Where The Rich Kids Come To Die
Most songs you dismiss on first listen. You hear something and some instinct says not for you, and you’re gone. But then something shifts. You’re going through it—heartbreak, anger, 3 AM staring at the ceiling—and a song comes through your speakers that just gets it. You reach for it again and again. Before long it’s not just playing, it’s there with you, marking those moments with something that won’t leave.
That’s what happened with these tracks. Passion Pit, Regina Spektor, Magneta Lane—I’d heard them before, maybe not really paid attention, but when I was falling apart they were suddenly there. Rolling around in the snow like an idiot, staring up at clouds wanting to be anywhere else, wanting to be no one. Those songs stayed. They became the actual soundtrack to falling apart.
I kept coming back. Each one different—some raw, some obvious, some you’d never expect to hit—but all of them necessary in a way that’s hard to explain unless a song has done that to you. Where the song doesn’t just play, it becomes part of the furniture of your suffering. You can’t separate the music from the moment it found you.
This mixtape is what that was like. It’s not polished. It’s more like reaching into a drawer and finding the tracks that actually mattered, the ones that got you through. Some uncut diamonds. Some obvious choices. Songs I wouldn’t let go of now.