The Top 66

Looking at my 20 favourite songs.

So here’s the interesting thing – today is my birthday.

As loyal readers know, I put out two columns a week. Friday is the new music email. Tuesday can be… whatever my brain decides it wants to obsess over that week.

And since today is my birthday, I thought this column should be about me. Specifically, something I’ve been keeping for decades now:

The Top 66.

I’ve always loved lists. Charts. Stats. Rankings.

Honestly, I probably should’ve become a statistician, but too much ADHD (Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder) – or maybe too much ADHS (Arnprior District High School) – probably kept me from figuring that out early enough.

That’s okay though. Sitting here celebrating another year around the sun, I’m pretty happy with how things turned out.

Anyway… music.

What is The Top 66?

The Top 66 is my personal ranking of my 66 favourite songs of all time. I first started putting it together in my late teens, but the roots of it go back much further.

Back when we still got the Ottawa Citizen delivered to the house, I would pour over it every day for NHL and CFL stats. Does anyone else remember Lui Passaglia?

One Christmas holiday, I was flipping through the paper and found a full two-page spread ranking the Top 100 songs of the 1970s.

I was fascinated. At the top was “Stairway to Heaven”. I’m not even sure I had heard it yet. And a picture of the band, Led Zeppelin looked like gods.

But I remember thinking:

Well, if Chez 106 can make a list like this, then obviously nine-year-old me can too. So I did.

I think my first list had four songs on it:

“Heart of Glass”

“I Want You to Want Me”

“Does Your Mother Know”

“Boys in the Bright White Sports Car”

An absolute murderer’s row of radio favourites from a kid whose musical universe was pretty small at the time. Because here’s the thing:

I didn’t really have music in my room growing up.

My brother and I shared a bedroom, and eventually my mom let me have this crappy wooden brown radio about the size of a shoebox after I repeatedly stole it from the kitchen.

That radio became everything. As soon as I got into the room, I’d jump on my captain’s bed, roll over and turn on the radio. And every night I’d sit in the room reading, sorting hockey cards, building elaborate card houses just so I could throw Lego at them and knock them down, while listening to the radio buzz beside me.

And when a song came on that I liked, I’d write it down. That was it. That’s how this started.

At first, it was probably five songs. Then ten. Then weekly Top 30 countdowns scribbled into binders all through high school.

Some weeks I’d miss, but eventually, by my late teens, I had stacks of pages ranking songs from different years, different moods, different versions of myself. And one day I remember looking at all those binders and thinking:

What if I just combined all of them? What if I made one master list? And that’s how The Top 66 started.

Why 66?

Honestly, because anyone can have a Top 10 or a Top 100. But 66 felt right. At the time I was also deep into Depeche Mode and the song “Route 66” was floating around in my brain somewhere, so the number stuck.

And over time, it became the number. When I first built the list, I thought I was ranking the greatest songs of all time.

But I wasn’t.

What I was actually ranking were the songs that stayed with me. And over 35+ years, the list hasn’t changed nearly as much as you’d think. The order changes constantly. The songs almost never do.

When I went on a road trip around the United States in 1994, my friend Dan asked me while we were camping in Kentucky to write down my Top 66 in the front of the journal I was keeping.

I told him I’d do 30. Which I did.

Four weeks later, sitting in a Days Inn in San Francisco, he asked me to do it again. So I did.

Most of the songs were the same, but the order had shifted slightly. I was immediately chastised for changing things around. But that’s kind of the entire point. Songs move. They rise. They fall. But they almost never leave.

It didn’t matter that “I Wanna Be Adored” was #26 in Kentucky and #29 in California. What mattered was that it was still there. Still speaking to me.

And honestly, that’s how the list has always worked. Songs don’t have to be chart darlings to become yours. Sometimes you hear them in a movie. Sometimes through your sister’s bedroom door. Sometimes late at night on a bad radio buzzing beside your bed. And once they attach themselves to you, they tend to stick around.

In fact, since 2017, only one song has broken into my Top 66.

One.

I’m always hopeful there will be another. There have been close calls. But for now, the list is what it is:

Five hours of music that I know – if I put it on at a party, on a dock, or somewhere in the middle of a long road trip – is absolutely all killer, no filler.

My Top 20

The Bridge

20. Ceremony – New Order

New Order is my favourite band, but when I was a teenager, I didn’t care much for Joy Division.

I didn’t get it.

I was all-in on the synths, the indie guitars and bass, the dance beats, and the melancholy optimism of New Order. Joy Division felt darker, heavier, and harder to access. “Ceremony” became the bridge.

Originally written while Ian Curtis was still alive, the song found itself caught between two bands. Too late to become a Joy Division classic. Too early to fully sound like New Order. And that’s what makes it so fascinating.

There’s a nervous energy to Bernard Sumner‘s vocal. At times it sounds like he’s trying to sing in Curtis‘ shadow while simultaneously figuring out who he is without him. The band had every reason to stop. Instead, they carried on.

Every time I hear “Ceremony” I’m reminded that out of devastation can grow beauty. That endings aren’t always endings. Sometimes they’re beginnings disguised as losses.

Plus, those guitars are absolutely fantastic.

The One That Shouldn’t Be Here (But Is)

19. Something to Remember Me By – The Horrors

Released in August 2017 by London band The Horrors, I had no idea I was about to fall so hard for a synth-rock song from their fifth album. And frankly, this is where my whole system breaks down. Because by every measurable standard, it shouldn’t be here.

“Something to Remember Me By” wasn’t a chart hit. It didn’t define a generation. It never became a streaming giant. And yet...

It’s the only song in over a decade that forced its way into my Top 66. Not because of numbers. Because of timing. Because of how it feels. Because of what it meant when it arrived.

In 2017, I had just left a company where I had spent a significant part of my career. For the first time in decades, I didn’t have a job to go to. Like a lot of people who find themselves unexpectedly on the outside looking in, I spent a lot of time questioning my worth.

Who was I without the title? Without the office? What would people think when they thought of me?

Then I heard this:

“Now, all that’s left behind

Something to remember me by

Oh, the fear, the slow divide

Something to remember me by,

All the silent signs

Something to remember me by

Two sides, a double life

Something to remember me by, by”

Listening to this song reminds me that when you give a company a year, a decade, or even a lifetime, it is only part of who you are. There is no greater disservice you can do to yourself than believing you are not enough or not worthy. And that’s a very common feeling after being let go.

There’s no way The Horrors thought that a synth-rock song from their fifth album would help a former vice-president at an insurance company realize that everything was going to be okay.

But it did.

I love this song so much. Not because I had my first kiss to it. Not because of a live show.

But because sometimes a song arrives at exactly the right moment and just... stays.

Sometimes You Just Need Your Friends

18. All My Friends – LCD Soundsystem

I was late coming to LCD Soundsystem.

By the time I finally discovered them, a lot of my friends had already fallen in love with James Murphy‘s music. But the first time I heard “All My Friends”, I couldn’t believe someone had managed to write a song about exactly how I felt.

When Murphy sings:

“If I could see all my friends tonight...”

I get it.

And when he sings:

“I wouldn’t trade one stupid decision for another five years of life.”

That was basically every weekend of my twenties and thirties.

We’d sit down for a 10 p.m. dinner reservation, look across the table, and confidently ask:

“What are you having at Swatow tonight?”

Knowing full well that dinner was only the beginning. There would be hours of dancing, drinking, bad decisions, good decisions, and whatever adventure happened to present itself before last call. And somehow, no matter where the night took us, we’d eventually find ourselves back under the ugly fluorescent lights of our favourite Chinese restaurant.

Sweaty shirts. Sore ankles. New stories. New memories.

Every time I hear this song, I think about younger faces, easier lives, and the feeling that anything was possible.

There have been lots of great songs about friendship. I don’t think there’s ever been a better one than this.

Love Stings!

17. “Love Will Tear Us Apart” – Joy Division

We’ve already talked about Joy Division, so I’ll keep this one short.

There has never been a song that sounds happier while being sadder. Every time I hear it, I want to dance. Every time I listen to the lyrics, I wonder why.

That’s quite an accomplishment.

Sixteen

16. With or Without You – U2

A couple of months ago, Dutch wrote an excellent piece on U2 that reinforces this.

In 1987, there was nothing bigger than the band, and there was no bigger song than “With or Without You”. I was 16.

For most of that year, this was my favourite song in the world. The funny thing is that I probably played it too much. Over time, it became a bit of a forgotten favourite. Which is crazy when you think about how massive it was. For a while, it felt like this song was everywhere.

Then, years later, it came back.

In the mid-90s, “With or Without You” became Ross and Rachel‘s song on Friends. Everyone watched Friends. And suddenly all those feelings from being 16 came rushing back.

The crushes. The heartbreaks. The dances. The kisses. All those moments that feel like the most important thing in the world when you’re a teenager. U2 somehow managed to squeeze every one of those emotions into a single song.

And for a lot of us who were teenagers in the 1980s, it still feels that way.

Pretty Great

15. Today – Smashing Pumpkins

How lucky are we?

Look up from your phone, computer, or whatever device you’re reading this on and take a look around. Maybe you’re outside. Maybe you’re on a subway. Maybe you’re sitting on a dock somewhere. Just look around for a second.

How fucking lucky are we?

When Siamese Dream came out, I was 22 and living in my first apartment. I had a crappy government job. I had no money. I had no girlfriend. What exactly was so great about life?

A guy I worked with named Rob stopped by my desk one day and asked what I was doing that weekend. Nothing.

“Want to go for a drive and see the leaves change colour?”

This seemed like a ridiculous thing for one 22-year-old government employee to ask another 22-year-old government employee. I must have looked like I had just tasted sour milk because Rob immediately followed up with:

“C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

So that weekend we jumped in a car, put Siamese Dream in the tape deck, and drove 90 minutes into the hills of Renfrew County. We grabbed lunch, found a lookout, got out of the car, and just stood there.

Walls of orange, yellow, and red stretched for miles in every direction. The air was cold, but not cold enough to keep you from standing there and taking it all in.

After a few minutes, Rob finally turned to me and said:

“How fucking great is today?”

He was right. The view was great. The smell was great. The experience was great. But more importantly, he was right about today.

Because sometimes nothing special happens. Nobody falls in love. Nobody wins the lottery. Nobody gets discovered. And yet somehow, the day is still perfect. That’s what this song reminds me of.

How lucky are we?

Everybody Loves It, Well Not Everybody

14. Don’t Stop Believin’ – Journey

Just remember there was a time when you couldn’t play a song over and over and over again.

Sure, you could buy the album. Today you can stream it whenever you want. But when I was 12, there were really only two ways for a kid to hear a song:

Buy it or hope they played it on the radio. But I found a loophole. In the summer of 1982, two things happened that I remember quite clearly:

1. I became the Pakenham Beach Bubble Gum Blowing Champion.

2. I ruined “Don’t Stop Believin’” for everyone else.

There is no greater power in the world than a decent allowance, unlimited quarters, and a jukebox that contains your favourite song. I can’t remember the name of the restaurant, but I remember it had a video game and a jukebox. The video game changed from time to time. That summer it was Bagman.

The jukebox had Journey.

I’d walk in, put four quarters into the machine, and play “Don’t Stop Believin’” on repeat while sitting at the tabletop arcade game. I didn’t care. I’d play it 20 times in a row.

Like all great songs, eventually it became bigger than just me. That certainly happened when Glee turned it into a phenomenon all over again in 2010.

I wanted to hate that. I really did. But I couldn’t. I loved the song too much.

Eventually they removed Journey from the jukebox. I suspect that was easier than explaining to a 12-year-old kid that nobody else wanted to hear “Don’t Stop Believin’” 20 times in a row.

The One

13. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys

I never believed there was only one person out there for us. I’m still not sure. I’d like to think there was more than one. You know, just in case. At this stage, though, it doesn’t really matter. Because I found mine. I talk about her often. I’ll love her forever. And every single time I hear this song, I think of her.

I genuinely wish everyone was so lucky.

Falling Back in Love

12. Star Guitar – The Chemical Brothers

I was over at Max‘s house one afternoon when he played a song for me and asked me to guess who it was. I fired off names. Moby. Saint Etienne. Faithless. A few others. Eventually I gave up.

“I don’t know. Who is it?”

“The Chemical Brothers.”

WHAT?

That couldn’t be right. I had already gone through my Eurodance phase. I had already bought all the Chemical Brothers albums I needed to buy. In my mind, they were done. Not done as a band. Done for me. I’d gotten everything I was ever going to get from them. Or so I thought. And yet there I was on a Saturday afternoon falling in love with The Chemical Brothers all over again.

That’s one of the wonderful things about music. We fall out of love with bands all the time.

Eventually we crawl back to them through nostalgia. We put on the old songs and remember who we were, where we were, and how they used to make us feel. But that’s different. That’s revisiting an old relationship.

What’s rare is falling back in love because of something brand new. “Star Guitar” wasn’t a reminder of why I loved The Chemical Brothers. It is a reminder that I still could.

I’ll Follow You Anywhere

11. Wake Up – Arcade Fire

I’ve written enough about Arcade Fire and “Wake Up” this year. If you’d like more thoughts, please see the Great Canadian Song Bracket.

In 2005, Joey and I went to see Arcade Fire at the Danforth Music Hall – back when it still had seats.

For the encore, the band were playing “Wake Up”, walked off the stage, up the aisles, and right out the front door. And we followed them. The band finished the song on the sidewalk outside while hundreds of us stood there trying to process what was happening.

Often songs remind us of moments. Rarely does the band.

Growing up in a country that has produced so much incredible music, it’s easy to take it for granted. But every once in a while, a song, a show, or a memory reminds you just how lucky we’ve been.

Every time I hear “Wake Up”, I think about that night.

And sometimes I just think:

Fuck, it’s great to be Canadian.

Britpop

10. Common People – Pulp

There was a time when if you asked me what kind of music I liked, there was only one answer:

Britpop.

A lot of Britpop came and went. Some of it is iconic and will never disappear. Some of it was good enough to make the Rock Hall conversation. And then there’s “Common People”.

The anthem. The one that means everything to anyone who loved Britpop in the 1990s. Ask my wife what her favourite song is. She won’t hesitate. “Common People”.

I remember hearing it for the first time. Pulp were playing Toronto in September 1994 and the song hadn’t been released yet. When it ended, I looked over at Jane and said: “What the fuck was that?”

We both had the same look on our faces. Like we had just heard something important. The thing about “Common People” is that it didn’t feel like a song. It felt like a mirror.

Maybe it was because we grew up middle class. Maybe it was because we were twenty-somethings trying to figure out our place in the world. Maybe it was because Jarvis Cocker somehow managed to capture an entire generation in five minutes.

Whatever the reason, it wasn’t just an anthem. It was our anthem. Because when I grow up, I want to live with common people like you.

Peanut Butter and Chocolate

9. A Day in the Life – The Beatles

“A Day in the Life” is the greatest combination song ever written.

Peanut butter and chocolate. Two great things that somehow become even better together.

When I was growing up, we didn’t have much choice when it came to music. We had the radio and we had my parents’ record collection.

I also grew up on a farm. Which could be wonderful. And could also mean chores. Moving wood. Feeding pigs. Milking cows. Working in the garden. Mowing lawns. RThe best part of any day was finishing the chores and moving on to the fun.

If the weather was bad, we’d gather in the family living room to play board games, crokinole, or Rummoli while listening to records.

My dad owned every Beatles album. Nothing beat putting on Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. As a kid, I loved three songs on that record: “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”. “She’s Leaving Home”. And “A Day in the Life”.

The first two eventually faded a little. This one never did. I love the way it stitches two completely different songs together. I love the chaos of the orchestra. I love the frantic piano crash at the end. And I still have no idea what that gibberish is supposed to be.

More than anything, though, I love where it takes me. Back to that farmhouse. Back to my parents. Back to my brother and sisters. Back to the smell of that living room.

Funny how a song can do that.

It’s All Prince, Right

8. Let’s Go Crazy – Prince & the Revolution

In 1984, my musical taste was all over the map. Metal. Pop. New Wave. And then there was Prince. When Purple Rain came out, Prince was everywhere. And when “Let’s Go Crazy” came out? Holy shit. I was used to bands having at least two guitarists. Sometimes three.

One night I was watching Good Rockin’ Tonite – shout out to TDM – and jumping around the living room like an idiot because this was popular music with an actual guitar solo. At some point I turned to my sister jenn and asked:

“How many guitarists are in Prince?”

Without even looking up from what she was reading, she replied:

“It’s Prince. It’s all Prince.”

Now, she wasn’t entirely correct. Apologies to Wendy. But that wasn’t really the point.

The point was that my young brain couldn’t comprehend how one person could make that much noise. I didn’t realize at the time that the video was stitched together from scenes in Purple Rain. I thought I was watching one incredible concert performance.

How could one person sing, write, play, perform, dance, and somehow still find time to melt faces with a guitar?

I didn’t stay on the Prince bandwagon as closely as some people did. But I’ve never left Purple Rain behind. Forty-two years later, I still think it’s one of the greatest albums ever made.

And when we lost Prince, the entire world got the same reminder:

A genius. A wizard. Our Mozart.

And like a lot of people, his songs became even more precious. Especially this one.

Still Listening

7. “Midnight City” – M83

6. “Time to Pretend” – MGMT

You’re not supposed to discover new favourite bands after 30. At least that’s what we’re told.

By then you’re supposed to spend your life explaining why music was better when you were younger. And yet, between 2008 and 2011, I fell completely in love with both these songs. The funny thing is that they arrived at exactly the same time as two other life-changing events.

My son was born in 2008. My daughter followed a few years later. All of a sudden, every memory wasn’t just about me anymore. I was responsible for helping create someone else’s.

Maybe I loved these songs because they reminded me I was still capable of discovering something new. Maybe I loved them because they became the soundtrack to becoming a father. Maybe it was both.

What I do know is that I never wanted to become the guy who only talked about “back in my day.”

I never wanted my kids to like a band because I liked a band. I wanted them to find their own music. Their own books. Their own movies. Their own passions. And then tell me about them.

These songs remind me that growing older doesn’t mean you stop discovering things. If you’re lucky, it just means you get someone new to share them with.

Silence

5. Let Down – Radiohead

I used to have a love-hate relationship with OK Computer. But I always loved “Let Down”. It wasn’t released as a single, but The Edge played it constantly during the summer of 1997.

For years it found its way onto every mixed tape. Then every mixed CD. It’s the perfect headphone song. The production is extraordinary. Guitars fighting for space in each ear. Thom Yorke‘s voice floating through the middle. Every listen revealing something new.

Twenty years after it was released, I went completely deaf in my right ear. Just a virus.

One day there was hearing. The next day there wasn’t. There was tinnitus. There was ringing. There was silence.

I was in my 40s. I had just installed a surround-sound system in my basement. I hadn’t even watched a football game on it yet.

For months, I couldn’t bring myself to put on headphones. What was the point? Eventually, I did.

The song was “Let Down”. And I cried.

I cried because I suddenly understood that I would never hear this song the way I used to. No more duelling guitars. No more sounds moving across the room. No more stereo. Just one side of a conversation.

When your world is stereo and suddenly becomes mono, that’s life. I still listen to “Let Down” on headphones sometimes. Usually when I need a good cry. It’s a reminder that not everything lasts forever. And that sometimes you don’t realize how beautiful something is until it’s gone.

All I Ever Wanted

4. Enjoy the Silence – Depeche Mode

What happens when your favourite band in the world releases what you believe is its last great song?

That’s what I thought “Enjoy the Silence” was. To be fair, that’s not entirely true. I’ve liked plenty of Depeche Mode songs since 1990.

But something happened in the early 1990s. I had two favourite bands. New Order seemed finished. When I saw them live in 1993, it felt like a celebration of a remarkable career.

Depeche Mode, on the other hand, refused to stop. When I saw them live in 1993, it was mostly stuff from the 90s – what? And they kept making records. They kept changing. They kept pushing forward. And I wasn’t always on board. In my mind, the story was supposed to be over. The 1980s had ended. The masterpiece had been written. The curtain should come down. Take a bow and leave through the back door.

Job well done. Instead, they kept evolving. And if I’m being honest, I resented them for it. The new songs didn’t sound like the old songs. How dare they change? I hadn’t changed. We were supposed to be in this together.

That’s the crazy thing about bands. We love them on our terms, not theirs. We decide when their golden era ended. We decide which albums matter. We decide what they should sound like. And then we get upset when they disagree.

For years, I thought I had my Depeche Mode ending. It was “Enjoy the Silence”. The last great song. The perfect goodbye.

Then, more than 30 years later, along came “Ghosts Again”. And suddenly I realized the story hadn’t belonged to me all along. It belonged to them. Music has a funny way of doing that. You spend years believing a song is yours. Only to discover it was always ours.

Desert Island Pick

3. The Whole of the Moon – The Waterboys

I used to love The Late Show with Stephen Colbert and one of my favourite segments was the Colbert Questionnaire. Fifteen questions designed to reveal who someone really is. One of them was:

If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Most people would probably assume the answer should be my number one song. It isn’t. If I could only listen to one song for the rest of my life, it would be “The Whole of the Moon”.

And there isn’t a close second...

I first heard it on a mixed tape somebody left behind after one of my sister’s parties. No tape case. No song list. No clues. Just music. I knew a couple of the songs.

“Rain” by The Cult.

“It’s Tricky” by Run-D.M.C.

But there were two songs on that tape that stopped me in my tracks. I had no idea who performed either one. I played that tape constantly. One day I was driving somewhere and a guy riding with me mentioned how much he loved the song.

“Who is this?” I immediately asked.

He looked confused. It was my car. My tape. How could I not know? “The Waterboys,” he replied. A love affair was born. Not with the rando. With the band.

A Pagan Place – the other song was “Church Not Made with Hands”. This is the Sea. Fisherman’s Blues. I loved The Waterboys. And if my friends didn’t. I fucking made them love them.

I kept a tape in the VCR constantly so that I could record videos if anything great came on. Once I recorded “The Whole of the Moon”, I watched it constantly. I loved Mike Scott. I loved the band. I loved the haircut on the backup singer.

I’ve listened to it eight times in a row while writing this and I may keep listening to it once I finish this sentence. I first heard it 40 years ago and listening to it now, it feels as fresh as it ever has. The song is perfect. I will never get sick of it.

This is my desert island pick and there is no second choice.

I Can’t Change

2. Bitter Sweet Symphony – The Verve

When a band you love changes in exactly the right way. That’s what happened with The Verve.

When I first heard “Blue” and “Slide Away,” I was interested. When A Northern Soul arrived with “History” and “On Your Own,” I was all in.

Jane loved them. Max loved them. Thousands of others loved them too. But none of us had any idea what was coming.

1997 was ridiculous. Radiohead. Texas. Biggie. And then Urban Hymns. At the centre of it all was “Bitter Sweet Symphony”.

A perfect collision of Britpop, orchestration, indie guitars, and ambition. The first time I heard it, it shook me. Not because it sounded like every other Britpop song. Because it didn’t. It sounded bigger. Like the genre had suddenly grown up.

At the time, we were convinced Britpop had beaten grunge. Outlasted it. Won some imaginary battle. God, we were ridiculous. But we were rewarded with a perfect song. What I’ve come to appreciate most over the years isn’t the string loop or the production. It’s the desperation.

“I can change.”

It’s the promise people make when they feel something slipping away. A relationship. A friendship. A version of themselves. It’s the plea of someone who desperately wants another chance. And the reason it hurts is because deep down, we’re not sure if it’s true.

Can people really change? I used to think the answer was no. Now I think the answer is yes. Just not as quickly as we’d like.

That’s probably why I end every new music email the same way:

It’s never too early to tell someone you love them.

Which is my way of saying – Smoke ‘em if you got them. Remember you are a million different people from one day to the next.

Because maybe Richard Ashcroft was right. Maybe we can change after all.

The One

1. Bizarre Love Triangle – New Order

The funny thing is that when Brotherhood came out, “Bizarre Love Triangle” wasn’t even my favourite song on the album.

Then Substance came out. Then the remixes. Then the version on the Married to the Mob soundtrack. Then the 1994 version. I loved every single one of them.

I remember playing tennis with Dan in the summer of 1987. After a match, we drove my girlfriend home. I was taking too long saying goodbye at the door. Dan was getting impatient. Suddenly I heard “Bizarre Love Triangle” blasting from behind me. I turned around just in time to see my 15-year-old friend driving away in my car.

The girl looked at me and asked:

“Did he just leave you here?”

In my best John Hughes movie voice I replied:

“I guess he did.”

I was fully expecting an invitation inside. Instead, she smiled and said:

“Well, goodnight.”

Then she closed the door.

I walked back down the driveway like a puppy that had just been scolded, waiting for my non-licensed friend to return with my car. Eventually he did. He didn’t even offer to get out of the driver’s seat. He just rewound “Bizarre Love Triangle” and drove us home.

Fuck, we played that song constantly. Every version. Every remix. Every chance we got. It was my anthem. It was my mantra. And after 35 years of maintaining this list, I get it. I wish my favourite song was something more profound.

Something Dylan. Maybe Joni. I love both of them.

But I’m Gen X. We were left to figure a lot of things out for ourselves. And somehow, through every version of me that has existed over the last four decades, no song stayed with me longer than “Bizarre Love Triangle”.

That’s why it’s number one.

Except for the Frente version.

Fuck that shit.

Conclusion

This column isn’t really about music. It’s about bookmarks in time.

Each song represents a moment that turned out to mean more than I realized at the time. Music has always been around me. It’s probably always been around you too. That’s likely why you’re still reading.

The funny thing about life is that when you look back, you don’t remember everything. You remember snippets.

A drive through Renfrew County.

A mixed tape.

A jukebox.

A dance floor.

A first apartment.

A friend.

A song.

On my birthday, I find myself thinking about my dad. I remember his 50th birthday. I’m older than that now. Did he think about music the way I do? Probably not. But there was always music in the house.

My dad is still alive. But he’s not really around anymore. I can’t talk to him about this stuff. And if I tried, he’d probably just smile and nod. Sometimes I’ll play songs for him. There’s still a sparkle there. I’m not entirely sure why. Neither is he.

He doesn’t know who I am anymore. He’s just happy there’s a new face sitting with him at lunch.

Whatever your favourite song is, I hope it reminds you of something. A person. A place. A moment. Anything. Because that’s what these songs have become for me.

And because Ferris Bueller was right.

Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.