I met this week’s guest through their mother. 

A few months ago, I was on another podcast talking about grief, getting over the death of a parent, and the end of a romantic relationship (both occurred within a matter of weeks). I told the story of a transformative moment I had in that season of grief when I left LA to cry on a different beach. I was so sad I felt the need to go to another city, just to be sad somewhere else. I drove down to San Diego, to mourn many things. 

Stupidly, I stayed in a hotel that had at least two weddings taking place on the grounds that weekend. Oh well. But I stayed, and walked the beach, and looked at the seals, and moped. 

One night, I was sitting by the sand, listening to the saddest breakup album I’ve ever heard. On repeat. Especially this one song, called “The Kiss.” 

Nothing on the street tonight, it's emptiness

Heaven knows I've seen it all before

Nothing on the street tonight but a burning heart

Reaching out and ready to explode

The moon was full, as were the waves. The water was dark and powerful. The moisture in the air felt like it was hugging me. The songs were playing in my earbuds, but I imagined they were being blared along the entire beach, with speakers you couldn’t see coming down from the sky. 

In the midst of my sadness, wrapped up in the music and all that beauty, on a patio where just hours before a newly married couple danced their first dance, my sadness turned to awe. I had to stop to acknowledge, through the tears, that all of it was so beautiful. The setting. The music. All of it.

I realized, in that moment, that my grief had also brought me an abundance. My grief and my sadness had heightened all my senses to reveal to me a certain moment of beauty that I never would have experienced had I not been sad. My grief did not only take. It also gave. 

When I told this story on Dan Harris’ podcast, 10 Percent Happier, the mother of the artist who made that album I was playing on the beach was listening. And she wrote to me and told me I had to connect with her child. 

Flash forward a few weeks later and that artist was sitting in a studio with me, talking about their process, and how they work through grief with their art. And I got to tell them how their album helped me learn a big lesson about grief. And then I got to ask them what their grief, and making an album about it, taught them. We were both puddles of tears. 

The artist is named Caroline Rose. The album is called The Art of Forgetting. I urge you to listen to it and let it rip your heart right out of your chest, just like it did mine. Trust me. It’s worth it. 

But also, I want you to check out Caroline’s new album as well. It’s called year of the slug. It's big in a very different way, and it has Caroline taking some big gambles with it, to make a point. 

They’re not putting it on Spotify; it’s only on Bandcamp, where you’ll have to pay for it. And Caroline is not touring this album through a big corporation like Live Nation Entertainment, which owns Ticketmaster. They’re only doing small, independent venues. 

All of this is a tough call in a moment when Spotify dominates almost a third of the streaming market. The same risk occurs when going independent to tour; you, like I, get that every venue these days seems to be Live Nation affiliated. 

But Caroline told me they wanted to make something that pushed back against the biggest forces in music, and that championed the “working class musician.” 

Also, because they could, they made the entire album on their iPhone with GarageBand. It’s a big departure from that breakup album, The Art of Forgetting, which was full of lush, symphonic orchestration. But both albums reveal different sides of Caroline’s genius. 

Alright, with that, I urge you to dig in — to Caroline’s work and to this week’s episode — and prepare to cry. It’ll be a good cry. Very cathartic. And while I’m here, I’d like to make an ask: What’s your favorite breakup album? Reply to this email and tell me. I want to know. 

Till next time, 

Sam

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