When term gets busy, I don’t know how I would survive without my collection of 76 Spotify playlists. They cover all bases. Of course, there are the classic ones: one for the gym, one for essay writing, one for winding down after a busy day of lectures. Then there are the playlists I make when I begin trying to write a new novel, which is often – playlists and Pinterest boards are a procrastinator’s best friends. I have songs that remind me of my parents, songs that make me cry. Endless set lists from tours I never got the chance to attend – and the ones that I did. A carefully curated playlist of Joni Mitchell’s masterpieces.
I am a writer, and songs are poetry. I grew up at folk festivals, with songs that told stories, and though I am more into indie-pop now, I still look for solid writing from an artist. Taylor Swift’s lockdown albums ‘folklore’ and ‘evermore’ are prime examples, woven with metaphors, as are Phoebe Bridgers’ haunting song ‘I Know The End’ and Lizzy McAlpine’s ‘Pushing It Down and Praying.’ Not even these, though, could top ‘River’ by Joni Mitchell, a piece of music so beautiful that I keep playing it, even when my friends tell me off for listening to a so-called Christmas song in August. Mitchell’s voice is raw, and a sad song with a piano accompaniment never fails to make me sob.
To me, music is more than a thoughtless hobby; it is my lifeline. As someone with severe anxiety, music keeps me going more than anything else can. Panic attacks are followed by ‘Camden’ by Gracie Abrams on repeat. I play songs through my headphones as often as I can, trying to drown out the thought spirals that consume my mind.
When I discovered Abrams’ music, I was not prepared for what it would do for me. Not often do singer-songwriters cover mental health, but she does. And she does it well. Songs about depression, about homesickness, about anxiety and OCD, about losing people that mean everything to you. Nothing has ever summed up the bittersweet feeling of moving to university better than the song ‘Right now,’ in which she proclaims: “People 24/7 / It’s the best and a curse / All they do is remind me / That I’m still introverted.”
This is a song that I will look back on when I am old and grey and I’m sure it will make me smile, thinking of the girl to whom it meant everything. ‘Right now’ has been part of my summer playlist for the last three years. It was my father’s idea, which quickly became a ritual: to, each summer, write down the ten songs I love the most in that moment. I now spend each July sifting through my playlists in search of these ten precious songs, which will become a time capsule of the person I once was.
As an Earth scientist, I am forever donning hiking boots and a hard hat, traipsing around outdoors to look at rock outcrops and draw up maps. I was raised in the countryside, but even at home, I go on walks with my headphones firmly clamped over my ears. Blocking out the world. It is only on those field trip days, when I am forced to leave the music behind, that I truly feel the world around me: that I listen to the ocean and birdsong and human chatter. That I can appreciate silence. And on these days, perhaps my anxiety feels duller.
But when I step back on the coach to drive back to Oxford, the headphones are on again. It’s almost like a drug. Music is a powerful thing, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never ditch my playlists – I rely on them too much.
