APRIL

What came first, the weather or the playlist that soundtracks it? April's this weird liminal month where you can't decide if you're optimistic or just pretending, and apparently someone made a running playlist that captures that exact feeling. Fifteen tracks. No obvious theme except maybe uncertainty dressed up as forward motion. Which, let me tell you, is the most April thing I've ever heard.

It opens with "This Must Be The Place" which is either brilliant or cruel depending on your relationship status. David Byrne wrote a love song disguised as architectural anxiety, and now you're supposed to run to it. The tempo's all wrong for running—it's this gentle, swaying thing—but that's kind of the point. You're not running away from winter or toward summer. You're just running because April demands motion without promising destination. Talking Heads into "R.F.G." and "Weekend Friend" establishes this pattern: indie rock that's more interested in mood than momentum. Sure Sure and Mating Ritual aren't household names, but they've figured out this sonic space between bedroom production and actual ambition. The kind of bands Barry would dismiss until he heard them at 2am and grudgingly admitted they're onto something.

Then "Cannonball" hits and suddenly we're dealing with a different energy entirely. If you know, you know—and if you don't, I can't help you. That track's been soundtracking something since the '90s, and its placement here at track four suggests whoever sequenced this understands structure. You're warmed up. Your breathing's settled. Now the playlist can actually move. "Tape Machine" and "Hot Rod" keep that momentum but pull back on the throttle. STRFKR and Dayglow live in this space where indie pop got self-aware about being indie pop, which sounds insufferable but actually works when you're three miles in and your brain needs something bright without being stupid.

"The Fall" arrives right when the playlist could've gotten comfortable, and it shifts everything sideways. Seven tracks in, middle of the run, and suddenly there's this undertow. Whatever optimism the first half was building, "The Fall" complicates it. Rhye does this thing where sensuality sounds like sadness, or maybe it's the other way around—I can never tell. Either way, you're not running the same playlist anymore. "Million Dollar Man" and "Future Now" extend that mood. Lana Del Rey showing up on a running playlist should be ridiculous, but April's the month where ridiculous makes sense. You're running through weather that can't decide what it is, listening to music that won't commit to an emotion.

Top 5 Reasons This Playlist Feels Like Every April Relationship I've Ever Had:

1. Opens with optimism that's structurally unsound—Talking Heads shouldn't work for running, yet here we are, pretending it does.

2. Commits to momentum right when you're emotionally invested (track four), then immediately starts hedging its bets with bedroom pop.

3. Introduces doubt at the exact midpoint ("The Fall")—because why sustain anything functional?

4. Refuses to resolve—fifteen tracks and you still don't know if you're hopeful or just avoiding something.

5. Ends with "Bambi" which could mean renewal or could mean you're Bambi's mom. April never clarifies.

"Good God Regina It's A Bomb" might be the most honest title here. That's what April feels like—someone shouting a warning about something explosive while you're just trying to get through your run. Champyons make this chaotic, propulsive music that sounds like optimism having a panic attack. Perfect for mile eight or nine when your body's negotiating with your brain about whether this was a good idea. "TenTwentyTen" and "Stubborn Forces" lean into that chaos. Local Natives and The Greeting Committee do this communal indie rock thing where everyone's singing together because isolation's worse than admitting you need harmony.

Then "I Saw You Close Your Eyes" arrives and suddenly we're in confessional territory. Local Natives again, but different—this is the track where the playlist stops performing and starts admitting things. You're in the final stretch. Your legs are done negotiating. And here's this song about witnessing someone's private moment of vulnerability, which is either about relationships or about watching yourself run until you can't maintain the performance anymore.

"Nervous" and "Bambi" close it out with this weird combination of jittery energy and pastoral imagery. The Neighbourhood and Hippo Campus aren't obvious pairing, but they share this quality of sounding young without sounding naive. Like they know exactly what they're doing, which is capturing the feeling of not knowing what you're doing. April in two tracks.

Here's what I've figured out about April running playlists: they're never about the weather. April showers, sure, but that's not why you're out here. You're running because April's the month of false starts and tentative optimism and wondering if anything you're building will survive May. This playlist doesn't resolve that. Doesn't even try. It just soundtracks the uncertainty with enough tempo shifts and mood changes that you forget you're essentially running in circles, emotionally and geographically.

Dick would point out the sequencing here is actually sophisticated—peaks and valleys designed to match effort levels without being obvious about it. Barry would argue half these bands are too polished, where's the rawness, where's the stakes. They'd both be right and both be missing the point. This playlist works because it captures what April actually feels like when you're a weekend warrior stealing miles between work chaos and life chaos and the general chaos of pretending you have your shit together.

What came first—the need to run or the need to soundtrack running with music that makes you feel something? April never answers that question. Neither does this playlist. Which is exactly why, fifteen tracks later, you'll probably run it again next weekend. Not because it solved anything. Because it didn't.