The Albums That Defined Our College Years: Class of 2024

From local darlings to pop starlets, here are the artists who guided us through every step of college.

Written by Afterglow’s graduating members

Illustrated by Behr Rinke

As we bid farewell to Afterglow’s graduating class, we asked them to reflect on the music that soundtracked the past few years of their lives.

KiCk i by Arca

A quintessential UT grad picture, complete with a cap toss, the UT tower, and Austin’s bright blue sky. Probably one of my most photogenic moments captured on camera. Photo courtesy of Elina Carrasco.

While attending Higher Ground’s weekly Four Record Friday event with me last year, one of my friends jokingly quipped, “If you haven’t heard of Arca, you’ll learn about her within five minutes of meeting Claire.” Whether you’ve heard me call the Venezuelan producer the “God” of my musical holy trinity or come across one of the four articles I’ve written about Arca, you’re probably well aware of my adoration for her. But what you might not know is that I listened to my first Arca song as recently as 2020.

It’s hard to believe there was a time when I wasn’t one of her fans, or a “mutant.” Sure, I had read Pitchfork’s rave review of her 2017 self-titled album in high school, but I had never felt compelled to check out the diva experimental’s music. Fast forward to the first pandemic summer, when “Mequetrefe” popped up in my Spotify recommendations. Listening to the glitch reggaetón track, I experienced a myriad of emotions: enthrallment, confusion, and most of all, utter entrancement. It was love at first listen. For days onward, the song’s dembow rhythm coursed through my veins and Arca’s auto-tuned vocals wafted to and fro in my brain. By the time KiCk i dropped nine days later, I had become a die-hard mutant.

Even though Arca’s self-titled is probably my favorite album in her discography, KiCk i will always hold a special place in my heart. The musician’s defiant embrace of her identities in songs like “Nonbinary” and “Mequetrefe” has encouraged me to contemplate my own over the years. Moreover, KiCk i has created space for me to hold all my fleeting emotions. “KLK” and “Riquiquí” amplify the loudness, and “Calor” and “No Queda Nada” cradle the softer, more subtle feelings. To this day, I revisit standouts like “KLK” and “Machote,” which develop new layers of meaning with each listen.

I’m set to see Arca perform at Primavera Sound next month, my first time ever seeing her live. In preparation for the festival, I’ve started re-listening to KiCk i after a period of being engrossed in classical music. Although every track sounds just as I remembered it, “Machote” hit a bit differently this time around. In the past, the track’s emotive violins and honeyed vocals would instill a sense of yearning in me. But for the first time, I realized that I wasn’t yearning for Arca’s highly sought-after machote — I was yearning to be that machote.

As I transition into a new stage of my academic life and personal journey, I will keep my musical memories close to my heart. Change is incredibly painful and scary, and part of me doesn’t want to let go of everything that’s mattered in college: my Afterglow friendships, my creative outlet, and even myself. Although a lot of uncertainty lies ahead, I find solace in knowing I put my all into Afterglow, from my start as a rusty fresh recruit to my end as head of print. Just as Arca croons, “No queda nada en mí, sino tú” (“There’s nothing left in me except for you”) in KiCk i’s closing track, there’s nothing left in me but the unconditional love I’ve received these past five years.

— C.S. Harper, Digital and Print Editor in Chief

BELIEVE IN ME, WHO BELIEVES IN YOU by Aries

At the center of it all, right before University-Wide Commencement. Photo courtesy of my uncle, who evidently never fails to make me, otherwise pretty photographically stoic, laugh. Photo courtesy of Sumitro Chowdhury.

If there’s any indication that this album is important to me, it’s that I’ve actually already written about it for Afterglow. That’s right — I’m leaving y’all with one last shameless plug.

Aries, who I’d had my eye on since my cousin and one of my then-favorite F1 drivers recommended him to me in the same week, released his sophomore effort during my sophomore year, four days before my 20th birthday. A Scorpio in the same way I’m a Scorpio, BELIEVE IN ME, WHO BELIEVES IN YOU is witty, dynamic, blunt, and, at times, optimistically threatening. Although it didn’t exist for my first year in college, this is no matter — as a pandemic freshman, my first undergraduate year hardly existed in and of itself.

I found myself bumping “FOOL’S GOLD” and its “hello world, it’s me and you’ll have to deal with it” energy every morning on my way to my dreaded Computer Engineering or Probability courses. For someone who yearned for a sense of freedom she felt she couldn’t have, my escape was listening to music about artists bragging about being ahead of the curve. “DESPERADO” saw me through two breakups while the bouncier, yet gentler, “DITTO” played on loop through the first few weeks after I met my wonderful partner. When I finally switched my major from electrical engineering to English during my junior year, “EASY” helped lift the weight off of my shoulders. Though Aries’ lyrics are often cryptic, they make me feel seen. As my time at UT — and, consequently, my time at Afterglow — comes to an end, I find myself returning to Aries and his forward-propelling musicality. I have no doubt that, in my next endeavors, I’ll still seek out the feeling this album instills within me.

In a way, BELIEVE IN ME, WHO BELIEVES IN YOU feels as much about my journey with Afterglow as it does about my journey as an undergraduate student. If you’re someone I’ve written for, someone whose work I’ve edited or who’s edited my work, someone I’ve stayed up ’til three working on a print magazine with, someone I’ve gone to concerts with, someone I’ve bounced ideas off of or made one too many jokes about drunk debates with… as Aries so soul-shatteringly puts in the final track “WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT,” I hope you’ve felt that “I’ll take you any distance,” because you’re “my family, my coalition.

Perhaps in the truest sense of the word, this is Arundhati, signing off. 

— Arundhati Ghosh, Digital Editor in Chief

Stick Season (Forever) by Noah Kahan 

My photographer friend and mentor took this photo, which I love because it shows the tattoo I got to remind myself to embrace self-growth. Photo courtesy of Mary Margaret Hayes.

No, your eyes do not deceive you. Carolyn Parmer is not writing about a Harry Styles or Maisie Peters record. Instead, this blurb is about an album written by a folk singer whose goofy smile betrays his penchant for crafting some of the most heart-wrenching lyrics ever.

Stick Season (Forever) features Noah Kahan’s signature style of devastating lyrics set to dance-worthy tunes and collaborations with my other favorite artists, like Gracie Abrams and Post Malone. Although this version of the album came out during my last semester of college, it includes songs I'd already grown to love, and its universal sentiments of nostalgia, love, and longing apply to many moments of my college season.

Like me, Kahan processes trauma and heartbreak through humor that thinly veils the underlying pain. Onstage, he frequently introduces his songs with jokes about his parents sending him to therapy when he was eight and feeling “pissed off” by others’ joy. As someone with a similarly dry, dark sense of humor, I feel accepted by the lyrics and quips from “Prozac Lin-Manuel Miranda.” “Dial Drunk” with Post Malone blasts through my headphones when I needed an outlet for suppressed anger toward an old friend, and “Everywhere, Everything” with Gracie Abrams rocked my soul on the days I was consumed by an overwhelming desire for everlasting love. “You’re Gonna Go Far” plays over and over when I realize that when I say I want to move to Spain after I graduate, well, that requires going really far.

“Northern Attitude” was the first song that brought Kahan’s talent for writing soul-crushing tracks to my attention. I remember the first time I heard it in 2022 as if it happened minutes ago. Mid-workout, I dropped to my knees when I heard the Vermont native proclaim, “If the sun don’t shine / ‘Til the summertime / Forgive my northern attitude / Oh, I was raised on little light” on the original 2022 version of Stick Season. The duality of pain and optimism haunting these lines struck something in me. Little did I know that a few months later, I would be wailing along as I angrily remembered the cowardice and hurt shown to me by a boy who hailed from a small town like Kahan.

On a brighter note, “Northern Attitude” also kicked off Noah’s 2023 ACL set, which I photographed. The joy on audience members’ faces, hilarious comments from “Folk Malone,” and songs that seem to take inspiration from my own turmoil reminded me why I seek solace in music. Hearing Kahan sing about changing hometowns in “New Perspective” and everlasting love in “Everywhere, Everything” felt like my mom wrapping a warm blanket around me at the end of a long day. The former induced some tears when I heard it live at Zilker Park, and it does the same when I queue it on Spotify months later. Although I grew up in the sprawling city of Houston, I relate to the singer’s desire to shut the changes to his tiny town “in a closet.” I fear that I won’t recognize the place I grew up in when I return for the holidays after (hopefully) starting my next chapter in Spain.

Stick Season (Forever) soundtracked much of my journey at UT, which included a lot of stops: an internship in Spain, romantic endeavors I like to pretend never happened, two podcasts, the indescribable moments in photo pits at tiny indoor venues, ACL, and even Mad Cool Festival in Madrid. At every stop, I sought comfort in music from someone who may not have experienced the same moments, but delivered the cathartic musical elixir I needed.

— Carolyn Parmer, Co-Director of Photography

Angles by The Strokes

This grad pic combines my love for journalism, psychology, and music while also depicting how much time I’ve spent buried in the stacks of books at the PCL. Photo courtesy of Steven Garza.

The lines “Everybody hanging on for their lives / But you can’t help them ’cause you don’t have the time” from “Taken For a Fool” single-handedly defines the four years I’ve spent at UT. Despite juggling school-work, a part-time job, writer and editor positions at Afterglow, and other side projects, starting the day felt a bit easier when accompanied by the Angles CD on my morning commute. I often found myself listening to the album back-to-back-to-back because I was too lazy to change the disc, but unlike other background music I’d eventually tune out while driving, I listened attentively to every single song on Angles — no matter how many times I’d repeated the album.

The Strokes have had a profound impact on my music taste, as they were the gateway drug to my discovery of alt indie in high school. I occasionally listened to them throughout my teenage years but grew a greater appreciation for them when stuck in lockdown during the COVID-19 pandemic. Although I consider The Strokes one of the rare groups that I hardly skip songs from, I find Angles to be their most enjoyable album thus far.

Without a doubt, the swelling instrumentals that open “Machu Picchu” perk my ears as I invariably anticipate the exploding downbeat. Although I can’t remember when I first listened to this song, it never fails to bring me out of a funk and has also inspired me to put “Listen to Machu Picchu at Machu Picchu” at the top of my bucket list. On the contrary, “Call me Back,” has a long history of comforting me in times of despair. As my stressors and anguish have transformed from boy issues in high school to career and existential crises in college, the soothing nature of Julian Casablancas’ vocals persist in calming the stormy seas of my mind.

As I continue to navigate the next stage of my life, I can safely say that Angles will be joining me on this journey. Whether I continue on my music journalism path, or decide to explore other avenues, I know that I can always count on the album to accompany me through my morning commute, or maybe at Machu Picchu one day — who knows?

— Catalina Perez, Content Editor

Saves The World by MUNA

A picture snapped during the Moody Award Ceremony. Photo courtesy of Ry Olszewski.

Truth be told, apart from my mother’s beloved ’80s gems, my father’s carefully curated selection of new wave, and my tween attraction to Top 40 tunes, I’ve strayed away from pop music. I was under the false pretense that modern pop was formulaic and too relentlessly positive for my liking, so I never found the need to branch out from my then-regular rotation of ’90s rock and alternative R&B.

That was until my sophomore year of college, when I stumbled upon MUNA’s spirited bubblegum ballad “Silk Chiffon” featuring Phoebe Bridgers. The single was undoubtedly more cheery than my preferred sound, but my pre-existing alliance with Bridgers acted as the gateway to my soon-to-be favorite band.

The first time I listened to Saves The World, something just clicked. The album opens with “Grow,” a minimalist vignette where lead singer Katie Gavin recites sonnet-like rhymes alongside a single piano line, “I want to grow up / I want to grow old / I want to lay down / I want to let go.” Gavin’s desire for growth resonates with me and its timelessness keeps me coming back to the track. 

As for the rest of the record, the trio’s dark pop sound pulled me in and their soul-baring lyrics kept me on lock. It quickly disproved my false notion that pop music was generic, with the album's sonic and lyrical distinction from track to track. While the record housed an electronic refutation of love (“Never”), it also made space for a twangy country-driven collection of self-destructive hypotheticals (“Taken”).

My adoration for this album came full throttle when the opportunity to see the band live fell into my lap. I first covered South by Southwest (SXSW) in 2022, and in the weeks leading up to the festival, MUNA was announced as a showcasing artist. The excitement from my first press credential, coupled with seeing my favorite band live for the first time made for a week of unwavering gratitude and full-bodied elation. During the festival’s week-long duration, I saw the band live three times, with each performance more intimate and inviting than the last. I’ve since covered SXSW twice more and seen MUNA live a total of seven times — including their Austin City Limits episode taping, which was something I always vowed to do while attending UT.

As my time in college progressed, my ardor for the album remained intact. The upbeat staples “Number One Fan” and “Hands Off” became go-to pre-game anthems. “Stayaway” softened the blow of heartbreak, with Gavin’s vulnerable lyrics cutting my heartstrings with relentless honesty and melding them back together with the sentiment of knowing that someone else went through the same distress. Regardless of it being my most-listened-to song of 2022, it still stings every time I hear, “If I don’t stop it before I know it / All the bad things never happened / You never lied or treated me bad and / If you did, then you'll wish you hadn’t.” Mellow comfort hymn “Navy Blue” kept me company during low points, while the jealousy-ridden melodies of “Who” mirrored my own emotions on multiple occasions.

Saves The World has found a way to apply itself to the incessant ups and downs of the past four years. Now, on the precipice of graduating, I find that the album’s closer, “It’s Gonna Be Okay, Baby,” is more relevant than ever. In just under six minutes, Gavin guides her former self through her life’s trials and tribulations. Certain lines hold uncanny resemblance to my own life, including my three-month-long departure to Silver Lake (“You’re gonna move to L.A. / Guess you’re running away from the patterns you have / And the decisions that you’ve made”) and my late night outings with former pals (“You’ll have some all-time nights / Dancing outside with LCD on the speaker / And you’re drinking dark pink wine / Yeah, and you’re gonna lose those friends”). In between each hardship she depicts, Gavin reminds herself “It’s Gonna Be Okay, Baby,” and with the thrilling uncertainty that the future holds, I remind myself of the same thing. 

— Miranda Garza, Digital Editor in Chief

When We Were Friends by The Backseat Lovers

A shot in front of the Moody College of Communications’ Building Sign. Photo courtesy of Saturn Photography.

There are so many albums significant to me that could represent the last four years of my college experience. From Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago to Peach Pit’s Being So Normal, I used music to navigate the stress of studying but also as a way to connect with friends. However, I have to say the one that won my overall vote has to be When We Were Friends, by The Backseat Lovers.

Even though this album is quite melancholic on the surface, I went through hardships that songs in this album helped me process. I remember being heartbroken and somehow stumbling upon “Pool House,” which ended up being an anthem that I screamed on my late-night drives. Its soft intro slowly turns into a loud chorus, allowing for a perfect song to sing your pain out to. When my amazing father unfortunately passed away during my junior year, my world completely shattered. One song on repeat was “Sinking Ship.” It reminded me of what I went through seeing my dad in the state that he was in, with lyrics like “Our hands haven’t touched in more than a month” and “I’m sick of all the nothing on your face.” It helped me process what was happening to me. I’ve always loved the lead singer, Joshua Harmon’s voice, so I found comfort in his raspy yet tender vocals. The poetic beauty of the band is astronomical and speaks to a part of my soul that feels their music on a magical level.

On a more positive note — because I promise my college years were not that depressing — other songs like “Maple Syrup” and “Kilby Girl” became go-to’s in my Barton Springs playlist throughout my beautiful summers in Austin. Their lyrics paint pictures of youthful romance and carefree adventures, while their upbeat melodies evoke the lively spirit of the hot season. With energetic guitar riffs and infectious rhythms, both tracks capture the essence of summer as they exude a laid-back vibe, creating a relaxed atmosphere for sitting by the pool. Late nights with friends would end with us screaming “Watch Your Mouth” because The Backseat Lovers never fail to provide the perfect indie rock song for all moments. My best friends and I connect with its high-energy instrumentals, catchy chorus, and raw emotions, creating the memories I’ll always cherish of singing this song after going out at night or staying in for a game night. College was filled with absolute blissful moments mixed in with a little hardship, and this 37-minute album perfectly encapsulates my four years at UT Austin.

— Baylee Rosado, Multimedia Staffer

Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe in You by Big Thief

This was during a KVRX Thanksgiving event we threw last year, Fall 2023. The music community and orgs on campus have undoubtedly become a second family to me while in Austin and them putting a light behind me so I could have my modeling moment cements this, I think. Photo courtesy of Trevor Keig.

Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe in You is Big Thief’s fifth studio album and the first project created by lyrical genius Adrianne Lenker that I had the pleasure of listening to in real time. Released after my first semester at UT, the 80-minute everything but the kitchen sink project almost immediately resonated with me by conveying the complexities of finding love and re-finding yourself.

I hate when music journalists write about COVID-19. It’s almost become a buzzword that’s mentioned almost instantly when someone wants to describe a creative rut in between projects or a motivator for an isolation project within the past three years. However, yeah, COVID-19 affected me too.

College instilled the prospect of a new beginning in me and radicalized me to the idea of independence at the expense of creating a new support group. My first year of hybrid college was lonely. Although being a CAP student is predicated on academics first, I found myself stuck in a rut of working, studying, and almost nothing else.

Then, Adrianne Lenker saved me. 🙌 I first listened to Spud Infinity while visiting an old high school friend, Austin. My sophomore year, I remember waiting for my midnight radio show to start in the PCL and quizzing my friend Bella Russo on whether she could name any Big Thief song based on the first five seconds, being astounded by her Lenkler lexicon. I remember the KVRX Local Live talent show when the former live audio director Karoline performed “No Reason,” and Randal, Rayna, and I were the background vocals.

Most importantly, I remember the first night I met my girlfriend of two years, Sage. It was The Daily Texan's end-of-year party, and we danced through the streets of West Campus to “Simulation Swarm” because the boxy drums compelled us to move, and the melodic bass made the right-foot-left-foot parade back to our apartment easier.

In that album, I regained and found love, and I will always remember that walk down Rio Grande, which started the best two years of my life.

— Darren Puccala, Social Media Editor

Fuzzybrain by Dayglow

Me posing in front of The Ballroom at Spiderhouse, where I shot my first show and many others for Afterglow. Photo courtesy of Elina Carrasco.

While there are many albums that made a significant impact on my college years, the one that stands out to me most is Fuzzybrain by Dayglow.

My freshman year, I found myself in a room of new friends and unsuspecting teenagers on the first floor of Jester East. We spent our first night gathered in a dorm room, talking about life and sharing our favorite music with one another. As we dove into this strange new beginning, the indie tune “Can I Call You Tonight?” became a staple of our joyrides and nights staring up at my friend’s color-changing LEDs. The lyrics “Could you tell me what’s real anymore?” sank deep as we navigated the ups and downs of our first year of college.

In 2021, I went to Austin City Limits Music Festival with my best friends, and we had the time of our lives at Dayglow’s set. Nothing matched the youthfulness and freedom I felt as we danced along to “Hot Rod” at the barricade. The crisp October air blew as the day’s heat dissipated with the setting sun, leaving us singing his catchy lyrics in the breeze. That festival weekend felt like a magical escape from reality, and that was a moment I’ll never forget.

Throughout college, upbeat pieces like “Listerine” and “Run The World!!!” became crucial to my friends and I’s apartment kickbacks and concert pre-games. Singing, “I, I, I, I want to run the world!” while dancing on 26 West’s dusty floors resonated with us, who sought to live in a moment where anything felt possible. Meanwhile, “Fuzzybrain”’s reflective lyrics accompanied me on many nights atop parking garages, staring out at downtown Austin and contemplating life’s many complexities (“There's rain inside my skeleton frame / A hurricane within my rib cage”).

My junior year, I had a full-circle moment when I hosted a Q&A and soundcheck event with Sloan Struble himself. It was so special to hear him speak about his own time at UT and to thank him for his music’s impact on my life. This also marked my first self-run artist event, and seeing how powerful the experience was for everyone, confirmed I made the right choice to work in music.

Listening to Fuzzybrain will always remind me of cherished nights with friends, exploring a new chapter of life, pursuing my passion for working in music, navigating the confusing emotions of youth, and growing up a little more each year. Now, “as foreign as it seems / Let’s celebrate” the conclusion of the past four years and the two “glows” that I love the most — the soundtrack to my youth and a publication that I’m forever grateful for having joined.

— Lauren Stephens, Photo Co-Director

Rat Saw God by Wednesday

A shot taken by a vending machine on campus. Photo courtesy of Zake Bjontegard.

The first time I listened to Rat Saw God, I had never heard an album that was more “me.” I’ll never forget driving to End of An Ear to buy a copy the morning after listening to it for the first time, feeling like this album was the missing piece to the music that makes up who I am. Wednesday tells a story of a place and people all too familiar to me, having grown up in the Bible Belt of Tennessee.

As an angsty teenager, I was so eager to leave the South. I became tired of the place I grew up in and the country music I was expected to like. At the time, I saw moving to Austin as “getting out,” and felt I was finally in a big city where I belonged. This album roughly marked the point in my life where my mentality shifted, and I completely changed my outlook on where I’m from. Wednesday beautifully, yet realistically, paints a picture of all of the parts that make up the American South, for better or for worse. When I listen to this album, I can see the kudzu crawling up telephone poles, truck cabs parked in front yards, dogwood trees blooming white in spring. I can smell the paper mill, barbeque, a fire burning somewhere.

Though this album came out just last year, it has undeniably defined my college experience. It has soundtracked my long drives from Austin back to Tennessee, late nights at Bennu, and long walks at Pease Park. This album will always remind me of my college years and all the memories I’ve made here in Austin, and at the same time, the places and music that raised me.

— Addison Williams, Head Event Coordinator

Punisher by Phoebe Bridgers

Just before the Sam Smith concert last year, one of my best friends, Fran Centron, smiled my way before taking pictures of me in front of an LED wall at the Moody Center. Photo courtesy of Fran Centron.

On February 26, 2020, Phoebe Bridgers released “Garden Song” as the first single to her upcoming album. At that point, I had heard a couple songs from her first project, Stranger in the Alps, and although I liked them, they hadn’t yet made my go-to playlists. About one week later, the COVID-19 pandemic struck and the picture I had of the world disintegrated. Like most others in my class now, a dizzying wave of powerlessness consumed me at a time when I was supposed to be closing one phase of my life and starting the next. In a high point of uncertainty, the feverish lines between dreams and nightmares felt very comfortable. The muffled dancing of the keys in “Garden Song” repeat cyclically, almost mirroring what it feels like to watch powerlines rise and fall on a long drive. Alongside the soft guitar plucks, the keys set the tone like a trance, as Bridgers hums, “Everything's growing in our garden / You don't have to know that it's haunted.”

This same lulling, unnerved feeling carries throughout the album. The second single, “Kyoto,” sonically stands out from the rest of the songs with bright horns, jumping keys, and playful drums. Meanwhile, Bridgers sings of her frustration in not being able to truly enjoy and feel herself anywhere, with problems at home tracking her down even halfway across the world. What follows “Kyoto” is the grim reality of meeting your heroes in “Punisher,” the fatal delusions that come from wanting a bad relationship to work in “Halloween,” and the emptiness of feeling faithless in “Chinese Satellite.”

Next, Punisher moves into “Moon Song” and, what Bridgers describes as its sequel, “Savior Complex.” “Moon Song” is a waltz of two people who feel like they are giving enough to a relationship, but in reality, one person gouged open their chest to knit the other a sweater of their heartstrings and one person will maybe hold their hand every once in a while. My favorite song off the album, “Savior Complex'' is a delicate acoustic guitar ballad that carries on this narrative. She still holds on tight to the shadow of someone who has mentally left the relationship, but this time, she emulates the tension of hating someone for treating you terribly and still being in love with their being. Over tender strings and synths that sound like water dripping, she sings, “Wake up and start a big fire / In our one-room apartment / But I'm too tired / To have a pissing contest / All the bad dreams that you hide / Show me yours, I'll show you mine.” For years, I have had a deep anxiety on how people perceive me, and “Moon Song” has the same claws on my ego that my own self-sabotage does, making me fear never being enough for someone no matter how hard I try. “Savior Complex” has had the opposite effect, in that I feel tranquility in my delusions rather than confrontation, and I invite what is coming my way, even if it hurts me later.

The album concludes with the all-star lineup of “ICU,” “Graceland Too,” and “I Know The End.” The scathing destruction of her relationship with drummer Marshall Vore gets put on blast in “ICU.” “Graceland Too” is a folk-sounding love letter to her friend, believed to be Julien Baker, who is struggling to see the beauty she sees in who they are, singing “She knows she lived through it to get to this moment.” The love becomes shared in the ending harmonies with boygenius bandmates Lucy Dacus and Baker herself, and I am reminded of my best friends, who have lyrics from the song tattooed on them In the almost six-minute closing track “I Know The End,” Bridgers uses the energies of the 10 songs beforehand to ring in the apocalypse, begrudgingly coming to terms that things are messed up and letting it overtake her. Even though the song is a cacophony of fleeting moments, it strangely has helped me feel so much stability, and when I feel overwhelmed, I have a habit of turning to this song to feel less alone in the chaos of these last four years.

Coming out just a month before I left home for the first time, Punisher has been a constant in my four years at UT. Initially finding solace in the melancholy of the album, getting older and growing as a person has made this album feel like a sensory deprivation tank for the soul. I am no longer that girl, nonetheless the one that was hit by every lyric like a truck, but I remember her fondly like an old friend I outgrew. After doing so much healing and learning, I can thank my younger self for her turbulent emotions and how she was trying to protect herself, even if it was ultimately self-sabotage. I now come back to this album feeling at peace, untethered from my old self while still finding comfort in the world she lived in.

– Isabel Alvarez, Creative Director

The Living End by Sarah and the Sundays

A photo of me at one of my favorite study spots off campus, Austin’s Central Public Library. Photo courtesy of Calvin Strempel.

During my sophomore year, my roommate bolted into the living room, ecstatic to talk about her impromptu night out with Susannah Joffe and Brendan Whyburn, vocalist and guitarist for Sarah and the Sundays. I had never heard of either of them, so I spent the rest of the night listening to their music on Spotify. At the time, Sarah and the Sundays only had one album, So You’re Mad About the Cups, and an EP, Half Way Home. I immediately took a liking to their song “Moving On” and played it at least three times the next day. Like a sign from a divine being, their follow-up record, The Living End, dropped the following week. I spent the next couple of months listening to this album regularly.

This album represents a collection of my college experiences. “I’m So Bored” is a perfect summation of my freshman year, which I spent cooped up in my apartment while taking intro science classes on Zoom. It was underwhelming to only interact with the same few friends and have very limited opportunities to meet new ones. So when the next year rolled around, I was eager to make up for lost time. My sophomore year was so chaotic as I was figuring out how to balance my social and academic life. This made me think of the deluxe version of The Living End, which added two of my favorite songs on the album, “Don’t Make Me Cry Anymore” and “High Tide - Demo.” Just like many pre-medicine students, I thought making an A in a class was the most important thing. I spent much of my sophomore year crying about ochem and wondering if I was capable of going to medical school. Not giving in to the pressure and lies about medical school admission that pre-med students hear transformed my mental health for the following school year. During my junior year, I finally relaxed a little bit and spent the weekends with friends instead of forcing myself to stay in and work on assignments. Initially, most of my peers were shocked when I accepted their invitation for a night out. “Are You Really Gonna Show Up Tonight” is a perfect representation of my thought process while trying to convince myself to be social.

Reflecting on the last four years of my life is bittersweet. I loved my time in Afterglow, and I’m thankful for the friends I have made. I’ve gotten the opportunity to pursue one of my dreams: photographing some of my favorite bands and getting to see many concerts that I wouldn’t have financially been able to attend. Every email acceptance for a press pass made me giddy. It breaks my heart to think that this may be my last run as a concert photographer (at least until I finish medical school). As “The Living End,” the final track in the album, eloquently states: “This feels like the end of a fantasy / A bonafide masterpiece / I’ve got so much left to reminisce to.”

— Amelia Tapia, Staff Photographer

OIL OF EVERY PEARL’S UNINSIDES by SOPHIE

After a cool October night at Cheer Up Charlie’s. I think Sigourney Beaver was performing, but I got overstimulated and spent the show at a picnic table on the front patio. She was probably great though. Photo courtesy of Reuben Atkins.

Trying to write about SOPHIE feels like trying to write about God. Trying to describe how I feel about SOPHIE’s music conjures that tip-of-your-tongue feeling that nags at you for days, for me six years. I frankly don’t trust my writing to capture my experience with it, something I usually have confidence in. I have a lot less confidence in how I portray myself these days. Kind of a dour note to go out on, having written here for four years, but we could’ve seen it coming: uncertainty comes with transitional periods, and I listen to a lot of Elliott Smith.

Lately, it’s hard to describe what’s right in front of me: the eclipse, the future, this album as I listen to it while writing about it. None easy targets, but I write what I know. I know something changed when I heard “Ponyboy” in my first dorm room, and I remember listening to Oil of Every Pearl’s Uninsides as a stray dog in the East Village, unable to find myself. I know a still from the video for “It’s Okay To Cry” lives in ink on my thigh, SOPHIE’s arms folded and raised to the sky. I know the first time I heard SOPHIE on a dancefloor was at a club called Berlin in Chicago last year. To briefly break form: I don’t know which song. I was drunk off vodka and Red Bull. I do know that bar is dead, and I know SOPHIE is dead, but I still don’t believe in either. I know that night will live blurry in me everlasting. I know gods don’t die, but I hope the sleep is peaceful.

When I saw a drag performer throw themselves around with an inhuman precision to “Faceshopping” earlier this year, on the third anniversary of SOPHIE’s death, it felt like I saw God. I know when I stood at Cheer Up Charlie’s and watched a drag number set to “Immaterial” in a room full of trans people, I felt the most like myself I could ever feel, and simultaneously like I needed to become more like myself as soon as possible. I know the first time I wore a dress felt a lot like that.

I know grief, and I hear it when I listen to “Whole New World” and imagine the first day, when there was nothing, and then there was light, and then there was Oil, and again nothing. I know optimism, and I hear it when any of SOPHIE’s apostles immolate with that light, that fire. I know a spark is in my soul, and I know I’m trying my best to nurture it. I know I’m trying my best to burn.

— Felix Kalvesmaki, Print Editor in Chief