The Soundtrack of Crisis: How Music Responds When Society Falls Apart

 Every major crisis seems to come with its own soundtrack. When Society feels unstable due to political unrest, economic turmoil, or global health scares like COVID, music tends to shift along with people's emotions. Log after headlines fade, the songs tied to these moments remain because music helps people process what living through a crisis actually feels like. 

For example, during the COVID-19 pandemic, artists released deeply personal, stripped-down songs that reflected isolation and anxiety. Taylor Swift's folklore and evermore albums leaned into quiet storytelling and emotional vulnerability, mirroring the slower, more reflective life of lockdown. Similarly, Billie Eilish's "Everything I wanted" captured feelings of exhaustion and emotional overwhelm that resonated with so many during this time.

After the 2008 financial collapse, artists across genres started writing about recession, frustration and disillusionment. Neil Young's "Fork in the Road" and "Cough Up the Bucks" directly addressed bailouts and economic inequality. In hip-hop, Young Jeezy's "The Recession" focused on everyday financial pressure rather than flashy wealth. The music often sounded rough, repetitive, or stripped-down, and it wasn't accidental. Polished and shiny music can feel disingenuous. 

What's interesting is that a crisis usually splits into two directions. There is protest and confrontation. Songs like Childish Gambino's "This Is America" channel anger and demand attention. On the other hand, there is escapism. During hard times, upbeat pop and dance music often dominates. Like Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" during the recession or Dua Lipa's "Levitating" during the pandemic. This song often ignores reality, offering the listener relief. 

Critics like Theodor Adorno would point out that even protest music is consumed by commercial systems. Songs that feel rebellious still get streamed, branded, and sold. Resistance, in his view, just becomes another product. And although it doesn't make the music meaningless, it does complicate how radical it really is. 

Today's crises, political unrest, pandemics, climate change—the list goes on—have and will continue to produce soundtracks. Protest songs go viral on TikTok, nostalgic hits resurface for comfort, and high-energy pop thrives alongside personal bedroom recordings. The platforms have changed, but the purpose hasn't. 

Music doesn't fix a crisis. But it captures what it feels like to live through them. 

If protest songs are streamed, monetized, and promoted by he same system they critique, can they still be considered acts of resistance? 

The Masked Message of 'Pumped Up Kicks'

 

When I read Sellnow’s description of incongruity, the tune that instantly came to mind was the mystically boppy “Pumped Up Kicks” by Foster the People. The song was the debut single for the Los Angeles indie band and spent eight consecutive weeks at No. 3 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 2011. Its light, snappy, airy beat had folks of all ages dancing or at least tapping their feet, and whistling along with the whistling parts. Oh yes, there are catchy whistling parts, too.

Then there’s this: The song is about a homicidal youth dreaming of pulling off a mass shooting.

“Robert’s got a quick hand …

“He’s coming for you, yeah, he’s coming for you …

“Better run, better run, faster than my bullet.”

More than a decade later, my wife was blissfully unaware of the lyrics and what they convey, though she’d been caught up in the groove numerous times. She’s certainly not alone. It’s one of those songs that Sellnow described: music and lyrics that “contradict one another, which tends to alter the meaning that would have been conveyed via either lyrics or music alone.” I’m guessing thousands—maybe more—got caught up the beat of “Pumped Up Kicks,” sang, hummed, and whistled along, and maybe assumed the song was about sneakers.

In a rhetorical analysis, the meaning here is undeniably tragic. Robert, the main character, is alienated and harboring violent fantasies of killing. While it’s not overtly stated, the implication is he’s contemplating a school shooting with his father’s gun. The song was released a little more than a decade after the Columbine High School massacre in Colorado and one year before the Sandy Hill Elementary shooting in Connecticut, to name just two of the too-many such tragic occurrences in recent years.

Robert is not about to beat the odds, per Sellnow’s comic interpretation. This is the tragic virtual experience of a teen on the brink of hopelessness and deadly self-destruction. This meaning is situated within what Sellnow calls “dramatic illusion.” The song looks ahead to an unresolved future, where the signs point to an ominous ending.

When tragic, dramatic illusion is housed incongruently in an upbeat, intensity-driven musical pattern, Sellnow says a few things can happen: “Listener appeal can be broadened, meaning can be misinterpreted, persuasive appeal can be strengthened, and meaning can be altered.”

What’s your take on the impact of those dynamics in “Pumped Up Kicks?” Did anyone else (in addition to my wife) miss the meaning entirely? Did the groove of the tune alter your feeling about the message?

Writer and producer Mark Foster told USA Today in 2011 that the song in no way condones violence, but rather serves as “an amazing platform to have a conversation with your kids about something that shouldn’t be ignored … to talk about it in a loving way.”

Rhetorically, I find an undeniable parallel between the way a dark message is housed within a snappy beat in “Pumped Up Kicks” and the way youth violence so often goes unseen in a culture where we might be led to believe young people are just fine. The incongruity of the song hides its despair, and provides commentary about a real-life darkness that may live beneath society’s surface layer.

Congratulations, You’ve Discovered the Same Song Again

Every Monday morning, Spotify gifts its users a fresh Discover Weekly playlist, promising new music tailored precisely to our tastes. It feels intimate, almost magical—like Spotify knows us. After all, the playlist has our favorite genres, familiar artists, and songs that sound just close enough to what we already love. But that’s precisely the problem.

What Discover Weekly offers is not discovery so much as repetition disguised as novelty. And long before algorithms existed, Theodor Adorno warned us this would happen.

Adorno argued that popular music is built on standardization: songs follow predictable structures, harmonic progressions, rhythms, and emotional arcs. What changes are surface-level details—different voices, slightly altered melodies, new production effects. These minor differences create the illusion of individuality while the underlying framework remains the same. Spotify’s algorithm thrives on this exact logic.

Discover Weekly does not challenge listeners; it comforts them. The algorithm learns what you already like and feeds you more songs that fit neatly into those same sonic patterns. The playlist may introduce “new” artists, but they sound uncannily familiar. As Adorno would put it, the music has already been “pre-digested.” The listening is done for us.

Spotify frames this experience as personalization—your unique taste, your curated playlist. But Adorno would call this pseudo-individualization: the illusion of choice within a system that limits what options are actually available. You feel like an active participant when in reality you’re moving within tightly controlled boundaries. You can skip a song, save a track, or ignore the playlist altogether—but everything offered still conforms to the same musical logic.

This system also shapes how we listen. Discover Weekly is designed for passive consumption: background music for work, driving, or scrolling. Like Adorno’s description of popular music as a form of leisure-time distraction, the playlist fills silence without demanding attention. It keeps us entertained while ensuring we don’t listen too closely—or think too critically—about what we’re hearing.

What’s most striking is how Discover Weekly redefines “discovery.” True discovery involves risk: encountering sounds that feel unfamiliar, uncomfortable, or even boring at first. Spotify’s algorithm avoids this entirely. Songs that deviate too far from your established preferences are filtered out, reinforcing what Adorno feared most—a culture that discourages difference while pretending to celebrate it.

In this way, Discover Weekly doesn’t just reflect our tastes; it trains them. The more we listen, the narrower the algorithm’s understanding of what we want becomes. We are rewarded for sameness and gently steered away from anything that might disrupt the flow.

Adorno believed popular music functioned as a kind of social glue, keeping listeners content within existing systems rather than pushing them to question them. Spotify’s Discover Weekly does the same—only now the culture industry doesn’t need record executives or radio programmers. The algorithm handles it quietly, efficiently, and with a friendly green interface.

So the next time Spotify tells you it’s found the perfect song for you, it might be worth asking: is this discovery—or just another echo?

Shrek Made Me Cry

    

    

“But we all learn, but we all learn. An ogre always hides.

An ogre's fate is known. An ogre always stays. In the dark and all alone”    

    Shrek is a well known and loved movie from 2001. It is funny and charming showing a so-called big and ugly ogre getting a happy ending. The movie alone already breaks stereotypes with its story line. The beloved movie was then made into a musical in 2008 and was performed on Broadway. The musical rendition of this movie brought a new level of depth to the story as the characters sang songs that portrayed their feelings in their hearts. My favorite song from the musical is called “Who I’d Be” sung by the character Shrek. 

    In this scene, Donkey, Shrek’s new found friend, asks Shrek who he would be if he could choose. Shrek reluctantly answers at first in song form but then is swept away in his dreams of who he would be if he could choose. In the beginning of the song the individual playing the part of Shrek starts off soft spoken, sharing dreams of being a hero or viking. As if saying the words out loud feels funny. The accompaniment is also light and delicate sounds like a dream is being built.     

    In the next section of the song, the music builds. As if Shrek is being carried away in his dream and can’t help but continue to explain how he feels. He explains the scenery he would be enjoying if he were a viking and how much fun it would be. At the end of this line the accompaniment falls, and Shrek says the last line of the verse as if in conclusion. He even looks at Donkey and pats him on the shoulder and starts to walk away as if to say ‘okay there’s my answer now I am done.’ 

    So far, each thing that I have described about this song can be known as the “nondiscursive symbols” (Sellnow, pg. 169). Sellnow explains nondiscursive symbols as “symbols beyond the realm of words and numbers that humans use to create meaning. For rhetoricians. These symbols range from nonverbal body language and tone of voice cues accompanying words in a speech to musical sounds and visual images.” (Sellnow, Pg. 169). In musicals it is a lot easier to use nondiscursive symbols because of the performance aspect but even if you weren’t watching the video of this performance and simply listening to the song you can still pick out these symbols. The tone of how Shrek says words brings emotion and meaning into the listeners hearts and mind. Especially as the song goes on.

    After the last line of the first verse when he seems to be done talking about his dreams, Shrek turns around and starts to dream more. This time it is not just about being the typical dream of being a hero, this time he talks of being a poet. He talks about rewriting “the story.” It is easy to guess that he is talking about his story but he is also talking about the story of his world. He would write it so that there would not be prejudices against him because of how he looks. In this verse the music is strong and powerful but at the end it falls again back to soft and timid and Shrek states, “But we all learn, but we all learn. An ogre always hides. An ogre's fate is known. An ogre always stays. In the dark and all alone” (James & Breaker, 2008). This is a sad part of the song because Shrek is realizing he cannot change the world. The bitterness of his reality hits him, but even facing this reality, he holds the last note out nice and strong as the music builds again. He goes back to his dream. It is still his hope and his wish for the world to change. 

    There is one moment in particular where the nondiscursive symbols are very strong. He states, “So yes, I'd be a hero, and if my wish was granted. Life would be enchanted, or so the stories say. Of course I'd be a hero, and I would scale a tower. To save a hot-house flower, and carry her away. But standing guard would be a beast, I'd somehow overwhelm it. I'd get the girl, I'd take a breath, and I'd remove my helmet” (James & Breaker, 2008). After he says the line of taking off his helmet, the music stops suddenly. The audience's mind is turned back to earlier in the play when Shrek took off his helmet and the princess Fiona was disappointed to find him to be an ogre. The audience wonders if he is going to give up right then and there and be crushed back into reality. But then he goes on and states that they would fall in love and get their happily ever after. The song goes on and ends on the line “that’s how it should be” (James & Breaker, 2008). Shrek feels that is how the world should be. He has a dream of what the world should be.

    This song seems to be an oxymoron because it seems to be ‘comic’ and ‘tragic.’ Sellnow describes these terms as “Comic lyrics focus on the protagonist's determination to beat the odds … Tragic lyrics focus on the protagonist's self-consummation, sense of hopelessness, and attempt to cope with fate” (Sellnow, pg. 175). It seems that Shrek wants to beat the odds but it is more of a dream than a determination to beat the odds. He ends saying it should be that way, things should be different, but does not plan to take any actions to change his circumstances so that's where the song becomes tragic. He is stuck in his fate. 

    What are other songs you can think of that seem

to be an oxymoron because they are both comic and tragic?

Does Music Help Us Feel, or Stop Us From Thinking?

Do you ever listen to a song and look out the car window, emotional, like you are in a music video? Do you have certain songs you know will make you sad the moment they start playing? Or do you have a couple of songs that instantly put you in a good mood? I would say yes to all of the above. I have playlists for every mood. I have a playlist called "the feels" that I rarely listen to, because all of the songs are sad, and it makes me emotional or makes me think about sad things I do not want to think about. I have a "Good Life" playlist that I listen to almost every day. It is full of songs that make me happy and make me feel like life is great. I have a workout playlist that gets me hyped up and pumped to get a lift in. I love music, and I love the way it makes me feel. I genuinely think music helps me be more in tune with my emotions and even amplifies them. 

Why does music feel so powerful? Media Scholar Deanna Sellnow argues that the emotional power of music is not accidental, but the entire point of music. In her Illusion of Life Theory, she explains that music plays as a nondiscursive rhetoric. It persuades us without using words or logic. Music represents our emotions by "sounding the way feelings feel". Music can mirror emotions like tension, excitement, sadness, and relief. It does this through the fast tempos, changing volumes, and slower moments. The lyrics in songs give listeners a virtual experience where they have a shared emotional story they can connect with. Rather than music shutting down our thoughts, it helps us to better understand our emotions. Music gives meaning to feelings that are hard to describe and articulate.

The same emotional power that Sellnow sees as powerful is what Theodor Adorno sees as problematic. Adorno argues that popular music is very standardized and designed to encourage passive listening rather than critical thought. In some ways, I do understand this perspective. While scrolling TikTok I often see videos with popular bits of songs. Everyone remembers the catchy, short pieces of a song and only reacts to a portion of the original work. TikTok encourages you to keep scrolling, never fully settling on one video, always looking for the next quick hit of entertainment or emotion. In this way, music becomes background stimulation rather than something we actively think about, reinforcing Adorno’s concern that popular music prioritizes feeling over reflection.

I think I find myself with a mix of both perspectives. Sometimes I feel like I am intentionally listening to music and it is helping me to understand my emotions. Other times I do find myself playing music passively, not wanting to think about anything and distracting myself from deeper thoughts. Is the music you listen to helping you feel more in tune with yourself, or is it just filling the silence?

Born In The USA

    One of my absolute favorite times of the year is the Fourth of July. There’s something about celebrating this country, barbecues, and parades that brings a smile to my face. Some of us enjoy it for the social aspect and for celebrating the freedoms we have. Others celebrate and remember all of the men and women who fought, or continue to fight, for those freedoms. It truly is one of my favorite days.

    One of my routines as we get closer to Independence Day is falling back on the many different patriotic songs that resurface that time of year. A couple of my favorites include Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue, Living in America, and many more. One of my all-time favorites is Bruce Springsteen’s powerful anthem, Born in the U.S.A. Growing up, this song was played constantly in July. The radio played it, TV commercials used it in the background—it was everywhere.

    Even to this day, I associate this song with Independence Day. What could be more American and patriotic than this song? While in high school, we had the chance to pick one of our favorite songs and break it down. The goal was to really figure out why we enjoyed it. Was it the lyrics? Was it the feeling we had when the chorus hit? Or did we simply like it because everyone else liked it?

    I thought I knew exactly why I enjoyed this song. It was because I loved America, and I loved the Fourth of July. I thought I had this assignment nailed down—that is, until I decided to look up the lyrics. Man, was I wrong. I couldn’t believe I had spent my life thinking this song was purely patriotic when it actually critiqued how America treated working-class Vietnam veterans. It highlights the struggles these veterans faced after the war, focusing on economic hardships and unemployment challenges.

    After wrestling with that realization, I was left questioning myself about why I loved this song so much. Why did I like it? What drew me to it? Sellnow discusses the importance of being a critic and identifying the virtual experience (lyrics) and virtual time (music) of each song. After breaking down Born in the U.S.A., I quickly categorized it as an incongruent interaction, meaning that “the emotional meanings of the music and lyrics contradict one another, which tends to alter the meaning that would have been conveyed via either lyrics or music alone”(Sellnow, 176). The upbeat and catchy feel of the song disguises the true meaning behind the lyrics. All this time, what I thought was a feel-good, patriotic song fit for a fireworks display playlist turned out to be something completely different.

    Why did Bruce Springsteen write the song in this way? Was it in hopes of being heard? Is it possible to argue that messages in songs with incongruent interaction become isolated simply because they are overlooked? Was Bruce writing this song in a satirical way, or was he afraid of the potential backlash he would receive?

Why Every Pop Song Feels Like Déjà Vu (And Why Our Brains Secretly Love It)

     Last week, I was driving home, flipping through radio stations, and I had one of those moments where I genuinely wondered if I was losing my mind. Every channel sounded exactly the same: Katy Perry, then Lady Gaga, then suddenly Justin Bieber, and then Lady Gaga again. Three different artists, but the chord progression, the production style, the vocal inflection it was all one track. Like they’re living in the same sonic neighborhood. Why? Because pop music is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do. Scientists call it the mere exposure effect, and it can make a song feel like déjà vu without anyone noticing.

    Pop artists like Madonna and Lady Gaga make this pattern even clearer. When you listen to their songs side by side, the similarities in production, melody, and vocal styling are impossible to miss, not because one is copying the other, but because pop music builds on familiar sonic blueprints. Critics love to argue about imitation, but John Fiske would say the real power lies in how audiences interpret these echoes. We use these recurring sounds as resources to make meaning, connect eras, and locate ourselves in pop culture’s ongoing remix. Instead of treating a song as an original, untouchable artifact, listeners reshape it through memory, comparison, and cultural context. Which raises the bigger question: what meanings are we creating when we hear Madonna and Lady Gaga sounding so alike, and what does that reveal about how we understand pop music’s constant recycling.

    Adorno would probably say, “Exactly.” In On Popular Music, he argues that pop songs are standardized  predictable structures with tiny variations. When you listen to Vanilla Ice next to Queen, or watch the “Most Used Melody in Pop Music” video, it’s hard not to hear his point. Pop music repeats itself because repetition sells.

Most Used Melody in Pop Music

    Bermingham’s Remix Manifesto gives the conversation a different angle. Instead of seeing repetition as laziness, he sees it as cultural lineage. Music evolves by borrowing, sampling, and reimagining. Gaga channeling Madonna isn’t theft, it’s genealogy. It’s the musical version of “we come from somewhere.”

    Then Hadju steps in with the science: our brains love patterns. That déjà vu moment in my car? That was my brain lighting up because it recognized a structure before I consciously did. Familiarity feels good. It feels catchy. It feels safe. Songs like “One Day,” “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” and “Blowin’ in the Wind” show how powerful familiar musical structures can be when they’re used to carry political messages. These songs aren’t musically complicated, they rely on simple chords, steady rhythms, and repetition. That simplicity is exactly what makes them effective. The listener already knows how to feel before the lyrics even land, which gives the message more room to resonate. Meanwhile, tracks like “Let It Be,” “Free Fallin’,” and “Only the Lonely” lean into repetition to create comfort and nostalgia, proving that emotional impact doesn’t require musical complexity. And then there’s “Seven Nation Army,” which has basically become a global chant; its riff is so recognizable and so easy to latch onto that it transformed from a rock song into a cultural anthem. Together, these examples show that repetition isn’t just a pop music trick, it’s a tool artists across genres use to make their messages unforgettable.

    So yes, a lot of pop music sounds the same. But that sameness is doing cultural work. It persuades, soothes, motivates, and unifies. It keeps us connected to older sounds while remixing them into something new. And it reminds us that music isn’t just entertainment, it’s a language our brains are wired to understand.

The big question is, if pop music keeps repeating itself because we respond to what feels familiar, what does that say about the kind of listeners we’ve become, and the kind of music we’re shaping in return ?