The final bright orange leaf twitches in the wind, desperately grasping onto a barren tree branch as the lone remnant of a vibrant fall. Finally, it loses the battle and is whisked away by the chilly breeze, landing in a dark puddle by the side of the road, the last sliver of colour washed away by the impending weather. At last, winter arrives. It gently covers the city with a monochrome blanket that will remain for the coming months. The days are cold, the nights are long, and even the lights seem a little dimmer. Winter brings with it an enveloping melancholy, one painted with lights, darks, and the greys in between. The following are 8 songs to score your black and white winter.

“Blue in Green” by Miles Davis is the sound of the winter arriving. It’s a moody scene, displaying all the muted emotions that bubble to the surface come winter. It plays like a movie scene, a lone figure against the black night, head hunched down letting out shaky breaths that emerge as mist which hangs momentarily before dissipating into the evening air. Jimmy Cobb’s drums quietly swish like footsteps dragging through the snow while Miles Davis and John Coltrane trade solos like distant conversations dipping behind street corners. It’s a tired song, drifting to its end like snow melting on a wet sidewalk. In the winter, the blues are sung with grey skies and aching loneliness.

“Avalanche” is the sound of a story. Leonard Cohen’s swift finger-picked guitar foregrounds swelling strings that emerge like a ghostly warning of impending danger. Like turning the pages of a novel, the song creeps through sinister crescendos while spilling nightmarish poetic imagery. Cohen spits cryptic lyrics that drip like poisonous ink off of crinkled white pages. The words cast dark shadows that creep up the wall like frost, living and malevolent. They rise to the ceiling, forming a spectral forest with striking bars of light and dark. The song slithers between the trees and pierces the heart of the listener with dripping black hatred. The windows may be locked, but from Cohen’s icy words and dark instrumentation, the cold air finds a way in.

Fidgeting with the radio for hours in a cramped truck on an icy road will eventually lead you to the Magnetic Fields song “Born on a Train.” It’s the sound of long winter nights where the dark pavement of the road and the gloomy night sky merge into the deepest black of winter. The stars are replaced with spattering snowflakes that flash for an instant before being swept away by a windshield wiper. “Born on a Train” feels like it’s transmitted through a radio signal that can only be found in the dark, bouncing between dark silhouettes of forests and beaming headlights. Its fuzzed-out production sounds like it was constructed by static organizing itself into familiar shapes. Despite the greyness, the song feels warm. It’s another lonesome passenger on the road to nowhere, following a convoy into the blackened void ahead. Home is undoubtedly far away, but with “Born on a Train,” it almost feels like you’re already there.

Through a frost-tinted window, a couple slow dances in their living room. With closed eyes they dance over the soft carpet by candlelight, holding one another close in a warm embrace. Meanwhile, in the apartment next door someone sits alone. They lean their head against the cold glass of the window and watch as tiny specks of people make trails in the snow on the street down below. In “Why Try to Change Me Now,” Fiona Apple croons for the lovers and the heartbroken. A painting formed by subdued comfort, Apple paints with delicate brushstrokes of darkened sorrow and bright white hope. It’s an anthem for those in love and a companion for those still waiting, inhabiting the familiar limbo in between. While it’s the same cold weather for everyone, the winter is anything but uniform. A mosaic of dark days and hopeful nights, “Why Try to Change Me Now” weaves in between them in a delicate waltz.

Between the harsh blacks and soft whites of winter is a simple grey. It’s the colour of a cloudy day, cold breath, and dirty snow gathered by the curb. The grey is a mushy swirl of everything winter, a vibrant landscape lurking just beyond its drab palette. Neil Young’s “After the Gold Rush” is not unlike the greys of winter. Simple in its presentation but concealing immeasurable depth. Young’s mellow voice duets with a lonely piano, his surreal lyrics creating a gentle mist of welcoming isolation. By the time the lone French horn pierces the melancholy, it feels like a companion emerging from the fog to join you in the gloom. “After the Gold Rush” succumbs to the grey, finding hope and beauty in its surrender.

“Duke of Earl” by Gene Chandler plays like a dusty old record. The archaic vinyl wobbles and crackles over Chandler’s smooth vocals, a voice echoing from a romanticized past now long gone. It’s the soundtrack of an old photo album, yellowed pages holding dear memories being flipped through by the fire on a cold winter night. Black and white photos of young couples in love frozen in time and protected from the biting cold outside. Smiling faces and friends lost to memory are revived by the soft doo-wop chant. Photos come to life and the static images of the dusty album dance once more, flickering like an old film. Even if for a moment, the past returns and bathes the world in monochrome nostalgia. “Duke of Earl” is the echo of love from bygone days, sometimes dim but never silent.

A flickering neon sign emits a paltry white light obscured by a flurry of snow across a dark winter night. Inside is a bar obscured by a thick grey haze of cigarette smoke. The mismatched patrons sit slumped over half finished drinks, coming here looking for the only place they can call home right now. Tom Waits’ “Anywhere I Lay My Head” wheezes from a broken jukebox like a funeral march for the lonesome. Waits’ wounded howl is anything but pretty, but neither is the scene. The song walks with a grizzled limp, its eyes hollow and baggy from years on the road, not unlike its peers at the bar. But it doesn’t paint a nihilistic picture, the song instead erupts with a mismatched, boozy marching band. The defeated blues turning into a drunken chorus line, still mournful but refusing to let the bastards get them down. It’s rough, ugly, and tough on the ears, but sometimes it’s the only place that’ll welcome you in. As the bombastic horns fade into silence, the patrons leave, and the bar shutters the windows. However, it’ll be open soon for a new batch of strangers to call home once again.

The city becomes barely a shadow beneath the endless white of a blizzard. Howling winds are reduced to a faint whistle emitting through the corners of an apartment window, and the glass is freezing to the touch. However, the powerful scene is merely a background, obscured with a string of black and white polaroid photographs. Sweet moments of love and laughter with friends and family block out the harsh realities of the winter. Across the empty apartment are a stack of board games to be used for the next night in. Unwashed mugs that previously carried hot chocolate are precariously stacked atop one another in the sink. Strewn across the apartment are cable knit sweaters, wool socks, and half melted candles. In the corner, a stack of vinyl, one of which carries the Vampire Weekend song “Young Lion.” It’s a winter lullaby, with hushed vocals of cold wind and twinkling piano that falls like snow. It’s not dreary, but nostalgic. Slow and chilly, but a gentle guide to navigating the dreary months. Winter is hard and cold, but it’s not without its beauty, so take your time, there’s a lot to enjoy.