On Repeat

When Love on Top comes on in a club, I scream That’s my song! like I wrote the thing myself. Beyoncé doesn’t know this, but that moment when you think it’s over and she just screams Baby it’s YOU!!—I’ve heard it a thousand times on long drives and it never gets old. It owns you completely.

I was briefly in a DJ duo. Two gigs, then nobody booked us again. I’m not exaggerating. But in those two nights, I learned which songs actually moved people, which ones stuck in a room. Azealia Banks’ 212 was one of them. The MØ cover of Say You’ll Be There was another, though I have a genuine grudge against MØ for constantly announcing Austrian tour dates then canceling them last minute. At least the cover lets me slip Spice Girls into playlists at parties where people care about seeming cool. Small victories.

Charli XCX’s Breaking Up I listen to constantly, loud enough that my friend started asking if I was trying to end our friendship. Not the case. But yeah, aggressive electronic music has a purpose. Same with Sleigh Bells’ Bitter Rivals—I’m a peaceful person most of the time, but when you’re running, you need music that sounds like it wants to destroy something. That’s the only time I play it, basically once a year, and it works.

David Bowie’s Modern Love comes on after all-nighters, when you’ve been studying so hard you just need something to make you remember you’re alive. Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 is essential on every playlist. Partly because that song genuinely taught me, a freelancer, what a traditional job actually is—apparently you do it 9 to 5—and partly because it’s trashy and perfect for saving any party that’s dying. No apologies.

Joan Jett’s Bad Reputation was my entire school soundtrack. I felt so badass listening to it, even though my actual bad reputation was purely that I never skip meals and I stare way too much in the locker room after gym. Good times. Lorde’s The Love Club was the first song I heard from her, and genuinely the only moment in my life where I liked something before it became a thing everyone loved. Probably won’t happen again.

Here’s the truth about summer hits: people will talk about the Ketchup Song, Dragostea Din Tei, all those one-hit wonders. But nobody remembers them. The Macarena is the only one that stuck, the one that still puts anyone of any age—definitely me—into some kind of actual ecstasy. That’s the one that lasted. Everything else is dead.