By Alexis Ocampo
It’s safe to say that music has always been an immense part of my life. Throughout my childhood, engaging in music almost always meant actively partaking in something communal and collectivistic. I’m sure we all have our guilty pleasure playlists, but even those made it out of the confines of my bedroom, bleeding into the playlists of my closest friends. I’d argue that on a global scale, music both informs and is informed by cultural movements and shifts, dictating the ebb and flow of culture—but to adolescent, dot-on-the-planet me, music helped dictate the ebb and flow of my creativity, and ability to partake in art. In doing so, I constantly depended on existing structures and people to seek out my commitment, so that I could take their outstretched hand.
I remember the first time I stepped into the band room. The smell of brass lingered in the air, metallic and enticing. Then there was the whole ritual of receiving your mouthpiece, caring for it with your hygienic life, hauling your instrument out of the storage closet in the back, and getting seated in your section. I’d play a few notes, maybe a pentatonic scale if I was feeling up to it. The baritone section was in the back just by the tubas, so I had a full view of everyone who made up middle school band—the backs of their heads, anyway. I remember flinching a bit when the baritones would get called on to play our parts, just to make sure we weren’t the ones making the band sound all wonky. I also remember the little jolt of pride I felt whenever we passed our little section-test, because Mr. Vest’s okay gave you validation like no other.
Outside school, I remember having ‘jam seshes’ in my friend Kari’s room. She’s a virtuoso on the piano, and an incredible singer to boot. Sometimes Angel, who completed our trio, would be beside her singing too, while I’d be fumbling about on the guitar. Without prompting him to, Kari’s older brother Keanu would come in with the viola, and our other friend Aron would stroll in with his violin—our own tiny orchestra would come to life. We’d just sing whatever, and it felt organic, like everything just came together because that’s how it was meant to be. Another time, and I was probably in 5th grade at this point: we were all packed in a car, bulky ski gear and all, on the way to Hachikita, a ski resort in the south of Japan. Kari had her Walkman, and we each shared an earphone as she blasted Destiny’s Child’s Destiny Fulfilled on our journey up the mountain. We sang along and had the time of our lives, belting our hearts out and dancing in our seats all squished in the back of that minivan. I think these are some of my favorite memories from childhood.
When I went to university, something shifted. My main method of approaching and interacting with music largely fell online, through media platforms and music-listening apps. I started to realize just how much identity could be tied to music and musical tastes. I don’t think anyone seeks out and sets hard parameters on who or what piques their interests, but I’d presume it’s safe to say we gravitate toward and attract people and things that more or less operate on the same wavelength as us—after all, familiarity breeds comfort. In that sense, the Venn-diagram of music-listening between my friends and I overlapped in many places, and music, once more, became a symbol of understanding, and a medium where I found connection and commonality.
I realized the shift in purpose and role of music in my life from something once so second-nature, so routine, to something that felt more intangible and dispassionate than ever.
Halfway through university, I truly began to notice the effects of how my relationship to music really changed. It was more uncomfortable than I’d have liked to admit, and it hit me like a train—a weirdly slow-moving train that I could sort of make out from a distance, but didn’t really see. Looking back at it, my connection to music truly became frayed and distant. It was a change that I didn’t really stop to consider the gravity of, perhaps because I was so busy devoting my time to other aspects of my life. I started to feel a growing pressure as to what I was listening to and why, which felt incredibly intimate and difficult to face. In any case, any notion of organic evolution became fraught, and I realized the shift in purpose and role of music in my life from something once so second-nature, so routine, to something that felt more intangible and dispassionate than ever. It felt like, instead of freely nurturing a fundamental part of my identity, I was seeking it out mechanically with wide-eyed greed. To my dismay, doing so only solidified the fact that something that once brought me sanctuary now brought me unease and became reminiscent of loss. Perhaps clinging too tightly to a dynamic that no longer served me sat at the pinnacle of things holding me back. Perhaps it was living with a cat for the last four months of university (shout out to Morty), which taught me that expecting unconditional love from anything (Morty) will get you nowhere. You simply have to let it do its thing. Or get a dog.
Today, Covid-19 has seeped into every nook and cranny of our lives. Its implications constantly linger in the back of my mind with every decision I make, or rather, am unable to make because of the pandemic. Naturally, with more time on my hands and a Covid-free horizon still yet to be seen, I find myself, again, scrutinizing various aspects of my identity, shouldering the occasional existential crisis or two. Covid-19, in its twisted and mysterious ways, has given me the privileged time and space to slow down and reassess my identity and place in the world, including the fundamentals of who I am: a small but vital part of my identity is grounded in and by music. I’m slowly learning to enjoy the music-listening experience at my own pace, and growing more patient in finding my footing with how I consume music. The biggest lesson I’ve learned is not to force things: music takes on an entity of it own, teeming with life and vibrancy.
Music is auditory proof that humanity has a soul.
I believe, in many ways, that music is auditory proof that humanity has a soul. I think our relation to such a force will inevitably be constantly changing. We need to create our own structures, routines and relationalities with it so that, when all falls away, we can stand up on our own.
All in all, I don’t think my music-listening experiences or tastes have really done a complete 180 under Covid-19. More than ever, I’m consuming music online due to restrictions on physical social gatherings. My cousins love Tik Tok, so I’m a bit more attuned to the passing trends that have been borne out of the app. Artists seem to be constantly releasing music, probably because they now have nothing but time to, but also because immense importance is being placed on staying communicative and united during this precarious pandemic. I’m enjoying the homemade touch on certain music videos as well: those taken entirely in the perspective of a screen-recording on a phone, cashing in on MacBook staple Photo Booth, and capitalizing on Instagram’s IGTV. EP drops are outstretched hands, beckoning for our participation in a collectively wounded society.
In light of the Black Lives Matter movement, artists are eagerly sharing melodic tales of their woes and triumphs as we all try to grapple with the implications of our existence in this world. I feel, more than ever, the butterfly effect of a simple song turned anthem. But none of this is really new—this is just music doing its thing, a beat to which life finds rhythm.
I feel, more than ever, the butterfly effect of a simple song turned anthem. But none of this is really new — this is just music doing its thing, a beat to which life finds rhythm.
At the end of a day, our music-listening choices are a form of independence. We must learn to lean on and trust ourselves. It is a marker of culture that we can participate in, and also isolate ourselves through. Music can accompany us through various journeys, guide us when we’re lost, and forge epiphanies through soulful connection. I think forcing anything when it comes to matters of the heart is always ill-advised. We must know ourselves well enough to know when to take things lightly, when to dive in deep, and when situations call for our input in something greater than our individual selves. I believe this can all be, and is, achieved through music. There is great versatility in music, which I was wrong to confine to my youth and nostalgic reflection. I shouldn’t mourn my relationship with music because it is still very much alive; while it continues to carry my comforts, the role of music in my life has simply taken on a different form. I should like to evolve with it.
Alexis Ocampo recently graduated from McGill University in Montreal, and has been quarantining in Manila, Philippines. Recently she’s been listening to a lot of Snoh Aalegra, Agust D, Celeste and Little Simz. She has enjoyed music and writing from a young age, with most of her work experience focusing on communications and copywriting work in social impact related fields.
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