Mix Tape: Doubts at the end of the world

The kid and I recently finished reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader a tale of sea adventures that lead to the very end of the world. It's a surprising tale of courage, especially surprising when the most courageous of all is a tenacious and volatile mouse who will do whatever necessary to uphold his vows of honor.

In this song, Kristian Matsson of The Tallest Man on Earth walks to the end of the world in Sagres, looks across the ocean, and upon hearing harrowing tales, decides to walk away from the beckoning adventure. Reepicheep would be disappointed. But then again, so is Matsson.

The first time I heard it, I labeled the song as bland and uninspired, but it has only continued to grow on me since then. In a progression of just six chords Matsson sets up a profound wistfulness and restlessness, a tension that seems to be lurking under the surface in many of us. It's not that it's uninspired, but rather that the songs evenness serves to communicate a persistent malaise, a pervading numbness. What is left of us? he asks. The song doesn't exactly build, but it does lead to a definitive climax where the music stops and he mutters the tired answer into the microphone: it's just all this doubt.

In Dawn Treader Aslan reminds Lucy of a lesson she's already been taught: nobody is ever told what would have happened. But, he reassures her, anyone can find out what will happen.

This is a song for those who lament not knowing what would have happened, those who regret knowing what could have happened, and those reluctant to find out what will happen.

And the unknowns of the ocean just keep calling us all the same: there's only one thing left to do.

What's brilliantly paradoxical about the progression is that it could also just as easily serve as a soundtrack for sailing across the open waters, holding out a hope of freedom for those still stuck wrestling with doubt.

"Your way was through the sea." Psalm 77:19

The Hymnal of DMST

I've always listened to much of Sigur Ros as a window to heaven, meaning I consider their work to some degree heavenly music in the true sense of the word, otherworldly at least, in some way reflecting a glorious grandeur that we'll one day know.

Well, I finally solved the problem of the absence of a record player in this house, and I am slowly but surely rediscovering my vinyl collection. Yesterday I got to Do Make Say Think's You, You're a History in Rust. And if I hear Sigur Ros as heaven, I hear this as hymns.

There is something not only transcendent but also inherently corporate about their music, and the songs come together in a way that not only expresses the full range of emotions loud and clear, but also as if one instrument is proclaiming to another. The songs are all at once declaration and dialogue. There's a vertical dimension and a horizontal dimension. At times reflective and restrained, other times ardent and jubilant. Improvised and spontaneous, deliberate and calculated. All this is what makes good hymnody. 

It is particularly the series of tracks "A With Living," "The Universe!," and "A Tender History in Rust"  that inspires this tribute.


The other week in the metro I stood next to a man with a Do Make Say Think t shirt. He looked just as nerdy as me. I fought the impulse to hug him.