The Bittersweet Soundtrack of a City That Never Stays the Same
New York City has always been a paradox: a monument to ambition that’s constantly reinventing itself, often at the cost of its own soul. Sharon Van Etten’s Seventeen isn’t just a song about nostalgia—it’s a raw meditation on how places and people morph in tandem, leaving us to grapple with what’s lost and what’s reborn. What fascinates me most isn’t the typical ‘city changing’ lament, but how Van Etten frames this transformation as an unavoidable part of growing up. It’s not just the streets that shift; it’s our relationship to them. That duality—personal evolution mirroring urban decay and progress—is what makes this song a quiet masterpiece.
The Illusion of Permanence
Let’s be honest: We all cling to the myth that certain things will outlast us. A favorite diner on the corner. The dive bar where the bartender knows your name. But Van Etten strips away that delusion. When she sings, “I used to be free / I used to be 17,” it’s not mere sentimentality. It’s a reckoning. Cities aren’t static backdrops; they’re living organisms. Personally, I think this is why Joan Didion’s observation about New York being a city for the ‘very young’ still stings. We don’t just outgrow places—we watch them outgrow us. The bodega becomes a boutique, the subway graffiti gets buffed away, and suddenly you’re the ‘elder’ complaining about ‘kids these days.’ Isn’t that the ultimate irony?
Why Youth Always Gets It Half-Right
There’s a line in Seventeen that gutted me the first time I heard it: “When you’re young, you see one shop close / And you think, ‘So what, who cares?’” Van Etten nails the arrogance of youth here. When you’re 17, you’re invincible. You don’t see the threads connecting a laundromat or a record store to the fabric of a community. You’re too busy dreaming of escaping or reinventing yourself. But here’s the twist: That naivety is both infuriating and essential. If we felt the weight of every lost corner store at 17, would we ever have the guts to build something new? Or would we just paralyze ourselves trying to preserve the past?
The Music Video as a Love Letter to Impermanence
Maureen Towey’s music video for Seventeen is genius because it refuses to romanticize. It shows NYC’s grit and glamour in the same breath—Union Pool’s neon sign flickering next to a cracked sidewalk, the Marcy Street subway stairs framing a couple arguing. What struck me was how Towey juxtaposes intimacy with decay. This isn’t a postcard; it’s a diary entry. The city isn’t ‘falling apart’ so much as it’s in constant flux, like a painter overworking a canvas. And isn’t that the deeper truth? Artists thrive in the tension between loss and creation. Joni Mitchell’s “Something’s lost, something’s gained” line from Both Sides Now isn’t just poetic—it’s a survival tactic for anyone who loves a place doomed to change.
What Seventeen Reveals About Modern Urban Life
Let’s zoom out. The song’s power lies in its universality. Sure, it’s about NYC, but replace ‘Seventeen’ with ‘Twenty-Five’ or ‘Thirty-Three’ and the message holds. Every generation watches its landmarks vanish. But here’s what’s different now: The pace of change feels frenetic. Gentrification isn’t just a buzzword; it’s a lifestyle. A coffee shop closes, and by the time you’ve finished your pour-over, it’s a crypto lounge. In my opinion, this accelerates the existential whiplash Van Etten describes. We’re not just mourning places—we’re mourning versions of ourselves that can’t exist anymore. And maybe that’s why the song resonates so deeply in 2026. We’re all stuck in a loop of goodbye, unable to fully embrace the new.
Final Thought: The Gift of Mournful Melancholy
Seventeen could’ve been a dirge. But Van Etten gives us something more nuanced: acceptance. The music video ends with her walking away from the Brooklyn skyline, shoulders shrugged as if to say, ‘What else could I do?’ That’s the lesson here. Cities—and people—aren’t meant to freeze in time. The beauty is in the ephemeral. I keep thinking about Dylan’s “Everything passes, everything changes” line. It’s not defeatist; it’s freeing. If we can let go of the illusion that anything lasts forever, maybe we’ll stop fighting the inevitable and start dancing in the wreckage. After all, if you’re lucky enough to live long enough, you’ll always end up being the old-timer shaking your head at the next generation. And somewhere, a kid is stepping into a version of your city that you’ll never understand—just like you did at seventeen.
