Growing up, my most prized possessions were my books and my music CDs. Heaven take mercy on you if you failed to return either one. A borrowed CD was a small act of trust.

Back then, music ownership meant something tactile. You could feel it in the weight of a jewel case, in the flipping through liner notes, in the faint scratches you so desperately tried to avoid.

There was even that brief mechanical pause, the soft whirr as the CD slotted into the player and spun itself to speed, just enough time to lean back and wait for the first song. Music was finite, and therefore precious; you committed and listened all the way through.

Somewhere along the way, the switch to digital happened, and my Winamp master playlist became the most important thing in my daily life. It was everything ... every new song discovered on a late night drive, every track danced to at a party, every mix CD assembled for a crush with more hope than confidence. It became an archive of moments I did not yet realize I was preserving.

Of course, this was also the era when many of us first encountered the digital temptation of Adam’s apple; the dark arts of file-sharing networks promising entire discographies in just a few clicks.

Tragedy struck in college when my hard drive raised the white flag and gave out. That reformat was a hard pill to swallow. It was a complete reinstall, taking with it an entire lifetime of sonic memories.

Recently, I found an old playlist file I had saved to an old email account. Imagine my delight as I took a walk down memory lane with the sounds of my youth.

In elementary school, a friend named Sean S. (I will withhold last names for their protection and mine) introduced me to hip-hop legends Easy-E and Warren G. Then a few weeks later he said two more special words: “Green Day.”

A few years later in Korea, an older cousin handed me a CD at a highway rest stop. I don’t remember where we were going. I only remember that drive suddenly having a soundtrack courtesy of a duo named Deux.

Another memory, this time at a CD shop in a Fullerton plaza music store, I spotted a Korean hip-hop quartet on the cover of their debut release: 1TYM. One other memorable thing happened that day: it also happened to be the last day I ever saw my father.

In high school, my friends Jessica Y. and Christine L. introduced me to Elvis Crespo and DJ Laz. Equally as important, they also taught me the valuable lesson of not showing up to a quinceanera at 5 p.m. despite what the invitation states.

My friend Abe C. convinced me that the best use of my freshly installed 10-inch subwoofers in my Acura was to play Wheesung’s debut album at tooth-rattling volumes. Deepest apologies to my neighbors.

In college, Miguel B. and I sat on his velvet sofa (!) and listened to a live DJ set in Ibiza by a young DJ named Tiesto. To this day, that beat drop at the fifteen-minute mark provides all the motivation I need for my outdoor runs.

I could go on for days listing songs and the memories they conjure. The trap, of course, is getting lost in melancholy. Nostalgia is powerful, but it can also become a closed loop. Music should never be only about the past. Every song we loved arrived because someone shared it with us. Every playlist is really a map of relationships. Someone once handed us a CD or pressed play on something we had never heard before, and now its our turn to continue that tradition. Even now, every so often, a new song attaches itself to a new place, a new memory, a new person. Evidence that the playlist is still alive.


khnews@heraldcorp.com