Lived Through This
How to Remain Connected to a World You Can’t Hear
Notes on losing my hearing in isolation
I listen to terrible music. If you know a song that can be described as a strip club banger, please, email me the link. I’m genre-agnostic—anything with a solid beat and a shallow message. I’m not interested in Carly Rae Jepsen’s earnest pleas to run away with her or the yearning breathiness of Robyn dancing on her own. Nope, no thanks. I run to the fuck boy melancholy of Drake, the uncomplicated misogyny of Tyga. When I listen to Kendrick Lamar, it’s the Skrillex remix.
I do not feel good about this. I was raised on excellent music—The Beatles and Otis Redding and the Rolling Stones. My first three concerts were The Beach Boys, Aretha Franklin, and Eric Clapton. I was a classically trained pianist obsessed with the construction of pieces, how notes fit together to make chords, and chords came together to make a feeling, every progression a half step from joy or dejection. I always listened to music in transit, in the car or on the bus or walking to class. When I was a teenager, it was Death Cab for Cutie and The Decemberists and Ryan Adams. Then, as I got older, I stopped caring as much about how men felt and moved on to Regina Spektor and Laura Marling and Fiona Apple and so much Stevie Nicks.
