How to Ruin A Song You Once Loved

All images courtesy of @picklegrl on Instagram

Play it until you hate it.

I can feel that sensation course through my skull from left to right ear, a joint portal to this vibrational dimension. The opening seconds are wonderfully electric, playfully tickling my brain as their waves creep slowly toward a highly anticipated, iconic beat drop. It’s a disco-esque, ‘80s pulse that I am all too familiar with. The indescribable buzz of the beat, marked with a heavy, low-tone and funky bass line in “You’re Not Good Enough” by Blood Orange has become something of a metaphor for a state I once lived within. “Deep in the play / I see you as you are looking over / Friends in my way / You never could have been a good lover,” frontman Dev Hynes chants. There’s always been something infectious about this opening – I wouldn’t dare skip it, so it’s no wonder it became my top-played track in 2022 … (I know what you’re thinking … is she OK?) There was a point in time when this song epitomized the stage of life I was in. It was a precursor to a heartbreak I hadn’t yet endured, but still managed to ache from. That’s what it was for me, listening to Hynes preach, “Look the other way / Please tell me that I am wrong / So wrong / I never was in love / You know that you were never good enough / Fall asleep right next to me / You know that you were never good enough,” I was immersed in the quiet rage he seemed to be feeling as I played the track over and over (and over). I played it so much it became the ambiance, the backtrack to my life. The lyrics, now, call upon things I’d rather not remember. Perhaps, it’s the tragedy of the lyrics or the time period I associate it with, but now, when I listen to the song, I ache. It’s not the only tune I’ve wrung entirely dry — damp, rather — of its original meaning. It’s now worn out and tattered like that of a baby blanket, thinned by its years and worn with this “love,” as your mother would have called it. A visceral feeling bubbles about by just a glance at its cover art, a quick listen as it once in a while plays from the speaker of a restaurant – acidity burns my tongue and a pit sits low in my stomach. However, in these moments, I can never quite click skip.

Let your dad ruin it — if he can, he will.

I cannot deny loving my dad’s music, as repetitive as it may be. He doesn’t listen to anything new. The man likes what he likes and he knows it – nothing to fix if nothing’s broken. His reggae bangers, folk classics and Deadhead-ness shaped my taste and started me out strong with well-loved classics to sit, preheating, waiting for a moment to reveal themselves in conversation. They are well-liked albums, records I can cite to older folks, most often garnering an impressed, “Good choice,” upon reference. I owe much of the credit for my record collection to my dad – people are most excited by the albums I mention when they’re the ones my dad has drilled into my consciousness since five. For this, I am grateful… to an extent. There have been many-a-songs ruined by my dad’s inappropriate lyric-swapping, unpleasant vocal effects and general obnoxiousness (I say this lovingly), simply for his own enjoyment. One song, in particular, sticks out among them: I am most resentful of his ruining “As” by Stevie Wonder. It’s easily one of the most beautiful songs in existence (no argument here) and my dad holds the same opinion on it as many Wonder superfans like himself do. He flew himself and my mom from Minnesota to see Sir Duke at Madison Square Garden on his final tour – he sobbed through the whole thing. My dad is not shy to talk of how he worships the legend, he would give his eyes if it meant Wonder could see. He gets teary when “As” plays and is always sure to remind me of how it must be played at his funeral. “I know,” I say, but nothing will stop him from reminding me the next time and also the time after that. In turn, the song begins with beauty and turns haunting by the end. Instead of rosebuds “blooming in early May,” I am, alternatively, reminded of funeral flowers. It’s an appropriate choice, a beautiful ode to the miracle that is life, I’d just rather not ponder mortality on a Tuesday.

Associate it with an ex.

I don’t even know where to begin with this one. The amount of songs I’ve ruined for myself by association should be considered a plague, a national tragedy, a crime against the pursuit of happiness. It’s fucked up, I can hardly express the resentment I feel specifically about this type of ruining … as if it wasn’t enough to break me in two (or multiple) pieces, but to also ruin my favorite songs? I could name multiple tunes in response to this tragic dilemma: Big Thief’s sickeningly sweet “Velvet Ring” or Sticky Fingers’ “These Girls.” One, however, has the capacity to be especially daunting. “What Are We Gonna Do Now” by the prodigal Indigo de Souza has always captured my full focus in the way its rawness exhibits pain. As de Souza releases what seems to be a final plea, “You still haven’t cleaned the kitchen,” she seems to unveil what is a pitiful, pleaful begging for one last thing, no matter how small it may be. “I’m never cooking up what you’re craving” is the lyric that hits me the hardest. The idea of being “good enough” in the eyes of another, hauntingly so, delivers a message of her struggle to let go of a relationship that wasn’t entirely worth it… to which I share a similar feeling toward this song … the sheer poetry and craft of her words drives me crazy and yet, I cannot let go. The music parallels the pain and in doing so, I become hooked to the song’s undeniable relatability. It’s tragic, really, that I can’t listen to such a lovely melody without associating it with a person I wish I could forget. However, with this one, I try my best to ignore the association — such resentment is much too heavy a burden to carry. 

Take the lyrics too literally.

I don’t know what it is about the feeling of loss that is so perfectly transcribed via music. Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, a sucker for a good tragedy – especially if it’s one I can relate to. “Pressure to Party” by Julia Jacklin: God, this one hurts. I’ll never stop listening to it, but still, something gut-wrenchingly vivid and relatable lingers about Jacklin’s storytelling. It’s true poetry: “I would run shoes-off straight back to you / I know where you live / I used to live there too,” in combination with Jacklin’s crunchy, persistent guitar line makes her diction magical, spell-binding. Listening to that lyric alone simply isn’t enough, I want it coursing through my veins. 

Same goes for King Princess’ “Best Friend,” the poetic narration of losing a friend, while knowing they’ll inevitably return to you. Will you give in? Take them back? The artist narrates, “You know I wanna tell you it all / I wish that I could hate that you called / You said you hope you’d see me this fall / But I don’t want to see you at all.” Those lyrics are canon and forevermore intoxicating, a slow-burn anthem of eventual resistance that I can never again listen to without experiencing a deep, internal association. The same goes for Jacklin’s song, no matter how much I adore it. Ruined by association once again, it is.

“You could bully yourself out of liking the song, bite the bullet before it captures you.”

The tragic demise of a favorite song is like that funny feeling of saying a word too much; it no longer sounds real or feels familiar in your mouth. I’ve played my comfort songs over and over again until they’re worn thin — or rather, worn in with the memories I’d patched to them. Joni Mitchell’s “Circle Game” comes on (or it would – if it weren’t off Spotify… damn you, Joe Rogan) and suddenly, I’m my mother’s daughter being sung to sleep. Here, I am a product of both my parents, their music, their emotions; whatever it was they saw in these songs first. What’s funny about all of my own ruined songs is that I (almost always) eventually come back to them. No matter how much I played Jeff Buckley’s “Lover You Should’ve Come Over” in January of 2023, literally wearing that song to shreds, I know I’ll rediscover it one day, perhaps in a year or two. Only time will tell. The same cycle happens for each song and I am left wondering, what is it that keeps me coming back to them? That sickening, twisting feeling in the pit of my stomach? The dull ache, like that of a growing pain? Is it comforting, or is it just familiar?