Building a history: On two decades of Sarah McLachlan's Mirrorball and all its feelings

Anne-iversaries is a bi-weekly column by writer Anne T. Donahue that explores and celebrates the pop culture that defined the '90s and 2000s and the way it affects us now (with, of course, a few personal anecdotes along the way).

By June 1999, I'd never been to a real concert. I mean, sure: I'd long-owned the Spice Girls' Live In Istanbul VHS tape, memorized the Les Miserables 10th anniversary concert album and woke up my parents one morning by blaring my copy of Celine Dion's Live a Paris — but I was still years away from attending anything outside of a friend's piano recital. Concerts seemed life-changing, overwhelming and like a culmination of emotions I wasn't sure I was ready to experience outside the confines of scream-singing "I Dreamed A Dream" with my pals at recess (we were all exceptionally cool).

And then came Sarah McLachlan's Mirrorball and all the feelings that went with it.

That same summer, Lilith Fair — co-founded by McLachlan — made its third and final round, and a 13-year-old me was devastated to learn that my parents had no intention of letting me go, regardless of how much I reminded my dad that he loved the song "Angel." (He sure did, and he still does.) They didn't understand how a festival chock-full of women and songs seemed the perfect way to commit to my burgeoning music catalogue (which were made up nearly entirely by albums I'd ordered — without them knowing — through Columbia House). And all I wanted was to see and hear "Sunny Came Home" or "Kiss Me" in a setting outside my bedroom. As a sparkly new teenager, I was ready to feel the way audiences seemed to when the Spice Girls performed the choreography to "Who Do You Think You Are?" or to scream the way audiences did when Celine began that incredible version of "To Love You More."

Of course, what I didn't know then — but appreciate now — is the way 1999 made space for all types of pop. That year, Britney Spears released her first full-length album and Backstreet Boys confused us all with the release of "I Want It That Way" (I still have no idea what that song means). At the same time, TLC changed our lives with Fan Mail, S Club 7 dropped their debut record to great acclaim (from me in particular) and blink-182 made everybody dread turning 23. Before going on to be micro-analyzed and dissected throughout the 2000s and into the mid-2010s, pop music felt like a genre rich in choice and contrast and personality — which explains how Mirrorball became a crucial album to anyone stepping into post-tween emotions. (And, OK, I guess adults too.)

What mattered most about Mirrorball upon its release was how familiar it sounded — literally. While I'd only ever bought the concert albums or tapes of musicians I'd devoted entire scrapbooks to, McLachlan's 14-song tracklist boasted titles from albums long since released and singles that had always seemed so adult. While I didn't know what "Adia" or "Sweet Surrender" were about, I still knew that they boasted a depth you had to earn by growing into. McLachlan sang about relationships and loneliness and confusion and pain and regret, and she did so in a way that left the onus on the listener to read between the lines and solve her mystery. At 13, I aspired to finally be old enough that I wouldn't seem foolish drinking tea from an oversized mug while pondering what type of love would justify a song like "Ice Cream." And I cursed my age for rendering me too young to attend any of the recorded stops of McLachlan's Surfacing tour that would've given me a sneak peak into what I assumed adulthood was all about. Because obviously I had no idea.

For the first time, I realized that you could still feel in a loud, upfront, commanding way while retaining a part of yourself with which you could reflect later. You could be soft and strong (like all good pop stars are, obviously), but she also left room to cry or think by yourself.- Anne T. Donahue

I mean, I clearly understood that Sarah McLachlan was an artist who explored and articulated her feelings. And I also knew from listening to Mirrorball that her live shows seemed lively and exciting, but respectful enough that her songs were given the necessary space to move through and romance the crowd. But where BSB or *NSync or Britney or Christina used their music to overtly express themselves and to make bold, in-your-face statements, Sarah McLachlan camouflaged hers with choice words and veiled sentiments. So for the first time, I realized that you could still feel in a loud, upfront, commanding way while retaining a part of yourself with which you could reflect later. You could be soft and strong (like all good pop stars are, obviously), but she also left room to cry or think by yourself instead of outwardly pining if you weren't ready to or couldn't yet.

That was scary as a baby teen, and can still be scary as a grown-ass woman. It's no coincidence that after realizing that some music requires heavy lifting on the listeners' part, I dove deeper into the music choices that were familiar and made me feel safe. Feelings are terrible. And while demonstrative emotion (in the form of weeping alone to Millenium while thinking of the boy I liked and how I wouldn't see him until September) is messy, it's still cut and dry enough that you can declare a particular feeling "over." Mirrorball leans more toward what emotions are usually like: they evolve and are complicated and in one second can seem as angry and dangerous as they are delicate and sad. And even the most familiar feeling can be different when your headspace has moved on from where it was when you first had it. It's a lot, all the time, and forever.

Which may be the real reason my parents wouldn't let me go to Lilith Fair. Because if I could glean this much emotion from a live CD of songs I already knew, imagine the mess I'd have been if I'd started cry-singing to "Building A Mystery" live.