Mondays have been weird for me lately. I think it's because they lead to Tuesdays, and Tuesdays are stressful, and so I build up Monday night in my mind until I turn into this big ball of stress and nerves and identity crisis and wanting to simultaneously hide under my blankets and run away to Europe. I snap out of it in a day or two, and then I'm mostly fine, but Mondays are, frankly, a bitch.

I tried to give myself a break. I thought I would watch an episode of House, since I haven't done that in a while, and I discovered over winter break that I adore House. Like I said, though, it's been a while since I watched it, and while I was enjoying it intellectually, it was hitting too many weird notes emotionally for me to keep watching.

And then I read this and realized I needed to put on The Velvet Underground & Nico RIGHT AWAY.

And suddenly, I stopped feeling like my stomach was going to explode. Which is funny, because the album's subject matter is not particularly soothing, but the music is familiar and excellent, and I find a great deal of comfort in that.

When I was 13, and well on my way to becoming a rock snob, I was already aware that this record was supposed to Change My Life. Every person whose opinion I'd learned to trust said so. My mother was a fan - when I was younger, she'd frequently worn a concert t-shirt with that Andy Warhol banana printed on the front, and suddenly, it made a lot more sense. Clearly, this was a club, and one I needed to join.

So one afternoon, after I'd come home from school but before she'd come home from work, I sat down and figured out how to make my mom's turntable play.

I didn't quite get it at first, I don't think. I was expecting something completely foreign-sounding, a solid wall of noise. To me, it just sounded like music. Not bad music, by any means, but it didn't alter my perceptions of reality or anything. I'd read about the band on the Internet and in books we had lying around the house; I could explain the cultural context of The Velvet Underground & Nico and why it was so innovative, but it didn't inspire those feelings in me.

Still, I saved up my money and bought it on CD, because it felt like something I should own. I listened to it on and off for several months, into the start of high school. And then one Friday night, curled up in my beanbag chair and reading a book about punk rock, I heard the opening notes of "Sunday Morning" and all of it hit me at once.

I have no rational explanation for this, and I know I probably never will, other than it suddenly being the right time to hear it. That happens with art, but - for me, at least - especially with music. It was the right time for that record to make sense, for me to scrawl the lyrics to "All Tomorrow's Parties" in the margins of my science worksheets, for me to learn John Cale's viola parts to "Venus In Furs" on my violin and become filled with a sense of accomplishment and glee.

And I remember this, all of this, every time I hear any of that album, but especially the opening notes of "Sunday Morning."

My music listening habits have been odd and sporadic recently. I'm never sure what I want to hear; most days, I hit shuffle on my iPod and skip through tracks until something sounds right. I've found plenty of things that I enjoy, but nothing has blown me away. It's an utter cliche that music saves; right now, I'm just glad to remember that it's true.

P.S. I sort of hate to end this with a shameless plug, but the above link is from a music blog that my friend Holly (iheartsarahduh) has just started. Six days out of the week, a different writer will take on some aspect of music that is important to them. Sundays are our High Fidelity days, in which each writer contributes a Top Five list on a designated topic. I write on Fridays. We're still getting things together, but we're off to a pretty exciting start. Please check it out and feel free to join/promote: eclecticsix