The first year that I actually gave a crap about music was 2004. Up until that point, I enjoyed whatever the radio played and whatever albums ended up in my house, but I didn't give it much of a second thought. Then, as a dual consequence of getting older, and rock radio going on a stunning decline that it still hasn't even begun to recover from, I began to seek out music on my own. Tom Petty was the first artist I got into, R.E.M. and The White Stripes followed. Then, in October 2004, as I was just beginning high school, dealing with the myriad of obvious problems that go along with that, I discovered The Replacements. On a trip to Media Play to buy R.E.M.'s Around The Sun (which proved to be the worst album they ever made), I picked up Tim on a whim, and to use an especially labored cliche, things were never the same.

Just like every teenager, I found that one album that spoke to me like nothing else before. Paul Westerberg's problems seemed like my problems, and that made them a lot easier to deal with. The things that used to just make me feel sad, like watching the girl I liked make out with her boyfriend in the hallway, or hearing people talk about parties that I had no chance of getting invited to didn't bother me as much anymore. Somehow, listening to the Replacements didn't just offer a comforting voice, it allowed me to view the whole thing from a distance, and just accept my own position among the other 800 people in school.

Eventually, as I kept listening to more and more albums that occupied similar roles, I played Tim less and less. Not because I didn't still love it, but just because I had already memorized it, and I was up to see what else music had to offer. Sometime around my junior year, I gave it a listen and was struck by how much it immediately reminded me of everything that happened in my freshman year. It had become the soundtrack to that part of my life. I'll never hear the opening to "Hold My Life" without thinking of those times.

As I got older, I realized this wasn't a one-time thing. Whenever I re-listen to an album that effected me in a particularly strong way, my mind goes back to the point in time when I first heard it. Listening to Elvis Costello reminds me of discovering him in May 2006, when my grades were going down the tubes, and I was distracting myself with the Sabres playoff run. When I listen to M. Ward, I think of spring 2009, when I was finally getting a hang of college, and felt incredibly relieved that my life wasn't going to hell the way I thought it was.

Sometimes, the effect is almost immediate. On May 23, 2013, two key things happened; I spilled beer on my keyboard, which meant I lost my computer for almost two weeks, and my copy of Nada Surf's Let Go arrived in the mail. I listened to it multiple times that night, and I already know that I'll never listen to it without thinking of the day I spilled beer on my laptop, and the fallout that ensued.

Music exists for a lot of reasons; to entertain you, to provide perspective, and to console you when you most need it most. When I think about the biggest challenges in my life, I invariably think about the music that got me through them, and vice versa. We are reminded that the pain happened, but also that we got over it, and usually, the music was a big part of that  When music makes the hard times easier to deal with, that's something that sticks with you forever.