What's the soundtrack to your life?
What's the soundtrack to your life?
Musical memory prompts for writers and creatives
Any time I hear the familiar opening chorus of Bowie’s “Oh! You Pretty Things” I find myself back on a cliff edge of a Welsh Island. The island is where I first listened to a Bowie-heavy mix tape made for me by my island friend Lizzie.
I smell the sea air and feel the prickle of dry grass on my legs, cramped from hours sitting in the same position with my eye glued to a telescope staring at puffins’ legs. I see my bright yellow Sony Walkman beside me on the grass, next to a sweaty packet of cheese sandwiches.
For me, David Bowie is forever tied to the sound and smell of seabird cliffs and summer. He is also the soundtrack to late nights spent cooking and eating with good friends—and my first experience of liberty and self-identity.
I still have the cassette that Lizzie made me although I no longer have the means to play it. Her playlist included other songs that have become life-long favourites. It also contained a few songs, of the 80’s electronica variety with that repetitive doof-doof 80’s beat, that I never loved—although they still bring back good memories.
If you’re old enough to remember cassettes you’ll know, skipping a track on a Walkman was no easy task.
Music memories are social memories
The songs that provided the soundtrack to pivotal moments in your life are not always songs you like. Even so, they’re forever welded to the time, the place and the people who shared that experience with you. Emotional memories are often strongest for these formative years when you are experiencing many things for the first time and learning to become independent.
Before I began consciously to excavate my own stories, I thought my memory was appalling. I could recall very little of my childhood or of teenage years. I was particularly bothered by my apparent lack of any musical memory.
Music is a cultural and generational touchstone—something that ages, unites and defines us as belonging to one generation, one tribe, or another. When you’re missing that point of reference, you miss those connections.
At least, I felt I did.
When others compared first albums purchased and classic episodes from Top of the Pops, I pulled at the fragile strands of my memory of music and came up with zero.
Challenging my memory story
It was my partner who first made me question my “bad memory” story.
Music had been a huge part of her child and teen sense of style and identity. When she talked about her own memories of music in the 80s, I had a sudden memory flash of my own. I was standing in the corner of my south London primary school playground—a concrete wasteland where kids ran feral amongst painted snakes and chalk hopscotch. In the memory I was being peppered with music trivia questions by two other girls. I knew none of the answers and felt my shame reverberate around the playground.
We didn’t watch Top of the Pops or listen to the Top Ten in my home. The only radio stations that my parents would allow were BBC Radio 3 or Radio 4. Pure classical or pure politics. I didn’t own a radio of my own and I wasn’t allowed to touch the record player. I couldn’t be trusted not to scratch the vinyl.
My non-classical musical influences were restricted to what was sanctioned by my parents. Bob Dylan or Simon and Garfunkel from my mother, and Dire Straits from my dad. I didn’t know much, but I knew enough to know that none of these were acceptable answers to my schoolmates’ question “What’s your favourite band?”.
If I wanted to listen to a record of my choice, I had to ask my parents. If I wanted to dance to it, which I did, I had to be careful not to bounce too high and cause the needle to jump. If I scratched a record, it would be switched off and replaced by Sibelius or Brahms. There were only two records I requested on repeat—The Butterfly Ball (which I loved as much for its accompanying book with magical illustrations by Alan Aldridge), and Bob Dylan’s Nashville Skyline. Only Dylan passed my endless repeat play requests, and then only when my mother was home.
A third album, Jacqueline du Pré’s cello pieces, bought for me by my parents when I was learning to play the cello, I listened to only when my mother insisted. Then, I would sulk quietly at the back of the sofa.
Oh! And I quite liked Carnival of the Animals, and Peter and the Wolf. But again, not cool.
Whose memory is it?
As a teenager, while my peers were starting to explore their own identities, to develop their likes and dislikes and to push boundaries, I was still firmly buttoned into the identity that’d been given to me.
Music has always been a measure by which my mother judges other people’s worth. If they don’t listen to classical music and mostly Mozart, they are found lacking in basic humanity. This no doubt contributed to the intensity with which I limited my own musical exploration for so long.
What’d long been a quietly unacknowledged shame story in my head, once told to my partner, become a reasonable and unremarkable explanation for my lack of early musical memory. It’s not that I didn’t remember the music I liked, it was simply that, in a pre-digital age, I didn’t have the means to discover the music I liked and was actively discouraged from exploring the usual avenues of self-expression for kids of that age.
When I left home, music quickly became an important part of my life and a tool through which I began to explore my own identity, my likes and dislikes, for the first time. With the encouragement of new friends, I became a voracious musical consumer—absorbing everything from David Bowie to Dave Brubeck. Friends gave me bootleg cassettes of Queen, Ocean Color Scene and Spandau Ballet. I did the same for them—offering musical nuggets of joy as tokens of my friendship.
And so now, those memories of shared music, cooking, laughter with friends of this new world—my world—are even more precious.
Making new music memories
My love of exploring new music has never abated.
While I don’t share the conventional teenage music story of my generation, I’ve uncovered a music evolution story of my own. I’ve even retained a deep affection for some of my parents’ musical choices.
Unlocking my own memory was not just a matter of remembering specific details and moments, it was as much about accepting that my memory existed. Music and memory are now tightly linked in my mind.
But I’m still a bit meh about 80s electronica.
Musical Memory Prompts: explore the soundtrack to your life
1. Explore your old music library.
If you have old CDs, cassettes or a record collection, have a rummage. Drag out your old Walkman, pop on your neon yellow headphones and get lost in music.
Journalling while listening to music can help draw out memories and create a deeper connection with your past. Allow the music to influence your thoughts and emotions as you write.
2. Explore music by decade
Many music streaming services allow you to stream music by decade. Find a playlist or channel from your most formative decade and plug yourself in. Which of the songs that come up are familiar or have a resonance for you? What places, times or people do you associate with these songs?
(Spotify, Amazon, last.fm or Google Play Music all provide free versions where you can browse music by decade or listen to other people’s playlists.)
3. Create your own playlists
Create custom playlists that contain songs or pieces of music that were significant at different periods or events in your life. Maybe create separate playlists for your high school years, your college or university days, and for memorable holidays.
When you want to reminisce, simply play the playlist and allow the music to take you back in time. If possible, take a walk with your headphones around the places you associate with the playlists and see what additional memories emerge.
4. Find your first record, CD, or iTunes download.
Digital downloads will only take you back so far, but they may take you to a period that isn’t quite so firmly embedded in your formative musical memory. Find your first download and see where it takes you.
5. Concerts and live performances:
Think about concerts or live performances you enjoyed in the past. Look for videos online from the same artists. Or if they’re still alive (!) and performing, book tickets and go see them. The energy and atmosphere of a live show can often reignite memories and emotions associated with their music.
What are your most powerful musical memories? If you were to create a soundtrack to your formative years, what would you include? What tracks take you back to pivotal moments in your life? How do these songs make you feel when you hear them now?
Let me know in the comments.
This is the one of a new series of posts on memory prompts for writers. Let me know in the comments if there are particular types of memory you’d like help to access and I’ll try to include it in future posts.
The Memory Mine
Dancing at a school dance with my first boyfriend when we were first getting to know each other. the refrain "I've got a feelin' I'm in for somethin' good" followed us around the dance floor. Don't ask me who it was by, or the name of the song--I just remember hearing those words and thinking it was an omen. I loved the song.
Memory journalling is new to me. So happy I stumbled on this post.