The Go-Betweens are a canonical example of a band that can (or could) do no wrong, in a certain sense: they're the sort of band I can imagine being boring, but far too intelligent to ever go down a poor artistic path. As romantics in popular song go, they are most likely unsurpassed. But sometimes, the words a bit more than I can handle; they haunt me by virtue of their contrast to my life. On listening to them, at an intuitive level I know the spirit of the song - gentle, loyal, and suggestive of an infinite reservoir of emotion - is what a part of me is made of. If I could put a structure to the feelings I've accumulated over the decades, they would probably sound like what I'm hearing. The melody feels like home, and when I hum along, the song becomes my own. All fantastic, all beautiful, but! There's no one for me to sing it to. While every endeavour of the heart suddenly seems conceivable, all I can do is expectantly sigh.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
It's been many years since I've had the words of Morrissey safely stored away in my head, ready to be quoted at any instant. But as with any great songwriter, there are still discoveries to be made when I relisten to his songs. Recently, I figured out another reason that I feel a sense of connection with the lyrics. Sure, there's the unforgettable line in "How Soon Is Now?", which till this day I can't imagine is actually featured in a pop song; and yes, there's the wit mixed with mopiness that very strongly mirrors one facet of me. But my recent observation is that a recurrent theme in his songs is living your life by a code that is supposed to lead you to someplace good, but instead brings only ruin. This is most obviously manifested in songs dealing with matters of the heart (which is most of them ;-)); many of them express dismay that one can be so emotionally open, and yet find oneself, well, alone. It's melodrama to suggest that sums up my life, but it definitely elicits a knowing nod from me. I suspect that what really gets to me is how Morrissey reacts to this fact: passively, helplessly, with almost impossibly muted displays of frustration. You might say this points at the realization that such problems are ultimately immaterial, and not worth anything more than a mention. He said it himself with his recent "That's How People Grow Up", not coincidentally a strong favourite of mine. And of course it's true, and of course in the scheme of things, this is no crucifix that we are bound to. Yet, one can only argue this up to a point, because it glosses over a certain spiritual timidity that the Moz and I share. Such is life. But, as with Morrissey, but my plea is unchanged; I stand by my claim of a few years ago. Don't know what it is I'm living for, but if the occasional flash of beauty is all that the Path brings, so be it.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Merciless memory though I may possess, even that has its limits. When I look back on some of my past writings, I must confess being shocked that I can't remember those thoughts running through my head. I don't imagine this is because I didn't ponder long and hard about the surrounding events; quite the opposite, as the early days of this blog will attest to. This is troubling when the writing was about my then grave uncertainty about the path I was going down, which turns out to be path I am on now, funnily enough. On reflection, it seems that a single fork most momentous and harrowing took its hold on my world, shook hard, and caused a swirl for about half a year...before it became my new state of being. Comfortingly or depressingly, one gets used to anything, and forgets that there was once the option of it all ending up differently. Does my forgetting mean that deep down, I've resolved all that past uncertainty, and that this is the road I was meant to take after all? Yeah, that must be it.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Take it whichever way you will: after an extended spell of separation from acquaintances of varying degrees, in many cases the only thing I could think about on my return was their flaws. This isn't how it's supposed to work, you know; it suggests either a remarkably deep-seated sense of individualism, or remarkably bad luck in forming a broad social circle. Neither possibility is pleasant. My unease reached its peak when I realized that I was after amalgamation: I wanted to take every desirable quality I saw in each of them, and use that to forge the perfect friend. Among other things, this mythic being would share all my tastes, my sensibilities, and have the sense to know when to stop talking.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
One of the more impressive pairs in recent memory, and a reminder of the mysterious power of popular song.
1) The Triffids, "Wide Open Road". There have been many instances when a song I've gone on to consider great is, on first listen, greeted with apathy by my ears. In recent memory, I can't recall a mistake of similar magnitude as with this track. My first listen many years ago didn't leave much of an impression, except me thinking that the title evoked a rather nice image. But now, as with a few other songs that have featured in this series of mine, I think it's justified to call it perfect. Infused in spirit with all the vast mystery of the great Southern land, but remarkably also a moving metaphor for the most universal of all feelings, longing. And of course there's the organ, which is what lets us discover these things in the first place.
2) The Triffids, "Tender is the Night". The fact that Born Sandy ends with a ray of hope suggests the band has soul, which is a rare thing for music of any time period. Hope infused with some sadness, mind you, but that makes it all the more convincing. The standard of the lyrics is something else: poetically subtle when it's called for, and tenderly simple when it isn't. As I mentioned when discussing "As Long As That", tracks like this remind me of my perennial dream of turning a songwriter.
1) The Triffids, "Wide Open Road". There have been many instances when a song I've gone on to consider great is, on first listen, greeted with apathy by my ears. In recent memory, I can't recall a mistake of similar magnitude as with this track. My first listen many years ago didn't leave much of an impression, except me thinking that the title evoked a rather nice image. But now, as with a few other songs that have featured in this series of mine, I think it's justified to call it perfect. Infused in spirit with all the vast mystery of the great Southern land, but remarkably also a moving metaphor for the most universal of all feelings, longing. And of course there's the organ, which is what lets us discover these things in the first place.
2) The Triffids, "Tender is the Night". The fact that Born Sandy ends with a ray of hope suggests the band has soul, which is a rare thing for music of any time period. Hope infused with some sadness, mind you, but that makes it all the more convincing. The standard of the lyrics is something else: poetically subtle when it's called for, and tenderly simple when it isn't. As I mentioned when discussing "As Long As That", tracks like this remind me of my perennial dream of turning a songwriter.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Shelve your western plans
I stumbled to the phone as it disrupted my stupor, with my mind still trapped in dreams. Try as I might, on lifting the receiver I found my mouth simply unable to conduct language. After some awkward fumbling, I somehow managed to convey to him my disinterest, which apparently caught him off guard. But he only needed a second to fire a painful retort, one which would have been unimaginable in the place my heart calls home, but my body no longer recognizes. Thus shaken out of sleep, and caught in this state of weakness, my only thought was that I cannot survive a lifetime in this country.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
A time for looking at tunes of songs past, I suppose.
1) Lou Reed, "Last Great American Whale". My current perception of what it means for an album to be good is strongly rooted in the hope that I can listen to it in a year or two, without looking back at the songs as being merely appropriate for a particular time in my life. I'm glad to report that at its one year anniversary, Reed's New York passes the test. It's hard to say why Reed's poetic impulses are so compelling when he filters them through his dirty realism (for lack of a better phrase). But the words seem to have that ability of all great lyrics, of coming to you years into the future and forcing you to pause and reflect, without necessarily knowing why.
2) Lou Reed, "My House". The Blue Mask has passed the above test year after year, but only recently have I begun to fully appreciate how important it is. The opening track sets a reflective tone that is very uncommon for rock music: when trying to recollect my feelings on first hearing this song, I realized that it's no wonder I used to be obsessed with this type of music! Even after all this time, I have to say that it's Reed's finest (near) spoken-word song; and mind you, that's a category with some stiff competition (see #1!). Popular song is a remarkable medium to allow something like this to exist and feel natural.
3) Bruce Springsteen, "The Promised Land". Six years ago, I was initially hooked by the harmonica line on this song. Six years later, it sounds as good as ever when it cuts through at the beginning. Yet, the song's place in my emotional history is cemented by the words: their passionate frustration is a perfect response to the music, and they convey a very genuine desire to do away with the forces keep a dream in chains. Remarkably, the hyperbolic praise I had for the album way back when now seems nothing more than perfectly apt.
1) Lou Reed, "Last Great American Whale". My current perception of what it means for an album to be good is strongly rooted in the hope that I can listen to it in a year or two, without looking back at the songs as being merely appropriate for a particular time in my life. I'm glad to report that at its one year anniversary, Reed's New York passes the test. It's hard to say why Reed's poetic impulses are so compelling when he filters them through his dirty realism (for lack of a better phrase). But the words seem to have that ability of all great lyrics, of coming to you years into the future and forcing you to pause and reflect, without necessarily knowing why.
2) Lou Reed, "My House". The Blue Mask has passed the above test year after year, but only recently have I begun to fully appreciate how important it is. The opening track sets a reflective tone that is very uncommon for rock music: when trying to recollect my feelings on first hearing this song, I realized that it's no wonder I used to be obsessed with this type of music! Even after all this time, I have to say that it's Reed's finest (near) spoken-word song; and mind you, that's a category with some stiff competition (see #1!). Popular song is a remarkable medium to allow something like this to exist and feel natural.
3) Bruce Springsteen, "The Promised Land". Six years ago, I was initially hooked by the harmonica line on this song. Six years later, it sounds as good as ever when it cuts through at the beginning. Yet, the song's place in my emotional history is cemented by the words: their passionate frustration is a perfect response to the music, and they convey a very genuine desire to do away with the forces keep a dream in chains. Remarkably, the hyperbolic praise I had for the album way back when now seems nothing more than perfectly apt.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
I don't think my taste in music, literature, and the arts in general is especially idiosyncratic or eclectic, but for a long enough stretch of time I've had the feeling that maybe I'm the only person in the world who experiences the things I do. (The careful reader will remember me making that statement about Lou Reed's Set the Twilight Reeling.) To a small extent that can be explained by my consumption habits, focussed more on depth than breadth, which does not seem to be the spirit of the times. To a larger extent, I'm sure that says something about the circles I've found myself in, due to a very limited notion of comfort zone. But where once I used to think that it didn't matter if these albums & books were mine, all mine, I now feel, well, like sharing. What exactly that means and in what capacity, I don't know. Let's just say though that it means anything different to what I currently practice, namely the piling on of album after album, each more esoteric than the last. (I exaggerate greatly, but it does feel that way sometimes.)
Part of my insularity is perhaps a result of elitism. By having secret treasures that few others know about, one feels privy to the true works of greatness, with the rest of the world not having the discriminating taste to have discovered the thing on their own. (We can forget the fact that one doesn't discover things through divine visions, and that ultimately someone, be it a person or a magazine, has to introduce you to a book or album.) Of course, I don't consciously put thought and effort into acting this way, but I have felt on occasion that this is a more realistic explanation than mere apathy. Another force that is potentially also in the mix is the fear that my smugness of taste will be in for a shock when I open up: if the treasures are greeted with indifference, then all this secrecy has been for nought* :-)
Lest you accuse me of selling out, I'm not at all saying that the only things worth experiencing are what the mass likes. I maintain very strongly that the things I like are really quite good (that's axiomatic? ;-)). But there is only so much one mind can offer you. (This might seem rather puzzling to anyone who's kept abreast of developments in the social web - this is precisely the thing that has attracted so much attention to it - but again, the careful reader will remember my countless concerns with the culture the social web has fostered.) And as I mentioned many years ago, there is something surreal about listening to music with the headphones off and someone else in the room. I once had the oddest sensation where I almost couldn't believe that the songs could exist outside my head, that other people could experience them. That's probably because of the deep personal meaning one tends to attach to them, and bless that - but surely that can happily coexist with the occasional shared listen.
So what exactly am I proposing? Nothing really. This is just a statement expressing desire on the way I'd like things to be. As a small step, I think I'd like to take opportunities to evangelize things that once I'd keep all to myself. Stay tuned for future posts lamenting how my recommendations are drowned out by the social web ;-)
* This is related to a (potentially) deep issue, as expressed in a question I was once asked point blank: when there is no interaction with others about the arts, how do you know your quality-sensor is accurate? Or as I was asked, "How do you know you're not fooling yourself?". A complex question, and one that a different post would have to address. But it does touch upon why my current state is fraught with uncertainty at times.
Part of my insularity is perhaps a result of elitism. By having secret treasures that few others know about, one feels privy to the true works of greatness, with the rest of the world not having the discriminating taste to have discovered the thing on their own. (We can forget the fact that one doesn't discover things through divine visions, and that ultimately someone, be it a person or a magazine, has to introduce you to a book or album.) Of course, I don't consciously put thought and effort into acting this way, but I have felt on occasion that this is a more realistic explanation than mere apathy. Another force that is potentially also in the mix is the fear that my smugness of taste will be in for a shock when I open up: if the treasures are greeted with indifference, then all this secrecy has been for nought* :-)
Lest you accuse me of selling out, I'm not at all saying that the only things worth experiencing are what the mass likes. I maintain very strongly that the things I like are really quite good (that's axiomatic? ;-)). But there is only so much one mind can offer you. (This might seem rather puzzling to anyone who's kept abreast of developments in the social web - this is precisely the thing that has attracted so much attention to it - but again, the careful reader will remember my countless concerns with the culture the social web has fostered.) And as I mentioned many years ago, there is something surreal about listening to music with the headphones off and someone else in the room. I once had the oddest sensation where I almost couldn't believe that the songs could exist outside my head, that other people could experience them. That's probably because of the deep personal meaning one tends to attach to them, and bless that - but surely that can happily coexist with the occasional shared listen.
So what exactly am I proposing? Nothing really. This is just a statement expressing desire on the way I'd like things to be. As a small step, I think I'd like to take opportunities to evangelize things that once I'd keep all to myself. Stay tuned for future posts lamenting how my recommendations are drowned out by the social web ;-)
* This is related to a (potentially) deep issue, as expressed in a question I was once asked point blank: when there is no interaction with others about the arts, how do you know your quality-sensor is accurate? Or as I was asked, "How do you know you're not fooling yourself?". A complex question, and one that a different post would have to address. But it does touch upon why my current state is fraught with uncertainty at times.
I'm fairly certain this serendipity can't go on forever. As people have hinted in the recent past, things are starting to open up. While designated with the title of student, I suppose one is granted leeway, more or less - you're still trying to "find yourself". After that, well, if you ain't been found, you got a whole 'nother thing coming.
I don't think I mean just the luxuries I currently have, for example in how I can carefully consider Sparks records. It's the prolonged sense of dissense that I have which I think must be fundamentally incompatible with the real world. Like everyone else probably does, I don't think I view the world in the same way as other people. There's a spark of lunacy, manifested occasionally as a whimsical blog post, a wry joke, or even a personal chuckle at some piece of imagined theatre. Were the thoughts to be laid bare for all the world to know, I'm sure a lot of them would be written off as immature. But really, they're the only reaction I can imagine to the complexities and intricacies of the world, unforgiving and unwelcoming as it is. When reality itself is nonsense, careful contemplation is useful only up till a point. Fine; all that's well and good, yet I can't shake off the sense that thinking this path cannot coexist with a state of being "grown up". (The only people who provide evidence otherwise are writers!) I'd of course like to imagine that I can forge my own way and follow a way of life that feels correct and True, rather than expected. Yet as always, I have my doubts.
I don't think I mean just the luxuries I currently have, for example in how I can carefully consider Sparks records. It's the prolonged sense of dissense that I have which I think must be fundamentally incompatible with the real world. Like everyone else probably does, I don't think I view the world in the same way as other people. There's a spark of lunacy, manifested occasionally as a whimsical blog post, a wry joke, or even a personal chuckle at some piece of imagined theatre. Were the thoughts to be laid bare for all the world to know, I'm sure a lot of them would be written off as immature. But really, they're the only reaction I can imagine to the complexities and intricacies of the world, unforgiving and unwelcoming as it is. When reality itself is nonsense, careful contemplation is useful only up till a point. Fine; all that's well and good, yet I can't shake off the sense that thinking this path cannot coexist with a state of being "grown up". (The only people who provide evidence otherwise are writers!) I'd of course like to imagine that I can forge my own way and follow a way of life that feels correct and True, rather than expected. Yet as always, I have my doubts.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Build me a woman
"Eyes alight with glowing hair / All that fancy paints as fair"
There is a certain type of woman that a certain school of songwriters have spent their lives writing verse & melody about, hoping that somewhere they will hit the right intersection of line & note, and bring a smile to her lips. When writing about any fair maiden, there is a strong temptation to imagine her as being a manifestation of this She, our own personal gateway into a world hinted and suggested through a lifetime of song. In doing so, I wonder if we end up projecting an impossible burden on the unsuspecting girl in question, convincing ourselves that they really are a living version of this immaculate entity. I suspect that while the answer is yes, the temptation is too strong and we do it anyway. Through scattered instances of a girl showing off a wistful smile, or even having that special something in her step, one gets glimpses at facets of this carefully constructed She. One need only consult one's CD rack to find out what happens after that.
There is a certain type of woman that a certain school of songwriters have spent their lives writing verse & melody about, hoping that somewhere they will hit the right intersection of line & note, and bring a smile to her lips. When writing about any fair maiden, there is a strong temptation to imagine her as being a manifestation of this She, our own personal gateway into a world hinted and suggested through a lifetime of song. In doing so, I wonder if we end up projecting an impossible burden on the unsuspecting girl in question, convincing ourselves that they really are a living version of this immaculate entity. I suspect that while the answer is yes, the temptation is too strong and we do it anyway. Through scattered instances of a girl showing off a wistful smile, or even having that special something in her step, one gets glimpses at facets of this carefully constructed She. One need only consult one's CD rack to find out what happens after that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
