My Life In 35 Songs, Track 20: “The Sound of You and Me” by Yellowcard

I’ve never been more ready to move on.

I felt like I was escaping from prison.

In the car, fleeing campus at the end of my sophomore year of college, I got a legitimate adrenaline jolt, because a part of me couldn’t believe that this long, arduous year was finally drawing to a close. 12 months earlier, I’d pulled away from my freshman dorm feeling positive about college and extremely hopeful about the summer to come. Now, I wondered in the back of my mind whether I’d ever come back to this school again. Why had that one year made such a difference?

Fortunately, I still had a lot of hope for the summertime. For months, I’d had this day circled on the calendar, a mental “finish line” where everything that had been out of whack in my life would click back into place. I’d go back home; my girlfriend Jillian and I would be reunited; I’d go back to the summer job I loved, performing at the local dinner theater; winter would finally lose its oppressive hold on Michigan and I’d get to roll down the car windows and feel the wind blow back my hair as I blasted summertime songs on the stereo.

I even already had a summertime soundtrack picked out. On March 22, 2011, Yellowcard, one of the preeminent “summer soundtrack” bands of my youth, had released their first new album in four years. Called When You’re Through Thinking, Say Yes, the album was packed with big anthems that were begging for precisely the type of windows-down car rides I mentioned above. There’s even a song on that album, called “With You Around,” where the chorus goes “All I can think about is you and me driving with a Saves the Day record on/We were singing ’til our voices were gone.” I listened to that album on repeat during my final month of sophomore year, trying to will summertime to get here a little faster, because I’d never needed it more.

Craig Manning 4 months ago

Days like that should last and last and last…

I treat end-of-summer songs the way most people treat Christmas music.

There is an entire segment of the music industry that is built around the fact that, for at least a month at the end of every year, a significant percentage of the music-listening population only wants to hear holiday songs. It’s why Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” will have an annual stint atop of Billboard charts from now until the end of time, and why Spotify Wrapped cuts off streaming stats for its users around Halloween. The last six weeks of the year is holiday music season.

Well, for me, August is end-of-summer music season. I have an entire playlist of songs that I associate solely with the fading of Earth’s most glorious season. Most of those songs, just like Christmas carols, sound wildly out of place to me if I hear them at any other time of year. But play them for me in August, especially in those last two weeks before Labor Day, and my heart will ache with all the melancholy of watching another summer die.

No song on the planet captures the sweet, sad feeling of summer’s end better than Dashboard Confessional’s “Dusk and Summer,” and its perennial re-entry into my life has made it one of my most cherished songs of all time. To tell that story, I have to break with the typical mold of this essay series – most parts so far have focused in on one specific memory or period of time – and explain the evolution of my end-of-summer ritual, and how music came to be a core part of it.

Craig Manning 5 months ago

Photograph, remembering the summer…

I could feel it in my bones.

Driving home from college after successfully completing my freshman year, something told me that I was in for a banner summer. The calendar hadn’t even flipped over from April to May yet, but the air was warm and the sun was beating down and my car windows were open and the music was blaring. Getting off the highway, it felt like my hometown was welcoming me back with open arms. Somehow, I just knew I was about to live the greatest summer of my life.

I’m no great believer in clairvoyance, but my premonition that day is absolutely the closest I’ve ever come to predicting the future. Because, as it turned out, the summer of 2010 was the summer I fell in love with the girl I was going to marry.

There’s a special gravity to the albums and songs you hear for the first time right around the start of any new relationship, but that counts for double when it’s the relationship that’s going to last for the long haul. Such was the case for me with Black & White, the second album from Arizona rock band The Maine.

The Maine had come up as part of the “neon pop-punk” wave of the late-2000s, a micro-movement defined by uber-poppy, glossily-produced rock songs that sounded so bright you could almost hear the saturated colors in the music. Fast-forward to 2025 and The Maine have outlasted every other vestige of that movement, evolving into a widely-respected independent rock band whose music folds in influences ranging from Third Eye Blind to new wave to Americana. These days, they are one of my very favorite bands. Back in 2010, though, they were only barely on my radar.

Craig Manning 5 months ago

If I told you the reasons why, would you leave your life and ride?

“College sucks, but you’re also not trying.”

That quote comes from the 2020 film Shithouse, the directorial debut of indie filmmaker Cooper Raiff, and my favorite movie of the decade so far. The movie is about Alex’s struggles to find a place and make friends at college, and about the nagging homesickness that prevents him from fully throwing himself into his new environment. Along the way, he strikes up a romance with his RA, a girl named Maggie, and it breaks him out of his shell.

I didn’t see Shithouse until 2022, two years after it came out and more than 12 years after my own college freshman year. When I did, though, it absolutely leveled me. I cannot recall any movie I’ve ever seen that I related to more strongly. My journey wasn’t exactly like Alex’s, but I saw so much of myself and my own first-year-of-college loneliness in that character. It felt like Cooper Raiff had made a movie about my life.

For some people, freshman year of college is an awakening. It’s when they cut loose, let their guard down, shed their former self, make a ton of new friends, chase down a few romances, and have some of their life’s most unforgettable adventures.

I was not one of those people.

My first year of college was, bar none, the loneliest period of my life. Growing up, I always struggled with being shy and reserved, which made it hard, sometimes, to make friends. By the end of high school, I thought I’d successfully eliminated that side of myself. I’d become more outgoing, more approachable, more open to meeting new people, and the outcome had been a wonderful group of friends that made my senior year feel like one big, long party.

Craig Manning 5 months ago

Go on and take a shot, go give it all you got.

I’m 30 miles from home and I’m crying my eyes out. For some reason, I didn’t expect to feel this way about leaving home and heading off to college for the first time. I’ve already said all my goodbyes to friends, and I know I’ll see most of them in just a few months when we all come home for Thanksgiving. My mom is in the car ahead of mine, accompanying me to Western Michigan University with a car load of stuff for my dorm room. The “family caravan” nature of this drive has kept the “leaving home” moment from feeling like too much of a clean break, at least for the next few hours. Plus, I know I’ll be back home in just a couple of days for a holiday weekend with family, before school starts. But I’m crying anyway, and it has everything to do with the song that’s coming through my speakers.

In case it hasn’t become abundantly clear, I am the type to obsessively soundtrack moments of my life that feel significant. The fact that I took pains to make sure a specific song got played at my eighth-grade graduation ceremony might be the most signature “me” moment of my entire life. I have very rarely left a milestone moment of my existence up to chance when it came to the music that was playing in the background. But that morning heading off to school is something of an exception, because an album I’d been waiting for all summer long had leaked on the internet literal minutes before I started packing my car. I’d downloaded it quickly before shutting down my computer and stowing it in my backpack for the drive, and the album in question is now playing at full volume through the stereo of my Honda Civic, courtesy of my iPod and an FM transmitter.

The album is Love Drunk, the sophomore LP from Massachusetts-hailing pop-punk band Boys Like Girls. If you’ll recall, I’ve already mentioned Boys Like Girls once in this series, as one of the two opening acts that warmed up the stage for Butch Walker when I first saw him in 2006. The band’s self-titled debut album came out a few months after that show and blew them up to mainstream success, courtesy of big, beating-heart anthems like “The Great Escape” and “Thunder,” both of which sound like youthful summer idealism. Boys Like Girls were such a big deal by the time 2009 rolled around that they had a certain pop-country sensation named Taylor Swift crossing over and duetting on their new album’s track-four acoustic ballad, called “Two Is Better Than One.” At the time, though, I didn’t care much about Taylor Swift (blasphemy, I know); I just cared that the title track lead single from Love Drunk was one of the most massive-sounding pop-rock songs I’d ever heard.

Craig Manning 5 months ago

Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night

Saturday, May 30, 2009: that was the last night I ever performed on my high school stage. By that point, I’d set foot on that stage countless times: for musicals and choir concerts, for performances in front of school district administrators, for so many hours of rehearsals and practices. It got to be the kind of thing that you experience so many times you start to take it for granted. And then, suddenly, that story was over, and I was trying to wrap my head around how the place that had made me into a musician was about to be in my rearview.

“It’s a town full of losers, I’m pulling out of here to win.”

Those were the last words I ever sang on that stage by myself. There were other words that I shared, singing in harmony with fellow classmates. But that line, the iconic sign-off of Bruce Springsteen’s greatest song, became my sign-off, at least for my musical journey at that school and, really, for my entire high school experience.

On paper, it’s an appropriate line for a big coming-of-age moment. Sequenced at the very top of 1975’s Born to Run, “Thunder Road” is the Boss’s bold, brash invitation for a girl to run away with him. “My car’s out back if you’re ready to take that long walk/From your front porch to my front seat,” he sings at one point. Later, as the song barrels into its final verse, Springsteen ups the stakes: this town is crawling with ghosts, and if you stay here, the promise of your youth will be spent; “Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet.” So get in the car, baby, and let’s drive. Let’s drive so fast and so far that they can’t possibly follow us. Let’s get out of this town and never, ever look back.

Craig Manning 5 months ago

Even if your voice comes back again, maybe there’ll be no one listening.

It was the only time in my life that I wanted summer to end.

As a kid, you wish summers could last forever. You survey the horizon from the vantage point of mid-June and it feels like you’ve got an entire lifetime’s worth of school-free days ahead of you. Days to be lazy. Days to hang out with friends. Days to spend at the beach, or cruising around your neighborhood on bikes, refusing to waste even a second of daylight. And frankly, as a kid, summers kind of do last forever, simply because two and a half months is still such a significant amount of time in the grand scheme of how long you’ve been alive. Relative to everything else, summer is endless.

As a teenager, you still wish summers could last forever, but you also have enough perspective on time to know that they’ll end up passing you by so much faster than you think. You’ll blink twice and suddenly it will be mid-August, and you’ll be left wondering where all those weeks went. As the onslaught of September and the first day of school approaches, you cling to the remaining 80-degree days and the dwindling summer sunsets like they’re oxygen, because the thought of losing that freedom again and going back to the cloistered halls of your high school feels all wrong.

Growing up, I certainly never thought I’d find myself wishing for summer to hasten its demise, but that’s exactly where I found myself in late August of 2008. For one thing, I didn’t think I could stand one more second working my shitty summer job. But the bigger factor at play was her, the girl I’d spent the summer chasing. At so many moments throughout that season, amidst so many flirtations and longing glances and intoxicated evenings where we got a bit closer than we should have, I thought we were only a matter of time. She’d break up with her boyfriend and choose me, and we’d spend the summer together, making every moment count. But she didn’t break up with her boyfriend, and she didn’t choose me, and before I knew it, we’d run out of time.

Craig Manning 6 months ago

Can you see me, holding you right in my arms?

Fast cars, loud music, and summertime: These are a few of my favorite things.

I have long been obsessed with the way a windows-down summer car ride can turn a song transcendent. Hearing the right song when you’re cruising down the road without a care in the world? In my opinion, there’s not much in the world that can make you feel more boundless. It’s something about the volume of the music in the car, the way it surrounds you, the reverberations you can feel coursing through the seats, the armrests, the steering wheel, your entire body. It’s something about the wind in your hair, and the sunshine, and the way the summer air smells. It’s definitely something about the freedom summertime brings, especially when you’re young, and especially when you’ve got wheels. Combine all these things with the right song, and it will sound as good as anything you have ever heard.

That’s what I learned at the outset of summer 2008, the first time I listened to the SafetySuit album Life Left to Go in the car. I’d gotten my driver’s license the previous summer, but this would be my first summer with my own car, and it wasn’t lost on me what that meant. That old cliché about wheels giving you wings might be overused, but it’s also accurate, because having a car unlocks so much when you’re a teenager. I didn’t know what the summer was going to bring, but I’d already made up my mind that I was going to make it count, and the freedom of having my own means of transportation was absolutely at the center of that pledge. All I needed was the right song to consecrate my vow. Enter SafetySuit.

Craig Manning 6 months ago

I have waited for tomorrow from December ‘til today, and I have started loving sorrow along the way.

“I’ll believe it exists when I’m holding it in my hands.”

For six months, I repeated those words to myself like they were a self-help mantra. I was talking about the supposedly brand-new album from Counting Crows, which was set to drop on March 25, 2008 after a long, long hiatus. The band had teased the LP the previous fall with the release of “Cowboys,” a loud, bitter, rip-roaring rocker that sounded like the reincarnated version of their 1996 cult classic Recovering the Satellites. I loved that sound and how energized it felt, but then again, I probably would have loved anything coming out of the Counting Crows camp at that point. In the moment, the band’s newest song was “Accidentally in Love,” the Oscar-nominated hit from 2004’s Shrek 2, and their newest album was 2002’s Hard Candy. They had, in other words, been away for a while.

I was convinced that I’d somehow cursed the Crows. As a kid, “Mr. Jones” was the first rock song I’d ever loved, and the band’s moody, melodic roots rock, for me, became synonymous with growing up. But I’d fallen head over heels in love with their music with the 2003 best-of collection Films About Ghosts, which recontextualized those ‘90s hits in exciting ways and unearthed a series of rich, remarkably written deep cuts – songs like the searching title track from Recovering the Satellites, the epic “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” from 1999’s This Desert Life, or the simultaneously sad and funny “Holiday in Spain” from Hard Candy – that made me realize there was probably a lot more to this band than what got played on the radio.

Craig Manning Jun 3, 2025

You know the world can see us in a way that’s different than who we are…

Look, I know what you’re thinking, but let me explain! This is the one song that, for just a couple of weeks, made me feel like a pop star.

By day, I was just another 11th grade high school student. I rolled out of bed every morning at 6am to make it to school on time for my zero-hour AP Biology block, then muddled through the rest of my classes. Most aspects of my day-to-day life felt, at best, mundane.

But in the evenings, for two weeks in November 2007, I felt like a legitimate, big-deal famous person. The stage, the spotlight, the recognizable songs, the photo in the newspaper, the “sold out” stickers on the posters, the extremely loud cheers from the audience, the autographs, the flowers and other tokens of appreciation from fans. It all added up to this little taste of how it feels for everyone to adore you, and it was intoxicating.

“Breaking Free,” for those not familiar, is the climactic song and most famous moment from High School Musical, the 2006 Disney Channel Original Movie that somehow morphed from a Friday evening special aired in the middle of January to an absolute cultural phenomenon. There had been dozens of Disney Channel Original movies before, but none of them had ever broken containment like this one did. The High School Musical soundtrack album moved 3.7 million copies in 2006 alone, becoming that year’s top-selling album. For some perspective on how big that number is, no Taylor Swift album has never had a bigger calendar year sales tally in the United States than High School Musical did in 2006.

Craig Manning May 27, 2025

I stole my first kiss underneath her summer sun, how can I leave?

It’s occurred to me in recent years that, had I been born just a couple years earlier, my music taste would likely have been entirely entirely different. Maybe I would have formed a connection with the grunge craze of the early ‘90s, or maybe I would have become infatuated with that decade’s budding indie rock scene. Instead, I came to music listening consciousness when the radio waves were ruled by brightly melodic pop-rock bands, and that has absolutely defined my musical value system ever since.

I broached this subject a little bit in the chapter about Creed, but there’s not much that’s as pure as loving music with absolutely no cynicism. I think that’s why, for most of us, the music we loved when we were young remains the defining music of our lives. As a child or a teenager, you come to songs and albums and artists with enthusiasm and curiosity, but maybe not a lot of knowledge or context. And as a result, you welcome that music into your heart, mind, and soul in a different way than you will in adulthood. I firmly believe that the greatest period in any person’s musical journey comes between “awakening” (the moment that makes you consider music more seriously and deeply than you did before) and “awareness” (the moment where you start letting other people’s opinions or narratives influence how you feel about something).

Craig Manning May 20, 2025

It felt like an earthquake when she’d shout.

It’s August 1, 2006. I’m 15 years old. I’m on vacation with my family at a secluded, off-the-beaten path vacation spot on the shores of Lake Michigan. My brother, his best friend Frank, and I have tickets to see Butch Walker play a show this evening. We’ve got a three-hour drive straight across the state ahead of us before we can walk through the doors of a sweaty, rundown club right in the heart of downtown Detroit for some loud-as-fuck rock ‘n’ roll. Oh, and it’s the hottest damn day of the year.

Such is the setup for my first-ever concert experience.

Butch Walker isn’t a household name, though I’d wager that just about everyone with a pulse has heard a song he’s written or produced. In the broader context of the music world, Butch is best known as a collaborator, and for the role he’s played in songs and records by everyone from Avril Lavigne to Weezer to Fall Out Boy to Katy Perry. In the context of my musical journey, though, Butch might be the single most important figure of all. From the moment I heard his 2004 album Letters in the winter of my eighth-grade year, nothing was ever quite the same again. Butch had this singular ability to exude not-to-be-fucked-with attitude, approachable wisecracking wit, and heart-on-the-sleeve emotion, all at the same time. To my eyes and ears, he was the coolest guy in school and the soulful poet, a guy whose tatted-up arms and long hair made it all the more surprising when he hit you with a wrenching piano ballad or a smart, insightful breakup song. Letters changed my life because it showed me how versatile songwriting could be. The songs were funny, rousing, self-deprecating, heartbreaking, and 100 percent honest, and I loved them more immediately than I’d ever loved any other music in my life.

Letters was the closest I’d ever come to hearing someone turn their diary pages into music, and that authentic realness drew me to Butch and made me a fan for life. Soon, I was delving into Butch’s back pages. There was his previous record, 2002’s Left of Self-Centered, and its crunchy, sarcastic, ultra-melodic pop-punk-leaning songs. There was his former band, Marvelous 3, who’d made candy-colored power-pop songs in the ‘90s and then pivoted to skyscraping arena rock at the dawn of the new millennium. I even dug into his live albums and b-sides, devouring every scrap of music I could get my hands on. In particular, I loved This Is Me…Justified and Stripped, an acoustic live record he’d recorded in the leadup to Letters that made him sound like the most entertaining showman on the planet. I’d never been to a rock concert in my life, but I knew very early on that seeing a Butch Walker show had to be on my bucket list.

When that opportunity came along in the summer of 2006, it was even more special than I ever could have imagined. But to explain that part of the story, I have to rewind a bit.

Craig Manning May 13, 2025

Turning to face what you’ve become, bury the ashes of someone…

I love the way it breaks the silence.

If you’ve never heard “Feeling a Moment” before, do yourself a favor and click play on that YouTube video down below, or go cue it up on your preferred streaming service. You’ll hear what I mean: a few seconds of something played backwards, and then a torrent of sound – an electric guitar strum and a wordless wail. For me, it is the sound of everything I was feeling at the start of my ninth-grade year: nerves, excitement, anticipation, self-belief and self-doubt in equal measure, and more than a little bit of fear.

Because what’s scarier than a totally new frontier? I’ve got the answer: being dropped into said new frontier in your early teens.

Craig Manning May 6, 2025

You’re packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been.

I don’t like endings or goodbyes, but I love songs about them. That’s something that will become abundantly clear as this series continues, if it’s not clear already. And there are very few songs about endings or goodbyes that matter more to me more than “Walk On,” an utterly splendid highlight from U2’s 2000 comeback album, All That You Can’t Leave Behind.

Up until 2004, almost all the music I loved had been made in my lifetime. I was drawn to the music of right now, often finding older songs or records to sound dated. I remember listening to Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. at some point and thinking it sounded positively ancient. (Sorry, Boss!) All those ‘80s synthesizers struck me as plasticky and passe, and I struggled to appreciate the songs underneath. It wasn’t just ‘80s synths that made my no-fly list either: I checked out The Beatles’ Rubber Soul around that same time, and found it to sound hopelessly old-fashioned.

In 2004, U2 became the first band to break through that barrier for me. It didn’t hurt, of course, that they were still a relevant band of the moment. They’d had massive hits in 2000 and 2001 with “Beautiful Day” and “Stuck in a Moment You Can’t Get Out Of”; in 2002, they’d played a Super Bowl halftime show – for my money, the greatest one of all time, with apologies to Prince; and they were currently enjoying a new level of omnipresence thanks to a stylish iPod commercial, featuring their new single “Vertigo,” that got played on every single ad break of every single prime time television program for approximately 3-6 months.

Craig Manning Apr 29, 2025

When you try your best, but you don’t succeed…

I don’t have any scientific way of proving this, but I’d wager that Coldplay’s “Fix You” is the most iconic and impactful stadium rock anthem of the 21st century.

Before it ever got played in a single stadium, though, “Fix You” was something else: my first-ever heartbreak song. And to get to that particular milestone in my life, we have to talk about a hilarious subject: romantic adolescent angst.

Look, I’m sure there are some people who meet their soulmates as kids or preteens and have super cute love stories from their “awkward years.” For the rest of us, though, that stretch from whenever you discover your hormones to whenever you get mature enough to handle them is an absolute cringefest. I say all this as someone who definitely thought he was “in love” in eighth grade, and who definitely made an absolute mockery out of himself in pursuit of this supposed “love story.” Better yet, it was a “love triangle,” with the girl who I had a crush on and another classmate who also swore their “love” for her.

The entire silly affair ultimately came to a conclusion on our eighth-grade class field trip, when she chose…well, not me. At the time, it felt like a massive blow: like my first real heartbreak. But as someone who’d spent that entire school year listening to songs about heartbreak, it also felt like I was joining some exclusive club. I now had the honor of knowing what all my favorite songs were talking about, and that felt important.

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 20: “The Sound of You and Me” by Yellowcard

I’ve never been more ready to move on.

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 19: “Dusk and Summer” by Dashboard Confessional

Days like that should last and last and last…

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 18: “Growing Up” by The Maine

Photograph, remembering the summer…

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 17: “Ride” by Cary Brothers

If I told you the reasons why, would you leave your life and ride?

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 16: “Go” by Boys Like Girls

Go on and take a shot, go give it all you got.

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 15: “Thunder Road” by Bruce Springsteen

Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 14: “Crashin” by Jack’s Mannequin

Even if your voice comes back again, maybe there’ll be no one listening.

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 13: “Someone Like You” by SafetySuit

Can you see me, holding you right in my arms?

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 12: “Come Around” by Counting Crows

I have waited for tomorrow from December ‘til today, and I have started loving sorrow along the way.

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 11: “Breaking Free” from High School Musical

You know the world can see us in a way that’s different than who we are…

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 10: “Truth Is” by Sister Hazel

I stole my first kiss underneath her summer sun, how can I leave?

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 9: “When Canyons Ruled the City” by Butch Walker

It felt like an earthquake when she’d shout.

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 8: “Feeling a Moment” by Feeder

Turning to face what you’ve become, bury the ashes of someone…

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 7: “Walk On” by U2

You’re packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been.

My Life In 35 Songs, Track 6: “Fix You” by Coldplay

When you try your best, but you don’t succeed…