Linkin Park - Session

Some songs are an act of creation. They start with a simple beat then layer and layer until they’re complex and towering. 

Trent Reznor works this way. Look at “In Motion” from The Social Network soundtrack. From :00 to :08 is the bass drum and bass line. :08 adds digital champagne bubbles. :15 adds snare. :23 fades in and unfolds a new rhythmic strand. :38 adds the actual melody. 

"In Motion"'s melody is a metaphor for musical creation. There is such a large gap between the first two notes and the third that it feels like the songwriter searches for and discovers that third note as he plays. Adding to this effect is that the third note, an A, is the dominant of the melody’s D chord. This means we expect the third note’s pitch before we even hear it. We are observers hoping for the song to find its way, happy when the song finds its melody, participating in the act of creation. 

Linkin Park’s "Session" takes this creation metaphor to another level. Not only does it build on itself layer by layer, but the instruments chosen for each layer and the melodies, beats and harmonies all contribute to the idea of creation. The effect is like listening to a creative process. 

"Session"’s foundation (from :00 to :17) is the music of the spheres - eerie, beautiful and solitary. This effect is achieved with what sounds like a water glass, an elegant pre-instrument that makes sound through revolutions. 

Drum precursors snare in at :08. At :17 they solidify into a dream beat, like stardust into planets. 

The drums are forceful, but also stumble and stutter, fade out and malfunction. There are mistakes: muffled drumbeats  (at :31, :32 and :34) and a mechanical stuttering familiar to anyone who had a Discman before skip protection (at :43, :57, 1:14, 1:30 and 1:50). 

Listeners, at least in the early digital days, were preconditioned to cringe when they heard muffled beats or skipping. They expected the song to cut out, that they’d have to open the CD player and clean the disk with their shirt and hope for the best. 

Linkin Park manipulates this fear. Each time that drum muffled or skipped, you were conditioned to expect the music to cut out. But “Session”’s drumbeat impossibly fights through. 

This is a creator’s drumbeat. Insistent, and plowing though malfunction. There must be purpose or confidence driving the drum that steamrolls through the missteps and errors. 

At :39 the synth strings play the chords progression. At :57 is a suspenseful drum malfunction, but the song pushes through and layers on a melody and a bass. 

At this point “Session” is a bona fide instrumental track - it’s built from a water glass to a drumbeat, to synth chords, to bass, to keyboard melody. It’s fulfilled it’s formal requirements. 

Now it can add its own layer of expression, it’s true voice, which comes in the form of a turntable. The first hint of a turntable is a little echoing blast, almost in the background at :57, which returns at 1:07.  

From 1:18 to 1:35 is a suspenseful breakdown section, achieved by collapsing the 3 chord progression into 1 sustained chord.  

The turntable echoes in the background of this transition: will it get to see the light of the day? 

Finally the music kicks back in at 1:35 with a hyperspeed drum roll and an aggressive turntable scratch. 

From 1:35 to 1:55 the turntable gets to express itself. It sounds so much like human speech, like an impassioned voice defiantly having its say. It sounds like what the drumbeat has drove towards the whole time. This is what it struggled through those errors and malfunctions, this is what it fulfilled it's formal requirements, for the chance to say. 

But at 1:55, the drumbeat falls out, and the turntable keeps going, taking an unhinged life of its own. It’s transcended the beat, it’s defied gravity, it’s forgotten all about the rules of the past. 

It all finally catches up to him at the end at 2:16 there’s a dial tone death rattle. 

The ending impression is like watching a man come from nothing, persevere and persevere to create beauty, and then go off the deep end. 

Damon Albarn - albarn (n.)

albarn, n. 

pronunciation: /ælbɑːrn/




1. a European surname

2. a musical interject reminiscent of a sigh or grunt that compliments and completes a melody. The impression is of the music producing a nonverbal indication that the preceding musical phrase was pleasurable. Derived from Damon Albarn, a 21st century musician whose compositions implemented this device. 

2010  GORILLAZ Plastic Beach in Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach    Damon’s autotuned “ooooo”s at 1:22, 1:27, 1:34, 1:44, 1:50, 1:54, 2:06, 2:11, 2:17, 2:27, 2:33, 2:38, 2:49, 2:54, 3:00, 3:11, 3:16 and 3:21

2010  GORILLAZ Plastic Beach in White Flag    The Psyduck moan at 1:42, 1:46, 1:51, 1:56, 2:00, 2:05, 2:09, 2:14, 2:20, 2:25, 2:29 and 2:34 

2010 GORILAZ Plastic Beach in Some Kind of Nature    The guitar fuzz hit at :00, :05, :10, :14,  :25, :29, :35, :45, :49, :54, :59, 1:04, 1:09, 1:51, 1:56, 2:00, 2:05, 2:10 and 2:15

2010 GORILLAZ Plastic Beach in Plastic Beach    The stuttered turntable at 1:32, 1:58, 2:09, 2:19, 2:30, 2:40, 2:50 and 3:01

2010 GORILLAZ Plastic Beach in To Binge     The beautiful descending keyboard at :14, :37, 1:47 and 2:57

2010 KANYE WEST My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy in Gorgeous   The guitar breath at :04, 

:15, :25, :36, :46, :56, 1:07, 1:17, 1:28, 1:38, 1:48, 1:59, 2:09, 2:20, 2:30, 2:40, 2:51, 3:01, 3:12, 3:22, 3:32, 3:43, 3:53, 4:03, 4:15 and 4:25  

2005 GORILLAZ Demon Days in Kids With Guns    The guitar slide that sounds like a head whipping around at 3:04, 3:12, 3:21, 3:30 and 3:39

2005 GORILLAZ Demon Days in O Green World    The bass indigestion at 1:17, 1:21, 1:25, 1:29, 1:33, 1:37, 1:41, 1:45, 1:48, 1:52, 1:56, 2:00, 2:59, 3:02, 3:07, 3:10, 3:14, 3:18, 3:22, 3:26, 3:30, 3:34, 3:46, 3:49, 3:53, 3:57, 4:01, 4:05, 4:09 and 4:13 

2005 GORILLAZ Demon Days in Dirty Harry     Damon’s high-pitched “uhhh” at :47, :50, :55, 1:35, 1:40, 3:19, 3:22 and 3:24

2005 GORILLAZ Demon Days in Feel Good, Inc.    Damon’s “uh-huh” at :07, :10, :13, :17, :20, :24, :27, :31, :35, 2:07, 2:11, 2:14, 2:17, 3:13, 3:16, 3:20, 3:23, 3:27, 3:30, 3:33, 3:37 and the guitar bend up at :11, :18, :25, :32, :39, :45, :52, :59, 1:40, 1:48, 1:56, 2:03, 2:08, 2:15, 3:14, 3:21, 3:28 and 3:35

2005 GORILLAZ Demon Days in November Has Come    The high-pitched belch at :55, 1:06, 1:17, 1:40, 1:51, 2:02, 2:14, 2:25 and 2:37 

2005 GORILLAZ Demon Days in Demon Days     The echoing punctuation to the descending guitar at 2:27 and 2:30, 2:58 and 3:01, 3:28 and 3:32 and 3:58 and 4:02  

2001 GORILLAZ Gorillaz in Man Research (Clapper)    The venting guitar at :11, :23, :32, :43, :52,  1:01, 1:12, 1:22, 1:36, 1:47, 1:56, 2:07, 2:16, 2:26, 2:46, 2:57, 3:06, 3:16, 3:26, 3:36, 3:46, 3:56, 4:06 and 4:16

1997 BLUR Blur in Song 2    “Woo-hoo” at :14, :17, :21, :25, :43, :48, :51, 1:24, 1:27 and 1:31 

I love albarns, but they leave me feeling guilty. An albarn is just like sitcom canned audience laughter, isn't it? Like audience laughter damn well forces you to laugh, albarns force you to say “ooooooo” with them and admire the music. 

 Shouldn’t music elicit our own albarns, instead of forcing them on us? 

But Albarns differ from audience laughs. They’re tailor-made for their song. If you used the “Dirty Harry” albarn on “Feel Good, Inc.”, it wouldn’t sound right. A canned laugh is a canned laugh no matter what joke it is attached to.

So I take back the audience laughter analogy. An element is there. But there is craftsmanship in an albarn. 

I’ve traced albarns back to 1997. Do you know of any earlier ones (from Damon or any other artist)? Comment below. 

Oasis - Champagne Supernova

Beauty...here the two shores of the river meet; here all contradictions exist side by side. 
                                                                        -Dmitry Karamazov


A song's basic structure is its chord progression. The bass normally clarifies the chord progression. Listen to "Saturn Barz" - the chord progression is the 4 long notes played by the fuzzy bass starting at :24 and ending at :30. The song repeats these again and again.

The rest of the song's sounds are ornamentation on that chord structure. If a chord is a metal pipe, a melody is ivy spiraling around it. Ivy has more variation, is more interesting to look at, feels more detailed, organic and delicate than the metal pipe.  But without that pipe to grow on, ivy would just be a pile of leaves on the ground. For ivy to be beautiful, it needs to follow a basic structure. Songs are the same.

Some songs make the metal pipe invisible - they wrap melodies around a chord progression that isn't played by a bass, but still made clear. Listen to the beginning of "Stairway to Heaven". No bass plays under the acoustic guitar melody, but it's not hard to feel the chord progression. Listening to the first 7 seconds, you can hear 5 descending chords very clearly. You are almost compelled to hum the bass that isn't there.

Whether the chord progression is played by a bass, or implied by the melody, almost every popular song and most of classical music use chord progressions. Almost every piece of music has a single, simple, underlying structure.

Songs like "Yellow Ledbetter" repeat one chord progression through the entire song. You can hear the bass start it at :32 and end at :45, a 4 chord progression that is repeated until the end. This makes "Yellow Ledbetter" both supremely easy to rock your head or tap your foot to, and also lends it an inflexibility that goes well with the disillusionment of the lyrics.

But in other songs, repeating one chord progression becomes tedious. These song use multiple chord progressions to provide variety.

Oasis is king of multiple chord progressions. Take "Don't Look Back in Anger".

One 8 chord progression (A) starts at :12 and ends at :24. It gets repeated, and then another 4 chord progression (B) is introduced at :35 and repeated 3 times until :53. Until :59 is a 2 chord progression (C). A transitional 8 chord progression (D) starts and goes to 1:11. Then the first 8 chord progression (A) sound again.

Then the pattern repeats.

So where "Yellow Ledbetter" is simple, "Don't Look Back In Anger" is complex. It's a progression of chord progressions. Many other songs follow this structure, chaining multiple chord progressions together.

So that's it right? If a chord progression is the basic structure of a song, you can either have songs with a single chord progression, or songs that combine multiple chord progressions.

But what if you could have two chord progressions at the same time?

Impossible! A contradiction. If a chord progression is the basic structure of a song, you can't have two basic structures. You're doing something wrong.

I suppose, you could layer two songs with different chord progressions on top of each other and play them at the same time. Then you would have two simultaneous chord progressions.  But that's not really a song is it? It's a soup of sound.

Of course, I'm sure you have heard mixes of two different songs played at once, and they somehow fit together and sound harmonious. But this is often because they have the same chord progression, or at least share some characteristics in their chord progression.

What I'm looking for is the impossible - one, unified song that has two simultaneous chord progressions. That would be something magical wouldn't it? Quantum mechanical. Mystical.

I give to you: "Champagne Supernova".

This song has magic. Part of it is because it has simultaneous chord progressions.

The skeleton of this song is the acoustic guitar played from :07 to :19. At first listen, it's a simple descending chord progression: Asus2 G F# E. The guitar makes these chord shifts clear by very distinctly strumming the lowest note of each chord at the beginning of each measure.

A lesser song would strum, not just the lowest notes of these chords, but all the other notes, too. However, Oasis wanted to express a calming, meditative vibe. So while Noel hits the lowest note of each chord at the beginning of each measure, the rest of that chord's measure is filled with strumming of Asus2.

What is normally strummed:

I.  Asus2 Asus2 Asus2 Asus2
II.  G        G         G        G
III. F#      F#        F#       F#
IV. E        E          E        E

is instead strummed (lowercase indicates the low string of the chord instead of the entire chord) :

I.   asus2 Asus2 Asus2 Asus2
II.  g       Asus2 Asus2 Asus2
III. f#     Asus2 Asus2 Asus2
IV. e       Asus2 Asus2 Asus2

The guitar plays two four chord progressions simultaneously. One is the Asus2 G F# E suggested by starting each measure by hitting the lowest note of those chords. The second is Asus2 Asus2 Asus2 Asus2 suggested by strumming Asus2 at all other times.

We'll call the first chord progression (Asus2 G F# E) "Descent", since it steadily lowers in pitch. We'll call the second chord progression (Asus2 Asus2 Asus2 Asus2) "Buddha", since it focuses on one chord over and over, like a meditation.

First, a little about the character of each chord progression. "Descent" is gentle but inevitable. It's gentle in that each chord drops only a little in pitch. It's inevitable in that the chords always go downward.

"Buddha" is simple and meditative. It focuses on one chord over and over again. Even that one chord, Asus2, has a simple, pared down quality. A normal A chord forces you to hold three frets, Asus2 only requires 2. More strings are open in Asus2 than A; more strings are in their natural state.

Perhaps you have a different idea of what these chord progressions feel like. Great. The point is that they are different, and therefore give off different vibes. They suggest different mind-states. You feel one way listening to one and another way listening to the other.  When they play simultaneously, you have a foot in two worlds.

We have said that most sounds in a song are ornamentations of chord progressions. Let's apply that idea to these two chord progressions. Which musical elements of "Champagne Supernova" wrap around the "Descent" chord progression, and which ones wrap around "Buddha"?

From the beginning of the song is a drone which does not shift chord. "Drone" belongs to "Buddha".

At :13 is a chime, which repeats at :16, :19 and :22. It's a single repeated note. "Chime" also goes to "Buddha".

At :33, Liam Gallagher's vocals kick in. They conform to a descending chord structure. "Vocals" to "Descent".

At :35 is a dial tone that lasts through the first verse. "Tone" goes to "Buddha".

At :35 you can also hear a gentle, echoing chord that does not shift. "Echo" goes to "Buddha".

At :58 the bass finally kicks in, following the descending chord structure. "Bass" goes to "Descent".

Also at :58, Liam's chorus vocals follow the descent. "Chorus" to "Descent".

At 1:24 the harmonica comes in, hovering over one chord. "Harmonica" to "Buddha".

At 1:59 the chorus amplified electric guitar slides down the scale. "Amp" goes to "Descent".

2:26 to 2:52 is a bridge, which introduces another chord progression. We'll skip it.

2:55 introduces a two note electric guitar part we'll call the "Nod", which doesn't change chords. "Nod" goes to "Buddha".

3:06 introduces another electric guitar melody. We'll call it "Sincere" since it sounds that way to me. Technically, it has its own 2 chord progression, but it fits these two chords into one chord of the base chord progression, then repeats itself over the remaining chords. "Sincere" to "Buddha".

4:08 to 4:33 is another bridge.

4:35 starts the first guitar solo. "Solo 1" follows "Descent".

4:48 starts "Solo 2" which also makes a "Descent".

Classification of these musical elements leaves us with:

DESCENT                                     BUDDHA
 Vocals                                                Drone
 Bass                                                   Chime
 Chorus                                               Tone
 Amp                                                   Echo
 Solo 1                                                Harmonica
 Solo 2                                                Nod
                                                           Sincere

6 musical elements follow the "Descent" progression, 7 elements follow the "Buddha" progression. The song's elements are split between almost evenly between the two chord progressions.

"Champagne Supernova" occupies two states in more ways. The nonsensical lyric "caught beneath the landslide / in a Champagne Supernova in the sky" suggests simultaneous existence in two disparate states - deep under ground in the mud, but also high in the sky in blinding cosmic light. The song is also notable for its layering of two different guitar solos at 4:47 - we become immersed in two different guitars at once.

I don't know if these touches were intentional; it's more likely they are an unconscious product of the song's organizing principal, its simultaneous chord progression.

This is what makes music magical, when it pulls off something impossible, using simple structures to  express two mind states at once.

Isn't that more true? Portraying two simultaneous mind-states instead of one? We don't experience emotions as a sequence of single, Platonic forms. In grief there is some humor, in awkwardness certain confidences, in calm an inkling of dread, in sadness happiness. To hear a song that feels two things at once - Красота!



PS

Oasis's "Wonderwall" does a scaled back version of simultaneous chords. On all the chords of the main acoustic guitar, Noel holds the fifth and six strings on the third fret, giving every chord both that chord's nature, and the nature of a G chord.

Two more deft touches on "Champagne Supernova". One: the drum roll leading into the chorus, especially at 3:42. It's one of many indications that the song is going to ramp up. The first is the heavy snares at 3:39. The next is the electric guitar kicking in at 3:40. Another are the vocals "Someday you will find me" - which actually start before the first chorus chord (anacrusis). Finally, the drum roll kicks in at 3:42.  Combined they turn the last chord of the verse into an expectation for the chorus.

Second is the melody of the vocal "caught beneath the landslide". We expect the chorus to descend like the rest of the vocals, but with "caught beneath the landslide"'s raise in pitch the song temporarily defies this expectation. It makes the moment unexpected and imbues it with meaning; with the singer pushing back on the inevitably of "Descent".

Gorillaz - Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach

When you run 7 miles every day, it goes like this. The first two miles are difficult, just knocking the crust out of your joints and gaining momentum. The last two miles are also difficult, because you're tired. But the middle three miles...it's all the rhythm of your feet hitting the ground, regular, unstoppable, adapting to drops and rises in the surface. At the same time a confidence and a freedom glows and hums over that.

It's called flow.

The best music equivalent is at 2:01 in Gorillaz's "Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach". The bass has a quick rhythm that adapts to the level of the song's chords. At the same time there's this non-rational, flowing melody over it, when Damon sings "just like that / ooooooooo".

You're stuck between quickly tapping your foot in time with the bass and stopping time to close your eyes and sigh the "oooooo"s. Engrossed in time and stepping outside of it.

Danny Elfman - Spider-Man: Main Title

…he’s the sweetest guy ever. Have you ever stared into his eyes? It was like the first time I heard The Beatles. 

                                   -Seth, Superbad

Why does everyone like The Beatles? 

My answer is in a high school friend. He always spoke in phrases that encapsulated the extreme emotions and passions of teenage. If a girl blushed, he whispered “she wants.”  When the loudspeaker announced early dismissal he’d jump out of his chair and yell “chyeah BLAT!” He had an impression of Herb the bus driver, who always complained about his old age, that went “Errr…I got some gout in my left tit!” 

He was Italian and that's why I see him in 8 1/2, when the young boys sneak out to the wrong side of the tracks to experience a little sensuality. Imagine the energy of all these boys and of the music here put into one person: https://youtu.be/_n2s5i2i2Jg?t=1m42s. Especially the boy on the right, slapping himself again and again on the face. That was my friend.

If you’ve ever touched a piano, or any instrument, or even, if you've ever used your voice to emote, you know you can hit a chord and have it sound, and do the job, but you can also pound it exuberantly, emphasize the right keys, and the same chord does more than its job. It bursts with emotion.

That’s what my friend, Fellini and The Beatles do. When they want to get something across, they don’t just play the right note, they passionately express it. 

For The Beatles, one of the best examples is “Twist and Shout”. Listen to how Lennon’s voice scratches when he says “shout” at :12, the yelling at 1:32 and the “shake it”s at 2:10. 

Try to sing like that. You have to work yourself up to an uncomfortable level of emotion and volume to achieve that sound. 

The same for Paul’s singing in “Hey Jude” from 4:02 to 4:08. See how he sings “long” at 1:54 in “It Won’t Be Long”.  See the exuberance and emotion in “Please Mister Postman”, in the “wait”s in the beginning and Paul’s vocals over the backing from :11 to :23. In “Money (That's What I Want)”, how John sings “I” at 1:05. In “A Hard Day’s Night” the way he rushes “get home to you” and sexualizes “feel alright” at 1:23. How Paul suddenly ups the emotional intensity when he sings “Got to Get You into my Life” at 1:03. The mischievousness and nervous energy of the “come on”s at 1:58 in “Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey”. The intensity of John’s voice at 2:12 in “Yer Blues”. 

The Beatles go all out at the appropriate emotional moments. That’s why everyone likes them. It's hard to find that level of relatable but still extreme exuberance in any other band. 

I do hear flashes of it once in awhile. I hear it in Fall Out Boy’s “My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark (Light Em Up)” at :55, when the band sings “fire”. I hear it in the final yelp of My Morning Jacket’s “What a Wonderful Man”. In Edith Piaf’s “La vie en rose”. 

And there is an instrumental equivalent in composer Danny Elfman’s music. 

Listen to “Farewell”, which closes the first Spider-Man. At 3:50 the music ramps up to facilitate a visual shift from Peter and Mary Jane at the graveyard to Spider-Man in flight. The change in tempo, the introduction of new percussion, and the rise in the chords would have sufficed in bringing the music's energy back. But Elfman turbocharges the effect by adding fast-moving, rising background strings. 

At 3:59, Elfman doesn't just hit a drum; he somehow produces the sound of a sledge hammer slamming a spike. 

At 3:59 are the strings meant to evoke the webs shooting out of Spider-Man’s wrists when he webswings. Rarely do you hear violins played with such violence. 

At 4:11 the chorus goes to an extraordinarily high pitch. 

Even Elfman's cymbals, which are normally crashed to indicate climax, here crash, sustain and then crash again from 4:12 to 4:18. Not just a climax, but a sustained climax. 

At 4:25 the webswinging violins make their last stand, break tremulously and exhilaratingly high. 

These musical choices, and the passion with which they are played, attain an enthusiasm rarely heard. 

***

You could disagree and I'd understand. You could say, "you're just highlighting random points in the music and dolling them up with superlatives. You could do that with any beat of any song. Anyway, I don't trust your perception, you just praised Fall Out Boy".

I'd respond: "If only there was a piece of music that was recorded twice, once in Danny Elfman's hands, and once in someone else's. If you listened to them side-by-side, I could prove my point: Danny Elfman's would sound like Technicolor, the other version - black and white." 

Ahh, but that’s exactly what happened! Danny Elfman had "creative differences" and left Spider-Man 3's score to Christopher Young. 

Young recorded a second take of Elfman's "Main Title" using the same score and instruments.  You can hear its lack of exuberance in a side-by-side comparison with Elfman's.

At :17 (on Elfman's) there is a very subtle difference in the fast strings. Young's are slightly more regular in rhythm,  as if played by a machine.  In Elfman's there is also more of an emphasis on the first note of each section. Furthermore, there is a greater difference in playing intensity between the downbeat notes and the rest, giving them texture where Young's are flat.

At :22, Elfman's percussion has much more character than Young's, is more wet. Elfman's rhythm also has a larger range between primary beats and secondary beats, resulting in a halting, destabilized feel.

This destabilization is more engaging of itself, but how it feeds into the next measures brings about another engaging effect.

Part of what makes the introduction of the Spider-Man theme at :38 so effective is how it brings together disparate strains of music. Because Elfman's rhythm is more destabilized, Elfman's Spider-Man theme has to overcome more destabilization than Young's. This makes Elfman's theme sound stronger than Young's.

From :27 to :38, Elfman's percussion blasts at the beginning of each measure are more forceful. The bass that accentuates these blasts is more prominent in the mix.

From here forward (with the exception of the newly introduced Sandman and Venom themes) Young's rendition continues in its inferiority. Elfman uses sharp brass from :57 to accentuate his rhythms; these are barely heard in Young's version. At the same time Elfman plays distorted, amplified brass that is absent in Young's. Elfman's visceral webswinging strings at 1:05 lose their edge in Young's.

Overall, there is less differentiation in volumes and intensities. Young's lows are less low, his highs less high. It's like listening to Elfman's on Xanax.

***

"Well," you might say, "Elfman beats his drum, pulls his strings and crashes his cymbals a little harder, so what?"

Listen, just listen to the Elfman version, and then the Young version. The same damn music! Which one gets you more excited? Musical theory says there are two dimensions to music: rhythm and pitch. Elfman shows us a third: exuberance.

Have you ever noticed how "A" can say the same words as "B", but "A" will leave you cold, where "B" will make you laugh, or cry, or elated? Next time you play guitar, clasp the fret at an angry chord, wring everything out of that bend, caress the strings in a love song; when you talk wreck the name of your enemy,  whisper to mimic a shy person, laugh with your eyes bright.


PS - Another highlight of the Spider-Man score is "Revenge". At 2:27 Peter stares out from the top of a building. He's never webswung before, but he must now to catch his uncle's murderer.

The music builds tension with an aggressive rhythm that's a combination of Peter's pounding heart and the clock impatiently ticking for him to make the decision to jump.

When he finally jumps, all rhythm falls out, and the music flies through the air, untethered, at 2:48, just like Peter.

It's that extremely rhythm based build up that makes the subsequent rhythmless rendition of the Spider-Man theme at 2:48 so exhilarating, that allows the music to make us feel like Peter does as he flies through the air for the first time, heart in his mouth.

The emotion it gets across is something I've felt when I decide to go talk to a girl. There's that devastating build-up, "will I or won't I?", the merciless pounding heart, then, when you finally make the decision, the floor falls out,  you have to improvise, there's an adrenaline rush. Then things stabilize and your confidence grows. Hopefully you keep the exhilarating dance going on for a couple of minutes, before you start talking about the Spider-Man score and she leaves.

Of Monsters and Men - Little Talks, Dirty Paws

I lived in a DC basement that spit out to an alley. Each day I crossed paths with the students, unpaid interns and poverty-line entry level professionals who lived in the other basements that spit out to the alley. But I only remember one name.

"al-EES," she said.

Her lips made the blushing smile peculiar to young German women speaking English, which seems to grace all words passing through with a singsong.

What a sound she gave it. How was it spelt? Did it have an umlaut? Did it end in "ß"? Where have I heard an "EES" like that before, what's that word? "Elysium".

That night Hunt for the Red October was on. Alec Baldwin was tracking down a Russian (a great shot). It reminded me of a Russian I once talked to, who kept telling me his name was "Alec".

"Alec," I said. "Strange name for a Russian."

"No, not 'Alec'," he said. "'Alec'".

"Alec," I said.

"No, no," he said. He wrote it down.

"Oleg," it said.

In Russian the name "Oleg" has a stress on the second syllable. The deemphasized "O" sounds more like an "A". The "g"s at the end of Russian words lose their gutturalness and become "c"s. So "Oleg" sounds a lot like "Alec".

"al-EES". That's when I realized her name was "Alice". A frumpy name in English. But in her German accent, with the stress shifted from the first syllable to the second, "Alice" had magic.

After she said her name I wanted to meet her again. I'd see her when I took the early bus. For the next week I took it.

No sign of her. On the weekend someone else moved in to her basement.

But I never forgot her name. It was the unfamiliar stress, and that all the letters sounded familiar and foreign at the same time. It was beautifully uncanny.

This is why so many foreign actors successfully play Americans. Even in excellent American accents, we sense something a little off, something that comes from a world with which we are not familiar. As a result the accent holds our rapt attention.

See Alicia Vikander in Bourne. Kelly Reilly in True Detective. Michelle Dockery in Non Stop. Damian Lewis in Band of Brothers. Michael Fassbender in X-Men. Gary Oldman in The Dark Knight. These voices sound American but here and there something is too old-fashioned, too nasal, too flat or too varied in tone. Little pieces of their native accents float up, like black specks from a Brita filter.

The same happens with vocalists. I could overanlayze any song from any band that has a singer with an accent. What I'm most interested in are singers whose first languages are not English, but who create songs in English for English speaking audiences.

These singers try, whether consciously or subconsciously, as best they can to sound like native speakers, in order to connect with English speaking mass markets. For any listener who argues this is not a concern - turn on the radio in Russia or Japan. To most native English speakers, especially Americans, misused idioms, awkward phrasing and awful pronunciation provoke disgust. Americans won't listen very long and if they do, it'll be with bemused condescension.

But some singers hit that sweet spot. Their tone, accent and phrasing sound more or less native, but a pleasant otherworldliness is present in slight, unexpected variations. I doubt the singers are even conscious of them. But we hear them and it grabs our attention.

Take the Icelandic group "Of Monsters and Men". Their two hits' "Little Talks" and "Dirty Paws" mixture of earnestness and artsiness could be misconstrued as American, maybe from some green hills between the Mormons and NorCal. The band's name seems to be a play on the title of a book by the great American writer Steinbeck. But their occasional strange phrasing, muddied vowels and unorthodox stresses are unfamiliar to the American ear.

See "Dirty Paws" at :51:

The dragonfly it ran away

But it came back with a story to say

"A story to say?" Who says that? As simple as those words are, and as easily understood their meaning is, I have never heard it put that way. The more familiar phrasing is: "But it came back with a story to tell". 

There are subtle differences between "to tell" and "to say". "To say" is often used to report speech: "He said the dragonfly ran away". "To tell" is more often used when the importance is not in the speech, but that it was reported to someone: "He told me the dragonfly ran away". The subtle difference between the meanings seems to have caused the words to conflate in the songwriter's mind. He seemed to think they were synonymous, and could be interchanged in any context. But they can't without it sounding strange.  

You could say it's poetic license, that the songwriter was conscious of the distinction but chose "say" anyway because he needed a word that rhymes with "away". That's possible. But the evidence mounts. 

"Dirty Paws" as a whole has a charming, childlike fairy tale quality. Two factors contribute. First, it is full of fantastic animals with human emotions: dragonflies, bees, beasts, birds, furry friends. Second, it free associates. Look at the below italicized words:

...

My head, is an animal

And once there was an animal

It had a son that mowed the lawn

The son was an OK guy

They had a pet dragonfly

The dragonfly it ran away

...

She ran down the forest slope

The forest of talking trees

They used to sing about the birds and the bees

The bees had declared war

...

Most of the lines are free association with the end of the last line. It's like listening to a child make up a fairy tale on the spot, not knowing where it is going, but using the last word of each sentence to begin the next sentence: "My head is an animal, oh yes, there was an animal, he had a son, the son had a dragonfly, the dragonfly ran away...she ran down the forest, the forest had trees, the trees had bees, the bees declared war..."

Alternatively, it's like listening to a children's book, whose primary focus is to teach the child forest vocab. It may be coincidence, but once again, there is a hint of language learning here. How much more likely is someone who remembers learning a second language to write a song like this?

But to go back to strange phrasing. Another strange phrase seen above is "the birds and the bees". Any native English speaker instantly associates the phrase "the birds and the bees" with sex ed. That phrase is reserved for sex ed. Why is it here, in a storybook song, that seems to have no concern for the sexual? Perhaps they put it in to be clever, but maybe they had just heard the phrase and liked the ring of it, and put it in the song, not knowing the context it was normally used in. 

"Little Talks" at :46 has more awkward phrasing: 

Cause though the truth may vary

This ship will carry our bodies back to shore

"Bodies"? "Bodies" most often has an inanimate quality. It is often used synonymously with "corpse". Once again, I don't think this is the meaning intended. The song deals with death, so there's room for a corpse-like word like "bodies". But if you listen to the lyrics, the chorus seems to be a refuge from death within the song. So why sully it with the word "bodies"? It seems to be a misuse.

Still these misuses giving the song a certain poetry - a freshness in the use of words that a native speaker is incapable of. 

The same effect is audible in unexpected stresses. At :29 in "Dirty Paws" is sung "aniMAL" - the stress is shifted from the first syllable to the third. Once again this could be poetic license. The meter calls for this stress. But if the songwriter was a native English speaker, would he even think to use the word "animal" here? Seeing words without their stress is so much easier when those words are in a second language. The same goes for "For a while..." at 2:26. The tendency for native speakers is to put the stress on "while", but here the stress is put on "for". 

In addition, vowels are often muddied. Of Monsters and Men loves the "a" sound, and tries to pronounce it even when vowels other than "a" are present. At :40 in "Dirty Paws", "pet" is said like "pat". At 2:45, "friends" like "frands". At 1:26 in "Little Talks" "buried" like "barried". 

The sum effect is something that sounds familiar, but with deviances here and there that spice up what would otherwise be ordinary.

It reminds me of my dad, the son of working class Irish immigrants, who all through our childhood forced us to respond to "What's the motto to Boston College?" with "Effort to Excel".

When my sister visited Boston she searched campus for the motto. She found gold letters on a red post. They read: "Ever to Excel". My dad was wrong.

But what does "Ever to Excel" mean anyway? It sounds like the self-assuring chant of a noble bloodline gone to seed. Or a luxury car tagline.  "Effort to Excel" makes much more sense.

There is magic in some mistakes. A tired language needs newcomers to fuck it up and inject fresh, vital meaning.

EXTRA - Jacqueline Taieb's "7AM" and Cibo Matto's "Birthday Cake" have less subtle, but still great sounding foreign touches.

Dario Marianelli - V for Vendetta: Evey Reborn

I remember as a child my mom after dinner. 

"Look at the pretty trees," she said, washing a dish. She looked out the window over the sink. 

***

Breathing, scattered gravel and lactic acid legs running constantly uphill. Heat, roadkill, swamp, relentless elevation, a drainage ditch, a decaying willow, heavy legs.  

Mile five apexed. The last two miles were downhill. That didn't matter. Downhill on foot you still have to put one foot in front of the other. 

Then my mom's voice rose from the back of my head: "Look at the pretty trees".

I looked out at the top of the fifth mile and saw rolling hills, waving grass, cows, a hand-built fence, and further in the distance, a long ridge that lifted from the plain to make the horizon. The wind wound through and moved it all. The clouds shifted shadow and light. 

***

I came home after a bad day, made myself dinner and turned on TV. V for Vendetta. They throw Evey in prison and take away her hope. They put her in a smock, shave her hair, feed her slop she rushes to eat before the mouse. They want her to give up V. In a crack in the wall she find toilet paper. On it is the story of the cell's past inmate, Valerie, imprisoned for lesbianism. 

Valerie wrote her life story on the piece of toilet paper. From her first love, to her parents disowning her, to finally meeting her partner, to a few years of bliss, to persecution and then imprisonment. The note ends with Valerie saying no one can take away those years of freedom she had with her love. 

The music during the montage of Valerie's story is a gentle, pattering piano (4:10 in "Valerie"). Its rhythm suggests soft rain. Valerie says she found comfort in the rain, that her grandmother told her "God is in the rain". 

Evey reads pieces of Valerie's story between torture. Finally, her captors bring an ultimatum: give up V or die. She chooses to die. 

She's let out of the cell and finds it's a fake. V set the prison up, shaved her head and tortured her to teach a lesson: that she valued freedom over life. It all hits and Evey hyperventilates. V tells her that just because it wasn't real doesn't mean that what she learned about herself wasn't real. She says she needs air and he takes her to the roof.  

"Every Reborn" starts with buddhist instruments: a singing bowl, bells, wind chimes, pebbles. These instruments' limited pitch ranges and interfaces do not produce melodies, and therefore, cannot stir the emotions as instruments capable of melodies do. Still, their sonic variations challenge the attention. This combination makes these instruments ideal tools for meditation. These buddhist instruments presage Evey's enlightenment, the most important buddhist enlightenment, detachment from fear of death. (The movie visually emphasizes Evey's buddhist character by dressing her as a monk: her prison garb is a simple orange smock, like traditional buddhist robes; her head is shaved like a buddhist monk's). 

At :25 are foreboding, dissonant strings. They are dread. They occur exactly when Evey realizes her prison experience may be inauthentic. At :35 the dread manifests as a physical sensation - it's a more visceral, anxious feeling. This feeling is accomplished through a synth guitar moving left to right and back and forth, like an angry bee in the brain. The key and timbre feel Middle Eastern - evoking heat, and for Westerners, the unknown and inhospitable. At :58 the buddhist mindfulness bells return, suggesting vacillation between anxiety and enlightenment - the jagged, disordered state when the mind is on the brink of something. 

At 1:05 is a wheezing synth rhythm that matches the rhythm of hyperventilation. At 1:12 returns the Middle Eastern guitar, stronger and more prolonged, pouring on anxiety, even, at 1:34, modulating up an octave, becoming more anxious. The hyperventilation rhythms continue, just as Evey hyperventilates from the shock of the reveal. 

But in the mess of all this anxiety and dissonance, something different rises at 1:28. Strings that are more consonant. These strings are an embryonic version of the "Freedom Chords". Some enlightenment is emerging from the anxiety. 

You can hear the Freedom Chords clearly from 2:30 to 2:39. They're a simple, driving 4 sustained chord progression. They seem to be ABCD (they might be shifted up or down, but the proportions are correct). ABCD looks like a simple progression, going up one note each time, but because of how musical notation was set, there is a big step between A and B, a smaller one between B and C, and another big one between C and D. 

These intervals give the rising pitch a persevering quality. It takes a big step from A to B, a small step from B to C (as if it ran into some resistance or tired), and then gathers its strength for another big step from C to D. It reminds me of the Animatrix short "World Record", where an athlete limited by the Matrix to a wheelchair, frees his mind, lifts himself from the wheelchair, and takes some steps. 

At the same time, it feels incomplete. If something is moving up from A, it should find its dominant fifth, which is an E. The Freedom Chords go from A to D, so while they feel positive, there is still a sense they are unresolved since they haven't reached E. This lack of fulfillment is used to great effect. It allows the Freedom Chords to repeat and modulate up repeatedly. That lack of fulfillment also suggests there is more work to do; that the enlightenment isn't an end to itself, but will lead to something else. 

At 1:55, the anxious dissonance begins to clear for a tentative statement of the Freedom Chords. The veil has been lifted and something good is about to happen. At 2:12, the buddhist bells ring once more, signaling the enlightenment about to occur. 

Finally, the fireworks start at 2:30. This is when V brings Evey to the roof and she has her rain-drenched epiphany.  

At 2:30 there are two strains of music. The lower strings play the Freedom Chords. The sustained notes are strong, stable and growing in power. At the same time, a higher string desperately tries to play the Freedom Chords. Instead it hits that first A again and again in time with the ABCD of the underlying strings. It has recognized the Freedom Chords' rhythm, and can reproduce it, but it can't muster the strength to modulate its pitch higher as the Freedom Chords do. It even falters down a note at 2:40 before recovering. 

These two threads are a musical representation of the visual. In the background of this shot, you have V, strong, already enlightened. He is those low strings playing the Freedom Chords. Evey is that high string, weak, trying to find her footing, trying to reach the power of the Freedom Chords. 

At 2:41 is a rising violin. Its rhythm is similar to the rhythm of Valerie's theme.

***

Valerie's theme was in 5/4 time, an odd rhythm. Most western music is in 3/4 or 4/4. But it makes sense to use 5/4 for Valerie's theme, since society rejects her, as it does 5/4. 

There are two more interesting aspects of Valerie's theme. First, it obscures its 5/4 by randomizing some notes. The irregular rhythm of the notes and that they are played by a soft piano evoke the sound of rain. Rain is integral to Valerie's character. She finds comfort in the rain, that "God is in the rain", as she remembers her grandmother said.  

Second, Valerie's theme is 5 beats per measure divided into a very waltz-like first 3 beats (heavy emphasis on the first and light on the next two), then punctuated by a further 2 beats. This can be heard clearly in a variation of the theme played at 6:03 in "Valerie". 

The waltz-like character of her theme also reinforces her solitary, unique nature. Waltz-like, triple meter beats are characteristic of eccentrics: Jack Sparrow, Wall-E  and Amelie.

***

The movie cuts from V's quarters to the roof, where it's raining. After a couple of seconds, Evey notices the rain, and connects it with the memory of Valerie. This is indicated by her saying, just as Valerie did: "God is in the rain".

The rain is a visual symbol for the memory of Valerie. Through rain her courage, her refusal to submit and her acceptance of death are evoked visually. 

Valerie's memory is also evoked in sound. A lone violin rises with the Freedom Chords in triple meter, which echoes Valerie's theme (2:41 in "Evey Reborn"). 

The rise of Valerie's violin is very connected to the Freedom Chords - its general structure is that it starts level with the Freedom Chord, then rushes past the subsequent Freedom Chord's pitch before that Chord sounds, then falls back to match that Chord's pitch when it does sound, then repeats. It's like when your friend is excited and starts walking faster than you, then doubles back to walk with you, but quickly outpaces you again.  The way the violin very briefly rushes past its next chord and resets itself gives it this breathless, exhilarating lift. Valerie's strings urge the Freedom Chords on: bring on the enlightenment! 

It's the support of a small, beautiful memory that carries the day. 

But, it's the timing of the triple meter allusion to Valerie that is brilliant. These strings start before Evey consciously recognizes the rain, that is, before she says "God is in the rain". They represent an unconscious realization that is working up to her consciousness. 

The Valerie strings are like when you are in a situation that requires a certain word, and you can feel that word, feel what it means and how it sounds and how it's used, but it takes a couple of seconds to remember the actual word. And because you felt the word before you knew it, it's an epiphany when the actual word pops into your brain.

This musical timing of Valerie's strings placed before Evey's conscious realization suggests to us that, before Evey connects the rain with Valerie's memory consciously, she feels the memory of Valerie bubbling up to the surface. The music communicates this complex state of mind, of feeling something before you know it. Through music, the viewer is able to experience this state of mind with Evey.

The music continues to climb. There is an especially nice touch from 3:03 to 3:09, where two variations of a violin melody sound, almost like mirror images of each other, the melody swings like a pendulum from one side to another. This coincides with the visual parallel of V's enlightenment by fire with Evey's by rain - further bringing home that Evey is being freed in a way similar to V. The song ends, like the Freedom Chord progression, not fully resolved, signaling that what epiphany Evey had isn't a solution, but will enable her to do the difficult things that could help. 

This sequence brings with it so many observations. The most important is the power of memories. At some point in your life, when things were grim, you must have remembered something that helped. "Look at the pretty trees," my mom said, when she washed dishes. Her change in perspective, from daily toil to beauty, surfaces when I'm in drudgery. It lightens the situation and allows me to continue. We need to remember these moments, make them for the people around us and search for them when we need them. The more there are, the more likely they will rise up without conscious thought, before we even know what they are, and lead us to a better place, like Valerie's strings. 

Feist - The Park (Part 1)

I used to think I had, not a far ranging, but an expanded musical taste in comparison to most. I used to think, why don’t more people still listen to Jet? “Sound and Color” by Alabama Shakes? The Fratellis? Yael Naim’s “New Soul”? Stereogram’s “Walkie Talkie Man”? My guess was that most people don’t have the exploratory nature that I have when it comes to music. 

Then I realized. Apple ads. My deep cuts were from Apple ads. I had no exploratory, discerning ear. I sat in front of the TV like everyone else and salivated to whatever the hip black silhouettes were dancing to. 

Still, it’s with no shame that I listen to Feist. “1234” was in an Apple ad my first year of college, and I listened to it when I ran around the lakes, past the girls in short shorts running in the other direction, and in-between classes, past the girls who wore yoga pants in public (which were only just becoming acceptable), and compulsively whenever headphones were nearby, such as in the dorm study room, which looked out to a volleyball court below, full of bare long legs. 

I didn’t know it then, but now I think I see why it resonated. 

Feist’s voice had the qualities of my ideal girl. She had the right amount of vocal fry, that low, vague crispiness at the end of sentences that became ubiquitous in girls of my age, and that was just being identified and commented on back then. The decadence of vocal fry in small doses is viscerally sexual. Her voice had just a trace of kink, the perfect amount.  

At the same time, there was a beguiling innocence. She whispers her words often, like she’s telling you a secret she’s slightly ashamed of (see the beginning of "1234"). Her words are breathy, like she’s either breathless or nursing an adorable cold. She often runs over her “r”s (see “door” at :22), like Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny. The extreme pitch variations she effortlessly hits give her a whimsical quality (see :18 “those teenage hopes…”). 

As a freshman, every day there was a new girl whose visual and bearing matched that of Feist’s sound. All I had to do was listen to “1234” to experience her. 

What strikes me most about “1234” now is the simplicity and eagerness of the acoustic guitar’s rhythm (you can hear it right at the beginning). If there’s one thing missing now when I chase girls, it’s the innocent eagerness of that guitar, the eagerness that knows no better. That guitar’s rhythm, that was the pep and hope in my step as I chased one girl after another back then. Those strings at :18 was the romanticism that swept me away. 

One girl I knew had four close friends. Somehow, in the very early days, before most of guys knew any girls, I was regularly going over to her dorm and watching movies with her and her friends. I had their rapt attention because I was the first college boy they had ever encountered up close. And I was intoxicated by these beautiful women, their attention, and submerged in the fresh possibility of love. It was like living in “1234”. 

But the thing about possibilities is few of them work out. And the thing about first love is that it happens only once. That is to say, I did settle on one girl, and for a while it was fantastic. 

I remember the day after I kissed her there were sunrays. And human beings walking all around me. Simply human beings. Miraculously human beings. Beautiful. Male and female. All content, all walking to the tune that can't be heard but is there and is what we're all searching for. And everything, everything was that feeling in your heart when your mother stroked your hair and your father held you close, bear hug, squeezing all inequity out and bringing the peace. Seeing each face was seeing harmony and fulfillment. All a joy. Problems dissolved. Equilibrium reached.

But when we broke up everything became cold sweat and frustration. And thinking: what did I do wrong? I must work to be better. Then someone will like me. 

Sometimes, a year or so later,  after college, I’d sit there, in a quiet place, a thousand miles from her and wonder what would happen if I looked up and saw her walking towards me. 

Feist has a song for that, too. It’s called “The Park”. 

Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - Stop the Clocks

You're breathing. In and out, in and out. In and out, in and out.

Now try in. In, in. In, in. In, in. It doesn't feel good.

Because I breathe in, I will breathe out. Because I breathe out, I will breath in. This is the mode of thinking, the cause and effect that is reinforced in every living human with each breath. 12 times a minute; 17,000 times a day.

Music takes advantage of this expectation. It can set up an "inhale" and an "exhale", then take the "exhale" away, to uncomfortable effect. In other words, some songs develop a shortness of breath.

An example is Sufjan Stevens' "The Palm Sunday Tornado Hits Crystal Lake".

The song's fundamental structure is an inhale and an exhale. The first part - the "in" - is the rising piano from :00 to :07. The second part - the "out" - is the descending piano from :08 to :12.

There are 4 repetitions of "in" and "out" up to :46. Enough repetitions to establish an expectation. When we hear the "in" we want to hear the "out" again.

From :46 to :52, we hear the "in" again. At :52 we should hear the "out". But instead, the "in" sounds again. And again, and again. The "in" repeats 6 times, without its "out".

It's an unsettling effect. The song no longer breathes correctly.

It's a great way to score the approach of a tornado. A person looks into the distance at the tornado, is apprehensive, but knows the world will go on after it passes. Then he sees the tornado approach, sees it tear through a house that's been there his whole life, sees the beams floating off into the air - suddenly the permanence he is accustomed to falls apart, and he starts to hyperventilate.

This song's feeling is augmented by introducing bass, ramping up the ambient noise and adding flourishes to the piano, but all of this is ornamentation of the song's basic structure: establishing and "in" and "out", and then taking the "out" away.

"Stop the Clocks" uses a complex version of this idea to create an effective guitar solo.

The song's lyrics seem to come from a deathbed. Have you seen a person on her deathbed? She loses functions one after another. She can't walk. Then she can't move. Then she can't talk. Then she can't open her eyes. She is a mass that is there, still apparently breathing.

But what is going on in her head? Does she think? Does she hear? Does she feel pain? Does she fear Can she perceive at all, and if so, what? This is what "Stop the Clocks" is about.

The singer is about to die. He's starting to lose his perceptions. He can't see or hear the people around him:

Lost inside my head behind a wall

Do they hear me when I call? 

He mistrusts the perceptions he has left:

What if I'm already dead

How would I know? 

He doesn't know what will happen next. Sometimes he asks, "where will I rise?"; sometimes "where will I fall?". Perhaps, he will go up to some heaven; perhaps he will go down to some hell.

Other times, he seems to think after he dies there will be nothing:

And when the night is over

There'll be no sound 

If, on your deathbed, you dwell on the uncertainty of life after death long enough, you'll develop a shortness of breath. That's what happens in "Stop the Clocks".

First, the song establishes a normal breathing rhythm. From 2:37 to 2:42 there is a four chord progression: AEGD. These chords have a highly stable relationship. The interval between A and E is the same as interval between G and D (a descent of 5 half steps). These matched intervals separate the AEGD into two sets of one high chord and one low chord separated by the same intervals: AE and GD.

Listen to your breath. The "in" is a high note, the "out" is a low one. And if you are in a stable, relaxed condition, the difference between these pitches are proportionate.

This AEGD pattern is just like two breaths, one after another. It's high A ("inhale") to low E ("exhale"), high G ("inhale") to low D ("exhale").

What comes next from 2:42 to 2:46 is a mixed chord F7M/A, which rises to G. So while the first 4 chords establish a pattern of dropping from higher notes to lower notes, the next two chords rise.

This unexpected rise after these two stable pairs gives the feeling that something is not right. It's like you skipped a breath, had two inhales without an exhale. We'll call it the FG hyperventilation.

This pattern is repeated from 2:47 to 2:55. Then from 2:57 to 3:07, the FG section is repeated two additional times, prolonging the breathless state. So it goes:

AE GD FG
AE GD FG FG FG

The FG hyperventilation has been prolonged. The effect is an uncomfortable, unresolved expectation.

The song lays down this chord structure here so that it can manipulate it in the concluding solo.

The music stops at 4:00,  along with the singer's life we assume. His last words suggest he has concluded that "There'll be no sound". That there is nothing after death.

And for a couple of seconds there is no sound. Just his echoing voice.

But then the music comes back at 4:06. All of a sudden, the echo of "sound", doesn't feel like last words dying off into the vacuum, but a still present perception noticing: there is still "sound"!

Is this just the final paroxysm of a dying brain, or a bridge to an afterlife? Who knows. What we do know is that it's a very anxious experience.

From 4:06 to 4:10 the acoustic guitar plays the AEGD chords, then the FG hyperventilation from 4:10 to 4:13. The AEGD chords come back from 4:13 to 4:18; then there's another expected FG hyperventilation from 4:18 to 4:21. But then it's constant FG hyperventilation from 4:21 to 4:36 - 4 repeated FG hyperventilations. So whereas before in the AEGDFG progression we had two regular breaths and a FG hyperventilation, now we have a repeated FG hyperventilation at the end: AEGDFGFGFGFGFG.

There are no in and out breathes anymore, just hyperventilations. It makes this FG section from 4:21 to 4:36 especially anxiety-filled. It's a paralysis. When will the relief come? Pouring on the anxiety is the hysterical rise in pitch in the guitar from 4:29 to 4:35.

Finally at 4:37, the chords go back to AEGD - to breathing in and out. The AEGD chords are repeated 4 times: the FG hyperventilation chords are now completely gone.

The results is a newfound stability. The sound is still anxious, but whereas before the music was paralyzed, now it is heading somewhere. The person is still hysterical, judging by the high pitch and distortion of the solo guitar, and the instability of its melody, but something allows him to move now.

To me the anxious solo guitar is the conscious part of the person, growing in anxiety, and the chords are the body functions of the person, the subconscious things that allow it to function. From 4:21 to 4:36 the conscious solo guitar grows more and more anxious over the paralyzed, subconscious, FG repeating chords. It's like watching someone have a panic attack: the mind races, but the body is rooted to the spot.

After 4:36, the subconscious chords, now back in AEGD progression, no longer paralyze the conscious guitar, so it can finally move.

But where is it heading? The rise of the angelic choir at the end suggests it's headed upwards. But the song ends in silence. Has he gone up above, or did his malfunctioning brain just imagine it? I don't know.

Gorillaz - Demon Days

I have a fear of fainting. When I get out of bed, there’s a sinking sensation in the back of my head. It feels like someone pulled the stopper out of the bottom of the sink. I feel pressures inside my head, chest tightness, see spots and neon tracers. 

Most people feel these sensations then get on with it. When I feel them I get stuck. I think the twinge in my chest and cough is pneumonia, which could cause me to faint if I exert myself. I think a skipped heart beat is a dysrhythmia that could cause my heart to stop at any moment. 

Everything is dangerous. All day, surges of adrenaline from perceiving one thing, then the next, then the next, signal imminent collapse. In the morning, through the commute, during the day at work and on the way back my mind sounds a Penderecki threnody. After the day, when I feel safe, it feels like the overactivity has warped the physical material of my brain; my brain feels like a car engine after a road trip.  It’s hot and creaks and pops and hisses. What the creaks and pops and hisses tell me: there is no escape. 

It's true. There is no escape from body sensations. That's how we're built, to listen to them, it's how we survive.

What would help is a change in how I perceive them. 

I can continue to perceive them in the same way, and fall into a cycle of fear and exhaustion. The outcome: isolation, depression and missed opportunities. Or I can perceive them in a new way, feel them but not obsess over them, and not have them dictate my actions. The outcome: well Jesus I know it's not going to be roses and peaches, but at least I'll get out more. 

I’ve heard musical interpretations of shifts in perception. Some suggest that people have experienced a shift from despair to some hope. The best example to me is Gorillaz's “Demon Days”. 

How many times when I was at my low point, before I understood what was happening, I’d play "Demon Days", and be soothed. Its creator saw, understood and handed me this song. 

"Demon Days", the last song on the album, has enormous meaning when you consider the songs before it. Albarn’s lyrics are disconnected and vague, but they have specific concerns. Most of the songs focus on anxiety-filled modern day issues: school shootings (“Kids with Guns”), environmental issues (“O Green World”), war (“Dirty Harry”), loneliness (“All Alone”), alcoholism (“White Light”) and rapacious consumerism/colonialism (“Fire Coming Out of the Monkey’s Head”). 

The listener is dragged through this anxious world and finally arrives at the second to last track: “Don’t Get Lost in Heaven”. 

“Don’t Get Lost in Heaven” is deeply connected to the next track, “Demon Days”.  

“Don’t Get Lost in Heaven” is despair. It’s a special type of despair, Dostoevskian. Dostoevskian despair is deep despair under a veneer of false hope. It’s in The Double, when an overwhelmed clerk goes crazy and crashes a rich person’s party, thinking it was meant for him. Or in Crime and Punishment, in Raskolnikov, who, after being isolated for too long, goes up to a stranger and asks him if he likes the street music.  Or in Svidrigailov, who, overwhelmed by guilt, strolls through the streets, jokes with a stranger, then shoots himself. 

The deepest despair is thinly cloaked in politeness, humor and hope. This banal pleasantry is a hollow reminder of what the despair has taken away from the person. To see someone in complete despair imitate politeness, humor and optimism is like seeing a deer hit by a car try to take some steps before it dies. That’s what “Don’t Get Lost in Heaven” is. 

The lyrics are depressing. They seem to be a quick reliving of the 13 despairing songs prior.  The singer deals with the anxiety of those songs by using drugs, which are directly or indirectly mentioned multiple times. 

The melody, if you can forget about Albarn’s dead-eyed delivery, sounds like a 50’s pop melody: old fashioned, wholesome. 

But the lyrics depart so much from that tone. Especially at 1:16 - Albarn is calling someone a whore: 

“you’re a whore…

yeah you’re a ha-whore” 

The melody here is like a verse ending flourish you’d hear in a ‘50s song, but the singer would sentimentally croon it and call her a peach instead of a whore.  

There is despair and anger in the lyrics and despondency in their delivery, all painted over with a Leave it to Beaver melody. The sum effect is Dostoevskian despair: deep despair with a veneer of politeness and cheer. 

Further adding to the off-putting feel are the choir bits, the disturbed choir moans from :08 to :10, :59 to 1:01,  1:22 to 1:24 and 1:40 to 1:42. They begin like they have the potential for beauty, but they lose their beauty and become strained and distorted. They embody the idea of “Getting Lost in Heaven”, of turning something potentially beautiful into something haunting. The electric guitar has a similar effect, is off key in a way similar to how the choir is off key.  

The above effects make this song despair. But all is not lost. 

There is a conflict between the despondent singer and the choir. The singer sings despair. But the choir responds, over and over, “don’t get lost in heaven”. The choir is saying, the place you are at can be heaven, if you’re not lost in it. Something inside the despairing person is telling him not to despair, not to turn to drugs, not to disconnect himself,  some spiritual force embodied in that choir. “You’ll make a big mistake,” it says to him, to go down this road of despair. 

At the end of the song, we even find that the disturbed choir moan (heard from from :08 to :10, :59 to 1:01,  1:22 to 1:24 and 1:40 to 1:42) has a seed of hope in it. At 1:35 to 1:37, the choir sings a consonant, almost soothing version. The distorted choir instantly responds back at 1:40. But then the soothing version sounds again at 1:43, and again at 1:50, and again at 1:58. That last time, it’s harmonized, making it especially beautiful, and it leads into the soothing violins of the next song, “Demon Days”. 

To me, there is a battle going on for the singer’s soul, between the disturbing moan version of this choir call, and the harmonized, soothing version of it. At first, the moan wins out, but at a certain point, the soothing version takes over. 

To me it’s a sonic metaphor for that undercurrent of despair that fights with hope inside the despairing. And it seems all the more true, that the despair is a broken version of the hope - it seems true that despair isn’t its own thing as much as it is a broken hope. 

From here comes “Demon Days”. It’s not triumphant, but there is a sober enlightenment to it. It’s dealing with the world, it’s found some peace. 

The backbone of the first part of “Demon Days” and “Don’t Get Lost in Heaven” are the same. Their basic structure is a two chord harmony, one long chord and then one long chord slightly above it. 

The songs don’t just share a basic structure, but also specific melodies. “Don’t Get Lost in Heaven”’s queasy lead guitar from :03 to :09 gets translated into Albarn’s somewhat sad but still soothing “wooo-oooos” from from :19 to :26 in “Demon Days”. It’s the same tune. 

These similarities reinforce that we are still in the same world as “Don't Get Lost in Heaven”, we are just seeing it form a different perspective: we’ve gone from seeing the world through despair to seeing the world through hope. 

I love the violins in the beginning of “Demon Days”. It takes about 14 seconds for them to go through one cycle. During this time, there are two violin layers. 

The first layer is the prominent one, it’s the one that lifts dramatically at :04. There’s two phrases of the first violin layer in those first 14 seconds. One dramatically and satisfyingly rises at :04.  The next phrase is similar, but instead of rising, it holds its level. :11 is where the second phrase should rise, if it were to follow the example of the first phrase, but instead it restates the note it has been playing, and then falls off. To me it suggests, sometimes you will rise, sometimes you will just endure.  

The general tone of the violin is beautiful: melancholic but hopeful. It gives the impression of seeing hope through tears. 

The second layer of violin compliments the first layer. The second layer is best heard from :07 to :14, when the first layer is holding its note. From :08 to :10, I can’t help but see a mother’s hand beckoning, can’t help seeing a mother goose motioning with its wing at a wayward duckling. To me the violin from :08 to :10 sounds like it’s saying “hurry home; hurry, hurry home”. And I don’t just mean metaphorically: I hear those words. That cadence, that pitch produces those words. It’s the mother violin. It’s a voice from singer’s past, beckoning him back to the right path. 

After this soothing introduction is a series of developments that suggest transformation from despair to hope. At :19, we hear the queasy guitar lead melody from “Don’t Get Lost in Heaven”, except now it is a soulful, soothing vocal. 

At the same time, we hear a guitar fuzz that lets off at :23. That fuzz comes back at :26, then lets off again. Then comes back at :35 and sustains itself. To me that fuzz is tension, it’s the tension of a limp hand making a fist, and then going limp, making a fist and then letting go, and then finally, making a fist and holding it. The song is fighting again. 

The best touch is at :23. A disturbing howl sounds, reverberates underground, gets drawn out, until finally, at :30, it transforms into the choir, into something pure and declarative. This is the part that brings chills every time. It’s the song in a nutshell, transforming a disturbed, despondent howl into pure, strong, resilience. This resilience comes back at 1:23. It bolsters the singer, whose lyrics and melody are mixed, generally hopeful but oscillating a little, stringing together some hope and momentum at 1:10, but falling down a little after that, before it’s picked up by the choir at 1:23. 

Then the song quiets down, and becomes a reggae hymn. If reggae’s not your thing, it might disappoint. But it still gets across the message, the journey of the singer from despair in “Don’t Get Lost in Heaven”, to some hard won, sober enlightenment in the first 2 minutes of “Demon Days”, to some less dramatic, sustainable ease in a better daily life that the pop reggae suggests. 

He’s made it, transformed the Penderecki threnody to Bob Marley. 

I know, from how this song feels, that its writer has despaired, but found a way to shift his perception. Not permanently, I bet. But he’s done it once, and he’ll do it again. Thank God for music.