Published in the Quad-City Times on Mar. 27, 2024

When the weather inside gets colder than the weather outside, it’s time to grab the blankets.

But it’s been a weird few weeks, and my favorite blankets have been getting thinner and thinner. I’m cold, and there’s nothing to light the furnace. 

The games I used to play to escape mundanity are feeling mundane. I haven’t sat down for a movie in two weeks.

March Madness is my favorite sporting event of the year. It’s a holiday for me. But this year, it’s feeling like a formality. 

Even my favorite medicine of all — connecting with new music — has been getting less and less potent. This year, I’ve listened to half as many new albums as I used to, instead recycling the greatest hits of years gone by. 

I made a playlist a few years ago called “not a minute late” where I keep track of the songs that have filled me with warmth when I needed it. 

Most songs in this playlist get picked for one of two reasons: distraction or resonance. My favorite songs either pull me out of the world I’m in or paint its colors more vividly. 

These songs also hit me hardest when I’m focused. But lately, I’ve found myself listening to music more and more passively. Call it my diminishing attention span, or the creeping emotional numbness of the last few weeks. Either way, my distantness has definitely put a gap between me and the art I’m consuming. 

With that in mind, I’m revisiting a few of the songs that once healed me, as a reminder to myself and whoever needs it that music is a blanket worth reaching for. 

Bibio — lovers’ carvings

The first time I ever had an anxiety attack, I was 16 years old. At that time, I sought distractions. I listened to lots of punchy rap mixtapes and lighthearted pop tunes, many of which I still love today (and many of which I now can’t stand). 

One of those choppy rap songs sampled the back half of “lovers’ carvings,” a trip-folk tune from electronic producer Bibio. While the Bibio song’s second section is spunky and lyrical, the first part has one of the most calming guitar melodies I’ve ever heard. When that anxiety snuck into my world as a teen, I took solace in this lo-fi garden folk.

A messy rap song was my entry point, but a beautiful electro-ballad was the endgame. Distraction and resonance, all at once, is a beautiful thing.

Covey — Cloudy Eyes

I haven’t talked nearly enough in these columns about Covey, a British indie rocker who released one of my favorite records in 2019: “Some Cats Live, Some Cats Die.” There’s a recurring fox on this record, a motif that Covey songwriter Tom Freeman has said represents intrusive feelings of anxiety and panic. 

On “Cloudy Eyes,” the fox creeps through the bedroom door, and Freeman does his best to dismiss it, revisiting both painful and peaceful memories. The song devolves over grandiose guitar strums into a slow-burning blaze of fear itself. 

“You’ve got nothing on me,” he sings, over and over on the song’s last refrain, his vocals overlapping with such veracity that the fox couldn’t even creep in if he wanted to. 

Gang of Youths — The Deepest Sighs, The Frankest Shadows

This song on Australian band Gang of Youths’ 2018 record “Go Farther in Lightness” may have the single most validating lyric I’ve ever heard. 

“Not everything means something, honey,” vocalist Dave Le’aupepe sings at the boiling point of a desperate six-minute rock ballad. “So say the unsayable, say the most human of things.” 

When my anxiety wins, it’s because of that fox’s diplomacy. His ability to convince me of my own demise, telling me that the words on the walls tell a story of catastrophe, not normality. But not everything means something, honey. Let moments be moments and pass like the sea foam on the back of a creek. 

Karen O & The KIDS — Worried Shoes

In Spike Jonze’s “Where The Wild Things Are,” my favorite movie of all time, the titular monsters are analogies for emotions we can’t control. Max fruitlessly tries to tame them with imagination. But it just isn’t that easy.

On the movie’s soundtrack, Yeah Yeah Yeahs frontwoman Karen O sings a cover of Daniel Johnston’s “Worried Shoes” that is particularly moving. It paints a picture of what the past looks like when the animals are narrating: crooked, flawed, unfixable. 

It’s impossible to tame those wild things, but with songs like this, I get closer to speaking their language. I think that’s worth celebrating. 

Adrianne Lenker — Free Treasure

As I mentioned, music moves me most when it’s paired with focus. I’m trying to get back into listening with active attention, so I took a walk along the river this weekend and listened to Big Thief songwriter Adrianne Lenker’s brilliant new record “Bright Future.” With my periphery unclouded, I was able to connect more deeply with the album, especially on track four, “Free Treasure.”

“There’s a guy at the nape of my neck and he hangs out there all day,” Lenker sings. “He quantifies my every thought and tells me not to play.” 

I firmly believe that music can heal, but only when it’s paired with measurable action. You can’t climb a mountain sitting in an empty room. Take a walk and take your blankets with you. I know I should.

Concert of The Week: Rett Madison at Raccoon Motel

There have been a lot of Raccoon Motel recommendations in this column lately, but I must admit: they’ve been on a heater. There’s another good show there this Saturday, headlined by California indie singer Rett Madison. 

Tickets are $19.84 and doors open at 7 p.m.

On This Daytrotter: Deer Tick on March 28, 2008

The most recent Motel show I went to was on Monday, headlined by Deer Tick lead singer John McCauley. 

Deer Tick is one of my dad’s favorite bands. With his influence, I’d argue that their records “War Elephant” and “Born on Flag Day” were my initial entry points to the world of folk and alt-country as a kid. The band played songs from “War Elephant” at Daytrotter this week in 2008, and McCauley played a few at the Motel, too.

As people filed into the venue on Monday, I felt the walls close in. It was my first truly restrictive anxiety attack in a while. I stepped out onto a rainy 2nd Street for a breather. I drank water and my heart stuttered. I counted art on the walls and it got colder. My hair was soaking wet. 

By the time McCauley took the stage, I was still on edge. An icy flood inside my chest begged to break the dams. As he sang Deer Tick’s “Dirty Dishes,” I closed my eyes.

In the darkness, I felt the backseat of my father’s car with McCauley’s voice playing through the radio. I imagined the stones in the front yard of my childhood home.

I remembered when my dad first taught me to drive a truck. He reminded me that when your tires are large, you move a little faster than the speedometer suggests, so slow down. 

So I did, taking my foot off the pedal and finding a piece of home in McCauley electric guitar strums. I took a deep breath and let the packed room’s warmth cloak me. I’ll try to light another match in the morning.