As term goes by, my sanity becomes increasingly dependent on the dancing fits that take place in my room multiple times a day. From this, I’ve noticed something peculiar. Although I’d been living in fear that a single note of any English song could get leaked from under my door and into the corridor, screaming Rosalía songs from the top of my lungs somehow felt socially acceptable.

I’ve realised that, as an international student, I’ve been progressively building a special relationship with artists that sing in my mother tongue. ‘My’ songs in Spanish seem to be a little more ‘my songs’ than all the English songs I’ve always loved. Clearly, this is because the language sets a barrier separating ‘my’ Spanish songs from the rest of you that can’t understand it, acting as a protection from judgment. Perhaps irrationally, it’s almost as if because no one else can grasp the meaning of the lyrics (let’s pretend Spanish is a very underground, secret language) they’re missing out on a part of the song that is simply too crucial for them to be in a position to adequately judge it.

“When I feel out of place, music becomes a strong ally by reminding me that I, too, have something of my own”

It builds a bubble around me, where I feel like I’m the only one that could only ever ‘get’ it. When I feel out of place and everyone else seems to fit in, music becomes a strong ally by reminding me that I, too, have something of my own.

And that can certainly sound secretive and isolating, but precisely because it feels like those around don’t understand, it becomes a factor of exclusivity, splitting the world between “those who get it” and “those who don’t.”

Yes, I stand by all of this. But something about it feels off. In the same way that every time I meet someone with whom I can speak my mother tongue I have to stop my excessive delight and sudden confidence boost (I can have a personality again!) when I’m reminded that I came all the way here to meet and experience things I wasn’t used to. Surely, music can bring people together by creating new communities, without just replicating the divisions that already exist in the world?

To prove this, I decided to take it a step further and listen to music in languages I didn’t even understand. Surprisingly, the songs often resonated with me more deeply, precisely because I didn’t understand the words.

Listening to a song in a language you don’t understand, you’re automatically shielded from the irresistible temptation of thinking you do understand it, just because you know what the lyrics mean. In this scenario, you know that you know nothing!

“You’re forced to become more perceptive, pay closer attention to the song, become more sensitive to its nuances”

Since you’re not biased by the literal meaning of the words, you seek understanding elsewhere. You’re forced to become more perceptive, pay closer attention to the song, become more sensitive to its nuances.

What if, when you mistakenly think a soft love song is about a violent confrontation, you’re actually right, and it’s the native speakers who have been fooled? Maybe you’ve been able to sense something deeper that the artist couldn’t put into words but made it to the song nonetheless, in a more subtle way. Furthermore, as you’re not immediately met with a set meaning, you’re also confronted with having to create your own. You can’t help but let your imagination wander, wondering what the song is actually about.

I find beauty in this way of engaging with a song, not taking its meaning for granted because it’s set in the lyrics, just one of its aspects. The song is then taken as a starting point rather than a finishing line. Because we acknowledge we don’t know much about it for sure, it now lies within a limbo of possibilities. Isn’t it a more thrilling approach to a piece - a way to honour it - to allow it to be infinite songs at once, to daydream about it rather than take it as a fact?

I think this is exactly what Italo Calvino meant by “a classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.” When we are the ones giving a little bit of ourselves when engaging with an artwork, we ensure it lives on, in a constant state of growth and renewal.

Of course, we can also do this with songs we understand the lyrics of, and be deeply moved by the beauty or relatability of the lyricism. This doesn’t change that listening to a song in your native language will always hit close to home, literally and figuratively.

But listening to music in languages I don’t speak has shown me the beauty of being aware of your own ignorance before an artwork. It takes humility to swap the pretension that you understand it with the acknowledgment that you are simply attempting to understand it. And so much more beauty lies in an attempt.

This is not just true for music, or even art: Lent has also taught me to be more open to what the strange culture of this city has to offer, to seek comfort in the weird and wonderful unknown instead of wishing to go back to what now feels too comfortable and familiar.

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