Sometimes the world has a way of sending you songs that are new to you, yet they sound just like old friends. It’s as if somebody, somewhere, knew just what you needed to hear and sent you the sentiment wrapped in a bow, tailor made for your ears and your heart. These new-old-friends tend to hide in the nooks and crannies of your life, but it’s often when you’re looking for a sign – something just short of sacred to urge you onward – that they start to shimmer. The magpie in your mind is drawn to them, the restless child in your soul is soothed, and as you spin the songs around the loom of your life again and again, they become so intertwined with you that you’re uncertain where the lyrics end and your life begins. Such is the case with a certain Roger Miller tune that was new to me just days ago, but has swiftly become one of these dear old friends: the tune of which I owe newfound happiness, the lyrics in which I’ve found a renewed sense of strength. 

In the few short days since “I Believe in the Sunshine” came crashing into my life – by way of what I can only assume was divine intervention in my Spotify daylist – it’s achieved the same shimmering status among songs that have been my favorites for years. Perhaps that sentimentality can be attributed to the nostalgia I have tied to its composer and performer: the utterly ridiculous King of the Road himself, Roger Miller. Personally, I was raised on “dang me, dang me, they oughta take a rope and hang me and do-wacka-do-wacka-do,”and didn’t I turn out just fine!Though I’d never heard “I Believe in the Sunshine,” these new words felt like they were coming from an old friend, and that’s undeniably something that makes the tune so special. When someone who’s sung in the background of many-a card game at my grandparents’ house urges me to look for the glimmer in a gloomy day, I just can’t help but listen. After all, his advice has never steered me wrong before. Thanks to Roger Miller, I’ve never once attempted to rollerskate in a buffalo herd, or drive around with a tiger in my car, and now he’s given me just a little more of a reason to believe in the sunshine, even when it rains.

Lookie, lookie, it begins, Roger’s smile practically audible as he sings over a heartbeat of bass and piano. Each bouncy brush of the guitars and drums sounds like taking a step forward, and the lyrics encourage just the same feeling. There’s a clear direction in melody, each new line just a bit higher than the last as it climbs towards the light. As new instruments chime in, the song becomes fuller, stronger. Horns swell, strings shimmer, and backing vocalists harmonize to “I believe in the sunshine, even when it rains,”as if to tell you, you aren’t alone. From its near gospel-esque chorus, to its momentous instrumental, the song never stops its journey to the sunlight. Even more instruments and countermelodies are woven in as it continues to stride down the path with its head held high. The brass and strings cheer it on and the bass keeps it steady, until the very end. 

Even the ending of the song is special, as it doesn’t entirely come to a defined close; the happiness and encouragement it brings just isn’t a feeling you want to let go of anytime soon. This easily could have warranted a fade out, which was fashionable for the song’s time period. However, instead of fading into nothing, “I Believe in the Sunshine” ends on a bold, suspended chord that feels like pausing to catch your breath before leaping over a ravine or opening a door to a new opportunity. It’s as if to say “this good feeling is only just beginning, don’t turn back now.”Aside from instilling this hopefulness, it also serves as a wonderful transition into the beginning of the song for those who, like me, feel so inclined to replay it over and over again. 

There’s a particular line that stuck out to me at the end of the first verse: “I’m glad the sunshine found me,I know I’ve been hard to find.”It’s profoundly personal, especially coming from an album titled “Dear Folks, Sorry I Haven’t Written Lately.” It seems as though the most special songs–the ones that we turn to when we need a friend–tend to have some element of vulnerability in them. It can even be just a smidgen, an acknowledgment that you’ve been out in the rain for a little too long.

“I Believe in the Sunshine” found me on a gloomy morning, both of sky and of spirit. The air was rainy and cold, and I’d been feeling more than a bit under the weather myself. Hearing this song for the first time made it feel like the sun was coming out, more so each time I replayed it. As the day went on, I listened over and over again to “I believe in the sunshine even when it rains,” to the point where I couldn’t help but smile and sing it any chance I got. By the middle of the day, the clouds had parted. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, and in my heart; the sunshine Roger was singing about was back in my life. It made me consider what may be one of the most effective songwriting tools out there: serendipity. There’s something magical about finding a song–or a song finding you–in a moment when you need it the most. Someday, I’m going to write something this special: something that finds someone on a rainy day and becomes the sunshine they feel so inclined to believe in. With Roger Miller as my witness, I declare it, I will. 

When you’re freshly 16, angry, angsty, and frustrated, trying to understand why no one else understands you, it’s easy to fall into a dangerous pit of “I’m not like everyone else.” However, when you’re too shy to dress like a nonconformist, you listen to music like one. So you dive into this band called Metallica, which, at the time feels like the most nonconformist thing you can do in a community of copy-and-paste teenagers, and find this album called “Ride the Lightning.” 

It wasn’t anything like other classic rock bands I was exploring. To me, a newbie, it was shocking and unexpected. The guitars are overdriven and played at the speed of light. Songs like “Escape” and “Creeping Death” are intense and chilling, while “Fade to Black” is melodic and melancholic. It’s as if the album found me, and through the mind-melting intro of “Fight Fire with Fire,” it said to me, “I understand.” From there, I was addicted.

In freshman year of high school, I was a dance competition kid, which meant I was at dance 12 hours a week with competitions on the weekends. Sometimes they’d go for multiple days at a time. I wasn’t exactly the most popular kid on the dance team, in fact, I was quite the opposite. My headphones were a good distraction from the fact. I would sit backstage in my “moon boots,” these puffy shoes you could wear over your dance shoes to protect them. Honestly, I’m not sure what the point of those were. 

Anyways, I would sit in the dusty corners of whatever academic building was being used for the competition and sink into my music. Metallica was the perfect noise for those nauseating moments before going on stage. The great thing about those slivers of time was the fact that I knew no one would expect me, the scrawny little kid in the glittery outfit and thick coat of makeup, to be blasting “Ride the Lightning” and “Master of Puppets” before a show. Kirk Hammett’s dizzying, explosive solos distracted from the overstimulating gel sealing my hair down like concrete, the bobby pins stabbing my skull, and costume straps digging into my shoulders.

I remember the first time I heard the chilling, echoey guitar intro for “Welcome Home (Sanitarium)” off of their 1986 smash hit “Master of Puppets.” It was one of those songs you hear for the first time, and then you find yourself unable to listen to any other songs, because you’re so determined to inject your brain with it that you’re stuck playing it over and over again. It’s that sort of tune that tightly holds your hand while you cry. I can’t say I relate to the song on a lyrical level (it’s quite literally the tale of a mental asylum patient), but there was something to the brief moment of common ground between James Hetfield and I when he said, “leave me be.” It felt as if Metallica could feel sad, perhaps it was okay that I did, too.

And when the competitions were over, and whatever drama went down that weekend had ended (in dance, drama is a guarantee), I wanted nothing more but to sink into my mattress for eternity and watch TV. When we still had all the channels on cable, MTV had a side channel called MTV Classic, and every evening they’d air reruns of the “Headbangers Ball.” When the Ball was on I’d put my phone away and travel in time, watching metal music videos and pretending they weren’t reruns at all, that it really was 1988, and that Metallica just released “And Justice For All…” 

And I listened to Metallica all throughout the next four years of my high school career. It knocked the dance competition bullies over the head, told me to cut my hair and finally show my face off, soundtracked my prom preparation, and influenced my style in college, where I finally embraced the metalhead I am instead of hiding myself under hoodies. 

However, there’s one album that was always with me: “The Black Album.” I recall being in the back seat of my dad’s car, excited because he put on “Enter Sandman,” which was the only Metallica song little Emma knew of. It was spooky and different. Even in a car seat, Metallica was telling me that different was cool, and even though I took a break from my dad’s music throughout my middle school years, the band found me again. And now, at 21, I proudly wear my “metal up your ass” tee shirt in hopes that I’ll attract some fellow metalheads. It’s an achievement, compared to the days where I was too afraid to draw attention with band tee shirts. 

Even in my 20s I still sometimes get that pang of feeling misunderstood, and suddenly I’m in my puffy moon boots again hiding in the corner at a dance competition. Whenever that happens, I open Metallica’s discography much like one would “break glass in case of emergency,” and the music is holding my hand again and saying, “I understand.”