Wannabe

Country singer Tricia Yearwood released a song in 1993 with the line, “After I’ve forgotten all about us, the song remembers when…” And ain't that the truth.

How many times has a song pulled you back into a specific moment in time? A smell, a feeling, a version of yourself you forgot existed until the first few notes hit? For me, this happens daily. Occupational hazard of a full-blown playlist savant.

Here’s the irony: I am probably the least musically inclined person to walk the earth. I can’t play an instrument aside from Christmas carols at middle C, and clapping on beat is… aspirational. And yet—I love music. All of it. The highs and the lows. The way it personifies heartbreak and joy. The way it leaves fingerprints on your soul long after the last note fades.

Yes. It’s that impactful to me.

I’m especially drawn to deep lyrics, complex hooks, and layered harmonies—the kind of songs that reward repeat listening. There are simply too many to ever choose just one favorite, which feels like asking someone to name their favorite memory or heartbreak. Impossible.

In my youth, I followed bands, went to more concerts than the average human probably should, and memorized every lyric—including the grunts, squeals, and dramatic interjections no one else bothered with. Anthems like “Magic Power”blared while cruising the strip, windows down, cassingles swapped and compared like sacred artifacts. Power ballads like “Never Say Goodbye” didn’t just play—they moved in and rearranged my emotional furniture.

It was then that I decided I wanted to be a muse.

I wanted my smile to inspire someone’s “Your Song.” I wanted to live forever in a lyric—romantic, unforgettable, frozen in album time.

By my freshman year at Foxcroft in 1989, this passion had taken a slightly… activist turn. A fellow student and I created an anti-censorship newsletter called Rock Soldiers, written and produced on a typewriter and Xerox machine in the basement of the Audrey Bruce Currier Library on campus during study hall. Very punk. Very serious.

We followed current events closely—particularly Tipper Gore and the rise of Parental Advisory stickers, which at 14 years old effectively blocked me from buying albums with four-letter words. (My, how times have changed.) We sent questionnaires to artists asking how they felt about censorship and the future of music. We mailed them to every fan club and band address we could find.

It was a full-blown mission—arguably ambitious, maybe a little unhinged, and definitely advanced for a high school freshman. We received many responses and an in person interview with a band appropriately named Danger-Danger. We were even nationally recognized on Sally Jesse Raphael once. There’s another chapter of that story involving a school suspension, but that’s for another post. Rock on.

I spent time in the local band scenes in DC and Baltimore and still count some of those musicians as friends. I was backstage at concert halls, in recording studios, around when record deals were signed. Once—once—I even made it into a song, called out by as "friend".

Not quite the grand romantic gesture I’d envisioned.

But undeniably? It was about me. Moi. The wannabe muse.

I was present for so many lyrical professions of love, heartache, and inspiration—and yet, like most of us, I was never really the heroine of the song. Which is perhaps the point.

Because here’s the thing: most songs aren’t actually about you. Or me. Or the person we hope they are.

They’re about a moment. A feeling. A version of someone that existed briefly and burned brightly. And we just happen to recognize ourselves in the echo.

After all—I bet you thought the song was about you, didn't you?

And remember: Barry Manilow allegedly wrote “Mandy” about his dog.

Let that sit with you.