My sister came to visit me in San Francisco in the spring of 2003. One of the first things she did was hand me a burned copy of an album I had never heard of by a band I’d never heard of, formed by people I was generally not aware of, and said, “You must listen to this.” She mentioned that everyone in the music communities she hung out with was buzzing about it. And let’s face it—I was decidedly uncool and out of touch circa 2003. I was working 80-hour weeks as a management consultant, living what I’d call “corporate San Francisco,” not “cool San Francisco.”
My music listening habits hadn’t really evolved beyond what I listened to in high school and college: 50% Pearl Jam, 15% Counting Crows, 15% college rock from the ’80s, and 20% “adult alternative” music via the newly launched MusicMatch service. This wasn’t anywhere near the cutting edge of music culture. But my sister? She was the epitome of cool. She lived in Philly, worked at a museum, dabbled in bands, was an amateur poet, read all the right books, and knew about every underground music scene. If she said I had to listen to something, I listened.
So I popped the CD in. And I quickly fell in love with it.
It was like nothing I was listening to at the time. The album didn’t just sound different—it felt different. The beats, the synths, the way the electronic production intertwined with Ben Gibbard’s emotional vocals and Jenny Lewis’s harmonies—it was a revelation. I was used to guitars and drums delivering the emotional punch of a song, but here, Jimmy Tamborello’s electronic production created that heaviness. It was a new language for music, one I hadn’t realized I needed to learn.
This was Give Up by The Postal Service, and it changed everything for me.
The Context of 2003: The Indie Rock Explosion
To really appreciate Give Up, you have to understand where music was in 2003. This was the cusp of what I think of as the commercial prominence of indie music. Sure, indie rock had existed for decades, but it hadn’t yet crossed over to the mainstream in a big way. That was starting to change, and Give Up was one of the albums leading the charge.
By 2003, pop culture was still dominated by pop-punk, nu-metal, and the remnants of late-’90s boy bands. There was a clear divide between mainstream music and the indie/underground scene. But Give Up blurred those lines. It brought the emotional depth and authenticity of indie rock into a package that was sonically fresh and accessible. This wasn’t just another guitar-driven record. It was a fusion of LA’s polished electronic music and the Pacific Northwest’s raw, introspective indie rock, a combination that felt groundbreaking.
And it wasn’t just me who felt that way. The album became a cultural phenomenon, with songs like “Such Great Heights” popping up everywhere—from commercials to TV shows to movie soundtracks. This was one of the moments when indie music truly began to seep into the mainstream consciousness.
A Sound Unlike Anything Else
At the time, my musical world was pretty narrow. I wasn’t listening to Death Cab for Cutie or any of the artists connected to this album. My playlist was a lot of Pearl Jam, some Counting Crows, and a mix of nostalgic college rock and whatever was new on “adult alternative” playlists. Give Up didn’t sound like any of that. It was electronic but emotionally raw, polished but deeply human. It opened my ears to what music could sound like and what it could make me feel.
Take “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight,” for example. From the deep synth drone that opens the song to the 808 beats that emphasize every emotional note, it was like nothing I’d heard before. The detailed lyrics painted a vivid picture of heartbreak, alienation, and self-awareness, but it was the interplay between the electronic production and the vocals that gave the song its emotional punch. It was the perfect entry point into this new sonic world.
A Foundational Album
Give Up wasn’t just an album I enjoyed—it was foundational. It completely shifted my perspective on what music that resonated with me could sound like. It led me straight to Death Cab for Cutie (who I hadn’t listened to before), and from there, to a whole universe of indie music. The Shins, Modest Mouse, Bright Eyes, Built to Spill—this was the beginning of my indie era. And it all started with one burned CD my sister handed me in 2003.
The songs on Give Up became touchstones for me. “Such Great Heights” was a declaration of perfect love, capturing the kind of connection I longed for, where two people are so perfectly aligned they might as well have been molded by the universe for each other. “Nothing Better” was the gut-wrenching duet about a breakup, a conversation between one person desperate to hold on and the other ready to let go. Then there was “This Place Is a Prison,” which spoke to the emptiness of the party scene—a stark mirror to my own Jack-and-Coke-fueled nights in 2003.
Each song brought something new to the table, whether it was the meditative flow of “Recycled Air” or the idealistic hope of “Brand New Colony.” Even Natural Anthem, though it didn’t resonate as deeply with me emotionally, made its mark with its anthemic, boundary-pushing sound.
Over 20 Years Later
Now, more than 20 years later, Give Up remains one of my go-to albums. It’s not just a nostalgic listen—it’s an album I continue to discover. Every time I revisit it, I hear something new, whether it’s a detail in the production or a lyric that resonates differently as my life evolves. In fact, I recently wrote about the opening song in one of my Best Song Ever posts.
In some ways, it’s even more meaningful now. Songs like “We Will Become Silhouettes” took on new weight during the pandemic, when lines like “I’m not coming out until this is all over” felt chillingly real. And “Nothing Better” became a mirror for my own reflections on love and loss.
This album didn’t just open up the indie world to me—it gave me a new lens through which to see myself, my relationships, and the power of music. It’s one of those rare records that isn’t tied to just one moment in my life—it’s grown with me, offering something new at every stage.
So here I am, over two decades later, still finding comfort, catharsis, and inspiration in Give Up. My sister was right: I had to listen to this. And I’ll keep listening for the rest of my life.
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