What may have been

I have to admit that I'm sort of disappointed in Allan Holdsworth's music. And that's annoying, because I've found in it a vibrating, revelatory, unique character. After rolling some ideas around in my head, I've started to think of Holdsworth's compositions in a permutational sense; i.e., their main goal seems to be the scalar exploration of a harmonic framework. With many a Holdsworth piece, it appears possible to divide the composition into a threefold structure: an establishment of the chordal bases, a subsequent melodic dissection of those bases (the longest part), and a re-establishment of the introductory chordal bases as the conclusion. I think this is comparable, in certain respects, to Bach's historicized role as an explorer of counterpoint. Of course, there is already a discrepancy in the comparison, since Bach's aim, let's say within BWV 1080, was to weave melodic voices together using a musical mode that produced an interdependent whole, while Holdsworth is giving us a fairly one-voiced result, via his guitar/guitar-like instrument, that is bolstered by the rest of his ensemble. But I don't want to be exact; for me, then, the comparison works when it identifies either composer's primary interest generally and understands the music as explicit explorations of melodic suggestions.

Perhaps, however, we can bury this comparison by simply linking Holdsworth's aims to that of jazz. I'm not sure. After all, Holdsworth treats the main meat of his compositions -- the melodic dissection -- as open to continual dissection itself, which is why many of Holdsworth's listeners may identify a note-by-note recreation of a guitar solo by another listener on their own guitar as a point-missing exercise. The most consistent part of Holdsworth's songs (putting studio recordings next to live performances) is their fundamental harmonic framework; and this framework is what propels the players into and what gives the general guiding baseline for the ensuing improvisation. One might be compelled to say that a good artist or band will present reinventions every time they perform a preexisting piece of theirs. Holdsworth meets this expectation at a high level by radically evolving the syntax each time.

My problem with Holdsworth is that I'm more interested in that framework, that baseline. This is sort of funny, because what's pushing me away is what's motivating Holdsworth and attracting the bulk of his listeners. To be sure, I can emotionally follow Holdsworth's improvisations to varying lengths. It is when the barrage of notes hits that I remember why (in part) a lot of jazz has little effect on me: my mind, my disposition, my intuitive approach -- whatever you want to call it -- can't interpret the scalar flood as anything more than what it literally is. My experience of the music becomes mere observation. Let me return to Bach and say that what interests me about his music is that it retains memorability within its complexity (despite my last article, let's temporarily use "complexity" in the popular musical sense). And, at first, I may assume that memorability is what Holdsworth's virtuosic solos lack. A double-take, however, seems to show that memorability isn't such a sustainable condition for qualitative assessment. After all, we sometimes characterize things that we really don't like as memorable in spite of that distaste ("I hate [X], but it's stuck in my head/so catchy!"), so can memorability be necessarily attached to standards of success? Furthermore, memorability is not always immediate, even though it's often linked to immediacy. We can make something be (relatively) memorable by repeated exposure. One might try to divide the word into a less substantive, short-term form and a more substantive, long-term form and thus make it qualitatively usable. I'm not sure about that division, though.

Even with the above points, perhaps we can use memorability if we're defining it as the degree of the impression of an experience we have with a given song, as opposed to our ability to mentally recall the specific components of said song (as it were, my ability to mentally "hum" or "drum" or whatever) -- so, value-wise, if we see it as experiential profundity and not as a sort of proof of discrete retention. On these grounds, sure, Holdsworth's scalar barrages (for me) retard memorability. But there's something else here. I'm tempted to use the phrase "Technical for the sake of being technical," although my current ideal of music is "Music for the sake of music," so I don't know how self-reference within self-reference is wrong. Finally (not to say that I've exhausted all routes -- only the ones that I've so far thought of), I'm drawn to the notion that I am, indeed, thinking of these scalar improvisations as "melodies," and that they are not fitting into a vague, personal contextual idea of what a melody variously embodies when I enjoy it. Maybe I need to reorient my what words I'm attaching to these songs' parts. Seeing as how my main approach to music is sensual, however, I doubt that shaking up the lexicon would be deeply affective. It seems that melodies most easily engage me when they have a quality for which I have no other word than "lyricism." Note that I am not using "lyricism/lyrical" in the cheap and common way of indicating [X]'s being "beautiful", "fine", or "elegant", like when a subject is described as "poetic." Instead, I mean that the melody imparts upon me a linguistic intelligibility -- as if the melody is speaking or singing in the place of no actual lyrics. It is common to refer to music as a separate language, and I think this is true, but in the cases I am talking about, that characterization assumes a realer form. Sad to say, this is as far as I can take this line of thought right now.

Hamauzu / "SF2" / Complexity

Since 2005, I've had Masashi Hamauzu's album, "Piano Pieces 'SF2' Rhapsody on a Theme of SaGa Frontier 2" (let's shorten it to "SF2"), playing during quiet times, or times that need to be imbued with quietness -- like last night, while working on charcoal drawings in my studio. "SF2" is a collaborative album, with multiple arrangers and performers, almost all of them classical performers. "Rhapsody on a Theme of SaGa Frontier 2" makes reference to the album's last six songs that switch from the prior solo piano emphasis to an ensemble set-up (piano, strings, horns, etc). Even though this is advertised as the album's jewel, the solo piano pieces are my preferred feature. Over time, with more work under his belt, Hamauzu has come to be defined by the piano and violin, rather than just the piano. It may be an issue of immovable taste that this blend has rarely worked out for me; an issue of formality; or an issue of what sort of imaginative state the duo affects upon my emotions (e.g., a certain Baroque-era piece might sound limited to me because of what social/cultural associations I connect to that era, or my associations to what I perceive as others's associations); etc. There's something outside of my ability to express about such a brand of sweetness in these pieces' handling of the violin that prevents access to deeper, impassioned emotional responses

Listening helps, so here are a few piano-only "SF2" tracks. Of course, I recommend the rest.

"+4" 2

"+4" 3

"α" 2

"β" 2

"γ" 1

If you've ever heard the tracks (from the 1999 PlayStation game, SaGa Frontier 2) on which these recordings are based, the impulse might be to call "SF2"'s versions verbatim-faithful, and thus unambitious. The primary changes were putting them on a real piano's sound, modifying tempos, and reorganizing originally ensemble tracks for the piano. In other words, this is not an album full of complex dissections of antecedent innards. I think, though, that if you're willing to see them as a baring of the original objects -- that is, how the game's songs might've first been formulated by Hamauzu, prior to translating them over to the respective soundfont --, they can become much more interesting, expressive, and legitimate. At the very least, just on the level of comparative instrumental quality, "SF2" makes its soundtrack parallels pretty much irrelevant. SaGa Frontier 2's OST is done through emulative instruments, and the emulation is average to mediocre. For instance, sustained chords on strings sound flat, since there's no dynamism after a given chord has been hit; there is simply a straight extension of that initial state. Just two years later, Hamauzu would deliver the exact opposite, with lush, mature contributions to the Final Fantasy X OST that put Uematsu's pieces -- dated sounds and mundane musicality (likely due to creative fatigue) -- to shame.

One of my favorite things about "SF2"'s piano pieces is their pervading sparseness, large breathing spaces, and measured respect paid to Hamauzu's harmonic craft. "'+4' 2", for example, has pedal work and tempo adjustments to grant it a fragrant sumptuousness that's as much about the compositional fact and registering of the chords as it is about their resonant intermingling -- the sweet, faint dissonance of abutting tonic transitions. And "'4' +3", for another example, seems to have been stripped down to an absolute form that contemplates itself; the listening experience becomes about following the fading trails of the very individualized chords. It's possible that this sparseness could lead to a judgment of "lacking ambition" by some listeners. A little less than three years after "SF2", Hamauzu released "Piano Collections Final Fantasy X", which proved beyond a doubt that Hamauzu had, and has, the talent to reform his pieces to a degree that imparts a history of substantial creative reimagining ("Decisive Battle", off that album, is the definition of a virtuoso piano piece). This, coupled with the short span of time between "SF2" and "Piano Collections" -- i.e., Hamauzu did not become a brilliant arranger after only three years --, makes it apparent that "SF2" is a product of conscious choice. Hamauzu, after all, had a hand in its arrangements, and presumably set in place a standard, with contextual liberties, for the other arrangers. Under this lens, the question becomes one not of absent or present intent, but of how we are to react to such an intent.

"Complex dissections," as a thing that I've claimed "SF2"'s music is not, raises the topic of what I or anyone else means by complexity when it comes to music. For instance, to me, "complexity" has immediate implications that seem to be derived from the word's meaning in natural science, where it takes on the characteristics of density, intricacy, and productive success (that is, the achievement of a consistent and coherent goal (chaos can be complex, but complexity is not chaos)). Visually, "musical complexity" translates to sheet music with many notes and rhythmic devices which, when put into the context of performance, make a high demand of the performer. Therefore, J. S. Bach's music becomes an easy, popular example for complexity, partly for cultural atmosphere (the thing that makes so many people believe that the Mona Lisa is the greatest painting ever painted), and partly for our own associations that we spread thin over various departments for casual, communicative convenience. The problem that I see with this definitional tendency -- with its implications, anyway -- is that it suggests that musical complexity is an informational state unto itself. This produces the question of why musical complexity could then ever matter experientially, since music is a human creation made for other humans. And if musical complexity does matter, what is its connection to quality, and is this connection consistent enough to be developed into a standard?

This is not to suggest that musical theorists and composers have and still are working under fallacious assumptions of complexity; just that, based on my experiences, many of us seem to have a curiously irrelevant or inapplicable definition of musical complexity. I should say that I have no conclusive answers for myself right now; or, what answers I do have tend to grind against one another in endurable cognitive dissonance. For example, although I lack a coherent definition for musical complexity, I would still say that I value musical complexity as a general standard. What does this mean, then, when I'm impressed by "'4' +3" but am hesitant to categorize it as complex? One possibility is that it does fit outside of my definition of complexity, and that I'm making an exception based on yet-undefined factors. Another possibility is that it is indeed within my definition of complexity, and that its technical make-up is an unusual kind of complexity.

Some of these questions may seem ridiculous when one can ask, "Is there, in fact, any reasonable doubt as to whether this or this has a higher degree of complexity?" You or I might guess that most would say that the Mathias piece is more complex, and say that that shared ground helps in the search for meaning. So there may be more certainty in the concept when the content is stratified in a relatively traditional way (Hamauzu's track is shorter, has a higher rate of repetition, small thematic development, is easier to play, has more distinguishable and predictable harmonies, etc). But what happens when we contrast Mathias' sonata against, say, Debussy's "La plus que lente", or, better yet, Liszt's "Piano Sonata in B minor"? As complexity -- what we think of complexity -- gets more relationally equalized, it becomes harder to cement. Of course, the prior examples depend on my definitional presumptions, and I've yet to clarify those, giving us an analytic paradox; but maybe that can be ignored for the sake of expedience. What makes all of this the most difficult to nail down, it seems, is that music, like all art, is a subjective phenomenon -- it comes out of, and is made explicable by, consciousness; yet, unlike other art, it is non-denotative. Although there may be an average consensus between humans on what sorts of sounds and tones elicit certain emotional responses (perhaps anticipated by the phonetic qualities of language), these emotional responses can be the totality of meaning itself; and this meaning is bound to the ineffability of non-semantic sound.

One avenue of thought all this can lead to is that the start point for assessing musical complexity might not be the music -- rather, it might be subjective reactions to the music. Is this avenue rife with problems of its own? Do we measure these reactions in the scientific arena of monitored brain activity? Do we measure it by a person's ability to speak on or write about their relationship to a song? Do we aggregate results into a generalization, or do we take it case by case and make the definition hyper-subjective?

Stuff to mull over.

Upcoming piano album for Final Fantasy XII's score

Huh. Should I retitle this blog to be "HITOSHI SAKIMOTO :HEARTBEAT:"? I had a rare AAAHHH Can't Wait reaction to the news that a piano album featuring selections from Final Fantasy XII's score is (finally (finally)) in the works. The arranger/performer is unknown. One of the people commenting in that link made a guess with Casey Ormond. Ormond had a couple of professional piano arrangements from FFXII (and Final Fantasy Tactics) on his YouTube channel, and he was responsible for a piano album of Valkyria Chronicles, so it is a possibility. As the article I've linked mentions, the pieces include:

Theme of Final Fantasy XII ~ The Dream to be a Sky Pirate
The Royal City of Rabanastre Town Ward Upper Stratum
The Dalmasca Eastersand
Theme of the Empire
The Skycity of Bhujerba

I'm confused by the first on the list, since The Dream to be a Sky Pirate is only over half-a-minute long. Perhaps the arrangement will mix it and Theme of etc., although I doubt that, given the already rich motivic scope of Theme. Another possibility is that The Dream etc. will more resemble The Salikawood, as the latter is a musical development of the prior. Who knows! An arrangement album can be great because it notifies of you of the latent potential in a song you brushed aside, but my ideal FFXII piano album, based on what I think is worth reshaping, would probably look something like this:

A Moment's Rest
Cerobi Steppe
Eruyt Village
Dalmasca Estersand
Boss Battle
Clan Headquarters
Skycity of Bhujerba
The Secret of Nethecite
Ashe's Theme
Barheim Passage
A Land of Memories
Time for a Rest

I'm dumb. Despite being so magnetized to the Final Fantasy XII soundtrack for several years, now, I'd somehow glossed over this piece that Sakimoto composed for the introductory cinematic. Several of its passages made me experience some of the most intense frisson I've gotten in . . . over a year. Just an incredible piece. Much of the song involves frequent, intense changes of dynamics (giving it a clearer narrative flavor), so you could term it as "cinematic," and that'd be OK, since -- well, yeah, it's for a montage of contrasting scenes! I can't tell how much of the instrumentation is synthetic, but it seems to be the majority. The strings may be the sole exception. Most of it's pretty different from Sakimoto's usual instrumentation. He could've been striving for a higher realism because of the importance (i.e., amount of invested money/effort) the first movie represents. It's so crazy to contrast this with the bulk of efforts from Western videogame composers who utilize the orchestral format/cinematic mode. Sakimoto packs in so much musical ambition and motifs that sing.

Scrutiny and envelopment

What does one’s increasing involvement in composing music do to one's perception of music? A change that I have noticed in myself is that I have more often understood music in an imaginatively physical sense. My relationship is now not so much with disembodied sound -- self-sufficient manifestations -- but with sonic ideas given form, results of compositional effort. In a sense, the music has become more comprehensible. For example: when I hear a chord, I don’t hear “just the music” – I also visualize the chord as a “form.” Another noticeable change, and one acknowledged with some regret, is that I may put myself in competition with the music. In effect, the mental question is “Could I do that?” This is perhaps good from the perspective of prompting oneself to be better . . . yet I feel that this perspective is at an imbalance with a creative confidence approaching egotism. My problem with this intrusion of the ego is not so much that it lends itself to an unwieldy projection of the self; it is that it takes one out of the musical experience by making the critical element of personal taste vs. subject matter (which is always there) a frontal concern that replaces personal taste with personal creative capacity. Perhaps this is an impossible thing for composers to overcome, and is a matter of degrees, but I have had to struggle with repressing the egotistical pattern to more enjoyably engage music in general. This is why I have begun to really value music that instills some kind of humility. More and more I see my ideal musical experience as one that negates my self and introduces a period of absorption. I need to enter a mental space that is . . . not ignorance, but unselfish attention.

This brings up two relatable subjects: one is Greg Kelley’s album, “Trumpet.” The other is Allan Holdsworth. After speaking to people and reflecting, I think I’ve narrowed down my biggest problem with “Trumpet”, and it is that the music seems to have no interest in the absorption I spoke of. I’m willing to grant the possibility that this is the result of the CD format. Even with this allowance, I feel that there is a problem . . . perhaps one of appropriate translation, or maybe a disagreement with the idea that the successful expression of good music can be exclusive to the performance of it. Presentation trumping content isn’t a valuable aesthetic model for me. Whatever the case, my critique is of the CD – from what I have heard. Michael Fried’s essay, Art and Objecthood, seems relevant. In it, Fried attempts to explain his negative opinion of “conceptual art” and encapsulates it with a novel definition of “theatricality.” To Fried, theatricality connotes art that engenders a self-conscious separation between participant and art. An example could be a person walking into a room with a cubic sculpture and having their dominant thought be “I am myself in a room with a cube.” If this sounds literal, it should, and Fried does disparage “conceptual art” as literalist. His definition of theatricality works well for how I feel about “Trumpet.” Though this treads into risky territory by making guesses about intent, having a knowledge of “experimental/conceptual music” of the twentieth century, I can see the album as including itself in an ocular/sonic history of art aiming to be anti-experience and striving for the clinical, “this is the sound of such-and-such and I am in myself listening to it” attention of the listener. So I’m inclined to designate the CD as objectified music. As I wrote somewhere else, the music that I enjoy is a product of generative manipulation, but “Trumpet” is still caught on the manipulation, or the object of the idea, itself.

Allan Holdsworth comes up because many of the songs of his that I’ve heard invoke humbleness through their musical inventiveness. I may have reached a point in my relationship to music where, in all likelihood, I will never again experience a paradigmatic upheaval as I did when, say, I first heard Rei Harakami’s music, but the songs of Holdsworth’s that really get to me are wild and strange enough that I think I might have enjoyed such an upheaval had I heard them so many years ago. Sometimes I'll have dreams where I’m hearing music whose excellence is beyond description. It's as though the music of the world is shown to be two-dimensional, while this music unveils new notes to tonal reality. Saying that Holdsworth’s music approaches this state is sort of ridiculous, because the dream music is beyond belief, mastery, reproduction, though something about “Mr. Berwell” or "The Dominant Plague" or etc. reminds me of dream-music. My opinion might change, but right now I’m by far least interested in the improvisational, scalar virtuosity of Holdsworth’s songs, even though that seems to be a big investment for him and his fans. The information is simply too rapid and dense – and similarly relayed in speed and intervals -- to do a lot for me except have me think, “You’d need a fast mind and fast fingers to do that.” Before I end, I also want to point out how some of Holdsworth’s albums feature singing, even though the respective albums still hold true to his music’s frequently shifting tonal centers. This means that the singing feels . . . wrong. A switch in musical acceptance seems to happen when a voice assumes the dynamism of an instrument. Maybe it is the clash between the explicit understanding of words and the relative abstraction of an unexpected note.

G+ Digest

Below are blurbs I've written on music since joining Google+, starting with the oldest.

Listen to the second movement of this composition by Heinrich Biber. That's a seventeenth century song! I don't know much about Biber, but there is maybe a clue in the movement's title: "Die liederliche Gesellschaft von allerey Humor." This has to be an effort towards comedy, but how strange that it stands within an overall work and not alone. My guess is that it's in the same vein of Mozart's "A Musical Joke", only with the joke solely being the poor performance (Mozart's composition is a sarcastic critique of banal musical ideas and mediocre technical ability; it was also a possible indirect critique of his father who prized monetary success over creativity).

Song off of The Diogenes Club's last EP, "Versailles." The Diogenes Club is a duo whose output has been, easily, among my most adored EDM (nope, not using the IDM label) of the past couple years. It wasn't until the music video for the EP's track of the same name that I realized that the duo, maybe, were trying to communicate a blurred current of "retro" sheen, possibly based in the late 70s/early 80s. Whatever the intended connections, The Diogenes Club's music, for me, is about a steady decomposition linked to autumn. I don't understand the specifics of this yet, but I do think that the largest general contributor is the songs' pervasive sense of nostalgia, chilled and stretched to a breathy thinness. Things are in a constant state of fading, clothed by dewy accumulation, with the fuzzed-up pads, the earthily fragrant chords, and singer Paul Giles' yearning, echoing vocals. On the note of vocals, I should just say outright that I often have a hard time understanding the lyrics, both in terms of actually comprehending the words and the then-perceived phrases. This isn't a complaint, though: Giles' voice is an incredibly rare case of one that is sensually pleasing to me, located in a kind of "melodic talking" that is controlled, plain, and muted. It's at home as a purely sonic portion.

A track for Mr. Collier's dungeon crawler that (I think) I put the finishing touches on tonight. It's intended to accompany one of the game's environments, all of which are in a tower, barring the nearby town. At this point, I've made more environmental tracks for the game than are needed, so . . . I'm not sure why I'm still making them. The quick bunch of chords and the couple bass notes preceding the loop were included today for what I think is a better anticipation of the original key. Although I'm not sure what conclusive stance to take (if I should even take one) when it comes to the last moments of a song that's meant to loop; should it prepare the listener for that tonal return? -- or is it all right if the song travels to different places and makes no effort to rectify that change? The latter probably tends to draw attention to the song as an isolated body, which might be unwanted when the song will be heard dozens of times in a row by players. The ends of songs that I've made for this soundtrack have been fun and frustrating to approach. Due to the songs' frequent modulations, things can get pretty harmonically distant from the beginning. This presents a challenge which has granted me some of the most personally surprising and exciting compositional moments of this project. The goal is to figure out a flow of musical "leaps of faith" that won't ask too much of the listener's perceptive logic. Granted, logic varies from person to person.

Have you ever thought about the strangeness of saying something like, "Turn the volume up/down," in reference to a song? "Volume" is really a reference to spatial occupancy, but this is the term that English-speakers have adopted for the loudness of music. According to David Huron in his book, Sweet Anticipation, the "volume" label below the knobs of sound equipment is related to the proposal by psychologist Smith Stevens that volume (the sense of auditory size/mass/spaciousness) is a basic attribute of sound. Writes Huron, "Equipment manufacturers thought that 'volume' would appeal to customers more than either 'loudness' or 'amplitude.'"
On a slightly related note, I think it's interesting how the communicative properties of animals' sounds are paralleled in our emotional comprehension of music. Essentially, the (hypothetical) idea is that the acoustic connotations of language predict our understanding of -- and perhaps compositional habits in -- music. Again, from Huron's book: "Loud sounds are generally associated with high arousal in a vast array of animals. Low-pitched loud sounds are associated with aggression, whereas high-pitched loud sounds are associated with alarm. High-pitched quiet sounds are often associated with deference or submissiveness, while low-pitched quiet sounds are associated with both contentment and threat."

Finished this song about a month ago, but, having just been reunited with my speaker system after a year of separation, I realized that the kick drum was too loud. So I tweaked that -- and here's the final version. As usual, the germinative element for this song was an establishing of personal harmonic interest and proceeding exploration of what subsequent routes -- either self-directed or, to put it one way, "uncontrolled" -- may be taken. It might be said that this approach, or ideal, is a search for paradox: that one will improve and understand oneself better musically while hoping for the results to outpace personal logic/anticipation in little and/or large ways. I won't go through with finishing a song if I cannot lose sight of my own hand at a sufficient numbers of points (the points being context sensitive). The bassline's sequence starting at 1:31 and ending on 1:43 is an interesting example of a compositional phenomenon that's happened to me a few times before, where -- through a combination of what's initially there -- a kind of musical gestalt takes shape, so vague that I need to take hold of it that instant and follow it through; and when it's done I know, somehow, that it is a "correct" vocalization of that imaginative ephemera. These events may be categorized as a kind of comprehended déjà vu, where the musical idea almost seems to exist a priori and simply needs to be drawn out in a timely way. It is possible, however, that the process of actualization strips something out of the original conception -- like the memory of a dream, forever lost if not written down upon the moment of awakening -- through the concentrative act's necessity of, in some cases, significantly elapsed time. What startled me most? The small (in terms of measure-body) tonic shift at 1:15. Still am so happy with it.

When walking home last night and thinking (a choice pastime tbh), I got to considering harmonic behavior and what it can symbolize. I also thought about the musical ownership -- how a composer can harness an aural shape or action and adopt it as a personalized expression the same way a painter may use a color or a poet a word. Earlier in the day I'd been listening to a song of Kazumi Watanabe's, "Concrete Cow," and had posed to myself the pretty naive question of "How could anyone not like this?" Instead of making me go into an imagined argument with a detractor, the question caused me to wonder what I was finding valuable. This internal conversation played back into my thoughts during my walk as I segued from Watanabe to my music, particularly the pre-melodic beginning of "Gray Morning," which is a chordal cycle with a cadential tonic twist. It's probably accurate to say that my foundation for composition lies in EDM, because 1) it was what I was listening to the most when I began making music, and, 2) all these years later, many of my ideas still come out first as a fairly clean four-chord sequence. What has also been consistent is how I have, almost from the start of composing, often concluded these sequences with, to use the word again, a twist. I've grown hesitant of using personal metaphoric terms -- stiff, handy Labels -- for music (for reasons I'll explain another time (or in the comments section, if anyone cares)), but last night I modified "twist" to be "epiphany." I think this is more interesting because not only do I find a twist tied to gimmickry -- to me, an epiphany connotes discovery, and an implicit acknowledgment that the revealed thing already existed. The discovery is simply the fact of its unearthing and the discoverer's rationale. This puts the discoverer in the role of logic-body who grants life and/or comprehensibility to an "object." It also more accurately describes the pleasure I find in "Gray Morning"'s opener or parts of "Concrete Cow," where I get the sensation that I'm witnessing an achieved understanding both in the mind of the composer and the music itself. My immediate mental image for this is a geometric form that's been rotated to reveal that it is not at all in the shape one thought it held. I realize that this is a pretty romantic and antiquated notion (daemons), but the more I think about it, the more I'm seeing it as mineable in theoretical metaphor.

Completed a couple months ago, but uploaded to YouTube yesterday.
I'm happy with this song particularly for its lyricism. I use "lyricism" here as a melodic state that, in one way or another, seems to hold an ineffable linguistic shape. This, in turn, makes the song into a dialogue, a narrative, or a non-physical performance that somehow -- barring the very beginning -- is a continual response to preceding content. I thought it would be interesting to write down, however abstract and perhaps incomprehensible, my temporal associations with this song's sections. I imagine that if I did this every week the results would vary.

00:00 -- Bizarre. A rolling that goes back and forth. Slim, sharp edges. An alternate way out.
00:16 -- "This is how it is." Time. An explanation. Almost didactic.
00:31 -- Something on the side, pushed in between two vertical planes. Ghostly emergence. "But don't forget -- there is this, too."
00:47 -- Rewinding. Bodies climbing. Gets explanatory again. Soberness at the root.
01:03 -- Elevation. "On the other hand." Swift, jolly admittance of mistakes. It's really okay.
01:19 -- "Oh, and on that note -- " Good-natured. Impending reversion.
01:27 -- "Naturally. Still, it should -- must -- be considered." Dangerously close to a binary assertion.
01:35 -- Can be held in the hand. "But don't you see?" Pluckable.
01:43 -- A trick. Diagonal and compact. Shift. Very light green.
01:51 -- Humble tapestry. Measured, numerical commentary. Everything has been cleared away. Centered.
01:59 -- Feigned but believable reconsideration. Dry. "All of us. Even you." Reality.

Coldplay's Kitsch

From a purely musical standpoint, Coldplay's distinction could be seen as consulting a tonality more endemic to European rock acts than American ones, and mild references that reach farther back to Western classicism. Comparisons to Radiohead have been made, but it's a tenuous leap. Radiohead's attention paid to unstable harmonics and dissonance is too obvious a gap to ignore, and the lyrical divide is a whole other matter. These musical qualities link to another supposed distinction, which is that Coldplay brings "class" and "gravitas" to a pop-sphere dominated by cheap self-esteem anthems, lovin'-up/breakin'-up jingles indulging Forever 21 culture, and stars singing about how they want to be stars. Much of Coldplay's material, though, fits right into the stampede of self-esteem anthems, singer Chris Martin assuming the role of the empathetic psychologist, handing out second-person imperatives and examples of his own troubles. The rude twist is that these anthems are marinated in a self-congratulating insecurity, speaking out to Poor Ol' You behind an assumption of profundity. Combined with the quality of writing, the result might be more irritating than the back-pats churned out everywhere else.

At its core -- even on the skin -- Coldplay is easy listening, mashed up into baby food for immediate digestion, falsely complicated by a cover showcasing Art, an organ during an outro, a mention of God, a music video with a filter mimicking cracked paint. I will say that well-written instrumental music appeals to me over well-written vocal music. This is something I can't deny, something that is a part of who I fundamentally am. I can tolerate weak lyrics if what surrounds them is to my taste, if the lyrics' delivery is competent, and if the lyrics are sparse and/or vague. Coldplay, however, whose music is pleasant but lacking riskier compositional exploration (and subsequently a reason for being returned to), and whose lyrics are ineludible, forbids a separation. As is the case with pop music, the spoken word is the centerpiece -- and the lyrics here are bad, even pretentious. To be sure, the source of all this may be sincerity. Yet, with the ensemble's dramatic sound and the pandering lyrics, it's hard not to see in every track the image of Martin standing on high, arms outstretched, assuming the identity of the ostensibly humble saint with a well-hidden superiority complex. Reciprocal intent becomes patronizing.

The lyrics are torn from the insides of cards in the Sympathy section, switching between worn-out binaries, allowing a kind of tautological resolution and not much else. In an article I wrote, and am in the process of rewriting, for Rei Harakami, I stressed the importance of music that surprised, even if this goes against an evolutionary tendency, and I would also apply this expectation of unexpectedness to lyrics. The element of surprise is not singly analogous to the distribution of shock (though it can be); rather, it's an invocational quality, ranging from the faintest sigh to the largest reverberation, that separates uncommonness from the commonplace. If someone were to give me a song from the Top 10 I hadn't heard before, expecting me to hum or sing ahead of the song, that would be missing the point, which is that the brain knows the expectations before the mouth. I can't necessarily predict melody or words aloud, but I know there are separate reactions I experience that make clear to me the new from the inevitable (for example: "shivers"). Coldplay's lyrics are so bad that, on occasion, one actually can say out loud what is going to be said. In that sense, the music is cliche before it has actualized itself to the participant.

In "Fix You", Martin sings: "When you try you best but you don't succeed / When you get what you want but not what you need ? When you feel so tired but you can't sleep [. . .] And the tears come streaming down your face / When you lose something you can't replace / When you love someone but it goes to waste [. . .] And high up above or down below / When you're too in love to let it go / But if you never try you'll never know . . . "

Or, in "Lost": "Just because I'm hurting / Doesn't mean I'm hurt / Doesn't mean I didn't get what I deserve / No better and no worse / I just got lost / Every river that I've tried to cross / And every door I ever tried was locked / You might be a big fish / In a little pond / Doesn't mean you've won / 'Cause along may come / A bigger one."

And "Yellow": "Look at the stars / Look at how they shine for you / And everything you do / Yeah, they were all yellow / I came along / I wrote a song for you / And all the things you do / And it was called 'Yellow' . . . "

Lastly, "What If": What if there was no light / Nothing wrong, nothing right / What if there was no time? / And no reason or rhyme? [. . .] What if I got it wrong? / And no poem or song / Could put right what I got wrong / Or make you feel I belong. [. . .] Every step that you take / Could be your biggest mistake. / It could bend or it could break. / But that's the risk that you take."

None of this is remotely imaginative, with the possible exception of "ignite your bones" from "Fix You." Consider the text as poems standing alone, and call them out for what they are: cliche and trite. One might be inclined to defend these lyrics as real, as truth. The problem is that Martin is relaying these realities in the most unoriginal way, so that one would rather dismiss them as outdated falsities. Of course, we've tried our best and not succeeded. Of course, it hurts when we lose something that we can't replace. The task of an artist is not to parrot reality, or to originate total newness, but to resituate the idea in a place different from the object of the idea itself. The above lyrics do not allow that: obvious truths are pushed through an equally obvious filter, and banality is born. "Everything has been written" is a modern claim, and these lyrics are like an unintentional surrender to that notion. It seems as if Martin wrote down a mnemonic device a parent might've stressed to him as a kid, and followed that up with a bunch of empty platitudes in the subsequent five minutes. One line invites a surplus of rhymes that seem to have been conceived for the convenience of like-sounding ending lines and comfortable genericism.

To be honest, I hold these criticisms with some regret. Certainly there is music whose entirety, even its interpretive possibilities, we're willing to throw out, but Coldplay's instrumental side shows more potential than much of the last decade's mainstream. Granted, especially within the last few years, where the American-born rush for LookAtMe-itis has hit depressing heights, and music has become a kind of means to an end instead of the end itself, this doesn't mean a great deal. The last minute of "White Shadows" reflects on some lovely sustained chords. In "Politik" is a neat reversal of roles, where a climax precedes quietness. Funnily enough, the fade-in opener for Viva La Vida, "Life In Technicolor", is probably the best thing to come out of the band's oeuvre, and it's not even their own work. The pre-rock piece (minus the skip-like looping), a composition by Jon Hopkins called "Light Through the Veins", has a private, revolving melody that's small enough to penetrate the most tightly guarded mental places. It's a rare case where a Coldplay song -- or, at least, a song on a Coldplay album -- could stand to reflect on a melancholic mood a bit longer, not least of all because Martin isn't yodeling sentimental appeals. Not even forty seconds in, the band proper disrupts the aggregating atmosphere to save the song from what I can only imagine is the "terror of repetition." Coldplay, yes, has an occasional knack for carving a sharp harmonic form or two; yet they stick to such a static stylistic definition, so that the material blends and loses color. Despite recruiting people including Brian Eno for Viva la Vida, the band seems ignorant of the music's body structure, which has barely been dissected and re-displayed, and is instead giving its time to slight surface sweeps. And, sure, there are points where the lyrics feel a bit clever. But that's really all -- clever -- and then it's right back to bumper-sticker-isms and awkward, cheesy grasps at love.