(From April 2020)
Over the course of April, I am going to be sharing the 30 most important songs in my life.
This is not my 30 favorite songs right now, nor is it the 30 songs that I have loved the most at some point. Every song on this list is a song I love at this present moment for reasons beyond pure nostalgia, but each song is also heavily tied to a time, a place, a feeling for me.
These are in no particular order. I will be adding one per night.
(To read chronologically, start from the bottom)
BONUS
The Heart, Pt. 2 - Kendrick Lamar
For the record, this is 100% one of the 30 most important songs to me. It’s probably one of the top 10. I left it off for two reasons. One, because as I discussed in my “Wesley’s Theory” writeup, writing concisely about Kendrick is exceedingly difficult given the depth of his importance to me and the amount I’ve already written about him. Two, because there are certain numbers that dictate my life, and I don’t feel right when my countable actions don’t end on one of these numbers. 31 is one of these numbers, 30 is not.
Notorious Thugs - The Notorious B.I.G.
Ever since I was little, I have made comprehensive lists, created diagrams, analyzed sports statistics, memorized details.
I have also, for my entire life, been fascinated by space, by philosophical questions, by abstract writing, by art and music’s ability to capture feelings that cannot be put into words.
Everyone seeks some balance between chaos and order, the super-known and the unknown. If anything makes me unique, it is that I have an intense need for both at their extremes.
Though I began listening to hip-hop earlier, I became completely obsessed with it at 15. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the genre appealed equally to those two sides of me. Its lyrical complexity gave me something to first understand, then to analyze, then memorize, then study, then practice. The super-known, order. At the same time, the limitless sonic worlds it incorporates and boundaries it pushes gave me galaxies to be transported to when I would smoke weed in my room until 6 AM in high school. The void, the unknown.
Biggie is the best rapper ever. He has the greatest flow of all-time. His voice shakes your organs. His ad libs, mic presence, storytelling, rhyme schemes, breath control, etc.—it’s all absolutely perfect. Jay-Z once said “I’m leading the league in at least six statistical categories.” This was probably true, but he said it in 2001. In 1996, Biggie led the league in eight. If Jay was Shaq, Big was MJ. The genre has evolved in brilliant, beautiful ways since the mid-90s, but Biggie’s game would translate to any era.
“Notorious Thugs” features the spaciest beat Biggie ever rapped over. It is his most ethereal song. His verse is perhaps the greatest technical achievement in the short career of the greatest technical rapper of all-time, and he harnesses every skill—time signature changes, extended internal rhymes, repetition—to create a larger-than-life self portrait, a definitive thesis on everything he is about as a person and as a rapper. His verse ends, and he trails off into the unknown. I join him.
Dead Flowers - Townes Van Zandt
Though “Dead Flowers” is ostensibly about a failed relationship, one line has always stood out to me from Townes Van Zandt’s version:
“I’ll be in my basement room / with a needle, and a spoon…”
Though it has been one of my favorite songs for over a decade, I initially felt hesitant to include it here. The Rolling Stones’ original is phenomenal (the only song of theirs I enjoy deeply), and while Van Zandt does it better, you know how it is with covers. They can be great and gimmicky at the same time. Perhaps the song just lends itself to a slow, folky sound, and whoever applied this approach first would get the credit. I have a guilty-pleasure tendency to watch amateur YouTube covers of songs I love; there is a novelty in hearing familiar melodies from new mouths. Was my love of this song just a symptom of my desire for repackaged nostalgia?
I was a couple beers in at 2:30 AM last week, and I started researching Van Zandt’s life and catalog. Two hours later, I was still going. Van Zandt’s music was incredible. His songwriting was widely admired; he was your “favorite musician’s favorite musician.” As a folk singer, I realized that his cover of “Dead Flowers” was not only not gimmicky, but the complete opposite: He was honoring what he considered to be a worthy standard.
Van Zandt died in 1997. He was 53. His lifelong battle with depression, alcohol and heroin derailed his career, his relationships, his physical health and his happiness.
Suddenly, I understood why that line had always jumped out. Van Zandt sang it like it was true, because it was, and he sang every word that same way.
All I knew about this song before was that I loved and felt it deeply. Now, I’ve uncovered why. In the process, I’ve created new significance, opening myself to the world of an amazing artist. I cannot wait to explore.
Zebra - Beach House
I remember entering the sky in my Norwegian Air flight, as I left America for what felt like an unknown amount of time. It was a twin-aisle plane, and I could not see outside. It may have been dark. We may have been entering space. I remember soft pink lights, my NyQuil kicking in, and a calming feeling as I noticed it faintly in the background. A nice last tethering to home, though I had never heard music playing over cabin speakers before.
I remember walking around Prospect Park one night after receiving the best text message of my life. I don’t remember if I was listening to music, but I was certainly hearing the song. “Don’t I know you, better than the rest…”
I remember flashes. Multiple colors, disparate images. There was music and dancing, disco lights and glow sticks. Hands reached out. I remember her fragmented Zebra stripes, the black and white marching among the purple, orange, green and red. A binary star. The celestial ceiling that capped our hopes and dreams, a cluster of memories.
Liberation - OutKast ft. Cee-Lo, Erykah Badu & Big Rube
Though I would have selected it anyway, “Liberation” initially stood out as an efficient song option. Three of my favorite artists—OutKast, Cee-Lo of Goodie Mob, Erykah Badu—are featured, which would in theory satisfy their quotas and open up additional spots. Ultimately, I ended up with two songs from OutKast and two from Goodie Mob anyway. Of course.
If you didn’t know before, and I haven’t made it painfully obvious in my writing throughout the month…I love southern hip-hop. Among the top reasons why is the genre’s spiritual quality. While yesterday’s song “I Didn’t Ask To Come” is full of gospel undertones, “Liberation” is overt in its spirituality. It’s a celebration of freedom in all of its different forms—physical, mental, emotional, musical. Andre and Big Boi open the proceedings, and then give Cee-Lo, Erykah, Big Rube and Organized Noize their own spotlights in succession. They each are unboundedly themselves, exploring and expressing their spirits, their versions of liberation. The result is a 9-minute song that lifts you from your body, curious how to locate the various parts of the self.
I Didn’t Ask To Come - Goodie Mob
Goodie Mob makes spiritual music. Whatever you interpret that to mean, you are probably right. It is gospel music. There is a divine harmony between each member’s voice. It is full of spirit, and it is from the soul. While I love everything about every song of theirs, it’s no surprise that “I Didn’t Ask To Come,” rapped from the perspective of four funeral attendees, is their most transcendent work.
Organized Noize’s string-loop conjures more than sadness; it is that incomprehensible void, the “What now?” “What’s next?” “Why?” “How?” “Why?” that follows the loss of a life. Every time the beat cycles, you are brought to that cliff, staring off into the unknown.
T-Mo, Big Gipp, Khujo and Cee-Lo deliver four verses, each one capturing, exploring and expanding on the essence of the overwhelming, raging, high-voltage emotions that death brings. It is a triumph of the most visceral rap album ever made.
“Born into these crooked ways, I never even asked to come, so now I’m living in a daze
I struggle and fight to stay alive, hoping that one day I earn the chance to die.”
Runaway - Kanye West
I dated a girl briefly at the beginning of college.
I fucked her over.
After we ended, she posted a Facebook status.
She knew this was my favorite song.
“Let’s have a toast for the douchebags, let’s have a toast for the assholes.”
I posted a Facebook status later that day.
“I’m so gifted at finding what I don’t like the most.”
It was equal parts a petty shot at her,
An accurate assessment of why I was over her,
An honest acknowledgement of a recurring issue I had
And a celebration of my own confidence, ego and agency.
Why do I love Kanye?
On “Devil In A New Dress,” he says:
“The crib Scarface, could it be more Tony?
You love me for me…could you be more phony?”
The absurdity of the first line is what makes the second cut so deep.
If he were to say
“You went behind my back and fucked all my homies
You love me for me…could you be more phony?”
It wouldn’t hit as hard, because it’s what you expect to hear.
It follows standard narrative arc.
We would see how line 1 relates to line 2,
and we would subconsciously accept it as semi-truth.
But instead, when he gives us a corny Scarface pun that feels extremely out of place in a “serious” song…
We subconsciously think “okay, this man says whatever the fuck is on his mind no matter what.”
We let our guard down.
Then, when the next line is “You love me for me…could you be more phony?”
It just hits different.
Because we know HOW deeply he means it.
That’s a tangent, but that line from “Devil” my favorite Kanye lyric,
For the exact same reason that “Runaway” is my favorite Kanye song.
It encapsulates everything about him.
It’s the definition of a Magnum Opus.
I’d play the first half of the song (instrumental only) at my wedding.
I’d want the second half (which is instrumental only) played at my funeral.
Actually fuck it, play the lyrics at my wedding.
Roads - Portishead
“Roads” is a sonic landscape. Nighttime, vast. Barren, like the deserts I love. But barren is not empty. There’s the moon, and there’s dark matter, there’s infinity. There’s more road ahead. It’s all-encompassing, swallowing you whole, which means you’re still alive inside. And you’re definitely inside.
The Biggest Lie - Elliott Smith
I like to be descriptive when I write about music…saying something is “beautiful” doesn’t really tell you anything. We all have different definitions of the word, and different opinions on what meets that definition. That said, music writing sometimes reaches a ceiling. Music is about feeling, and there’s often no rational explanation for how something makes you feel.
Yes, I think Elliott Smith is objectively brilliant. He subtly twists word and phrase associations, such as describing the subway as “the stupid thing that’ll come and pull us apart…and make everybody late.” He writes literarily abstract but viscerally quite direct lyrics such as “You turned white…like a saint.” His acoustic guitar playing is simultaneously intricate and delicate, and he’s got one of those traditionally imperfect voices that perfect voices don’t stand a chance against.
That said, plenty of other artists can and do meet these objective descriptions. Few, if any, move my soul, heart and mind like Elliott.
Wesley’s Theory - Kendrick Lamar
If you’ve been following this closely and you know me well, you have probably been wondering “where’s Kendrick Lamar?” since, like, Day 5.
Every day, I have been able to look at my remaining songs and find one that inspires me to write. Despite him having two songs on the list, I continually glanced over Kendrick’s name, until the behavior clearly shifted from disinterest to avoidance. Today, I realized why: I’ve written more about why Kendrick’s music is personally significant to me than I have for every other artist on this list combined.
I love “Wesley’s Theory” because it’s the perfect narrative opener for what is in my opinion the most brilliant album ever made. I love it because of its commentary in response to “Sherane,” the opener on Good Kid, m.A.A.d. City. I love it because of how within the first 13 words of To Pimp A Butterfly, Kendrick lays out a thesis statement on what this album is about (his corruption and loss of innocence since the days of his first girlfriend, since the days of his last album), and I love it because he tells us this in a way that you would only understand if you were a serious fan of his.
As a Kendrick fan since before anyone I know, I love how this setup made me instantly feel like this was an album made specifically for me, and how every moment for the next hour-plus made good on that promise in ways I—the most hopeful Kendrick fan, someone who thought he was capable of something inconceivable—was still blown away by. It was the ultimate deliverance.
It’s LeBron’s Game 7 chasedown, Steph’s 40-footer in OKC or Ray Allen’s backpedaling 3 in Game 6—acts that could only be conceivably accomplished by the person who accomplished them, and then were actually accomplished by those people in a narrative setting too dramatic for fiction. Acts that seem simultaneously pre-ordained and impossible to believe actually happened.
That’s what “Wesley’s Theory” is for me, that’s what To Pimp A Butterfly is for me, and you can read that previously-alluded-to writing I have already done on the subject here.
True Blue - Angel Olsen
“I run to you, I run to you, I run to you and you know why.” I was certain this was the song’s chorus, until I recently looked up the lyrics. Apparently, Olsen is not making the declaration of perpetually and actively choosing someone that I thought she was. The word “run” is actually “ran,” which theoretically makes it a sadder song, and gives new meaning to “True Blue.”
I always imagined the title to be about the ocean. Mark Ronson’s 80s-pop/dream-pop/electro-pop/whatever-kind-of-pop-you-want-to-call-it production is a wave. Olsen rides it to its peak, ascending from the verse to the pre-chorus to the chorus, and glides down with the post-chorus as it gently breaks (“love the way you read my eyeees…”). Her voice is fittingly mixed to sound under water, but she is not drowning. At least not to me. I’ve listened to it while driving for hours through Pennsylvania, while making lunch in my kitchen during a sunny Los Angeles weekday and while at the Palms gym in Las Vegas at 6:30 AM. I never listen to songs on loop; I listen to this song on loop. I will keep hearing the chorus the way that I want to.
Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands - Bob Dylan
Had I undertaken this project in April of 2018, I would have never been able to write about these songs as openly as I have.
I began seeing a therapist that May, got out of a tormenting relationship in July, and in August got back in touch with a girl who had, 11 months earlier, reminded me of who I was. By September, for the first time in many years, but more likely the first time ever, I started to feel like myself. I had no real job, a million things were up in the air, and I was wildly in love with a person who external circumstances made a functional relationship with completely impossible. And yet, I was so, so profoundly okay. I was present.
Music was piercing my exposed core during this period. I was working as a dog walker in Brooklyn, and spent many hours each day, evening and night wandering the streets feeling the rawest, most painful and beautiful emotions I had ever felt. That’s not to say there was a distinction; the pain was beautiful, and the beauty was painful. It was all incredible, because it was all true, and I was ready to feel it.
The most soul-penetrating song of all was “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” and if I were to write one word about why, I would have to write 100,000. I’ve tried articulating its importance before, and I always scrapped my attempts to capture the song’s significance. All I can say is that I think it is the most beautiful song ever written, and that I hope everyone gets to experience music and emotion in the way that I finally got to. Happiness is a small, tragic feeling by comparison.
Scottie Pippen - Curren$y Ft. Freddie Gibbs
In 2010, I thought Freddie Gibbs was going to become the torch bearer for hip-hop.
Rappers had been trying to master the technical aspects of the craft throughout the 2000s—particularly in Eminem’s home region, the Midwest (think Royce Da 5’9, Elzhi, Tech N9ne, etc). Gibbs could out-rap them all, but he also had an old-soul wisdom and appeal. He took the haunting sincerity of 2Pac and ruthlessness of Biggie, and combined them with the anti-commercial realness of the alternative rappers who arose in Pac and Big’s vacuum.
But just as Gibbs was perfecting a style that so many had been chasing during hip-hop’s post golden-age void, a creative explosion was bubbling under the genre’s surface that would change the rules he was playing by.
That Gibbs became destined to a career of Madlib collaborations is no tragedy, nor is it in retrospect a surprise. Though it seemed an unlikely stylistic marriage at the time, both are examples of purists, perfecting the craft of their predecessors.
It then follows, in a strange way, that Gibbs’ most enduring work is his collaboration with Curren$y—a rapper creative and talented enough to inspire a legendary verse from Gibbs, but who was also in-tune and in-line with the budding trends in the genre.
The result is a track that is equal parts retro, of its time and timeless; Curren$y’s surprisingly-awesome, free-associative gem of an opening verse, and then Gibbs’ masterpiece; his flow blustering over The Alchemist’s gust-of-wind beat.
Killing Me Softly With His Song - The Fugees
I had “Killing Me Softly” on my initial list, but I felt weird about choosing a cover as my song to represent Lauryn Hill, one of the most multi-talented and original musicians ever. So I swapped it out for “Ex-Factor”— A smarter song, more indicative of her genius. But as I started writing about it, all I could get out was that Lauryn is important to me, and then that Lauryn is important to me because of her performance on The Score.
I put “Killing Me Softly” on to listen one more time, and it just hit me. I was home. Wyclef‘s “One time, two times.” The Bonita Applebaum sample. The break beat. Every crevice of Lauryn’s voice and melody. It’s comfort and refuge for my soul and spirit.
The Fugees greatness doesn’t fully make sense. But they resonate. Lauryn’s greatness does make sense, but even Miseducation, her all-time masterpiece solo album, doesn’t make me feel like The Score does.
We love people more deeply for their flaws, because we know how flawed we are. Seeing flaws in others is a reminder of their humanity, of the vulnerability we share. Music isn’t all that different.
Of course, imperfections are not the same as ugliness. As attracted to imperfections as I am, they still need to exist within a larger context of beauty. And the Fugees make beautiful, beautiful, music. Lauryn Hill might be the most talented musician in hip-hop history. The fact that the Fugees decided to just let her go to work on this track—a cover, and a cover of a kind of ridiculous song, no less—is indicative of their idiosyncratic endearingness, of their tactile, hand-made approach to album making, of their willingness to take risks. And although Lauryn is clearly the star of the song (as she is of the album), the supporting genius of Wyclef and Praswell is not lost. In fact, this song gives us more of what makes them great—their adlibs—and less of what doesn’t—their rapping. They give Lauryn complete room to shine, and she does so with an absolutely haunting two verses, two choruses and the bridge. That bridge. L Boogie, take ‘em to the bridge.
Venice Bitch - Lana Del Rey
I moved from New York to Los Angeles last fall, and was there for 10 months. “Venice Bitch,” a washed-out sonic portrait that blurs nostalgia, pensiveness and hopefulness together, defines everything about my almost-year in L.A. It makes me think of drives to Pasadena on the 110, to Sherman Oaks on the 101 or to Long Beach on the 710. It makes me think of my huge kitchen and of my roommates who never used it. I had so much space and time to cook. It makes me think of the ex-girlfriend who I resented for years, reconnected with in L.A. and am now close friends with. It makes me think of falling in love with my previous home, New York, when I visited in the summer. Nostalgia doesn’t have to be ungraspable. It makes me think of the apathy I began feeling in the winter towards my lifelong pursuit of working in basketball, rediscovering that passion in the spring, and of the dream job I began interviewing for when this album came out in late August. It makes me think of the hope I built internally during an externally stagnant year, and of the soft light, slow speed and rolling hills of Highland Park.
Me, Myself and I - Beyonce
“Me, Myself and I” is almost a rap song. Scott Storch’s production forgoes the manufactured drama, bells and whistles of so much early-2000s R&B, and creates a simple, soulful funk loop that Beyonce can flow over. Her internal rhyme scheme is rapper-esque, and encourages more head-nodding than heart clenching. Lyrically, the song leaves the R&B tropes of her time behind. She is not clamoring for love, nor is she leveraging her sexual power to make men clamor for her. She is not celebrating a romance, nor is she wallowing in heartbreak.
Not only is “Me, Myself and I” not about these things, it is a direct rejection of them. “Silly of me to compete” is anti-clamoring. “Took me some time, but now I am strong” is anti-wallowing. While the song is a declaration of power, it’s not about the power to make this man regret losing her, or the power to get another man. It’s about a resolve unrelated to her romantic exploits, or to romance at all.
Despite it being closer to rap than R&B in many thematic and sonic ways, it is also arguably Beyonce’s most incredible vocal performance. There is nothing more mesmerizing than hearing her harmonize with herself at the end of the song.
“(and I have vowed, to make, it through)
After all the rain you’ll see the sun come out again…”
P.S.
On a personal note—this song is absurdly versatile. My boys and I bumped it in the whip during high school. I have been known to duet it at karaoke. It’s a breakup song, but I also described that soulful funk loop earlier…you don’t have to listen alone. Oh, and while we’re on the subject—it’s got the sexiest music video of all-time. No human has ever looked as good as Beyonce does in this video, a belief I have held since I first saw the video at 11 years old.
Diamonds & Wood - UGK
In the second verse of “Diamonds & Wood,” Bun B opens with several clever double entendres about sex and smoking weed, goes into talking about hiding from police, and closes by discussing the despair of losing loved ones to the game.
For most rappers, this would simply indicate an inability to stick to a subject, or a reliance on hip-hop tropes to piecemeal a hollow verse together. In the case of Bun B, this highlights his special gift for creating comprehensive portraits of life within 16 measly bars. And then there’s his flow and drawl, which doubles the power of his words.
Of course, “Diamonds & Wood” is a multi-star show. The equal-parts syrupy and cinematic beat is the Magnum Opus of Pimp C’s legendary catalog, and on a song in which Bun spits one of the best verses in rap history, Pimp’s verses do not pale in comparison. (Seriously, think about that. Think about how good that means Pimp C is, and how good that means this song is.)
The other two stars are .380—who rapped “I flips down the ave, know I’m looking good, I’m bangin’ Screw, n***a, diamonds up against that wood” on 1995’s “Elbows Swang”—and DJ Screw, who both inspired that line and proceeded to give it his usual chopped & screwed treatment on his “3 In The Mornin” album, which Pimp C then sampled as the iconic hook for “Diamonds & Wood.”
Seriously, follow that.
This seems like a tangent, but it isn’t for me: When I say that Travis Scott’s “R.I.P SCREW” (“Oh my god I just can feel the love / drop-top with the windows up / come inside, oh won’t you roll with us / make the devil bite that angel dust”) is a profound homage to my favorite subgenre of music, THIS IS WHAT THE FUCK I MEAN. He is inviting you to enter his metaphorical sonic vehicle and “roll” (drive/get high) with “us” (him and his influences, Pimp C and DJ Screw), and saying that if we join him, we are forcing even the devil himself to join us/get high with us/feel regret for taking these souls away (the triple entendre of “bite that angel dust”).
The reason I am laying this out in so much detail is that the only way for me to express how deeply I love southern hip-hop is to highlight the poignancy of these lyrics. For those of you that are already there with me, I apologize for over-explaining, but I know you feel me. And for those who are not, I hope this helps illustrate what I see in a sub-genre of music that can appear somewhat surface-level at first.
Diamonds From Sierra Leone - Kanye West
After recently performing “Diamonds from Sierra Leone” at karaoke without looking at the lyrics for the dozenth time in my life, a friend posited “you must have practiced that.”
It depends what you mean by practice. It was my favorite song off Late Registration when it came out 15 years ago. It was my favorite beat as I became obsessed with analyzing production and sampling; the intricacies, layers and groove are very J Dilla/Madlib-esque. It remained a fixture as I started rapping myself; I studied Kanye’s remarkable breath control and cadence by rapping the song over its instrumental late at night.
I’ve been listening to it ever since, and as Kanye has grown as an artist—he went on to put out my favorite album ever, redefine the hip-hop genre and become the greatest musician of this era—“Diamonds” has remained my favorite song of his. Because while it is his best “conventional” rap song, it also represents what makes Kanye unique, as much as anything off MBDTF, Yeezus or TLOP. It’s not about the perfection of the beat or the impressiveness of the rapping—it’s that you BELIEVE every word Kanye says. You believe how crucial what he’s talking about is to him.
When I perform “Diamonds” at karaoke, I always get praised for how accurately I nail it. But the thing is, I am not impersonating Kanye when I rap it. Rather, I am channeling my profound love for every moment of the track. That genuine emotion is what comes across, and I’ve been practicing loving this song for 15 years.
Sierra Leone - Frank Ocean
If I had to pick one thing about Frank Ocean that I love the most, it is the raw, exposed sound of his voice when he ventures into dissonant, unexpected registers and keys. Of course there is an undeniable and overwhelming beauty to his ‘prettier’ songs (“Self Control,” “Ivy,” “Thinking Bout You,” “Lost,” “Novocaine”), and I do not mean to critique those tracks. If those songs belonged to five different artists, all five would probably be on this list.
But alas I will not have 15 Frank Ocean songs on here, so I have to choose what I love the most, and that is “Sierra Leone.” A short track, he spends half bouncing through the restless headspace of extended adolescence, before bursting into a new emotional space, the kind that sudden changes bring on. He does this with his lyrics and production only secondarily; it is done primarily with his voice.
I listened to Channel Orange constantly while living in Italy. I associate all of its songs with different visual snippets of Florence—basically, the street I was walking on during my most memorable listen to each given song. But while every song on the album reminds me of a place in that city, “Sierra Leone” is the only one that reminds me of how I felt, as I nervously but unwaveringly burst, head-first, into a new phase of my life.
For Emma - Bon Iver
There is such beautiful, simple perfection in “For Emma.” The same four-chord progression strummed over and over with a guitar slap as the beat. Two quick verses followed by a single chorus. Vernon’s voice and a trumpet provide two harmonious and unabashedly grand melodies. There is vastness in the simplicity, as the song stretches and stretches and stretches across the world for something unreachable.
Drop It Like It’s Hot - Snoop Dogg
I became a hip-hop “head” in high school, meaning that I rejected “mainstream rap” or “radio rap” or “ringtone rap” or any other disparaging/hilariously-antiquated term I chose to describe the music I listened to at 13.
High school kids like me went to Rock The Bells to see A Tribe Called Quest, Method Man, Rakim, De La Soul and Pharcyde—not Snoop Dogg, who was headlining in 2010. My friend Zalman and I stuck around for his set (we appreciated his early Death Row stuff), but once he made his pre-encore departure we booked it out of there. He had already performed “Gin And Juice” and “What’s My Name?”…what could we be missing? As we left the premises, I heard the bass. The 13-year-old with less refined taste inside of me wished I had stayed.
That was the start. By 2011 I was listening to Lil Wayne, and by 2012 I was arguing that Tyga’s music had just as much value as that of Killer Mike. I had returned to the mainstream, but had somehow become more pretentious in doing so.
In 2014, I was with a group of friends at a club in Mykonos. As cool as that sounds, it really wasn’t. People were poking their head in and leaving quickly, and those that stayed were not dancing. Jimmy and I decided on some mind-meld shit that the DJ needed to get out of his EDM garbage bag and play a banger, and so we told him to put on “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” It worked, because it always works.
Calgary - Bon Iver
In 2018, my friend Andrew asked me what my favorite “4-second moment” on Bon Iver’s self-titled album was. My answer, without hesitation, was the moment on “Calgary” when Justin Vernon sings “There’s really nothing to the soooouuuu, ooouth.” It’s the pinnacle of a bridge that is the pinnacle of a song that is the pinnacle of an album that is the pinnacle of the career of one of my all-time favorite artists.
I visited Lake Michigan every summer of my life through 2011. I didn’t discover this album until 2014, but it was immediately and profoundly evocative of my favorite place on earth.
I did return in the summer of 2015 for a family reunion. One night I was high out of my mind, stricken with the inability to speak during a painfully awkward argument between cousins. So I escaped the fire pit, returned to my room, laid down in the dark, put my headphones in and peacefully voyaged for an hour into the eye of the storm.
Bobby - (Sandy) Alex G
“Bobby” is the first song that has come into my life in the past year to appear on this list, and I was hesitant to include it. I am skeptical of recent discoveries. It’s not only whether or not the songs will stand the test of time, but if the significance of the moments they represent will.
This song is a relic of my trip to Chicago in May of 2019. It was my first time alone as an adult in the city that I most associated with family and childhood. I walked around Wicker Park listening to “Bobby,” its piercing emotion and imagery reminding me of a person who many of the songs on this list reminded me of during that time.
Now, nearly a year later, the song’s meaning has flipped. When I hear it now, I remember walking around Wicker Park, finding a good lunch, finding a 24-hour fitness, finding a date, meeting up with my cousin Sami and finding an outfit for my cousin Elaine’s wedding, facing what felt like 100s of relatives who I had never seen without my parents and finding myself able to handle it all.
Ultimately, I decided to include “Bobby.” There is nothing permanent about this list. It is a record of the 30 most important songs in my life to this point, as in today. If “Bobby” fades, then this list itself becomes a relic of a moment, no different from the songs on it.
You May Die - OutKast
“You May Die” is a rocket ship to space. It’s a one-minute voyage to the destination from which you must listen to the rest of ATLiens; you haven’t properly heard the album if you don’t start it here. “You May Die” is the best among all the great southern hip-hop album intros, and arguably the greatest achievement in Organized Noize’s staggering production catalogue. “You May Die” is an emotionally enveloping, overwhelming piece of music in and of itself. It is a seven-line poem, bewitchingly sung by Joi Gilliam. “You May Die” was ambitiously sampled by Ab-Soul on “Beautiful Death,” a song that was my favorite of 2012 and has aged terribly, except for the sample. “You May Die” does not feature Andre 3000 nor Big Boi, yet says as much about their sensibilities and the emotional resonance of OutKast’s music as any song they ever made.
Renegade - Jay-Z
Jay-Z opens “Renegade” with a verse about why white critics of his music and of hip-hop in general are off-base.
I am not being hyperbolic, take this at face value: If you were to remove the need to rhyme, stay on beat or use engaging language, the best writer in the world could not formulate a better argument in 200 words than Jay-Z does here.
The fact that this argument IS constructed in verse form—and done so with such rich imagery, rhyme schemes, flow and other poetic sensibilities—is itself the strongest argument of all. THIS is what hip-hop is. THIS is what it’s capable of. What do you bring to the table?
Jay’s second verse is also among his best, and Eminem is unbelievable. But make no mistake: I chose this song because Jay’s opener represents what I love about him as a rapper, and about rap in general, more powerfully than any verse I’ve ever heard.
Motherfuckers say that I'm foolish, ‘I only talk about jewels’
Do you fools listen to music or do you just skim through it?
See, I'm influenced by the ghetto you ruined
The same dude you gave nothin, I made somethin doin
What I do, through and through and
I give you the news with a twist—’it's just his ghetto point of view’
Angeles - Elliott Smith
I first heard “Angeles” when my friend Livia performed it during a high school talent show. My guess is that this moment was the first introduction to Elliott Smith for everyone in my friend group, but that none of us would admit it.
Other than with music, movies, books or other artistic works, I’ve fallen truly in love twice in my life—once with a girl, once with a place. For me, and I think for Smith, there is something exhilaratingly painful, or maybe devastatingly hopeful, about this feeling.
Run This Town - Lil Wayne
The original “Run This Town” is a gem. Kanye and No. I.D. kill the production, Rihanna obliterates the hook, and Jay-Z isn’t bad by his post-retirement standards. Lil Wayne’s version is also exponentially better, and I mean that literally. Multitudes.
I know those words aren’t synonymous, but imagine Wayne rapping something like “I’m the greatest by multitudes and exponents.” Reality doesn’t matter. (DM me for an impression of Weezy rapping that line).
Much like prime Jay, prime Wayne can be enjoyed on multiple levels. You can trip out about how “colder than commonly” is actually a genius double entendre, or about how lucid—but specifically in the control-your-dreams way—a brain has to be to rap “Tunechi be the wildest, let’s run the metro-pylis, I pop like lyllies, you drop like eyelids.” Or, you could just not think about it at all, turn up the volume and vibe to something that sounds great.
Wayne is as pure a rapper as there ever has been. Thus, all that matters is the quality of his beats and verses. Song construction is tertiary, and whether the beat is originally his or not matters even less. No Ceilings is thus his best project ever, and “Run This Town” is his best song.
BONUS: “Run This Town” also has my favorite rap lyric of all-time: “New Orleans coroner, his name is Frank Minyard / Fuck wit me wrong, you’ll be waking up in his yard.”
Lazuli - Beach House
I played “Wedding Bell” during an orientation exercise during my freshman year of college, and the prettiest girl in my class exclaimed “I love Beach House!” Midway through our junior year, I told her I didn’t understand how she could be breaking up with me… ”What about 10 Mile Stereo?” (Dramatic, I know). Four years later, I met a girl at a wedding wearing a black and white dress, and she told me that “Zebra” was her favorite song by our shared favorite band. The following year I was sitting in a cafe, and heard Victoria LeGrand singing “someone, like you…” over the sound system. A few days later I got back in touch with the wedding girl, who every lyric of “Troublemaker” came to eerily define.
So much of Beach House’s music has become intertwined in my mind with falling in and out of love; with memories of others. I often forget that the reason they are my favorite band started with me, and with my love of their music. “Lazuli” is a reminder of that. I think it is their best song, and it reminds me of no one. It’s for me alone, and cannot be replaced.
R.I.P. SCREW - Travis Scott
I spend a lot of time in the clouds. Perhaps that’s the common thread between so many of my favorite artists across genres—Beach House, Bob Dylan, Bon Iver, Travis Scott. The greatest thing a song or album can be, for me, is transportational. That’s why I’m doing this list. The process of compiling and writing about the most important songs in my life makes me feel something, and what I feel are times and places and epochs.
ASTROWORLD is as transportational as albums get, though it’s less about outer space as the title suggests, and more about ethereal or spiritual space. It removes you from your body. The song that does that most profoundly is “R.I.P. SCREW,” Trav’s homage to southern hip-hop, which is my favorite subgenre of music. And while the song pays homage through literal mentions of and powerful allusions to DJ Screw and UGK, the real homage is in the song itself doing what all the great southern hip-hop does. It’s in the imagery, the atmosphere, how it makes you feel, where it takes you.
It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue - Bob Dylan
I was a rebellious kid, but not against my parents. I broke into Memorial Stadium late at night to drink on the 50-yard line, I started smoking weed at 13, and I smoked cigarettes for a period of time in high school. I told my parents about the weed but not the cigarettes, both decisions made out of respect to them. I listened to Bob Dylan constantly, who was, is and always will be the most important artist of any kind in my mom’s life.
I visited my friend Quinn at UC Davis during my senior year of high school. There was no space in his dorm room, so Zalman and I slept in my mom’s Prius, which was also the car that we did donuts in at Berkeley Marina, we got pulled over in for having way too many people inside, and was widely referred to by my group of universally-unlicensed friends as “the whip.” I woke up early, extremely hungover, to heavy rain. I drove Zalman and I back to the town we grew up in playing Bob Dylan’s 1966 live version of “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” thinking about what college would be like for me next year.
Rolling Stone - The Weeknd
I don’t like to refer to The Weeknd’s first three mixtapes as Trilogy. It matters that “Rolling Stone” came out several months after House Of Balloons, which is a mixtape that completely changed my perception of music in the way it mixed a quintessential late-2000s R&B vocal style with dark, explicit lyricism that far more resembled that of hip-hop than that of R&B at the time. It was during this period of my initial obsession with The Weeknd that “Rolling Stone” came out as a single, and it was world-shattering. Everything I loved so much about H.O.B. was being realized even further.
I remember my friend Matt and I hanging out at Thousand Oaks one night, discussing how worried we were about The Weeknd’s smoking habits ruining his voice. I remember years later demanding that everyone at a Neri party in Florence come back into my room so that they could listen to Jimmy, Paulina and I cover the song for a second time that night. “Rolling Stone” was on Thursday, and “Initiation” was on Echoes Of Silence, and The Weeknd’s—or anyone’s—music has not been the same since. But until then.