Note: I originally published this on October 16, 2006, on my old blog. The one other review from that blog will be up here shortly.
Intensely creative composers who have perfected their craft, when they age, tend towards the expansive, the encyclopaedic. The formal elements are allowed to breathe with quiet confidence. The demands for immediate aesthetic appeal, the white-hot fury of composition, is replaced with a focus on stately perfection of form and detail. Witness, for example, the difference between Bach's two Well-Tempered Claviers, written over twenty years apart. The first, in the same approximate period as the Brandenburg Concerti, is filled with incredibly imaginitive, not to mention tuneful and memorable, preludes and fugues. It is difficult to forget the harmonic perfection of the opening arpeggiated prelude in C major, or the French overture theme of the D major fugue. While the second has nothing as immediately ear-catching, it lengthens the preludes and fugues somewhat, trading efficiency for all-encompassing displays of contrapuntal virtuosity. Beethoven's early string quartets, examples of brusque classicality, give way to the exploration of chromatic musings in his last opera.
We find a much different Bob Dylan at age 66 than the micro-analyzed don't-call-him-folk-rocker of his mid-twenties. His songs of the mid 1960s are Romantic flashes of stream of consciousness poetry set to skewed blues forms. The first half of Bringing It All Back Home, his first foray into electric music since his Minnesota days, sounds like a kid desiring to sing the mad, spinning world in twenty minutes, crystallizing protest songs, dreamscapes, abstract beat poetry, and the end of his relationship with Joan Baez in Biblical metaphor, surrealist humor, and spitfire rhymes. "Subterranean Homesick Blues" is a torrent of allusion and resistance tidied up in just over two minutes; even the longer tracks, like "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream" are entire absurdist novels coalesced into six-and-a-half minute romps. Not until the final tracks of Blonde On Blonde do we find songs, such as "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" that lack any undercurrent of tortured anxiety; even then, the stately tempos are tinged with melancholy brought on by weariness, that most human side effect of celebrity.
Fast-forward 40 years. Having been relieved of the nasty connotations of Voice of the Young Generation for 35 or so years has relaxed Dylan. Dylan's oeuvre has passed through exploring country roots, Christian music, and, perhaps in reaction to the popularity come-on that was his folk period, creating down home blues with comparatively direct lyrics. Songs like "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go," "Sara," and "Things Have Changed" are devastatingly sincere, and show the power Dylan's words have even when stripped of the absurdism of his mid-sixties period. His recent songs, no longer Schumann-esque bursts of passion, portray a wise man thoroughly in control of his compositional form (in his case blues mixed with poetry), no longer needing to rely on stylistic crutches, commercial concerns, and esotericism.
Modern Times, Dylan's most recent studio recording, contains ten songs, which alternate uptempo blues and ballads. Each song, except for one near miss, pass the five minute mark with ease. In fact, it has been a bit of a fallacy for this reviewer to focus on time markers, because these songs couldn't be concerned less with temporal matters. Dylan allows these songs to take all the time and space they need; there is no need to rush. Blues songs like "Rollin' and Tumblin'," whose fast tempo would be propelling to a younger songwriter, are allowed to roll but never tumble. Ballads like "Spirit On The Water" and "When The Deal Goes Down" are sung and performed with eloquent confidence by a man who has no need for oversinging to elicit appreciation, instead focusing on singing solid songs. "The Levee's Gonna Break" is stripped of the Gesamtkunstwerk of Led Zeppelin's bombast, instead sung with the eloquent melancholy of what Bessie Smith would evoke if stripped out of the recording limitations of her time.
Like the composers mentioned in the opening paragraph, the aged Dylan is no longer interested in anxiously striving to capture the world in a lyric, crystallizing philosophies in a verse, or exploding meaningful sentiments in melodically-highlighted allusion. The collection of songs on Modern Times, much like the eponymous Chaplin silent, confidentally perfect an art form whose heyday has passed in quiet sincerity. Dylan, unlike Chaplin, is none too concerned about making an innovative exclamation point (which is why the reviewer only briefly touched upon the connection between the two works), rather in letting his music breathe without presumptions and pretensions, writing great blues without needing to speak for anyone but himself.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Mamas and the Papas- Twelve-Thirty (Young Girls Are Coming To The Canyon)
Like many twenty-somethings born and raised in the Northeast (or anywhere, really), I find myself in the New York City area. The Greatest City on Earth is truly astounding in the way it alienates as it creates community, fragmenting and disorienting people while allowing us to meet absolutely fascinating, generally intelligent people. If all the world is a stage, then New York is the greatest example of this, millions of self-conscious simulacra running around hoping for truth, style, and people to solve the contradition therein. New York pulls me in with promises, with endless activities which enlighten, help me find meaning, and ultimately distract me from the loneliness that comes with so much around, with the knowledge that 10 million people couldn't give two shits about who you are. Yet even this loneliness comes with a wry smile- after all, how alone am I if I'm alone together with so many?
Due to some stressful circumstances recently in my life, I've had moments where I've sunk into this deeply cynical view of this area. Perhaps this is why the Mamas and the Papas' song "Twelve-Thirty" has been resonating so deeply for me lately. Yes, it helps that I'm a sucker for impeccable songcraft, delicious harmonies, and twisting melodies with as many flavors as a meditative sip of fine wine. Yet, the meaning of the song really speaks to me because deep down it is a melancholic song that is suppressed through cheerful exclamations. One can sing along to it joyfully and playfully. But, the melancholy is there, lingering after the song fades.
The song opens on a delectably baroque minor chord, which will eventually become the relative minor of the main key. The relative quiet stasis of the melodic line, which resolves entirely on either guarded majors or deceptive minors, accents the melancholy of the lyrics:
I used to live in New York City
Everything there was dark and dirty
Outside my window was a steeple
With a clock that always said 12:30
This is the realistic NYC, the downtrodden wasteland and dank isolation that characterized it in the 1960s. Even the church, for John Phillips the last outpost of solace and safety (see "California Dreaming"), is stuck in the past, stolid, unable to help. The grass must be greener, or the pavement cleaner, on the other side. And where is it cleaner? Where else for the Mamas and the Papas- Southern California!
Young girls are coming to the Canyon
And in the morning I can see them walking
I can no longer keep my blinds drawn
And I can't keep myself from talking
The music shifts at this point to emphatic major, to a forceful melody that's instantly memorable and celebratory. The voices and instrumentation open up as well, reflecting the narrator's open personality. The mood shifts from delicate Baroque-pop to mid-1960s pop that unabashedly uses that poppiest of rhymes, walkin' and talkin'. Most importantly, though, is the change in tense between verse and chorus. The melancholic verse is in the past, and the music sounds like a black and white photograph. The celebratory chorus, though, is present all the way, and the ensemble sings with color and vibrancy. Cheerfulness and optimism reign supreme!
Or so it seems. The second verse describes the bewilderment of being friendly and cheery. "At first so strange to feel so friendly/To say "Good morning" and really mean it," sings the narrator. It is a dig against the rudeness of New York City, its posture of importance and business that views simple pleasantries as naive idiocies worthy of the deepest scorn. But, it also signals discomfort with letting go of that. Like a child discovering social mores through his/her parents, the narrator must re-rediscover how to act. The buoyancy of the chorus is still subdued by the narrator's self-consciousness. However, the chorus comes in to signal his attempt to overcome himself and celebrate the beautiful canyon full of approachable beautiful women.
Attempt, though, is the key word. The bridge contains one of the strangest lyrics in '60s pop music:
Cloudy waters cast no reflection
Images of beauty lie there stagnant
Vibrations bounce in no direction
But lie there shattered into fragments
Through its almost labored abstraction, the narrator realizes that the beauty and "vibrations" of Southern California are just as fragmented as that dark and dirty New York City. Bizarrely, this lyric is set to music that extraordinarily recalls the chorus. A listener can completely miss these lines if s/he doesn't pay careful attention. The critique is devastating in a close listen, but Phillips' songwriting mitigates against comprehension. Listen to the happy Southern California music, he is saying, but if you pay attention, I'm still searching, still alone, the clocks here all read 12:30 too. Southern California is the narrator's home, but the melancholy still remains. Grass is still grass, pavement is still pavement, the narrator is still the narrator.
I've always enjoyed traveling for the new experiences and escapes that it provides. But I try not to harbor illusions about how great the place I just saw was, or, more accurately, I try to keep a disaffected stance towards my leanings for having what I don't have now. Sometimes that dark and dirty place is, despite my every wishes and desires, where I really should be. I have to always remind myself of what I actually have, focus on the people who care for me rather than the hordes who don't know and won't know who I am. But still, I can dream and sing to the young girls who can't wait to meet me, even if I know they won't change a damn thing about me.
Due to some stressful circumstances recently in my life, I've had moments where I've sunk into this deeply cynical view of this area. Perhaps this is why the Mamas and the Papas' song "Twelve-Thirty" has been resonating so deeply for me lately. Yes, it helps that I'm a sucker for impeccable songcraft, delicious harmonies, and twisting melodies with as many flavors as a meditative sip of fine wine. Yet, the meaning of the song really speaks to me because deep down it is a melancholic song that is suppressed through cheerful exclamations. One can sing along to it joyfully and playfully. But, the melancholy is there, lingering after the song fades.
The song opens on a delectably baroque minor chord, which will eventually become the relative minor of the main key. The relative quiet stasis of the melodic line, which resolves entirely on either guarded majors or deceptive minors, accents the melancholy of the lyrics:
I used to live in New York City
Everything there was dark and dirty
Outside my window was a steeple
With a clock that always said 12:30
This is the realistic NYC, the downtrodden wasteland and dank isolation that characterized it in the 1960s. Even the church, for John Phillips the last outpost of solace and safety (see "California Dreaming"), is stuck in the past, stolid, unable to help. The grass must be greener, or the pavement cleaner, on the other side. And where is it cleaner? Where else for the Mamas and the Papas- Southern California!
Young girls are coming to the Canyon
And in the morning I can see them walking
I can no longer keep my blinds drawn
And I can't keep myself from talking
The music shifts at this point to emphatic major, to a forceful melody that's instantly memorable and celebratory. The voices and instrumentation open up as well, reflecting the narrator's open personality. The mood shifts from delicate Baroque-pop to mid-1960s pop that unabashedly uses that poppiest of rhymes, walkin' and talkin'. Most importantly, though, is the change in tense between verse and chorus. The melancholic verse is in the past, and the music sounds like a black and white photograph. The celebratory chorus, though, is present all the way, and the ensemble sings with color and vibrancy. Cheerfulness and optimism reign supreme!
Or so it seems. The second verse describes the bewilderment of being friendly and cheery. "At first so strange to feel so friendly/To say "Good morning" and really mean it," sings the narrator. It is a dig against the rudeness of New York City, its posture of importance and business that views simple pleasantries as naive idiocies worthy of the deepest scorn. But, it also signals discomfort with letting go of that. Like a child discovering social mores through his/her parents, the narrator must re-rediscover how to act. The buoyancy of the chorus is still subdued by the narrator's self-consciousness. However, the chorus comes in to signal his attempt to overcome himself and celebrate the beautiful canyon full of approachable beautiful women.
Attempt, though, is the key word. The bridge contains one of the strangest lyrics in '60s pop music:
Cloudy waters cast no reflection
Images of beauty lie there stagnant
Vibrations bounce in no direction
But lie there shattered into fragments
Through its almost labored abstraction, the narrator realizes that the beauty and "vibrations" of Southern California are just as fragmented as that dark and dirty New York City. Bizarrely, this lyric is set to music that extraordinarily recalls the chorus. A listener can completely miss these lines if s/he doesn't pay careful attention. The critique is devastating in a close listen, but Phillips' songwriting mitigates against comprehension. Listen to the happy Southern California music, he is saying, but if you pay attention, I'm still searching, still alone, the clocks here all read 12:30 too. Southern California is the narrator's home, but the melancholy still remains. Grass is still grass, pavement is still pavement, the narrator is still the narrator.
I've always enjoyed traveling for the new experiences and escapes that it provides. But I try not to harbor illusions about how great the place I just saw was, or, more accurately, I try to keep a disaffected stance towards my leanings for having what I don't have now. Sometimes that dark and dirty place is, despite my every wishes and desires, where I really should be. I have to always remind myself of what I actually have, focus on the people who care for me rather than the hordes who don't know and won't know who I am. But still, I can dream and sing to the young girls who can't wait to meet me, even if I know they won't change a damn thing about me.
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