If you haven’t listened to Maggie Rogers’ new album Heard It In A Past Life, what are you doing with your current life?
This is already one of my favorite albums of the year, and one of the reasons I love it so much is that each song makes me feel like I’m both watching and experiencing some magical, tragic, hopeful short story. It makes me feel things, you guys.
If I were to review it, I don’t think I would be able to really give it, or the feelings it evokes, justice. Instead, I wanted to write little vignettes for each song. The movie I see when I hear each song, the interconnected story I see unfolding when I listen to this album straight through, in order. Though I’m not saying this is what Maggie had in mind when she first wrote it, I think she’d appreciate the emotions I associate with each track.
No, these aren’t all true. But none of them are false.
Let’s begin, shall we?
Give a Little is the song that’s playing when I walk into my 10-year high school reunion. I’ve been a freelancer for most of that time, dating and ghosting and crying and succeeding far away from this town, but then I see the person I never stopped thinking about since graduation. They come up to me, in that dark gym, and ask what I’ve been up to.
Overnight is what I hear when I turn on the radio and look out my apartment window, listening to my ex close the door behind them. I’ve just agreed to meet them for lunch tomorrow because they said they’re sorry, and I said I was sorry, too. The middle of the night is the worst time to make big decisions like this, but I do it anyway.
The Knife is what’s playing at some underground indie club the first night I go out after moving to the city. I’m dancing with strangers, letting strangers dance with me, watching strangers dance with each other as I wonder if the love of my life is somewhere on this abysmal, electric dance floor.
Alaska is what’s coming out of my shitty phone speaker, next to me on the rock I’m sitting on. It’s the middle of winter, and I’ve never been this far north. This is the first time I’ve taken an impulsive trip somewhere by myself. This is also the first time I haven’t thought of you after our breakup. It feels good.
Lights On is what I listen to late at night as I drive through the Colorado desert. There are tears on my cheeks, a heavy necklace around my neck, and stars above my head. I’m headed toward the memory of someone, and all I know is that I miss them terribly.
Past Life is the song I turn on in the middle of the night at full volume, alone in my apartment with the vaulted ceilings and the shiny floors. I curl up on the couch with a glass of red wine, because that’s what women do in romantic comedies, and wonder how it would feel to not be afraid.
Say It is what some girl on the train is listening to on her morning commute, loud enough that I can hear it through her headphones. It reminds me of the date I had last night, and how it had felt so wonderful to be around someone so nice and genuine like that. My phone suddenly buzzes, and I’m both scared and excited, wondering if the text is from them.
On + Off is what I hear them playing in their room as we’re FaceTiming. I’m tucked in bed, safe and warm with the fairy lights above me flickering like they’re about to go out, and my person tilts their head to-and-fro with the beat of the music. I think I might love them.
Fallingwater is the song I listen to on the walk home from lunch with an old friend, or lover, or whatever they were to me. Tears are welling up faster than I can wipe them away, dripping down my cheeks and making my lips damp. I can be so damn cruel without even realizing it.
Retrograde is the song I sing along to in the bath, with orange essential oil steaming my brain, and my bones overflowing with anxiety about everything in my life. My eyes slide closed, and I breathe deep, inhaling constellations to fill my cavernous lungs.
Burning is what we listen to through shared earbuds, our legs tangled up together on the train ride towards some lush part of the country we’ve never seen before, away from the city. Our heads are tilted towards each other, and we bask in the feeling of being completely and totally in-sync.
Back In My Body is the song I listen to outside before the rest of the world is awake, drinking hot tea and listening to ice-covered tree branches brush against each other. My toes sink into the mud; I feel the cool air slip down my throat, expanding in my stomach and stretching the waistband of my leggings. I suddenly know exactly what I look like, but I don’t hate what I see.