Aimee Mann

What a waste of gunpowder and sky

First of all, I’m back! Second, thanks for all of your great musical suggestions last week. I’ve been revisiting (or listening to for the first time) songs by Nina Simone (who was the most mentioned), Amy Winehouse, Cecile McClorin Salvant (what a voice!), and ‘Til Tuesday, the last of which brings me to Aimee Mann.

Her new album, “Queens of the Summer Hotel” (which I highly recommend), was released a couple of weeks ago, prompting me yet again to revisit her entire discography.

I was at Tufts University when ’Til Tuesday released its first album “Voices Carry.” Mann had gone to the Berklee School of Music in Boston for a time but eventually dropped out. Tufts is near Boston and I also dropped out of school (although I returned eventually) so I felt an (albeit very loose and remote) affinity.

To one degree or another Mann’s music has been in my life ever since. When she released “Mental Illness” in March 2017, I was in the process of having my own breakdown. A visit to the White House in April to celebrate my aunts’ birthdays had accelerated my unravelling. Of course, I didn’t experience it as an unravelling—I thought my biggest problem stemmed from the fact I was out of shape. Since the 2016 election I had stopped playing tennis, or exercising at all. Mostly I sat on my couch while simultaneously watching MSNBC and reading other peoples’ comments on Twitter. I thought a spa, where I could start to get back in shape, eat healthy food, and avoid television and the internet for a while, would be all I needed to get back on track.

A friend recommended a health resort that just happened to be located on property leased from one of my uncle’s golf clubs. I was assured there was no connection between the two facilities. This was technically true—the actual health facility was entirely separate from Donald’s club—but after I checked in they put me and my baggage in a golf cart and drove me straight to a Trump hotel room, complete with a fully-stocked mini bar and drawer full of unhealthy, overpriced snacks. I quickly realized this was not an ideal situation.

The absurdity of it all reached a crescendo on the second day of my stay. I was in the gym being put through a series of grueling tests to determine my baseline fitness level. My face was bright red and I was drenched in sweat as I began to stretch on a yoga mat by the window overlooking the golf course. Just then I saw my cousin Eric outside, seemingly walking right toward me with a film crew in tow. My anxiety spiked. The contrast between me (as described) and him— dressed in an immaculate and expensive suit holding court simply because his father was living in the White House—brought home a few uncomfortable truths. First, I wanted to be back in NY on my couch doom-scrolling Twitter; second, I never wanted to leave my house again; and third, my problems went far beyond my having been sedentary for a couple of months. My untreated complex post-traumatic stress disorder was wreaking havoc on my life and the lives of those around me.

The song on my headphones at that moment was Aimee Mann’s “Goose Snow Cone.” Maybe it should have been ruined for all time by its association with the awful moment that prompted those realizations. Instead, it resonated in a way that brought me solace at an incredibly challenging time. It still brings me comfort, which is one of the reasons it continues to be an essential listen for me.

This cat could be Linden’s cousin.

My second pick, for less dramatic but still personal reasons, is “Fourth of July,” my favorite track on Mann’s first solo album “Whatever.” The first verse perfectly encapsulates how I feel about the holiday in particular and fireworks in general. And that chorus gets me every time.

There are a many other Aimee Mann songs that could have made the essential cut, and many, many more that I love, but these are always the first two that spring to mind.

What are your picks this week?

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*We all have lists of favorite songs, but I also have a list of songs I will listen to whenever they come on—no matter where I am or how I feel. They may not be among my favorite songs, they may not be the best songs ever written or sung but, for whatever reason, I love them. They transcend mood, setting, or even preference. They simply demand to be listened to at the time.