Music has always been more than just sound waves to me—it’s an experience, a feeling, and sometimes even a physical reaction. I wanted to write this because I’ve been fascinated with what makes a song not just good, but sonically interesting. Why do some songs stick with us long after they’re done playing? Why do certain tracks make us cry, pump us up, or make us want to drive with the windows down, no destination in mind?

As a drummer, I first started noticing this through dynamics. The way you hit matters. Soft vs. loud. Holding back vs. letting it rip. Dynamics are everything, and that lesson translates to all music.

But beyond dynamics, there are layers of subtlety and personality that make certain songs captivating. Let me walk through a few of the ways I think about it.

Layers & Details: The Art of Sonic Depth

One of the first songs that opened my ears to sonic details was Hey Now by London Grammar. A good friend of mine in the AV industry introduced me to this track on a new sound system, and I’ll never forget that experience. I had always found the song interesting with its wide range, and it does a stellar job showcasing each frequency band: the vocals floating high and clear, layered above the mids and lows with this peaceful urgency.

It became one of my go-to test tracks for new headphones or speakers. But it wasn’t until I heard it on a custom pair of ribbon speakers from Deceptive Acoustics—a small speaker company that packs a serious punch—that I noticed the subtle rattle of snares way in the background. It’s such a tiny detail, almost imperceptible, but it adds this hidden depth that pulls you deeper into the soundscape.

What really makes Hey Now special, though, is how each layer holds its own. In the mids, a beautifully simple and clean electric guitar line quietly picks at the strings, steady and distinct. Down low, the bass isn’t just present—it floods the floor of the room with color, grounding the song with a richness that feels physical. Together, these elements create a space where every frequency band feels intentional and alive.

That’s the kind of intricacy that keeps me coming back to songs: the details you don’t notice at first, but reward you on the tenth or twentieth listen.

Dynamics & Percussion: The Power of Hit and Hold Back

One of the most compelling ways music keeps our attention is through percussion and dynamics—the way sounds hit, evolve, and shift in intensity. Percussion doesn’t have to mean just drums; it can come from anywhere in the arrangement, even from instruments or voices used in unexpected ways.

Jon Bellion’s Woke the F**k Up is a great example of this kind of creativity. At the start, the sharp accents on the synth give a percussive punch even before the drums enter, almost tricking your ear into hearing percussion where there isn’t any yet. As the song progresses, the percussion builds in layers, but never in a predictable way. Bellion even uses vocal hits as crash sounds—an unconventional move that makes the track feel fresh and instantly recognizable.

But just as powerful as adding sound is the choice to hold back. Sometimes the most striking moments in music come when percussion drops out, leaving silence, a vocal line, or a single instrument exposed. Those dynamics—when the beat vanishes or softens—can highlight vulnerability, shift emotion, and make the return of percussion hit even harder.

It’s this push and pull, the tension between sound and space, that makes percussion such a vital storytelling tool in music.

When Sound Becomes Feeling: Swimming or just treading water to keep your head above water

What fascinates me most about music is how it transforms into emotion. Vulnerability is the heart of it—the artist’s willingness to let you hear not just polished notes, but their struggles, joys, and fears. That’s why an album like Mac Miller’s Swimming connects so deeply. Its recurring motifs—water, elevation, isolation, self-care, and the tension between darkness and light—are not just clever devices. They’re mirrors of his inner world, weaving his state of mind into every track.

Tools like text painting, chord choices, and key changes all play their part, but they serve something bigger: the expression of human feeling. A melody that dips as the lyric says “falling,” or a minor key that carries sadness—these are techniques that deepen the bond between sound and story. But they only work because they’re anchored in something real.

When sound and feeling align, the result isn’t just music—it’s a shared experience. It’s the moment when you stop just hearing and start feeling, carried by the openness of the artist.

Vulnerability in Music: A Lesson from Mac

At its core, what makes music meaningful isn’t just technical skill—it’s vulnerability. When an artist bares themselves through their music, it hits differently. Mac Miller’s Swimming is a perfect example. The album is filled with themes of struggle, anxiety, and resilience. It’s not just about catchy beats; it’s about a person wrestling with addiction and fear, expressed through sound. That kind of raw openness creates a bond between artist and listener that no technical trick can replicate.

One of the most powerful moments on the album comes in the track 2009. I first dove deep into it through an episode of Spotify’s Dissect podcast, where the host broke down the song lyric by lyric, placing it in the context of Mac’s life. What struck me is how this song captures Mac at his most vulnerable. The intro was reportedly recorded in a single take, as a freestyle, as Mac stepped into the studio. At this point, he was said to have a certain glow about him—sober, reflective, and present.

The song itself feels like a meditation on what sobriety meant to him. Instead of chasing the numbing highs of drugs, Mac was discovering a new kind of high: the unfiltered ability to feel joy and sadness, to experience life in its full depth. Even small production details carry weight. Some listeners speculate that the high-pitched vocal hits in the track are actually saying phrases like “Help” and “I love you, Mom,” as if he were giving thanks to his mother for always being there for him. Whether or not that’s true, the possibility gives me chills—it’s such an intimate, almost hidden expression of gratitude and struggle.

But what makes 2009 even more special is how it reflects the entire arc of Swimming. The album as a whole feels like Mac looking back on how life has changed—it’s not how it used to be when he first entered the music industry, wide-eyed and carefree. Now he’s wrestling with the weight of fame, perfectionism, and identity, trying to find balance in a world that never stops spinning.

Tracks like Perfecto perfectly capture this tension. The song is an incredible expression of his struggle with perfectionism and acceptance, ending on the single word “perfect”—the only time he admits perfection in the entire song—and it’s delivered in a slightly dissonant tone. That tiny detail says so much: he’s never truly satisfied, never able to reach that unattainable “perfect.” Yet at the same time, there’s a beautiful contradiction in the track—the realization that nothing being perfect is what makes it perfect in its own way.

Then there’s Ladders, an anthem about persistence, about climbing your way back to the top no matter how many times you fall. It radiates this unstoppable energy—like a reminder to keep moving, to keep fighting, even when everything feels heavy. And Wings takes things inward again, where Mac sings humbly and honestly about the things that lift him up, the moments and feelings that give him strength.

Together, these songs form a journey of self-discovery and acceptance. Swimming isn’t just about surviving—it’s about learning to live with yourself, flaws and all. 2009 feels like the emotional center of that journey, the moment where Mac finally pauses, reflects, and lets us in completely. Listening to it reminds me why music like this matters: it’s an artist opening their soul and inviting us to feel something real with them.

Harmony on Another Level: A Band in Harmony in motion

There’s something magical about watching a group of musicians not just play together, but move as one. True harmony isn’t only about the notes being in tune—it’s about the connection between the players, the unspoken cues, and the way each part locks into place to create something greater than the sum of its parts. When a band is in motion like that, you’re not just hearing music—you’re witnessing a living, breathing harmony. Anderson .Paak’s Tiny Desk performance is a perfect example of this. From 2:20 to 3:00, you can see this incredible moment where the band feeds off each other’s energy, riffing and improvising in sync.

And Tiny Desk itself deserves credit—the engineering of the space is brilliant. NPR has turned it into more than just a concert series; it’s a masterclass in intimacy and production. The audio team uses stereo microphones to capture the room, so instead of hearing a flat studio mix, you feel like you’re sitting right there among the audience.

But it’s not just the sound—the video team is equally remarkable. They know exactly where to look, zooming in on every detail at just the right moment. Watch the Tiny Desk episode with Anderson .Paak, and you’ll see how smoothly the camera glides from the drums to the keys, catching nuances without ever feeling staged. There’s even a graceful moment at the end when the camera floats back toward the keys, only to catch Anderson playfully motioning for the lens to return to him. Little details like that make the performance feel alive, as if you’re in the room, sharing the moment with the musicians.

What NPR has created with Tiny Desk is something rare: a space where every technical and production choice serves the music. It’s not just documenting a performance—it’s inviting you into the world of the artist.

The Big Picture: The Human in the Music

When I zoom out, what fascinates me most about music isn’t just the technical tricks—it’s how those techniques become vehicles for something deeper. Dynamics, percussion, and layering matter, but only because they serve the artist’s personality. Vulnerability, motifs, and creative choices are what make songs unforgettable because they’re reflections of the human behind the sound.

That’s why a Tiny Desk performance feels alive, why a song like 2009 can stop you in your tracks, or why an unusual percussion choice in Woke the F**k Up can stick in your head for days. Each of these moments works not just because of craft, but because of honesty—the artist showing you who they are through sound.

To me, that’s the magic of music. It’s not just heard; it’s felt. It’s a conversation between artist and listener, carried by every drum hit, lyric, and chord change. And when it all comes together, it reminds us that music isn’t just entertainment—it’s a connection.