On Songs That Hit Every Time

And making peace with the ones that don't

I spent last week in a mountain town with a population of 300 people.

In a week’s span, I spoke to more people in that 300-person town than I do in my own city of 187,000 during any given month. That’s the beautiful thing about small towns — you get more seclusion and more inclusion all at once.

There were four businesses in total: a post office, a general store, a restaurant that I never saw open, and a café. Anything outside of that was a 25-minute drive. I rented a cabin approximately 7,000 feet up and worked on music all week.

I had mostly good days, but I did find myself feeling guilty at one point upon stumbling upon a demo for a song I’d played at shows last year, remembering that I’d received messages asking when it’d see a release. I try to read my messages. Not like there’s a ton of them, but I also try to stay off my phone, so there’s a delicate tightrope there. There’s some good ones in there though. Like this question that came in recently:

Sometimes I get super nostalgic and wish I could have a song hit the same way it used to. Are there songs you aren’t able to play, for one reason or another, that you really miss playing or performing? And if there are multiple, are there different reasons why not? - Angie R.

I think the short answer is that I almost never, ever want to go backwards. I’ve tried—and failed—to harness the energy I felt during past moments or chapters, and I’m always left feeling like I’ve created a cheap version of something that was once very powerful. I’d imagine it’s similar to revisiting the place of your first date with your longtime partner and expecting to conjure the same feelings you felt then.

Even if there’s love—hopefully an even stronger and deeper love than what you felt on that first date—to summon the feelings you felt back then would be to inhabit two entirely different people. Maybe that’s a dramatic example. After all, I’m sure it’d be fun to revisit those places where I first spent time with my wife. But there’s no denying it would be a different experience altogether.

Anytime I’ve filled a set list with old songs, I’ve tried to find a new way into them. The ones that become my favorites tend to appear based on how successful I am at that practice. There were songs I loathed playing with Envy on the Coast early in our career. Lyrically, they felt juvenile, or the emotional expression of the song felt clunky. When we reunited in 2016, some of those songs became the ones I most looked forward to in the set—the subject matter now inconsequential, the experience more about the feeling of playing them and the connection with the audience.

There are some artists who make a living out of giving the audience what they want. They’ve built careers around putting on shows akin to a Vegas residency. There’s an anniversary tour for every album, a new spin on old records, and a new merch line to accompany it. Then there are artists who don’t mind disappointing the audience because they believe the best show they can give is the one they’re most excited to play. The latter have always been my favorite artists.

A few years ago, I saw Stevie Wonder for the first time. He played a medley of some of his hits but mostly did whatever he damn well pleased. Earlier this year, I saw Nine Inch Nails, who spent a chunk of their set collaborating with Boys Noize and playing remixed and re-imagined versions of some of their biggest songs. A good portion of the audience looked puzzled. I heard grumbles from people beside me who took a full 45 seconds to even figure out what song was being played.

I had the privilege of seeing D’Angelo three times before he passed. At one of those shows, he only played one of his own songs. The rest were covers. People were pissed. I assumed he was in between chapters—working on a new record that was still too fresh to share—but now twelve years past his last release. I figured he decided to play what was inspiring him in the moment. That’s the story I told myself, as I’ve been in that place before too.

I believe all of these artists found themselves in a similar place to you, Angie—wishing they could get a song to hit the way it used to—but instead of fighting that feeling, they chose to bend the song to suit who they are now, or to put it to rest.

The truth about that new song I mentioned earlier is that a few months after those shows, I found myself in a new place creatively, and I’ve felt the need to chase that. The song remains the same as when I last left it, but I need to wait until life brings the song and I back together.

One thing I do believe in is the evergreen—a song that hits every single time. Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” always washes me in a romantic nostalgia. Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” and Fleetwood Mac’s “Silver Springs” both cut me like a knife on every listen. Refused’s “The Deadly Rhythm” always makes me want to run through a brick wall, and for good measure, I’ll confess that I believe Miley Cyrus’ “We Can’t Stop” is a certified banger that hits every damn time.

Recently, a friend shared a video of a 1972 television performance of Stevie Wonder covering The Carpenters’ “Never Can Say Goodbye”. I hadn’t realized that one of my favorite Frank Ocean songs, “Close to You,” samples that very Stevie performance. I can’t really explain why, but I’ve felt the need to listen to that performance a few times each week. It’s been in my life less than a month, but I already know it’s an evergreen. It calms me, fills me with a strange sense of hope, and every time it gets to that part where Stevie smiles—around the 45-second mark—tears come to my eyes. I sat in my car yesterday, listening and watching while parked in my own driveway after a rough day, and texted that friend who shared it with me just to say thanks.

I’ve digressed quite a bit here, but I guess what I’m saying, Angie, is that some songs always hit, some lose their luster, and others just seem to be waiting their turn to be dusted off and appreciated the way they once were.