Godspeed

The following is dedicated to Honey. Godspeed.

I am breaking down to “Take Care” by SASAMI. This is not the first time in recent weeks. I am not alone tonight, one roommate playing Minecraft and the other in bed with his significant other. The crafter’s partner lies asleep, all other parties awake but unaware of the overwhelming emotions shaking my very foundation. 

On Thursday, January 30, my grandmother passed away, at 6:05 in the evening, at least to me. My father played it lowkey and sent the message over text. I’m glad he texted it; I could not have continued to statistics class had he called.

My grandmother had cancer, and the decline was much more subtle and navigable compared to the more unexpected death of my grandfather six years earlier. After my graduation, when I learned she only had a few months left, I started a playlist called “For A Funeral.” I figured by the time she was gone I would have amassed a small collection of somber, haunting melodies that would help me through it. When my grandfather passed away my music knowledge only reached as far as the Beatles’ catalog. While those songs have gotten me through tough times before, my music taste grew and I felt ready to update the list.

Of course “Let It Be” still has to be on a playlist of this nature, and in fact I ended up putting two different versions on it. The main differences between the three official versions of “Let It Be” are the level of Phil Spector’s involvement (the “naked” version strips the song of any of Spector’s embellishments, the way Paul McCartney first imagined) and George Harrison’s guitar solo: bouncy and playful on the single, hard and epic on the album, and free and bare on the “naked” version. I picked the album and naked versions based on the guitar solos. The album solo is so grandiose, George bares his soul in a way that he never had before. Usually restrictive and skilled, George whines, rocks, and swings with power and grace, like my parents and older relatives, able to control themselves through the hard times, though still showing their full hearts. I am the “naked” solo, where George meanders and walks the guitar. The stripped-down instrumental reminds me of my family’s recent history during my lifetime, one of decay rather than growth. There have been many funerals and no births. I am that solo, honest but confused, hopeful but afraid and more concerned than the solo on the album.

I add “Ouija Board, Ouija Board” by Morrissey. This is more for me than my grandmother, and I know Morrissey’s old friend is not so kind to him, but “I still do feel so horribly lonely” and “I just can’t find my place in this world” have always hit me with a shameful feeling of relatability. For all the wisdom passed on to me, the aimlessness persists.

I add “Godspeed” by Patti Smith. My father would disagree, but Easter (1978) is my favorite Patti Smith record. The title track and this bonus are so beautifully haunting, and when a loved one dies sometimes you can feel like love really is a vampire, sucking away at everyone’s life energy. When you truly love someone, you place a bet on future suffering, and with your elders the odds are definitely against you. It might be cynical, but told as Patti does, rough and real but sounding afraid of the truth she speaks, it is one of the most beautifully sad poems I know.

The rest of the playlist goes through trial and error, songs being added and removed. Now that we are in the post-life, pre-burial period, I have been more active with tinkering with it, and some of the songs have strayed from general mourning.

My paternal grandparents were separated, but they were ridiculously close for ex-spouses, and I cannot help but think of them now together in death. I add Frank Sinatra’s “That’s Life” and “My Way.” My dad is a clone of my grandfather, and I a clone of him, so often my grandmother would call my dad “Marcus” and me “Michael,” which became more noticeable after Mark Quiros was gone. These two songs were played on repeat during his wake. My grandmother is being cremated, so I do not think my grandfather minds sharing his wake songs.

Their deaths, to me, were two completely different scenarios. My grandfather was given five years, and fought until he could no longer; his death was sudden, unexpected, and beyond the time doctors allotted to him. On the contrary, his ex-wife was given months but with good odds if she opted for treatment. She refused. I am not upset with my grandmother, but I still do not understand her decision to give in as she did. The good thing is that I said everything I had to. I just wish she could have been louder, or that she fought. I add “Atmosphere” by Joy Division. “Don’t walk away, in silence.”

My grandmother lived in California her whole life, but around my graduation she decided to move to Las Vegas to live with my aunt. Then she was diagnosed. Las Vegas has always been an often taken option for vacations or special family gatherings. My parents were married there, and several of my grandfather’s birthdays and countless wedding anniversaries had been executed in the City of Second Chances. I do not hate the city now, but I also cannot say there is no superstitious bitterness towards the city that allowed my grandmother’s demise. I add “Viva Las Vegas,” not the tender, innocent Elvis version, but the sardonic and cynical Dead Kennedys cover. Just like punk rock, that anger will not last. An illogical but appropriate response to an entire city. I even things out with Cocteau Twins’ “Heaven Or Las Vegas.” She died comfortably. My grandfather passed away under my dad’s watch, so naturally my grandmother went under her daughter’s. Las Vegas was where she wanted to be. 

I have never explicitly written down the list, but there is a group of songs that have proven time and time again to shake me when listening alone at night or in moments of reflection. They are not all necessarily despairing, but for the purpose of the playlist I add Charles Bradley’s “Heartaches and Pain” and George Harrison’s “Isn’t It A Pity-Version Two.” Place yourself in Bradley’s shoes, and replace “brother” with whatever family member you like. The moment when his friend tells him about his loved one’s death, and the words suck all the sound away. His pain is so visceral, and so sincere, and so wonderfully human. For me, the past while has been a very confusing and increasingly indifferent time. The second version of George’s classic anthem is shorter, a hauntingly creaky rendition of a song whose premise is already dour: a submission and an acknowledgment of the failure of idealism, the lack of broad societal change towards a vision of hope and love. It makes me cry, sure, but it also reminds me how much there is to do for others still, and why the love of people like my grandparents is so important. 

I add “Blood” by The Middle East, which I first heard in a film with Steve Carrell called Crazy Stupid Love (2011). It was one of the first songs I heard in a film that I actively sought out, though at the time it was more a sonic lift than for lyrical depth. My grandfather passed away first, unlike in the narrator’s story, but still “the cancer spread and it ran into her body and her blood, and there’s nothing you can do about it now.” Still on point.

To tie this to the present musical period of my life I included two songs off the two albums that will probably go down as my top recommendations from January 2020. I add “Realiti” from Grimes’ Art Angels (2015) and “Already Gone” from Alvvays’ Antisocialites (2017). Alvvays’ metaphorical poetry here is just a reflective piece I think goes nicely into the setlist. “Realiti” probably would not fly with my grandmother, but it acts as yet another reminder of my present situation. So much change is happening in my life, and I do not have a strict schedule set up for me like I have had before college. This death comes during a period of intense transition, and I still have to figure out who I am. Life goes on, without her. Let it be, I suppose. To build upon that theme, I add “Always See Your Face” by Love, because, at least in my faith, there is some hope that they are looking out for you from the beyond.

I was going to end with “Let It Be,”  but I decided instead to conclude with “I Can’t Give Everything Away,” the closer to David Bowie’s Blackstar (2016). Bowie was able to plan out his end, like my grandmother, which takes a certain grace in accepting the inevitable. However, there is still a fear, and to me that inability to give all you have to give, that feeling that more could have happened, is one of the most powerful feelings floating around these past few months. I am sure my grandmother would have loved to give more, but she could not. I said all I could, but I wish there was more or that it was a different time. I do not feel like I was the right person to be there when she passed, and I know the right people were there, but of course I wish I could have been. I wish I had spent more time with her, but I did get to spend a lot of time with her, and it would never have felt like enough. 

Only eighteen years old. I know I am no closer to figuring this out than anyone else, but there has to be more discussion and acceptance of these things, as well as more care for friends and the general “each other”, and I hope that these songs and these reflections aid that cause in some way. I have cried, and I will cry. I still cry when Frank Sinatra reminds me of my grandfather, or when Charles Bradley makes me think of how I would feel if I lost my brother, or anyone for that matter. This playlist may seem strange and unrelated to my grandmother, but it is all for her. It is for my survival too. I recommend everyone have a soundtrack to deal with the tough spots in their lives, because music is one of the most accessible and powerful tools for mental survival. Mine is public, but I would recommend reflection and deeper listening, and some new picks. After all, I can’t give everything away.

Article by Stanley Quiros