I remember speeding through a hazy, wet October night on my burnt-orange P.O.S. bike, listening to Australian indie gem Gotye belt his laments.
“But you didn’t have to cut me off,” he sang. “Now you’re just somebody that I used to know.”
And amid the fog and the sting of the wind and the uncomfortably numbing night chill and the lonesome fluorescent-orange glow of the street lamps, I felt a little, well, sad.
Why? Probably because the lyrics struck a strange chord with regards to a romance from way back when, and made me think about a time in which being sad was kind of a regular thing.
Music’s effect on the human mind is a fascinating thing indeed. I remember listening to music - all sorts, all genres - from a very young age, and always wondered whether or not a lifetime of music consumption ever did anything to me. I figure it has to - these songs hold messages, and emotions, and repeated exposure to these messages and emotions must do something. Right?
In American psychologist Howard Cutler’s book The Art of Happiness, the Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso points out that our notions of love and romance are highly subjective, largely dependent on environment and culture.
“Don’t you ever get lonely, without someone to yourself?” Cutler asks in one lazy afternoon meeting over tea.
“Why? I have everyone I meet, and everyone who is a friend,” answers the Dalai Lama with a laugh.
So maybe we get our obsession with soulmates from culture. Music is a cultural product, and one that works in a cyclical fashion: artists express certain ideas, these ideas are propagated into society through song, which then inspires other artists. It makes sense that we’re learning to live to a literal soundtrack of messages.
“Somebody That I Used to Know” makes me reflect on my life, whether I like it or not. It encourages a sustained belief in the sadness of distance. Even the melody - something that conveys and inspires emotion through just musical form - inspires sadness through its minor tonality, playing as background music to all those thoughts running through my head.
I finally got home on my creaking bike, the last few bars of the song wrapping up the trip. It was three minutes of random daydreaming, maybe some life analysis thrown in for good measure. And though it was just another small musical moment, I couldn’t help but think that it was changing me for good.
“But you didn’t have to cut me off,” he sang. “Now you’re just somebody that I used to know.”
And amid the fog and the sting of the wind and the uncomfortably numbing night chill and the lonesome fluorescent-orange glow of the street lamps, I felt a little, well, sad.
Why? Probably because the lyrics struck a strange chord with regards to a romance from way back when, and made me think about a time in which being sad was kind of a regular thing.
Music’s effect on the human mind is a fascinating thing indeed. I remember listening to music - all sorts, all genres - from a very young age, and always wondered whether or not a lifetime of music consumption ever did anything to me. I figure it has to - these songs hold messages, and emotions, and repeated exposure to these messages and emotions must do something. Right?
In American psychologist Howard Cutler’s book The Art of Happiness, the Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso points out that our notions of love and romance are highly subjective, largely dependent on environment and culture.
“Don’t you ever get lonely, without someone to yourself?” Cutler asks in one lazy afternoon meeting over tea.
“Why? I have everyone I meet, and everyone who is a friend,” answers the Dalai Lama with a laugh.
So maybe we get our obsession with soulmates from culture. Music is a cultural product, and one that works in a cyclical fashion: artists express certain ideas, these ideas are propagated into society through song, which then inspires other artists. It makes sense that we’re learning to live to a literal soundtrack of messages.
“Somebody That I Used to Know” makes me reflect on my life, whether I like it or not. It encourages a sustained belief in the sadness of distance. Even the melody - something that conveys and inspires emotion through just musical form - inspires sadness through its minor tonality, playing as background music to all those thoughts running through my head.
I finally got home on my creaking bike, the last few bars of the song wrapping up the trip. It was three minutes of random daydreaming, maybe some life analysis thrown in for good measure. And though it was just another small musical moment, I couldn’t help but think that it was changing me for good.
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