I told my wife, Emily, that I wanted a separation last August. I packed my things and moved myself into a dreary Residence Inn that lacked any sort of character, sat on the bed’s floral comforter that you’d only find in a mid-level hotel, and tried to take stock of the massive change that had just taken place. I poured myself a bourbon and immediately turned to music to console me. I queued up my Spotify playlist aptly named “Music to Drink Alone To,” took a long swig, and listened. The playlist, which I’d first created 15 years ago to get over a previous relationship, was mostly made up of sappy breakup songs from the 90s like Dave Matthews’ “Grace is Gone” and Peter Gabriel’s “Washing of the Water.” But those songs were exactly what I needed to hear at the time. I listened to them on repeat over the next few months.
I unabashedly love Spotify, and I love Spotify playlists. While we were together, Emily and I routinely created playlists of our own. We’d each add songs we found and liked to a playlist until it reached 75 or 100 songs, at which time we’d create a new playlist. We mostly lived and worked in the Arab world, so we gave our playlists cheesy names based on the countries in which I was stationed. There was “Sheikh It Off” (created in the Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood of Jerusalem), “Mo-rockin’” (Morocco), and “The End of an AlgERA” (our last year in Algeria). I often go back and listen to these playlists to transport me back in time, picturing us together listening to those songs at the dinner table, usually with company and a bottle (or bottles) of wine, chatting, laughing. Music was ever present in our lives.
One of our favorite post-dinner party games was called “Music that Moved You in High School” and consisted of playing, singing, and dancing to the melodramatic 90s songs that we used to listen to on repeat as kids. We even became famous among our local diplomatic circles for throwing massive holiday parties at our home featuring live music played by local musicians. I play the flute and started by hiring my local flute teachers, but then it evolved into full-on concerts in our foreign apartments that at various times have featured an Israeli harpist, a Moroccan oud players, an Algerian guembri player, and eventually full five-piece rock bands. We and our guests would dance through the night, losing ourselves in a fusion of local and American artists and brought together in the magical way that only music can do.
But now I was alone. No home, no partner, and no chance of lavish parties and live music – just Spotify. I must admit to a certain amount of awe in the Spotify algorithm, to the point where I have anthropomorphized the algorithm in my mind as my own personal DJ. I picture him in the clouds, looking down on me spinning up the latest beats curated to my current emotional state. I decided to call him “Algor” and pictured him as the quintessential hipster DJ with sunglasses, a retro baseball hat, some sort of bright multi-colored sweatshirt, and an air of both cool dispassion while also knowing exactly what song would match the vibe. Seeing me in despair, wondering what the hell I was doing with my life, Algor looked down knowingly and nods, “I got you,” as he offered up just the sort of sad, wistful songs of love lost (usually buttressed with folksy female vocals) that I craved. I began creating my first Spotify playlist on my own, which I titled “Unentitled.”
“Unentitled” didn’t last long. On a trip to gather a few more of my belongings, Emily and I naturally began to talk about music and the songs that were helping us both cope with this tumultuous, petrifying change in our lives. Soon we both had our phones out, and once again we found ourselves playing songs for each other, pointing out the lyrics that moved us.
“Why don’t we do one more playlist?” Emily asked.
“A divorce playlist? That doesn’t sound a little depressing?” I responded.
“No, it will be fun,” she said, “And it will be a way to continue to stay connected to each other, even if we aren’t seeing or talking to each other much anymore.”
And so “Shared Embers” was born.
We both began adding songs regularly to the playlist, even during stretches during which we barely talked. Both of us listened intently to the other’s songs looking for messages. Some songs, I must admit, were a bit too on the nose (boygenius’ “Emily I’m Sorry,” to cite the most egregious example). Others were arguably a bit harsh – did I really need to include two different covers of Dylan’s Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright? (“I ain’t saying you treated me unkind / You could have done better, but I don’t mind / You just kind of wasted my precious time / But don’t think twice, it’s alright.”) And I loved the haunting music of Lord Huron’s I Lied but didn’t appreciate the less-than-subtle message of the lyrics. (“I made a claim that I would dance until we’re bones with my bride / I told you I would never leave you alone, but I lied.”)
But, aside from the lyrical digs, the music more often helped us understand the complex rollercoaster of emotions that the other person was experiencing. Clearly, given the fact that we were collaborating on a playlist meant that we didn’t hate each other – our breakup wasn’t acrimonious like that. But it still hurt, so much that for a time we decided we wouldn’t talk to one another – except, of course, through the songs we added to Shared Embers. We both found solace in Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah, and his live medley of Hallelujah / I Know It’s Over seemed too perfect not to include. She added Hell and Back by Bakar and lots of First Aid Kit – a band that has all but perfected the rebound song.
We spoke through song additions. Whenever she’d add a song, I’d immediately pull up the lyrics on Spotify to look for hidden meanings. Is she saying she is still mad at me (Alanis’ Uninvited)? Or thinking fondly on a lost love that we both knew had come to a close (Beta Radio’s Our Remains)? It wasn’t the most direct form of communication, but it was something. Checking for the cryptic message of a new song became part of my morning routine – Spotify became another communication app to check along with my email, texting apps, and social media.
I told my friends about our “divorce mix tape.” They almost uniformly told me I was crazy. You need a clean break, they said. Cut off all communication; rip off the Band-Aid. It will hurt more now, but it will hurt less later. Otherwise it will be too messy, too uncertain.
I ignored them and continued to add songs. I didn’t get this idea that I would completely cut off contact with this person whom I still love, who was such an integral part of almost all of my adult life – do people really take such a finite step? To say goodbye forever to such an important part of me seems worse than any sort of messiness or pain I may feel from maintaining contact with her. And I loved the music.
The months passed. Sometimes we talked – sometimes we even met in person and gossiped and reminisced. We kept adding songs. Soon we hit the 100 song limit of our usual playlists. “Should we keep going?” I asked. “Sure,” Emily said, and then created “An Agreement” to memorialize the financial document we were drafting to split our financial lives. Algor kept serving up weekly wistful breakup songs, which I added. But more and more, we both began adding songs we just liked. I couldn’t help but add Beyoncé’s fun country romp TEXAS HOLD ‘EM. Emily added Leon’s sad but ironically upbeat Think About You (“Tell me would you give us for one more try / ’Cause I, think about, I think about you”) and immediately texted, “Don’t study the lyrics of the song I just added!” I was just meant to enjoy the soft vocal and background strings, not relate it to us. Separately, we both saw the new play “Swept Away” based on the Avett Brothers’ music – and also the same song to which Emily walked down the aisle. She added it to our list. Algor took note, of course, and added Harry Manx’s wispy cover of “Crazy Love” – our first dance as bride and groom. I immediately added it. Listening to these songs was painful but also sweet and heartwarming. These memories are the ones I want to think about when I look back on our decade together as our marriage fades into memory. As Hrishikesh Hirway sings in “Memory Place” (another spot-on find by Algor), “But, love, the light around that picture’s going dim / So before the sweetest memories cave in / I’m not giving up, just giving in.”
“An Agreement” is now creeping toward its 100 song limit, almost lockstep as we work out the final, thorniest issues in our actual separation agreement. We’re not talking to one another again, except through our lawyers. And through our choice of songs, of course. But soon we’ll come to a final agreement and split our financial lives. We’ll no longer share a family Spotify account, among many other things. I don’t know if we’ll continue this shared playlist experiment. I hope so, at least every now and then. Or, if not, I hope we can find another way to share some of our lives with one another, preferably with music to help prod us along toward our uncertain future. Who knows, maybe we could even go see one of our favorite bands together again. I’m perhaps being naïve, but I could see it happening one day. We’d go not as husband and wife or lovers or soulmates, but as two people who still care about each other immensely, who love music and cherish the way it speaks to our battered souls and the shared embers that burn, fading but enduring, within them.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
