This column was originally supposed to focus on my recent road trip to watch the Emergency and Ice Age Cobra play a record-release party with their friends in Portland's Pretty Monster. The show was at Devil's Point, a fantastic little strip club/rock venue, and while the performances (both clothed and nude) were highly enjoyable, writing about the visceral pleasures of rock 'n' roll now seems trivial. Or is it?
Grief, particularly when induced by something as astonishingly violent as the events of this past weekend, has some hallmark characteristics and coping mechanisms. Everyone is familiar with the cycle of grief and the old adages that encourage mourners to lean on their friends, allow themselves to feel pain, and take whatever healthy steps they need to care for themselves during the horrible, disorienting time that follows a tragedy. What's infinitely more individual, however, is the way people find solace in particular songs throughout the grieving process.
When the mother of a close friend of mine was nearing death after a valiant and exhausting battle with breast cancer, I stayed up most of the evening helping him select songs for a compilation CD that would be distributed at her funeral. This was not prematurely morbid, but an exercise of a final request from a mother to her son. She knew that her son (a musician himself) would know precisely how to put together a collection of music that was both comforting and reverent. He included a number of songs that were helping him through that period, including the sweet and delicate waltz of Neil Young's "Harvest Moon," the resigned sadness of Willie Nelson's "Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground," and "I Wish I Was the Moon," one of Neko Case's trademark torch ballads. In addition to the inadvertent lunar theme, it had an obvious escapist element—something critical for people who aren't quite ready to absorb the impact of their loss. He also respectfully included songs by musicians he despised (such as Sarah McLachlan) simply because he knew his mother would appreciate him setting aside his tastes in favor of including something she loved.
Even fans without a background in music theory can recognize the emotional impact of minor chords within a song structure. Nothing exudes sadness like the somber tones that color work by artists like Nick Drake or Elliott Smith. If those elements are particularly strong, they can provide welcome contrast for people feeling overwhelmed by their grief. For example, when I was blindsided by a dear friend's HIV diagnosis during a weekend when most of our mutual friends were out of town, I was paralyzed with fear and sadness. Because I had no immediate support network and didn't know what to do with this avalanche of emotion, I sat in my apartment alone and listened to "How to Disappear Completely" by Radiohead and "Sword of Damocles" by Lou Reed over and over. Both those songs are over-the-top majestic and monumentally melancholic, so continuously absorbing something on such a grand scale made my pain seem smaller.
While hearing something that's outright upbeat may be unpalatable for some, others rely on a sugar rush to snap them out of their malaise. I have one friend who thinks "Today," an uncharacteristically optimistic tune by Smashing Pumpkins, is the best song to listen to when you're the recipient of morbid news. Stranger copy editor Kim Hayden confused me terribly when she included "Talk Dirty to Me" by Poison on her list of soothing songs. "It's just a song that I know always makes me happy," she explains. "I can't help but smile whenever it comes on." While I can't say Bret Michaels and company do the same for me, "American Girl" by Tom Petty will always make me beam broadly, regardless of what's going on in my life.
To all the friends and family of the victims and the devastated community that surrounds them: Please explore the support systems available to you (go here for a list of local resources). And let us also remember that music is a universally relatable medium because it can express emotions we can't put into words ourselves; it serves a therapeutic function the Seattle music community needs more than ever right now. 
