The Song Behind the Meme

More than once I’ve encountered the memeification of a song before the music itself. I thought Drake was referencing a twitter shitpost when he sang that line about “I only love my bed and my mama”. This says more about me than it does music or social media.

This week known poet and degree-in-quiltmaking-haver Jennifer Huang introduced me to a song that I guess is big on TikTok by an artist who is only 23 years old. I love learning about artists through people’s thoughtful essays, and since I’ve yet to migrate to the clock app, this is how I find new music—also making poets close read pop music is my favorite pastime.

Though today’s song may be recent, its feelings are perennial. Enjoy!

Carl

by Jennifer Huang

These past few weeks, a new TikTok trend slowly crept up onto my FYP. This time: people lip-syncing and tripping over themselves on random beaches and fields to what I thought was a chipmunk voice but was, in reality, a sped-up version of “ceilings” by Lizzy McAlpine. Besides knowing McAlpine from her excellent folk song “To the Mountains,” the video that prompted me to finally look up the song was one by the creator lainedubin. It was her ice skating lunge move on the line “and you don’t exist” that finally allowed me to feel the emotional resonance. 

The first time I listened to “ceilings" in full was on the drive from Amarillo to Albuquerque. I’m not a stranger to crying in my car on long road trips while listening to music, and “ceilings" did just that to me. It gave me goosebumps. It pulled on heartstrings I didn’t even know existed. It made me remember my “one that got away” ex and how we would probably never kiss again. The song perfectly captures a proclivity of mine to crush hard. It starts with me fantasizing and remembering moments with my crush. Then, fantasy and reality begin to mix together until I can’t tell them apart, and I am left to wonder what of the relationship is or was even real. Did I make it all up?

“ceilings” has a cinematic quality to it that mirrors the high-stakes feeling of crushing, when every moment is precious and full of meaning. It's a pretty simple song. Much of the lyrics repeat, oftentimes with slight variation, which lends a feeling of obsession and getting lost inside of imagination. It starts with acoustic strumming, and then McAlpine’s soft yet clear voice coming through: “Ceilings / Plaster / Can’t you just make it move faster?” In these lines, we’re with the singer staring at a ceiling, but then we're soon pulled into some other world: “You're kind of cute but it’s / raining / harder / My shoes are now full of water.” 

As the verse goes on, the vocals get stacked to emphasize the end of each phrase. It’s not until the second verse that the bass and drums come in, adding another depth that feels, to me, like the thrum of beating hearts. McAlpine sings: “Bedsheets / No clothes / Touch me like nobody else does.” The lyrics are full of sweet, significant moments like this—driving home after a date, kissing in the rain, laying in bed with a significant other. But the moments quickly disappear with lines like: “but it’s so short,” “but I don’t wanna ruin the moment," “but it’s over.”

And then a final one at the climax that McAlpine sings with the swelling of violins: “But it’s not real / and you don’t exist.” We suddenly realize, with the singer, that what happened in the first 3/4 of the song is no longer real. Maybe never was. 

I’ve often wondered if crushing and heartbreak were just two sides of the same coin. Crushing, for me, has often led to devastating results. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve tried to avoid it—because it’s a tender, embarrassing experience that, once I begin, is hard to just cut off.

The end of “ceilings" mimics these feelings. The final lines are a variation on the chorus. Instead of singing, "And it feels like the start of a movie I’ve seen before," McAlpine sings, "And it feels like the end of a movie I’ve seen before." The subtle change in the phrase emphasizes the dissolution of the fantasy. And there’s a moment of pause before Lizzy sings the last word, and when she does, her voice is low. The song closes but the feelings linger. 

It’s been a while since I’ve nursed a crush, but one started to bud these past few days. I’ve felt a pull into the fantasy world. The way my heart colors everything with a sunny tint when I think of that person. I feel giddy and scared. I’m learning to have boundaries around the fantasy so that I don’t get completely sucked in. I’m learning that having a crush on someone doesn’t mean I have to act on it. 

And with all the latest, more meme-ified versions of the “ceilings" trend, I’m learning how having a crush could maybe be a fun experience—or, experiment? This crush is but a blip on the timeline. It won’t last—but it exists—and that’s okay.

Jennifer Huang is the author of Return Flight, which was awarded the 2021 Ballard Spahr Prize for Poetry from Milkweed Editions. Their poems have appeared in POETRY, The Rumpus, and Narrative Magazine, among other places; and they have been received recognition from the Academy of American Poets, Brooklyn Poets, North American Taiwan Studies Association, and more. In 2020, Jennifer earned their M.F.A. in Poetry at the University of Michigan Helen Zell Writers' Program. Born in Maryland to Taiwanese immigrants, they have since called many places home.

If you liked this essay then you should read Jennifer’s poetry! It’s very good.