Music That Reminds Me To Breathe

Recently, I submitted an application for a public, non-profit radio station out in Hoboken, New Jersey.

The position was for music director. Idea being that I would collaborate with various musical organizations in the New York metropolitan area, lean on my contacts to schedule bands for radioplay and generally facilitate kickass programming to create a unique footprint for the radio station on the digital and analog landscape.

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The radio station, which shall remain nameless, set a deadline at March 1^st, 2024 for all applications. I, being me, submitted my application on February 29^th, at roughly around 10:30ish PM. I have not heard an answer back. I probably should have sent a follow-up email last week. I probably will this week. But that’s not what’s important right now.

The reason it took me so inadvisably long to generate my application came down to a significant and unique request to the music industry. A forty song playlist. Now bearing in mind that I was already working a different job beforehand that made me just plain miserable, asking me to comb my entire musical library to find forty songs that best explicate who I am is like asking a florist to pick forty flowers that he wants in his funerary bouquet.

My grandmother once asked me for ten albums that best represented me at age 20 and I proceeded to spend the next three days, eight hours a day, deciding. At least I think it was three days. I don’t know. Hyperbole, I guess. Regardless, I did it, I chose forty songs, split into four archetypes. I could have added more archetypes, to be honest. But I also could have added more songs, too. But the parameters specified forty songs. And the best way to split it seemed like quarters, not eighths.

So, by God, that’s what I did. This is the music that reminds me to breathe, dance, dream and love. This first playlist section, element, (thing?) is titled Music That Reminds Me To Breathe.

Yeah, yeah, I’m bed, bath and beyond basic, I understand. But by God, this is one of four elements of life that push me through it. Sometimes we all need a reminder for why they are so important.

During the application process, I tempted myself to submit this write-up as a companion piece. Then I realized that the word count would go past the 1000 milestone before I even finished half the essay and I would tender my candidature to the station by, oh, let’s say April 1^st. How timely for a fool like me. Barring that, I thought to myself, “well damn, it’s still a good blog topic.”

So let’s not waste anymore time, I have linked or embedded or what-have-you’d the first section of the playlist somewhere around this paragraph, so put it on, let it envelop you or whatever and let us roll out this magic carpet ride, Steppenwolf.

No that is not the first song, damn it all.

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Table of Contents

• Music That Reminds Me To Breathe
  1. “Bloodflood” by Alt-J
  2. “If Things Were Perfect” by Moby
  3. “Acid Food” by Mogwai
  4. “Sense” by King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard
  5. “protective styles (feat Abby T.)” by McKinley Dixon
  6. “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper – Demo” by Blue Öyster Cult
  7. “Oh Me – Live” by Nirvana (Meat Puppets Cover)
  8. “Bassackwards” by Kurt Vile
  9. “Time’s Arrow” by Shannon Lay
  10. “Good Thoughts, Bad Thoughts” by Funkadelic

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“Bloodflood” by Alt-J

There’s a peculiar sensibility about Alt-J that comes along every time they reenter my listening repertoire. They exist within the fugue state; too electronic to sit in on any bluegrass stage, too folksy to hit the rave circuit. Their neurotic, childlike experimentalism and keyboard-translated name (Δ) exposes where I first heard them: the halls of my college fraternity, the aptly named Delta. (No I will not give the full name, if you are reading this and already know me, then you already know,)

Debauchery abound, Alt-J could equally isolate the emergent energies of the peak and facilitate the calming compositions for the comedown.

In the piano stroke, they posses the fall of a hammer and tip-toes of a dancer. In the guitar, they caress with a pick like a feather. When Newman sings, he laments for the sailor and lullabies as a mother. As a band, they tense and release emotions into song with the grip of a construction cable and the hold of a yarn ball. That is why they are the quintessential music for when I am stressed. Something that acknowledges the drama as both possessive and ephemeral, a perfect choice to lead off my first section of these forty songs, “Music That Reminds Me To Breathe.”

“If Things Were Perfect” by Moby

In continuing with those themes of facilitating peace and memories of academic bacchanalia, “If Things Were Perfect” by Moby follows the drama of Alt-J to imbue a patience in all things, finding me again in those years after college. As a teenager, “Extreme Ways” and the Bourne trilogy encapsulated the brimming energy of a world gone. As an adult, I find more value in his penitent, pensive melange of gospel, soul and electronica as I worked a dead-end warehouse job.

Those kinds of jobs require two types of music: one to help you ignore the guff and nonsense treatment as the lowest animal on the totem pole, and one to help you to move on despite it. Classic rock was purposeful for the first, Moby was indispensable for the second. The low thrum of the bass guitar and the phantom synthesizers, flittering and filtering in from the back of the mix, are punctuated by Willie Hutch’s repurposed reclamation: “give me summer!” before Moby’s plain vocals invoke a retort.

As he walks New York City’s Chinatown district, he describes desolation by way of tranquility in every step. Is he happy? I cannot be certain. But the song takes Albert Camus’ greatest axiom (“In depths of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer”) and puts to the musical test. Stretches it across the bars and measures. And within it, he finds that which is invincible.

“Acid Food” by Mogwai

Moving further from these absurdist, electronic musings, (but still staying within reach,) is “Acid Food” by Mogwai. The Scottish post-rock outfit tempted me with the ever-popular “Tracy” here, as the mood played similar. However, I found the sentiment of the instruments to yearn too hard, if not imbue a need for action. “Acid Food,” off their 2005 masterpiece, Mr. Beast, strikes that perfect balance of reflective but forward thinking. Perfect when the prior song forces listeners to sit and think. That tiny change in momentum is fundamental.

And while the main riff reminds me of childhood days spent watching episode after episode of Top Gear (they actually introduced me to Mogwai with the first song off the same album, “Auto Rock”), it’s the homeliness of Stuart Braithwaite’s lyrics that bind me for the future. A healing salve and reminder that suggests “how could you forget?” The solution to your stress was a simple as playing an old record you’ve always loved and always will.

“We’ll come back the other way,” Braithwaite sings in a muted, muddled tone. Indeed we will, Mr. Braithwaite, indeed we will.

“Sense” by King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard

There is perhaps no quicker route to hyperventilation and high blood pressure than reading about the state of the world. Stress is reading about world politics from a media optimized by eyeballs and click through rates. It’s one of many reasons why I find immense enjoyment in listening to King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard’s “Sense,” a composition that both questions and clarifies.

The other reason is pure jazz. I had wanted to insert more jazz across this entire playlist, but found that impossible for reasons entirely unique to jazz. It’s a genre that, by all accounts, comes from a different planet. It almost feels completely unattached to our frankly pathetic quarrels on Earth. It doesn’t remind me to breathe, it forces me to think.So I settled for the compromise, for the approximate. Yes, yes, it’s all jazz, folk or classical at the end of the day. But there’s nothing that quite satisfies the criteria like a saxophone. And the saxophone on “Sense” has everything marked correctly.

In japing manner, I call it “Sesame Street Jazz,” but in real circumstances, I must admit there is no better refuge. It’s a song that admits, yes, this world humans have built is categorically insane, contradictory and hypocritical, filled with no one who wants to take responsibility. But why should that change your responsibility to act with compassion, engage in honesty, hear out sorrow and foster joy? It might be a deeper meaning than intended, but where the lyrics might despair, that saxophone brings relief.

“protective styles (feat Abby T.)” by McKinley Dixon

Commensurate with facing a species’ constructed reality that is categorically insane is the need to take therapeutic actions. On “protective styles,” McKinley Dixon laments, “pardon my black ass, but my n—- need ther-a-pa-ay/ pardon my black ass, but my sistas need ther-a-pa-ay.” He holds those last three syllables because it’s a point that can not be labored too lightly. I interviewed Dixon in 2021, when For My Mama And Anyone Who Look Like Her first arrived on the scene.

In the interview we discussed the nature of genre-fluid critique, the criteria for “socially conscious” hip-hop alongside the formation of his third (and best) album. It exemplifies that same criteria of jazz, folk and classical at the end of the day, imbibing in all three in such a way that eclipses them individually. It’s not often that you find hip-hop that code-switches with such elegance from horns to harp to bass thumps.

This is not Sesame Street jazz, this is street knowledge fruiting from the brutal, harrowing, elegiac cracks in the concrete. It’s for that reason Dixon ranks as one of my favorite artists of all time and an instant choice for when I need music that lets me breathe. Is he my therapist? No, he just reminds me to go anytime I feel like I shouldn’t.

“(Don’t Fear) The Reaper – Demo” by Blue Öyster Cult

This is quite possibly in the running for most cliched pick among all four sections of the playlist. What saves it from the crown is the demo tag. If I had chosen the studio version, there is no doubt. A classic to be sure, but melodramatic for my tastes—cowbell not included. The demo version makes up its lack of cowbell with a meditative sincerity true to its lyrical themes. What it gives up in the sheer audacity of the solo, it gains in hand percussion, unfiltered vocals and a meditative main riff.

Every preconception of this song as an arena rock staple falls away. It becomes understated, a force for calm. When Buck Dharma lands the la la la’s, it becomes the ultimate song in moving meditation; a valid accompaniment to just about any self-care routine. Maybe I’ll go on a walk through the park and practice Tai Chi, perhaps I’ll lay on my papasan couch and read my book, or maybe I’ll just breathe the incense, stare at my lava lamps (the words incarnate of float and glub) and sing along.

Bruce Li said “be like water,” and take the shape of whatever container you find yourself in. This song says be like a lava lamp: float-float, glub-glub.

“Oh Me – Live” by Nirvana (Meat Puppets Cover)

Perhaps I spoke too soon on the topic of cliché. I mean, a Portland guy with a penchant for grunge signified by the genre’s typecase band playing in New York? If I had no creativity, I might have chosen “Come As You Are.” But, there’s a reason I chose this cover of the Meat Puppets by Nirvana. Cobain is simply a better than Curt Kirkwood. I mean no offense, I own the original on vinyl, I listen to II and Up on the Sun as a matter of ritual when the summer starts. And the Kirkwood brothers do make a guest appearance on the record, adding back up vocals and some country twang to the guitars that seems alien to a Nirvana project.

But for real, it’s all about the lyrics here. They speak to the divine within my grasp: “My whole expanse I cannot see/ I formulate infinity/ Stored deep inside of me.” After many years spent trying to figure out my spirituality, music seems to be the one thing that makes the most sense. But music is nothing without the combination of beliefs informed by the taoist, absurdist, pantheist thought, spurred by Sagan’s most poignant line: “we are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” While I may have found something different in “Come As You Are” or similar in “Plateau,” this synchronicity with prior spiritual thought was the reason for choosing otherwise.

“Bassackwards” by Kurt Vile

What to do with these thoughts of Godhead, however? Written word or out loud, there’s no lack of concern that I could be perceived as a crazy zealot. One who preaches or proselytizes by accident or design. Especially if you’re reading this with no idea who I am. That’s where Kurt Vile comes in with “Bassackwards.” Set to a guitar that plays with a loopy, loping rhythm played in reverse not unlike Hendrix’s “Castles in the Sand,” Vile’s chef-d’œuvre speaks to the enlightenment found in conversation.

And lo: “I was on the radio talking with a friend of mine/ There was no format because well, we like it like that/ He was out of his mind and I was way out of mine/ Then everything went backwards/ With words coming out/ Bassackwards.”

In other words, we’re all crazy here. What matters is finding people who accept you for the benign points of view we all accrue like knick-knacks and souvenirs. Find those who let you dust them off for show and tell. To talk openly and honesty is to feather them with the duster and make them shine in their inane glory. These are moments I enjoy, when conversations turn to an oddyssey. So much so one of my closest friends purported that I live “only for a good conversation.”

I tend to agree, hosting podcasts, radio shows, YouTube channels, and blogs. From good conversation comes meditation, reflection, compassion and companionship, hell, what other reasons are there to live? Forwards, sideways or bassackwards, enjoy them all the same for these blessings they provide. To Koa, my friend, my brother who dropped that knowledge upon me, well, I hope he knows I appreciate him to the utmost degree.

“Time’s Arrow” by Shannon Lay

Speaking of conversation. This next song comes from the days where I engaged in regular music journalism. The highlight always pertained to interviewing artists. Coming up with questions and finding methods to open them up was the job. Actually writing the piece was the work. Eventually the work broke me. Sisphyean is perhaps the most apt way to describe work; I could work that boulder all the way to the top of the hill, but the next day, I started at the bottom. After a certain point, I forgot my absurdist creed: “one must imagine Sisphyus happy.”

Penned by Shannon Lay, a Los Angelena guitarista transplanting from punk to folk—or was it the other way around? (Perhaps it’s true what they say, that these things go hand in hand.) I first met Lay as the rhythm guitarist for the post-punk outfit FEELS. We were stuffed in the basement backroom of a sweaty punk club in Bordeaux, France for my first official interview as a contributing writer for Atwood Magazine. Her fingerpicking work impressed me then, as it does now, every time I put on Geist.

Her voice attains the level of Joni Mitchell or Carole King. When she sings, I am haunted, but only by the ghost of a friend. And yet she leans into the primitive guitar substance that separates her into the catergory of Anne Briggs and Bert Jansch with such grace that it can almost slip you by. I know because it happened with “Times Arrow.” But on continual listens and relistens, that grace shone evermore. The gentle organ, every pluck of the bass, the honeyed choral vocals, Lay’s lilac delicate fingerpicking.

Each element, singular yet manifold, sticks me in amber sap, unaware or without care to the seconds, gently reminding me that time is what we make of it. That the ticks of clock can be summed up in the notes of a bar, that the minutes could tally in measures ere they are no more. This kind reminder transforms my dread into acceptance. That tomorrow’s challenge is not to be better, but to be present.

“Good Thoughts, Bad Thoughts” by Funkadelic

It all ends here, with the ultimate Funkadelic track.

Well, not ultimate. But certainly the one for anyone who needs help in a bottle. In true Funkadelic fashion, “Good Thoughts, Bad Thoughts” times at twelve minutes. Half a dozen for Eddie Hazel to work it out on guitar so spaced out, you might think yourself Buck Rodgers in therapy, and six more from George Clinton, your psychedelic golden teacher ready with your ego’s performance review. Oh, hell, I’m not being facetious enough. It’s the goldmine of hippie advice ready to crack the id like Carl Jung with a pickaxe.

Clinton’s voice speaks with the voice of God over the echoes of Eddie Hazel. Whenever I feel all out of sorts, this the song I use to recombobulate myself. To be true, I never thought that it would be Funkadelic who fulfilled that purpose. That it might be a James Taylor tune like “Carolina On My Mind” or “Sweet Baby James.” Hell, “Fire and Rain.” But those are not songs for breathing and reflection. Those are songs to sing it out, whether grief, longing or otherwise.

“Good Thoughts, Bad Thoughts” eschews that emotionality in order to remind me, among other things, the breathe in, breathe out and “listen to the inner voice/ a higher wisdom is at work for you.” And that’s just lines two and three. Clinton squeezes everything, every single drop of knowledge and every notion of thought possible into this song. Just as much as Hazel divines and drives every note deep into soil of the mind.

I quoted a couple different verses before from a couple songs earlier. Not here. There is no single stanza to quote here. Perfection. When I meditate in yoga class, I want my yogi to play this and say nothing, because there is nothing else to be said.

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