The Soundtrack of Life

Can we all agree that life would be hollow without music? It’s stitched into everything. It colors our art, it carries us through long drives, it’s in the birds singing outside your window every morning.

Some of my earliest memories pulse with music: birthday parties, Christmases, Halloweens. School days too. In fourth grade, our music class had it’s version of show-and-tell and we were allowed to bring our own music. I walked in with Poison’s Flesh and Blood cued to Something to Believe In. That same summer, I was at a wedding begging the DJ to play Unskinny Bop. He said it wasn’t “wedding appropriate.” I didn’t care. He and I made a deal: if he played it, I’d dance. So, there I was, nine years old, the only one on the dance floor, thrusting my hips to a song I didn’t understand, only mimicking the moves from MTV. Years later I learned what the song was really about, and the absurdity only made the memory better.

Born in 1980, I hit my stride just as hair metal ruled the airwaves. Bon Jovi, Poison, Warrant, Skid Row, Motley Crue, Def Leppard: they shaped my young imagination. Their stories hit me in ways I couldn’t fully explain then. Some meanings were lost on me, but the feeling? That part I understood.

Like anyone, I also absorbed my parents’ music. My stepdad fostered a love for Pink Floyd and Bob Seger. I remember wearing out his copy of The Wall on vinyl. I’m not a country fan now, but when I was a kid, I listened because that’s what my grandma played. My first concert was Tanya Tucker, and that music stitched a memory I’ll never lose. A rodeo, my grandparents beside me, the smell of dust in the night air, the sound of her voice carrying through the arena. I walked out with a red-and-black foam lizard on a leash, but the real souvenir was that moment with them, sealed by the music.

But music shifts with life. When my grandpa died and my grandma moved away, country faded from my playlist. In its place came heavier sounds: Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer. Then grunge cracked open the world. High school brought punk into my life: Green Day, Rancid, Bad Religion. The nineties were defined by music for me. My stereo never judged. It could jump from Megadeth to Jewel, from Sublime to Marilyn Manson to Sinatra, from The Wizard of Oz soundtrack to whatever else fit the mood.

In my twenties, when I started caring about politics and the bigger world, my soundtrack shifted again. Bob Marley, Woody Guthrie, Dylan. Punk protest bands like Anti-Flag, Propagandhi, Dead Kennedys. Music mirrored my awakening.

By my late twenties the chaos in my playlists started to calm. I found myself reaching for music that carried weight without all the noise. Tim Barry’s stripped-down storytelling, Atmosphere’s raw honesty, Willy Mason’s grit, Wilco’s layered ease, they all hit differently. It wasn’t about volume anymore; it was about resonance. These songs gave me space to breathe, to think, to just exist without having to fight through walls of sound. They felt like conversations instead of performances, and at that point in my life, that’s what I needed.

The truth is that music has never left me. It adapts. It grows with me. Sometimes an old song suddenly reveals itself in a new light, teaching me something I couldn’t hear before. In the darkest seasons of my life, familiar songs have become blankets…warm, heavy, necessary. Recently, that’s been my lifeline. Music I thought I knew cracked wide open and helped me survive moments that felt impossible.

Teachers use music to teach because rhythm sticks in memory. Therapists use it because it can heal, if you know how to use it. But it cuts both ways. If you’re seething with anger, blasting something that fuels the rage might take you too far. But if you can hold your ground, that same music can help you feel what you need to feel. That’s the beauty: music lets you sit with heartbreak, loss, joy, love, fury. It validates. It reminds you you’re not alone.

Tim Barry once said something at a live show that I’ve carried with me: “Don’t let anything in your fucking life get you so far down that you can’t get back up. I always think we go through these peaks and these valleys, right? We go like this, most of us go like this, right? There are people that live on the peaks, I’ve never met them, but they’re there. But there’s people who get in the valleys, but most of us go like this. When you get to the valley, we have found a great community of people we live in right here in Richmond, Virginia and people outside of it. When you get down in that damn valley do not be afraid to fucking ask for help y’all. Don’t let anything get you. We all go through it. Get down there. Reach up if you need it…we are here…”

His music has probably shaped me more than anything else. For twenty years his songs have helped me process, reflect, survive. Recently, they’ve been a mirror for the hardest months of my life. Validation. Motivation. Proof that I’m not alone.

Here’s the thing about music: it’s a time machine. One song and I’m back in a car I haven’t sat in for decades, sitting at some forgotten intersection. I can smell the air, taste the moment. That’s how powerful it is. Music fuses with memory, stitches itself into your senses, refuses to let you forget.

So, if you take anything from my rambling, take this: music is as vital as food or air. Don’t waste it. Don’t ignore it. Let it hold you, shake you, carry you. Let it soundtrack this strange, beautiful life.