Happy Valentine's Day: Music To Cry To

What better to start this list than a song called "Sorrow," with a chorus of "I don't want to get over you." Matt Berninger's gloomy voice, and the slow, deliberate pace of his delivery, conveys a sense of inexorably advancing doom and dread, that not even the final choral flourish can dislodge. As a whole, High Violet, The National's fifth studio album, is darker than it's predecessors, with Berninger sounding tired even on the more anthemic of numbers, and on "Sorrow," the most depressing of realisations is expertly turned into a grandiose refrain.

The song may be called "Dry Your Eyes," and the chorus may tell you to do just that, mate, but Mike Skinner isn't encouraging you to stop crying because things are going to get better. Oh no. Instead you best stop your tears because there's absolutely nothing you can do about the love of your life leaving you. With his softly spoken everyman delivery and painfully personal, almost cinematic description of the situation, Mike Skinner charts the fluctuating emotions of the breakup, as the narrator moves from disbelief, to panic, to anger to total, crushing, emptiness. As the beat drops out, he intones, "I'm just standing there, I can't say a word. Cos everything's just gone. I've got nothing, absoloutely nothing." And the heads of the heartbroken the world over nod in grim understanding.

In some situations, hearing about the woes of others can distract you, or even, if you're a nasty little shit, amuse you, but as Daughter sings "I want you so much / But I hate your guts" you feel it too. The pain, the incomprehsenion, and the loathing are all clear in the gentle, fragile vocals, which convey as much as any piercing scream.

All of Burial's work is tinged with the darkness of late nights and early mornings in grey cities, but in most of his songs there are glimmers of faint brightness, flashes of parties-past, or at least a hint of humanity and the accompanying possibility of future happiness. "Prayer" though, is just so dark and soulless and haunting. There is nothing but you, your heartbeat and emptiness.

Many of the most depressing songs are specifically about broken relationships and love gone wrong, but sometimes it's just an overwhelming, non-specific feeling of dread and paranoia that can be the most poignant. Thom Yorke, with his quavering vocals, paints the picture of a bleak, dystopian cityscape where the rain never ceases, and nothing goes right, whilst twitchy electronics keep you constantly on edge. "And It Rained All Night" was a standout from the underappreciated solo Thom Yorke album The Eraser, and if you want one whole album to keep you company on a lonely night, this could well be it.

Laura Marling has such a tender voice, and during parts of "Old Stone" it sounds close to cracking, as she tells her lover that she won't try to change his mind. The simple, barely audible guitar and soft drumbeat eventually gives way to the powerful chorus, and the refrain of "ten thousand years and you're still on your own." Brutal.

Clocking in at 7 minutes, "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart" is the epic album-opener from Wilco's classic Yankee Hotel Foxtrot album, and a great go to soundtrack to sadness. It's a slow, piano-led ballad, fuzzy around the edges with crackles and hisses, but built as a vehicle for Tweedy's magnificent lyrics. The question at the end of each verse, the vivid imagery, the soft-spoken emotion - it all combines so perfectly in this song that it can be easy to lose sight of the depressing nature of Tweedy's subject matter, but listen through a few times and those lyrics will certainly start to hit home.

Listening to James Blake's off-key, off-kilter "I Never Learnt To Share" is like watching someone go slowly mad with regret and endless questioning. He's trying to convince himself, and us, that he blames no one but himself, but as the discordance builds there is more and more despration and a final emotional outburst that solves nothing, and leaves only more questions to answer. Get drunk and sit in a corner rocking back and forth crying to this one.

While it has become increasingly hard to empathise wih Mr West (I, for one, cannot complain about back pain caused by my solid gold pharaoh necklace), he showed on 808s & Heartbreak that deep down he's just another lonely guy. "Welcome To Heartbreak" sets out its stall from those ominous opening strings, and Kanye really sells his lines, managing to pack regret and sneering contempt for his materialism into a few auto-tuned couplets. In light of the difficult year Kanye had prior to recording this album, it's no suprise the emotion is real, but delivering it in such a cohesive, inventive package as this LP really cemented his status as a one of the most interesting artists around. In an album full of electronically enhanced emotion, this is the pinnacle of understated heartbreak. Never has sitting in first class seemed so depressing.

Keaton Henson has a fine line in devestatingly personal, heartbroken songs, and "You Don't Know How Lucky you Are" is the simplest and rawest and best. Rather than using overwrought, metaphor filled lyrics, Keaton often describes his feelings of lost-love and anxiety in a painfully honest way, as if he is literally just telling us how he feels and recording it. On “You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are” this takes the form of a series of questions presumably being asked to his ex about her new boyfriend, and the results are mesmerizing, especially combined with the tearjerker of a visual. Depressing, but mesmerizing. We feel you Keaton.

If you've been lying to yourself that you're happy to be alone, trying to convince yourself that everthing's great and you're "the solitary type," then this one is for you. I'm free to do exactly what I want, you tell yourself, trying to fight off the mounting dread of another lonely evening, until Fryars reminds you that you would be "less alone with a woman at night" in his auto-tuned croon, and you really can't lie to yourself anymore.

Before a good cry, there is a machine-like build-up. Something in the back of your throat starts to tighten, your chin gets quivery, and you feel your tear ducts approaching that point of no return. Here it comes.

Perfume Genius' "Hood" is the soundtrack to this build-up. With a piano and a shaky voice, the song swells right up to the breaking point. Then a little over halfway through the short song, it happens.

The first thing to note about this song, is that it comes from a concept album, called Hospice, which follows the evolving relationship between a hospice worker and a child who is suffering from terminal cancer. There is an overarching narrative of searching for hope amidst the hopelessness that runs through the album, but "Kettering" is the despairing low point. If, as you appreciate this emotionally charged masterpiece, you're still feeling sorry for yourself, stop being so bloody self-obsessed. It's only Valentines Day, not the end of the world.

Bright Eyes' 2000 album Fevers & Mirrors is another full-length that could act as your companion to an evening of creeping dread and unrequited love. There is a cathartic element to hearing Conor Oberst's quivering voice struggle to cope with the weight of his own existence, and at various points on this inherently instable album his facade slips totally, first on the raucous "The Calendar Hung Itself...," and then more softly, but no less cruelly on this song. The way Oberst's weary voice cracks as he recounts what he is being told over the phone, his sarcastic laugh, and the torrent of pained poetry that pours forth say it all, really. Sometimes life sucks.

A lot of "classic" breakup songs lose their impact by being overplayed and becoming clichéd, but Cohen's simple, regretful ode is pretty much the epitome of timeless. There is only resignation in his voice, the feigned, studied distinterest of someone who is trying to move on with their life, and it contrasts with the gently picked guitar and gentle female backing vocals. And the most depressing part of this song? As you sit with only your beers as companion on that couch that suddenly seems so large and empty, thinking that no one could possibly understand how you're feeling, Cohen reminds you that there's nothing new to your situation. You're not special, but you are alone. Again.