Greetings, gentle readers.
Once, long ago, I promised that I would get around to my taxonomy of musical lyrics. This is me rather belatedly following up on that promise/threat. Years back, I was making a chronological mix of Beatles tracks, and began to notice a pattern that seemed to parallel the development of Lennon and McCartney's increasing artistic acumen. I meditated on how later Beatles songs had an entirely different lyrical feel to them, and wondered how to track the stages of the movement from their early, chirpy, pop-esque songs to their later ballads and introspective rhapsodies.
The answer as I saw it was based on the pronouns in the lyrics.
Early Beatles songs from the first LP releases were predominantly filled with lyrical content like the following from 1963:
Misery -
"I've lost her now for sure / I won't see her no more / It's gonna be a drag.../ Misery."
Please Please Me -
"Last night I said these words to my girl / I know you never even try, girl."
P.S. I Love You -
"As I write this letter / Send my love to you / Remember that I'll always / Be in love with you."
Love Me Do -
"Love, love me do / You know I love you / I'll always be true / So please, love me do."
Easy pattern to spot, really. The trend is even pronounced in the titles: "If I Fell", "I'll Be Back", "I'll Cry Instead.", "I Wanna Be Your Man.", "I'm a Loser", "I'll Follow The Sun," and "I Need You."
First person declarative lyrics, describing first hand emotions and events are de rigeur for this stage of lyrical development. At this level of maturity, the focus is on the lyricist and his experiences. Audiences are invited into the songwriter's world and try and sympathize with his situation. Essentially an ego-centric attitude is portrayed - one which integrates all experience into personal and reactive responses.
The next stages follow logically. As the songwriter is integrated more and more into the world of others, and learns to respect the feelings and perspectives of people outside of the self, the focus of the songs begins to change towards projection rather than interpolation.
The Beatles reach this stage around 1964-1965 with the LP "Help", driven I suspect by John's expanding imaginative capacity. There are a couple of early examples, but they don't become prevalent for another couple of years. "She Loves You" for example, wasn't even included on a Capital LP during its initial release. The following demonstrate the diversification of the narrative voice:
You've Got To Hide Your Love Away -
"Gather round all you clowns / Let me hear you say / Hey, you've got to hide your love away."
You're Gonna Lose That Girl -
"You're going to lose that girl / If you don't take her out tonight / She's going to change her mind."
Tell Me What You See -
"Open up your eyes now, tell me what you see / It is no surprise now, what you see is me."
The trend continues further through 1966's "Rubber Soul."
After starting to give more than token attention to other people outside of the self, the third stage is to integrate the self into a sense of community. The self and the second person merge into a second-person plural. "We all live in a yellow submarine.", "Two of us Sunday driving, not arriving, on our way back home.", "Why don't we do it in the road? No one will be watching us..." are all prime examples of how the lyricist has incorporated the world of others into his perspective. "All Together Now" pretty much sums it up.
The fourth stage, and you should all be way ahead of me on this one, is total third-person. No reference to the self or to the audience - just a story about someone outside of the emotional immediacy of that relationship, but within the universal emotional confluence of the human situation. The songs are no longer about "me" and "you" or "us" and "them", they are stories that exist in the greater social dialogue and provide insights varying according to the perspective of the observer. The Beatles no longer merely wanted to hold their fans' hands, or sail with them on a yellow submarine. instead, we are introduced to a whole cavalcade of characters, and what we think and make of them is our business and our prerogative. Father McKenzie, Eleanor Rigby, Maxwell Edison, Mother Nature's Son, Mean Mr. Mustard and Polythene Pam exist as individual literary entities, and any interpretations of their actions takes place entirely outside of the Beatles. We can negotiate however we like with them independently of personal involvement from the songwriters.
Finally, we reach Stage Five, which abandons characters and begins to speak in imagery and metaphor. Suddenly, we no longer need people to illustrate emotions, we can skip straight to sensory appeals and the general situation of negotiating with the world around us.
Across The Universe (1970) -
"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup / They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe."
We no longer have to sympathize, empathize, relate, or pity characters, we can face the situations ourselves, and experience the emotions first-hand. Rather than watching someone and negotiating with what they're feeling, we find ourselves instead listening to blackbirds singing in the dead of night, and what we feel is real, because we create it.
Junk (1969) -
"Motorcars, handlebars, bicycles for two / Broken hearted jubilee / Parachutes, army boots, sleeping bags for two. "
This is the most advanced and mature lyrical structure for a song, and not surprisingly, the least commonly found.
So there you have it. My guide to the post-modern criticism of popular musical lyrics.
Now, if you'll forgive me, I'm going to begin working on my analysis and interpretation of Liverpool FC's last couple of matches, and my predictions on the conclusion of the Champions' League. Too much aesthetics gives me a headache. Time for some athletics, instead. Congratulations to everyone and anyone who managed to wade through this whole pile of tripe and emerging with any viable cognitive sense. My love goes out to all of you. Cheers,
-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^
14 March 2005
11 March 2005
No Quarter Finals Asked Or Given... To Leverkusen
Greetings, gentle readers.
In the wake of the monumental events of the past week, I thought that I should keep up with the footie world, as well as the turbulent currents of my soul, since footie is far more interesting. So here's what happened in the European Champions' League recently:
---------
Liverpool fans, having been officially declared the loudest and most enthusiastic supporters in England, took their ebullient road-show to Köln this week, and those that made the trip returned to Merseyside with their hearts aglow and with tales to astonish future and present children and grandchildren.
To start off, Tuesday evening was a night of festivities to rival those of great Red European adventures gone by in St. Etienne and Rome - with a twist.
A pair of scouse lads happened to pass by the Hyatt Hotel, where they spotted the Rafatollah himself - Rafael Benitez was just meandering out with assistant Pako Ayesteran and coach Alex Miller to try and find a quiet spot to watch the second half of the Chelsea - Barçalona match. The Liverpudlian duo, bedecked in Liverpool FC paraphernalia, promptly asked El Gaffer if he would come down the pub and watch the Manchester United v. Milan game with them. A bemused Rafa agreed, and trotted down to Jameson's Irish Pub, which was packed with a couple of hundred Red Scouse. Gasps of astonishment gave way to claps, cheers, songs, and an instant queue of punters with camera-equipped mobile phones wanting to have their piccies taken with the High Priest of Temple Anfield.
The Spaniard was struck dumb by the raw passion and emotion of the Liverpool crowd, and after shaking off the disbelief, a broad smile creased his face. As one, the heaving, chanting mass erupted in glee when Hernan Crespo hammered the nail in the coffin of Man United's European dreams this season. The song pulsed out:
"The famous Rafa Benitez went down the pub to see the lads,
The famous Rafa Benitez went down the pub to see the lads,
The famous Rafa Benitez went down the pub to see the lads,
And this is what he said: **** off!
Who the **** are Man United?
Who the **** are Man United?
Who the **** are Man United?
As the Reds go marching on!"
Personally, as I read about the event, I was humming the tune from Boney M's "Rasputin" and making up my own words:
"Then, one night, some kopites that were standing
In Cologne before the game
"Come down the pub with us", they kept demanding
And he really came...
Rah - Rah - Rafa B!
Manager of LFC
The night that Man United was gone
Rah - Rah - Rafa B!
Driver of the Red Machine
Through wind and rain, Liverpool carries on..."
*sigh*
Now there's poetry for you. Maybe I've been going about this poetry thing all wrong. I should be singing it from the Kop, not murmuring it Ted Hughes-style by a fireplace in a big leather chair with a snifter of cognac and a pipe in my hand. If anyone wants to turn my little ditty into a Kop song, please take up a collection for me to move to Merseyside. In case no one else has coined the term yet, I'll venture so far as to say that I'm anatoposic - I'm just stuck in the wrong place.
In any event, Liverpool went out onto the pitch the next day and despite my initial hesitancy about the 4-5-1 tactics and the negativity that seemed inherent in the system, rope-a-doped the increasingly desperate Germans until Stevie G put it into second gear and started spiking inch-perfect balls into the 18-yard box. By the time Liverpool were up 3-0, the travelling fans were in full song, and generous enough to applaud a lovely consolation goal from the hosts in the dying minutes of the game. Perhaps Rafa's little exposure to the raw, heartfelt commitment of the Red fans has given him that extra bit of insight and aplomb to stir the players into a higher level of dedication and graft. Stephen Warnock certainly demonstrated his desire for a regular first-team slot by making one of the finest tackles of the season, and the hope remains that the Spanish Armada can fuse with the Scouse Spirit and create something greater than the sum of its parts. One trophy left at which to shoot, and it's the big one, boys and girls. Fingers crossed. Knickers twisted. We await the next draw with trembling anticipation, not hesitant apprehension. Let the other teams fear a draw against us.
And so once more I bid a fond adieu to my loyal readers... whom I'm sure number in the single digits, and solemnly promise to post more often and perhaps even start serial-posting my novel, so that people can start giving me constructive feedback and hopefully accelerating the project along. Adieu... adieu... remember me...
Cheers,
-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^
In the wake of the monumental events of the past week, I thought that I should keep up with the footie world, as well as the turbulent currents of my soul, since footie is far more interesting. So here's what happened in the European Champions' League recently:
---------
Liverpool fans, having been officially declared the loudest and most enthusiastic supporters in England, took their ebullient road-show to Köln this week, and those that made the trip returned to Merseyside with their hearts aglow and with tales to astonish future and present children and grandchildren.
To start off, Tuesday evening was a night of festivities to rival those of great Red European adventures gone by in St. Etienne and Rome - with a twist.
A pair of scouse lads happened to pass by the Hyatt Hotel, where they spotted the Rafatollah himself - Rafael Benitez was just meandering out with assistant Pako Ayesteran and coach Alex Miller to try and find a quiet spot to watch the second half of the Chelsea - Barçalona match. The Liverpudlian duo, bedecked in Liverpool FC paraphernalia, promptly asked El Gaffer if he would come down the pub and watch the Manchester United v. Milan game with them. A bemused Rafa agreed, and trotted down to Jameson's Irish Pub, which was packed with a couple of hundred Red Scouse. Gasps of astonishment gave way to claps, cheers, songs, and an instant queue of punters with camera-equipped mobile phones wanting to have their piccies taken with the High Priest of Temple Anfield.
The Spaniard was struck dumb by the raw passion and emotion of the Liverpool crowd, and after shaking off the disbelief, a broad smile creased his face. As one, the heaving, chanting mass erupted in glee when Hernan Crespo hammered the nail in the coffin of Man United's European dreams this season. The song pulsed out:
"The famous Rafa Benitez went down the pub to see the lads,
The famous Rafa Benitez went down the pub to see the lads,
The famous Rafa Benitez went down the pub to see the lads,
And this is what he said: **** off!
Who the **** are Man United?
Who the **** are Man United?
Who the **** are Man United?
As the Reds go marching on!"
Personally, as I read about the event, I was humming the tune from Boney M's "Rasputin" and making up my own words:
"Then, one night, some kopites that were standing
In Cologne before the game
"Come down the pub with us", they kept demanding
And he really came...
Rah - Rah - Rafa B!
Manager of LFC
The night that Man United was gone
Rah - Rah - Rafa B!
Driver of the Red Machine
Through wind and rain, Liverpool carries on..."
*sigh*
Now there's poetry for you. Maybe I've been going about this poetry thing all wrong. I should be singing it from the Kop, not murmuring it Ted Hughes-style by a fireplace in a big leather chair with a snifter of cognac and a pipe in my hand. If anyone wants to turn my little ditty into a Kop song, please take up a collection for me to move to Merseyside. In case no one else has coined the term yet, I'll venture so far as to say that I'm anatoposic - I'm just stuck in the wrong place.
In any event, Liverpool went out onto the pitch the next day and despite my initial hesitancy about the 4-5-1 tactics and the negativity that seemed inherent in the system, rope-a-doped the increasingly desperate Germans until Stevie G put it into second gear and started spiking inch-perfect balls into the 18-yard box. By the time Liverpool were up 3-0, the travelling fans were in full song, and generous enough to applaud a lovely consolation goal from the hosts in the dying minutes of the game. Perhaps Rafa's little exposure to the raw, heartfelt commitment of the Red fans has given him that extra bit of insight and aplomb to stir the players into a higher level of dedication and graft. Stephen Warnock certainly demonstrated his desire for a regular first-team slot by making one of the finest tackles of the season, and the hope remains that the Spanish Armada can fuse with the Scouse Spirit and create something greater than the sum of its parts. One trophy left at which to shoot, and it's the big one, boys and girls. Fingers crossed. Knickers twisted. We await the next draw with trembling anticipation, not hesitant apprehension. Let the other teams fear a draw against us.
And so once more I bid a fond adieu to my loyal readers... whom I'm sure number in the single digits, and solemnly promise to post more often and perhaps even start serial-posting my novel, so that people can start giving me constructive feedback and hopefully accelerating the project along. Adieu... adieu... remember me...
Cheers,
-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^
10 March 2005
Sweetness and Love.
Greetings, gentle readers.
So apparently, I'm a sweet guy. Within the space of a week, I've experienced three different women from three different areas of the universe express the belief that I am sweet. This was vaguely unsurprising at the Metro, where I've been such a long-term resident that all staff and most regulars are like an extended family, but when receiving such apparent compliments from women in England and Calgary as well, it starts to become part of a larger pattern being woven.
Obviously, "sweet" must be a euphemism for something far more insightful of the situation. "Harmless", perhaps, or even "some girl would be really lucky to have him... some OTHER girl." I have documentation of some of times the adjective has been applied to me - proof, if you will. So now, I'm getting eerily spooked by its use. During my recent trip to Calgary, we went to Moxie's for some nosh and bevvies, and I was actually approached separately by our server - a rather fetching lass named Leah - and told that I was a really sweet guy who demonstrated a consideration for other people that she'd never seen before. Normally, cause for me to blush. Instead, I found myself inwardly wincing at the word "sweet."
"Guys like you are a dying breed," she breathed as she left. I left my final comment unspoken as it popped into my head.
"That's because we don't reproduce."
Later that night, I found myself at Michaelangelo's, a rather dim hole-in-the-wall sort of place reminiscent of a tiny village pub with a startlingly large selection of international beverages. The barmaid, a rather fetching blonde girl with soft Gaelic features named Carrie, soon started a conversation and before long, we were deeply embroiled in a deep and thoughtful discussion of the psychology of the fashion industry. Carrie is apparently a stock model, who does generalized photo shoots and has recently had her face appear on the Rogers'/AT&T Ten Dollar Pay-As-You-Go card in Canada. She expressed concern about the egos and conflicts seemingly inherent in the fashion industry, and it's because of that discussion that we move to our first big digression:
-----------------
The Eye of the Beholder
Are fashion models really no more than ambulatory mannikins? Clothes hangers with human dimensions? If people really care about the clothes, what care they for the walking scaffolding that displays the fashion?
In the high-paced, high-pressure world of high fashion, it's all about surfaces and appearances. Clothing has slowly grown into a means of marketing ourselves. They have become the outward advertising which displays what we wish others to know about our individuality or lack thereof. In short, they are the superficial billboards that we use to display aspects of our inner selves. The advent of the multi-millionaire "supermodel" was prefaced by an explosion of interest in fashion as a vehicle of expression, and the influx of money and media exposure created celebrities of those who were used to market the clothes.
So what evolved is a systematic increase of emphasis on the external and the superficial, and a corresponding decrease in terms of perceived value of internal and authentic. In an era where models are perceived as spoilt prima donnae, the media tends to exaggerate any tales of naughty, haughty, arrogant, or petulant behaviour. Some people resent the likes of Naomi Campbell, Tyra Banks, Heidi Klum, etc. because they perceive them as being vacuous, talentless tarts who get paid big money to look pretty and glamorous.
I'm not going to launch into an expansive defence of models by droning on for paragraphs about what a hard and gruelling life it is to be a fashion model. My theory, though, may go some way towards creating a more balanced depiction of the dynamics at play in the world of professional pulchritude.
Essentially, if the clothes have come to be considered more significant and representative of identity and character, and if physical beauty is held in higher regard than integrity or intelligence, wit or wisdom, mettle or magnanimity, then the models who are shoved onto catwalks to market strips of cloth are like the Eastern European dolls which open to reveal smaller and smaller versions of themselves.
The clothing is the first thing that compacts and confines the ego of a model. There is attention being paid, and there are bank accounts being filled, but how much of that is down to hard work or aptitude? How many beautiful and talented women never make the huge payrolls because they weren't picked up by Karl Lagerfeld or Versace? So there's negative reinforcement, part one.
The second is the actual physical beauty. How much of that beauty can be directly attributed to the character and virtue of the model? How big a part did genetics or science play in the development of that beauty, and how much of a role did hard work and creativity play?
The third slap in the proverbial chops for a model's self esteem is the level of exposure that is afforded to them as celebrities. Every gaffe or misstep is magnified, and becomes a dagger of humiliation. Brooke Shields' now infamous quotation that "Smoking kills. If you're killed, you've lost a very important part of your life." is a perfect demonstration of how quickly someone can go from glamour queen to gibbering dunderhead.
When you get to the last doll of the set, it's a very small, lonely, and vulnerable one. Imagine a person who not only has glamour and elegance to thank for a living and a career, but who has entered into a world where the exterior is the only thing that merits esteem. Anyone used to basking in the warm glow of the affections of others would begin to feel a tad brittle when they begin to find that their personality and character are considered irrelevant and worthless. The love and care of others is only extended so long as their appearance is kept up.
The natural defence mechanism to protect this fragile inner self is to pre-empt any hostility. Insecurity breeds all sorts of silly behaviour, and modelling is a profession practically designed to produce insecurity.
Hence the temper tantrums, the sarky remarks, the arrogance and the all-around confrontational behaviour patterns demonstrated by the members of the modelling profession are not entirely unpredictable. They are people who live in fear and nagging self-doubt, and the last thing they need is for someone to tell them that they are nothing but a really attractive looking slab of meat, since that's what the little voice that only speaks in the quietest silences says to them.
------------------
So anyway, during our conversation with Carrie, both Kelly and I were waiting for her to say the "s" word and just really cap off the whole evening. But we were pleasantly surprised to find that she dodged that particular adjective adroitly. So either my theory about "sweet" being some sort of euphemism had limited applicability, or was total bunk. Then again, I wasn't behaving particularly sweetly - I was in critical thinking mode.
And so now, I must needs close this particular episode of rifling through my cerebral cortex, and get back to the problems of the real world. Will be back soon to hammer out my thoughts on this week's European Champions' League Round of 16 knockout action. And ooo, will it ever be dramatic. Until then: chins up, heads high, eyes front and upper lip stiff everyone. Cheers,
-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^
So apparently, I'm a sweet guy. Within the space of a week, I've experienced three different women from three different areas of the universe express the belief that I am sweet. This was vaguely unsurprising at the Metro, where I've been such a long-term resident that all staff and most regulars are like an extended family, but when receiving such apparent compliments from women in England and Calgary as well, it starts to become part of a larger pattern being woven.
Obviously, "sweet" must be a euphemism for something far more insightful of the situation. "Harmless", perhaps, or even "some girl would be really lucky to have him... some OTHER girl." I have documentation of some of times the adjective has been applied to me - proof, if you will. So now, I'm getting eerily spooked by its use. During my recent trip to Calgary, we went to Moxie's for some nosh and bevvies, and I was actually approached separately by our server - a rather fetching lass named Leah - and told that I was a really sweet guy who demonstrated a consideration for other people that she'd never seen before. Normally, cause for me to blush. Instead, I found myself inwardly wincing at the word "sweet."
"Guys like you are a dying breed," she breathed as she left. I left my final comment unspoken as it popped into my head.
"That's because we don't reproduce."
Later that night, I found myself at Michaelangelo's, a rather dim hole-in-the-wall sort of place reminiscent of a tiny village pub with a startlingly large selection of international beverages. The barmaid, a rather fetching blonde girl with soft Gaelic features named Carrie, soon started a conversation and before long, we were deeply embroiled in a deep and thoughtful discussion of the psychology of the fashion industry. Carrie is apparently a stock model, who does generalized photo shoots and has recently had her face appear on the Rogers'/AT&T Ten Dollar Pay-As-You-Go card in Canada. She expressed concern about the egos and conflicts seemingly inherent in the fashion industry, and it's because of that discussion that we move to our first big digression:
-----------------
The Eye of the Beholder
Are fashion models really no more than ambulatory mannikins? Clothes hangers with human dimensions? If people really care about the clothes, what care they for the walking scaffolding that displays the fashion?
In the high-paced, high-pressure world of high fashion, it's all about surfaces and appearances. Clothing has slowly grown into a means of marketing ourselves. They have become the outward advertising which displays what we wish others to know about our individuality or lack thereof. In short, they are the superficial billboards that we use to display aspects of our inner selves. The advent of the multi-millionaire "supermodel" was prefaced by an explosion of interest in fashion as a vehicle of expression, and the influx of money and media exposure created celebrities of those who were used to market the clothes.
So what evolved is a systematic increase of emphasis on the external and the superficial, and a corresponding decrease in terms of perceived value of internal and authentic. In an era where models are perceived as spoilt prima donnae, the media tends to exaggerate any tales of naughty, haughty, arrogant, or petulant behaviour. Some people resent the likes of Naomi Campbell, Tyra Banks, Heidi Klum, etc. because they perceive them as being vacuous, talentless tarts who get paid big money to look pretty and glamorous.
I'm not going to launch into an expansive defence of models by droning on for paragraphs about what a hard and gruelling life it is to be a fashion model. My theory, though, may go some way towards creating a more balanced depiction of the dynamics at play in the world of professional pulchritude.
Essentially, if the clothes have come to be considered more significant and representative of identity and character, and if physical beauty is held in higher regard than integrity or intelligence, wit or wisdom, mettle or magnanimity, then the models who are shoved onto catwalks to market strips of cloth are like the Eastern European dolls which open to reveal smaller and smaller versions of themselves.
The clothing is the first thing that compacts and confines the ego of a model. There is attention being paid, and there are bank accounts being filled, but how much of that is down to hard work or aptitude? How many beautiful and talented women never make the huge payrolls because they weren't picked up by Karl Lagerfeld or Versace? So there's negative reinforcement, part one.
The second is the actual physical beauty. How much of that beauty can be directly attributed to the character and virtue of the model? How big a part did genetics or science play in the development of that beauty, and how much of a role did hard work and creativity play?
The third slap in the proverbial chops for a model's self esteem is the level of exposure that is afforded to them as celebrities. Every gaffe or misstep is magnified, and becomes a dagger of humiliation. Brooke Shields' now infamous quotation that "Smoking kills. If you're killed, you've lost a very important part of your life." is a perfect demonstration of how quickly someone can go from glamour queen to gibbering dunderhead.
When you get to the last doll of the set, it's a very small, lonely, and vulnerable one. Imagine a person who not only has glamour and elegance to thank for a living and a career, but who has entered into a world where the exterior is the only thing that merits esteem. Anyone used to basking in the warm glow of the affections of others would begin to feel a tad brittle when they begin to find that their personality and character are considered irrelevant and worthless. The love and care of others is only extended so long as their appearance is kept up.
The natural defence mechanism to protect this fragile inner self is to pre-empt any hostility. Insecurity breeds all sorts of silly behaviour, and modelling is a profession practically designed to produce insecurity.
Hence the temper tantrums, the sarky remarks, the arrogance and the all-around confrontational behaviour patterns demonstrated by the members of the modelling profession are not entirely unpredictable. They are people who live in fear and nagging self-doubt, and the last thing they need is for someone to tell them that they are nothing but a really attractive looking slab of meat, since that's what the little voice that only speaks in the quietest silences says to them.
------------------
So anyway, during our conversation with Carrie, both Kelly and I were waiting for her to say the "s" word and just really cap off the whole evening. But we were pleasantly surprised to find that she dodged that particular adjective adroitly. So either my theory about "sweet" being some sort of euphemism had limited applicability, or was total bunk. Then again, I wasn't behaving particularly sweetly - I was in critical thinking mode.
And so now, I must needs close this particular episode of rifling through my cerebral cortex, and get back to the problems of the real world. Will be back soon to hammer out my thoughts on this week's European Champions' League Round of 16 knockout action. And ooo, will it ever be dramatic. Until then: chins up, heads high, eyes front and upper lip stiff everyone. Cheers,
-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^
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