#68 | Is "Drops of Jupiter" the Perfect Pop song?
It was either this or a reminder to Pete H. about what confidential means, so just consider yourselves lucky.
The summer of 2001 brought us classiqués like “Let Me Blow Ya Mind” by Eve and Gwen Stefani (whose descent into full-blown MAGA is something I am not yet ready to speak publicly on), the remake of “Lady Marmalade” made specifically for the ever polarizing feature film Moulin Rouge, “I’m Like a Bird” by Nelly Furtado (still an absolute banger), and, of course, the game-changing “Fallin’” by Alicia Keys.
But more important to me at this particular moment in time? The summer of 2001 brought me “Drops of Jupiter,” by Train.
Picture this: Below the bright blue sky of another beautiful day in the state of Maine, I was whisked away by ample chords and rudderless lyrics that meant nothing and yet everything to 15-year-old me. I was almost certainly clad in (from bottom to top): Havaianas, boxer shorts with the waistband rolled down twice, and a men’s undershirt that you could see my sports bra through.
And I was most definitely sitting on the porch of the Art Barn at camp, fixated on some kind of project that I was sure communicated the absolute angst I was feeling as a teenager sent away to Maine for the summer to lie on a beach and tie-dye things and kiss boys. An art project that expressed the turmoil of wondering when I would finally experience the growth spurt promised to me by my pediatrician - one that might allow me to compete in the same league of boys as the girl in said art class who would grow up to be on the CW remake of 90210.
Of note: The pediatrician didn’t lie, but I, at the statuesque 5’3”, don’t think she told the whole truth either.
This is the stage I’ve set in my mind for the first time I remember hearing “Drops of Jupiter.” But in doing a little research, I now know that couldn’t have actually been the case. The song was released in January 2001—six months earlier—and I was always listening to music. To the radio. To my growing CD binder of underground hip-hop and indie bands with skinny boys in Goodwill T-shirts. To the CDs in my dad’s 6-disc changer—an innovation if there ever was one.
In 2001, I was wading through an education in hip-hop by way of Lyricist Lounge anthologies, Tribe, and The Roots in one ear, and angsty, skinny boys from The Midwest and Long Island in the other. I was slowly, furiously downloading everything I could find on Limewire. I was listening to everything. There’s no way I hadn’t heard this song before.
But memory is a tricky thing. The first time I remember hearing those bawdy intro chords? I was sitting in the sunshine in the depths of a teenage summer. It must have been on someone’s mix CD - radio service was scant on that particular isthmus in Maine. And because it was 2001, I can only assume the CD player was some combination of silver, and translucent teal, with an ever so slight splatter of paint. The CD itself definitely said something like “LYLAS” in Sharpie, with the precursor to the smiling face emoji. I loved the song immediately, although I was probably ashamed of it as soon as I realized it.
Train, as a band, falls into the rather pregnant category of pop-rock groups from the ’90s whose music became increasingly saccharine as their paychecks got bigger. I think Gen X calls it “selling out.” Gen X was also the last generation lucky enough to rage against capitalism and still be able to pay their rent. Making music and getting paid for it? Selling in, in my opinion. I feel the same way about bands like Counting Crows: I don’t love some of their music, but I loved what I loved, and I will never fault a musician for trying to make a living.
Some people fault pop music for being, I don’t know, too easy to like? Some people still refute the idea that pop music can be good music. But I’m not so sure. What’s more “good” than a song that becomes part of your emotional architecture? A song that follows you through time and knows exactly when to show up just to remind you of a version of yourself you almost forgot? I resent the idea that pop music is too easy. Why should everything good in life have to be hard?
The canonical line from High Fidelity comes to mind: “What came first, the music or the misery?” Rob Gordon, the ultimate sad boy, asks whether he was miserable because of the music or sought out the music because he was miserable. Music is emotion, regardless of which way it enters. And like Rob, I think we eventually forget the how behind the music. What matters is the why. Or maybe it doesn’t matter at all. Maybe all that matters is that music shows up—and has the power to shape how we feel. Or that it finds us when we need it the most.
Recently, I was on the kind of walk you take at the tail end of a flu - the first walk that makes you feel alive again. The sun had washes out the horizon line, and my ever-crotchety pup and I sashay down the street to Gaga, Chappell Roan, Sia, Robyn, Sabrina, the heroines of our time. Great pop music made for an early sunny day.
And then Spotify gave me “Drops of Jupiter.”
The orchestration!
Those sweeping piano chords!
THE POETIC ANGST!
They bring you to life like you’re the lead in a movie about your very own existence.
I gotta tell you: “Drops of Jupiter” might just be a perfect pop song.
What is a perfect pop song? It’s one that burrows into you at 14, then boomerangs back years later, still capable of cracking you, and your hormones, wide open.
A perfect pop song is universally personal in what it has to say. The “Drops of Jupiter” lyrics are charmingly poetic, absolutely absurd and full of cosmic metaphors that somehow manage to feel incredibly personal. “Did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?” - like, come on. Who HASN’T had this exact thought?
A perfect pop song has a swelling chorus and generally feels expansive and (usually) falsely but effectively dramaturgical, just like all the best parts of being a teenager. “Drops of Jupiter” has a lift into the chorus that is absolutely chef’s kiss. It feels cathartic every time, harmoniously shouting into the void. It feels like a real miss that I’ve never used this for karaoke.
Apparently, Drops of Jupiter was written after the words “back in the atmosphere” came to the lead singer in a dream he had about his mother who had recently passed away from cancer. Until this very moment, I was sure it was about an illusive woman who he couldn’t quite figure out - the kind that flits off to Paris for a few months and comes back with a renewed sense of appreciation for the arts. Or who spends a month at Esalen only to come back and educate you about the merits of soy milk, over a meal of fried chicken. The truth is, I don’t really care. Because some days I need to be reminded that I can walk like summer and talk like rain and that there’s always room to change. And you show me another Grammy award-winning song that cites an As Seen on TV workout plan. I’ll wait.
Chic Schmaltz La Vie,
LCF