Musical Chairs: Entry #1 – Love

A series about memory, music, and the feelings we forgot

I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but somewhere between the podcast boom and now… I stopped listening to music.

Back in high school, music was everything — identity, imagination, emotion — all burned onto CDs or stolen from LimeWire. That era between tapes and streaming was chaotic, but beautiful. You didn’t scroll a feed. You hunted. And when you found something, it felt like it was yours.

Eventually, I swapped music for podcasts. It felt productive. Informational. I told myself: if I’m going to have something in my ears while I drive or clean, it might as well teach me something.

And that’s fine — but I didn’t notice what I lost.

Now, when I try to go back to those songs I loved… the playlists are gone. The mp3s are gone. But more than that: the emotional context is gone. The part of me that used to feel through music got replaced with facts.

So I’m starting something called Musical Chairs — a way to sit with songs again. Not just hit play, but actually feel them.

This isn’t about being a critic, or a curator. It’s not about clever lyrics or deep meanings.

It’s about vibe. It’s about memory. It’s about asking: what did this song make me feel?

And I’m starting with the big one:

Love.

Not heartbreak. Not loss. Just… love. The presence of it. The ache. The warmth. The invisible thread.

I’ve got a list of songs that brought me that feeling in all its different shades. Some loud. Some soft. Some simple. Some confusing. I’ll be sorting them loosely into emotional “buckets” — not rigid genres, just moods.

And I’d love to hear yours.

Drop a song in the comments — or ten. Tell me what love sounds like to you.

Let’s sit with it.
Let’s spin the chairs.
Let’s see what comes up.

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🎶 “We Can Work It Out” — The Beatles (1965)

Released as a double A-side with “Day Tripper” — recorded during the transitional Rubber Soul sessions. Written by Lennon–McCartney. Clocking in at 2:15.
📂 filed under: partnership tension & harmonic empathy

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We Can Work It Out is my starting point for this first bucket — what I’d call “the realism of love.”

It’s not heartbreak. It’s not infatuation. It’s the push-pull — the actual negotiation of partnership. And to me, that makes it one of the most emotionally honest songs of The Beatles' early catalogue.

I’m grouping everything before Rubber Soul as one collective era — what I see as the “rock and roll love language” phase. This was the dancefloor era: simple, catchy, energetic. But “We Can Work It Out” is different. It feels like the moment when things started to stretch.

The call and response between Paul and John is everything.
Paul sings like an optimist: “We can work it out...”
John cuts in like a realist: “Life is very short, and there's no time...”

It’s not a fight — it’s a conversation. You can hear the tension, the hope, the friction. The partnership itself becomes the music.

Even the ending has this strange unresolved feeling — like it wants to finish but just… lingers. I think it’s because of the key they use. I’m not trained enough to name it — but I can feel it. That unsettled warmth.

For me, this song captured a huge emotional shift in pop music:
→ From songs meant for dancing, to songs meant for listening.
→ From simple declarations of love, to the complex rhythm of staying in it.

It’s a love song — but with consequences.
And that’s why it still hits.

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🎶 “Something” — The Beatles (1969)

Written by George Harrison. Released on Abbey Road. Widely regarded as one of the most celebrated love songs in popular music. Frank Sinatra once called it “the greatest love song of the past 50 years.”
📂 filed under: sacred recognition & lyrical stillness

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Something is hard to write about — because the whole point of the song is that it can’t be written about.

It doesn’t try to define love. It doesn’t even try to describe it. It just… recognizes it. The lyric is the premise:
“I don’t know why I feel this way. I just know it’s you.”

There’s no metaphor. No posturing. No attempt to be profound.
Just quiet awe in the presence of someone.

I’ve always admired Paul for his polish and charm — but George?
George had soul.
He didn’t need to shout. He could just say it, and you’d feel it.

“Something” hits every phase of love:

• the thrill of noticing

• the steadiness of knowing

• the ache of wondering if it might slip away

It’s not a flashy song. It just holds space — and in doing so, it becomes whatever you bring to it.

That’s what art is.

You get out of it what you put into it.
That’s why this one lasts.

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🥃 “Tennessee Whiskey” — Chris Stapleton (2015)

Originally written by Dean Dillon and Linda Hargrove in 1981. Stapleton’s version, arranged with a slow soul groove, became a breakout anthem of modern outlaw country.
📂 filed under: recovery recognition & slow-burn devotion

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If you asked me whether I’m a country fan… I’d hesitate.

Not because I don’t respect it — but because I never went deep enough to find the gems. Pop country mostly missed me. But every now and then, a track cuts through everything.

“Tennessee Whiskey” is that kind of song.

It’s not about sacrifice. It’s about realization — about growing past your vices not because you were told to, but because love made it obvious. It reframes letting go as coming home.

There’s something rich and reflective in the way it’s delivered. The tempo asks you to sit with it — sip it slowly. Not just listen, but remember.

And then there’s the vibe:
It has a Motown feel, even though it’s country. The vocals don’t overpower — they glide. You can hear the emotion inside the note, not riding on top of it. Stapleton doesn’t belt — he walks through the melody like a room.

For me, this song captures what it feels like to move forward because you’ve been seen. That moment when the weight of the past lifts — not by force, but by clarity.

Sometimes love doesn't arrive as lightning.
Sometimes it shows up like recognition.
Like, “Oh… it’s you. I’m safe now.”

And that hits.

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🎤 “Who’s Lovin’ You” — The Jackson 5 (1969)

Originally written by Smokey Robinson in 1960. This version, performed by a young Michael Jackson, became a defining moment in Motown history — a ballad of loss sung with startling emotional depth by a child.
📂 filed under: ache-by-reflection & early-service language

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I know — it’s MJ.
And yes, he was a kid when he recorded this.
But put all that aside for a moment and just listen to the song.

“Who’s Lovin’ You” is light and full of ache at the same time.
Not sorrowful — more like wistful clarity. It’s reflective, not reactive.
And for me, it taps into something really specific:
That kind of love where you don’t express it with words — you express it by keeping someone in your thoughts all the time.

The song isn’t begging. It’s not performative. It’s just sitting with the ache.

As a man, I’ve always resonated with the idea of love-as-service — showing care not by asking for anything, but by making sure the person is okay. Even from a distance.

That’s what this song sounds like to me.
Even if it’s a kid singing it.
Even if he didn’t fully understand what he was saying.

He felt it. And you feel it too.

And honestly? That’s all that matters.

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People usually point to Barry White when they talk about “love-making music” — that deep voice, the candles, the velvet.

But for me, Al Green hits a different chord.

It’s quieter.
It’s less about seduction and more about service. Not in a subservient way — but in that quiet, steady way some of us show love by doing. Day to day. No announcement necessary.

And “Let’s Stay Together”? That’s what it feels like.
It’s not exactly groovy. I’m not even sure how I’d… move to it.
It’s just vibe.

Al owns the melody completely.
He walks through the song like someone who’s lived every word of it.
There’s no ego. Just presence.

I think Al Green is underrated — or maybe just over-flattened by background loops and store playlists.
You hear him while picking out paper towels.
But every now and then, you catch someone else nodding along in the pasta aisle.
Just a little. Just enough.
And in that moment?

You both remember what it is

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🎙 “Baby It’s You” — Smith (1969)

Originally written by Burt Bacharach, Luther Dixon, and Mack David. First recorded by The Shirelles in 1961, then famously covered by The Beatles — but it was Smith’s 1969 version that broke through, hitting No. 5 on the U.S. charts.
📂 filed under: cover ascension & possession by performance

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Okay — this one’s a sneaky Beatles insert.
They covered it. But in my mind? Smith took it.

“Baby It’s You” has a long lineage:

• Written by Burt Bacharach

• First recorded by The Shirelles

• Covered beautifully by The Beatles

• And then… claimed by Smith in 1969

There’s a class of covers where the artist doesn’t just redo the song — they rewrite its emotional DNA. Like Joe Cocker did with “With a Little Help From My Friends.” Like Johnny Cash did with “Hurt.”
This is one of those.

Smith didn’t overdo it.
They just amplified the ache.
Took the core — that quiet pleading — and stretched it into something visceral.

Just...
“Baby… it’s you.”

That’s all it takes.
That’s the scroll.

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🧸 “Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)” — John Lennon (1980)

Released on Double Fantasy, written for his son Sean. A lullaby not of fantasy, but of fragile hope and emotional witnessing.
📂 filed under: gentle fatherhood & unspoken time-travel

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I think the first time I heard “Beautiful Boy” was during a classroom screening of Mr. Holland’s Opus.
We were maybe ten years old.

And near the end… that song plays.
And I swear to God — the entire class was crying.
Even the ones who usually made fun of crying.

But this was different.

This wasn’t movie sadness.
This was recognition.

Because Beautiful Boy is a lullaby — but it’s not soft.
It doesn’t pretend life won’t hurt.
It just says:

“I see you. I love you. And you’re going to be okay.”

Somehow, in a middle school classroom full of dry-erase fumes and loud backpacks, that message landed. It cracked something open.
Not in our heads — but in our chests.

Now that I’m a parent, it hits even harder.
I’m grateful I felt it then — and grateful I get to feel it again, now, from the other side.

If you’re a parent?

You know.

(Soft 5 for The Beatles)

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🍷 “Drunk in Love” — Beyoncé feat. Jay-Z (2013)

From Beyoncé’s self-titled visual album. A hypnotic, storm-swept anthem of desire, obsession, and no-apology love. Volume is part of the feeling.
📂 filed under: secondhand immersion & witnessed emotional architecture

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I’m not necessarily a Queen B fan.

But my wife?
She played this song — Drunk in Love — a lot around the time of our wedding.
Like... a lot.

And I didn’t ask what it meant to her.
I just noticed it kept showing up.

So I can only assume it struck a chord with her.
With how she felt about us.
About that time.
About me.

And that struck a chord with me.

You don’t always need to love a song to feel it.
Sometimes you just need to see what it means to someone else — and let it echo.

That’s all.

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🧠 “Basket Case” — Green Day (1994)

From the album Dookie. A pop-punk anthem of spiraling thoughts, isolation, and adolescent chaos. It’s loud, anxious, and — somehow — affectionate.
📂 filed under: formative distortion & misunderstood declarations

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I don’t think I realized this was a love song when I was a kid.

But now? It feels like a love letter to my formative years — to the chaos, the self-doubt, the trying-to-understand-what-love-even-is feeling that clings to you during adolescence.

“Basket Case” is wired and restless — but under all the noise, it’s basically pleading:

Can you see me? Can you stay? Even if I’m a mess?

That kind of vulnerability is a kind of love.
It’s not polished.
It’s not slow-dancing.
It’s “take me as I am or don’t take me at all.”

There were so many songs like that in the alt-rock scene.
Nirvana. Soundgarden. Foo Fighters. Smashing Pumpkins. Pixies.
It’s almost unfair to single one out — but this one holds the spot.

Like I did with the pre-Rubber Soul Beatles, I’m lumping these together into one big emotional bucket:
→ Love, but disoriented.
→ Love, but shouted through distortion.

Tell me your favorites from that era in the comments.
We’ll build the wall of sound together.

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🌍 “All You Need Is Love” — The Beatles (1967)

Written by John Lennon. Premiered as part of the first live global TV broadcast, Our World. Crafted intentionally as a simple, universal message — in 7/4 time, no less.
📂 filed under: collective ease & free-love signal broadcast

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Okay, screw you — it’s my list.
I can include a Beatles love song I don’t even really like that much.

“All You Need Is Love” isn’t my favorite. Not even close.
But if we’re talking about love in music, in cultural memory, in communal transmission — it’s undeniable.

It captures something bigger:
Not romantic love.
Not longing.
Just… blanket respect.
Connection. Hippy unity without the try-hard “We Are the World” energy.

It’s a celebration, not a plea.
It’s not saying “please love.”
It’s saying:

“Hey. Look around. It’s already here.”

And sure, it’s been flattened by decades of flower decals and retro kitsch.
But part of me still thinks:
If this song were mandatory listening from birth —
every morning, in every classroom, like an emotional vitamin?

Maybe things would be a little better.

Not perfect.
Just… more tuned in.

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🌀 Closing Thought

As much as I’d love to keep going… that’s ten.

Ten songs. Ten feelings. Ten angles on what love can sound like.

This isn’t definitive. It’s just a snapshot — a starting point.
But if you made it this far, I’d love to keep it going.

Drop your song in the comments. Or five. Or twenty.
Tell me what love sounds like to you.

And if this gets enough traction, I might even run diagnostics —
map the entries, tag the themes, and build a collective playlist of what love means to us through the lens of music.

Sound good?

Cool.
Spin the chair.
Let’s go again.

Stay Crispy!

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Additional Publications

1. The Arena — Collapse as Content
   👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/would-you-step-into-the-arena

2. WTF Is NahgOS? (Arena Companion)
   👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/wtf-is-nahgos-the-arena-companion

3. The Arena: Free Will vs Determinism (Narrative Engine Dissection)
   👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/the-arena-free-will-vs-determinism

4. Board Walk Polls — Diagnostic Surface Mapping
   👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/board-walk-polls

5. I Don’t Guess. I Map. (Substack Analytics Diagnostic)
   👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/i-dont-guess-i-map-substack-analytics

6. I’m Not a Writer, But I Write (Self-reinforcing Scroll Loop)
   👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/im-not-a-writer-but-i-write

7. Assholes Anonymous — Tone Profile Extraction
   👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/ass-holes-anonymous

8. Why I Read 139 Comments on a Post (Comment Drift Forensics)
   👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/why-i-read-139-comments-on-a-post

9. Data Is Beautiful — Reaction Chain Analysis
   👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/data-is-beautiful

10. Shame, Language, and the Weight of Narrative (Scroll-Based Emotional Cartography)
    👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/shame-language-and-the-weight-of

11. Real Words for Real Parents — A Reflection Scroll (Empathy Through Structure)
    👉 https://nahgcorp.substack.com/p/real-words-for-real-parents-a-