In Los Angeles, the sun shines an average of 267 days per year, with a modest dip in temperature in the fall and winter months. The signs of the current season are relatively mute here, save for the occasional crunch of a big palm leaf beneath your feet. As a recent transplant from fog-clad San Francisco, I knew what I was getting myself into and was happy about it. I’ve heard enough Brian Wilson to understand the vibe here is, at least partially, due to the warm and predictable climate. What I wasn’t expecting was that when November hit and autumn officially set in, I’d need to close my blinds, lie in my bed, and listen to The Smiths.
I’ve always been a pretty emotional person, even as a kid. When the final episode of Growing Pains aired, I wept as though my family was moving out of our house, too. Or when I found condoms of my older brother in our room, I cried because I didn’t want him to grow up and have sex. But what has hit me most directly through my ribs, is music, the wistful sort that feels like a haze descending.
The first song I remember affecting me viscerally was Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings.” As an 8-year-old boy, I imagined there truly was a person for me whom I could consider the wind beneath my proverbial wings. And if that person just up and disappeared, well, I’d be a pretty sad little dude. To acknowledge my absolute love for the sadness in that song, I went so far as to learn it on my Casio and play it for my family as their group gift on Christmas morning.
From that point, I began investigating this idea of heartbreak, loss, and loneliness in songs. From Tiffany’s “Could’ve Been” to The Cure’s “Pictures of You” to Ani DiFranco’s “You Had Time.” I found myself finally connecting and the bliss was overwhelming. When I hit high school, I carried this sadness along with me. I lept into Joy Division, Red House Painters, Jeff Buckley, Nick Drake, Mazzy Star, The Smashing Pumpkins — artists known for their minor chord affinities.
In 1971, Joni Mitchell released Blue, an emotionally-wrought whale of a record. Some, namely Kris Kristofferson, are reported to have commented “Oh Joni — save something of yourself!” as though to reveal too much is counterproductive when the opposite is potentially true: to expose is to express and work through. The modern-day equivalent of such confessional records might be something like Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy’s I See A Darkness, Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago, or most recently, the live performances of Majical Cloudz’s Devon Welsh, where the emotional intensity is so high, critic Mike Powell asks: “Should we be watching this? And should Welsh be doing it?”
The answer is, of course, yes and yes. To be sad and listen to sad music does not necessarily mean you are depressed — sadness is fleeting. For me, it’s about finding a connection, some musician or some piece of music that moves parallel to me, holds my hand and takes me along. It’s in these moments we reflect upon our lives, appreciate what is good and attempt to acknowledge and solve what might be troubling. Living most of my life in Upstate New York and Northern California, the fall and winter months have always been for me, and I’m sure for many, more conducive to that state of mind. This is no different in sunny L.A.
In a story published earlier this year, psychology professor Dr. Krystine Batcho, wrote that “…sad music plays a role in emotional function. It evokes pleasant emotions such as bliss and awe, along with sadness, and is more likely than happy music to arouse the intensely pleasurable responses referred to as ‘chills.’”
The chills are what I often aim for, along with any sign of a thumping red heart. Ai Kawakami wrote a few years ago in the NYTimes: “When we weep at the beauty of sad music, we experience a profound aspect of our emotional selves that may contain insights about the meaning and significance of artistic experience — and also about ourselves as human beings.”
When I listen to The Smiths’ “Asleep,” I can hear the pure and true sadness in not only Morrissey’s voice and lyrics but in the arrangement as well. I’m currently learning the song on the piano and have been surprised that it’s actually made up of many major chords. Over the past few days, I’ve laid in bed and listened to it on repeat, letting it wash over me like a perfect fatigue. And in the midst of it all, I realized there’s really no point in closing the blinds — that sadness is a light too, and it can shine just as strong.
