Music. It encompasses so many emotions, places and people in our lives that the two seem interchangeable at times. Whether we realize it or not, there's always a soundtrack playing as we live our lives.

When I first saw "Reservoir Dogs," I was amazed at the melding of music and drama. I remember thinking "OK, this Tarantino guy gets it." Music is life, and life is music, sometimes.

And life is a dream, so you may as well create your own dream.

I admit I have a strange habit. When I read a book, I'll pick a certain favorite album that fits the mood and hit the "repeat" button. I love to lose myself in an auditory and hallucinatory Nirvana. For a while I am Holden Caulfield, if he were jacked up on reds and listening to The Velvet Underground at full-tilt boogie. Hey, it's better than real life & a hell of a lot more interesting.

Of course, this was not news to me.

In my youth, how many punk BPMs rotated in my head while skateboarding around the block? Making out with my girl, Depeche Mode and The Cure was the perfect romantic accompaniment. Later in my years, when my anger matured like bitter wine, the sweet chaotic feedback of experimental punk seemed like aural cutting; sonic waste pouring from my corroded veins.

No matter how bad I felt, or how high my joy was, music was always at the center, pulsing and breathing life into my experiences. To wit, here is an ever-changing, living list of the soundtrack of my life. Enjoy, friends (preferably with music playing).

1. The Cure, "The Top."

Admit it, we all have albums that when first played, we scrunched up our faces and asked, "What the fuck?" But for some reason, we were drawn back to it, enduring alien, screeching sounds just for the sheer joy of solving the riddle. This is where my love for experimental rock began. I spent hours as a teenager hunched over my little turntable studying this one. This was not Robert Smith gleefully singing about how "Boys don't Cry," but was a schizophrenic mishmash of haphazard sounds thrown together on top of a drum beat, accompanied by occasional twitterings on the piano. Apparently Mr. Smith was drinking heavily and doing drugs while helping out his friend Siouxsie with her band at the same time. It showed and I was forever hooked.

2. Portishead, "Portishead."

I remember this came out right before Halloween 1997, which fit its spooky trip-hop beats perfectly. This music was shockingly new to me and echoed the rave culture I so dearly missed. At the time I was living in El Monte with my artist grandmother, painting abstract oil paintings and smoking clouds of cannabis creativity in her studio. My friend David would hand build his clay sculptures next to me and we were content for a time. I miss this time, but in hindsight, I can see the naïve optimistic smokescreen youth waste their time on.

3. Depeche Mode, "Violator."

What a great time this was. And also a time I can never have back. I was in love for the first time and it felt like heroin coursing through my veins (which is what Dave Gahan probably had in his too). The slow building, sexy songs were perfect for all those stolen moments, finding wherever we could to share our love. The songs weren't saccharine sweet, but had an edge to them that bespoke the drama of young love. It fit perfectly and I look back on all the groping and endless kissing with fondness whenever I hear Dave's sultry voice.

4. The Velvet Underground, "White Light/White Heat."

This album can be summed up in one word: explosive. It blew apart my idea of what I thought music should be and set in motion my idea of who I am. I was living in Northern California, uncertain about a lot of things. I knew I was just a different person. It opened up a whole new world of freedom for me; freedom from bland, mindless music, replaced by a sonic discordancy seldom matched to this day. This music was me. I found myself when I first heard "Sister Ray." The powerful discordant riffs overlaid by choppy Jerry Lee Lewis piano twiddlings counterpointed Lou Reed's sexy, confident, but above all, incoherent lyrics. It's still hard to believe this album got made at all, especially considering it was made in 1968. Just another debt we owe to that kindly soul, Andy Warhol, who commissioned them at Factory parties and guided them early on. Cheers, wherever you are, Andy.

5. The Fall, "This Nat-ion's Saving Grace."

When I first heard this album a couple of years back, I was frankly pissed. Published in 1985, I lamented all of those years looking for just this type of music. How in the Hell did I happen to miss this wonderfully creative and dark band? Nevermind, I told myself, get these albums NOW!

I was still licking my wounds from my divorce and was ready to face myself, to be who I've always wanted to be, and The Fall helped me realize this. Behind the chanted lyrics and steamroller rhythms, I found the courage to be myself: a stranger in a strange land. I shaved my head, pierced much cartilage, and began to write. This is still my favorite music to write to, and probably will remain so. It's also my equivalent to a cholo's siren song as I cruise down the block, bass pounding out not rap or oldies, but incessant rhythms and screeching attitude. In other words, to quote the immortal lyrics of Shep & the Limelights: "Da-a-a-a-ddy's home."

6. The Smiths, "Hatful of Hollow."

This album is probably best representative of the old me; the one who was a wallflower, pining away. And yet, it also has a certain undercurrent of rebelliousness as Morrissey asks "What Difference Does It Make?" Still, the malaise is painfully evident here as he cradles the pain, sweetly coaxing an entire generation to love their misery. Morrissey, you are a cheeky bastard, but I love you anyways.

7. Morrissey, "Bona Drag."

Speaking of Morrissey, nothing reminds me more of O.C. than this album does. Just hearing the first few opening bars of "The Last of the Famous International Playboys" brings back such a rainfall of memories as to be overwhelming. Even though my friends and I listened to abstract techno at warehouse parties, we'd always chill in my car on the way home to this. Good times in my car, frying eyeballs on acid. Usually we all sang the lyrics together, horribly out of key. But it didn't matter, because this music was love and youth and having a good time all rolled into one.

8. Dead Kennedys, "Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables."

I have to blame my brother for this one. See, my brother and sister are ten and twelve years older than I am. This came out in the early 80's, and my brother was in full punk swing, complete with trench coat, torn jeans and Doc Martins.

Whereas most kids beg and plead their moms for a new pair of Nikes, I was desperate to have my own pair of Doc Martin creepers. I still have them, in fact. It was a surreal experience going into the head shop in the Orange Circle and having a mohawked babe fit me for a pair of $120 leather shoes at the tender age of twelve.

It was the song "Holiday in Cambodia" that got me forever hooked on the sheer audacity of punk when I first heard it played in my brother's bedroom. That, or the contact high I got. Thanks, bro.

9. The White Stripes, "The White Stripes."

This album came along after lonely years in the classic-rock saturated hippie detour I made while smoking my mind to ash in Northern California. Dissatisfied with the pretentious artistry of the Beatles or Pink Floyd, I finally understood what blues should sound like. Blues ballads didn't have orchestras to back them up, and there certainly wasn't any Yoko there to fuck it up. Instead, we have a man, his guitar and voice, and a girl and her simple kit. That's it. See, because the blues musicians that mattered could barely afford an instrument after they poured what little money they had into their veins. That's real blues, and by extension, real rock 'n' roll. The attitude of this music is the antithesis of pretention; its power is best uncluttered and raw. And yet, Jack White is still able to infuse the country soul into his blaring guitar blasts indicative of the blues greats. This is the height of rock 'n' roll.

10. Beastie Boys, "Ill Communication."

The Beastie boys are somewhat of a guilty pleasure for me. Being the rebel that I am, I abhor most rap and hip-hop. Sure, you can't escape it and I do my best not to walk up to the DJ and yell in his face after hearing "Poker Face" for the twentieth time. But the Beastie Boys have always been different. I admired them in the '80's for their in your face party boy attitude a la "Fight for your Right," but it wasn't until later on that they hit their stride.

I had just moved to Northern California, quite confused about my place in this world, hence I grabbed onto any genre of music I could find to help my depression. Luckily I found this album and it was a continual source of enjoyment. It's hard to believe they're still classed in the genre of rap, because they're so much more than that. Songs like "Sabotage" and "Root Down" are playful yet layered, lending itself to repeated playing. This is also the first album they seriously applied their instrumental work and it was a surprising success. There's also a song called "Bodhisattva's Vow" that introduced me to Buddhism which led me to become a devout Buddhist for several years. What other rap albums can boast that? None, because this is the Beastie Boys we're talking about. Namaste, homeboys.