The Bittersweet Soundtrack of Urban Evolution: Why Sharon Van Etten’s ‘Seventeen’ Resonates Beyond New York
A Love Letter to What We Lose (And Gain)
I’ve always found it fascinating how cities become living, breathing characters in art. New York, in particular, has been romanticized, vilified, and mythologized for decades. But Sharon Van Etten’s Seventeen isn’t just another ode to the city—it’s a mirror held up to the uncomfortable truth of impermanence. When I first heard the line “I used to be free / I used to be 17”, it hit me like a subway train: this isn’t nostalgia. It’s a reckoning. Van Etten captures the dissonance between our idealized memories of places and the messy, relentless churn of reality. What makes this song linger isn’t just its haunting melody, but its refusal to let us romanticize the past without questioning what we’re really mourning.
The Illusion of Permanence
One thing that immediately stands out about Seventeen is how it weaponizes time. The song isn’t about New York changing—it’s about how we, as humans, cling to the illusion that anything should stay the same. Van Etten herself admitted she once dismissed the complaints of older New Yorkers about gentrification, only to become the one lamenting the closure of a laundromat or a dive bar decades later. Isn’t that the cycle of life? We’re all 17 until we’re not. From my perspective, this reflects a universal truth: every generation mistakes its moment for eternity. But cities aren’t museums. They’re organisms, evolving with or without our consent.
Nostalgia as a Double-Edged Sword
Let’s unpack the danger in songs like this. Nostalgia can be paralyzing. When Van Etten sings about Union Pool or the Marcy Street subway stop, she’s not advocating for freezing the city in amber. Instead, she’s acknowledging the tension between progress and erasure. What many people don’t realize is that the “community” lost in a shuttered business isn’t just about the place itself—it’s about the stories embedded in its walls. A bodega closing isn’t just a transactional shift; it’s a severing of threads that connected strangers into a collective identity. Yet, Van Etten avoids wallowing. Her tone isn’t bitter; it’s wistful. And there’s power in that distinction.
Why This Song Feels Like a Wake-Up Call
Here’s where Van Etten outpaces other urban chroniclers like Billy Joel or Taylor Swift. Her critique isn’t sentimental—it’s existential. When she sings “Downtown harks back / Halfway up the street,” she’s not just mapping geography. She’s dissecting memory. Personally, I think this connects to a larger cultural shift: the Gen X and millennial anxiety about being the last custodians of “authenticity” before algorithms and luxury condos erase it all. But is that even fair? Isn’t the 17-year-old of today just as “real” as the one from 2005? The song forces us to confront our own gatekeeping.
The Artist’s Role: Archivist or Agitator?
Van Etten’s music video, which tours Brooklyn’s iconic spots, could’ve been a simple elegy. Instead, it’s a paradox. Director Maureen Towey frames the city as both nurturing and corrosive—a place that fuels art while devouring its own history. This raises a deeper question: should artists preserve or provoke? Van Etten does both. By juxtaposing grainy footage of old venues with sleek modern backdrops, she whispers, “This is gone, but here’s what it gave me.” It’s a subtle reminder that creativity thrives on loss. The same forces that displace communities also force reinvention. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the song’s chorus—“I used to be 17”—feels less like a cry for the past and more like a dare to the present.
What’s Really at Stake in the Battle for Cities
Let’s zoom out. The struggle Van Etten documents isn’t just about New York. It’s a microcosm of global urbanization. From Tokyo to São Paulo, cities are grappling with how to balance growth and heritage. But what’s often missing in these debates is the psychological cost. We don’t just lose places—we lose touchstones for our personal narratives. When a neighborhood changes, it’s not just aesthetics; it’s identity. If you take a step back and think about it, Seventeen is a case study in collective grief. The song’s power lies in its refusal to offer solutions. It simply says: “Notice this. Feel it. Then keep moving.”
Final Thoughts: The Paradox of Growing Up
In the end, Seventeen is a masterclass in duality. It’s about aging without becoming cynical. It’s about loving a city enough to let it change. As Joni Mitchell sang, “Something’s lost / But something’s gained.” Van Etten’s genius is in framing that equation not as a compromise, but as a necessity. The 17-year-old version of ourselves—the one who believed in endless possibility—only exists because we left room for the 37- or 57-year-old to emerge. Maybe cities, like people, demand the same grace. The real tragedy wouldn’t be losing the old New York; it would be forgetting how to dream up a new one.
