Love in the Time of Spotify

by Julia Medina

The story of my most recent failed romantic endeavor can be accurately and, perhaps most poetically, told through the lens of Spotify. Since our relationship was somewhat long distance, social media was key to its growth and survival. We texted and Snapchatted throughout the day, but there's something uniquely modern about knowing exactly what song your sweetheart is listening to “right now” and perusing their playlists and most listened-to artists.

I was never one to buy digital music. As a kid, I had about five or six CDs in serious rotation; the ones I remember are from esteemed artists such as Hillary Duff, Jesse McCartney, and Rihanna, and, a bit later, Avril Lavigne and Metallica. I was gifted a portable CD player when I was around ten years old and didn't put it down until I got an MP3 player a few years later. Battery-operated with a whopping 248 MB of memory, this little miracle of technology allowed me to carry about 80 of my favorite songs with me everywhere. I used YouTube to MP3 conversion sites to turn music videos into low quality files, which I would then save in my MP3 device's folder. The process was similar when I got an iPod Nano in high school.

I was immediately sold with the advent of Spotify. Cutting out the process of finding music online was a great idea to me. I'm an avid music listener with a short attention span. A major benefit of Spotify, I would argue, is that it allows you to follow other users and be followed in return. Do I want people to know I listen to Joy Division and Sky Ferreira? Yes. I am very cool.

Now, I consider myself the Playlist Queen and never shy away from referring to myself as such. Before unlimited music streaming came into my life, I had dabbled in the art of creating playlists, burning CDs for my high school boyfriend and my mom every now and then. But Spotify changed the nature of playlists in my life. Suddenly, I had instantaneous access to a seemingly infinite assortment of songs. The mechanics of creating a playlist were pared down to the act of the click and drag, while the step of exchange was reduced to hitting "Share" and typing the first few letters of a friend or lover's username. Playlists aren't just for sharing and, in college, I have made countless numbers for myself: one for writing papers, one for doing problem sets, one for walking to class, one for nostalgic reflection, one for embracing the astounding depth of human pain. Each has an idiosyncratic title, usually a lyric plucked from a song on the mix (think: "All that’s Golden" and "erroneous harmonious," Chvrches and Courtney Barnett songs, respectively). As time passed and I found new favorite songs, older playlists were replaced with updated ones; but thanks to the archival nature of a Spotify playlist collection, all remain intact. Sift through my profile and you will find "Laundry Day" from freshman year and "Songs That I Did Indeed Listen To," which was once titled "Songs That I Want to Listen to." I have only ever deleted one playlist, which I made sophomore year for my then-boyfriend. It wasn't enough to delete him on Facebook and remove him my life; I needed to take back my tunes. Odessa and Beach House are not for traitors.

For the music enthusiast, a playlist is the ultimate love letter. It is intimate, personal, and, to the snobbier amongst us, the perfect opportunity to show off our brilliant taste. The first playlist you make for your crush is monumentally important and its success relies heavily on a number of factors: Does it highlight your preferred genre while still exhibiting a level of well-roundedness? How well did you balance your personal taste with what you know about your crush's taste? How many love songs did you include (we get it, you're sensitive, but consider the stage at which your relationship is presently)? Are the transitions between songs nuanced and thoughtful? And so on.

So, Neil—let's call him Neil—and I connected on Spotify before any other social media. The first playlists we made for each other were within the first few days of meeting each other. Neil is way cooler than me; the only songs on "For Jules" that were released after 1997 were by Porches and DIIV. I was suddenly insecure about the Ben Howard, Sufjan Stevens, and Courtney Barnett I'd sent his way. In an effort to redeem myself, I made a second, more obscure playlist for him. Created in the dead of winter in New York City, it's a depressing bunch of songs, but I felt good about it. "For Neil (Part II)" had a Grimes song, though all of this pre-dated my Grimes phase, one of my favorite classics from Spiritualized, and old school Arcade Fire. I capped it off with “The Angel and the One,” a whiny but loveable Weezer song that drags on for a full 6:46. "I'm not usually into music this heavily produced," he texted me when he heard it, "but the Weezer song is great. You're so sweet Jules. Thanks!"

As things with Neil went south last February, I curated playlists to suit my turmoil. "My Heart is Made of Stone" and "Pep Talk" are some of my favorites from that era. My cousin sent me a playlist called "boys suck" and I drowned my sorrows in Guided by Voices. A particular challenge has been seeing the new playlists he makes for other girls, named formulaically "For Rachel" and "For Jewel,” as they pop up on Spotify. Live by the sword, die by the sword.

Neil and I rekindled in June and our musical interchange also made a reappearance. At his recommendation, I listened to about ten albums, ranging from pop punk to math rock. In the nineties (Neil's favorite decade), I would have needed to buy CDs. Thanks to Spotify, I fell in love with Sunflower Bean while clinging to the handrail on the uptown #2 train. Neil would argue that tapes and CDs are better anyway; we spent a chunk of our first date in a record store, where he bought a used DIIV CD that he already had listened to "a million times, you have no idea." As for tapes, his shitty shoegaze band released their first EP exclusively on cassette tape. It seemed charming at the time. I know, I know. Hindsight is 20/20.

Unsurprisingly, when October came around, things ended with Neil for good. And as I began to move on—you guessed it—I made playlists. Most immediately after everything imploded I made a series of five-song playlists. Short, but high impact, these collections were the songs that got me through the emotional blow. Broods told me to “Hold the Line.” Sia assured me that I'm “The Greatest” and Arcade Fire lamented with me that heavy is the head that wears the Crown of Love. As I continue to work through my thoughts and feelings, regardless of what's weighing me down, I turn to my tunes to push me through. I make my own supportive playlists and listen to those my pals make for me. I recently saw a friend listening to her original playlist on Spotify called "men are leeches." I know I'm not alone in my methods.

Since this a social media-centric love story, it's worth noting that Neil and I met on Tinder. Now, Tinder can link to your Spotify account and users can choose an "anthem" to represent their tastes and, in a sense, their identity. Mine is "PPP" by Beach House, a pensive, tender dream pop tune. Can a song sway you to swipe right (or left)? I would say yes. And if I had to pick a song for Neil, it would be by one of his absolute favorite bands: Joyce Manor’s “Constant Headache.”