10 songs that shaped me (and why #1 involves a head injury)
from shakira to sam sparro: the unexpected soundtrack of a queer boricua's evolution
tl;dr: i curated a 40-song playlist of my messy, beautiful life. here are 10 tracks from that playlist that tell the story of who i am, from childhood mishaps to found family in san diego. fyi, this post will be longer than your email allows, so it will get truncated!
hey mi gente! 🎵✨
you know that feeling when a song hits you and suddenly you're transported back in time? that's not just nostalgia talking—it's your brain firing on all cylinders, forging connections between sound, memory, and emotion.
as a kid growing up in puerto rico, i didn't know about the science behind it. i just knew that music made me feel alive.
from the moment i could reach the radio dial (standing on my tippy toes), i've been obsessed with the power of a good beat and a catchy hook. it wasn't until years later, knee-deep in queer theory books and gender studies classes, that i realized how profoundly those songs had shaped me. each track was a tiny revolution. each a whispered promise that there was a world beyond my island, beyond the confines of what others expected of me.
scientists call it "autobiographical memory"1—the way music can trigger such vivid recollections that you can almost smell, taste, and touch the past. me? i call it magic. and trust me, as a queer boricua who's navigated everything from catholic guilt to the cutthroat world of d.c. politics, i've needed a little magic to get by.
so, i've distilled my chaotic, beautiful life into a 40-song playlist called "vibra de eddy." today, i’m diving into 10 of those tracks. each one is a time machine, a mood, a piece of my soul set to music. from childhood accidents that led to musical epiphanies, to anthems that got me through my first heartbreaks and coming out, these songs aren't just a soundtrack—they're part of the story of how i became me.2
let's press play and see where these sonic memories take us. who knows? you might just find a bit of your own story hidden in the notes.
1. "dónde están los ladrones" - shakira (mtv unplugged)
🗓️ 1999 | 📍 puerto rico | 🩹 one massive chichón and an obsession with shakira
it's 1999, and i’m in puerto rico. little eddy's world is about to be turned upside down—literally. my brother and i, fueled by the kind of brilliant idiocy that only comes with childhood, decide that wrestling on the top bunk is the height of entertainment.
spoiler alert: gravity wins, and i end up headfirst on the floor, sporting a chichón the size of pluto. my worried mami, convinced i'm one nap away from a telenovela-worthy coma (con amnesia y todo), refuses to let me sleep. little did i know, this cranial calamity was about to become the best worst thing to happen to me.
enter shakira, the pint-sized powerhouse. forced into late-night wakefulness, i find myself glued to the tv, watching shakira's mtv unplugged performance. from the moment she steps on stage, all wild curls and raw talent, i'm transfixed. "dónde están los ladrones" hits me like a second bump on the head, but this time, it's pure magic. the stripped-down arrangement, the passion in her voice, the way she commands the stage—it was a revelation for me. in that instant, positively concussed and thoroughly captivated, i realize music is more than just background noise. it is a force of nature, a way to tell stories, to challenge norms, to make you feel alive.
this wasn't just a concert; it was shakira staking her claim as a serious artist, shedding the pop princess image for something grittier, more authentic. and there i was, a puerto rican kid with a goose egg on his head, soaking it all in. that night changed me. any other night, i would be in bed already, i would have missed this.
watching this sparked an obsession with music that went beyond mere fandom—it was the beginning of understanding music as a form of expression, of rebellion, of identity. so yeah, sometimes life's best moments come from its messiest accidents. or as shakira might say, try everything, you might just fall into something beautiful. just maybe wear a helmet next time.
my honorable mentions from shakira’s mtv unplugged album: octavo dia, si te vas, estoy aqui, and no creo.
2. "everything is everything" - lauryn hill
🗓️ 1998 | 📍 puerto rico | 🎵 from outcast to lyrical outlaw
it's 1998, and i'm a scrawny, mouthy 12-year-old in puerto rico, an island that feels both vast and suffocatingly small. my trusty walkman is on repeat, blasting lauryn hill's "the miseducation of lauryn hill"—an album that would become the unlikely soundtrack to my coming-of-age. in a place where i should blend in seamlessly, i stick out like a sore thumb, branded with whispers of "pato"3 that follow me like a persistent shadow.
enter "everything is everything," a track that hit like a bolt of lightning, illuminating everything for me. as i pore over the lyrics, trying to decipher lauryn's rapid-fire delivery, i'm not just learning english. (thanks, lauryn - you elevated my language and vocabulary from day one.) i'm discovering a new language of self-expression.
"after winter, must come spring" became one of my mantras, a lifeline in a sea of bullying and gay-bashing. this mantra is still so clawed deep in my soul, it is still a reference, a point of center. suddenly, i don't feel so alone. lauryn's words about struggle, hope, and perseverance speak to my soul. here's this fierce woman, effortlessly blending hip-hop, soul, and r&b, rapping about ghetto life and universal truths, making me believe that my story—this queer boricua kid's journey—is part of a much larger narrative.
this song becomes my secret weapon, my passport to a world beyond the island's shores. when the walls feel like they're closing in, i mumble "everything is everything" like a brujo's incantation.
i can't overstate how crucial this album is to who i am as a person. it's not just music—it's the blueprint that helped shape my identity, my resilience, my dreams. little did i know, as i sat there with my walkman, that these beats and rhymes were planting the seeds for the person i'd become today. "what is meant to be will be," yes, lauryn, yes! my eyes well with tears. you were right all along. i can see it now.
3. "plástico" - willie colón and rubén blades
🗓️ 1990 | 📍 puerto rico | 💼 from salsa to social critique
imagine five-year-old me, sunkissed and precocious as ever. i used to walk around (according to mami) carrying a notebook, a pencil, and wearing sunglasses that had no lenses. barely tall enough to reach the radio dial, i bopped along to "plástico" without a clue that i was dancing to a scathing critique of societal superficiality.
willie colón and rubén blades, the dynamic duo of salsa consciente4, had unleashed this musical molotov cocktail on their groundbreaking album "siembra" in 1978, years before i was even a twinkle in my papi's eye. little did i know that this would become part of the soundtrack to my political awakening. as i grew older, i shed the rose-tinted lenses of childhood (but kept the notebook). the lyrics of "plástico" began to crystallize into something way more potent than just a good song.
"no te dejes confundir (don't let yourself be confused)
busca el fondo y su razón (seek the depth and its reason)
recuerda se ven las caras (remember you see faces)
pero nunca el corazón." (but never the heart.)
coño, if that isn't a masterclass in critical thinking and the dangers of superficiality, i don't know what is. this is a warning i should have heeded and would have saved me years of trauma and pain. little eddy, dancing without a care, had no idea.
now, as i watch the world grapple with late-stage capitalism and the hollowness of consumer culture, "plástico" rings truer than ever. willie and rubén's musical prophecy has become a cornerstone of my worldview, a salsa-infused vaccine against the epidemic of superficiality. every time i hear those opening horns and that funky bass line, i'm that five-year-old again, but now i'm dancing with purpose, locked in a mission to keep it real in a world that's all too plastic.
4. "bittersweet - live" - lianne la havas
🗓️ 2021 | 📍 washington, dc to san diego | 💔 heartbreak and independence
there's a peculiar ache that comes with endings. it’s a pain so visceral it feels like your very atoms are being torn asunder. that's where i found myself during the summer of 2021, clutching the tattered remains of an eight-year relationship, with lianne la havas's "bittersweet" as my lifeline.
as i packed up my life in washington, dc, each box felt like it was a coffin for shared memories. it was this song that became the soundtrack to my silent and secret unraveling.
"oh please stop asking,
do you still love me?
don't have much to say,
let's speak in the morning."
god, how many times had i played out that exact scene? over and over. love reduced to a series of postponed conversations. each moment of avoidance and resentment becoming another nail in the relationship's coffin.
la havas's voice, smooth as honey yet laced with an unmistakable ache, gave form to the formless pain swirling inside me. in those moments, curled up on the floor of an increasingly empty apartment, i felt seen in a way that was both comforting and excruciating. the chorus always struck me so intensely, so deeply. it was the embers of the fire that i was stoking from the ashes of the pain and collapse.
"bittersweet summer rain
i'm born again
all my broken pieces."
there i was, shattered on the east coast, dreaming of rebirth on the west. san diego beckoned like a mirage, promising reinvention, but first i had to weather this storm. each raindrop on the window felt like a tear i couldn't shed, my body too dehydrated from crying to produce more. the refrain "no more hanging around" became my mantra, a push to keep moving when all i wanted was to curl up and disappear. i was leaving behind not just a person, but a version of myself. with every state line i crossed, i felt the weight of that old self lifting, replaced by something raw and uncertain.
arriving in san diego, i was a collage of broken pieces held together by nothing more than hope and the echoes of this song. "bittersweet summer rain / i'm born again"… standing on the pacific shore, salt spray mingling with tears i thought had long since dried up, i finally understood. some endings are beginnings in disguise, and sometimes you have to shatter completely to find out what you're really made of. lianne la havas didn't just give me a song; she gave me a roadmap through heartbreak, a permission slip to feel every jagged edge of my pain, and ultimately, a lullaby for the new self i was becoming.
5. "no need to argue" - the cranberries
🗓️ 2010 | 📍 grand rapids, mi | 💔 love's silent scream
in 1994, as i was learning to toddle puerto rico, the cranberries were releasing their sophomore album, "no need to argue." the title track, a haunting ballad of love's aftermath, wouldn't find its way to me until 2010, in a cramped grand rapids apartment that felt more like a war zone than a home. dolores o'riordan's ethereal voice, tinged with irish lilt and raw emotion, became the soundtrack to my silent suffering in a relationship that was slowly suffocating me.
"there's no need to argue anymore
i gave all i could, but it left me so sore."
i remember hearing these words and feeling crushed under their relevance. derek and i had been together for a year and some change, cohabiting for most of it. when times were good, they were so good - there was so much joy and so much love. but our shared space had become a minefield of unspoken resentments and explosive arguments. i'd find myself curled up on our secondhand couch, headphones on, o'riordan's voice my only company as i tried to make sense of the love that was destroying me. each lyric felt like a diary entry i was too afraid to write… too afraid to even acknowledge.
the memories of our early days—"watching t.v. movies on the living room armchair"—had become tainted, overshadowed by the constant tension and derek's increasingly controlling behavior. his insistence that i partake in drugs i didn't want, his selfish demands that chipped away at my identity—it all echoed in the song's resigned tone. "was it all a waste of time?" i'd wonder, o'riordan's voice giving shape to the doubt that gnawed at me daily.
after eight suffocating months of cohabitation, i finally found the strength to leave. packing my bags to the melancholic strains of "no need to argue," each item I placed in a box felt like shedding a layer of the person i'd become—someone i no longer recognized. "you'll always be special to me," the song promised, and despite the pain, i knew it was true. derek had been my first real love, my first deep heartbreak. as i closed the door on that chapter of my life, o'riordan's haunting refrain—"will i forget in time?"—followed me like a bittersweet benediction.
now, years later, when those opening chords drift through my speakers, i'm transported back to that small michigan apartment. but the ache has transformed into something like gratitude. "no need to argue" remains a powerful reminder of everything i've survived. this song is a musical talisman against falling back into patterns of self-denial and acquiescence. it's a battle cry disguised as a lullaby, urging me to honor my boundaries, to recognize my worth. in those moments of reflection, i silently thank dolores o'riordan for lending her voice to my silent screams, for helping me find my own.
6. "paradise people" - sam sparro
🗓️ 2021 | 📍 san diego | 👥 chosen family under celestial skies
in life, there are gems that shine brighter than others. these gems are the ones that shine on our crowns, the ones that give us the sparkle we need when we don’t have any. sam sparro's "paradise people" isn't just a song, this is an anthem for the chosen families we build in the crucibles of adversity and joy. for me, it's become the unofficial hymn of my san diego tribe, a musical embodiment of the bonds forged in the sunshine and shadows.
“we are the paradise people
we are the moon and the stars
we are the church and the steeple
sent down from venus and mars”
sparro croons, and god, if that doesn't capture the essence of my queer familia here! it’s perfect. we're a constellation of misfits and dreamers, each of us a celestial body in our own right, forming a galaxy of support that outshines the darkness of societal expectations and personal demons.
and god, i love my people fiercely, staunchly, and passionately! in the echoes of this refrain, i hear our laughter from beach bonfires. the whispered confessions in tiny apartments during 3 a.m. existential crises. the collective sighs of relief when one of us makes it through another day of being unapologetically ourselves in a world that often demands conformity.
"we are the church and the steeple / sent down from venus and mars" – there's a divine quality to the sanctuary we've created, a holy ground of acceptance where our queerness, our nonbinaryness, our very otherness is not just tolerated but celebrated.
we've held each other up through breakups that felt like the end of the world, pooled our meager resources to keep roofs over heads during financial free-falls, and formed human chains of support to move each other into new homes and new chapters of life. our liturgy is one of unconditional love, our communion the shared meals where tears and laughter flow in equal measure.
every time "paradise people" plays, whether it's blasting from my speakers or softly humming through my earbuds on a solitary walk, i'm reminded of the magnetic force that keeps us orbiting each other. "we the people of paradise / we can no longer hide in the night," sparro declares, and i feel it deeply. the call to bring our collective light into the world, to illuminate the path for others still searching for their celestial family. san diego isn't just a city; it's the stage upon which we, the paradise people, perform our greatest act: loving each other fiercely, unequivocally, and without apology. in the end, that's what makes any place worth calling home. this one’s for my paradise people - you know exactly who you are.
7. "take a bow" - madonna
🗓️ 1994 | 📍 puerto rico | 👑 the queen of pop's bedtime story
in 1994, while most kids were bobbing their heads to "the lion king" soundtrack, i was being initiated into the church of madonna, courtesy of my mami's impeccable taste in music. "bedtime stories," madonna's sixth studio album, became the unlikely lullaby of my childhood, with "take a bow" standing out as the crown jewel. produced by the r&b maestro babyface edmonds, this track marked a departure from madonna's dance-pop roots, showcasing a softer, more vulnerable, intimate side.
babyface's midas touch is evident throughout "take a bow". it's a masterclass in restraint, both musically and lyrically, proving that sometimes the quietest moments speak the loudest. i would dramatically lip-sync to "all the world is a stage / and everyone has their part" to my mom when we’d listen to it. the song carries in it such drama and power… i just can’t help but to love it.
the music video, a provocative affair that blended bullfighting imagery with madonna's signature sensuality, was more than just eye candy – it was her audition tape for "evita." 5 the looks she served in the video remain some of the more iconic i have ever seen.
revisiting "take a bow" now, i'm struck by how it encapsulates a specific moment in time – not just for madonna or the music industry, but for me. it's the sound of lazy sunday mornings, of my mom's perfume mingling with the scent of café con leche, of learning that heartbreak and strength often go hand in hand. madonna and babyface crafted more than just a hit; they created a time capsule of emotion that continues to resonate.
in many ways, "take a bow" became a soundtrack to my own coming-of-age, teaching me lessons about resilience and self-respect long before i truly needed them. "i've always been in love with you," madonna sings, and while she's singing about a fickle lover, for me, it's a declaration of enduring love – for music, for my mom, for the parts of ourselves we discover through art. it's a reminder that sometimes the most profound connections we form are not with people, but with the songs that shape us.
8. "simple things" - db clifford
🗓️ 2007 | 📍 grand rapids, mi | 🌍 a quiet anthem for a chaotic world
in the vast ocean of digital noise, sometimes you stumble upon a pearl so rare, so perfectly formed, that you can't help but wonder how it's escaped the world's notice. db clifford's "simple things" is that pearl for me. a song i discovered in 2007 while trawling the internet's musical underbelly. clifford, a canadian-french artist with a resume that reads like a globetrotter's dream – from bordeaux's prestigious c.i.a.m. school of music to los angeles' glittering music scene – remains criminally underappreciated. this is a secret i've selfishly guarded and generously shared in equal measure.
"i'm checking out the headlines / they say the human race is dying," clifford’s voice is a balm for the existential dread that seeps through our news feeds. it's a line that feels even more poignant now than it did in 2007! what a prescient nod to the information overload that would come to define our digital age! this song is evergreen.
but it's the chorus that truly captures the essence of this hidden gem:
"i need peace and i need love
i need all the things sent from above
i need chocolate cake and lemon pie
i need all the things that make me smile."
in these lines, clifford distills the human experience down to its most essential elements. because, honestly, a lot of us yap about everything we want and wish we could have. we covet, and covet relentlessly. but in a world of complexity, it's often the simplest pleasures that really anchor us.
what always strikes me about "simple things" is its unapologetic sincerity. clifford dares to be earnest, and that really resonates with me. he lays bare the universal longing for peace, love, and yes, even dessert, haha. it's a song that acknowledges the weight of the world – "power and religion / are holding hands against all reason" – while still insisting on the transformative power of joy. “soon the politicians / will be touching little boys with the pope’s permission” now there’s the fire i love! i remember listening to this and thinking clifford was gonna get in trouble. (i don’t know if he ever did.) what an impactful set of lyrics… every time i listen, i'm transported back to that moment in 2007 when i first heard it, feeling like i'd stumbled upon a secret manifesto.
clifford's journey as an artist – from universal/interscope signee to independent creator, from loss to rebirth – mirrors the themes of resilience and appreciation for life's small miracles that permeate "simple things." his ability to play every instrument, to craft such an intricate album alone in his home studio speaks to a kind of artistic purity that's become increasingly rare. it's as if the song itself is a testament to finding beauty and meaning in solitude, in the act of creation for its own sake.
whenever i share "simple things" with friends, inevitably met with raised eyebrows and "who is this guy?" i feel a mix of pride and bewilderment. how has an artist who's toured with james blunt and counting crows, who's shared festival billing with amy winehouse, remained so under the radar?
but perhaps there's a certain magic in that obscurity, a reminder that true artistry doesn't always align with fame. db clifford's "simple things" stands as a quiet anthem for those of us who find solace in the overlooked, who seek out the profound in the everyday. it's a song that, like its creator, deserves far more recognition than it's received – but maybe, just maybe, its power lies in being a secret shared among those who truly listen.
9. "love song" - sara bareilles
🗓️ 2007 | 📍 grand rapids, mi | 🚗 prelude to a night of freedom
it was a crisp grand rapids evening in 2007 and i was perched on the edge of transformation. my friend stacy's sat in her car, in front of hruby hall at aquinas college, the dorm that had been both my shelter and my cage. as i slid into the passenger seat, the air thick with anticipation for our night out, stacy's fingers found the play button. "you've got to hear this, this song is so you, you’ll love this" she said, and suddenly sara bareilles' "love song" filled the car.
bareilles' voice, a blend of vulnerability and strength, poured from the speakers as we sat there, the campus fading into the background. "i'm not gonna write you a love song / 'cause you asked for it, 'cause you need one," she declared, and in that moment, parked outside the dorm i realized this was the prelude to liberation for me. this was a time where i was a “baby gay”, i was starting to come out of my cocoon. it was in college and out with my friend stacy where i was starting to be publicly out. my family and my church did not know.
the irony of the song's origin wasn't lost on me, even then. bareilles had written it as a rebellious response to her record label's demands for a hit single, pouring her frustration into a track that would, ironically, become her breakthrough. in just 30 minutes of inspired creation, she'd captured a universal yearning for authenticity that resonated far beyond the music industry.
as stacy and i sat there, the song our cocoon, i felt a kinship with bareilles' struggle. how many times had i been asked to write my own "love song" for the world—to be the straight, conforming, "normal" boy everyone expected? but that night, i realized that i was finally ready to sing my own tune. and i was doing it! i was really doing it.
"love song" became the soundtrack to that pivotal moment—the breath before the plunge, the quiet before a personal revolution. every time i hear it now, i'm transported back to that car, to the threshold between my old life and the authentic one waiting to begin. it reminds me of the power of music to articulate our deepest truths, to give us courage when we need it most.
in refusing to write a conventional love song, bareilles had unknowingly penned an anthem for all of us on the verge of embracing our true selves. and as stacy and i finally pulled away from hruby hall, headed towards a night of what was likely debauchery, fun, and self-discovery, i felt ready to write my own story—no compromise, no apologies, just pure, unadulterated truth.
10. "who's stickin' it, pt. i & ii" - sunrize
🗓️ 2021 | 📍 san diego/washington, dc | 🕺 funk across the miles for a hoe phase
i’m never going to forget when my friend sent me this song. he sends me so many recommendations, but this one really took the cake. "who's stickin' it, pt. i & ii" is a 1972 gem that found its way to me in 2021 via my best friend pat, bridging the 2,600 miles between san diego and washington, dc with a groove so infectious it could make a statue shake its marble hips.
sunrize, a funk, soul, and disco outfit born from the creative loins of the isley brothers, may have only gifted the world one album, but oh, what a gift it was.
spearheaded by david townsend (son of the legendary ed townsend and guitarist for the isley brothers), drummer/writer everett collins, and bassist tony herbert, the band created a sound that was less a musical composition and more a seismic event. "who's stickin' it" isn't just a song; it's a time machine, a portal to an era when platforms were high, collars were wide, and inhibitions were delightfully low.
when pat first sent me this track, i was still finding my footing in san diego, the newness of the city was exhilarating and overwhelming. i was all over the place. but as soon as the song started, it was as if pat had bottled the essence of our friendship—irreverent, joyous, slightly provocative—and sent it cross-country in audio form. the song's unabashed funkiness, its celebration of the carnal and the carefree, resonated with the part of me that was finally learning to embrace all facets of my identity, free from the constraints of my past. not to mention it’s just a fucking good song, it beckons you to move. you can’t help it.
i’ll confess it - pat sent this to me because i was in the middle of a hoe phase in san diego at the time. when i told you i was all over the place… i was all. over. the. place. feral, horny, and locked on target. and this was my married best friend, low-key invoking the debauchery and good times we had years past when we were single and hanging out a lot. it was like he was saying it was okay, giving me permission, haha. every listen transports me back to sweaty nights in dc and baltimore bars, to impromptu living room dance parties, to those moments of pure, unadulterated friendship that defined my years in the capital.
this song, with its unabashed celebration of life's pleasures, serves as a reminder to live fully, love deeply, and dance shamelessly. it's a testament to the power of music to connect us across time and space, and to the enduring nature of friendship. in its groove, i find not just nostalgia, but a continuing invitation to embrace joy. this song makes me keep that funk alive in my heart, no matter where life takes me.
so there you have it, mi gente. ten tracks from the mixtape of my life. each one a little piece of me, a snapshot of joy or pain or growth or all of the above.
this playlist, like this blog, is my way of making sense of it all. it's political awakenings and queer celebrations, cultural pride, and the search for belonging. it's me, in all my contradictory glory, trying to find the right rhythm in this noisy world.
now it's your turn. what song would be on the soundtrack of your life? drop a track in the comments that shaped who you are. let's make a collective playlist, one beautiful, messy life at a time.
until next time, keep your volume up and your mind open. unless you're blasting bigotry. then maybe hit mute and reassess, yeah?
con todo mi corazón y un poco de reverb,
edgard 🎵🌈✊🏽
p.s. if you made it this far, congratulations! you've survived the edgard audio experience™. your reward? knowing that somewhere out there, a very embarrassing recording exists of me attempting to hit shakira's high notes in the shower. some performances are best left unheard, my friends. 😘
the full name of the phenomenon is “music-evoked autobiographical memories” or MEAMs.
a lot of lgbtqia+ people (and let’s be honest, straight, cis people too) really depend on music to form and shape their identity, especially in the face of oppression and hate.
“pato” is a derogatory slang term for a gay man, a man that is effeminate, not masculine enough.
“salsa consciente” is a subgenre of salsa music characterized by socially conscious lyrics that address political and social issues affecting latin american communities. willie colón and rubén blades are considered pioneers of this style, with their collaborative album "siembra" (1978).
i just need to note how badass it is that she turned the entire music video into an audition tape for evita and got the role. the looks in the video are iconic as fuck.
Seeing the Cranberries on your list makes me feel closer to you, Edgard.