More Perils of Indeterminateness: Our Lady Peace-"Somewhere Out There"

Thinking over my previous post, I'm less than confident that I've got the meaning of "The End of Medicine." The song is pretty oblique, but that's not necessarily a defect. Despite my interest in those that do, songs don't have to have a clear, discursive meaning, or even just one (or one overarching) meaning to be good, and many resist anything approaching a full elucidation of whatever they do mean. But that does not mean that anything goes: cliche and triteness are as bad in songs as they are anywhere else. The most vexing things to me though, are when the lyrics to a song are incredibly vague and indeterminate, as if the songwriters thought that evoking the hazy impression of an emotion were enough. I can't get behind a song that is simply "I love you baby because you are beautiful" because there's nothing to hold onto there, either in terms of the love or the beauty. If it's "I know I hurt you but I still love you" scenario, then at least there's some content to the emotion. Now I know I've gone over this territory before, but there are ideas worth reiterating, and there are distinctions worth reinforcing, such as how vagueness is different than ambiguity: the latter means it is difficult to choose between specific meanings, the former that it is difficult to pin down anything specific meaning at all (the distinction between indeterminateness and indeterminacy follows similar lines). 
 
Now, I say this as a preamble to bashing Our Lady Peace's song "Somewhere Out There." Like so many Canadian teens in the 90's I was a fan of Our Lady Peace (and I do still like their early work); they could rock, their lyrics, if somewhat inscrutable, were still interesting and the vocal style of their singer, Raine Maida, if unorthodox, was capable of delivering an honest and powerful delivery of emotion. That might be a lot of commas and ifs, but they were one of the first bands I got into when I was getting into music and they were the first concert I ever went to on my own (unaccompanied by my parents that is, I went with friends), so they hold a special place in my life for that as well. Their first album, Naveed, still holds up as a really good post-grunge rock album, and their next two albums had some great moments too. Their fourth album, Spiritual Machines, is where things started to get a little dicey (in retrospect, their interest in Ray Kurzweil, faux techno-prophet, on that album says that something isn't right) and their work after that has been, as far as I can tell, a steady slide in radio rock mediocrity. The song that I want to talk about now, "Somewhere Out There," fits into that latter period.

Now, given my dislike for vagueness and indeterminateness the title admittedly looks like a bad sign. But I'm actually not going to trash that aspect too much, the song works with themes of outer space and the alienation of distance (it might be a drug thing, there is an early line about them being "strung out," though its not really developed) that makes that vagueness appropriate, although still way too overwrought. No, my beef if with a particular image from the chorus that just gets stuck in my craw every time I hear it. Here's the chorus:

You're falling back to me,

You're a star that I can see, yeah

I know you're out there

Somewhere out there

You're falling out of reach

Defying gravity, yeah

I know you're out there

Somewhere out there

What I don't understand is the movement being described here. At first this person is "falling back to me" but then they are "falling out of reach," and this second falling is "defying gravity." I suspect that the two directions to the falling (back to and also out of reach) is just a matter of muddled writing, but it is the relation between falling and defying gravity that I find really puzzling. Maybe there is some arcane principle of physics I am missing? If you are orbiting around something and you escape from its orbit does that count as falling? It always seemed to me that falling was something largely passive on the part of the one falling and involved being pulled towards a gravitational centre, whereas escaping orbit is something active and requires a force opposing the gravitational one. If this person is falling out of reach because they are being pulled by some other force (say, drugs, if that's what's going on here) then they aren't really defying gravity, they are succumbing to it from another direction. Yeah, it drives me crazy because it's not thought out at all, it must have sound poetic and that was enough. Seriously, if Our Lady Peace wants to get a clue about what it means to defy gravity they should do a little more research, there are better songs that explore the relation between liberation and the defiance of gravity.

The Speculative Voice (Ken Stringfellow's "Shittalkers!" redux and The New Pornographers "The End of Medicine")

In my previous post on Ken Stringfellow's song "Shittalkers!" I glossed over some of the content of the song in order to discuss its emotional tenor, but now I want to return to the final section of the song to highlight something else. In claiming some kind of speculative content to these songs, that is, some sort of philosophical reflection upon the fundamental features of human life, I have largely neglected any discussion of the form that this content takes. To a certain extent this is because there is no preset way it has to be, although either a harmony or an extreme disjunction between form and content makes for the most interesting scenario. With regard to their harmony, I would like to look at a style that I think is particularly fitting as the embodiment of a mind reflecting upon itself and its conditions. I'll start with "Shittalkers!" because it is freshish.

As I noted in that previous post, Stringfellow sings in a couple of different tempos in "Shittalkers!". There is the first section which is sung but at a slower pace, and then there is the much fasterr chorus ("Back when you started....."), and then there is the second main section ("I got news for this town..."), which was my main focus previously and which is slow to the point to being more declaimed then sung. Then there is a return to the faster tempo chorus, which then continues on at the same pace into a new and final verse. Here are (as far as I can make out) the lyrics to that final section:

          Oh but innocence it never was a good game
          Sooner or later you’ll flicker in the eyes of fame
          Immolation’s absolute
          You can’t say what you said and give up the cutest eyes
          Defamation’s obsolete
          Take it all back what you said now,
          Take it back
          You went behind my back for the very last time

Stringfellow's delivery of these lines is impressive--from the chorus onward he is singing at a fast pace, maintaining the emotional intensity of his delivery while navigating some very tricky lines: the double f's of "flicker" and "fame" (and the thwarted expectation that it will be a flame that flickers, not fame), the rhyming of "game" and "fame," the half rhyme of "absolute" first with "cutest" (but he toys with us there with cute at bit before turning it into cutest and adding that little trill with "eyes") and then a double half rhyme (i'm not sure that's a term but oh well) with "obsolete" and of course, "immolation" (not a word you here in pop songs often) with "defamation" (also not a particularly common one). If you can gauge the complexity (or perhaps the fecundity) of a series of lines by the number of parenthetical remarks required to explain it, then these ones certainly rank well. And that makes Stringfellow's rapid-fire delivery, bouncing from line to line, even more impressive. I'm not sure exactly how to describe it, but I see a certain kinetic quality to the progression through these lines, as if the lines themselves possessed a form of internal self-propulsion, bouncing off each other. I think that, in the best cases, this happens on both the level of form and content. In the case of "Shittalkers!" we can see both: the aural links between the various final lines, along with the deployment of the distinctions between innocence and pretense, defamation and fame. Indeed, the unpacking of a concept or the articulation of a distinction provides an excellent pivot or joint (esp. given the connection between articulation and jointure) on which lines can turn, furthering their "propulsion."

The notion of a thought's "internal self-propulsion," as it were, is an eminently speculative notion, and lines that generate that kind of impression through the energy of their delivery and internal relationships seem to me to be particularly appropriate as vehicles for speculative thought, and even where the speculative content itself is lacking, the kind of imaginative capability that they demonstrate itself has speculative worth. And something like this doesn't have to be limited to music either, it should not be surprising that two of my favourite TV shows, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Pushing Daisies, both feature intelligent and playful dialogue at a rapid-fire pace, managing to balance humour and pathos in a rare and delightful way. As a side note (in a blog full of side notes), the two shows also both tackle the subject of what it would mean to come back from the dead, and do so in genuine and unflinching ways, and that itself is a particularly speculative topic (and speculative in a variety of ways too).

Because this is a bit of an airy notion, one no doubt grounded as much in my own musical and intellectual preferences as anything, let me provide another example, the song "The End of Medicine" by The New Pornographers.

As a kind of supergroup including the ever-excellent Neko Case, and with a lot of the song-writing duties divided between Carl Newman and Dan Bejar, one of the specialities of the The New Pornographers is crafting immaculately upbeat rock songs with great hooks and harmonies. Their first album, Mass Romantic, was a real breakout critical darling, and it is full of (nearly) unbridled energy, and I am tempted to pick a song like "The Body Says No" as a great example of what that energy could do. However, because of that "(nearly)" I am going to give props to their not quite-as-well-regarded second album Electric Version, which takes that energy and hones it to a fine edge. (And as a further side note I actually think their third album, Twin Cinema, is their best, but Electric Version is most illustrative of the particular quality I want to discuss here.)
The lyrics are here, and they are delivered in a kind of rapid-fire style with one almost bouncing off the other:

The angel cries, "You bastard!"
As we analyze the accent
So look out, you rock 'n' rollers

Over forty million served
And that's a record for the master
It stood forever after

So are we, are we, are we, are we facing
The end of all, of all the drugs we're lacing
With common sense and courtesy
And other things we thought would be the end of us but now
They won't allow us our intentions

Oh, the mother of invention
It's her pleasure to repeat with feeling:
Are we, are we, are we, are we facing
The end of all the medicine we're taking?

Somewhere in the system
There's an open-ended list
Of all the lies we tell
Unblinking, thinking
What could we be living?
Is it life
Or is it even in the realm of possibility?
You see it when you're missing
Who you came to see, is this thing
Even on and on and on?

Are we, are we, are we, are we facing
The end of all the medicine we're taking?

There are a couple of things to notice off the bat. First of all, there is a lot of play with language in the appropriation of various sayings and catchphrases: "over forty million served"; "the mother of invention"; "repeat with feeling" and "is this thing even on?" Second, there is a definite concern with repetition, both in the taking of medicine (we rarely ever just a drug once), the forty million servings, the "pleasure to repeat with feeling" and also the many "are we" 's happening throughout (plus the "is this thing even on and on and on." And third, I've made at least one change to the lyrics: it's a grammatical thing, but from small things big things can come.

Most people put a question mark at the end of the lines "The end of all, of all the drugs we're lacing" in the third stanza (and maybe that's how the lyrics appearing in the liner notes, I don't know having long since abandoned cds), and I can see why they do since that line does sound like it ends with a question given the rising intonation at the end. However, I've left it without one because I don't think that the question ends there, being simply about whether they are facing the end of medicine. The "with" that starts the next line logically follows the previous line--it is all of the drugs they are "lacing with common sense and courtesy," not simply the end of all the drugs they are lacing (especially since that leaves the question hanging about what they are lacing). But there is also the possibility that the third line ("with common sense and courtesy") actually modifies the first one, so that they are facing the end of medicine with common sense and courtesy. In either case, the issue is not just that the end of medicine may be at hand, but of how one faces this end and understands how it came about.
And I think this also opens up a fuller understanding of just what the song is about, which I see as an exploration of how a compulsive practice, say, drug-taking (perhaps a stand-in for any pleasurably repetitive habit, including music-making, "look out you rock n' rollers"), can change and develop out of itself by way of some kind of internal process. The idea is basically contained in these lines that I've been agonizing over:

          So are we, are we, are we, are we facing

          The end of all, of all the drugs we're lacing
          With common sense and courtesy
          And other things we thought would be the end of us but now
          They won't allow us our intentions

Because of casual changes that they made (like introducing the "grown up" qualities of common sense and courtesy into their pleasures) the subjects of this song find themselves alienated from their earlier intentions. Perhaps without even realizing it, they have become different people in the sense that they have embraced qualities and practices that their earlier selves explicitly rejected.
The practice has evolved, potentially evolved out of itself, and this is an ambiguous thing. If the end of medicine (as both its goal and the actual finishing point) is health, then it is a good thing. Whether we are talking recreational or medicinal drugs, it seems to me that drugs serve as a sign that something is not right. In the case of medicine, something is wrong with the body that needs to be rectified, and in the case of recreational drugs, there is something lacking in the life that the drugs supplement, or failing that, in the case of particularly addictive drugs, that level of dependence is just plain bad. (Now, some will no doubt claim that I am being too moralistic in my treatment of recreational drugs, and that's fine, there's an argument to be made there, but I take the position that most recreational drugs are a scourge.) The final full stanza can be read as a realization of the problems of repetition:

Somewhere in the system
There's an open-ended list
Of all the lies we tell
Unblinking, thinking
What could we be living?
Is it life
Or is it even in the realm of possibility?
You see it when you're missing
Who you came to see, is this thing
Even on and on and on?

I think these lines capture the numbing (and dumbing) effect of repetition--it is easy to do and say and think the same thing over and over again until they lose all meaning apart from the repetition itself. Life does become a lie that we just keep telling ourselves until we take it as the truth, until some sudden break in the routine, some unexpected absence, shows us the cracks in our lifestyle and makes us wonder of our lives, "is this even on?"

Of course, I said that this whole change was ambiguous, and it could be that the end of medicine, and common sense and courtesy, are themselves bad things. This final stanza can also be read as a diagnosis of the levelled-down, comfortable bourgeois existence that so many people trade their young pleasures. The repetition that turns life into a lie is not a matter of pleasure, but of respectability. The fun, manic energy of the song suggests that the band is on this side (and it would be just like me to go against it with the moralistic side). And in this regard I should mention the great guitar line that riffs off of the melody of the song. Starting at 1:55 and going basically until the song is done, this riff teases the listener, suggesting resolution at a number of moments before continuing on, keeping us anticipating the end of the song, the end of pleasure, the end of medicine.

Rabbits

No music here right now, though it will return. Instead I present a different kind of post for a very important happening: on Friday, January 13^th, my favourite rabbit, a small black bundle of pure sweet joy with a white tipped nose and feet (and a dash of white on her left collar) died. It was incredibly sudden, as such things with rabbits often are. She went from perfectly fine the night before, playing and binkying (or at least seemingly perfectly fine: rabbits are hiders in all ways, they hide illness and injury as long as possible—a necessary survival strategy for animals that almost everything tries to eat) to hunched up into a largely unresponsive ball. Friday evening, seeing how bad things had gotten, we rushed her to the nearest emergency clinic an hour-and-a-half away, but she was beyond saving at that point and she died about an hour after getting to the clinic. Surgery, or any other kind of intervention, just wasn’t an option.

Anyone who has lost a pet they have been really close to, particularly when it happens very suddenly, knows how hard it can be. This rabbit was one of the most important things in my life, or, as the term “important things” doesn’t do her justice, was one of the beings I value most highly and her presence in my life enriched it immensely. Her loss was tremendous to my wife and I, and one of the things that made it particularly difficult was the sense that our grief would seem sentimental and out-of-proportion to the rest of the world. “After all, she was just a rabbit,” is, if hopefully not a response people would be insensitive enough to say out loud, still something I feel like they might think.
So, as a way of working through this emotional thicket, I offer these reflections on rabbits so that others might understand a little of why I have come to value them so highly. Let me begin with an odd coincidence: my mother sent me this thank you card last Christmas (the 2015 Christmas):

The rabbit content is not the coincidence, the date the card was written on is: January 13^th, 2016. Does it mean anything that the card was written exactly a year before? I don’t think it means anything more than does the fact that she died on a Friday the 13^th—I don’t tend to put much stock in such superstitions.
 
I simply keep the card around because I like the picture on it, and I happened to glance at it recently and was just taken aback when I noticed the date. But let me focus on the card itself and what I like about it, that is what I want to talk about. If you look closely, there are two things to notice: the close snuggling of the two bunnies depicted on it, and the way that there is script overlaid on the bunnies. The fact that the bunnies are snuggling is pretty much par for the course if you know rabbits. If you do, then you know that in addition to being incredible gentle and sensitive creatures, they are also tremendously loving. Watching my two rabbits snuggled up to each other never failed to bring a smile to my face. If I were inclined to anthropomorphize nature as a creative force, I might wonder if rabbits weren’t made such fecund reproducers simply because nature thought it would be a good idea to put as much simple, gentle love in the world as possible. Upon making rabbits and seeing that they were so great, nature decided to make lots more and to keep doing so. (Obviously my perspective varies from those like the Australians, who had to deal with them as invasive species.)

Anyway, that part of the card is cute, but I find the writing on the rabbits to be most symbolically appropriate. Rabbits are relatively silent creatures, you might hear the odd grunt or honk from them, or a thump to indicate danger, or excitement, or emphasis, or maybe a bit of digging or chewing noises, but other than that they are pretty quiet. Despite their silence, they are not unexpressive; far from it, it is just that they rely on physical cues—all kinds of different bodily positions, stances, and orientations, ear positions, how they arrange their feet, the list goes on—to express themselves. For instance, a rabbit who just hops a short distance away from you and turns its back to you has just given you the butt, a indication of the rabbit’s displeasure by way of social shunning (of course, its adorable to us humans, so the pain of this ostracism is pretty bearable).

The upshot of this is that one does, in effect, have to read rabbits. They need to be watched, quietly, patiently, and attentively, for them to open up and reveal the sweet, playful, and mischievous creatures that they are—rabbits have big personalities is you know how to look. If you crowd and rush them then all you will get is a scared and unhappy creature, and never suspect that, under different conditions, that same creature might be the sort to engage in wild, acrobatic leaps just to express an irrepressible joy of living. As you read more and more, the small details begin to add up to something far more significant, both in terms of each detail and for the whole. The quiet exterior of the rabbit, like that of the book, belies the intensity that may lay within. That is the truth contained in that card, and it is for those depths that we knew and loved with our own intensity that we mourn for you, Lucy.

Music and Melodrama: Ken Stringfellow’s “Shittalkers!” and The Mountain Goats “Heel Turn 2”

Recently I’ve been listening to Ken Stringfellow’s (one major half of The Posies) latest solo album, Danzig in the Moonlight. It’s not exactly a new album (2012) but I only bought it early in the last year, and I hadn’t even listened to it much until recently since I bought it at the same time as I bought the new The Posies album (Solid States) and that album quickly consumed my attention. Anyway, I’ve been listening to it and I’ve zeroed in on one song in particular, “Shittalkers!” Here it is

and here are the lyrics (as near as I can make them out):

(Many whoas)
A bad sign
It wasn’t overnight
Wait kids in the clubs
Won’t even touch this stuff
It’s a hard sell
Act not, heaven act not
Stay your hand
‘Cause I can recall telling you how I feel the hurt,
It was so real
A batsuit won’t protect me from you boys
You should have come to me first
Who’s going to help you now
Shittalkers,
Who’s going to help paint your skies?
All the unpaid beauty thieves

(Chorus) Back when you started there was envy all around
You and your sedative sides became so acquainted
Paranoia’s antiquated
I was into you ‘cause you were so understudied
Take it all back ‘cause I don’t want your blood money
You were into me for the last time

I got news for this town,
All you shittalkers,
Unlicensed dog walkers,
Rip out taxidermy heart stalkers
You can take it all up the Wabash
And put away the (?) Pope,
Don’t even smile, anymore
You only do it ‘cause your bored
Shittalkers, I’ll be somewhere else
Doing what I always did
Keeping the streets safe
From American kids

Chorus

You were into me for the last time
Oh but innocence it never was a good game
Sooner or later you’ll flicker in the eyes of fame
Immolation’s absolute
You can’t say what you said and give up the cutest eyes
Defamation’s obsolete
Take it all back what you said now,
Take it back
You went behind my back for the very last time


The obliqueness of some of the lyrics aside (a Stringfellow standard-I love the wordplay in the final verse, the flicker flame/fame switch, the immolation/defamation absolute/obsolete play), the song itself is a pretty straightforward denunciation of shittalkers, i.e., people who talk shit about other people behind their backs, and a dramatization of the kind of hurt outrage that such behaviour can cause. Given the nature of the subject matter, I think that the rather exaggerated and outrageous nature of the song (the dramatic shifts in tempo, the overstatements, the strong emotional delivery) fits really well. This kind of situation lends itself to drama as emotions run high and things get blown out of proportion, and I think the way that the song stridently embodies this makes it really fun.

Why focus on the dramatic nature of the song? Well, I guess at least one online critic wasn’t a big fan of Danzig in the Moonlight (he also slags The Posies in general in a release notice for an earlier album, Blood/Candy, saying that they were the most boring thing to come out of Seattle in the 90s—as someone who never cared much for Nirvana and who puts The Posies in his top 3, my tastes definitely differ.) Anyway, if you check out the review you’ll see he says that “Stringfellow has a tendency to get melodramatic with his tunes” and singles out the “overly-dramatic ‘Shittalkers’” in particular. So, the interesting thing about that is that either Ken Stringfellow or someone claiming to be him fired back in the comment section with a long scathing review of the original review. That whole exchange was entertaining, even as it degenerated into name-calling (no one really covered themselves in glory), given the fact that one of the inciting elements was a song called “Shittalkers!”

That whole exchange got me thinking about drama in songs, particularly the way that singers capture some of the more rarely expressed affects. There are lots of songs about heartbreak and yearning, and there are even lots of angry and rebellious songs, but the kind of righteous outrage coming from a place of hurt and vulnerability like we hear in “Shittalkers!” seems fairly rare. The breakout line in this regard is definitely “I’ve got news for this town” (and the diatribe that follows it) which is probably what the Snob reviewer was probably reacting against. It’s over-the-top and exaggerated, but I’m not sure that is the same thing as inauthentic, nor am I so sure that they are bad things. Maybe its the same thing as the way that people tend to dismiss romance and the sentimental as bad art because they have a notion of art as being something only concerned with the serious and noble and tragic, while that seems like such a crime to me insofar as it cuts out a huge and important range of human experience worthy of representation and regard precisely because it is how we are at our lowest. Not all hurt has to be mournful and dirgelike and respectable, nor disguised as invincible anger and cloaked in aggression; there is room for the exploration of the entire, messy range of emotions.

So that gets me thinking about another song (and, indeed, band) that you could call melodramatic to its core, and better for it: The Mountain Goats’ “Heel Turn 2.” This song is from the Beat the Champ album, which is all about wrestling, so the question of what counts as melodrama is already at issue. As many others have already pointed out, The Mountain Goats do a good job of adhering to their subject (wrestling) while revealing the larger, human significance of it. As the title suggests, “Heel Turn 2” is about a good guy (a “face”) who finds the pressure of maintaining that course too much and turns bad (turns into a “heel”). It’s a melodramatic concept, good guy goes bad, but the way that the song humanizes that decision and really works to inhabit its emotional space transforms it into something totally different from mere melodrama.

In terms of emotion, Darnielle (the main Mountain Goat) puts a lot of emotion into the song throughout (not unusual for him and not a bad thing at all—I remember a particularly great YouTube comment from a live performance of “DamnThese Vampires,” which reads “the intensity of johns stage presence can power a small town”--you rock Hilary Tong) but the crowning moment of "Heel Turn 2" is the line that starts at about 1:12: “You found my breaking point, congratulations.” The bitter sarcasm of that “congratulations” is stunning and raw. and perfect as what it is.
 
Now, I would say that this song, and this moment in particular, both is and is not melodramatic. I will try to explain what I mean: it is melodramatic in that there is nothing subtle or artfully tempered about it, the emotion is all right there on display and the music takes a back seat to it, but at the same time I don’t see it carrying all of the negative things that go along with melodrama—the falseness of the emotion, the sense that it isn’t earned. I think part of the problem is just that it is an unusual emotion (bitter defeat) to find in a popular song, so we don’t have the same familiarity with it and guidelines for dealing with it as we might with some more common ones like pining after an unobtainable love or something like that. I think the other part of the problem is the more general issue that I raised above, namely, the sense that serious art has to mediate and sublimate emotion, to rein it in with artifice. While I agree that some very great art does just this, I also think that there is room for art to put its resources to other effects, such as presenting and evoking strong emotions, even of a negative sort. Indeed, for strong reactions that have a powerfully dramatic element like the outrage of “Shittalkers!,” I’m not sure if any work that tried to tamp that down would really be very effective in capturing that emotion. 

And to the people who might say that such emotions don’t need to be represented, well, art has so many roles and functions that I’m not sure there’s any basis for that position. Consider the what people have to say about their use of The Mountain Goats’ music as a kind of salve in this piece from the Toast, that’s just one role that music can play. Beyond helping people comes to terms with their own feelings and experiences, music’s objectification of emotion is important in a larger sense by providing the means by which we can come to understand the emotional landscape of human life in general. The “melodramatic” may not always be pleasant, since it is so often bound up with failure and loss and hurt, but that makes them no less worthy of treatment and understanding--and perhaps even more so, since it is precisely at such dark points in our lives that we are most in need of understanding.

Carole King's "Jazzman"

After a long and intense post like the Hopkins one I thought I might do a shorter one covering Carole King’s “Jazzman.” A good deal of my enjoyment of this song comes from its use in The Simpsons episode “Round Springfield,” where Lisa plays it in a duet with Bleeding Gums Murphy. Their duet is well-done, and it makes a satisfying end to a really nice Lisa arc (plus I loved the Bart-Krusty B-story—the whole thing is a great example of the glory of the early The Simpsons, mostly seasons 3-6 with mixed results a few seasons before and after, and then total dreck afterwards).

Here's the Simpsons version. You've gotta love the dancing people in the hospital it is just too ridiculous and amazing. Anyway, not to pontificate too long about The Simpsons, “Jazzman” is a nice little ditty that I don’t have too much to say about, most of it is just about the (near) heavenly power of jazz music. 

 Most of the examples of its power are relatively unremarkable: 
 
“When the jazzman’s testifying
The faithless man believes
He can sing you into paradise
Or bring you to your knees.”

But there are some examples that stand out near the end:

“When the jazzman’s signifying
And the band is winding low
It’s the late-night side of morning
In the darkness of the soul.”

I like King’s play with the idea of the “dark night of the soul” and the phrasing of the “late-night side of morning.” The whole thing speaks to a cathartic musical moment. However, that catharsis is itself perhaps a little too cliche an idea to stick, no matter how well it is expressed.. Better are the lines that follow it:

“He can fill the room with sadness
As he fills his horn with tears.
He can cry like a fallen angel
When the rising time is near.”

In my opinion it is these last two lines that make the song worthwhile, or to put it another way, that elevate it above the status of “just another song” among a sea of songs. This particular image introduces something striking and relatively original in terms of musical affect.

I’m not sure if a causal listener is going to catch the depths of the sympathy for the devil that King introduces here, but the kind of sadness that King evokes with this figure is truly cosmic (and probably outside of the scope of this song). Consider the position of a fallen angel at judgement day (the “rising time”; presumably King describes it that way in order to capitalize on the contrast between falling and rising). The angel has known paradise and (especially if you buy the Romantic-Miltonian version of Lucifer’s principled rebellion against the tyranny of heaven) has chosen to reject it, betting on the worthiness of a different kind of life. Judgement day means the failure of that gamble, and that failure, coupled with the knowledge of just what has been lost, seemingly for nothing, is surely profoundly devastating. Given little to go on, I go with what is most compelling to me and interpret the fallen angel’s tears not merely as sadness for having failed, but for what that failure means. The fallen angel has spent so much time and effort rebelling against heaven only to realize the error of that rebellion when it is too late. It is painful to have failed in the service of one’s ideals, but far more painful when that failure reveals that one’s ideals are false, that one’s entire worldview is lost. Hegel called this process of the negative discovery of the truth, particularly the untruth of one’s fundamental way of looking at the world, the “way of despair,” and I think that this terms is accurate here.

Now, it is possible that King doesn’t mean to go so dark, and the fallen angel is actually crying from joy because he has seen the light and gets to go home, and that too has the potential to be a beautiful moment, but it isn’t as compelling as the sadness of a fallen angel realizing the true extent of his fallenness at the very point at which the possibility of redemption has passed. There is room in the world for music that speaks to the sadness of those who are beyond redemption and know it.

G. M. Hopkins: "[No worst, there is none.]"

It’s not all songs and lyrics here—as I’ve already dissected a church sign—so I’m going to tackle a poem as well, Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “[No worst, there is none].” I’m doing it partly because it is one of my favourite poems, but also because someone who I recently recommended it to asked if this was my writing on it, which it is not. (Not that I wouldn’t be happy to claim it, but it’s not.) But in the interest of presenting a fuller and more comprehensive (dare I say comprehensible) exposition of what I find fascinating about this poem, here it goes.

Here’s the text of the poem:

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief
Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing—
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked ‘No ling-
ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief’.

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

It’s pretty intense and compressed stuff, and if you need help untangling some of the wordage the above link is useful, but for what I want to discuss, which is more the overall meaning of the poem, then it is more useful to attend to the comment by Catherine Madsen that is at the bottom of the page that I have linked to. There Madsen writes:

“Re: the line “No worst, there is none,” the meaning is surely not “There is nothing worse than this” but “There is ALWAYS something worse than the worst we can imagine.” Hopkins is echoing lines from King Lear, Act IV Scene i:
EDGAR
[Aside] O gods! Who is’t can say ‘I am at the worst’?
I am worse than e’er I was.
…
And worse I may be yet: the worst is not
So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’

Hopkins can’t know how much worse the “more pangs” will be than the “forepangs,” and this is part of the desperation of the experience; there is no limit to suffering. Except perhaps the exhaustion of death or sleep, whichever comes first.”

Madsen’s point about the fact that the worst is potentially limitless—that there can always be something worse than what is currently the worst, up to the point of death—is spot on, and I think it is the tension between the awful infinitude of life and the awful finitude of death that gives this poem its power and speculative depth. (As a side note in terms of speculative depth, the Lear connection is a good one—and not just because Lear is my favourite Shakespearean work—because of the way that it works with the same kind of logic that Hegel used against the Kantian notion of the thing-in-itself, namely, the idea that if we have the knowledge necessary to set down a limit to our knowledge, then have already technically gone beyond those limits.)

In terms of what I have called the awful infinitude of life, there is the process described in the early lines, namely, the way that “More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.” The idea here is that grief and pain and anxiety are not set, stable things. To a far greater degree than in the case with our existence in the external world, our thoughts and feelings and experiences are relatively unconstrained in terms of their “size” and “complexity.” Pains and fears and sufferings do not come over us as isolated occurrences, they are connected to each other and to our own history and can build upon each other (not unlike the cries that huddle “herds-long”). Not only can pangs we have felt before provoke new ones, but they can also help to determine—and intensify—the form and the degree of pangs to come (in Hopkins’ terms, they “schooled” by them). In this way they can deepen and expand and intensify and thereby seem to almost take on a life of their own (or, in especially unfortunate cases, take on our lives as their own); in this possibility lies the continual possibility of an ever-new “worst.”

The image of the mountains of the mind in the second section of the poem is important because it points out the connection between our intelligence and the (potentially) limitless suffering detailed in the first section. In a kind of spiritual equivalent to the idea “what goes up must come down,” or in other words, that the heights to which our minds can aspire are also the source of so much misery. The higher one goes the further the potential fall—and the fall is much faster and gathers momentum much faster than the ascent—hence the image of the cliff as a revelation of the precariousness of that height. (As a side note, the abyss was a favorite Romantic image for the experience of infinite negativity for just this reason.)

In intellectual terms, the idea is that it is our higher capacities for memory and anticipation and projection, our awareness of ourselves and of others—all of which go so far to making up the complexity of our thoughts and reactions—that can also serve as the perfect medium for the development of a potentially infinite spiral of misery (infinite at least in terms of their being no internal limit to it—there is no necessary end to the forms of our misery, no reason it can’t just keep going on and on; as for external limits to it, well that’s a matter of our analysis a little further on). As potentially infinite, these depths are “no-man-fathomed,” they cannot be exhaustively mapped or experienced.

If this sounds a little melodramatic, consider the “whirlwind” of the second last line—could it not be the maddening rush of miserable thoughts going round and round someone’s head without end (and don't forget that the circle is an image of infinity). And furthermore, have you not yourself seen the effects of this in those people whose lives seem to be absolutely twisted up in misery in the most complex and convoluted ways—the knot they have made of their lives seems endless. (Although there is much to admire in complexity, such people are fascinating only at a distance such as in a work of art, in real life they are likely to be as destructive as whirlwinds themselves.)

Ok, to pull back for a moment, if what I have been describing is the potentially infinite negativity inherent in life (particularly self-conscious life), there is also the other rather distressing pole to this poem, that of finitude of life (i.e., mortality, death). In my little parenthetical note about the potentially infinite nature of misery two paragraphs ago I mentioned that misery didn’t necessarily need to recognize any internal limits but that external limits still applied. The most obvious limit is our own mortality, we can after all, only be miserable as long as we are alive. (To continue the parenthetical party, while it seems relatively uncontroversial to say that we don’t feel any misery before we live, there are lots of people who would disagree with the idea that there is no misery once we are dead. I don’t have any reason to think things are much different for us after we are dead than before we were alive, but if you are attached to a horrifying idea like the truly infinite misery of a hell, well, this poem will say different things to you.)

The fact that “each day dies with sleep” speaks to the relief that an end can bring, although that sense of relief is definitely mitigated by its alignment with death, but hey they don’t call them the “terrible sonnets” because they are focused on the lighter sides of existence (or, as the low-hanging joke goes, because they are poorly written). Our finitude both serves as a relief and a prompt for our sorrows. Time in particular is the mechanism (?) or medium (?)--god knows what to say of time in this regard—of our suffering and our relief. Time heaps on the misery and in time our misery will end: our sorrows, in Hopkins’ words, “on an age-old anvil wince and sing— / Then lull, then leave off.”

This anvil image leads to what might be the strangest part of the poem, the lines: “Fury had shrieked ‘No ling- / ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief.’” I take the personalization of fury to be a reference to the Greek furies (the Erinyes) who were goddesses of vengeance. The furies arose when an oath was broken and they would hound the oath-breaker endlessly. Orestes was their most famous target for killing his mother Clytemnestra (who he killed because she killed her father—basically, the story is more convoluted....). The furies are thus figures representing the necessity and potential endlessness of suffering. I think the single fury here enforces the administration of the “chief woe, world-sorrow” that is the human condition, this misery that hounds us throughout all of our days, not letting us linger. There is, of course, the fun little lingering of “ling-ering” across the divide of the lines, or maybe the break in the word illustrates the brevity and inevitable falling-off of any lingering. Either way, in attempting to hold off or to dramatize the flow of time, the line ultimately draws our attention to the flow of time (and the abuse that it brings—consider the image of the anvil). And to top it all off, the hounding of the fury, our time-bound condition, is even more cruel (“fell”) because our lives are brief. Whatever comfort there is in this life is merely relative, provisional, it is whatever can serve as such—poorly, no doubt—in this whirlwind.