Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you Paramore is my favorite band. I wish I had a better story for how I discovered them, but instead I’ll be honest.
The first Paramore song I heard was “That’s What You Get” and I heard it in my mom’s car on Radio Disney. Radio Disney was one of two radio stations I was allowed to listen to in 2007 (the other being our local contemporary Christian station). I’m not sure I could’ve identified the song by name or artist, but when it came on in the car, it made me feel something.
Fast forward a few months, I was at my local library after school trying to watch Twilight on YouTube without my parents finding out and again, the same band found me. This era — the 2010s(ish) — was defined by my preteen attempts to develop a personal style, solidify my sense of self and cultivate my own thoughts and opinions about the world. The Twilight soundtrack unironically, albeit chaotically, opened me up to a world of music and a community that would define the next decade (and likely the rest of my life). What followed was a flurry of summers at Warped Tour, secret trips to Hot Topic, late nights on Tumblr and a music scene that’s given me amazing friends, some cool jobs, and killer fashion sense.
It has officially been twenty years since the band’s first album, All We Know is Falling, came out and I look back with a twinge of nostalgia and feel a strong sense of pride when I think about the band that started it all for me. A group of teenagers, going through their own personal journeys of self-discovery and development, took the world by storm and I happily got swept up in the tidal wave. At the time, I was just a young punk listening to the music I connected with, but now, I think it’s really cool that a group of kids from Tennessee forced the entire world to hear what they had to say and we listened.
One of the most powerful lessons I subconsciously learned from Paramore was that as young adults, our stories have merit. A lot of people say that young voices can change the world, but I got to watch Paramore actually do that in real time. People of all ages fell in love with their music because their lyrics — their stories — spoke to emotions we could all relate to. Without even realizing, that example gave me license to do the same in my own life.
Every era and phase of my life has had a Paramore song to accompany. From singing Renegade at my elementary school talent show auditions (which tells you a lot about the vibe I had going on at age eleven), to playing “Hello Cold World” on the NYC subway at the stroke of midnight on my twenty-second birthday and every moment in between there’s been a song waiting for me to reassure me that my hopes, fears, and anxieties about the chapters to come have precedent. For every situation I get myself into, there’s a Paramore song to remind me that I’ll be able to tackle whatever lies in front of me.
Sometimes it’s the lyrics that speak to me. When I put on my hype playlist and start singing along to “Whoa,” confidently telling myself “Everybody knows that we can do this on our own,” really does give me the extra boost of confidence I need to do whatever I’m trying to gear myself up for.
Most of the time, however, it’s the music itself that gives me what I need. Whether it’s the moment when kickdrum hits and the bridge swells in Daydreaming and I feel like I’m living a life worthy of its own straight to DVD indie movie (in the best way); or the harmonies in “Hate to See Your Heart Break” that remind me that heartbreak is an unavoidable and universal part of life; or when I listen to the guitars in “Looking Up” and I feel like I can take on the world — Paramore’s music has granted me license to feel, which I think is powerful.
The general ethos of self-determination, community care, and speaking truth to power that I’ve learned from the music scene has been foundational to my praxis I carry today and the way I organize as an activist and young leader. I’ve found the influence of music to be universal, whether it’s a pop-punk band standing on stage telling people that hate has no place in our scene, an R&B singer validating your feelings of heartbreak and sadness, or a rap artist speaking truth to power about injustice in the world, everyone finds the art that speaks to their experience and makes them feel seen.
Through music, I’ve come to accept that while the human condition is a beautiful disaster, she isn’t unique. Finding community and building empathy makes life worth living, and I feel lucky to have been able to do so while curating my personal soundtrack to the story of my life.
