, I need you three to collaborate. I need to be invited! Music gods, smile kindly on me!

Thanks for reading, and if you have any recommendations, thoughts, or queries, send ‘em my way! I’d love to hear from you!

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While everyone else dwells in the swell of love, I prefer to drown in the whirlpool of what once was and never will be again. Depressing, I know, but I swear the music makes it worth the heartache! After all, it only hurts until it rhymes.

In a year dominated by pop princesses and romantic eroticism, several great break-ups albums were also released in 2024, including Rachel Chinouriri’s What A Devastating Turn of Events and John Gallagher Jr’s Goodbye or Something. Both albums are surprisingly energetic and unfiltered looks at the torn psyches of two people burned and tossed aside by their selfish significant others. Chinouriri takes the alt-pop route with her viral hit “Never Need Me,” while Gallagher embodies the mid-west emo spirit and all but screams in agony in “Going Grey.” (I highly recommend checking out both of those albums, by the way.)

It all got me thinking. What exactly makes a great break-up album? Must the writer/subject bear their soul for all to hear? Is there some secret place songwriters go the moment they say or hear the words “It’s over”?

For me, a great break-up album should hold a little bit of every emotion—fear, hurt, sadness, anger, bitterness, acceptance, and regret, though not necessarily in that order. There will be some question of how to move forward—with someone else, perhaps? Or, the more likely, one must face it alone.

Here are a few of my personal favorite break-up albums.

My favorite break-up album of all time is easily Crushing by Julia Jacklin. Crushing (2019) encapsulates the span of emotions one feels after a significant break-up. “Pressure to Party” speaks to the knee-jerk impulse to get over someone as quickly as possible by going out with friends, dancing at the club, and meeting someone new. “Don’t Know How to Keep Loving You” is a demoralizing reflection on falling out of love. In “Turn Me Down,” Jacklin swirls together a final moment with a long-term partner with her own desperate pleas for them to let her down easy, rather than drag out the inevitable. “Comfort” is a stunning little acoustic, half-meditation/half-autopsy. Repeated affirmations of “I’ll be okay,” and “I’ll be alright” follow hopeful wishes for her long-term partner to recover from her decision to leave them.

The entire album follows a bass-heavy, meandering thread, as if to suggest the ongoing, often cyclical process of grieving a long-term relationship. If you ever want to get high and have a good cry to a record, this one fits the bill perfectly. (I’m partial to listening to it on vinyl in the dark.)

History of a Feeling found me in the midst of a severe break-up relapse. It was March of 2023, and I was desperate to finally feel the ache in my chest fully. The songs on this album hold that space for me. “Crying in Public” does exactly what it says on the tin—it’s a pure, full-on sob. “Resentment” is a closed fist held at your side as you lie awake next to the person you love just as much as you hate them. “History of a Feeling” is a direct appeal—it’s “I still love you, but I don’t want to.”

Diaz toes the line well between quiet, harmonized cries and unadulterated rage. This album is best heard in its entirety on a long train trip, preferably the F Train towards Coney Island or the Amtrak from NYC to DC.

The first time I heard this album, it was on a cassette player. The tape was 1 of 50, in a limited run from one of my favorite artists, Rusty Clanton. The tape sounds—buzzy, crackly, and warm—seemed to fit Clanton’s pretty tenor so perfectly. The songs themselves, all precious and hushed acoustics, are among some of my favorites of any singer/songwriter album ever. “Dirty Words” is the immediate aftermath. “No, really I’m doing fine.” It’s a plea, a missing piece song. “I Hope It’s You” is a romantic oasis in the middle of the desert. Its careful optimism sings, where the rest of the album howls. “False Start” is a bitter-sweet conclusion to an isolated series of haunted songs. It’s a death note of the most empathetic kind—the first time mutual responsibility is truly acknowledged.

In just seven songs, Clanton captures the lonely side of loss. Here, we learn what it is to be left and to leave. I listen to this EP on cassette at least once a year. It used to be more, but the tape has started its inevitable descent into degradation a little too early for my liking. Though, the tinny fuzziness of Rusty’s tape-recorded voice is still one of the prettiest sounds I’ve ever heard.

What does it sound like to lose the one person with whom you made the best music of your life? Look no further than multi-instrumentalist and producer Alain Johannes and his furious album, Spark. While not a break-up album, per say, Spark is an truly immersive experience in the realm of lost love.

The story goes that Johannes saw long-time collaborator and lover, Natasha Shneider, in a dream the night before he met her. Immediately, he knew they were destined to be together. The two of them made names for themselves playing for and alongside 90s rock favorites like Queens of the Stone Age, Soundgarden, and Mark Lanegan. They fronted their own alternative rock group with drummer Jack Irons in 1990 called Eleven, which came to be an important and symbolic number for the two musicians.

Unfortunately, Shneider passed away after a battle with cancer on July 2, 2008 at 11:11 AM. Two years later, Johannes released Spark, “the most direct ode to Natasha,” and with it, came a flurry of unbridled pain and unflinching grief. “Endless Eyes” starts the album off with the signature acoustic rumbling of his cigar-box guitar, with lyrics alluding to the frustration of having to live on after the love of your life has shed their mortal coil. “The Bleeding Whole” is reminiscent of Eleven’s blend of transcendent harmonies and ethereal strings. It’s a stunning portrait of the music the two of them created together. The album closes with “Unfinished Plan,” a little tune that takes pains to laugh at the absurdity of death. Indeed, may we all not be afraid to let go when the end comes.

I don’t listen to this album often, if only because the breadth of its anguish could so easily swallow me whole. From time to time, it’s a good reminder of how grief can pervade our waking lives. I like to listen to this album on long Winter walks through the park in my neighborhood.

Goodnight, God Bless, God Speed, and All The Rest.

I sincerely hope you all have a pleasant and love-filled Valentine’s Day! ❤️❤️ Maybe take a listen to these albums next week…

Thanks for reading, and if you have any recommendations, thoughts, or queries, send ‘em my way! I’d love to hear from you!

‘Till next time!

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It’s been more than a few years since I’ve seen this film. As a kid, it was my one of my favorites. I rented it from the local Movie Gallery at least a dozen times before someone (my dad, probably) caved and bought it for me on DVD. I just couldn’t get enough. It hit all the right notes. The colors, the characters, the music, the New York City setting—I loved every second of it.

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I will admit my childhood love of this film was pretty surface-level. I was more concerned with the elements that made sense to my younger self, like the ballet sequences, the spinning teacups, and utterly adorable pig named Mu. (Can you blame me?) I remembered Uptown Girls the way everyone remembers their favorite shows, films, and albums from youth—always through the fond, rose-colored lens of nostalgia.

Upon re-watching it, I was pleased and a little validated, to discover something I’d never noticed before—something real. Uptown Girls is fundamentally a story about grief. Our two leads—Molly and Ray—both experience the unimaginable as children: the death of their parents. Yet, they each cope with their losses differently.

Molly lives a “charmed life,” in a Princess tower covered in pink, purple, and twinkly lights. Throughout the first half of the film, she outright refuses to grow up and become an adult, opting instead to give in to her childish, impulsive whims. In an act of seduction, she serves piles of tooth-rotting candy on a silver platter for Neal. She blows $1000k on Egyptian cotton sheets for the same guy who, by that point, wants to be rid of her because she’s impulsive and irresponsible. She plays rough with Ray’s barbies and tea set, often without asking. She resists numerous attempts from her best friends to help her downsize her life and get a real job. For years, she remains in the exact emotional place her parents left her: a confused, lonely child with unmet needs and severe abandonment issues.

Ray, by contrast, takes on the personality of the overly responsible, Type A germaphobe, terrified to be seen as anything other than prim, proper, and perfect. Any attempt from Molly to bring out Ray’s inner whimsy is met with quintessential Upper East Side snobbery and resentment. Even the “little girl” aspects of her life are literally and figuratively sterile. She’s sarcastic, cynical, and cold to everyone. With an absent, borderline-neglectful mother and a “dad for a vegetable,” it’s not hard to see how these sorts of coping strategies might give Ray a sense of control in an otherwise tense and uncertain environment.

On the face of it, these two are diametrically opposed in their approaches to dealing with pain. They clash at every turn until, finally, they meet at Coney Island, spin the teacup together, and embrace in solidarity after a shared, tearful breakdown. A meme of this particular moment has cropped up on Interfiefdom lately.

Almost all of these memes are some version of "My adult self is looking back at my younger self, wishing desperately I could heal/warn/save her.” Every time I see one, I sit there and stare at my phone for more than a few moments. I am always struck by the emotional depth of such an ephemeral image, which is a rarity for any doom scroll. A single meme brings every feeling and issue from my childhood back to the surface—abandonment, the fear of growing up, the untimely death of a loved one.

As it turns out, not only is Uptown Girls about the loss of one’s parent(s), but also, the loss of oneself—or at least, past versions of oneself. What do we lose when we grow up? What do we gain, if anything?

On this re-watch, I also was amazed by how many references I caught—things my eight-year-old-self couldn’t have known. Jeff Buckley. The Shining. 81st and 5th. Coney Island. MOMA. Nathan’s Hot Dogs. The mere concept of being and living Uptown. There are so many places depicted in this film I’ve now seen with my own eyes. It’s disorienting to be an adult—an adult who was once a child.

I think back on my life and wonder what I would say to my younger self. Would I warn her of what’s to come? Would I tell her to buck up, grow a thicker skin? Would I tell her to avoid those older men? Would I tell her to hold this film close to her chest? Would I tell her to let the pain grow from her fingertips, like branches? Let them show, I’d whisper. Don’t keep it all inside. Do not be ashamed to be loud.

Be louder. Keep dancing. Keep going.

I lost my dad on this day fourteen years ago. I’d just turned thirteen-years-old.

Over those fourteen years, I’ve gone through all the typical stages. I lived in denial. I’ve been depressed. I’ve been angry. I’ve bargained. I felt grown up in one way and totally stunted in another. For the most part, I’ve accepted all of this, though not necessarily with grace.

There’s a scene in Uptown Girls where, after finding her love interest half-naked in her employer’s kitchen, Molly walks through Central Park, angry, dejected, and alone. At every turn, there are families and loved ones—a father and daughter, a loving couple, a mother and her child—all the relationships (and people) Molly has lost.

I didn’t remember this scene from any of my previous watches. This time around, it’s stuck with me more than any other because I do the exact same thing. I see fathers and daughters in the wild and feel the familiar pang of loneliness. I remember that he never watched me graduate from high school or college. He’ll never see me get married. I’ll never know him as an adult. I’ve forgotten the sound of his voice. He’s just the remnants of old stories passed down before bedtime. Only facts, opinions, and songs make up the person I knew for twelve years. The memories grow fuzzier as the months turn into years, and the years turn into decades.

My father is a man out of focus.

It’s difficult for me to find a positive spin on all of this. Maybe there isn’t one. This film and its refusal to shy away from the hard stuff is certainly proof of that. Then again, it also ends with Molly and Ray having both learned important lessons about love, life, and loss. Ray learns to relinquish control and live more fully in her childhood present. Molly learns the value of responsibility, sacrifice, and ultimately finds confidence in her newly developed sense of self, without losing an ounce of her spark.

The legacy of loss looms large on us all, but without it, would we really know the true significance of living? Grief is beautiful in its multicolored reflections and refractions.

As cheesy and clichéd as it sounds, maybe it really is just about finding the right perspective.

P.S. Brittany Murphy and Dakota Fanning bring everything they’ve got to this film. Some might call it middling, but this last scene is just too sweet and heartwarming for words.

Thanks for reading, and if you have any recommendations, thoughts, or queries, send ‘em my way. I’d love to hear from you!

‘Til next time!

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Now, before you all accuse me of being late to the party, I know. I am late to the party. Despite the fact that I’ve been a long-time fan of Marling’s incredible work, I just never happened across this album until it showed up in my Spotify Discover Weekly three months ago.

Since then, I have listened to this album a copious amount of times. While it’s unlikely I would have fully appreciated the full scope of Marling’s genius back in 2013, I am grateful to embrace it now at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. I am particularly entranced by the first half, which constitutes four songs that flow seamlessly into one another, like a folk hero’s three chord symphony. The album’s critical success and reputation as one of the best singer-songwriter albums of the 21st Century (deserved, honestly) got me thinking—2013 really was a stellar year for this genre, as well as folk and Americana more broadly.

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Now, here’s the thing. I love folk music. If you grow up in a place like Appalachia, you’re pretty much guaranteed to hear it.

When I was a kid, my dad took it upon himself to provide me with this formative music education. On weekends, he took my brother and me to numerous folk festivals and concerts across the Southeast. (In fact, my hometown is the place where PBS films Song Of The Mountains.) On long road trips, our family spent hours and hours listening to beloved bluegrass groups on the radio, like the Dillards, the Osborne Brothers, and, of course, Bill Monroe & His Blue Grass Boys.

Perhaps most memorably, my dad liked to play the O Brother, Where Art Thou? film soundtrack on the car stereo with the speakers cranked up as as loud as they would go. I would roll my eyes at him from the backseat, mumbling something about how boring it was, before placing my foam headphones back on my ears and pressing “Play” on the Jonas Brothers album in my portable CD player. At the time, I was more interested in early ‘aughts pop and whatever Radio Disney was spinning. Despite my dad’s best efforts to turn me on to all things folk, bluegrass, and Americana, my palette just wasn’t ready for it yet.

As an adult, I’ve developed a keener appreciation. Thanks to this early exposure and many years of personal music discovery, these genres now make up a significant portion of my listener profile. If you looked at my Spotify library, any one of these genres could be found in every corner, crevice, and crawl space. They’re etched deep into my bones, and I just can’t quit ‘em.

So, it was sort of a surprise I hadn’t heard of this Laura Marling record. It inspired me to go back through my entire music library and see if I’d missed anything else. As I scrolled through my playlists and saved albums on Spotify, I realized just how many of my favorite folk albums were released in 2013, including The Ash & Clay (The Milk Carton Kids), Fossils (Aoife O’Donnovan), and Southeastern (Jason Isbell). What was it about the 2010s, a decade dominated by EDM, hip-hop, and teen pop, that fostered such a massive folk and Americana renaissance?

Let’s take a look back at some of the best (& some of my favorite) folk and singer-songwriter albums of 2013.

Southeastern— This fourth studio album for Jason Isbell earned its place on Rolling Stone’s Best 500 Albums of All Time List in 2020, as well as ranked high on NPR’s 10 Greatest Folk and Americana Albums of 2013. With utterly honest songs like “Elephant,” “Traveling Alone,” and “Super 8,” Southeastern features several of Isbell’s best songs to date. It’s no wonder the 10th-anniversary Deluxe released in 2023 was just as beloved as the original. My personal favorite on this record is “Songs She Sang in The Shower,” but every song is simply stunning. Just read what NPR critics Linda Fahey and Kim Ruehl had to say about the album in 2013:

“The songs on this disc are honest and painful, raw and revelatory, cathartic and compassionate, often all at once. The ones that don't shake your soul will rock you hard.”

As a native of the Southeast and unabashed lover of the Drive-By Truckers, for me, this record takes the damn cake.

The Ash & Clay— This album is a personal favorite of mine, even beyond all talk of prestige and genre. It was the soundtrack to my early twenties and features heavily on all of my playlists. The Milk Carton Kids are truly an underrated singer-songwriter duo and should be held in the same regard as Simon & Garfunkel (seriously). I saw them live at Baby’s All Right in 2023 and can safely say it was the most therapeutic concert experience ever. (Kenneth Pattengale and Joey Ryan are a comedic duo in their own right.)

While only their second studio album under the moniker, The Milk Carton Kids, The Ash & Clay features several of the group’s most iconic songs, including “Snake Eyes” and “Memphis.” This album earned many of the same accolades as several others on this list, including a coveted place on the NPR 2013 Folk & Americana Top 10 List. It speaks to the duo’s singular cut across the Folk and Americana landscape in the 2010s and why they continue to endure today.

“With harmonies so dangerously close they almost sound like one voice harmonizing with itself, The Milk Carton Kids released this bittersweet collection of social commentary and love songs.”

Stand-out Tracks: My personal favorite song on this record is “Years Gone By.” Its haunting lyrics and flawless harmonies, both characteristic of the duo and their entire discography, speak to me in a way few other love songs do. I cry every single time I listen to it. Warning: you probably will too.

Let’s Be Still— I would be remiss not to mention The Head and The Heart in an essay about folk music in the early 2010s. While I’m still partial to their self-titled debut album from 2011, Let’s Be Still has its own unique charm. Does it possess every single “cringe” element of that 2010s “Genericana” genre? Yup. Is it a bit derivative when you consider the earlier success of their contemporaries (Mumford & Sons, The Lumineers, Fleet Foxes, The Avett Brothers, etc.)? Eh, a little.

Yet, I can’t hate it! When I listen to this album, I am immediately thrown back in time to a distinct moment in my life. I was a teenager on the edge of young adulthood, staring out over the canyon before me: terrified, ecstatic, and well—a little shaky. In fact, I so strongly associate my adolescence with this genre that I find myself unable to cut ties with it completely. I fear that, in pursuit of whatever constitutes my mid-life crisis, I will be blasting these artists from whatever music listening technology we have by then, screaming about how good we had it in *checks notes* 2013. Anyway, Will Hermes only gave this album 3 stars out of 5, so, if not one of the best albums of 2013, it’s certainly a favorite of mine.

Stand-out Tracks: “Shake” & “Gone”

Build Me Up From Bones— I’ve only followed Sarah Jarosz since 2016, so this album was a recent discovery for me during a particularly late night deep dive into her early discography. Not only was Build Me Up From Bones nominated for Best Folk Album of the Year at the 56th Annual Grammys (Guy Clark’s My Favorite Picture of You, another great album on this list, actually won), it was also included on NPR’s 10 Ten Folk & Americana Albums List. Are you sensing a pattern, here? ;)

Build Me Up From Bones is a masterclass in musicianship and storytelling. It keeps its roots in traditional bluegrass but doesn’t lose a shred of its originality or freshness. It also perfectly showcases those carefully curated partnerships between Sarah Jarosz and her long-time collaborators, including producer and audio engineer, Gary Paczosa, bandmates Alex Hargreaves and Nathaniel Smith, and fellow bluegrass musician and performer, Aoife O'Donovan. Could you ask for a better portrait of emerging bluegrass music in the 2010s? I think not.

Stand-out Tracks: “Fuel The Fire” is a furious, harmonious tune characteristic of traditional bluegrass. Her rendition of “Simple Twist of Fate” is also one of the better, stripped down covers I’ve come across of this Bob Dylan classic.

Fare Thee Well!

There are too many amazing albums from this era to cover here, but 2013 really was a great year for folk music and all things singer-songwriter & Americana. For more recommendations, please check out the rest of my playlist here (Still using Spotify to share stuff, sorry):

Thanks for reading, and if you have any recommendations, thoughts, or queries, send ‘em my way! I’d love to hear from you!

‘Till next time!

As a final little treat, here are The Milk Carton Kids and Sarah Jarosz singing “Years Gone By” together at Austin City Limits back in November of 2013. The harmonies are literally out of this world.

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It’s mid-December. You’re browsing the dilapidated shelves of your favorite used bookstore. Up and down the aisles, you quietly meander, unsure what exactly it is you’re looking for. Perhaps you arrived here with the intention of buying your older brother a book on his latest hyper-fixation for Christmas. Perhaps, just before you walked in, you told yourself, “I’m only here to look in one section.” Perhaps you’re still convinced you’ll escape the clutches of these hallowed halls (okay, a mildew-y basement in Lower Manhattan) unscathed with open arms and a full bank account.

Sadly, you’re wrong. Two hours and $85 later, you leave with something in your reusable tote bag that jumped you in the alleyway and took you for all you had.

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See, I believe there are just some books that are meant to find you. Out of the blue, they make themselves known and say “Hey you! Yeah, you with the dumbass look on your face. I’m here to change your fucking life.” These sorts of books only come around a few times in your life. Like lovers you meet in your early-twenties or strangers you bond with in-between concert sets, they change your entire approach to life in an instant and always leaving you wanting more.

For me, it’s only happened a few times— or five, to be exact. Five books pushed me to the ground like a bully, taught me the cool girl gospel like a sage, and then sent me back on my way like a Good Samaritan. Almost like, it never happened. Except it did happen. My life tilted on its axis every time. If this has ever happened to you, you’ll know what I mean.

Five Books. Five Discoveries. Five Moments. Five Authors. Five Stories.

These aren’t book reviews, so much as long-overdue thank you cards. Thank you for changing my life. Thank you for putting me into a new state of mind. Thank you for giving me purpose. Thank you for showing me I’m not alone.

These are the books I can’t recommend enough.

1. I Could Tell You Stories: Sojourns in the Land of Memory by Patricia Hampl

This first book found me in a now-defunct, used Christian Bookstore in the Summer of 2017. I was at the beach for a week with my best friend from high school. Both self-proclaimed introverts, we’d exhausted every other source of summer beach fun: tanning on the beach (I burned), swimming in the ocean (yuck), and playing a round of putt-putt golf (actually enjoyable!) So, in typical, introverted fashion, we went to the island’s only used bookstore.

Would you believe it, I don’t even remember the name. All I remember is the store owner was a nice, older lady who enjoyed buying and reselling Christian Romance Fiction. You know the ones—the mass market paperbacks with various Amish women on the covers you could buy at the mall bookstores of yesteryear, where they sold copies of the King James Bible next to Daily Meditations for Women and NEEDTOBREATHE CDs? Yeah, that kind.

Searching through shelves and shelves of that genre was an entertaining challenge. Was there any needle of substance in this haystack of curse-free, “waiting for marriage” abstinence?

Surprisingly, there was.

I’m not exactly sure why this bookstore was in possession of Patricia Hampl’s memoir. Of all writers, why this little-known wordsmith of dance, poetry, and memory? Maybe it was the unassuming cover image of a suburban, white house surrounded by trees. It suggested the book was perfect for reading on a humid day at the beach. Maybe it was the National Book Critics Circle Award Finalist Stamp plastered on the front cover. It suggested some amount of success and prestige. Maybe it was enough to tempt the right kind of reader, but certainly not enough to display it in the window for the casual browser.

Whatever it was, I thought nothing of it at the time. Compared to the two books of accidentally-religious historical fiction already in my arms, coming across this work of nonfiction was tantamount to striking gold in nineteenth-century California: ridiculously lucky and not so easily reproduced.

I expected to read two chapters of this book on the beach before letting it join its companions in my mom’s bedside vacation stack. Fortunately for me, its contents kept me up into the wee hours of the morning. I was desperate to finish it. Not only is Hampl’s writing exquisite, her individual essays read like a who’s who of nineteen-year-old Abby’s taste in literature and poetry: predictably, Walt Whitman, Sylvia Plath, Anne Frank, & Michel de Montaigne.

Beyond that, this book gave me a sort of crash course in personal essays & memoir. It expanded my idea of what memory and reality really mean, particularly in retrospective moments when you think you remember something so clearly. Then, someone reminds you that, oh, it did not, in fact, happen that way or at all.

Most incredibly, this book fostered one of my truest and deepest love affairs to date: my desire to visit, work, and live in the city of Prague.

I found myself enamored with Prague as a high school senior while reading another memoir for my European History class, Under A Cruel Star by Heda Margolius Kovály. This book first sparked my fascination with the culture, literature, and history of a country I’d never even visited: The Czech Republic.

When Hampl’s book found me and led me to the Prague Summer Writing Program, my life shifted into sharp focus. Not only was I accepted to this Summer Writing Program on my own merit, I also had the opportunity to meet my authorial hero in the flesh. As one of the founding teachers of that program, it felt like Hampl was leading me to my fortune: “Come to the city of your dreams for a summer of art, poetry, and honest-to-God instruction from professional writers!” The Summer of 2018 was also the 50th Anniversary of the Prague Spring. Witnessing that would have made every single dream of history major Abby come true.

Alas, it was not to be. Something about the dangers of traveling as a single, young woman overseas and the inconvenience of having to shell out $1,000 cash to make that happen—yeah, it was a long-shot. Despite every artistic impulse telling me to go, I let myself be talked out of it and, instead, spent the summer crying over a loser-y actor who rejected me harshly (in bed) after a month of careful courting.

I don’t think I’ve ever been as optimistic about myself and my abilities as I was in the Spring of 2018. It was remarkably idealistic of me to believe all of that was actually coming my way. Still, I miss the courage and gumption that kid must have had to submit her decidedly less-than-adequate writing for foreign strangers to read and critique.

Even now, six years later, I regret not going on that adventure. I should have gone. That much is obvious to me. That’s what I mean when I say that books have the power to find you, shake you up, and change the direction of your life.

This one certainly set me on a new and particular path.

2. Tell Me If You’re Lying: Essays by Sarah Sweeney

The second book found me in my undergraduate campus bookstore. If you’ve never visited a campus bookstore before, they’re sort of like if Barnes & Noble and the public library had a really ugly love child. You lose all the good qualities of both. The only books you’ll find there are the ones you’ll fill with sticky notes, highlighter ink, and tear stains from your caffeine-fueled all-nighters. Dress it up in whatever corporate color scheme from the early 2000s they picked to modernize the “brand,” and you’ve got a university bookstore (mine happened to be Blue, Grey, & Gold).

As a chronic overachiever, I had already pre-ordered my textbooks for the Fall semester. After waiting in the pick-up line for forty-five minutes, the bookstore employees dropped a whopping pile of novels and memoirs on the counter in front of me. See, I’d signed up to take a class on Women’s Erotica in an effort to get out of my comfort zone. I was also nineteen and painfully embarrassed by my sexual inexperience. Nervous about the prospect of making an utter fool of myself, I wanted to get a head-start on researching my “textbooks” before the semester began. For the most part, each book had some Wikipedia entry full of quotes, controversies, and reviews attached to it. There was one, however, I’d never heard of: Sarah Sweeney’s Tell Me If You’re Lying.

On the first day of class, the professor informed us we’d be reading this book first. Thinking nothing of it beyond taking a few notes for our class discussion, I started the book, intent to learn just enough to make a good first impression. Instead, this book brought me face-to-face with my sweet tea-drinkin’, hootin’ and hollerin’, white trash childhood—but you know, in a good way!

Each new essay I read, I felt more and more of a kinship to Sweeney. Dancing naked to Madonna? Same! Staying with that side of your Southern family for the Summer? Cringe-inducing, but so real. Taking care of your dying father and overcoming decades of internalized shame and abuse? God, yeah. She got me. It felt a little like I was reading a version of my life that took place in an alternative universe, told by someone with more wit, whimsy, and wisdom in their pinky finger than I possessed in my entire body.

This incredible reading experience was heightened by my decision to send a borderline-fangirl email to Sarah that same semester. I told her how much her essays meant to me. I told her that her courage to write this book made me feel valid in the life I was living: a burgeoning Riot Grrrl of the South with pink hair, a thing for older men, and a burning desire to get the fuck out. Her subsequent, thoughtful responses were no small thing. The fact that she’d taken time out of her day to write to a stranger was a huge deal. I talked about it with anyone who would listen for months afterwards. I even made a zine about the whole exchange!

In retrospect, I can trace almost everything back to this class and to this book. Zines, music, academia, writing— all of it stemmed from the four months I spent in that classroom. Even now, living in New York and struggling to relate to my Northeastern peers, I am reminded of Sarah’s essay: A Man Named Tex. That is precisely how it feels to be a Southern woman in a Northeastern climate, relying almost exclusively on the kindness of creepy neighbor guys who have their own odd sense of charm.

The fact that I still, after meeting Sarah on Zoom and becoming mutuals with her on Instagram, feel so close to this slim book of essays is a testament to how much I needed it. It’s a testament to how much I still need it. It remains in a stack on my bedside table, alongside the other books on this list, for whenever I want to relive the miracle.

3. Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own by Kate Bolick

Kate Bolick’s hilarious and deeply relatable memoir found me at a Barnes & Noble in Greensboro, North Carolina. Fresh off of Patricia Hampl’s call to action and Sarah Sweeney’s inspiring embrace of the unknown, Kate Bolick beckoned me into her beautiful world of single women writers.

Sitting on the carpeted floor of that college-town Barnes & Noble, I read the first three chapters of Spinster in one sitting. From Bolick’s childhood and teenage shenanigans, to her thoughtful and rich explorations of the “single woman” or “spinster” as a cultural phenomenon, I was entranced by her confidence and agency. A woman in her 40s made her way onto the New York Times Best Seller List with a book about being SINGLE? As a single, 20-year-old girl on the cusp of womanhood, I felt seen and understood in my spinster-y, introverted ways.

Equally as inspiring are Bolick’s revolving cast of characters, aptly coined her “Awakeners.” Kate introduced me to Edna St. Vincent Millay, Maeve Brennan, Neith Boyce, Edith Wharton, and Charlotte Perkins Gilman, all unmarried (mostly) women, visionaries, and writers in their own right and time.

With the lives, works, and stories of five great women, Bolick crafts a sweet blend of history, social commentary, and memoir to create the perfect cocktail for a young singleton like me in search of acceptance and quality solitude.

On a more subdued note, one of the chapters that continues to reach out to me, especially this time of year, is “The Spinster Wish.” Bolick’s reflection on the passing of her mother is still one of the most moving pieces of writing I’ve ever read. I felt seen by this book in more ways than I could have ever imagined. Coupled with Sarah Sweeney’s thoughts on the loss of her father, Spinster gave me a sense of acceptance about my own father’s premature death. Reading about their experiences, whilst processing my own grief, was the exact kind of affirmation I needed. I’ve since written about my loss with more clarity and courage than I could have, had I not found their words when I did.

Spinster is the final book in my “Fuck Men” Trilogy. Of all the lessons these three incredible women taught me, paramount among them was the notion that my life could be lived without the specter of other people’s opinions hanging over me, especially those of men. As someone who had, for so long, defined my life, choices, and thoughts by the men in my life (my dead father, a few of my exes, and every male teacher who ever took an interest in me), seeing three women discuss their joys, sorrows, loves, and experiences so boldly was akin to seeing the New York City skyline from a plane for the first time: an all-encompassing panorama of history, steel, and sky, forever changed by the immensity of the Big Picture.

4. Appalachian Elegy: Poetry and Place by bell hooks

For anyone out there who’s read Hillbilly Elegy by JD Vance and thought “Oh, all Appalachian people must be Trump-supporting, racist hicks,” I urge you all to read Appalachian Elegy by bell hooks instead and take your copy of Hillbilly Elegy straight to any used bookstore in your area, so that it may take its place beside the other unfinished copies left by the people who, like me, got fed up with Vance’s bullshit. Once you read this small book of thought-provoking poems, you’ll never see Appalachia, poetry, or race in the American South quite the same way again.

This book found me at my university library in the middle of my senior thesis. I was deeply embedded in those beloved stacks, furiously researching and writing about the history, culture, and identity of my favorite place in the world. As a history and gender studies double major, I’d already read bell hooks quite a bit, particularly her books, All About Love and Feminism is for Everyone. Despite this early classroom exposure, I only became aware that hooks was originally from Southern Appalachia when I found this slim paperback stuck between two larger volumes on Appalachian poetry and literature.

Sharing a common place of origin with one of my favorite feminist theorists and writers is, to this day, deeply humbling and truly transformative. It is also tinged with grief, as Appalachia, often considered one of the most biodiverse and beautiful places on the Earth, is exploited, colonized, and destroyed by corporate greed, Big Coal, and unwilling or uncaring government officials.

Seeing my home place through the eyes of someone like bell hooks showed me just how little I knew about it. Sure, I spent twelve years of my young life there. Yes, I spent many months studying Appalachia as an undergraduate student. I’d done it all with hope of finding some lasting connection with what I’d lost there.

In this mighty book of poetry, I discovered something else, something infinitely more important. For the first time, I recognized those folks too often erased from its white-washed history. Appalachia is not inherently white, nor is it a place completely devoid of multicultural diversity. Seeing Appalachia from this new perspective led me to write my senior thesis about what it means to hold multiple Appalachian identities, beyond “whiteness,” “poverty,” and “Mountain Dew mouth” stereotypes. These poems also instilled in me a profound admiration for where I came from, how I got here, and where I’m going next.

5. Love Is A Mixtape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time by Rob Sheffield

The fifth & final book on this list found me in the basement of The Strand this time last year. I went there looking for a book on sewing for my older brother. I was planning on buying Christmas gifts for other people. I was trying to get in and out of there in thirty minutes or less.

This book had other plans.

Having developed a pretty intense need to write and create over the last five years, Rob Sheffield’s Love Is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time became the gift that kept on giving. Not only does the majority of the book take place in Appalachia, but the idea that music and grief are so inextricably linked spoke to me in a BIG way.

The bulk of the memoir is about Rob’s first wife, Renee. Rob tells their short, but remarkable story in screaming color. He explains how they met in a Charlottesville bar and bonded over Big Star. He details how they fell in love, both with each other and bands like Pavement, L7, and Nirvana. Finally, he recounts how he lost Renee too soon and suddenly became a shell of his former self, unsure if he’d ever recover. It all culminates in his moving to Brooklyn and finding new reasons to keep going.

Each chapter features a mixtape track listing, through which Rob blends his incredible stories and deeply personal thoughts. I’ve never felt so seen by a book before. Sometimes, it’s all I can do NOT to open Spotify and start a new playlist about whatever it is I’m feeling, doing, or needing. Music is one of the only things to ever consistently get me through all of life’s tribulations, be they break-ups, death, divorce, chronic disease, and/or never-ending financial debt. It gives me a sense of hope and humor about the world.

That’s what’s so amazing about this book. To read someone’s inner-most thoughts and feelings set to the soundtrack of their life was like coming home after a long time away and finding there were always others like you. They waited patiently amongst the shelves of every bookstore and library, ready for the moment your fingers would graze their spines and you’d realize: “Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Grief and memory are sown into the seams of all of these books. It’s no surprise both topics take up the bulk of my own writing. Building off the shoulders of such giants, I always feel an overwhelming sense of urgency to write about the loss I’ve experienced.

In a way, grief has become my muse. That is where I feel most at home. This kind of pain is what I know. Grief pervades our world constantly, and learning how to live with it and through it are the only ways to move forward. I take a lesson from the authors above and begin to parse through the pain on the page.

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• you stream it (Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube, TIDAL, etc.) OR

• you buy it (vinyl, cassette, CDs, etc).

(I suppose there is a secret third option if you’re one of the few souls who still listens to the radio. If you’re under the age of 40 and listen to the radio every single day, please do let me know! I wonder if you all will be the next “vintage” population of listeners to get an article about you in the New York Times after vinyl, cassettes, and CDs run their course.)

For most 20-year-olds, we consume music the way Big Tech intended: constantly, dumbly, and passively.

That’s right, we take what the algorithm gives us for that sweet rush of dopamine. We share what we listen to on our Instagram stories “for the likes.” We create mega playlists of our favorite songs and albums, without much care for what the artists we love actually intended with their work. We find new music through Instagram Reels, TikToks Dance Trends, and Spotify “Mixes”. We buy vinyl from merch pages, even if we don’t have a record player. We send song & album links to strangers, friends, and lovers in the hope they can parse out our double meanings. We are the children of Web 2.0 and find ourselves consuming the music we love 24/7, even when we sleep. It’s who we are, right?

Well, sort of.

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I think when the world feeds you a steady diet of digital content for 20+ years, a wandering romanticism for the past (i.e. analog culture) is bound to arise. It certainly has for me. In my essay on the “Lost Art of Liner Notes,” I bemoaned the fickle nature of the music listening habits produced by the Internet and music streaming platforms. I cited just how many young people find themselves gravitating towards more physical, tangible media. The sheer amount of physical flyers cluttering the bulletin boards of my university library, all created by undergraduate students, is proof enough that young people suffer the most from digital fatigue.

Yes, there does seem to be a turn towards analog and away from digital amongst the least likely of sources: people under 30. Despsite what every politician, news anchor, and comedian over 50 thinks, some of us are outright rejecting our digital inheritance.

I’m currently reading social psychologist Jonathan Haidt’s new book, The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood Is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness. Haidt argues, quite well I think, that children and teens started spending more and more time online and using screens beginning in the early 2010s, leading to increased levels of mental illness, particularly generalized anxiety and clinical depression.

As one of those teens who came of age in the early 2010s and spent large amount of my time online, I 100% agree with him. In high school, I probably spent 6-8 hours a day using screens (laptops, smart phones, TV, and tablets), which caused my developing brain and psyche a lot of issues: anxiety, depression, addiction, and exposure to "adult” content and people. Even in spite of being placed in a physical environment where I was around kids my own age all the time (thank goodness for community theatre), I still felt myself drawn to the dopamine rush of endless screen time.

In college, I tried to expose myself to as much tangible community and physical materials as possible, including zines, scrapbooks, vinyl, books, and so much more. With that exposure, I gained new appreciation for analog and physical media. My music listening habits are a strange modpodge of influences. I love the Frank Sinatras and Ella Fitzgeralds of my father’s Silent Generation just as much as I love the Liz Phairs and Alanis Morissettes of my Gen X college mentor. I thrash and groove to my mom’s Boomer rock bands just as often as I sing and dance to 2010s indie and hip-hop tracks. I consume music daily on Spotify but still scour record stores for the CDs and cassettes of my favorite 90s and 80s bands.

Even more strange, I break the cardinal rule of traditional music discovery constantly by using Spotify’s algorithm and the “Similar Artists” feature to discover lesser-known songs and bands of the past and present. People always spout the impressive, even dangerous nature of the TikTok algorithm, but one look at my Spotify account and you’d see how well that AI appears to know me after a decade of consistent (see here: unhealthy) use. In other words, I’ve given Spotify years and years of input data that it now uses to give me more and more recommendations it *thinks* I want.

I’ll be the first to admit that it has given me some of my favorite songs, albums, and artists of all time. (Though, I’m sure Will Oldham and Bill Callahan would both be horrified to know I discovered their deeply human and empathetic music on that soulless, online platform.)

However, I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t prefer the real music recommendations of friends, professors, coworkers, partners, and much-sought after music commentators. Those are the recommendations that stick with me. I will always associate Jeff Buckley and The Milk Carton Kids with my best friend from high school. I will always associate Bikini Kill and Skinny Puppy with my favorite college professor. I will always associate Linda Ronstadt and The Eagles with my stepdad.

I firmly believe sharing music is one of the most important remaining acts of connection, kindness, and love we have left in this world. I always tell people that the greatest gift you could ever receive from me is a playlist. If I’ve made you a playlist or a mix CD in the last decade, I seriously give a fuck about you. If I’m spending countless hours intentionally listening to music, compiling all of it into a specific order, and then gathering the courage needed to send it to you, I really care about you (doubly so if you return the favor).

Can an algorithm give you that energy? I think our supreme overlords in Silicon Valley might say “Sort-of,” but, for now, I say: “Nope!” Big Tech and its many, many enablers leave us complacent and devoid of any meaningful cultural literacy. Sure, understanding born-digital pop culture is a form of cultural literacy in and of itself. I’ll never deny that. Even within our own cultures, we learn, adapt, and participate in various forms of cultural literacy across platforms and formats.

The thing is: the world we currently inhabit makes this particular set of knowledge even more inaccessible than it already is. I think, in many ways, the notion that Wi-Fi and greater access to wide swaths of information creates a more equitable, well-informed society is a myth. Access to information does not imply most of us know how to consume, analyze, or produce it. With shorter attention spans, exposure to overwhelming amounts of information, and the rising costs of well…everything, how are young people supposed to build or gain any sort of cultural capital outside of their own circles or elite, $75k+ college educations?

It may not matter to some people, but it does matter to me.

So, in the spirit of sharing is caring, I’m starting a monthly series called “Beyond the Algorithm,” where I’ll do what librarians like me always do: recommend some of my favorite cultural stuff (music, films, books, etc.) for whoever wants it. If you like receiving recommendations from a weird, nerdy human over a faceless, “yes man” algorithm, please feel free to subscribe and follow along with me!

For the very first issue, I’ve chosen to highlight what I love most: music and the people who make it. Specifically, I want to point your attention to some of the most interesting artists in the undercurrents (i.e. artists with roughly* less than 200k Monthly Spotify Listeners.)

The Weather Station is one of my personal favorites on this list. I’ve followed frontwoman/songwriter Tamara Lindeman and her revolving cast of incredible playing musicians since 2018, when I came across her sophomore album, All of It Was Mine. It’s a beautifully crafted folk haven for people like me who grew up in the rural hollers of the Appalachian Mountains. From running wildly through the creeks, to listening to the old timers play bluegrass on the back porch, this album looks and sounds like my hometown: white birch trees, crawling things, and sensory memories. Tamara’s haunting voice and the interplay between banjo, guitar, and fiddle are just…you must hear it for yourself. On that album, I highly recommend “Everything I Saw” and “Yarrow and Mint”.

Beyond that, the 2021 album, Ignorance, verges between a sonic dream and a heartbreaking nightmare. It takes on an edge and maturity missing in the innocence of All of It Was Mine. The decade of time passed between them is clear, filled with references to growing older and knowing things your younger self can’t. It also perfectly encapsulates the feelings about the state of the world, how difficult it is to be a feeling human being in a world that cannot be trusted and where love seems to have all but disappeared. My favorites are: “Robber” and “Trust.”

Even more spectacular is Tamara Lindeman’s liner notes and contextualizations of these masterpieces available on her website. Just read this passage about the title of Ignorance:

“In french, the verb ignorer connotes a humble, unashamed not knowing, and it is this ignorance Lindeman refers to here; the blank space at an intersection of hope and despair, a darkness that does not have to be dark.”

To me, The Weather Station is one of the most important and truthful acts out there. Their music oozes everything I love: inventive songwriting, authentic lyricism, and the folk music embedded deep in my bones. I’m ridiculously excited for their newest album to come out this year. I highly recommend!

Favorite Songs: “Yarrow and Mint” and “Endless Time”

John Gallagher Jr. is another artist I’ve followed for a long time (since I was 15!) Well, except that I only found his deeply moving folk music in the last year. Before that, I knew John Gallagher Jr. from his illustrious acting career: The Newsroom, Spring Awakening (OBC), American Idiot (OBC), and The Miseducation of Cameron Post, to name just a few. But a binge-watch of The Newsroom last Fall brought me back face-to-face with Gallagher’s immense talent as an artist. It’s really no wonder his music is so good, and yet so little-known. Despite having only released music under his own name since 2012, it has somehow fallen into relative obscurity, beyond folk freaks, his own circle, and those musical theatre heads in the know. Over the last year, he’s taken his self-described “DIY music career” to the next level, headlining shows at Joe’s Pub and the Kennedy Center, as well as going on tour with the likes of Brooklyn local indie darlings, Bandits on the Run and 90s folk legend, Dar Williams (both of whom are also incredible artists in their own right.)

Six Day Hurricane and 8th And Jane are great albums. From paying sonic homage to Jimmy Buffett and Green Day, to reaching the lyrical rawness of artists like The Avett Brothers and Ani DiFranco, Gallagher’s music is a beautiful representation of his many musical influences (including his own talented family of folk musicians). He’s had quite the music education!

Of 8th And Jane in particular, “Wurlitzer in Space” offers some of the most honest and well-crafted set of lyrics I’ve heard to date, including:

Melissa, my motives are meaningless
And many are middle of the road
I’m as harmless as a charmless bracelet
Hugging your wrist, pulsing with your prose

I could sit and type all afternoon
Smoking while you sang songs you stole from me
I wouldn’t hide it from no camera crew
Screw my public image
I am on the perfect pilgrimage with you
With you

As he takes this more intentional approach to touring and recording, I can’t wait for more people to hear what John Gallagher Jr. has to offer in this facet of his artistic self. Also, he’s one of the best live musicians I’ve ever seen. Seriously, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen an artist of that caliber talk so openly about their creative process and influences with the audience before. In a world run by the algorithms, John Gallagher Jr. is the refreshing glass of water you need to keep going. Also, a little birdie told me he was planning to release an album this year. Fingers crossed!

Favorite Songs: “Sarasota Someone” and “Wurlitzer in Space”

Of the artists on this playlist, hearing the The American Analog Set for the first time was a little like time traveling. (Coincidentally, one of their later songs was featured on the film soundtrack of The Time Traveler’s Wife from 2009. Go figure!) Like soulmates or kindred spirits, I’ve always thought that there are artists out there meant for everyone. The American Analog Set has quickly become one of mine. Verging between the German, “krautrock” rock of the 70s, American alt-rock of the 80s, and even futuristic space rock, The American Analog Set is a welcome blend of soft rock influences that pairs perfectly with a warm cup of coffee, a cozy, cable-knit sweater, and a large window through which to marvel at falling snow or autumn leaves.

Okay, that’s a bit romantic for a band that also released a song entitled “Punk as F***,” but that’s what’s so impressive about them. Their quiet, strange sound, often featuring an organ, keyboards, and other hypnotic rhythms, is both subversive and soft. Though, it may not be for everyone.

When I take a good, hard look at the sorts of artists that do well on Spotify, TikTok, and Instagram, I find those who’ve mastered spectacle (Dua Lipa), relatability (Olivia Rodrigo), and/or “aesthetic” (Chappell Roan). I also find those who’ve figured out how to do all three extremely well and look fabulous doing it (Taylor Swift & Beyoncé). I like and listen to all of these artists. They’re all masters of this particular craft. I just find it helps me to slow down from time to time and focus my attention on those who find less (if any) success in this algorithm-driven landscape.

For anyone willing to take the time, The American Analog Set is a wonderful foray into a world that sits at the intersection of analog and digital. After an 18-year-hiatus, they just recently released a new album last year with new songs, sounds, and ideas. All of their music is on streaming. They have an updated website with a futuristic aesthetic, complete with a merch shop, full discography, and an adorable photograph of a band member’s dog seated in the studio. What’s not to love?

Favorite Songs: “Aaron & Maria” and “Trespassers in the Stereo Field”

Finally, I want to highlight an artist I just found in a genre I don’t typically reach for: neo-soul and R&B. Dragonfruit is an up-and-coming Dutch quartet “born out of a love for sample-hiphop and neo-soul.” And boy, is that TRUE. I found Dragonfruit through, admittedly, the Spotify algorithm. In my defense, they were featured on a Neo-Soul genre playlist, so I’d like to believe it was slightly more organic than having it pop up on my Discover Weekly playlist. Sometimes, (emphasis on some) the algorithm does seem to work.

Truthfully, I’m just grateful to find myself this new music era! My go-to taste tends to fall heavily into folk music, singer-songwriter, and alt-rock, so I love a good mental and emotional reprieve from the omnipresent melancholy characteristic of all of these genres. Dragonfruit is just what the doctor ordered! Just read this excerpt from their website:

“That is the foundation of the Rotterdam-based alt-R&B band Dragonfruit. Influenced by a multitude of sounds ranging from the bouncy drums of hip-hop to the lush melodies of R&B and the energy of club bangers, the band puts itself on the forefront of the modern R&B landscape.”

I could not agree more with this succinct, but jam-packed, portrait of Dragonfruit’s inventive blend of hip-hop, soul, R&B, and club music. The bass lines alone make me want to get up and dance the night away with all my girlfriends. Dragonfruit has quickly become my go-to post-work commute jam, always getting me through the 40 minutes of standing too close to strangers and ignoring creep’s endless stares. More than once, I’ve had a fantasy where one of their songs (preferably “Gears of the Giant Machine”) starts blaring, and everyone around me can’t help but get into the groove. By the end of it, we’re all dancing together as the train rocks back and forth, a la some unhinged music video from the 1980s that would play well on MTV.

As the kids would say, it’s a vibe.

Favorite Songs: “Gears of the Giant Machine” and “Lonely”

Other artists on this playlist I can’t get enough of: (Oh my God, talk about unknown, but immaculate talent)

• Grace Cummings

• Chris Cohen

• Dean Johnson

• Ora Cogan

• Nico Paulo

Let it be said everyone on this playlist deserves their own fan essay, but I’ll let their music speak for itself (for now…)

Enjoy!

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