Like most of us, I spent a lot of time as a teenager riding in cars, driving in aimless circles and listening to music. It was the early 2010’s, arguably indie pop’s heyday. Bands like Passion Pit, Vampire Weekend, and CHVRCHES were rapidly becoming mainstream. The neon-bright synth pop sounds contrasted sharply with lyrics that often hinted at a restless unhappiness. As a teen in Los Angeles, I often felt an unshakable sensation of melancholy, a disconnect between a seemingly idyllic life and the deep unhappiness I experienced. We used to cruise the Sunset Strip, trying to lose ourselves in the endless dazzle of neon, mouthing the words to the latest by Passion Pit or Vampire Weekend. I often felt as if a fist was clenching itself inside my chest when I listened to these songs––it was as if someone had put my sweet and bitter ache to music. It was a restless melancholy set to––perhaps even disguised by––a catchy synth beat. Lyrics that referenced addiction, loss, and mental illness were overlaid by bright, catchy synth that easily stuck in a listener's head. Crying about your emotionally unavailable parents or teenage heartbreak became easier when done to a Vampire Weekend album. In a lot of ways, this music mirrored my home city in the idea that ugliness and heartbreak could easily be camouflaged by a daze of bright colors and glamor. The mid-2010’s saw the rise of social media platforms like Instagram and Snapchat, which encouraged teens to curate online presences that made their (no, make that our) lives seem entirely carefree and idyllic. We carefully selected snapshots that made our lives seem like screencaps from music videos, everything illuminated by the golden Southern Californian sun. But like the music we listened to, like the city we lived in, we were trying desperately to replace––or even disguise––the melancholy we felt.
This past weekend I was lying on top of an unmade bed in a hotel overlooking downtown Los Angeles, the midmorning sun illuminating the skyline of the city I’d grown to somehow simultaneously love and despise. My boyfriend and I reminisced about the music we’d listened to in the late 2010’s, playing our old favorites, and when Take a Walk by Passion Pit came on I felt a strange and overwhelming nostalgia for a melancholy I had not experienced in a long time. The Los Angeles I inhabit now feels less transient than the city of my teenage years, even though many of my friends have since moved away. Maybe now I’m less eager to hide from my ‘melancholy’––which, shockingly was not just teen angst but in fact clinical depression––behind metaphorical synth pop beats. In learning how to love my city again, I became more willing to love myself. Coming back to these songs in the years after they were released, and after I first heard them, I realized how adeptly they addressed that feeling of teenage restlessness. That feeling still comes and goes, as it does for all of us, but now they are accompanied by a distinct nostalgia for something that was and for what will come to be. For now, I take comfort in the fact that my late night drives, while often still prompted by the same discontent, have a more distinct destination in mind. And I will always consider that first wave of 2010’s indie pop to be a love letter to a city that I was sure never loved me––and a city that someday, perhaps, I will write an adequate love letter in return to.
