Mayhap the only thing about me that is remotely academic is my constant examination of the motives behind everything. I accept very few things at face value, I refuse to rely on the, "just the way it is" explanation for anything. Aye, if I did not despise math so much, methinks I would've made a good scientist, or apothecary.
One of the big questions I always come back to is, "what makes this song good?" Like the night I stayed up doing calculus homework and listened to "Game of Love" by Santana & Michelle Branch on repeat for almost an hour; what the fuck? I hate Santana, and I deleted "Everywhere" from my computer some time ago, so why is it that this trite, pubescent, factory-sealed track forces me t0 lip-sync the words every single time I hear it? To anyone who might be reading this, my heart goes out to you; what follows is a serious expedition into my personal musical mania. As Count Dracula says to Jonathan Harker, "Enter freely, and of your own will."
For me, belief is a very necessary component to being able to enjoy a piece of music. When I say belief, I don't mean that I go check Leviticus when I hear a new song, I mean that I require some degree of sincerity in order to appreciate a piece of music. Unfortunately, this leaves us wondering what the fuck is "sincerity," and how does an artist get at that?
Dipping into my obsessive fanboyism: people who are acquainted with the music of Joanna Newsom are generally divided into two groups: those who are held in thrall by her serpentine lyrics and winsome melodies, and those who absolutely-cannot-fucking-stand her. Though the difference is definitely a matter of taste, I think that it goes a little deeper than that: the key difference between the two camps is that one completely buys her act, and the other doesn't. In the article that fellow Newsom-fanboy Dave Eggers penned for Spin Magazine in 2004 he wrote, "I picture her looking like Emily Dickinson. Newsom lives, I imagine, like a feral woman-child. Her dwelling is somewhere rural, and by a lake. But on a hill. On a hill, by a lake. The house is old, crackety. Painted red like a schoolhouse. Maybe it is a schoolhouse!" What Eggers is trying to get at in that passage is belief.
For independent artists, their image is almost as important as their music, if not just as. Joanna Newsom's songs about sea creatures turned women (Colleen), seafaring beetle shells (Bridges and Balloons), and abusive inter-species relationships (Monkey & Bear) would just not fly if Newsom looked like a pussycat doll. Her pretty, yet vaguely elvish appearance, combined with her otherworldly voice and unconventional instrument choice (harp) lend her sincerity. They allow you to believe that Joanna Newsom is serious when she uses words like "chim-choo-ree" and "hydrocephalitic." Because grandiose, fanstastic, 16 min.+ intent like that is pretty difficult to deny when taken in earnest, what can keep the Newsom's critics outside of her world besides cynicism?
What I mean to say is, I believe the fuck out of Joanna Newsom. I believe her so hard that she has singlehandedly convinced me that magic is real. On the other hand, someone I don't believe is Of Montreal. I'm sure Of Montreal is a great band, and I have put a great deal of effort into liking them, but I just don't buy Kevin Barnes outlandish outfits and random nudity. Their music doesn't wake up the hobbits in my soul like Newsom's does (soul hobbits lolz). I firmly believe Dave Longstreth's musical insanity. I have no faith in Vampire Weekend's "white boys from nice backgrounds make good by riffing off of African music" brand of pop. And so on, and so on, and so on.
Of course, this "theory of belief" isn't strictly limited to *sigh* indie music. All of the top 40, radio friendly pop I like, I also believe.
Wait, considering the artist-centric discussion of belief before, how in the hell does someone "believe" in a pop song, considering that the inception of most pop music is owed more to 3 or 4 different songwriters and producers, than the person who actually performs it?
For instance, I fucking goddamn love the song "How Do I Live," performed by Leann Rhimes and then Trisha Yearwood; written by Diane Warren, who has never been married, and professes that she has never been in love. How can I believe a love song written by a woman who herself doesn't even seem to believe in love?
Unlike independent artists, pop singers aren't selling themselves. Indeed, I think that the vast majority of them place themselves as far away from the product as possible. Britney Spears is prime evidence of this. Britney Spears exists primarily as a piece of merchandise to you and me. There's a real Britney Spears, but she's so hidden behind executives and producers and songwriters who have determined for her what she's going to be, that she's more like Hogwarts castle than a person. You can't find it on a map, and the vast majority of people would just find ruins if they ever saw it.
But this is okay. Top 40 pop doesn't rely on the sincerity of the artist in order to validate itself. Pop music is music with a mandate, with a goal. It is saccharine, it is mass-produced syrupy schlock intended to send the parts of you pre-programmed to respond to words like "beauty," "pain," and "soul" directly into diabetic coma. The reality of the person singing doesn't matter, all that matters is how well the producers and songwriters have done their jobs, hitting the buttons that need to be hit in order for the me's of the world to sit in front of our computers at 4 in the morning, trying to do u substitution while lip-syncing along to inane, vapid analogies about love, baseball, and candy stores.
Of course, the machine can still misfire. Take for instance Madonna's new single, "4 Minutes." This is the woman who made "Borderline"! I want to like everything that she does ever. Alright, so we got "4 Minutes," already sounds awesome. Four minutes to turn around until you lose me forever? Four minutes to make you love me? Four minutes alone with your embittered ex-lover until the two of you are done for good? Wait, what? Four minutes to save the world? What the fuck? Is this the Armageddon soundtrack? Why do we give a shit about saving the world? What about my beating, melodrama-obsessed heart? Timbo! You who gave me "Are You That Somebody?"! What is this beat? This shitty Casio-horn-propelled beat? NO! NO! NO! Where are the crying babies? Where are the slick synths that I loved in Futuresex/Lovesounds? What is there for me to belieeeeeeeeeeeeve?
*sigh*
I love loving music. I hope that all of that made sense. If it didn't, I'm not going to explain; believing music is like Apple Jacks. If you need to have it explained to you, then you just won't understand.
At any rate, these are some songs that I seriously fucking believe. Maybe if you listen to them, close your eyes, think happy thoughts, and click your heels together, you'll believe them too.
1 comment:
You almost lost me on the bit about top 40 artists not selling themselves. I was always struck as a young Britney fan how it was weird that her songs were so discontinuous with what everyone knew about her personal life. Britney was still a virginal 17 year old but all her songs on ...Baby One More Time were about her lifelong love being far from her. They're certainly selling themselves but they don't even attempt integrity, no one really minds whether the top 40 hits are factual (some more believable than others; Chris Brown's With You makes me weep just thinking about how much he cares about Rhianna).
I love loving music too, Matthew, and I've always loved sharing the love with you. May we always know all the words to all the same songs. (The apple jacks thing is really funny.)
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