Happiness
August was a weird month. Maybe not for the rest of the world, but definitely for me. I had just returned from a six-month respite in Europe. I wasn’t used to America, to sharing a space with my family, and I was overwhelmingly unprepared to move back to Ann Arbor for my senior year. I felt as if, for everyone else, time had stopped for half a year. I escaped, made new friends, experienced the world, and then reentered my own. At times I questioned if any of it had even happened, or if it was all some intricate dream. To mitigate the strange detachment August engendered, I focused on the familiar: music already heard, movies already seen. Comfortable coffee shops, restaurants, people.
Three days after my homecoming, The 1975 released “Happiness,” and I wasn’t interested. I wasn’t in the market for anything new. Of course I eventually listened to it, and I greeted my old friends, Matty, George, Adam, and Ross through a distinct symphonic re-entrance into their comfortable world. Oh, this is really fun, I thought, abruptly but willingly teleported into the audition finals of Girls Just Want to Have Fun (with an updated soundtrack and slightly more sophisticated dress). It’s one of those songs with a clear purpose: it just makes you want to dance. Okay, if you insist. Dance I shall.
I lock the door to my college bedroom and waltz over to my wood-embellished Victrola turn-table, a gift for my eighteenth birthday, that sits atop my dresser. Its vintage appearance conveys my obstinate reverie to be young in an earlier musical era — just ignore the modern touches of Bluetooth, an AUX import, and FM radio. Those features are for less special occasions.
The vinyl record is already in place from an earlier listen, but I readjust it for fun. There is something thrilling about the caution that a record player demands. Each preparatory task requires a measure of care and precision. I unlatch the safety and gently raise the stylus. I lightly nudge the tonearm over to the left so it hovers just above the second-most-outward groove. My index finger softly pushes down on the cantilever. I pull the trigger.
The first to arrive is the twangy electric guitar, executing a seductive yet refined step-ball-change. Following its lead, the swanky saxophone sashays in, interjecting short rests between plucks with animated jazz hands. Then enters the percussion, leading an enthusiastic conga line of quirky musical characters: synthetic melodic adlibs, auto-tuned background vocals, and a sparkling celesta. Center stage, a zealous belt of the saxophone steals the show, so wonderfully encapsulating the song's title and exclaiming in its own abstract language, I’m happy!
I make a dance floor for myself in the space between my bed and the wall, which is postered from floor to ceiling with comic adaptations of my favorite The 1975 songs (pre Being Funny, of course). Wait. I’m missing something. I grab my sunglasses and give myself a sly salute in the mirror as I settle into an even step-touch, nodding my head in time to the beat.
“She showed me what love is / I’m acting like I know myself / Oh, in case you didn’t notice”
I cover my eyes with my hands as I theatrically whip my head from left to right.
“Oh, oh, I would go blind just to see you”
Step-touch. Step-touch. Now with the added rhythmic slapping of my hand on my hip.
The bridge kicks in, forcefully eradicating any remaining urge to sit still. With the music video on replay in my head, I follow Matty’s motions, moonwalking, shuffling, waving finger guns, and stopping occasionally to strike a theatrical pose where it feels necessary.
You may be thinking, this all seems rather intricate. Allow me to clarify two things. First: I was a competitive dancer for the majority of my pre-college life, so in theory, I know what I’m doing. Second: no, I do not look good. Or cool. In fact, I look like an absolute idiot. But I spent a decade dancing in front of a mirror, knit-picking every angle of my body and analyzing everything from the arch of my pointed foot to the alignment of my fingertips. I no longer care. Now I dance for fun. Now I dance for myself.
I spin and sway and shimmy until suddenly, the wooden floor swallows me whole and I am falling. My arms and legs extended upwards, my back parallel to some distant, undiscovered floor, I plunge through a tunnel of vibrant pinks, purples and blues. Abstract organic shapes transform before my eyes as I fall deeper and deeper into the song, surrounded by music in its visual form. Energy rushes through my body; a blazing excitement shoots up from my toes, through my legs, my stomach, and gathers as a radiant aural ball in my chest. I feel full, like I might burst. Elated. Euphoric. I feel so fucking happy.
With a precipitous thump, I collapse into my mattress. Winded and bewildered. Entranced by the synthetic apparitions that dance against the backdrop of my white ceiling.
My wall dedicated to The 1975.