This Song Changed My Life is an independent music publication featuring weekly essays from people all around the world about the songs that mean the most to them. Created (and illustrated) by Grace Lilly.
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• 4 min read •
There are some pieces of art that underscore the key moments of our lives. They are so rooted to our identity that it is as if they are attached to us by the spine — growing and moving as we do. “Dream House,” the first song off of Deafheaven’s 2013 album Sunbather, is one that accompanies me.
The album art for it is striking: a bright pink gradient with white lettering. It was designed to emulate the experience of closing your eyes and looking toward the sun.
⁂
I opened my eyes. I stood in a blindingly white-lit kitchen. I tried to look nonchalant gathered in a circle with other college kids. Vladimir vodka was being poured into every vessel that could be found. Mine was poured into a Tupperware, the red lid removed. It tasted exactly like rubbing alcohol smells. It was my first shot. I was 19 — a late bloomer.
Later, someone passed out in the middle of that crowded kitchen. The others rolled him under a card-table and kept partying. It scared me.
In the living room, I sat on the floor and watched a young couple play patient songs. There was a strange dichotomy between the chaos of the kitchen — its light spilling through the open doorway — and the soft music in the living room. I decided that I wanted to play music in a room like this one day. I closed my eyes and listened.
⁂
I opened my eyes. I was tired, staring at my laptop — its screen illuminating my face. It coldly stared back at me. I glanced at the clock on the screen, forgetting when I began working. A jab of dread hit my stomach as I knew I had many more hours ahead of me.
I thought of the tickets my girlfriend and I purchased for a music festival in New York City. I searched for the poster and scanned the names. I typed “Deafheaven” into my computer’s browser. I was impressed by the album artwork.
My girlfriend knocked on the door. She said she was going to hang out with a new friend. It was a guy. She asked if that was okay. I said of course. I returned to my desk.
I pressed play. Guitars washed over me. The song exploded. Beautiful chords crashed into muscular drums. The vocalist, barely audible over the noise, screamed:
Fantasizing the sight of Manhattan
⁂
I opened my eyes. The car’s headlights in the opposite lane brightened the interior of mine as I drove through a wooded highway.
I broke up with my girlfriend. I was failing at my job. I couldn’t tell where my hangover ended and where the vibrating of the car’s wheels against asphalt began. I didn’t know what to do. I cried on the way home.
The speakers blared, and then — a brief reprieve. Singular guitar notes echoed in the darkness as black trees arched over me.
⁂
I opened my eyes. The afternoon’s light draped over my hands and the white notebook paper in front of me. It glowed with a half-finished illustration of a row home.
I knew that this image was going to represent me. It reminded me of the stories in the few songs I had written — small domestic observations that felt gargantuan in my life.
Something about the moment allowed me to acknowledge that “home” could be defined as more than one place.
I put my notebook in my backpack and turned off the lights of the studio.
⁂
I opened my eyes. I stood on the roof of my apartment in Brooklyn with my fiancée, overlooking the lights of Manhattan. The city was quiet as sickness hung in the air.
⁂
I was shoved in the side — my eyes closed tight. The morning sun drenched the crowd. I jumped and screamed. I pushed and pulled from all directions at once. Paper flew in the air like confetti. I raised my hands to the sky as Deafheaven orchestrated us from the stage above. I let my weight go and swirled in the mass of bodies.
The set finished. I was out of breath. As I came to, I realized that my backpack had been pulled open in the mayhem. All of my belongings were gone. My notebook full of drawings of houses, poetry, and journal entries from the last two years had vanished. I went back to the stage but couldn’t find any scraps. I gave them to the performance — and to the day.
⁂
I opened my eyes. I put my guitar down and looked over at the crowd of friends and acquaintances sitting on the floor of my living room — their gaze loud. They clapped as I thanked them and took a swig from my beer.
Hours passed. Numb and drunk, I staggered to the laptop connected to the sound system. I searched for “Dream House” and hit play.
I thrashed around the room alone. I felt every beat of the three palm-muted chords at the climax of the song. They beat me into the floor.
I whisper-screamed the final refrain:
I am dying
Is it blissful?
It’s like a dream
I want to dream with you
— my eyes shut the entire time. ◆
About Billy
Billy Gartrell is a musician and designer based in Brooklyn, New York. He is the guitarist and singer for the punk- and folk-tinged band Worries, as well as the guitarist for the introspective indie group Volena. Billy has been spending his free time releasing records on his new record label, Nothing to Exist.
Website billygartrell.com
Instagram @billygartrell
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Categories
Friendship • Family • Coming of Age • Romance • Grief • Spirituality & Religion • Personal Development
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