There’s a surprising amount of jazz in my day-to-day life. Certainly more than I would’ve ever expected as I run to school and the sunken front seat of my dad‘s black 2002 Nissan Sentra. He would occasionally play a CD of Kenny G and I would consider those to be some of the worst mornings in high school.

It’s funny, because when I went back to visit Portland this summer, I told my father this, and he had no memory of it at all. Just as I suspect, he would not recall his visceral dislike of Regina Spektor for her lilting tones, but his undying love for Joni Mitchell. Who is a much admired and influential artist, and at the same time, is someone I myself can’t stand to listen to.

For two years running after a success of six years, I will not have Mac Miller as my top artist on Spotify. I’m sure that I won’t have him in my top artists at all. Neither will I have Mother, Mother, or The Kooks, Sum 41, The Offspring. Many of those are bands that I grew up, listening to, and had a big deal of influence on myself. You can listen to the new moon anthology from Elliot Smith, and see tones of it in certain writing pieces of mine.

I can look back at photos and hear certain songs. In Eugene, when I was 18 years old I can hear the song “Safe and Sound” by Capital Cities. I can hear the song “Morocco” by Moon Taxi for Ashland. During my Trader Joe’s, and final Starbucks stint in Portland, I can hear Overdose by Ghost Loft.

Missoula is home to “The Muse” by The Wood Brothers. It’s also home to many a GTA and other hype songs. “Big John” by Jimmy Dean. It has the memories of walking the north end of town as I trek from the Cooley street house. My doublewide that couldn’t pump heat into the bedrooms. Then the Lewis and Clark apartments with their weary coats of beige paint. I’d listen to the Black Keys and play Fifa. Drinking Summer Honey beers and learning that when people keep making the “yeesh” face when I mentioned who my roommate was, to believe there was a good reason.

I can hear the tight spell of lines from Deca as I’d bounce my head between classes. I can remember the shift as I’d finish the day and prepare to head to the racquet ball courts to kick the ball around with Henry.

In returning to Portland I can hear “Bernard Trigger” by Cleopatrick. Lots and lots of Cleopatrick to be honest. The return to coaching also brought the high energy, get pumped up music that they supply by the truckload. I can hear “Jealously” by Robert Delong. The memories of a blurry concerts and pulsing energy. I can hear the quieter notes of Lucius and Drug Store Romeos.

I can hear Wulfpeck and Cory Wong. I can hear the drum beats being echoed by Julius as pop beats would roar over the home speakers during a regular summer grill session.

In Tsushima I’ll think of “Nowhere in No Time” by Eileen Jewel and “Candy” by Paolo Nutini for the winter months as I’d play Fifa and curse the cold. I’ll think of “Well Acquainted” by Dick Stusso whenever I see photos of Izuhara and the verdant forests surrounding it.

There’s almost eight thousand songs in my private Spotify playlist. Some breathe fire while others gasp for air. It would be impossible to distill each distinctive period with a comprehensive list, but I try my best to remember touchstone songs to former versions of myself.