A year with Tomberlin

There are albums that make the top ten you tell everyone about, to relate to other people, so they can know you better. I often name bands like Radiohead, Sylvan Esso, Elliott Smith, and (old) Coldplay. And there are albums you put in a different kind of top ten: the ones that help you relate to yourself, so you can know yourself better. 

It doesn't matter if anyone else has heard of the artist. It often seems more personal because you found and listened to it without expectation, without other people's opinions in your head playing at the same time as the music. You might not even want to share this album, because then it's no longer entirely yours. You hope this artist gets just big enough to tour so you can see them live, but not too big so that you lose them to commercial radio and Pitchfork critique. You are protective of this album, this artist. You hold them close to your heart in a way you rarely do with people. At times these songs seem more "you" than you do. They can bring you back to yourself when little else can, orient you back between your ears and down toward the heart. This album will forever remind you of the day, the week, the year that you listened to it most. Where you were, how you were, how you felt. Like an anchor forever at the bottom, holding memory hostage.

This past year has been full of Phoebe Bridgers, Sylvan Esso, Overcoats, Typhoon, Half Waif, Dessa, Kimbra, Lissie, Liza Anne, Mimicking Birds, Bad Bad Hats, S. Carey and Now, Now. But again and again and again, it has returned to  Tomberlin and her twice released At Weddings. 

September 2017. My purple, wrinkled sheets surround me on a weeknight at home in bed. I'm laying facing the wall, on my stomach, using my laptop. I'm listening to an album on Bandcamp by an artist I've never heard of before. I lay on my back and close my eyes. ​I listen to "You Are Here" three times in a row. I'm startled by the moving simplicity of the words, the aching honesty in her tone, the way the chorus cuts through me like butter. I have to remember to breathe. 

Cause I am here and nowhere else and you are all I want

We're driving across the mountains, and as twilight falls, I plug in my phone. "This sounds like mermaid music," my best friend says. I laugh at the accuracy. She has this way of saying the funniest and most poignant things at the same time. 

You said that I was brave
But I just feel insane

​I drink more wine than I should and cry myself to sleep with headphones on in bed, above the Arctic Circle. It's not even about them, it's about me. That I am here and I'm not who you want. Again and again and again. No matter where in the world I go. I listen to three minutes and 45 seconds on repeat until there is no longer room in my chest for anything else. 

Cause I am here and nowhere else and you are all I want

Love is blind. Love is also a fuzzy stomach and a pink nose, a soft head and a heavy purr. A stubborn love, that isn't yours to keep, but one you cherish anyway. Love is good morning to a button with ears, a kiss deep in the side, a late night hello before bed. Love is an unexpected gift, a cuddle buddy that softens the blow like an accidental form of self help. 

I think I’m fine

I listen on the plane north, the echoes of "Untitled 2" carrying me safely through. I listen while driving down Highway 1, south of Anchorage, during break up. I listen while leaving Minneapolis, leaving another piece of myself behind. I gain strength in acknowledging and embracing vulnerability. I listen because I can't do it alone. 

Love is a four lettered word
A curse and a lie
I slept with a ghost I’m convinced, that night
Didn't see you with the lights so dim
You let me in and I knew then

I listen as my heart makes demands that I cannot meet. I listen because I cannot speak its truth (not yet, maybe not ever). I listen because with every love there is still heartbreak, an almost, a swell and a crash. I listen because the feelings need somewhere to go or I could drown in them. 

Only love the people
Who don’t love you back
What is up with that?
Are you done with that?

I’m not scared of you this time
And when you pick up the phone I’ll stay on the line
And I’ll do more than breathe this time
And I’ll let you in at least I’m gonna try

​And to be a woman is to be in pain
And my body reminds me almost every day
That I was made for another, but I don’t want to know that
Cause it happened once and I always look back

I listen because it's hard to find my own words. It's hard to open up, to let someone in, when you know you're never going to end up on the same page. When you know it's going to end before you're ready.