Some music gives me goosebumps. Not every song, and not every time. But sometimes, it hits just right, and I truly feel the music. Researchers have found that only about 50% of people experience a physical reaction to music. The term for it is frisson—that spine-tingling, hair-raising sensation when a song moves you. If you’re curious to learn more, follow this link.
But music does more than give me chills—it ties itself to my memories. Certain songs transport me to different moments in time, some beautiful, some bittersweet. Once these connections are made, they never fade.
So take my hand and grab some headphones—we're about to embark on a musical journey.
Adam and Laura, wherever you are, this one’s for you. The three of us lived for swapping songs, sharing sounds that spoke to us. And Laura, I’ll always miss those late-night YouTube sessions, trading tracks and talking about life.
3 Doors Down – "Be Like That"
This song was my go-to in my early teenage years. While the lyrics tell a story of Hollywood dreams, they resonated with me in a different way. I always felt like I was too much of one thing and not enough of another—like I didn’t quite fit. I saw myself as defective, unattractive, and unworthy.
I secretly wished I could be someone else, anyone else, within my small social circle. Maybe then I’d be more popular, more desirable, and not stuck in the life I had.
Whenever I hear this song, I’m transported back to my bedroom on 18 Bailey Rd in Old Lyme, Connecticut. I remember the loneliness, the hopelessness, the way I sat with my thoughts, feeling like I had nothing to love about myself.
Nirvana – "Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam"
Back in the 1900s, we had a thing called LimeWire—a mystery grab bag of chaos. Were you downloading that Top 40 hit you just had to have, or were you about to nuke the family computer with a random-ass virus? Click "download" with abandon and let the internet gods decide your fate.
This song didn’t come to me through LimeWire, though. It came from a coworker, Dave Kaplan. Like good digital pirates, we burned MP3 discs and swapped collections. Dave was older, more worldly, with a much broader taste in music. I, on the other hand, was younger and living in the sheltered bubble of LDS life. His recommendations cracked that world wide open.
This was the song that made me realize—I wasn’t really Mormon. It takes me back to my childhood Sundays, singing Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam at the Waterford Ward primary. And then, teenage me, in my bedroom, giving religion the metaphorical finger.
I can still picture it clearly—the home-built computer, perched on the leather-topped desk that once belonged to my grandparents. After they passed, it became mine, but in many ways, it still carried their presence. The room itself was a time capsule: wood-paneled walls, deep green carpet, and that ever-present hum of the CRT monitor. My desk sat by the closet, my bed to the right. The screen’s electric glow flickered against the wood, illuminating a version of me that was just starting to question everything.
Red Hot Chili Peppers – "Otherside"
MTV gifted me this song—back when it actually played music videos. Long before we turned to YouTube for everything, we flipped on the TV, never knowing what we’d hear next. We had no say in it; we were just along for the ride.
As much as I loved this song, my mother hated it with equal passion. She despised the Red Hot Chili Peppers, thanks to their infamous sock-on-cock stage routine. And she never let me forget it.
The Californication album has been my mystical unicorn. I’ve owned at least three copies, all of which have either been destroyed or lost to time. One of those losses, though, wasn’t accidental.
This song takes me back to the house in Old Lyme. My mother had just finished another rant about how awful the Chili Peppers were, and I was over it. I went to my room, grabbed the CD, and handed it to her. “If you hate it so much, destroy it,” I told her.
Her eyes went wide—not with hesitation, but with glee. She grabbed something—I can’t remember what—and absolutely mutilated that disc. Snapped it, cracked it, tore into it like it had personally offended her. When she was done, she looked at me, triumphant, and said, “You probably have more copies of that, don’t you?”
“No,” I replied. “That was my favorite CD. My only copy.”
And that was the truth.
That moment became one of my first this bullshit is not worth it realizations. I loved that album, but I was tired of the never-ending lectures on how “horrible” the band was. In a way, she robbed me of the joy this song once held.
But time has a way of giving things back. Years later, Otherside became my first karaoke song. It doesn’t get as much play these days, but every now and then, it still hits just right. And thanks to Seppi, I finally got to check “see the Chili Peppers live” off my bucket list last year.
Eminem – "Without Me"
I was a teenager when this song dropped, and Eminem had a chokehold on all of us. He was new, different, and completely unapologetic. The ‘90s and early 2000s were a magical time for music, and he was right at the center of it.
This is a happier memory. It’s Sunday, church just let out, and Brian is driving me back to Old Lyme in his Chevy Blazer. We’re still in our white shirts and ties, absolutely going nuts to this song.
Brian was a DJ—the one who got me interested in DJing and helped me a metric shit ton when I was just starting out. He was and still is LDS, but one of the things I’ve always loved about him is his nonjudgmental way of caring. Sure, he would’ve liked it if I stayed in the church, but he respected my choice to leave. More than anything, he made me feel seen and normal—something I desperately needed back then.
This song also brings back memories of playing Guess That Tune in his parents’ basement. Shag carpet, wall-to-wall CD racks, vintage EV stage monitors, wood paneling, and a drop ceiling—it was our musical sanctuary.
I don’t know why he took me under his wing, but I’ll always be grateful he did.
AC/DC – "Thunderstruck"
This was the first drinking game I ever played. Every time they said thunder, we had to drink. I was with Tyler and his friends, in the middle of nowhere—the desert outside of Rexburg, Idaho. It was here that I had my first beer.
Yes, Tyler, I lied when you asked if I’d ever drank before. I felt like I had to fit in. If I said no, I knew I wouldn’t be part of the cool kids club. I needed a place to belong, a place where I could feel free, and I’m grateful for all the experiences you gave me. My first beer, my first wine cooler, my first piercing—you even let me crash on your parents' couch when I ended up without a home.
That little spot in the desert felt like home. We drank, we dragged random things out there to destroy, and one of the guys even lit a tractor tire on fire. We watched the flames dance, the tire rolling downhill, and for a moment, we felt invincible. We were young, alive, and carefree. But sometimes, we cared deeply. The weight of life’s pressures—and parents who didn’t understand us—would surface in our drunken conversations. And when that happened, there was no shame, only care for one another.
I turned 18 out at that spot. I saw my first boobs there. It was my first exposure to being an actual teenager, free of supervision and rules. I was absolutely free to be me, to explore the world on my own terms.
If I drove by that same spot today, I probably wouldn’t recognize it. But back then, it was sacred ground. I even remember wearing my CTR ring out there, and at some point during the night, it fell off. To my younger self, it was proof that Jesus didn’t want me for a sunbeam.
I look back on those times with joy. It was my coming-out party—the start of my transition from Mormon to me. It wasn’t a perfect transition, but it was the beginning of my freedom. I went back and forth on church activity until I was 27, but this early memory planted the seed for my transformation.
Gnarls Barkley – "Crazy"
This song took the radio by storm in 2006. I had crashed my car, cheated death, developed a drug habit, and then dropped it. It was a wild time in my life, to say the least. After my car accident, I became obsessed with the fact that I had cheated death. The grim reapers consumed my thoughts, and I even wanted one tattooed on me.
Looking back, it truly felt like I had lost my mind during that period. I made so many poor, regretful choices that year. My parents sold the house, I lived in a camping trailer, I crashed my car, and I financially overextended myself due to an unreciprocated crush. I got tangled up in endless drama of my own making, an asshat for letting it control me. It’s no surprise that a song about feeling crazy fits this time period. Crazy became the theme song to my 2006.
I turned to Frank, a guy in our circle who had served time and learned how to tattoo. He had the equipment and was affordable. Over several sessions, we worked on my tattoo at different spots—at the thrift store by the Hideaway in Old Lyme, and later at Tire Country on 85 Halls Rd. in Old Lyme. I sat at the back desk while he inked my arm. Crazy played on repeat during those sessions, every single time. The angel of death tattoo wasn’t just ink—it was a reminder of the chaos I’d survived. It felt like I had somehow dodged death’s grip, but I was still lost in the mess of my choices. Crazy mirrored that state of mind. When it played, it wasn’t just a catchy beat—it reflected the disarray I felt inside, the confusion and self-doubt that accompanied every poor decision. My tattoo felt like it belonged on me—like I was marked as someone who had a brush with death but got to keep living. At many points during my younger years, I had reason to wish that night was the end. But today, I’m glad the reaper did not take me that night.
2006 was the last time I was in Connecticut. It was the year Josh and I hit the road and drove to Idaho. It was the year I began a new life, though something tells me I’ve started over more times than I care to count by now.
These songs—Crazy and others—were the soundtrack of my younger, formative years. They’re the ones that still stick around, living rent-free in my head. I’m not saying they’re the only ones, but they’re the important ones. They’re the ones that will always transport me to the past.
Music is powerful—full of life and soul. Once it's released into the universe, it takes on deep meaning and becomes part of countless experiences for so many people. While you might not experience frisson, I bet every reader has their own personal connection to music. It’s wild how much meaning we place on a song. We rarely know the deep significance a piece of music holds for someone else. So, I ask: What’s your time machine—the song that lives rent-free in your head?
Bishop :(:
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