On March 25, 2017, I was sitting on UNC Asheville’s quad with my friends. We were eighth graders, on campus for our Science Olympiad competition and killing time between events. I don’t remember what tests I took or rockets I launched or medals I did or didn’t earn. I do, however, remember one thing: Jake McKelvie.
There happened to be a concert series on the same stretch of grass where I sat. I remarked how awful all the acts had been. But then, miraculously, I actually liked the music coming from the portable stage. The singer’s words flowed in an endless, unpredictable stream of consciousness. I cared more about what he had to say than whatever my friends were discussing. I strained to catch his name, and later that night I went to sleep listening to his discography. Eight years later, I’m still hooked.
McKelvie has the perfect mix of catchy electric guitar riffs set against compelling lyrics. Half the time, I have no idea what he’s talking about. I genuinely think he sometimes picks two words that rhyme and fills in the blanks however he sees fit, with no regard for reason. But, McKelvie always paints a vivid picture, even if it tends to be bizarre. In “Coffee or Soda,” he sings:
“Then how do you get to the point where you sit on a couch with a cleaver but you chew off your wrists? I’m a born hide-and-seeker, an old worn out sneaker, a mandatory middle school assembly guest speaker.”
The fun is in finding your own meaning, like staring at a Jackson Pollock painting until something clicks. For instance, last semester I went to Baltimore with my family for a wedding. Upon my return to the Raleigh-Durham International Airport, I was deeply melancholic. I had a great time, and then I felt lifeless. When I got in my car, Jake McKelvie’s “Why So Sad” greeted me, asking and answering my own nagging question. Even without actually tackling post-family-vacation blues, it made me feel understood.
Even though I love McKelvie, I try to evade the dreaded “So, who’s your favorite artist?”
“You wouldn’t know him,” I say, sounding pretentious.
This is partially because I’m afraid I’ll wake up one day and realize my favorite songs have actually been car honking and explosion sounds on repeat. But mainly, it’d feel like recommending someone read my diary. Would anyone who isn’t me get it?
Most of my music taste comes from my mom’s Pandora or my friends’ suggestions or my brother’s “Chill” playlist with Pepe the Frog on the cover. McKelvie, however, is someone I discovered wholly on my own — and with fate’s guiding hand, if that’s something you believe in.
