GO YO

What came first: the need to run or the need to disappear? Because let me tell you, they're not the same thing, and this playlist knows it.

Thirteen tracks. All chillwave, all undefineds—and yeah, that bothers me more than it should. I need to know who made what, when, on what label. It's how I make sense of things. But maybe that's the point. Sometimes you just have to press play and go without knowing every pressing detail, every B-side, every who-dated-who piece of the story. Sometimes you just have to, as the kids apparently say now, "just go, yo."

Barry would lose his mind over a playlist this... relaxed. No angular post-punk, no Dischord Records rawness, just synth-washed indie that sounds like someone dunked The xx in a vat of 1980s prom night and added drum machines. Cash+David, Tiny Deaths, Class Actress—these are bands that understand something about distance. Not physical distance, the kind you're running. Emotional distance. The kind where you're in the same room but might as well be on different continents.

Track one, "X," opens with that patient, patient chillwave shimmer. It's not rushing you. The BPMs are probably all wrong for running—too slow, too spacey—but that's the thing about running to clear your head: you're not actually trying to go fast. You're trying to go away. "The Gardener" and "Us" follow, and by the time "Candy" hits, you realize this playlist isn't about propulsion. It's about suspension. You're moving, sure, but you're floating through it, and every synth pad is giving you permission to not have your shit together for thirty-two minutes.

Here's what gets me: "Sophia So Far," "Let Me Take You Out," "Terminally Chill." These aren't just track titles. They're tiny short stories about wanting and not having. About asking and not knowing if anyone's listening. I made a mixtape once with "Let Me Take You Out" thinking it was charming and direct. She never mentioned it. That's the thing about being direct—it only works if someone's willing to meet you there.

The middle stretch—"Good Mistake" into "Cross The Street"—is where the playlist stops being background and starts being company. You're at mile two, maybe three, legs finally warm, and the music isn't pushing you forward. It's just... there. Keeping pace. Not judging. Dick would probably mention that chillwave emerged in 2009 as a Pitchfork-approved nostalgia genre, all gated reverb and cassette hiss aesthetics. But knowing that doesn't change how it feels when "random banger" kicks in and you realize someone named a track "random banger" and had the confidence to just let it exist.

Top 5 things this playlist taught me about running away versus running toward something:

1. "Terminally Chill" is a mood, not a tempo—sometimes the slowest songs make you move the fastest because you're trying to outrun the feeling, not the BPM.

2. Undefined artists force you to focus on the sound, not the story—no Wikipedia rabbit holes, no remembering who they dated, just the synth wash and your breathing.

3. Chillwave in daylight is different than chillwave at night—this is a dawn run playlist, the kind where you're up too early because you didn't sleep, and the sun is just starting to crack the sky.

4. "Good Mistake" at track eight is the exact moment you admit why you're really running—not for fitness, not for clarity, but because sitting still meant thinking about it.

5. A playlist titled "GO YO" with all lowercase and an exclamation point is someone trying really hard to sound casual about something that isn't casual at all—we see you, curator. We see you.

"hotline" hits at track eleven, and I'm thinking about all the calls that didn't happen, all the ones that should have. By "Funn," you're tired but not done, which is the only honest place to be on a run. And then "THIS IS THE DAY" closes it—all caps, like a command, like a promise, like the lie you tell yourself every morning that today will be different.

Chillwave gets dismissed as too soft, too nostalgic, too interested in vibes over substance. But substance isn't always guitars and shouting. Sometimes substance is admitting you need music that won't demand anything from you while you figure out how to demand things from yourself. This playlist isn't trying to motivate you with aggressive BPMs and stadium hooks. It's trying to give you space to exist in motion, which is harder than it sounds.

The Lakefront Trail at dawn, wind off the lake, and a playlist that sounds like synth pads and unresolved feelings. You run to clear your head. It never works. But you go anyway. You just go.