'Style' / Taylor Swift

Style Taylor Swift
Something that profoundly bothers me, as a student/a teacher/a person, is this horribly misguided idea that there's ONE set interpretation.

"Oh sorry -- your emotional response to something artistic is wrong. You didn't fit your answer into one of the multiple choice options. Your approach isn't in vogue with the critical framework we're using right now. Your thesis doesn't quite align with my research, and I'm a Academic, so obviously I am more correct, kiddo, don't even try."


Creations and interpretations are graded for one reason and one reason alone: we wrongly assume they should be. We take subjectivity and violently smear attempts at objectivity all the fuck over it. We force students into these sad, frustrated boxes and tell them there is one meaning to this poem, and if you get it wrong, you get a zero.

You get a zero.

Okay hold the fuck up for a second.


In what universe ---- in what UNIVERSE ------ would a poet -- someone who is writing in a necessarily figurative style -- assume that there was ONE INTERPRETATION of their piece?!

It INFURIATES me.

It is the absolute fucking opposite of art's intention.


Every time a literature teacher tells a student there is one correct meaning, they are murdering -- yes, murdering: repeatedly, ignorantly -- the potential inherent in art.

Probably the best teacher I've ever had was at McGill. In a notably conservative university, in a very unchallenging faculty, this man refused to let his students sit by passively. He refused to let us, future or current teachers, continue to believe that we should tell our students what poems mean. Among oh so much else, he gave us concrete strategies, backed up by excellent research, for teaching poetry --- and absolutely none of it had the teacher at the front spouting bullshit about what they learned X years ago in their degree and haven't thought about since.

As a student, as a teacher, as a person: I was overwhelmed.

I'd never believed what I'd always been told: I never believed there was one side to an interpretation. Yes: essays need justification. Yes: some interpretations are way the hell off in left field. But no: there is not one way to explain an artpiece. Not when we bring so damn much of ourselves to the encounter.

Who, once they are out of school, writes essays about books? Or poems? Or songs?


But we sure as hell read them; listen to them. Feel them.
Why don't we talk about that? 
 

I briefly used this song as an example, today, of how the author's intent is ultimately irrelevant.

"Okay so we all know that Taylor wrote this song about Harry Styles ---"

"Wait what miss? Oh my god that makes so much sense oh my god"

"...okay so most of us know that Taylor wrote this song about Harry Styles. But -- when we listen to the song, do we think exclusively of Taylor and Harry?"

Bunch of shaking heads.

We think of ourselves.

We relate to songs because they matter to us. Lyrically, sometimes; musically, others. There is context. There is connection. There is personal interpretation.

For all my frustration with Taylor Swift as an icon, I love 1989 -- and Style, when I hear it, splits in multiple directions.

I am walking to work, listening to this album for the first time; trying to distract myself from dark thoughts; somehow this pulls me out.

I am in a cab with one of my best friends and two of hers; midnight in Toronto; on our way; pretending we don't know the words until we realize we all know the words and scream them out onto the street.

I am frantically reading Fables, voraciously breathing it in.

I am exploding, with all of me, into roughly-cut shards.

All of that feeds into my interpretation.

This song is not about Taylor and Harry.

Every now and then, when I have a class I think can handle it, I teach poetry the way that professor taught us.

Today, I tried, and it ended powerfully ----- but it was hard.
They eyed me in disbelief; they thought I was lying. One student admitted he'd received 20% on a poetry exam the previous year because the teacher had wanted a specific analysis. That same student cut off another in the middle of her interpretation: "Where did you see any mention of sexuality?"
I intervened: There wasn't any specific mention of it. Doesn't mean it wasn't there.
He replied -- not confrontationally and blushing when he realized what he'd said -- "I was taught better."

I answered, more coolly than you'd imagine, "You were taught differently."


I've been replaying that class in my head all day. Wondering if it's worth it, to pull teeth, to encourage this kind of thought, especially given their next teacher may tell them the opposite.

But I won't be a hypocrite. And I won't compromise on this.

There is never one interpretation.

'Better Than Sunday' / Ladyhawke

  Better Than Sunday   Ladyhawke

So it's mid-October, which means it's about that time to dance around my bedroom like a freaking maniac to Ladyhawke's self-titled album!!!!

I recently read Robert Jourdain's Music, the Brain, and Ecstasy -- and liked very little of it. He had a hardon for classical music, to the exclusion of all else -- particularly lyrical music. Lyrics, god, that's just cheap poetry set to cheap tunes; how plebeian. 

Jourdain: you suck.

Case in point: the chorus to Ladyhawke's "Better Than Sunday."

I can't walk the line / I can't see the time
I'm falling out of view
I'm sinking into you
I'm leaving Monday / it's better than Sunday
I'm feeling younger / it's better than wiser

I mean come on. Come ON! Set to a pulsing, desperate beat; sung passionately; there is NOTHING ELSE like music and lyrics twining, inexorably, together. Sometimes one or the other sucks, sometimes they're both great but somehow don't mesh ---- but the great, the truly miraculous, moment in music is when they fucking COALESCE and you are taken.

I'm leaving Monday / it's better than Sunday

The amount of poetry in seven simple, simple words.
The amount of directions anyone could go with just this, let alone the rest of the chorus -----
It's fucking breathtaking.

Lyrics are so important.

'Dopamine' / Third Eye Blind

  Dopamine  Third Eye Blind 

Well apparently I'm not done talking about Third Eye Blind so let's keep at it!

Third Eye Blind, right?! Are they still together?! Who knew!!!!

I teach high school. I took a day off work to go to the show, and when I got back, my students were all curious about where I'd been. I like to share my media interests with....well, everyone, including the teenagers who populate my work day (well, those interests that are adolescent-appropriate, anyway). I particularly like going to shows and then reporting inappropriate behaviour back to them: "Guys, when you're at a music concert, DON'T TALK DURING THE ENTIRE SET, OKAY, it's annoying." I doubt it will sink in, but I've glared at enough shitty concert-goers to do my best at trying.

Anyway, my grade 9s asked what show I'd gone to see. I told them. Blank stares, except for one girl at the back whose eyes exploded in brightness: "Are you serious?! Third Eye Blind?!"

My sarcasm metre started dinging, but the reaction was too genuine to be faked. When she started going on about how jealous she was, I deferred, and we briefly fangirled. Admittedly: I was surprised. It's rare that I'll mention an old favourite and have students actually know who it is -- most of the music I listened to as a teenager has fallen far out of vogue.

But there's something about Third Eye Blind.

On the traffic-laden drive to the show, Linds and I listened to all five of their albums in order. Have you ever done that -- listened to an entire discography chronologically in one sitting? I hadn't; it was pretty eye-opening. You start picking up on patterns you likely wouldn't otherwise -- thematic, of course, but also musical, lyrical, and ineffable. Those kinds of patterns that you know are there but can't quite articulate -- either because you don't have the vocabulary, or because it's purely magic.

Third Eye Blind, as by-the-book catchy as their bigger hits are, has some magic.

It's hard to explain why you love a specific song. Context, of course, is everything: the memories and connotations attached to songs affect our experience of them. But sometimes we come across a good album -- like something you can say is just kind of objectively on point.

Third Eye Blind's an interesting case. I'd say their first album -- 1997's self-titled intensity -- was pretty objectively fantastic. Their second (1999's Blue) is by far my favourite. But apparently their fifth and most recent album, Dopamine, is their last. And if that's true, it's brilliant.

Yeah, okay, this is influenced by my having listened to the albums all in a row. But this is a fucking mature effort. Rock bands rarely grow up. They disband, or stop caring, or keep putting out unlistenable shit. But bands that actually grow up and create something that harks back to their earlier work, while taking in the current trends of their genre and conceptually evolving? Rare. Rare, guys. Third Eye Blind has done it. And the title track of Dopamine proves this beautifully.

  

Third Eye Blind does two things phenomenally well: songs about love and songs about intoxication. This is shit you think you leave behind when you grow up and get into a ~comfortable rut~.  Netflix and chill being the meme of the moment, I mean come the fuck on: the internet, even, is growing up. The fears of the early 20s, realized: the most intoxicated most adults get is an extra glass of wine on a Saturday night; love has been relegated to a cheerful, relaxed kiss in front of the TV. 

For the record: I appreciate not being hungover on weekdays like I was when I was 22, and the chaos of infatuation is certainly less romantic than the songs say. But then you get lyrics like this, in a song about taking hard drugs: "How do I get back there / to the place where I fell asleep inside you?"

'Semi-Charmed Life' was a masterpiece of its time.

But you can't talk about breathing the sky through your nose on meth forever.

So Dopamine drops, and 'Dopamine' starts with an intro more epic than you can imagine: sweeping synths and guitars -- oh you've definitely been paying attention to the past few years of electropop, guys -- gorgeous melody -- get out of my goddamn face.

But listen to those lyrics. Those are grownup lyrics and this is a grownup, natural drug -- but there's no Netflix and chill to be found, here. Love is still dark, even when you're a grownup; drugs are still potent, even if they're from your own brain.

All animal and engine / but I always fake the part

My side of the bed / I want to push you off the ledge

Cause I can't get you to feel it / till you're out there on the edge

Particularly if you're a 90s kid: please oh please, sit for an hour and listen to this album all the way through. Preferably a few times. It's gonna hurt -- perhaps more quietly than you're used to, but with oh so much intensity.

Cause this just an extra-glass-of-wine theory --- but I think they rewrote the songs from their first album as adults.

 

The show was seated. Linds and I were up on the balcony, dancing and hands in the air and watching everyone around us sit and sip their beer. As the second song finished, Linds turned to me and said, "Downstairs?"

Of course.

As we walked down red carpet stairs, to a red carpet aisle, past people standing gingerly in front of their seats, Third Eye Blind was blasting that epic intro to 'Dopamine' with all of themselves.

Imagine: one of your favourites dancing her way down the aisle in front of you, your hands in the air, lights flashing from the stage, that intro playing as you slide into the front row.

It was a movie. It was magic.

'Wounded' / Third Eye Blind

Wounded  Third Eye Blind     

So I’ve noticed this trend at shows recently.

A few years ago, between songs, the lead singer of a band might make a snarky comment about everyone watching through a lens -- that is, on their phones. If you’ll allow me to paraphrase: “We’re up here, guys -- and if you’re too busy checking that you’ve got a good angle, you won’t get a single real thing out of this performance.”

That kind of comment has died down, against the waves of social media; the financial importance of an Instagram hashtag; the desperation to be relevant. Purveyors of culture can’t afford to deny progress anymore: whatever you think about it, watching through a lens is how most people consume media in 2015.

But there’s this new trend of the lead singer pausing. Looking up. Saying, almost pleadingly: “This night could be magic -- but we’re all so disconnected, don’t you think? We’re all afraid of what people are going to think, afraid of what happens if we let loose, afraid that if we don’t capture it online it didn’t happen in real life. Tonight, we’re going to change that, okay? I want you to turn to the person next to you and introduce yourself. Say hi. We’re all here together, and maybe if we get to know each other a little better, we won’t be so scared, and we can just enjoy the night and really let go.”

Paraphrased: “FOR ONE NIGHT, PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE TWO DAMN THINGS. There are real people next to you. And music is meant to be felt, not passively absorbed. PLEASE BE ACTIVE IN THIS."

This isn’t, like, a NEW~ comment -- but I’m starting to hear it at almost every show, and that’s what’s weird. This cry for genuine interaction, genuine enjoyment, genuine anything ----- it’s missing from live music these days -- or so you’d be led to think.

On Monday night, I fulfilled an old, old music dream: I saw Third Eye Blind live. Drove five hours into New England with one of my best, had a really killer Manhattan at The Tunnel Bar in Northampton, and danced like a fucking lunatic for two hours straight. TWO HOURS, man; two consistently fantastic hours. They killed it.
 
But partway through their set, Stephan Jenkins paused. Looked up. Said, almost pleadingly: “ This night could be magic…” And I stopped myself from rolling my eyes, because you know what? Fair enough; they’ve earned it. I mean, these guys have been around since the 90s, right -- music was a qualitatively different experience, then.

Music was a qualitatively different experience, then.

Hm.

Standing there -- one of my teenage-favourite bands in front of me -- calling for people to connect to each other, to the music -- I got a little nostalgic. Felt a little intense. A bit too much.

And I’ve been realizing, over the past several years, that I don’t listen to music the way I used to. I mean, literally -- you don’t need to tape songs off the radio or buy CDs anymore; there’s an immediacy there didn’t used to be. In some ways, awesome -- music as a hobby is the easiest. You can download terabytes of any genre and click through songs without blinking, without stopping. It’s all at your fingertips, whenever you want it.

But what do we lose, with that immediacy?

I think we lose a lot, actually.

So I’m inspired, Third Eye Blind (and everyone else who said essentially the same thing in the past year): I’m going to start connecting -- perhaps with people, but definitely with music. I’ve participated in a music blog before, but this project is going to be a bit different. 

   No structure.
I’ll write what I want, when I want. Sometimes it’ll be about a song that’s blowing my mind; sometimes an artist I’m obsessed with; sometimes blabbing about cursorily related shit like whether Miley Cyrus is awesome or the worst (for the record: I think she’s pretty awesome, or at least getting there). 

   No bullshit.

If I like something, I’ll say it. If I don’t, I probably won’t write about it. I’m not down with reviews, either -- I’ll likely write more personal essays than you-should-listen-to-this-becauses. I want this to be a genuine reflection of my relationship with music, which is why I also have... 
   No readership goals.

If you’re still reading, and you want to keep doing so, amazing. I would love to talk to anyone about music, anytime -- and I’ll probably post download links for the songs -- or at least playable audio. But this is for me -- a record, a safeplace, where I can write about all the musical feels & thoughts I don’t say out loud for fear of boring the shit out of everyone around me.

   Only passion.

If I’m not feeling anything, for whatever reason, I won’t keep to a schedule of posting. Only when I genuinely feel there’s something worth writing will I actually do it.

The shape of this will change as I go. For now: a first song, with minor comment --- Wounded by Third Eye Blind. This song was everything to me 14 years ago -- and Monday night, blaring into my ecstatic 29-year-old ears, it was everything again.

May music never be so immediate it loses its diamond quality: may it always hit like a fucking exploding wave.