Music Reviews No One Asked For: Shadows Collide With People by John Frusciante

What’s your all-time favorite album?

Well, thanks for asking, daily writing prompt. I guess I can’t technically call this a music review no one asked for now.

I had a few albums in mind when I saw this particular prompt. Futures by Jimmy Eat World was my first instinct, being the album I cried to as a baby emo in high school while sneaking into the abandoned house down the road to hide from the world (I was dramatic as heck). folklore and evermore by Taylor Swift were contenders as well, being the answer to my prayers that she’d attempt a moody folk album. But I kept coming back to one particular album — Shadows Collide With People by John Frusciante.

Now it’s no secret I’m obsessed with John Frusciante, despite the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned him on this blog. It’s a shame, because there’s so much I could say about him. Like how we share a birthday. Who else can say they share a birthday with their favorite guitarist? Or how he talks to cats. Or how “Frusciante” because the new “f-word” in the newspaper office I worked in because I wouldn’t shut up about him. (The word “potato” was also banned in the office for unrelated reasons.)

I found Shadows Collide With People at a thrift shop or something back in 2015. It was around the time I’d just graduated from college, landed absolutely no job, witnessed my band implode in the most explosive way possible, was battling a burgeoning alcohol problem, and had my heart broken once again by the man I thought was the love of my life. All this to say I was in a pretty dark place. I remember driving around crying to this album, with its highs and lows reflecting my own turbulent life at the time. Even though John Frusciante’s struggles were not the same as mine (I never did heroin, for one), somehow I felt less alone knowing my hero had been to similar dark places. And wrote a pretty bitchin’ album about it.

The album itself opens with “Carvel,” a suitably weird rock song that uses ice cream cake as a metaphor for drugs. It’s probably one of my favorites by Frusciante in general, and sets the stage for all the angsty goodness that’s yet to come. The follow-up is the much more chill “Omission,” which features Frusciante’s protege and eventual Red Hot Chili Peppers guitarist Josh Klinghoffer’s soaring vocals. “Regret” comes next, repeating the simple yet somber line “I regret my past” over melancholic music.

“Ricky” and “Second Walk” are both fun uptempo bops, but the mood is jarringly brought back down by the eerie “Every Person.” The next portion of the album contains two electronic instrumentals, both sparse and unsettling, as well as the catchy “Wednesday’s Song” and “This Cold,” which could easily have been a RHCP song. “Song to Sing When I’m Lonely” is sure to get stuck in heads, and “Time Goes Back” feels oddly nostalgic in a way I can’t put into words.

The next three songs are fairly forgettable in my opinion, but fit in perfectly with the context of the album. “Chances” is another catchy one, although not my favorite on the album. What follows is yet another eerie instrumental, although this one feels more sad than startling. The closer, “The Slaughter,” is, in my opinion, a masterpiece, and the perfect way to close this absolute adventure of an album. “I know my pain is a life away,” Frusiciante croons wistfully, and as the final few chords ring out, you feel it.

I think what gets me about SCWP is the fact that it takes you to some deep, dark places, but it doesn’t leave you there. Instead, the album takes your hand and leads you back out into the light with the final song. I’ve always loved a good story, and this album feels like one. It has a way of meeting you where you’re at, in the midst of the pain, and reflecting your emotions like a musical mirror. I can honestly say it has helped me through some difficult spots.

I’m studying music therapy for a reason, and I think SCWP is a beautiful example of what music can do. It displays the entire range of human emotion in a very raw and unfiltered way. Even though I’m in a much better place now, this album will always hold a special place in my heart.

A Life in Song: Why I Owe Everything to the Art of Music

What would your life be like without music?

Sometimes I wonder this to myself. After all, I’ve built my entire life on this weird-ass human phenomena of taking noise and making it pretty.

Like, I don’t think music has ever not been a part of my life. I remember being a small child and spinning around humming little tunes I made up. I didn’t have any means of writing them down or recording them, but that was the beginning of what would become a lifelong love of songwriting.

When I was eight, my parents bought me a guitar. Two years later, I started lessons. I’d already been kicked out of ballet, tap, gymnastics, and swimming thanks to then-undiagnosed ADHD, but music lessons were different. Not only could I literally not get kicked out of one-on-one lessons, I actually enjoyed them enough to pay attention. I studied in a basement with this college kid named Eric, who my mom thought was hot. Over the next few years, I’d learn the basics of music theory, initially against my will.

“You’re going to need this stuff if you ever want to study music in college,” Eric told me.

“Nah, I want to be a doctor,” I probably said.

Sure enough, I went on to graduate high school, but not before selling my soul to the music department. I participated in nearly every ensemble — in fact, I was in almost all the acts in the annual dinner theatre (which involved a lot of costume changes). Outside of school, I volunteered to play in the church band, which gave me a sense of confidence I never had before. I was regularly performing with and learning from players who were far better than I could imagine being, and as I grew as a musician, I found myself as a person.

When it came time to register for classes, I went for pre-med, but upon arriving home after college orientation, my mom and dad overheard me practicing guitar.

“You’re wasting your talents,” they said, as they became the first parents in the history of human civilization to convince their child to pursue music instead of medicine.

So I immediately switched my major to music, and things just sort of fell into place.

I am where I am now, about to start an internship in music therapy and on the cusp of something great with my band, because of my relationship with music. It’s given me so much confidence with other people — growing up autistic, I had a hard time socializing and communicating. But music helped me to find my voice and make friends, some of whom I now consider family. It’s enriched my life in such a profound way, I’m struggling to think of how my life would be different without it. It’s difficult to even imagine. I’d likely be a lonely reluctant cardiologist with no passion for life.

Music is such a blessing. It connects us in ways nothing else can, and I’m so thankful I get to partake in it as a musician.

Dear Cadence, Part Fifteen: Find Your Chosen Family

This is the latest installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, and Part Fourteen

Ever since I was little, I wanted to be in a band.

Sounds familiar, right?

After the disaster that was Dethklok, I wasn’t sure I even wanted a band ever again. It didn’t seem worth it to make music with other people if they were just going to hurt me. I was content to just do things alone from now on, if I was even going to keep making music for myself at all. I was back in the music therapy program, and that was enough, right? But deep down inside, I knew I needed more. I kept writing songs and still had that lifelong itch to be a performer. I loved being onstage, and a tiny part of me wished I could share that with someone else.

I met Wally through my new church, a rare queer-affirming church I found in my new old stomping grounds of Ann Arbor, the larger college town that neighbored my smaller college town of Ypsilanti. Wally was an older guy, a little younger than your grandpa was but definitely still old enough to be my dad. He was a quirky fellow with a wife and eight kids and even more keyboards. He was basically a straighter, slightly less flamboyant Elton John who played in a band called Unkle Laylee’s Moonshine All-Stars Band with an old stoner dude named Gray and his aptly named son, Grayson. And when I came to this new church, he took me under his wing and promptly added me to the lineup. I was now Wally’s unofficial bonus daughter/bandmate, but Wally had an official daughter who secretly wished she was in a band as well.

Enter Hailey.

Hailey was a tiny blonde cheerleader who hid a knack for songwriting that rivaled my own. During one practice, she came down and showed us one of her originals, which gave Wally an idea. Unkle Laylee wasn’t really his vibe, and it wasn’t mine either, so we started our own project right then and there. Our little trio would form the basis of a brand new creation. We couldn’t agree on a name, so we stole the name of my former solo project, Wake Up Jamie, which came from a misheard lyric from an old song no one remembers.

At first, we frequented local bars and coffee shops, playing to anyone who’d listen. Those were some of the most memorable shows I’d ever play, even if they seemed small and insignificant in the moment. Every weekend or so, we’d meet up and plan our next moves, the three of us. And as our repertoire grew, we realized the project was getting to be too big for only three of us. Wally moved to a position of manager and eventually phased himself out in preparation for a move out-of-state, while we brought on board three new members.

The first was Jerry, an old collaborator of mine I knew from my time in the local music scene. We’d played briefly together in a band called Fate’s Redemption, which I’d left in order to join Dethklok (bad idea). But despite my betrayal, we remained friends, and when I mentioned needing a drummer for the revised Wake Up Jamie, he jumped on the opportunity. The second was an old friend named Chris, a guitarist who I met in music school who could play circles around me. Originally, he was supposed to play bass, but we realized we were squandering his skills as a guitar player by keeping him on bass.

Now Pippa was a cute girl who was active in the music scene and had been following Wake Up Jamie for a minute. We met at a gig and drunkenly made out. Word got out that she was learning bass, so I swept her up and taught her the songs. Was it originally an attempt to get to know her better because I had a massive crush on her? Possibly. But even after our short-lived romantic relationship ended, I found I very much enjoyed her company as a friend, and now as a bandmate.

Wake Up Jamie had reached its final form — me, Hailey, Jerry, Chris, and Pippa.

The band itself went on to play some of the biggest shows in Michigan — Arts, Beats, and Eats, Detroit Pride, and even a radio show. As of writing, we haven’t “made it” in the sense that we can make a living off our music, but that doesn’t matter to me. Wake Up Jamie has never been about getting rich or famous. The band is my honorary family, the people I trust with my life.

I still remember when one of the members had an emotional breakdown at practice, and we all halted our activities to talk them down and make sure they were okay. We then sat outside during the reminder of practice just sharing our mental health struggles. It was a difficult conversation, but I felt so comfortable sharing my heart with these people, and it was such a warm feeling to know they trusted me enough to share their hearts as well. It was like night and day compared to Dethklok, who was just as mentally ill as a group but chose to address their problems with vitriol and drama. Wake Up Jamie all legitimately care for one another, and I feel like that comes through in our music.

Blood family is important, but your found family is just as sacred. I hope and pray you find your people someday.

My Life as a “Should’ve Been”

Everyone’s familiar with the term “has-been.” It’s a label we give one-hit wonders and washed-up celebs. But the thing about has-beens is that they have at least, well, been. There are so many more people out there who never will reach those heights at all, who had potential and squandered it somehow. I think those are the cases that fascinate me even more. Maybe that’s because I relate.

Are you holding a grudge? About?

I think my biggest grudge is against myself for not going all-in as a musician when I was younger. I feel like I could have actually taken my music somewhere had I started sooner, had I thrown my entire existence into it. It’s hard to accept that it may be too late. There are artists half my age who are making it in the business now. Thirty is grandma-age by industry standards.

It’s not entirely my fault that I didn’t devote myself fully to the dream. I think back to my struggles with mental health, which were debilitatingly severe in my teens and twenties, to the point where I could barely keep up in school and work. Much of the music industry, now and back then, happened on the internet, which I was scared of using for many years. And who could blame me? There are a lot of things to be afraid of on the world wide web.

I had a presence on YouTube, but I remember being nearly paralyzed every time I went to post a new song. I couldn’t help but fear what kind of reactions I would get. I remember some of the mean comments I’d receive about my appearance and worse, my musical abilities. Even in a sea of positive comments, it was the negative ones that haunted me and made me not want to share my music anymore. I had a lot of anxiety about putting myself out there, and I’m beating myself up for it to this day.

I feel like I could have been something greater. I could have been the next Taylor Swift, or even Christina Grimmie (RIP), had I actually kept an online presence back then. Now I feel it’s too late. In a post-TikTok world, I don’t even know where to begin when it comes to sharing my music. I feel like everything I do will be hilariously irrelevant now that I’m past the peak age for “making it.”

I wish I could go back and tell younger me not to be scared of internet assholes. People are gonna suck, and there’s nothing you can do about that except shine in spite of everything. I wish I hadn’t hidden myself away in the darkest corners because of my anxiety. I feel like a massive “should’ve been,” and it sucks to think about. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be, and I need to accept that. But a tiny part of me still wonders what could have been had I just put myself out there more.

I guess I’ll never know.

Whoever “She” Is, You Don’t Have to Worry

I write this from the absolute depths. Like, the only way things could get worse is if a meteor struck my apartment or something. I got passed over for the internship of my dreams, which was enough of a blow. Then, my tire goes flat. Oh wait, all my tires are bad. There goes $800. And my boss seems to think everything I touch turns to suck, so work hasn’t exactly been a bed of roses, or even cheap carnations.

All this to say I’m not exactly having a great time.

In my times of trouble, I tend to turn to music to comfort me. I’ll never know why it’s so reassuring to know that at one point in time, some dude with a guitar felt exactly the way you feel. But then, The Maine’s “Whoever She Is” came on.

And I cried. Like a freakin’ baby.

It’s not a sad song, nor is it a love song, as one might be led to believe by the title and the soft acoustic arrangement. Rather, it’s a song about standing strong in the face of adversity. “She” isn’t a woman but a personification of whatever is troubling you. And it’s oddly relatable. She could be “rainy days, minimum wage, a book that ends with no last page” or a whole slew of mundane issues. But the chorus ends with “whoever she is, you don’t have to worry.”

Things will be okay.

I imagine John O’Callaghan writing this song from his own personal hell. I imagine he went through shit like I’m going through now. Everyone does. That’s the beauty of music. It reminds us that we’re not alone in this struggle called life. No one’s above it all, and even the rock stars and pop princesses and that cool singer-songwriter who busks on the streets have their own problems. We live in a broken world, and we’re never going to be completely free of heartbreak and disappointment this side of heaven.

That’s why we have music to comfort us. And as I bawled my eyes out, I realized this is exactly why I do music in the first place. And I’m not going to let a few setbacks keep me from doing what I was made to do.

And neither should you. If you’re reading this and you know how I feel, put on your favorite song, have a good cry, and get back on your feet, because things can and will get better. The world will still turn, and so will the tides of fortune. Bad things happen, but so do good things. And I still believe the good in this world outweighs the bad.

Just remember, whoever “she” is, you don’t have to worry.

Dear Cadence, Part Eleven: You Will Get Hurt, and You Will Hurt Others

Ever since I was little, I wanted to be in a band.

It wasn’t enough to play music. I wanted a band.

I wanted the family, the ups and downs, the VH1 Behind the Music where we all talk about how much we love each other even after struggling through five overdoses and the guitarist cheating on his wife with the drummer’s wife. I wanted the full experience.

And what I got was Dethklok.

Dethklok was not the real name of this band, but to protect the identities of the innocent (and the guilty), I’ve changed all the names to the members of the protagonists of the show Metalocalypse. In fact, for this chapter and this chapter only, I am Toki Wartooth. You can imagine me with a mustache if it helps.

I met the band when I opened for them at their album release party. It was the biggest show I’d played to date, and even with just me and my acoustic guitar. I got the crowd going, rather impressing the Dethklok guys (I say guys, but there were female members. But for the sake of consistency, we were all guys.)

I played for them a second time at another venue, this one with a private green room. After my performance, they cornered me in the green room bathroom.

“We want you to join Dethklok as our second guitarist and go on tour with us,” they said — no, demanded. And who was I to refuse such an offer!

It was all rainbows and roses at the start. I befriended the other members of the band pretty quickly. There was Nathan Explosion and Skisgaar Skwigelf, the lead vocalist and guitarist, respectively, who were dating. William Murderface was the bassist, a certifiable weirdo, but a charming one. And Pickles the Drummer was just kind of…there. He had red hair.

Learning the songs was easy for me, so much so that the rest of the band was beyond impressed. To be fair, they were basic four chord pop-punk songs for the most part, save for one relatively heavy post-hardcore number where Nathan Explosion would scream and Skwisgaar and I would “chug chugga chug” on the guitar. One of these days I’ll show you one of our old songs. They were definitely songs.

The band was becoming something of a family to me. We’d eat together, play games together, and just generally do life together. And what’s more, people liked us! We had a ton of fans, something I wasn’t used to. There were fanfictions written about us, even. It was surreal.

The fall tour would be the true test of our bonds, though. And as we got ready for the first of our two regional tours, I found myself daydreaming about Murderface more and more. We were the two carnivores of the group — the rest of the band was vegan — and we both dealt with a lot of mental health issues (that we actually acknowledged, since the entire band was incredibly mentally ill and incredibly unmedicated). Was I falling for him? Fans were already shipping Toki and Murderface. Were we a match made in pop-punk heaven? We spent several nights together just hanging out and listening to John Frusciante’s solo material, and after some time, he gave me his grandmother’s ruby ring and asked if someday, I’d marry him. Lost in the fantasy, the rock and roll fairytale I was living in, I accepted.

But that first tour was an absolute whirlwind. We traveled much of the East Coast and Midwest playing tiny clubs and bars. Most of the shows weren’t that big — just a couple of local bands and us — but it was exhilarating to be able to play to new faces every night. I felt like a true rock star, even if we were sleeping in our drummer’s mom van and random people’s houses and not a luxurious tour bus. Even if we all smelled horrible by the end of the tour and we had to mask our natural musks with copious amounts of perfume and cologne. It was an adventure unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

There were arguments now and then, mostly between Nathan Explosion and Skwisgaar. A few times, I was dragged into a conflict, such as the time Skwisgaar and Pickles made me and Murderface cry for not being vegans. (They were all like “What if someone ate your dog?” And I cried, being the damn Pisces I am.) We were a tight knit group, but the threads began to unravel as the fights became more and more frequent. Suddenly, I was seeing how mentally unstable we all were, myself included. Still, these people were becoming my best friends, even more so than your mom and Aunt Mel. I trusted them with my life. It was a toxic, codependent five-way relationship.

By the time our winter tour rolled around, things came to a head. The arguments were so frequent, we were bickering more than we were talking music, or anything else for that matter. Nathan Explosion and Skwisgaar broke up, and Murderface and I were on the rocks too, as I’d recently reconnected with Jacob from earlier and I wanted things to finally go somewhere with him (spoiler alert: it went nowhere). So I was far away from home surrounded by people who all hated each other, and at our homecoming show, Skwisgaar slammed his guitar on the ground in a fit of rage. The next day, we unanimously decided to split up. It was an ugly breakup, uglier than all of my romantic breakups combined. Harsh words were spoken. Threats were made. I finally made the decision to cut them all out of my life, once and for all. And I’m so glad I did.

Healing was rough, but I managed. Your mom and Aunt Mel were the rocks I needed to lean on, and they gave me all the support I needed as I found my way again. I learned my lesson not to trust just anyone, and not to get swept off my feet by whatever shiny opportunity presents itself, because the truth is, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. People will hurt you, but the right people will own up to it. And you will hurt people too, and it’s your responsibility to own up to it as well. I got stabbed in the back by folks I considered friends, but I wasn’t innocent either. In the end, we were all very mentally ill and very unmedicated.

I’m sure you’re wondering whatever happened to Dethklok. I wondered myself, after several years had passed. So I reached out to my old bandmates to apologize for how things ended and make peace with the pas. Murderface and I became friends again through the local art scene, and Pickles went off on his own and never really spoke to me again. Nathan Explosion didn’t want anything to do with me, and in fact blocked me on all social media. I guess I don’t blame him. The funniest thing happened when I cold-messaged Skwisgaar, though.

“I wanted to apologize if I ever did anything to hurt you,” I wrote. “You were like a big brother to me.”

“You mean sister — I’m trans. And there’s no hard feelings. I know I was an ass too.”

And that, my child, is how I became friends with your Aunt Tegan. Funny how life works itself out.

Dear Cadence, Part Nine: The Path to Your Dreams is Not Always Linear

I found out what music therapy was from one of my grandma’s nurses when she was dying. She found out I played music and encouraged me to bring in my guitar to play for my grandma and the other old folks at the nursing home. She told me there were people who get paid to do this kind of thing, and that they actually go to school to study the ways music can be used to help people.

I wasn’t sold entirely. My long term plan was to attend Eastern as a pre-med student and eventually go to the more prestigious (and expensive) University of Michigan for medical school. I’d minor in music, but it wouldn’t be my main thing. I wanted to be a cardiologist or a pediatrician or even a neurosurgeon, something that could legitimately help people, instead of wasting my time selfishly playing music for my own ego (this was before the “Jacob”’arc).

I’d already signed up for all of my freshman year bio classes when my parents overheard me singing and playing in my room.

“Remember what that nurse said about music therapy?” they said, implying that they wanted to become the first parents in human history to encourage their child to go to music school instead of becoming a doctor.

So I went back up to the university right away and auditioned for the music therapy program. I already knew my way around a guitar and I could sing circles around most of the other freshmen trying out, so I was a shoo-in.

Despite being less than a half hour from my hometown, life at the university seemed a world away from life in high school. Not only was I living in an artsy fartsy college town, it was also the point in time when the “quirky weird girl” trope was at its most popular. The days when no one wanted to associate with me seemed like another life. Everyone wanted a piece of the guitar-slingin’ manic pixie dream girl, and I was happy to oblige. I started playing house shows and cafe gigs, and I made a name for myself as the Taylor Swift of Ypsilanti, Michigan.

But the cracks began to show as I struggled to stay awake and focused during my classes, to the point where I’d gotten referred to the university counselors by my professors. To top it off, the anxieties that had plagued me my entire life were coming to a head, to a near debilitating degree, and I had no choice but to consult with a psychiatrist at a local clinic for young adults. It was there that I was prescribed Prozac, which I do credit with saving my life, but it wasn’t nearly enough to save my academic attempts. Music therapy school was brutal, and I found myself fighting hard just to stay on top of my coursework.

I’d signed up for the school newspaper on a whim, and that seemed to be working well for me, at least. I was a naturally skilled writer. I didn’t even have to try to crank out article after article for the paper — I would sit down at my laptop and the words would just flow through my fingertips. I even got awarded the title of editor for the arts and culture section of the paper less than a year into me working there (we’ll revisit that in the next chapter). I did some research on the journalism major and it seemed significantly easier than music therapy, which was becoming increasingly difficult to even find the motivation to study for. As my mental health declined, I wondered how I’d ever be a therapist when I couldn’t even help myself. At least newspaper editors didn’t have to help other people figure their shit out. I could just do my thing and pretend I was okay.

So I made the decision to switch my major to journalism and forego music therapy altogether.

Still, even after I graduated, it felt like something was missing from my life. I tried finding writing jobs but nothing ever stuck. This was around the time I was still reeling from the breakup of my first real band (which we’ll get to) and the crumbling of my first marriage (which we’ll also get to). Nothing was working out, and I needed to regroup and figure something else out. That’s when Coco happened.

Coco was a Disney movie about a little Mexican boy who plays guitar against his family’s wishes. I won’t spoil it, although I’m certain I’ve played it for you at some point in your childhood. (What kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t make you watch all my favorite Disney movies?) But the climax of the movie, where music helps the protagonist’s grandmother momentarily regain her precious memories, made me realize I’d made the wrong decision when I switched majors. I was meant to — destined to — use music to heal people. No, I wasn’t too messed up to be a music therapist. That was a damn lie I told myself and believed to the point it became the truth. I drove straight up to that university myself and told the professors I’d be joining them once again that fall.

And…I failed once more. This time, it wasn’t my choice. I had a strong start. That school year began with me trying my very best. I was doing everything in my power to succeed this time, taking notes and staying alert and keeping organized. Then, something happened at that year’s music therapy conference that derailed all my plans.

I was raped.

The assailant was a total stranger, and I should have known better than to trust him when I met him at the rooftop bar at my hotel. But I was lonely, and it was my first time traveling alone, no friends, no parents, no husband. And he was charming. He said he loved how I was using music to help people.

All before everything went dark, in the absolute worst way possible.

After the incident, my mental health took a nosedive. I couldn’t concentrate for shit. I started drinking myself sick every night. I was making rash decisions and doing everything I could to drown out the ever-present feeling of disgust. I eventually snapped and found myself crying in the office of one of my professors. I couldn’t do this anymore.

And so I dropped out of the music therapy program for a second time.

This is a depressing chapter, right? I promise it has a happy ending.

Another few years passed and I found myself drifting aimlessly once again. I was in a slightly better place — I was married to someone I actually wanted to be married to, and my mental health was finally on the up-and-up. I even got a proper ADHD diagnosis, which explained some of the inattentiveness that made my previous attempts at the degree more difficult. But I didn’t have a job I actually liked. I knew I was meant for more than wiping people’s butts or slinging prescription pills. (Legally. As a pharmacy technician. Your mother was never a drug dealer.)

So, tail tucked between my legs, I whimpered pathetically at the professors one last time, begging for one last shot at that music therapy degree.

And this time, it worked! While finishing those last two years of schooling, I managed to earn a prestigious scholarship and even presented on autism for the university’s undergraduate research symposium. In 2023, I completed the coursework necessary to become a music therapist. As of writing, I’m waiting to hear back from my internship site. After completing the internship, I have to take a test, and then I’ll be certified. In other words, I still have a long road ahead of me, but the worst is over.

Sometimes I wonder where I’d be if I’d just stayed the course and finished my music therapy degree years ago. The truth is, I probably would have crashed and burned. I needed to learn to take care of myself first; otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have been focused and motivated enough to earn that scholarship or present in that symposium. I would have gotten meh grades and probably would have landed a meh job I would have given up on as soon as things got hard. But my place in music therapy is now fire-forged. I’ve been through the worst, and now I’m better equipped and prepared to face whatever comes next. The twelve years it took me to get this far weren’t a waste of time. Rather, it was time spent figuring out for sure that this is where I belong. I don’t think I would have made it this far had I not taken all the time I needed to reevaluate my core values and recover from, well, everything.

Often, the path to your dreams isn’t linear. It’s a road with many forks, pitfalls, and distractions. If you ever lose your way, though, just remember this chapter. When you discover what it is you’re meant to be in this world, it will chase you down, and no amount of obstacles will keep you from what it is you need to do. You are stronger than everything that will ever try to hold you back. You’re a force of nature unlike anything anyone’s ever seen, and I’m so excited to see where life takes you.

Your Song Saved My Life: The Motion City Soundtrack Effect

My joke is that there are two kinds of emos — Jimmy Eat World emos, and My Chemical Romance emos. Like much of nature, however, emo can’t be contained into a binary system. Where do we categorize the Taking Back Sunday emos, or the poor, poor Brand New emos who have been languishing ever since it came out that Jesse Lacey kinda sucks? Another band that doesn’t fit cleanly in the JEW/MCR dichotomy is Motion City Soundtrack.

Musically, they’re probably happier sounding than most of their peers — lots of major keys, fast tempos, and cool ass synths. But their lyrics sound as if they’d been written by every one of my mental illnesses in a trench coat. I don’t even have to dig that deep to find songs that match whichever ailment is weighing me down at the moment. Like, their signature song is textbook obsessive compulsive disorder.

I’m sick of the things, I do when I’m nervous
Like cleaning the oven or checking my tires
Or counting the number of tiles on the ceiling
Head for the hills, the kitchen’s on fire
I used to rely on self-medication
I guess I still do that from time to time
-Motion City Soundtrack, “Everything is Alright”

I remember when my dad was in the hospital for a heart attack that nearly killed him, I discovered “Time Turned Fragile,” a song about cherishing the relationship you have with your father and realizing he’s not going to be around forever. “Son of a Gun” takes me back to the drunken tiffs I had with my wife before deciding to sober up, when my stupid antics were all about “pissing you off just for fun.” And “Even If It Kills Me” was the song I played on repeat as I put in my application to music therapy school for the third time, because I too was “so sick of making lists of things I’ll never finish.”

There’s something powerful about a lyricist that can write words that relate so uncannily to one’s life. That feeling when you realize a song is unmistakably written for you — I call it the Motion City Soundtrack Effect, because I can’t think of a band that does it better than them. Taylor Swift comes close at least.

It’s something I aspire to as a songwriter. The only feeling better than finding that song that you relate to so deeply is being the one to write that song for someone else. It’s why I write music in the first place. It’s more than just a catharsis for myself. I write everything in hopes that somebody out there will hear one of my songs and perhaps realize they’re not alone in whatever they’re going through. You know, the same way I realize I’m not alone in my struggles when I listen to MCS.

I’ve written about the power of music and its ability to affect people on a deep level before. I’ve written about discovering it in my own life. I’ve even written about the dark side of these parasocial relationships with musicians before. But it’s worth mentioning again and again — music is a powerful tool, probably the most powerful tool we as humans have, more powerful than bombs or guns or even words. I believe music has the power to change the world, which is why I chose to do it all those years ago, and why I still choose to do it after all this time. Songs can save a life.

I forgot to mention the final few lines of that verse I shared earlier.

But I’m getting better at fighting the future
Someday you’ll be fine
Yes, I’ll be just fine
-Motion City Soundtrack, “Everything is Alright”

I’ll admit I teared up a little when I heard this song played live last night, despite it being one of their happy-sounding uptempo numbers, because it reminded me of how far I’ve come in my own fight with mental illness and OCD. I remembered listening to those words and wishing for a day I’d be just fine, and now I’m finally in a place where my fears are (mostly) under control.

That song and this band have been with me through it all, and I owe a lot to them.

Do you have a band or a certain song that saved your life? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments! If you like what you read here, feel free to support the blog by donating via Venmo (@jessjsalisbury) or CashApp ($TheJessaJoyce). Thanks for all your support!

Music Reviews No One Asked For: The Same Five Songs That Play On the Radio at My Job

Welcome to the inaugural Music Review No One Asked For, where I give my opinions on popular (and unpopular) music. For this first installment, I wanted to dip into the songs I hear literally every day of my life, on repeat, forever. I don’t know what cursed Pandora station my coworkers have chosen to be the soundtrack of the urgent care I work at (shout-out to all my fellow healthcare workers, yo), but I swear I have every song it plays memorized at this point. That being said, while there are some songs I wish I could obliterate from existence, there are a few bops amongst the rubble. Let’s start with the queen herself…

Taylor Swift – “Karma”

This was one of my favorites from her Midnights album, and for good reason. It’s catchy as hell, and so deliciously bitchy. That being said, I feel like it loses its luster after 4735383729 listens, which isn’t to say it’s a bad song, just that it doesn’t have the same staying power as some of her stronger material (like “Hits Different,” which I’ve subjected myself to for almost an entire four hour car ride and I still can’t get enough of). The new version with Ice Spice does little to inject new life into the song, mostly because there’s a bazillion other female rappers out there who could do better. Now if Angel Haze was on a Taylor Swift remix, I don’t think I’d ever listen to anything else.

Luke Combs – “Fast Car”

When I first heard this song on the radio, I had to do a double take. It’s so true to the original by Tracy Chapman, I initially thought it was the original by Tracy Chapman (in my defense, the speakers at work are bad). It’s so true to the original, Combs didn’t even change the gender of the song’s protagonist, which I have to admire. Here’s this big, burly, bearded country boy, and yet for the sake of this song, he works at the market as a checkout girl. I actually don’t mind hearing this song when it comes on because it stands on its own. It’s a powerful example of storytelling in music — the girl in the song desperately wants to escape her life of poverty with her lover, but he eventually succumbs to the very vices that plagued her own father. It’s a sad song, and it’s even sadder that the most meaningful song on mainstream radio right now was actually written in the 80s.

Jax – “90s Kids”

Is there a Grammy for “Most Irritating Song”? Because Jax is seemingly gunning for it. “Victoria’s Secret” was bad enough, but this one makes me want to stick forks in my ears every time it comes on. The references all feel forced, and besides, we’re all too old to be pandered to. Go write something for the Zoomers.

Some Guy – “Sunroof”

I don’t know who performs this song. It’s not even on the album art. It could be anyone. All the guys on the radio kind of sound the same these days anyways. Like, if you put a gun to my head and asked me to point out Post Malone in a police lineup, I’d be screwed. And for the most part, they all sound the same to me. It’s like how all the post-grunge guys had a “sound.” Can you honestly tell Nickelback from Skillet? I mean, I can, but only because my ex-husband subjected me to more Skillet than anyone should have to hear in a lifetime. Anyways, I digress. This song is kind of good, if I’m honest. The little “da da, da da dada dah” part gets stuck in my head frequently. As a songwriter, I admire anyone who can write a good earworm. Would I go out of my way to listen to it? Probably not, but it’s a pleasant little ditty.

Miley Cyrus – “Jaded”

It’s easy to assume my favorite modern pop singer is Taylor Swift, but the truth is, while she’s my favorite songwriter, she’s not my favorite vocalist. That honor goes to Miley Cyrus. The woman can do it all — rock, rap, country — and all with the finesse Kid Rock can only dream of. That being said, I was a little disappointed with this single. I was hoping she’d lean a little more into the rock direction she’s been heading in, and the chorus is fairly forgettable. I’m only judging her harshly here because I know she’s capable of better. Come on, Miley. Hit us with the true bop we all need right now.

What do you think? Agree? Disagree? Let me know in the comments! If you like my content, feel free to donate to keep this blog going via Venmo (@JessJSalisbury) or Cashapp ($The JessaJoyce). Thanks for all the support!

Dear Cadence, Part Five: Find Your Passion

This is the latest installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four

From the moment I emerged from the womb, I was obsessed with music.

Well, maybe not from that exact moment. I was probably preoccupied with, you know, learning how to breathe air and stuff.

But music was my first love and first language. I remember humming little songs to myself as I spun around, my first dabblings in songwriting. I didn’t know how to write those songs down, as I was a literal toddler, but I loved making up little melodies and singing them to myself. My parents even got me a tiny Walkman with a “record” option and had me singing into it from time to time. I wish I knew whatever happened to those old cassettes. If I ever hit it big, those tapes would be worth millions.

Some of my favorite memories involved singing and dancing around pretending I was Dodger, a cool dog voiced by Billy Joel from an old Disney film called Oliver and Company. (If, by happenstance, you end up with a brother, his name will likely be Oliver. He is not named after this film. Let this be clear. Your brother was not named after a movie with a cool dog voiced by Billy Joel. I just liked the name, okay?) Sometimes my mom would work out and play stuff like Foo Fighters and the Backstreet Boys, which is probably considered oldies by the time you read this. While she would do this, I’d stand in the mirror and lip-synch to the songs, make-believing I was some kind of rock star.

The point being, music and performing have always been an integral part of my identity. Noting this, “Santa” gifted me my first guitar for my eighth Christmas. A year or two later, my parents signed me up for one-on-one guitar lessons with a young punk named Eric, who my mom thought was hot. I’d been kicked out of swimming, gymnastics, dance, and pretty much everything else due to my then-very-undiagnosed ADHD, but I couldn’t get kicked out of guitar lessons. And I didn’t want to be kicked out either! I took to the instrument like a seal to water, and while I didn’t practice as much as I should’ve (read: undiagnosed ADHD), I was a natural. The language and theory of music just made sense to me.

But there was more to my love of music than just the music itself. I loved the idea of sharing it with people. I would watch Behind the Music documentaries for hours on end all about the inner workings of bands I liked. Maybe it’s because I had trouble making friends and was hilariously unpopular as a kid, but I idolized the idea of having a musical found family. I craved the intimacy of working closely with other people who had the same goals and interests as me.

Still, music was very much my personal thing, until one fateful day when I realized I needed to perform, to share my music with people outside my inner circle. It was the first time I ever sang in front of an audience.

In seventh grade, we took an end-of-the-year field trip to the Motown Museum in Detroit. My days at that school were numbered — I’d convinced my parents to let me switch to a semi-private school to escape the constant bullying. Still, I had to get through this stupid trip, which actually was a welcome reprieve from my usual day of sitting in the library like a loser and actively trying to avoid contact with my peers.

The museum, nicknamed Hitsville, USA, was actually more like a small house than whatever you’re picturing, and it’s been said some of the greatest songs of all time had been recorded there. I don’t remember much about the field trip itself, except that in the recording studio, there was a giant hole in the ceiling. This was a reverb chamber, where recordings would be played into and recorded back in order to get a crisp echo effect. The tour guide wanted a student to demonstrate how it worked by singing beneath it. No one’s hands went up. A shiver ran down my spine.

I will never see these people again.

Meekly, I raised my hand and all eyes were on me, the class weirdo who never talked. I took my place underneath the reverb chamber and sang the chorus of my favorite Motown song, “My Girl” by the Temptations.

The silence that followed was deafening as dozens of wide eyes zoned in on me. Suddenly, the room erupted into applause. As I took my place back in the group, I was greeted with a flurry of “Woah, that was incredible!” Even my biggest bully asked me not to forget her when I won American Idol. For my last few days at that school, I was no longer the class pariah, but the class Mariah.

Things changed quickly once I discovered my niche in life. I started playing guitar and singing for literally anything I could weasel my way into. At my new school, I became “the voice” of the student population, singing the national anthem for every event and accompanying the jazz band with its vocal pieces. I even got to play (an obviously much whiter) Beyoncé in a choral performance of “Single Ladies,” leotard and all. I became a significantly more confident person with every performance under my belt.

Cadence, I don’t know what your calling will be. Considering who’s likely going into making you, you’ll probably be musically gifted as well. And incredibly smart. And beautiful. And probably have IBS, but you win some and you lose some. No matter what, I know your passion will find you one way or another. And once you find it, chase it with everything you’ve got.

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