In 1974, Connie Converse packed her belongings, wrote a series of farewell letters, and drove away from everything she knew. Her letters were all the same: “I’m going to find a new life.” Despite her considerable talent as a folk singer, at 50 yrs old she was largely unknown and hadn’t found the recognition she deserved. A talent abandoned by the industry she tried so hard to crack. Her song, “Two Tall Mountains,” had the kind of haunting melancholy that stays in your bones—like the memory of a choice you regret and can’t quite forget. It’s the kind of song that, even today, can have you sitting in the dark trying to figure out why you’re still stuck on the same old questions. What made it special wasn’t its technical brilliance but its unfiltered authenticity.

Consider this: What if the music you love actually reveals more about you than you realize? The music you love? It’s a mirror, a confession, and a betrayal—all in three minutes or less. Music isn’t just about your tastes; it’s about who you really are under the surface. What if the songs you hold close are not just reflections of your tastes but windows into your identity, values, and even your hidden desires? And that’s exactly what the authors of This Is What It Sounds Like: What the Music You Love Says About You (Rogers and Ogas, 2022) argues. The authors don’t just ask what you listen to; they ask why. Why that song? Why that chorus? Why those lyrics that rip you apart every time? And this same principle underpins a simple, yet profound exercise called a “record pull.”

“It’s about sharing a song that’s not just a favorite but a piece of your identity”

A record pull is a kind of musical exorcism, if you will. It’s a raw, unfiltered exercise in vulnerability. It’s about sharing a song that’s not just a favorite but a piece of your identity. You’re opening up, like handing over a page from your diary and hoping the reader understands. Or doesn’t. Either way, it’s you. And it’s real. A record pull isn’t about discovering the next big hit. It’s about something deeper: understanding ourselves and others through the music we choose to share. It’s an opportunity to explore what authenticity sounds like, one track at a time.

Picture this: you’re sitting in a room with a group of people—friends, coworkers, family (chosen or biological), or even just you and your partner or best friend. Each person has brought a song that represents a part of themselves. Not just any song, but the song. The one that makes you think of that one summer, or the breakup that almost broke you, or the road trip you took when you were running from something you couldn’t name. It’s messy, it’s honest, and it’s real.

Play the song, listen carefully, and then reflect not on whether you like it, but on what it reveals about the person who chose it. What story is this song telling me about you?

Let’s take “Two Tall Mountains” by Connie Converse as an example. I might choose it because of its bittersweet melodies and its themes of missed opportunities and enduring hope. It’s a song about losing and surviving anyway. It’s stripped-down, bare, and full of the kind of stubborn hope that says, “Maybe, just maybe, there’s something left on the other side of this mess.”

After you play it, the others in the room might ask:

What does this song suggest about my inner world?
Why might I resonate with its simple, melancholy tones?
What kind of scene in a movie would this song soundtrack?

Someone else might choose “I’m So Happy When You’re Near” by The Shaggs (1969/1980). This song is the musical equivalent of an awkward, honest confession in a gas station parking lot at 2 a.m. It’s imperfect, raw, and borderline chaotic, but it’s also strangely pure. It’s the kind of track that says, "This is who I am," and I don’t care if you like it.

Another participant in the room might choose Bach’s Magnificat in D-major (BMV 243), a Baroque masterpiece of complex harmonies and emotional intensity. It’s a choice that speaks to a love of structure and grandeur, perhaps revealing a desire for beauty and order amid life’s chaos. This isn’t the kind of song that lets you wallow; it’s the kind that makes you believe in grace, even if only for a moment.

Another person might throw down “Talkin’ Loud and Sayin’ Nothing” by James Brown (1972), a funk classic full of rhythm and social commentary. It’s not just a song; it’s a statement. It could suggest that the person who chose it has a drive for social justice, a commitment to empowerment, and maybe a touch of rebellion. It’s gritty, it’s relentless, and it’s loud. This isn’t music for sipping tea—it’s music for flipping tables. The kind of song you choose when you’re tired of being polite, when you’re ready to shout back at a world that keeps telling you to be quiet.

And then another may play “Time Is on My Side” by The Rolling Stones. It’s a track with a different kind of defiance. It’s hopeful in a strange way, the kind that insists there’s still time for things to change. It’s not an urgent call to action, but a reminder that patience and resilience is not about winning; it’s about not giving up. It’s about the long game—the burning optimism that things might just turn around if you wait long enough. It’s the kind of song someone might choose who believes that no matter what happens today, there’s always tomorrow.

You might be thinking, why should I care? At first glance, this kind of exercise might seem simple, even trivial. But here’s the thing: music is a shortcut to the truth. In This Is What It Sounds Like, the authors argue that music doesn’t just entertain—it reveals. It’s a map of who we are. In fact, music has a unique ability to engage the brain’s emotional and memory centers, making it a powerful tool for self-discovery and empathy. It’s a map of who you are, what you love, and sometimes it’s also what you’re afraid to admit. And that’s why the record pull is more than a musical exchange. It’s a confession disguised as a conversation. It’s a way to understand not just what someone likes, but who they are.

The record pull works because it engages our memories, emotions, and identities all at once. It doesn’t just tell us what to think; it makes us feel. We’re not passive listeners; we’re participants in a dialogue, using music to explore our inner landscapes and those of others. In a world dominated by fast opinions and quick judgments, looking good and saying the right thing, a record pull asks you to do the opposite. It asks you something unusual: the chance to pause and listen; to be honest. Sometimes, honesty is the hardest thing there is.

That’s where the magic happens. It’s not about agreement; it’s about authenticity. It’s about letting your guard down and letting someone see you—really see you. What makes this exercise truly impactful is its demand for vulnerability. When you share a song that feels like you, you’re opening a door to your inner world. And when others listen to your song with curiosity rather than judgment, they’re not just hearing a tune—they’re engaging in an act of empathy. It’s authenticity in action, a practice that doesn’t just reveal who we are but encourages others to see us as we wish to be seen.

Ready to try? Here’s how:

Gather the Brave Ones: This isn’t for everyone. Find the people who are willing to get real and who you would like to invite in. Friends, coworkers, family, your close individual relationship—whoever’s game.
Pick Your Track: Pick a song that resonates deeply with you. Choose the song that feels like you. Not the one that makes you look cool. The one that tells the truth about who you are. It might be something obscure or a track that evokes a specific memory.
Set the Rules: Establish a safe space for listening. Make it clear that this is about understanding, not critique. No judging, no critiquing. The goal is to understand, not to score points.
Play and Listen: After each song, invite the group or individual to discuss what they heard, felt, or imagined. Ask questions like “Why do you think I chose this song?” or “What scene in a movie would this song fit?” Let the conversation go where it needs to.
Sit in the Silence: Sometimes, the most powerful part of the exercise is what doesn’t get said. Let it hang in the air. Let it be part of the experience. Let moments of quiet reflection be part of the experience. Sometimes, the most meaningful insights come from what isn’t immediately said.

Additional Tips

Be Ready for Surprises: People will say things you didn’t expect. Let them. You might think you know someone well, but a record pull can reveal new layers of their personality.
Let Go of Judgment: The goal isn’t to decide if you like the music but to understand what it means to the person sharing it.
Follow Up: After the session, share one takeaway. What did you learn about the others? What did you learn about yourself?

Consider these prompts not as simple questions, but as invitations to examine the curious connections between a song and the architecture of your inner world. Each prompt is designed to unlock something deeper, a hidden story you may not have realized you were telling yourself all along. The kind of questions that push you to look a little closer, go a little deeper, and maybe make you squirm a bit.

Pick two prompts and go deeper into the other prompts if you like:

What Does This Song Say About Who You Are?
Think about this song as a Rorschach test for your identity. Does it reflect the parts of yourself that you’re proud of, or does it speak to the hidden, unacknowledged parts of your psyche? Which part of you—your bravest or most broken—resonates with it the most? Does it whisper hope? How are you different now?
What Symbols or Metaphors Stand Out in This Song?
It’s always that one lyric, the one that makes you wince. What’s the line that feels like someone reading your diary out loud? Is there a particular lyric or image that lingers? It’s the details that matter—the haunting piano riff, the line that stings every time. What do these symbols reveal about your current state of mind?
How Has Your Relationship to This Song Changed Over Time?
Has this song remained a constant companion, or has it evolved as you’ve grown? It’s a curious thing—how the same song can shift meaning depending on where you are in your life’s journey. What does that say about who you’ve become—or who you’re afraid you still are?
If This Song Were a Guide, What Would It Tell You?
Imagine this song as a mentor or a mantra. What advice or direction would it offer for the path ahead? Sometimes, the music that’s stuck in our heads is the advice we refuse to hear.

These prompts are not just questions—they are like a pair of glasses, bringing blurred feelings and thoughts into sharper focus. They invite you to examine the music you love as a lens through which you can better understand yourself, one surprising insight at a time.

Now For The Final Bars

Record pulls aren’t just about music; they’re about exploring the human experience in all its messy, beautiful authenticity. It’s about saying, “This is me,” and then letting someone else figure out if they understand. They encourage us to slow down, listen deeply, and engage in meaningful dialogue. They remind us that music is more than entertainment. It’s a reflection of who we are, what we value, and how we wish to be seen.

So, the next time you’re with a group of friends, colleagues, or alone with someone, try a record pull. Share a song that feels like you. You might be surprised by what it reveals—not just about you, but about the people around you.

In the end, authenticity isn’t just about being real; it’s about being understood. And sometimes, the best way to understand each other is to listen—one song at a time.

So, what’s your track? What does it say about you? And more importantly, how can it help others understand you better? Try a record pull and see what unfolds.

If you would like to delve deeper and explore how experiential therapy can support you, reach out to connect with one of our therapists.

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Record Pulls: The Music of Authenticity

Now For The Final Bars

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