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
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Friday, October 02, 2015
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.
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.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Hope in Disorientation
We saw Sufjan Stevens last week. Though it was not quite the performance I expected or hoped for, it was a uniquely strong communal experience, and more impressive than the songs, compositions, or light-show themselves was the way the collective breath of 2,700 people was held, the wind knocked out of us, our stomach in knots. This was more than attending a funeral, this was sitting in silence for the week following, like the friends of grieving Job. No one spoke a word, for they saw that his suffering was very great. It was unexpectedly intense, living loss together.
This performance by Sandra McCracken strikes me the same way, an expression of loss and disorientation, and it's not difficult to enter into it and live it with her, evident that she's singng from experience. The only difference is a resolute hope, a tenacity that yearns toward the light that surely exists at the end of the tunnel, and that important difference is certainly a tad healthier than the few passing references offered us on Carrie and Lowell.
To be honest, feeling lost has been a recurring and overwhelming theme over the course of the past 4+ years. Many have looked at me as if they don't understand and don't care to understand, but one man listened carefully, lived it with me a bit, and asked me to read Psalm 43:3 to see if it spoke to the feeling.
Send out your light and your truth;
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling!
It was basically the first time I paid attention to the verse. It's become an anthem since, and in the past few months so has this song, as it captures fully the essence of weary waiting and orients me again in the one and only direction I know is worth heading.
This performance by Sandra McCracken strikes me the same way, an expression of loss and disorientation, and it's not difficult to enter into it and live it with her, evident that she's singng from experience. The only difference is a resolute hope, a tenacity that yearns toward the light that surely exists at the end of the tunnel, and that important difference is certainly a tad healthier than the few passing references offered us on Carrie and Lowell.
To be honest, feeling lost has been a recurring and overwhelming theme over the course of the past 4+ years. Many have looked at me as if they don't understand and don't care to understand, but one man listened carefully, lived it with me a bit, and asked me to read Psalm 43:3 to see if it spoke to the feeling.
Send out your light and your truth;
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling!
It was basically the first time I paid attention to the verse. It's become an anthem since, and in the past few months so has this song, as it captures fully the essence of weary waiting and orients me again in the one and only direction I know is worth heading.
Friday, September 04, 2015
On Consolation
It was early Monday morning when I definitively learned I would help a friend bury his dad the next day. They didn't know exactly what they wanted, but they wanted an homme d'église saying something, anything as they lowered him down. Ils avaient raison. Because saying goodbye to a dad with no one speaking truth by our sides is desperately hopeless indeed.
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
Friday, April 24, 2015
Added track to sleepy-time mix
Yes, I am still gradually adding to the sleepy time mix, which, if I've done things correctly, is downloadable here (without this song).
So, here's the newest addition. Is there a more beautiful song with which to tuck in your children and prayerfully end a day?
So, here's the newest addition. Is there a more beautiful song with which to tuck in your children and prayerfully end a day?
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
John My Beloved
I'm not nearly ready to try and say something worth reading about this album, except that it's exceptional. So far this is my favorite track. There's a lot of reasons why, though I recognize I've always been immediately partial to songs using a sustained note over the entire chord progression... (see also: this song, 10 years old this year and that sustained note halfway through still gets me)
Friday, March 13, 2015
Monday, March 09, 2015
fitting music
it's a rare gift when you stumble upon some music that seems to catch the mood of life at the moment.
this is what life sounds like lately.
this is what life sounds like lately.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Advent 35: More Unconventional Advent Songs
Add these songs to the list of unconventional advent songs.
Because one day we'll all sing like this:
And play our guitars and drums like this:
...in one majestic and glorious crescendo.
And until then we wait with expectation, our souls longing to join in the chorus they were made to sing.
Because one day we'll all sing like this:
And play our guitars and drums like this:
...in one majestic and glorious crescendo.
And until then we wait with expectation, our souls longing to join in the chorus they were made to sing.
Friday, December 12, 2014
Advent 33: Lighter Loads
This Flower
dispels with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere;
true man, yet very God, from sin and death He saves us,
and lightens every load.
This has always been a favorite Christmas melody. It somehow embodies a weary waiting and a mysterious hope, like a flower slowly growing, undoing the impossible, then brightening rooms, dispelling darkness, lifting spirits, lightening loads.
dispels with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere;
true man, yet very God, from sin and death He saves us,
and lightens every load.
This has always been a favorite Christmas melody. It somehow embodies a weary waiting and a mysterious hope, like a flower slowly growing, undoing the impossible, then brightening rooms, dispelling darkness, lifting spirits, lightening loads.
Friday, November 07, 2014
Mix Tape: More Than Meets the Eye
There was a time when music meant something. When it came from somewhere deep down inside. Where we sang it with everything we had, because for the duration of that song it was in fact all we had.
In our emo phase, for example, that's what it was all about. Duh, it was emotional. That's how it was meant to be. Melodramatic? Sure, to some onlookers maybe, but never to the guy singing his heart out, be it the frontman on stage or the fanboy in the crowd.
This is how music is meant to be, after all. I'm convinced it's the purpose music serves. No, I'm not talking about emo, thrashing around on stage, screams, forcing tears, black hair dye and black nail polish. I mean that music is for encompassing and expressing a full range of emotions that can't quite be articulated otherwise. And a good song does exactly that not just through instrumentation or performance, but primarily through a melody, through a chord progression, through rhythm and syncopation. Through its bare bones. Like a good folk song at its core, dress it up however you like and it will almost always produce the same results. A tug on the heart, a nudge in the soul.
In enters Scottish electro-pop act CHVRCHES. Now, I know that surely there is more to electronic music than meets the eye. And while I admire the craft, I never quite get the live show: a couple of nerds standing behind the glow of their laptops, pressing play on things they've copied and pasted, and pretending they're doing something more. Surely it's more than that, but I don't yet entirely get it. Now imagine taking that underwhelming set up and putting it in a 9 to 5 office setting, next to the cubicles and under the fluorescent lights. What could be more boring? Yet for some reason, I find this Tiny Desk Concert to be one of the most powerful I've seen. And it's because the songs -- the melodies, the chords, the rhythm -- are just that good. In the end it's not really at all about synths and beats and loops and bloops. It's about whatever's lying deep within that produces these pieces of music meant to be felt. We don't expect such a small, sweet, and vulnerable voice to produce as much as it does. More than meets the eye, indeed.
The Bones of What You Believe is an album that's been finding its way into our home slowly and surely. Like I've mentioned, even the kids like it. There's a lot of great stand out tracks, but for the mix tape, I choose "Recover."
In our emo phase, for example, that's what it was all about. Duh, it was emotional. That's how it was meant to be. Melodramatic? Sure, to some onlookers maybe, but never to the guy singing his heart out, be it the frontman on stage or the fanboy in the crowd.
This is how music is meant to be, after all. I'm convinced it's the purpose music serves. No, I'm not talking about emo, thrashing around on stage, screams, forcing tears, black hair dye and black nail polish. I mean that music is for encompassing and expressing a full range of emotions that can't quite be articulated otherwise. And a good song does exactly that not just through instrumentation or performance, but primarily through a melody, through a chord progression, through rhythm and syncopation. Through its bare bones. Like a good folk song at its core, dress it up however you like and it will almost always produce the same results. A tug on the heart, a nudge in the soul.
In enters Scottish electro-pop act CHVRCHES. Now, I know that surely there is more to electronic music than meets the eye. And while I admire the craft, I never quite get the live show: a couple of nerds standing behind the glow of their laptops, pressing play on things they've copied and pasted, and pretending they're doing something more. Surely it's more than that, but I don't yet entirely get it. Now imagine taking that underwhelming set up and putting it in a 9 to 5 office setting, next to the cubicles and under the fluorescent lights. What could be more boring? Yet for some reason, I find this Tiny Desk Concert to be one of the most powerful I've seen. And it's because the songs -- the melodies, the chords, the rhythm -- are just that good. In the end it's not really at all about synths and beats and loops and bloops. It's about whatever's lying deep within that produces these pieces of music meant to be felt. We don't expect such a small, sweet, and vulnerable voice to produce as much as it does. More than meets the eye, indeed.
The Bones of What You Believe is an album that's been finding its way into our home slowly and surely. Like I've mentioned, even the kids like it. There's a lot of great stand out tracks, but for the mix tape, I choose "Recover."
Wednesday, November 05, 2014
Shaking what your mama and papa gave ya.
I've got good news for the world.
My kids like to cut a rug. But we're really pleased to tell you that the girl is already the best dancer of the three. We didn't think it was possible to feel rhythm more than the first two do. She's proved us wrong. And at only 16 months, this is promising.
I'm also proud to announce she apparently really really likes the group CHVRCHES, whom I've been meaning to write about for a while now...
My kids like to cut a rug. But we're really pleased to tell you that the girl is already the best dancer of the three. We didn't think it was possible to feel rhythm more than the first two do. She's proved us wrong. And at only 16 months, this is promising.
I'm also proud to announce she apparently really really likes the group CHVRCHES, whom I've been meaning to write about for a while now...
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Mix Tape: Being made for one another
Every once in a while a group comes along and it's clear they were made for another. Whatever their respective backgrounds, they were meant to find one another, make music together.
That's the case with Lucius. It's most observable, of course, in their two frontwomen who might as well be sisters, or twins, or siamese twins even, joined at the vocal chords or something, because their voices function as one in an unbelievable and enchanting way. But just as admirable is the way the men join seamlessly in the singing, subtly and discretely, always adding and never detracting, or the way all five of them pulse with the same rhythm, the way each one of them brings something to the table and it all just somehow fits.
They were made for one another, and that's just the way their debut disc Wildewoman listens. There are moments, bursting with enthusiasm in having found their musical soul mates, that are overzealous to their detriment. They will only improve as they learn to edit and refine their craft, as at times there is simply too much going on to the point it's hard to digest or tell one song from another. They're excited, and you can't blame them.
But there are indeed other times where they reveal what that future could hold, where they prove that less is more. Because when you're meant to be together, you can be content to let moments pass in silence. You are comfortable, confident, secure, not needing to be heard, letting the other speak up or just simply enjoying the moment. That rhythm that pulses between you, it keeps churning even when no one's explicitly keeping time. These are the moments that shine most among their songs, the moments that prove most clearly they're made for one another.
That space between notes is most evident in Lucius's strongest song, "Go Home." Here's a live version for you.
That's the song that goes on the mix tape, but all this was just as evident in the song they chose for their encore last night in Paris: "Two of us on the run"
That's the case with Lucius. It's most observable, of course, in their two frontwomen who might as well be sisters, or twins, or siamese twins even, joined at the vocal chords or something, because their voices function as one in an unbelievable and enchanting way. But just as admirable is the way the men join seamlessly in the singing, subtly and discretely, always adding and never detracting, or the way all five of them pulse with the same rhythm, the way each one of them brings something to the table and it all just somehow fits.
They were made for one another, and that's just the way their debut disc Wildewoman listens. There are moments, bursting with enthusiasm in having found their musical soul mates, that are overzealous to their detriment. They will only improve as they learn to edit and refine their craft, as at times there is simply too much going on to the point it's hard to digest or tell one song from another. They're excited, and you can't blame them.
But there are indeed other times where they reveal what that future could hold, where they prove that less is more. Because when you're meant to be together, you can be content to let moments pass in silence. You are comfortable, confident, secure, not needing to be heard, letting the other speak up or just simply enjoying the moment. That rhythm that pulses between you, it keeps churning even when no one's explicitly keeping time. These are the moments that shine most among their songs, the moments that prove most clearly they're made for one another.
That space between notes is most evident in Lucius's strongest song, "Go Home." Here's a live version for you.
That's the song that goes on the mix tape, but all this was just as evident in the song they chose for their encore last night in Paris: "Two of us on the run"
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Flashbacks
Spending two hours in the car every day this week to go see my wife in the hospital has given me plenty of time to listen to music, and I've been digging in the archives. I listened to this today and sang just about every word.
I remember very clearly the first time I heard The Dingees. I put the headphones on in the Christian bookstore and from the opening seconds I was hooked.
I got this disc on my 16th birthday at the surprise party in the backyard. I put it on immediately.
The photo of the guys wearing their black zip-up hoodies inspired me to go out and buy one for myself; the one I bought became a staple and stayed with me for more than 10 years.
I gave their music to Fraser, trying to convince him that "Christian" music didn't suck and that they were just as good if not better than Rancid. He agreed they were good; I'm not sure he was ready to accept that they were better than Rancid.
I used to play their music on the sound system before youth group on Wednesday nights, and we'd dance. (OK, skank might be a more accurate term, but I was trying to avoid it.)
I think I only saw them play once; we drove someplace far away to watch them play with Ghoti Hook.
And I still really, really like their music. Most of the punk and ska from my teenage years has been retired to a large CD booklet holder, being preserved mostly for nostalgia's sake. But after all these years the Dingees have stayed on the shelf.
They never belonged in the parallel-universe of a niche market they found themselves in, but I'm glad they showed up there because I never would have run into them otherwise.
I remember very clearly the first time I heard The Dingees. I put the headphones on in the Christian bookstore and from the opening seconds I was hooked.
I got this disc on my 16th birthday at the surprise party in the backyard. I put it on immediately.
The photo of the guys wearing their black zip-up hoodies inspired me to go out and buy one for myself; the one I bought became a staple and stayed with me for more than 10 years.
I gave their music to Fraser, trying to convince him that "Christian" music didn't suck and that they were just as good if not better than Rancid. He agreed they were good; I'm not sure he was ready to accept that they were better than Rancid.
I used to play their music on the sound system before youth group on Wednesday nights, and we'd dance. (OK, skank might be a more accurate term, but I was trying to avoid it.)
I think I only saw them play once; we drove someplace far away to watch them play with Ghoti Hook.
And I still really, really like their music. Most of the punk and ska from my teenage years has been retired to a large CD booklet holder, being preserved mostly for nostalgia's sake. But after all these years the Dingees have stayed on the shelf.
They never belonged in the parallel-universe of a niche market they found themselves in, but I'm glad they showed up there because I never would have run into them otherwise.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Friday, May 09, 2014
friends doing cool things
There's a lot that's crummy about growing old and being adults, but one great thing is watching friends pursuing dreams and succeeding. The list of those friends doing amazing things is pretty long, but one is the CEO of Flannelgraph Records. He's doing some cool stuff and having a lot of fun in the process it seems, and as has always been his way, it puts a smile on a lot of people's faces. I was about to say he wasn't changing the world, but now I realize he just might actually be...
Best of Boiler Room Classics Commercial from Flannelgraph Records on Vimeo.
Best of Boiler Room Classics Commercial from Flannelgraph Records on Vimeo.
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
Mix Tape: Love caging, fickle and failing
I told Travis very little music has inspired me lately. He gave me a disc of his 40 or so favorite songs from 2013. I listened on the drive back from Indiana. This was the next to last song and it grabbed me more than any of the others. I know admittedly absolutely nothing about Phosphorescent or his music, and I am late, and it's okay, because it seems this song is all that needs to be known.
It's dressed up a bit differently, in what's almost early 90's easy-listening synth pop, or not far from Springsteen's "Streets of Philadelphia." But it's a folk song at its core in every way, with its repetitive churning built on a simple soul-plucking chord progression, its strong melody offered by a wavering worse for wear voice.
"Love never fails," Paul boldly asserts. Taken at his word he sounds like a hopeless romantic with his heart on his sleeve. Like he believes in destiny and soul mates and walks on the beach and growing old together. It's a phrase fit for a wedding day, but we roll our eyes through the daily grind that follows.
He's got his work cut out for him, because the majority of the canon of modern pop music says just the opposite. Love always fails, it never lasts. In the words of this song, it is fading, fickle, a disfiguring, caging killer. Love is a prison. Love is a murderer. Love takes, hurts, breaks, destroys.
Is he exaggerating? Typical depressed folk artist? I'm afraid not. This is the human experience, whether it's sung by Phosphorescent or Miley Cyrus. Oddly enough the lyrics from last year's hit song don't sound much different: clawing, chaining, warring, wrecking and breaking.
If our artists speak for us, we've not much optimism left for love. It's take what you can get when you can get it, enjoy it while it lasts, but overall we're self-protecting cynics, afraid to commit, knowing we'll only one day be disappointed, eventually chewed up and spit out.
Paul and his unfailing love are left to walk the beach alone, taking pauses to write Hallmark cards and happy endings, none of which we actually believe. He's at best an innocent dreamer, at worst a pitiful lunatic.
Or maybe the problem is our notion of love.
Maybe the definition is wrong.
Maybe the object is misguided.
Maybe the source is insufficient.
Maybe all the disappointment is our problem, not love's. Maybe what we call love is hardly love at all, and all its painful failure only serves to point us towards what we're really so desperately looking for. Maybe there exists a love that never fails after all.
Phosphorescent, "Song for Zula" from Muchacho
It's dressed up a bit differently, in what's almost early 90's easy-listening synth pop, or not far from Springsteen's "Streets of Philadelphia." But it's a folk song at its core in every way, with its repetitive churning built on a simple soul-plucking chord progression, its strong melody offered by a wavering worse for wear voice.
"Love never fails," Paul boldly asserts. Taken at his word he sounds like a hopeless romantic with his heart on his sleeve. Like he believes in destiny and soul mates and walks on the beach and growing old together. It's a phrase fit for a wedding day, but we roll our eyes through the daily grind that follows.
He's got his work cut out for him, because the majority of the canon of modern pop music says just the opposite. Love always fails, it never lasts. In the words of this song, it is fading, fickle, a disfiguring, caging killer. Love is a prison. Love is a murderer. Love takes, hurts, breaks, destroys.
Is he exaggerating? Typical depressed folk artist? I'm afraid not. This is the human experience, whether it's sung by Phosphorescent or Miley Cyrus. Oddly enough the lyrics from last year's hit song don't sound much different: clawing, chaining, warring, wrecking and breaking.
If our artists speak for us, we've not much optimism left for love. It's take what you can get when you can get it, enjoy it while it lasts, but overall we're self-protecting cynics, afraid to commit, knowing we'll only one day be disappointed, eventually chewed up and spit out.
Paul and his unfailing love are left to walk the beach alone, taking pauses to write Hallmark cards and happy endings, none of which we actually believe. He's at best an innocent dreamer, at worst a pitiful lunatic.
Or maybe the problem is our notion of love.
Maybe the definition is wrong.
Maybe the object is misguided.
Maybe the source is insufficient.
Maybe all the disappointment is our problem, not love's. Maybe what we call love is hardly love at all, and all its painful failure only serves to point us towards what we're really so desperately looking for. Maybe there exists a love that never fails after all.
Phosphorescent, "Song for Zula" from Muchacho
Tuesday, April 01, 2014
This is what I'm listening to today.
I'm not really a free-jazz enthusiast, but somewhere along the way I got introduced to Joshua Stamper's work and I'm always interested in what he's doing. This was released today.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Searching for Sugar Man
If it were a tale about anyone else in the music business, like say the Beatles showing up in America, it would be a tale of idolatry and egocentrism and making it big and success as the world defines it. But because it's a tale of Rodriguez, it's different. He's a modest man who doesn't necessarily want to make it big, he just wants to change the world. Even that's easier said than done, because when he 'fails' in music he tries his hand in politics, and that goes nowhere just as quickly.
So when shows up in South Africa, this isn't typical music industry hype, this is a man who helped shape a generation. It's as though they don't want to worship him, they want to thank him. They appreciate him, and he's learning for the first time that he did somehow change the world. It's a story that, read on paper, is already pretty incredible, but to try and put yourself in all the strange mix of emotions at that first concert is absolutely astounding. It can't be put to words.
For them, a revolutionary leader is resurrected. For him, a hope is resurrected.
"To go from being the outcast to being who he really was, because it was as though it was him, and that was who he was."
But it's also a testimony to not only the power of art but the necessity of it, the mindset and outlook that comes with it for every corner of life.
"He approached the work from a different place than most people do, he took it very very seriously, sort of like a sacrament, he was going to do this dirty dirty work for 8 or 10 hours but he was dressed in a tuxedo. He had this kind of magical quality that all genuine poets and artists have to elevate things, to get above the mundane and the mediocrity that's everywhere. Even when his musical hopes were dashed, the spirit remained...he knew that there was something more..."
"So we're working class people, blue collar, hard labor...but just because people are poor doesn't mean their dreams aren't big and their soul isn't rich. My dad gave us a lot of exposure to the arts; he would let us go into the libraries and the museums and the science centers, and that was our day care, touring the halls of the museum -- Diego Rivera, Picasso, Delacroix -- and we began to learn of life outside of the city, in books and paintings and music."
So when shows up in South Africa, this isn't typical music industry hype, this is a man who helped shape a generation. It's as though they don't want to worship him, they want to thank him. They appreciate him, and he's learning for the first time that he did somehow change the world. It's a story that, read on paper, is already pretty incredible, but to try and put yourself in all the strange mix of emotions at that first concert is absolutely astounding. It can't be put to words.
For them, a revolutionary leader is resurrected. For him, a hope is resurrected.
"To go from being the outcast to being who he really was, because it was as though it was him, and that was who he was."
But it's also a testimony to not only the power of art but the necessity of it, the mindset and outlook that comes with it for every corner of life.
"He approached the work from a different place than most people do, he took it very very seriously, sort of like a sacrament, he was going to do this dirty dirty work for 8 or 10 hours but he was dressed in a tuxedo. He had this kind of magical quality that all genuine poets and artists have to elevate things, to get above the mundane and the mediocrity that's everywhere. Even when his musical hopes were dashed, the spirit remained...he knew that there was something more..."
"So we're working class people, blue collar, hard labor...but just because people are poor doesn't mean their dreams aren't big and their soul isn't rich. My dad gave us a lot of exposure to the arts; he would let us go into the libraries and the museums and the science centers, and that was our day care, touring the halls of the museum -- Diego Rivera, Picasso, Delacroix -- and we began to learn of life outside of the city, in books and paintings and music."
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