Playlists to match my 4 main moods: Sad Dancefloor

This one's for the softies who love to dance.

I love the playlist as a medium. It’s versatile and oblique — capable of unfolding and revealing some transcendent experience or allowing you to move through a familiar one. At the very least, it’s rare to play one and not follow some current of feeling, or catch something as airy and ineffable as a vibe.

A good album, designed by artists and producers with an intended flow, hits too. But the DIY patchwork of a playlist — 12-20 songs sequenced to create something new — is its own magic that can carry you through a breakup, a road trip or simply a mood. 

Of the motley of emotions that make up a day, a year, a life, I have four main musical moods. It’s tough to narrow it down to such a small number — an emotional quadrant could be drawn in infinite directions, and going with so few is bound to leave out some essential utilitarian playlists. But this tetrad represents the music and moods that resonate with my individual makeup the most. 

The form often takes the shape of storytelling — a nuanced set will usually allow some songs to pop off, others to allow for recovery. But these four playlists won’t be structured with a beginning, middle and end. They won’t contain multitudes, like a bag of Haribo gummy bears, where the mellowness of the pineapple prepares you for the more full-bodied green watermelon, which anticipates the explosive “yessss” of the cherry. 

Nah. These playlists each embody one flavor, and they’re all reds. 

That is to say that the songs in each list embody one singular mood so you can hit “play” and experience the same feeling over and over. I made them so that, when one of these four moods hits, I wouldn’t have to go searching for another song to fill the same need. 

But that doesn’t mean they’re faithful to one genre, because when you’re in a certain emotional state, a range of musical styles could hit the spot. Like for this first playlist, “Sad Dancefloor,” you’ll find post-disco R&B, mournful art pop, even some orchestral stuff. I guess what unites them is the emotional itch they scratch.

1. Sad Dancefloor

The frame of mind when I most often turn to music is when I want to be moved by songs that reach the softest, most human part. Not the heart strings, so to speak, but a more grounded and knowing place that craves a combination of sweetness, pain and groovability — the way a song can verge on sentimentality but still manage to lean coolly against a sleek synth.

What makes a song hit this vulnerable spot? 

It’s incredibly obvious, but the way a lyric is sung can send me the most. In the Francis and the Lights song, “Darling, It’s Alright,” frontman Francis Farewell Starlite belts the bridge with such desperation, yet characteristic suaveness, it makes me want to drop to my knees in defeat only to pop back up, spin out and do a toe stand. “If you wanna break down/ It’s alright,” Starlite sings emphatically, repeating it again and again as if you really need to hear it. After a lyrical buildup of lamentations and walk-backs about apologies and enemies “coming back” in the preceding verse, the permission to fall apart feels like a gift. That the song is able to cut through regret, fear and dread with a bridge that transmutes weakness into strength (or maybe just surrender) is so true to life — and to the relationships that are messy but no less seductive and meaningful in our lives. 

Bridges don’t get all the glory. It’s often a payoff or twist that does it for me — how a refrain is reframed in a second verse, suggesting some kind of progression or growth. In Bibio’s “Light Up the Sky,” it always gets me that “You take it on the chin” becomes “You take it all in.” 

Also in this category are jazzy instrumentals that impart some obscure yet urgent message (Kamasi Washington’s “Truth”); sad, cinematic anthems with transportive storylines (Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car”); and electro pop songs that have no business being as moving as they are, but somehow carry weight and depth thanks to the vocal stylings of MGMT (their more recent stuff, at least).

Here are some thoughts on a few of the songs that hit the “sad dancefloor” mark for me:

‘Runnin,’ ’ Wajatta

A deeply felt song doesn’t have to be downtempo. What I love about this house anthem by Wajatta, the collaboration between producer/comedian Reggie Watts and electronic composer John Tejada, is its ebullience. It’s a paean to I-don’t-know-what, because it has the audacity to use nonsensical lyrics. Watts, famous for his style of looping sounds and warping his own vocals, sings “Runnin” in the cadence of language, but it is very much gobbledeegoo. 

His commitment to the bit is what gets me. With his whole chest, he chants what I hear to be, “totallydayyy-sauwdiidoluhhh.” But once the escalating tower of syllables topples over with a jubilant climax of, “heyyyyheyyyheyyy,” there are a few actual words. Between bouts of scatting, Watts intones, “I know every single motion… say what you do inside,” an abstract lyric that feels profound thanks to his rousing delivery. 

When he demands to know, “Did you feel it inside?” — repeating it thrice, each time more kinetic than the last – it nearly brings me to tears. By the song’s fifth minute, all the layers and loops recede until it’s just Watts’ “totallydayyy-sauwdiidoluhhh,” bringing you back to earth, or whatever planet he’s on.

‘People I’ve Been Sad,’ Christine and the Queens

I’m pretty sure I have Christine and the Queens on all of these playlists simply because he’s my favorite. The French singer-songwriter, just one person despite the pluralistic moniker, has long explored gender in his music and shared a couple years back that he identifies as a man and goes by Chris. His philosophical lyrics always interest me and I find him to be an incredibly protean pop artist, capable of churning out infectious avant-pop bops as well as heady, more experimental tracks. I prefer the former, but this song exists outside of either of those impulses as a heartfelt, confessional dirge.  

“People I’ve Been Sad” (which came out just before the 2020 lockdown, when many were indeed sad) hits on all sentimental cylinders for me — it has a deep, propulsive beat; syrupy, emotive vocals; luscious crescendos and surprising, sonic turns that send you floating out into the ether. 

The melancholy lyrics (“If you fall apart/ Then I’m falling behind you”) are delivered with vigor, yet carried by a tender backdrop of violins. It’s all accented by clicks, drums and droning bass lines, edgy details that somehow make for an even more dynamic range of emotion. It feels good to be sad, this song seems to say, or at least it feels good to tell people about it.

‘That’s Us/Wild Combination,’ Arthur Russell

Every time I hear this sweet, idyllic song by composer/cellist/producer Arthur Russell, I can’t believe it was recorded in the ’80s. Russell, who died in 1992, was known for a minimalist, electronic production sound that still sounds so current. 

He starts and ends the seven-minute song with: “That’s us/ Before we got there.” Though it builds within the first two minutes with a propulsive verse, it’s not long before the drums drain away and Russell returns to his introspective hook. “That’s us/ Before we got there” could mean a number of different things, and I love meditating on its unmistakable message of longing and nostalgia. 

One very exciting development is that Christine and the Queens released a cover of this song last month! Though Chris’ version embraces heavier synths and a more assertive production style, it’s just as hypnotic and poetic as the original.

Listen to this playlist if you: 

• like me, are sappy as hell

• want to channel your inner main character

• feel like having a good cry on the dancefloor

• have never met a synth you didn’t like

Stay tuned for the other three playlists in the coming weeks. In the meantime, drop a comment below with the playlists you turn to most.

Thanks so much for reading,