Unity in Music

This piece was written for a friend's personal project, and gave me the chance to explore my own experience of personal development and identify formation through the lens of discovering a band. Starting as curious and rebellious younger sister, and growing into a person with a more distinct sense of self, this band's music is a constant present in my protagonist's life, both a symbol of belonging and a soothing comfort. I focused mainly on themes of change, belonging, unity, and the power of music in shaping my (and others') identity.

It starts with your sister listening to music in the next room; a quiet hum, a vague chatter, a bass you can feel beneath your toes (only nine years old, barely scarred, not yet roughened). You shouldn’t bother – she’s at a fun age, she’s rebelling, her eyes are lined black and you’ve seen a bra peeking out of her dresser drawer. But curiosity is a thing with many eyes and a persistent, nudging nose – you pad out of the room in your Dad’s latest apartment, peek over the doorframe, and squint at the computer screen. She sees you instantly – perhaps she was signalling she wanted you to come and investigate her latest foray into being cool (that’s something you won’t ever quite be able to grasp, it’ll slip through your fingers like butter, melting and leaving a mess you can’t clean up).

They’re not new or anything. I guess you can listen.

It’s an initiation as formal as any religion. You sit beside her, happy for the company, happy to be involved. Your face is poised, practiced, jaw clenched, eyes shut. You’re appreciating but not stealing. This belongs to her – these sounds are hers, but you can borrow them, for a time.

You’re not the only one your age listening to that band anymore. You’re used to being special – this thing you stole from your sister under your jacket, bulging like a secret you can barely keep under your arm. Now you’re met with a passive smile, a shrug of a shoulder-

Yeah, I know them. I like the guitarist.

You’re more of a lead singer kind of girl. You can’t put your finger on why you like him, but he’s cool and pretty and you’re neither of these things. Your teeth sink into your cheek as you watch everyone partake in the sacred ritual of listening – you try to find joy in the commonality. But you don’t feel involved this time – you feel like something’s been taken.

You wonder if you should apologise to your sister for stealing something so precious from her.

Everyone likes them, but you like them the most. 18 with self-cut bangs and world-cut teeth, you’re that girl who likes that band and it’s almost absurd. Shouldn’t you be listening to something a little better by now? Shouldn’t your ears have turned more firmly to The Cure, or Bowie, or the bands your friends like as more than a passing-

Yeah, I liked their second album a lot.

No. Because now, once again, finally, you’re that girl, and they’re your band.

They’re never getting back together, you know. You’ll never see them live.

Your back is sweating against the cool leather of the tattoo artist’s chair, album artwork etched into your ankle, and you can’t bring yourself to mind. This brand is always. This band is always.

***

The friends you have now are friends you made because of them. You all like this band, this sound, felt the bass beneath your toes and dipped them into the water, and now you’re drinking tea in your living room with people you met through lyrics and video clips and stupid online arguments you can’t even remember. There’s not a person you know who doesn’t know them – doesn’t love them the way you do. The chafe of overcrowding still hurts, but it’s soothed by what you’ve gained. A family for individuality, a hand to hold in place of superiority. You don’t even listen to them all that much anymore – but it doesn’t matter. They’re etched onto your skin a half dozen times over, and your heart more times than you can count. Once distant sound, then identity, now you find the music is a thing in the background of your mind, audible in the clink of a teaspoon against a mug, the rustle of clothes as you’re pulled into a hug, promises of forever you’re not sure you believe, but want all the same.

****

Things change. They get worse. You grab your headphones, press play on the second album – the one an old friend liked best. It doesn’t soothe the ache or drown the voices, but it tries. Your steps are a little lighter, breathing a little easier – if only for thirty-nine minutes and thirty-six seconds.