I take a lot of pride in being the partner in my relationship who is the planner, especially for road trips.
Whether itâs sunscreen, snacks or safety pins, Iâm usually the one putting it in the bag. But thereâs one thing I always loosen my Control Freak grip on, and itâs essential to any good journey: the play-list.
My husband, whom I give about three more seconds before he turns beet red reading this, is a master of the craft. I know this skill dates back to high school, when he spent countless hours threading together songs for friends on burned mix CDs. Those friends have told me they still cherish the mixes he made for birthdays and beyond.
Before a recent weeklong vacation that took us to two New Jersey beaches and the Catskills, my guy chose a whopping 260 songs spread across two playlists, totaling about 14 hours of music. It was a labor of love, featuring a mix of recently released music (Charli XCX, St. Vincent) and songs that just fit the vibe (Beach Boys, Bruce Springsteen).
The best part, though, are hyper-specific Easter eggs for his audience of one â me. There was âSouthern Nightsâ by Glen Campbell, a song I canât stop singing. It also included Dr. Johnâs âSuch a Night,â which, without fail, makes me burst into laughter within seconds and always inspires bad impressions of the blues man. (Hey, as the song goes, âIf I donât do it, you know somebody else will.â)
But the beach vacation playlist specifically is more than just a way to butter up a wife. Itâs also a time capsule of our collective musical moment. My husband aptly described it as the halfway âcheckpointâ for the year in music, since we always take a trip to the Shore in June.
It also captures artists we have seen or will see live this year, like Bob Dylan and Dinosaur Jr. (Not together, but I wish.) There were also several songs by Monsters of Folk, a supergroup we share a love of whose reissued record awaited our ears upon our return from the beach.
Now, before I get any further: I can feel Gen X seething as they read this, and I fully acknowledge the fact that my husband and I are both too young to have experienced the true mixtape experience. That required a different level of commitment: waiting for a song to come on the radio to record it in full for your listener.
But hey, weâve been through the trenches in our own way. You havenât known fear until youâve been burned by a scalding hot laptop whose CD drive is working overtime, humming as loud as a Hoover.
As much as I appreciate the ease of the digital age, thereâs something I miss about those physical CDs, which youâd have to protect to preserve this gift someone crafted for you.
I still have the first CD my husband made me, for my 20th birthday, when we were âjust friendsâ as college students. Ghosts of boyfriendsâ past had thrown CDs my way before; some introduced me to great artists (Rufus Wainwright) and others barely got played (sorry to my EDM-loving ex.) But this was different.
Scribbled in his chicken scrawl, my guyâs birthday blessing to me was titled âA Day in the Life,â an obvious nod to the Beatles. It started slowly and picked up the pace in the middle before returning to calmness, much like the ebb and flow of our time spent awake each day.
It wasnât just a pile of songs someone wanted me to listen to. It was storytelling.
The beach soundtrack, while more of a meandering tale, is no different. And wherever our shared story takes us next, Iâm sure weâll keep singing along.
Jenelle Janci is LNP | LancasterOnlineâs Life & Culture team leader. âUnscriptedâ is a weekly entertainment column produced by a rotating team of writers.