McLarnan is the post-rock ambient project of Aaron McLarnan, slow-burning, grief-tinged, and deeply human. Fusing atmospheric guitars, ghostly textures, and field recordings, each track feels like a memory on the edge of vanishing.
Aaron shares some of his favorite songs in this weeks edition of “Five For Friday” but first check out his track “Nocturnal” from his latest album “Radiance After Ruin”.
Five For Friday:
There are so many ways to approach this list, so many corners of music to turn to, so so so many favorites. I’m going to approach this as a list of songs that opened doors in me. Changed me. Because some songs don’t just enter your ears; they detonate. They don’t ask politely for your attention; they take it. And they leave you changed. These songs were more than just tracks I liked. These are 5 musical moments in my life that felt like a slap to the face that said: “HEY! Look what else music can be.” Each of these arrived at just the right time and burned something very lasting in me. These songs didn’t just open doors; they led me down hallways to parts of myself I hadn’t met yet.
U2 – “Desire”
An eye-opener.
I know I had seen what a band looked like prior to this, I’ve been told I’d been in blues bars as a toddler.. so I know my eyes had seen images of a band before this, but I don’t think I REALLY knew what a rock band was until I saw U2’s film “Rattle and Hum”. I must have been 6. Maybe younger. My mother had a VHS and I watched it like it was my Saturday morning cartoons. I remember it vividly, Bono in black denim, the spotlights, the sweat, the sound of it all, that deeply emotional and spiritual rendition of “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” with the Harlem choir.. that gives goosebumps to this day. That was the first time I understood, even in some vague childhood way, that this wasn’t just music. This was a job people could have, and I wanted to do THAT. I grabbed the vacuum cleaner handle like it was a mic stand, closed my eyes, and tried to become Bono right there on the living room carpet. “Desire” was my first taste of that unfiltered, primal WANT. That Bo Diddley beat felt like something ancient and electric. That song just MOVES, like it’s slinking through a back alley in the heat. And underneath all that swagger? Something spiritual. Something desperate. That’s what stuck with me. That mix of sacred and profane. It didn’t just show me what rock & roll sounded like, it showed me what it meant.
Nirvana – “In Bloom”
Now it’s personal.
I was 10 years old when Kurt Cobain died. I didn’t fully grasp the gravity of that loss at the time, but I felt the weight in the air. It was like something sacred had burned out too soon. That same year, a few months prior to his death, for my birthday, I was taken to Toys R Us with the freedom to pick out a toy or a video game. But there it was; “Nevermind”..sitting on an endcap like a dare. Like fate. I walked past the rows of Super Nintendo games, action figures, all the bright plastic distractions, and I chose that cassette. I didn’t even think about it. I just knew I had to have it. From the first listen, I felt like I had uncovered something secret. Even if they were the biggest band in the country at the time, it felt like it was MINE. Especially “In Bloom”. We all already knew “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. I still love that song.. but the album that follows.. damn. There was something biting and sarcastic in that next track, something ironic and pissed off, but also melodic and beautiful in its own strange way. That video. They looked so clean cut and then.. chaos. That line; “He’s the one who likes all our pretty songs…” it all just very much impacted very young adolescent me. Through that angsty energy of Nirvana, I would grow to deeply love punk bands. Old and new. Punk wasn’t just music, it was energy, it was urgency. It gave me a place to put the feelings that had nowhere else to go and the words to say what I didn’t know how. Though widely labeled as Grunge; Kurt saw himself as a punk rocker. Nirvana made me realize that music didn’t have to be technically perfect or clean or even entirely coherent to feel like something very real and very personal. I also credit this same path for leading me to my love of early indie rock bands like Pixies, Husker Du, Dinosaur Jr, The Replacements. Some of my favorite rock n roll that exists.
Did you know that Kurt Cobain invited J Mascis to join Nirvana? Could you imagine?!
Wilco – “Misunderstood”
The first time music saw me.
Anyone who knows me knew this band was in here somewhere. It’s impossible to talk my love for music without mentioning this band. It’s hard to even begin describing what Wilco means to me without feeling like I’m underselling it. This isn’t just a band I admire. This is THE band for me. The one that’s been with me through the hardest nights and the most uncertain transitions and a group of musicians so talented and versatile that I just continue to fall in love over and over again.
There are so many songs of theirs worth mentioning, but I’ll start at the very first one I ever heard and the story behind that moment. I’ll never forget that day. The album was “Being There”, the first song was “Misunderstood”. I was 17, reckless.. myself and a couple of friends took off for New Years to travel 6 hours away to Minnesota to meet girls we met online. It was dumb. Dangerous. It was so very 17 year old Aaron. My mother, bless her, I just wasn’t listening. I was grown as far as I was concerned. I knew before getting home that she’d found out and was not happy with me. I returned to Iowa to my belongings in bags on her porch, she was livid and hurt, rightfully so. I got a ride to my dad’s friends house where he was.. my dad puts on a cd I didn’t know. Wilco’s “Being There”. Keep in mind..here I am with an orange spiked mohawk, probably Bad Religion in my walkman.. whatever “Americana” or “alt country” meant.. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. But my father turned that album on, handed me a beer and then left the room to take a phone call. “Misunderstood” starts.. that build.. something was already different. This was not what I was expecting. That first song hit me immediately, musically and lyrically. “I know you’ve got a God-shaped hole / bleeding out your heart full of soul / you’re so misunderstood…” It felt like Tweedy had written it just for me. Not the polished version of myself I wanted the world to see, but the confused, aching, guilty kid sitting there on the linoleum, wondering what the hell comes next. “You hurt her but you don’t know why.” brought a tear to my eye. I felt guilty for hurting my mother. But still so sure I knew what was best for myself. Such is 17.
But Wilco didn’t stop at one song. They never stop. That’s the thing. They evolve constantly. From the alt-country haze of “A.M.” and “Being There” to the experimental corners turned and the poppy gems on “Summerteeth” the genius and legend of “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” (watch Sam Jones’ “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart”). The approach they took as artists on that album and their unwavering dedication to the finished product; their art, their work. The noise-laden beauty of “A Ghost Is Born”, the warm, melodic, organic maturity of “Sky Blue Sky” and all the way through to the lush interesting textures of everything since, every album in their catalog feels like a very different room in the same house. And the way it all comes together on stage. It’s an experience I cannot get enough of. They’re shapeshifters on that stage. They cover so many bases musically and do it like a very well oiled machine. It’s a pleasure to see every time.
Jeff Tweedy is the kind of musician and man I relate to on a deeply human level. He’s battled addiction, panic attacks, depression. He’s gone through hell publicly, but never for show. He’s written books about it, talked openly about his mental health, and somehow has kept showing up..with grace, with humor, with songs. A beacon of sorts in my life. He’s made me comfortable with my own vulnerability. He doesn’t perform despite his pain, he performs through it and that is so very powerful and inspiring to me.
What I love artistically about Wilco is that they don’t make music to be liked, as clearly evident in the Sam Jones film “I Am Trying To Your Heart”; they make music because they have to. And you feel that. There’s no desperation to stay relevant, no chasing trends. Just a deep, unshakable commitment to their craft. Their songs aren’t always easily approachable. They don’t always give you what you want when you want it. Sometimes they meander, sometimes they collapse, sometimes they break open like a sunrise halfway through. But don’t we all? Wilco taught me that music can be a long, strange conversation with yourself. That it can evolve as you evolve. That perhaps no song is ever truly finished, but just abandoned in an interesting place, and once you let go of it, it’s more than just yours. That you don’t have to compromise your art or yourself to fit in. This band showed me how to live with myself. With the noise in my head, the weight in my chest, with any crazy musical idea that may arrive. What Jeff Tweedy gave me, what Wilco gave me was permission. Permission to feel complicated things without having to explain them. Permission to let silence say as much as melody. Permission to be ugly in the right ways. To admit that you’re tired, or lost, or not okay, and to pick up your tools anyway and create in the face of a world so very hung up on self-destruction. In my own music, there’s a little piece of that inspiration and permission Wilco gave me in every note I hold too long. In every loop repeated maybe one too many times. In every strange sound I don’t clean up. I learned to let my discomfort breathe. I learned that sometimes, the most important thing you can say is “I don’t know.” There were nights when I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing or whether any of it even mattered, but Wilco’s art was there. In my headphones. In the background. Like a friend who doesn’t need you to talk, but just sits with you in the dark until the noise quiets down. And that? Well, that’s the kind of music that saves lives.
Refused – “New Noise”
When fury met form.
There was a time when screaming vocals just didn’t work for me. I simply didn’t get it. I couldn’t hear past the rage, I couldn’t find the melody inside the noise. I wasn’t looking for something that assaulted my ears, I wanted something I could feel. Something with shape. Something that meant something. And then I heard Refused. One of my best friends had a promotional video featuring the video for “New Noise” and it hit me like a siren in the night, jarring, urgent, unapologetic. That long, slow build… you think maybe it’s just an intro, and then it erupts, like a declaration of war. The first time I heard it, I literally sat forward like, “What the hell is this?” It wasn’t chaos for chaos’ sake. It was composed. It had interesting samples. It had tension and release. It had theater. The guitars weren’t just chugging, they were speaking. There were grooves and breakdowns, sharp corners and weird time shifts. The rhythm section didn’t just keep pace, they drove it like a tank. And that energy.. man, it was electric. These same things can be said for the entirety of the album “The Shape of Punk to Come.”
What struck me was how they fused punk, hardcore, and art-rock into something that sounded almost… futuristic. Like a manifesto written in distortion. It wasn’t metal. Not even close. It was high-concept hardcore, stylish, precise, emotionally intelligent. And Dennis Lyxzén wasn’t just screaming, he was commanding. He was preaching. Demanding. Screaming FOR something, not just against everything. That distinction opened a floodgate in my brain. Suddenly, screaming didn’t sound juvenile or abrasive anymore it sounded and felt necessary. Intentional. Meaningful. And even though Refused isn’t a metal band, not even in the neighborhood, their sound and energy planted seeds in me that eventually made me curious about the bands that were. They broke down a wall I had built. They made me more open. I started listening to heavier music differently. Started noticing the symmetry in the chaos. The orchestration in distortion. That sense of movement. I found myself appreciating the sheer emotional weight of metal bands I’d once dismissed; Opeth, Isis, early Mastodon, even some death and black metal stuff, bands with real scope and texture underneath the weight. But Refused was that turning point. New Noise was that turning point. They were my bridge between the raw rebellion of punk and the expansive sonic brutality of metal. They showed me that screaming could have shape. That rage could be sculpted. That music could be political, philosophical, visceral, and still sound cool as hell. New Noise didn’t just open a door. It kicked it off the hinges and set fire to the hallway, and I walked through it with wide eyes and ringing ears, ready to explore everything on the other side.
Godspeed You! Black Emperor – “East Hastings”
Music became infinite.
My post-rock journey started with a burned CD from an old friend. No cover art. Just scribbles in Sharpie: “Godspeed You! Black Emperor” “F♯ A♯ ∞”… huh? What does any of that even mean?! I slipped it into my CD player and stared at the little screen as it loaded. 3 tracks.. ok.. but wait.. over an hour of music? Before I even pressed play, I was intrigued. “You can do that?” Then the preacher’s voice came in. Warped, distant. Like a transmission from a dying planet. The static. The tension. The slow, grinding build. East Hastings wasn’t a song, it was an entire world collapsing in slow motion. It was the first time I truly experienced atmosphere in music. It didn’t want to entertain me, it wanted to transport me. I felt like I was watching the end of the world from a rooftop. Drones, crescendos, guitar feedback like air raid sirens… it wasn’t “cinematic” in the film score sense, it was “spiritual cinema”. Gritty. Biblical. Apocalyptic. Beautiful. And that was it. I was all in. That album, “F♯ A♯ ∞” didn’t just open a door, it opened a dimension of endless possibilities. It was the genesis of what would become one of the deepest and most transformative musical journeys of my life: the post-rock world. From there, I found Explosions in the Sky, God is an Astronaut, Mogwai, Russian Circles, Sigur Ros, bands that pushed me further down that path..bringing weight, distortion, precision, beauty, space, tension, atmosphere. Music that both broke my heart and expanded my mind in a way my favorite lyricists just couldn’t. Each of these bands shaped me. Not just as a listener, but as an artist. They rewired how I think about music. I stopped caring about song structures. About hooks. About choruses. I started caring about soundscapes. About tension and texture. About pacing and patience. In my own work as McLarnan, you can hear echoes of all of it. I’m not trying to imitate them, but they gave me the tools to speak in my own language. To build my own atmosphere. What they all taught me is that music doesn’t have to SAY something to MEAN something. It can move like memory. Like prayer. Like ruin. That all started with “F♯ A♯ ∞”.
And here I am now.
Each of these songs mark a fork in my road. A new direction. They weren’t just part of the soundtrack to my life..they shaped it. They taught me that music isn’t always clean, or catchy, or pretty. Sometimes it’s a fight. Sometimes it’s a prayer. Sometimes it’s just a friend that sits with you in the dark and makes you feel a little less alone…and sometimes it takes you by the hand and leads you somewhere brand new, follow it.
Huge thank you to the folks at CMM for giving me the space to pause and reflect on these songs and the paths they led me down. This was very enjoyable for me.
If you’d like to hear where I currently stand on my personal path of creative expression, please feel free to visit me at McLarnan.net.
