15 Songs You Should Play at Your Funeral

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Planning for burial is a solemn, stressful task. Luckily your families have to take on this responsibility while you’re nothing but a meatbag in a box. If you are fortunate enough to have people who care about you, you will hopefully be ushered into the afterlife surrounded by the people you spent your time here on earth with. They’ll need to pick out everything—burial site, coffin, gravestone, and with any luck, the soundtrack to your funeral. After all, we’re all going to hell anyway, so we might as well die as we lived—obsessed with music to an almost socially-unacceptable extent.

We polled the Noisey staff to find out what song they’re dying to hear as their earthly remains descend into the eternal fire and these are the songs they picked in a vain attempt at pretending that it wouldn’t be “We’ll Meet Again.” What’s yours?

The best funeral I ever attended concluded with Monty Python's "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life," and I can safely say that everyone should watch a member of their immediate family descend into the earth while a hundred people attempt to whistle optimistically through a mask of snot and tears at least once in their life. It provides the ideal dose of comic relief necessary to cope with the crushing reality of inevitable death. But you won't find any of that at my funeral. Fuck that. I want people to be sad as hell when I expire. If sea levels don't rise due to the amount of tears shed over the loss of me then I will haunt the shit out of everyone. I want the kind of grief that unfolds as if in slow motion, emotion on such a grand scale it borders on pomposity. Tobey Maguire's thespian crying face, an open-shirted Leonardo DiCaprio dropping to his knees and crying "I defy you, stars!" in Romeo + Juliet, Bradley Branning falling off the roof of the Queen Vic, that kind of thing. For that reason I would ask that whoever is unfortunate enough to be responsible for arranging my RIParty to please play me out to one of the most tear-bait bangers of recent times: "Just A Dream" by Nelly.
—Emma Garland

The great thing about being dead is I won't have to listen to any music anymore. That means I can't hear anything that might accidentally become problematic or worthy of penning a thinkpiece about. I'd finally be free. That's why I choose this Swishahouse supercut: it's not for me, it's for my family, friends, and whoever else accidentally accepted the Facebook event invitation.
—Slava Pastuk

I don’t plan on dying. I’ll probably just live forever or get frozen for several centuries and then thawed out when my planet needs me the most. But on the off-chance I do meet my untimely demise—probably doing a sweet kickflip over the Grand Canyon—I do not want my funeral to be a sad occasion. I want my loved ones to gather around my lifeless but still ruggedly handsome corpse and I want them to say, “This guy here lived a fun life” or “he knew how to have a good time” or “the air he got on that kickflip was so sweet ‘til he totally died.” So I want my funeral to capture my fun-loving spirit. That’s why they should play the ultimate party-starter, DJ Kool’s “Let Me Clear My Throat.” People will be all, “Damn I am so sad about Dan being dead and all but this song is the shiiiiit.” And then the whole funeral will turn into a big party and people can dance around my coffin Weekend at Bernie’s style. Maybe they can even personalize that spoken word part of the song to something about me, like, “Now, ladies, if you loved Dan, if you thought he was a nice guy, if you had sexual relations with him and thought he was good in bed, make some noooiiiii—oiiiiiise!” RIP me.
—Dan Ozzi

OK this is one of their most popular songs, but you can shut up: this is my funeral. This song is like a cuddle and if there's one thing I love more than dumplings, it's snuggling. The B Boys' harmonies envelop the listener like a warm embrace. Apparently Wilson wrote it in an attempt to capture the essence of his favorite tune, "Be My Baby" by The Ronettes (thanks for the fun fact, Wiki!), but IMHO he surpassed the girl group classic, easy. Obviously the ultimate hug-tune from The Beach Boys cannon is "Don't Talk Put Your Head On My Shoulder," but it's far too sad to be played at a funeral and even more overtly boy-girl than "DWB."

Ideally as I'm being incinerated my nearest and dearest will project this performance of "Don't Worry Baby" from Dick Clark's American Bandstand on some nearby wall to add some levity to proceedings. Look at these guys in their high-waisted pants, with their arms awkwardly folded, slouchy like adolescent boys who haven't grown into their height. Note at 1:53 when Mike Love starts getting a little too groovy with his moves. Their expressions are baffled! Confused! Where are their mics? Wait, is this actually live? I hope my friends and fam giggle when they watch this, but also feel a little sad when they hear the song. Happy-sad's the sweet spot.
—Kim Taylor Bennett

I think about death a lot. As easy as it would be to take a cheap shot at myself and say it’s ‘cause I listen to so much metal, music that doesn’t have much to do with it at all. As much as I initially wanted to put a bombastic, epic tribute to life and victory on here (namely, Bathory’s “Shores in Flames,” or really, anything off Hammerheart), I couldn’t. Once I’m gone, I’m gone, and those left behind will have to shoulder the burden of grief (or gloat about outliving me; fuck you guys in advance). I’m going to opt for a green burial, and consecrate my body to the soil, and the least I can do to ease the pain of those left to bear my shroud with an old, lonesome tune from a familiar voice. Death is many things, but above all, it’s an ending. When the credits roll on mine, I want ol’ Hank to sing me body home. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
—Kim Kelly

I quite enjoy thinking about the day I croak, and fall listlessly into the black wheelie bin of mortality. I can already imagine it: the local newspaper in my village bumping a story about the renovation of the bowling green, to run a little piece about my untimely dust biting: “Local writer Joe Zadar (sic) dies at 27, choked in rented accommodation on microwave lasagna.” Too old for a candle-lit vigil, too young for an engraved park bench. No mention of my work—the newspaper editor has decided that including the title of my magnum opus, “Remember That Time N*Sync got Turnt at an Orphanage” would probably tip the obit over its word count of ten. So, it’s just: headline, time, place of funeral. But what song to play? Sad music is for dictators and war heroes, and I’ve seen too many families crying hysterically to the sound of “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” to think humor works. Nah, funerals are for shock, intrigue and confusion—an aural puff of smoke left wisping from my flashbang vanishing act. I want my song to suggest, falsely, there’s more to me than meets the eye. I want to leave questions, instead of just tweets about Drake. I want to leave wonderment, instead of just iPhone chargers. I want my lasting impression to be, “Wait, what?” So, I would like “I Don’t Give a Fuck” by Lil Jon to be played at my funeral.
—Joe Zadeh

Like most narcissistic music journalists, I think about micro-managing the playlist at my own funeral quite a lot. I have no possessions to speak of, so my will would basically be a strict set of rules and instructions for the Spotify playlist at my own shiva. Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat thinking about someone leaning over, plugging their iPod in and playing some Clean Bandit, thinking that’s the sort of thing I would have liked.

As for the actual song I want playing when they incinerate my rotting carcass, I’m torn. Let me say first that unlike some of my colleagues, I’m taking this very seriously, because no doubt when I actually peg it someone will dig this out as proof of what I wanted. So I’m not picking “Watch Me Nae Nae” just for the RTs.

There’s lots of classics I’d like, but I think having a song that wasn’t released during my sentient lifetime is too pretentious, it’s my funeral not a fucking Michael Cera movie, you know? I quite like the idea of The Strokes’ “What Ever Happened?” with it’s opening lines “I Wanna Be Forgotten and I don’t wanna be reminded” but perhaps that’s a little too angsty. I’ve toyed with Blur’s “No Distance Left To Run” which I still like the idea of if I die young, but if I live past my 50s, I imagine that it will be the funeral anthem du jour for my generation, as trite as “My Way” or “Angels” is today. I don’t want to be future basic. Ditto Bon Iver’s “Flume.” So I think I’m just going to with “A New England,” the three most famous versions of which are by Billy Bragg, Kirsty MacColl, and Jamie T—three artists that have meant a lot to me in various incarnations of my being. I’ll go with the Jamie T version, not only because it came when I was at my most earnest and scruffy, but because he kinds of transforms it from a track about the rapid pace of modernization in the face of romance to a song about growing up too fast and too slowly at the same time, which is basically what dying is.
—Sam Wolfson

Whenever I leave this world, I just hope everyone left behind knows I cared about them and loved them. And that I will see them again in whichever plane of existence we next meet.
—John Hill

I’ve always found my existence in life to be aimless and I imagine my death won’t be any different. However in a last ditch effort to give my passing meaning what better than to convince my family and friends to play a real life game of Clue to find my “killer” with the help of Karen-O. The lyrics “10 x 10, 3 by 3 was the house that buried me, Did I really drown?” would be looped ad nauseam at my funeral service seeding the idea of foul play when I probably died of natural causes. I can imagine it now, my siblings sacrificing their hopes and dreams to uncover the grisly details of my murder. What could be a sweeter gesture of love?
—Jabbari Weekes

So what if I want you to play Nirvana at my funeral? As Kim Taylor Bennett said before, it's my funeral so shut the fuck up. Kurt and I do have the same birthday after all. As another sad Pisces destined to buckle under the weight of unattainable ideals and a conflicted sense of self, I choose the "Do Re Mi" b-side off the Sliver box set. It's the lullaby he wrote to sing himself to death. That said, I've always considered it to be written partially for Frances. Do Re Mi? It's a children's rhyme.

The story goes that Kurt recorded the song inside of his closet about a month before his suicide. We know now that at this point, he was already set on not wanting to live anymore. The first lyric of the song is "If I may, if I might, lay me down weeping," but it's this line that convinces me he's really saying goodbye: "Come and see me." This is how I want to go, with the thought of being visited by all the people I loved once. Lay me down to this scraping, honest, heart-breaking piece of home recording from my favorite band of all time.

Maybe just, like, don't watch the video montage?
—Bryn Lovitt

I don’t want to get too dark, but I’ve been thinking about my own death since I was five years old and woke up in the middle of the night, sweating, realizing that one day I was going to die. Some girls plan their dream wedding, I planned my dream funeral. I know exactly where I want to be buried in my hometown cemetery and what kind of headstone I want. I know what you're going to be eating and drinking at my after-burial party and you better believe I will haunt you if you don't get things right. I'll be dead and I'll know everything.

I also know that I want it to be a goddamn party. I’m talking doing shots over my grave while I’m lowered into the ground, fireworks, strippers, basically whatever Rihanna does when she goes out, you know? You can be sad for the rest of your life about my death.

In any case, that’s why I chose “See You Again” by Wiz Khalifa featuring that guy that looks like Sam Smith but isn’t Sam Smith but sounds better than Sam Smith (sorry not sorry!) (his name is Charlie Puth). To me this song is the perfect blend of party (hello, Fast and Furious association) and sad (you have to be like, a little sad during my funeral. I’m going to be dead after all). I’ve yelled these lyrics at friends who are moving away from the city and I have also embarrassingly cried to them (RIP Paul Walker I will never forget you) when I get sad.
—Annalise Domenighini

Picking a funeral song is a challenge: First of all, there's the dilemma of whether to soundtrack everyone's (hopefully) sad mood or something celebratory to capture all the excitement of your life. I'd prefer the latter. You can listen to the Nick Drake on your own time. But then there's another dilemma, which is setting the right kind of celebratory mood. Do I really want people getting it on at my funeral? I don't know. Maybe. But, still, I'm hoping—assuming I don't die first—to save the Otis Redding for my wedding. So: No to that.

There's also the problem of all the great songs that might inadvertently make things sadder. "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" is great, and you better believe that dancing to that when Whitney Houston died was one of the most sincere moments of my life, but what if I'm the somebody? And then everyone's just crying thinking about how they want to dance with me. That's no fun. Same problem with every breakup song ever and also "All My Friends." I can't do Future because then all my friends would just start arguing about Future, which, although that's how I would like to be remembered, would take the attention off me on the last possible day it could be on me. I can't do Kanye for the same reason: Can you imagine how many more albums he's going to have for people to argue over ranking at that point?

My pick could be "Fancy," by The-Dream, but I'm not sure if everyone would know the words. It should be "Wonton Soup" by Lil B, but I know that Lil B sounds abrasive to some people. Hopefully my funeral will be in the fertile soil of my home state of North Carolina, which would make James Taylor's "Carolina In My Mind" ideal, except then we're back to sad. Which leaves me, quite frankly, totally baffled. I think, though, if we're going to have something that people can rap along to excitedly, that has soul, that people can dance to, and that I loved dearly, there might be one other option: "International Players Anthem." I choose that. Every time I hit the burial plot I turn heads. RIP me.
—Kyle Kramer

Have you ever seen the episode of The Office about Michael Scott’s last day at work? He plans an office party—and if you know that character, he loved nothing more than a good office party where he could act like his employees were his best friends—but, in a twist, spends the day before the party going to each of his colleagues, saying something special to them individually, and making sure everything about the party is perfect. Even though most of his employees thought he was a horrible boss (he was), he still connected with them on a weirdly charming level, so these little conversations he had were bizarrely endearing. The next day, when the party is planned to happen, Michael doesn’t show up for work, because he’d actually planned the party for the day after his last.

Arthur Russell’s “I Couldn’t Say It to Your Face” isn’t about the last day work, or dying, or anything specific, really. It’s just about saying goodbye, but without being able to actually perform the action of saying goodbye. That’s the hardest part, right? On this song, there’s certain calmness to Russell’s voice singing the simple lyrics “I couldn’t say it to your face, but I won’t be around anymore.” He’s accepted the fact that he can’t deal with the reality of what’s happening. Is this cowardly? Maybe. Or maybe sometimes it’s best to just let the elegant beauty of disappearing speak for itself.

As someone wise once told me, “Smoke more weed and listen to an Arthur Russell record.” Please, do that at my funeral.
—Eric Sundermann

A little gallows humor, eh? Well, it's either this, or insisting on a complete recreation of Harry Nilsson's "I'd Rather Be Dead."

"Heaven" is hardly the hopeful palliative the title implies. "Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens," David Byrne sings, which actually sounds pretty awful. It's a brilliantly tedious meditation on perfection and distraction, a reminder that great parties, favorite songs, and everything else that gives us joy are nothing without the context of our pain and our lows.

Like so much of the band's work, the song is a contradiction—stirring and wearisome, desperate and beautiful, a placid eye in the existential storm that is Talking Heads. This version, from their live concert album and film Stop Making Sense, is particularly wrenching. It's slower and pared down from the original Fear of Music recording, and Byrne sounds like he's on the verge of either breaking down or entering a state of rapture. The song is known in part for making listeners uncomfortable: Like all great music, it strikes at an emotional gray area that eludes what language can articulate. It is neither happy nor sad; it just is. And that's life, isn't it?

When I die, I don't want my funeral to be a farewell, but a reminder of just that to those I love. As far as I'm concerned, this is life is all we've got. We don't go anywhere, we just change. We won't meet again someday, because we are always with each other. This must be the place.
—Andrea Domanick

As a one-time Depressed Teen and a once and future music obsessive, I've known for half my life with some extreme certainty what song I want for the music at my funeral. It's morbidly comforting, in dire times, to visualize the final moment your body has to toil above ground and muse on all of the people who took you for granted suddenly finding themselves gutted, faced with the purity of their folly. When I think back on how many times the scene crossed my mind I wonder how I ever made it out of that time in my life. Wow, this is getting dark!

The song I want is "The Moon Is Down," the ten-minute emotional centerpiece of Explosions in the Sky's 2001 sophomore album Those Who Tell the Truth Shall Die, Those Who Tell the Truth Shall Live Forever. It's a winding epic that starts out morose and destitute and marches verrrrry methodically to a triumphant climax. I figure my last gift to people who care about me enough to sit in a room talking about me over my deceased remains would be to lift them out of the exacting bleakness of the moment, if only for a few minutes. Least I could do, as a dead dude, huh?
—Craig Jenkins