You think that you are the coolest person in the world. Your friends go to you for recommendations and nobody else. Obviously, they can’t know you get your favorite songs and personality from Spotify’s “my life is a movie” playlist, which you browse through now. A wave of relief passes over you as you notice that “Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star is still near the top. I wonder if she has any other songs?
You look through your music library to see what or who fits your current mood. Sorry, Morrissey, but I’m bored of The Smiths today. No thanks, Weezer — my situationship texted me back. Lorde’s last album wasn’t your favorite either. Bizarrely, you’re unsure. You always know what playlist you want. How can it be that despite the 46 different playlists you’ve hand-curated — that is, saved with the plus button — to represent every possible facet of human emotion, you feel some kind of way that cannot be succinctly encapsulated in musical form?
As playlist after playlist fails to move you, for the first time since coming to Cornell, you walk to the dining hall unaccompanied by music. Your wired earbuds are stuffed carelessly in your backpack. You eat breakfast alone, making do with whatever’s playing on the speakers. You become the powdered eggs: an inoffensive, flavorless blob of nothing. A foreign and indescribable feeling creeps into your mind.
Normally, you would scoff at your peers. After all, they were probably playing some trash like Drake or Benson Boone. They had no idea that royalty like you walked among them, Bowie’s “Heroes” in your ears. A small part of you felt pity, of course — they couldn’t help but be stuck with their completely generic, decidedly too-mainstream-to-be-cool music taste. It’s a shame they couldn’t join you and the 2 billion other people who have listened to Djo’s “End of Beginning.” But today, you are wholly armorless around them. For all you know, they’re listening to Cocteau Twins’ “Cherry-coloured Funk” and you’re not.
Distraught, you hurry over to Willard Straight Hall, where you are welcomed by a poster sale. This should be music to your ears, since you almost always buy a new poster for your collection. However, today you can’t decide; in fact, you seem hardly interested.
“Looking for something?” a small, beady-eyed woman asks you.
“I’m not sure anymore,” you reply, looking vaguely in her direction. “I used to buy posters to ‘romanticize my life,’ but I feel like I’m in a rut that financial irresponsibility won’t get me out of.”
“Do you know the band TV Girl?”
Of course you know TV Girl. Everyone knows TV Girl.
“Somewhat.”
“They’ve got this song ‘Lovers Rock’ that you might know, but I honestly like their deeper cuts. You should listen to this one, I think it’s called, like, ‘Not Allowed.’”
You stare at her. She stares back.
“You’re not real, are you?” you ask her sardonically.
She tenses. Her eyes panic. “What do you mean?”
“Like, you just can’t be a real person. Not to be mean, but are we for real?”
She starts sweating. In that moment, her face discolors and contorts before reverting to normal. “I’m sorry?”
Though her disfiguration was momentary, it was not lost on your discerning eye. Something’s not right. You grab her arm.
“Who are you?” you inquire.
At the touch of your human hands, the creature in your grasp morphs into its true, alien form. It lets out an atavistic shriek, the sound of which causes a portal to open in the middle of Ho Plaza. Your new friend wriggles free and jumps into the void before you, from which three new aliens appear.
You, in your disoriented state, enter what you believe to be a battle stance, but the aliens appear harmless. Weirdly enough, they only have cell phones and wired earbuds.
“I am a metaphor for your comfort zone,” booms the first. “I know, a bit on the nose.” It presents you with the following playlist:
- Lucy Dacus: "Night Shift"
- Big Thief: "Real Love"
- Fiona Apple: "Paper Bag"
- Nico: "These Days"
- Cocteau Twins: "Heaven or Las Vegas"
- Weyes Blood: "Andromeda"
- The Sundays: "You're Not The Only One I Know"
- The Smiths: "Well I Wonder"
- Elliott Smith: "Waltz #2 (XO)"
- Jeff Buckley: "Last Goodbye"
- Radiohead: "Let Down"
- Fleetwood Mac: "Silver Springs"
You turn to the second alien.
“I am a metaphor for your drive to discover more music.” It presents you with a list of artists you’ve seen before and have been meaning to check out:
- Slowdive: "Machine Gun"
- Built To Spill: "Randy Described Eternity"
- Black Country, New Road: "Haldern"
- Björk: "Unison"
- LSD and the Search for God: "Starting Over"
- Sweet Trip: "Dsco"
- Massive Attack ft. Elizabeth Fraser: "Black Milk"
- Broken Social Scene: "Cause = Time"
- Ethel Cain: "For Sure"
- Angel Olsen: "Lark"
- LCD Soundsystem: "Get Innocuous!"
- King Crimson: "Starless"
Finally, you turn to the third alien. “I am a metaphor for radical change and self-innovation,” it proclaims. It presents you with a cryptic list of songs:
- Slint: "Good Morning Captain"
- Have A Nice Life: "Earthmover"
- American Football: "Stay Home"
- Swans: "The Sound"
- Carissa's Wierd [sic]: "They'll Only Miss You When You Leave"
- Unwound: "Below the Salt"
- Sigur Rós: "Ný batterí"
- Bark Psychosis: "Eyes And Smiles"
- black midi: "Sugar/Tzu"
- Ashra: "Deep Distance"
- CAN: "Halleluhwah"
- Godspeed You! Black Emperor: "BABYS IN A THUNDERCLOUD" (Bandcamp)
The three aliens then shuffle through the portal whence they came and leave forever. You look around, but nobody else seems to have witnessed what just occurred. You do a double-take before walking away. Mondays, am I right?
Gustavo Ponzoa is a member of the Class of 2029 in the College of Arts and Sciences. He is a contributor for the Arts & Culture department and can be reached at gap87@cornell.edu.
