What’s Life Without a Bit of Background Music?
It’s funny how a melody sneaks into your day, uninvited, like a text from someone you’re trying very hard not to think about. You could be in a Tokyo café, nursing your latte, when a faint piano refrain wraps itself around your thoughts and pulls you into nostalgia. Or maybe it’s a raucous pop anthem, spilling from someone’s gym earbuds on a morning subway, that feels so oddly fitting for the chaos of your commute. Music has this way of etching itself into your life story, giving shape to moments you didn’t even know needed a soundtrack.
For me, my soundtrack is rooted in my patchwork existence—suburban Japan, bustling Tokyo, rainy Vancouver, and fleeting Parisian romances—all stitched together, each piece unspooling to its own tune. Some songs make me laugh at how embarrassingly dramatic I can be. Others remind me of people I thought I’d spend forever with, only to learn that forever is a term best left to vinyl albums and old movies. Here are the playlists and those one-off anthems that define the twists and turns of my life—and, maybe, they’ll help you reflect on your own soundtrack, too.
Act I: Dreaming in Tokyo – My Coming-of-Age OST
Growing up in suburban Tokyo, life felt like an indie film with a slightly too-small budget. My dad’s endless lectures on medieval history and my mom’s perfect floral arrangements provided an unintentional symmetry to my little world. And in this measured, predictable existence, music became the escape hatch.
Cue Ryuichi Sakamoto—specifically, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence.” If you haven’t heard it, imagine the kind of ethereal piano piece that suggests both unbearable longing and an unspoken resolution. It became my soundtrack during teenage nights of lying on tatami mats, staring at the popcorn ceiling, and wondering whether it was possible to love someone before they even walk into your life. Spoiler: It is. It’s called crushing on fictional characters in novels.
Later, adding a side of rebellion to this earnestness, a few choice tunes from The Cure and Arctic Monkeys slid into the playlist. High school love in Japan—where every confession feels like an Oscar-worthy faceoff of glances and stutters—requires mood music. “Just Like Heaven” wasn’t just a bop; it became the exact shape of the ache I felt every time I wandered past the tennis courts where a boy with the alias Kazu (to protect the innocent) spent his afternoons. I blame Robert Smith’s perfect mix of elation and bittersweetness for making even the smallest interactions feel like a major plot line.
It fascinates me now that even as adults, we hold on to this emotional choreography, don’t we? Like the right song—and the right moment—can still transport us somewhere we didn’t know we needed to go.
Act II: Paris Flings and Walkman Memories
Paris—oh, where do I begin? Between translating obscure manuscripts for my doctorate and sampling alarming amounts of pain au chocolat, I fell prey to the city’s most dangerous pastime: falling in love with the idea of people. You don’t realize until you’ve stood on a Seine bridge, clutching at your scarf for dramatic effect, how perfectly Paris conspires to heighten your every romantic whim.
For these fleeting infatuations, Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose” was almost too on-the-nose but impossible to avoid. It’s like stopping by the Louvre without glimpsing the Mona Lisa—you just have to. Another favorite was Phoenix’s "If I Ever Feel Better." With its melancholy yet hopeful beats, it became my breakup-and-move-on anthem, especially when things fell apart with—you guessed it—another big-eyed intellectual from my exchange program. Note to self: never trust a guy who critiques your favorite Murakami as "too obvious."
Paris was also where I discovered how music can steep the most ordinary moments in meaning. Everyday walks to the boulangerie with headphones playing Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” inspired the kind of cinematic happiness that makes zero sense until you’re in it.
Act III: Vancouver Rain—and Why Mazzy Star Saves Every Romance
When I moved to Vancouver, I expected the rain but not the way it would soak into every part of living. Picture me: hunched under an umbrella, waiting for the light to turn green while Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You” dripped through my earbuds. It didn’t matter if I was going to the library to grade papers or rendezvousing for an awkward first date—this song coated everything in a soft-focus haze.
Let’s talk about dates for a moment, though. Vancouver is a city of pseudo-environmentalists, hopeless dog people, and very ambitious hikers. The unofficial dress code for dating is fleece jackets and trail runners, and you’re more likely to meet someone while debating which artisanal kombucha to buy than anywhere traditionally romantic. But I digress.
When things inevitably got weird romantically (like the guy who ghosted and blocked me because I energetically debated Shakespeare vs. Donne—yes, I’m dramatic), Norah Jones’ “Don’t Know Why” was there to soothe the sting. Sometimes, I picture Norah herself sipping tea beside me and nodding quietly as I drown my sorrows in a latte. It’s oddly comforting.
Act IV: Love Isn’t a Playlist, but It Kinda Is
At some point in your life—and maybe you’ve already felt this—you realize that the music you’re drawn to reflects where you stand in your relationships, or better yet, your relationship to yourself. During messy transitions, I find myself coming back to Bon Iver’s “Holocene”—a subtle, grounding reminder that I’m spectacularly small in this messy, wondrous universe. When I’m gliding through more stable terrain (OK, trekking carefully—I'm a klutz), Carly Rae Jepsen’s pure-pop anthems shout: “Celebrate yourself!”
I’ve also noticed that the songs I share with people I care about—from my brother back in Tokyo to my partner now—form their own side playlists. These are living, breathing things, evolving and occasionally crashing, but they narrate connection. Because at the end of the day, isn’t that what music is all about?
Your Soundtrack, Your Way
As I write this, my current roommate (admittedly, a cactus named Taro) is swaying silently to the faint strings of Joe Hisaishi’s Spirited Away score. What I’ve learned through these years of soundtracking my life is that what you listen to doesn’t just mark time—it adds layers to how you understand yourself and the people you stumble into.
So, no matter where you are on your own journey—from shy flirtation to heartbreak to maybe sipping wine with someone who makes “your song” better—lean into the sounds calling out to you. They just might teach you something you didn’t know you needed to hear. 🎶
