My Acolyte Journey: 2014.19

Come With Me Now
Kongos. Stephen informed me that the next few were thumping party-pop tunes with no substance, so any textual analysis will be brief.
The refrain has little meaning by itself.

Woah, come with me now/I'm gonna take you down./Woah, come with me now/I'm gonna show you how.

It's mostly a call for followers (which is innocent enough). The singer doesn't want to feel alone, in the way of humans. I think it's understandable. When I people-watched at the Chattanooga art museum, I noticed that people stand in clumps near the edges of rooms and especially in doorways. The atrium was ringed, but internally empty. I don't think there's anything inherently wrong in wanting company. (Side note: best paper about people grouping in empty rooms) However, I am disturbed by the singer's lack of direction. If the song demands followers to instruct, how are we to take the second stanza?

Confused what I thought with something I felt./Confuse what I feel with something that's real:/I tried to sell my soul last night;/Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite.

Pre-video sentiment: at best, the song is a good thump when you're out in the club. At worst, it's lost and getting loster. The sound, from when I listened to it, is great, and I'd listen to it willingly if it came on the radio (maybe sing along, even if I don't know the words).
Post-video sentiment: Kongos is the whitest band in the entire world. The video had stark brilliance to it: the looping, pointless actions of the characters contrasted with the bleak underwater scenes (I especially loved the underwater scenes, even though an underwater metaphor is done better in Under the Skin and that one Christian song where the water fills the room). But the problem is that this band is whiter than white. Whiter than Noah and the Whale. Whiter than Vampire Weekend. Whiter than Mumford and Sons. So white I can't deal. I mean: I am a man who was able to un-ironically sit through (if not enjoy) a concert by Reformisté, a band that I assumed had reached peak whiteness. At least they had a woman (she graduated). But I was wrong. Horribly, awfully wrong. Kongos has got the stupid long hair, awful fashion sense, utter lack of motion, terribly lack-luster performance, and skin tone of an arch-typical White group. I cannot.
That being said: is there anything wrong with being a white person, or even a White person? Not inherently, no. But when I can tell that you have no passion for your music video when you should be the most polished you can be, all I can think is how much better it can be. Your voices don't match your demeanor, and I guess that's really what I'm driving at. I can feel how utterly uncomfortable you are in your skin, and it's that same discomfort that I feel. I'm practically an expert in really uncomfortable-looking stances and a disconnect between voice and physical expression.

I watched a video of myself teaching. I stand ram-rod straight and with dead-doll eyes speak with the most enthusiastic tone. I am the whitest band on earth.

This song makes me feel a w e s o m e. The video makes me feel itchy and angry, like I want to reach out and punch everybody but the accordion player, who is just doing his best to draw his fellows up to his level and get as hype as he can. He actually spits, which is what I do when I'm garbling the words to this song when Delight cranks the radio. The accordion player gets it.

I wouldn't buy this yet? I'm reconsidering Extraordinary by Clean Bandit and Hideaway by Kiesza, so I'm beginning to doubt myself anyway. I'm over halfway through and all I want to talk about is Hozier, because these kids do not get it.

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.20

Battle Cry
Imagine Dragons. This song reads awfully familiar. I think I've seen it somewhere before? I must be confused. But then again, I don't think angels scream in the middle of the night, so what do I know?

No, this is a different song that bases its entire identity on the same song as before. But it's different! It has anthemic rock themes and the repeated phrase "do or die" and a message to not waste my life. So I'll come at it from a different perspective.

Here.

The Charge of the Light Brigade was written by Lord Tennyson.
Battle Cry was written by Daniel Reynolds, Daniel Sermon, Benjamin McKee, and Daniel Platzman.
LB was a dramatized recounting of a real occurrence in which hundreds of men were willfully driven to their deaths by a pillock who didn't think about human lives.
BC is a song.
LB uses its repetition to drive the narrative, and uses subtle and overt changes in the repeated lines to drive home the point of the poem.
BC repeats stuff in order to build the structure of the song, to rise and fall with the cadence of the music, and to stick in your head.
LB makes me cry in quiet moments. Let's find out what BC does.

[I can see the smoke drifting through the trees toward us. It brings the acrid smell of sulphur, brimstone, and men's cramped sweat. I'm revolted by my own hand as it lifts my sabre high above my head, pushing a final thrust toward the enemy line.
I can feel more than hear the hoofbeats crescendo behind me, thundrous and loud. We're making the only sound in the valley, now filling up with the thick staccato, choking me with the smoke and tears. I can barely breathe.
The level plain, full of ruts, holes, and blood.
The upward incline is suddenly full of shot and cannon. Lead laces the air. There's no more smoke, no more sound, no more fear. I've been built for this moment, I think.
I then notice I'm on the ground. I've been knocked, thrown, spewed from my horse and I'm pushing the last of my life's blood into the sodden soil. I hear the line break and my men gallop back past me, back to our hill, but this time the air is not filled. The stillness is instead punctuated by solitary men, the last of a proud formation.]

The song is suitably epic. I do feel like the music tells a better story than the words though. Right near the crescendo of the crashing rock, I feel like my place is in a thunderstorm, yelling and posing like the wind and rain have the power to knock me down and I need to fight for my right to scream into the uncaring crash.

I wouldn't buy this. I would look for it when I was in a bad mood and spoiling for war, and I would reach out my hand and I would not find it.

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.21

Hideaway
Kiesza. The lyrics make me think of a kid with his older brother climbing a tree. This poor child trusts the brother implicitly and thinks that the higher they travel, the closer they'll be to God, to enlightenment, and further away from the pain of the lower world. There's a problem with my view of this song:

Uh, you send me the shiver and the spine might overflow/You're bringing me closer to the edge, I'm letting go

So.
This is a simple song about physical comfort or ecstasy ("You're just a hideaway, you're just a feeling") being an escape for the emotional or religious vacancy ("You let my heart escape beyond the meaning") left by not having the sort of connections that seem to bless other people ("Baby, I love the way that there's nothing sure"). Here's what I want to know: why do people assume that the emotional and physical high they feel will actually block out the yawning depths of their instability? Or at least, why do they act so? I can testify. When I was dating, there were times when I thought "If only I could get physically close to this person, perhaps the intoxicating feeling of seduction that runs electric between us can somehow . . . start the generator? Illuminate my dark interior? Pump the bilge. Short the starter. Charge the battery. Turn the engine. Fire the furnace.
Songs like this don't do anything to change the reputation of romantic love. We need a serious paradigm shift in the Western world. Sex isn't God. Love isn't God. Nothing on this earth will fix your holes.

But let's watch this video.
Holy wow. Second best video of the 40 so far. Stephen sent me a text earlier saying it was a "beautifully choreographed" video. Sure, yes. But it's more than that, frankly. This video doesn't quite match the feel of the music in places (when she gets atmospheric and says "ooh" and "ahh," the starkness of the video doesn't match the production of the music). This video doesn't quite live up to the impressiveness of some other notable one-take music videos. This video doesn't quite feel like the video I want to see from this song. But I ignore all that. I laughed a couple times. I couldn't tear my eyes away. The colors, distressed as they are, pull me in. The moves, though they don't quite climax with the song, are engaging, not distracting. And Kiesza holds my attention unless I drag myself away (I don't know if they only hired PoC dancers because they could only get them, or) because (at least partially) she's such a contrast.
I feel pumped about the song and happy for Kiesza. I can't explain both of those: this is not a "get turnt" song. It feels like I should already be turnt. And why should I care about Kiesza? But that's what I get from this song. I'm bumpin' and I like Kiesza. But as much as I like the song, I'm not compelled to buy it. I would have to listen to the rest of the album, and she doesn't promise me the sort of music I love.
I wouldn't buy this, and I hope Kiesza doesn't read that. (Why do I want to be friends with her?)

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.22

Stranger
Skrillex. It's time for a few personal revelations, none of which I think have anything to do with this song or this artist. Sometimes, I get an enormous craving for french fries. These are impossible to control or predict. The last one lasted for a week and a half and only stopped when I dragged Delight to a Five Guys at nine on our way to a Shakespeare's pizza place. This may seem out-of-context, but I assure you: any time you find a tee-totaller in a bar at eleven, there's got to be an explanation. Mine is part restlessness, part salt, oil, and starch. In case you're wondering, Billiard's guest wifi password is 1burgers.
So now that I've scraped the last fry from the tray like Alfrid scraping gold into his bustle, I'm clearly ready to deal with this song. Now, there are two ways I can see this song's story. First, as a break up song. He (Skrillex is probably writing his perspective?) thinks that life without his significant other is hell. That's boring, and everybody sings about that. The second, more interesting idea hinges upon the religious terminology and the probable religious reasoning for its placement in the 40. I hope I'm not giving anything away when I say that I'm a Christian. I won't speak for you. Maybe you, like the narrator, are in the dark, looking at the picture of God you found in the dark. You think it's the truth; you're having a religious experience. Your heart is arrhythmatic. You suddenly can't feel the pain. You see a two-dimensional God and you're suddenly free from responsibility. God doesn't exist. He's a picture drawn by a devil to trap mankind. You're not stupid. You know you're in hell, but if God is an outline on a wall, he can't get you here. You'll forget his name and he'll become a stranger.
Or maybe it's just a good-sounding song about a breakup. You decide.

["I'm trusting you on this, Tyler." "I know. Take my hand. That's it. Descent." "I don't think I can fit in there." "It's worth it. Just -- go!" "It hurts." "It will, until you're through, and then it won't. Look, are you through yet?" A scream rips the chamber apart. "I think my arm is stuck! Tyler, pull me up!" "Najra, you'll just have to get through. Now shut up. You're not even hurt." "You shut up. I'm turning this way. I think I can -- oh!" "You fell through. Are you okay?" "Oh, wow." "I asked are you okay?" "Tyler, you have to see this." "I have. Did you forget? That's why I brought you here." "It's like I can't even breathe, looking at all of them. Where did they come from? Did they grow here, or, really, how?" "Look out, I'm dropping in." "It's so beautiful." "Yeah." Their breathing falls into sync.]
I really don't think I like all conversation stories. I'm better with metaphor and picture construction, and it's impossible with dialogue unless you're in a play. I think I'm okay with this one, though.

My mood: The scream in my story is when the music blew up. The Oh, wow is when the music turns and slows down. I matched the music with my writing, but I don't and can't match the mood of the music or the way it makes me feel. It's biting and aggressive, like it doesn't really think music is for enjoying or uplifting, but for pushing instead. This song shoves me roughly. If I were already unhappy, this song would wash over me and I would dance, sweaty, ugly thoughts, afraid. Instead, I tilt back like a creepy clown toy.

I wouldn't buy this.

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.23

I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)
The Proclaimers. Let's look past the weird collection of Benny and Joon clips running in the background, past the weird twins (?), past the physical toll of walking a thousand miles, to address a very pressing concern: wasn't this the top 40 of 2014? Did I miss something, or wasn't this song released in 1988? --a full 26 years ago!
Hold up a second, I'm getting a phone call. I'll be right back.

Oh.

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.24

From Time

Drake. Rap Genius says the album theme is Drake "flexing his ego." He doesn't need to. Isn't he on top? Doesn't he feel secure yet?

His song seems to show an innate insecurity. Jhene Aiko wrote the intro and the hook for it, and it's fawning. She loves herself enough for both people; he needs to stop giving and start taking love. Drake, you're worth it! And he tends to agree. He's always tried so hard with his dad and mom: he's done the work of mending their relationships. By the second verse, when he's listing women he's been with (real women's names in real places in Houston, mind you), it's to the point of bragging. Drake's always put his heart on the line and these women run away. Why is he such a good guy? Why is he so good at love but bad at choosing!? It's okay. Jhene will love herself so he can go back to loving Drake. Baka will show up and let people know they should leave Drake alone/start acting like him.

You know, if this were from Not Drake, I could see it working. If the lead singer from Guster wants to talk about how so many girls have broken his heart, he can. But from Drake, it seems like bragging. "Look at all the hot chicks I've had!" It's not just Drake, either. Taylor Swift is dangerously into Stop Talking About Breakups territory. Lots of these artists feel loss like I do, but their heartbreak is foreign. They've had too many and too much for me to pity them anymore. I don't know why, but sometimes a millionaire with ten thousand adoring fans can't make me empathetic. I can feel for Katy Perry's divorce with Russell Brand, but I can't care about TSwift's latest boy toy abomination (though the songs are just as good). I'll figure out the difference there later.

[Hey, bae. Don't feel like you have to stay; I'm just getting your eyes on me. I'll dance like it's sex if that's what it takes to get you glued to me, sweaty in the pounding music. Slow now--the beat and my heart race ahead.

Hey, let's go. I'm not that girl. I know you aren't just interested in flesh and fresh. Let's go. We'll stagger out, the music still in our blood, jumping with us. You can throw your arms around me and I'll finally feel safe in this evening. I caught you; your eyes are only on me. I'm enough for you. We're caught, bubbles in the still air, waiting to catch against each other: Surface Tension.

But. I feel the thinning of gravity and time and I burst. You're not here with me; you're stuck in your own head, looking at the things you think are important, dusting your trophies and listing your conquests, readying the shelf for my memory.]

I like the last bit of that. It took a long time to get to a point where it was worth writing. I don't know if it's the mood of the song, but I don't feel like it helped. It's too atmospheric to bite, too melancholy to excite, too insistent to fade into my background and become the story I want to write.

I wouldn't buy this, but then: you knew that.

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.25

Extraordinary
Clean Bandit. This is probably about love, but there really isn't much proof for that. The only real love clichés I could spot were here:

Have you seen her, the grass is greener/ To let me pass you by would be a shame/ If she's your only then why are you lonely? [Italics supplied]

And that's not much to go on. Dissatisfaction and loss in context of a woman does not equal love. Instead, the surface text is clear: the singer feels intensely about this person, but knows that he or she has chosen a different path, possibly forever. It's a song yelled into someone's back as they walk away. There's no response and no submission from this mysterious other person, and the lyricist becomes increasingly desperate and overwhelmingly stark.

Something extraordinary/ Something real/ To fill my days and nights with something/ That I can feel (I can feel)

Nobody's talking back when we cry in desperation. Everything we want walks away. All our hard work slips through our fingers and even the little things seem extraordinary when they're finally real. Percy Shelley knows about this.

More important (perhaps) is the method of delivery. I haven't even listened to the song yet, but I can tell you this: as reckless as love is, this song is safe.

"something in the way" she moves "my door is open" "I don't know how much more I can take" "drift away" as metaphor for breakup "running out of time" "two wrongs can['t] make it right" "grass is greener" on the other side "she's your [one and] only" "in your arms tonight"

And those are just the biggest cultural verbal touchstones. I don't know how I feel about such lazy (seeming) use of language. I much prefer "in the bag (like groceries)," a style of cliché that abuses your expectation in a new way to make a point. So, honestly: perhaps that's why the other person left. That other person was also looking for "something extraordinary/something real," and found instead this faker trying to say all the right things and play safe. Sadly, by the time the other person left, the lyricist was writing smashing stuff without clichés in the refrain/chorus/bridge. Too bad.
The video, now that I've seen it, doesn't play to the story. It's foreign countries and destroying instruments and Sharna Bass + Grace Chatto in swimsuits. It's beautiful--perhaps the most aesthetically pleasing combination of video and song yet. But it lacks the interest of 3005 and the story of Never Catch Me.
Because it's so (. . . nice?) watching/listening to the song puts me in a light mood, like I don't mind being in this place. I like the steel drum and the strings/piano. I like the way it makes me absent-minded, even though I don't parse the words.
I think I would have to like the whole album to buy this.

2014.26 Again

I haven't been looking too much at extra-textual stuff this year, but for Iggy I'll make an exception.
Before Obama, the White House wasn't just painted so. It was full of pink people from northern European countries whose names were safe and normal. The biggest election scandals were Jackson's illicit marriage and Kennedy's Catholicism. Now that Barack Hussein (gasp) Obama is our president, a lot of people are grumbling, but their arguments are stupid. The presidency isn't designed or designated for white people, and there's actually some injustice that we (I'm white) have had it so long. It has to do with the nature of the thing.
Let's look at the nature of Iggy. From what I understand, the blues tradition grew from tribal rhythmic patterns of eastern Africa that came here with slaves. Their music developed complexity and adopted new instrumentation, but blues were always very much a thing for the poor (you didn't even need an instrument) and the disenfranchised. The content was predominantly about how awful things were going (I've got the blues). When blues started spreading to wider audiences and performers, the nature of the songs rarely changed. Hill folk in the valleys of Kentucky don't have any more to their name than a black sharecropper in Mississippi. Most of the songs, even today, are about how awful it is here or how wonderful it will be there in heaven.
From blues have grown country and hip-hop. Country is still lots about heaven, but it's spread to be more than it was before because it has a much wider audience. It's now about sex and family and stuff. Country is mostly Southern, mostly white. Women and men get play and nobody thinks anything of it anymore.
Hip-hop music (by gum I will continue hyphenating it) is also wider than the blues it came from. Now it can be about sex and family, but the stand out songs are all about victory. That's the true difference. Blues was all about not having anything and getting kicked while down, but rap seems to have a lot of everything and want more.

Okay. Since I'm white and male and therefore an expert on privilege, allow me to talk for a moment. I've been given things because I'm white. I've never noticed them as they happen, but it's more like the lack of things. I have been pulled over once because I hit the rumble strip at 3AM. That's the only causeless cop stop in my whole life. I've been given things because I'm male. And it's less about the things I explicitly get and more about what people expect of me. People assume I'm strong or brave or skillful even though they have nothing but a societal bias. In fact, most of the assumptions about me based on my being male are positive. Now, are these tremendous advantages? Probably not. Nobody walked up to me and said "You're white. Have a thousand dollars." But the effects on my personal mental health and self-esteem have been wonderful.
Why talk about this here?
Because hip-hop music is about overcoming those odds and getting to a better place despite the disadvantages of people's expectations. It's about starting from the bottom and getting victory. It's about being black and poor and somehow finding yourself rich but just as black as before. Except: now Iggy Azalea comes in with seeming advantages. Yes, I know Work. If she can make excuses about being too young and too poor, I can make excuses about how she had the money for the flight or the obvious home she could slink back to. But she's white (very) and pretty (kinda). Now that she's rapping, it devalues a lot of rappers. It makes their accomplishments look a little sillier when a white girl is popular with the same fans who seemed to affirm their victory. Their songs look a little more like posturing and her songs look a little more like theft.

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.26

Fancy.
Iggy Azalea. First things first, I'm the realest. Second things: she released her video on my birthday this year, this song was written by five people (according to MetroLyrics), and I'm not going to use MetroLyrics because I got to a reference about rooftops in '88 (it's Nas) and I was utterly lost. So here we go. The first few lines are references to Iggy's previous hits. She proclaims herself (again) to be the realest and that she's still a professional assassin. We know both of these to be patent lies. Not only is she the worst candidate for a hired killer, but I already know she didn't write these lyrics. Whereas I'm caught by the authenticity of Lorde and the enthusiasm of Perry, Iggy just ignites my ire. I don't want to like her: she's got the old-school rap swagger of "I'm the best" just oozing. I suppose there's a lot more to unpack there about my systemic racial bias, but it's uncomfortable and we're here to talk about a white woman pretending to be Nas (three references in the first stanza).
So Charli XCX (whose name I have seen) comes on for the hook and talks about how exquisite she is and how I would be lucky to know her because she would put gold in my mouth I guess. I always thought she said "can you taste the Scope," which is more authentic and a much more interesting line. And then--

Remember my name, 'bout to blow-oh-oh-oh

I don't know the mechanics of fame, but Charli has blown up, boom clap. That's prophecy right there.
I'm sick of talking about the lyrics and so is Iggy.

Now tell me, who that, who that?/That do that, do that?/Put that paper over all, I thought you knew that, knew that/I be that I-G-G-Y, put my name in bold.

No, ma'am. First: your personal sense of style doesn't groove with my jam, but I'm willing to overlook that. Your self-aggrandizement is off-putting and largely unnecessary. Your love of money is unsettling. Your voice is unpleasant and your flow is . . . alright. But your demand that I write your name in bold is one step too far. This is my blog and I will bold what I like.

Speaking of what I like (not this song), I do . . . kind of like the music video. It's got way more energy than Sky full of Stars. I mean, regardless of whether or not the eighties are actually in right now, they bring it for the video. To my eye, the colors are garish, the hair unattractive, and the attitude sassy. It's perfect for the framing references from the first verse. But there's a sinister darkness to the video. The energy and style is the same as T.G.I.F from Katy Perry! They'll be corrupting our kids by appealing to high schoolers to act like these hoodlums in their musical films! Their high energy sexcapades and irresponsible schooltime behavior has got to stop! Or whatever.

If we're honest, the video isn't anything unexpected. It hearkens back to eighties and nineties teen films. Stephen said to me "it baits for views." It's big and brassy and safe. Is that anything that's ever been said about Iggy? She's safe. Let me explain: if you recall, women can't write their own music, but in this case I really don't think Iggy is writing this. She could be collaborating, but her name would be on it. 100% chance. This is a song written by a group of people who know what they're doing, fused together with skill and practice, paired with a video concept that will get views regardless of story or quality. It's nostalgia and big butts with a beat that has been distilled in a lab. Iggy tries really hard to be exactly right for exactly the audience she needs so she can continue dropping half tickets on stuff. She has all the visual and verbal language that humanity identifies as "risky" and "edgy," without actually straying from the banal mainstream. She's not rapping with emotion like Minaj or trying to say something like Glover. She's not tongue-in-cheek like Lana or everything-bared like Anberlin (more on them later). It's like watching Martha Stewart in the kitchen. Everything prepared. Everything clean. Nothing human or wonderful. Just math.

New thing:
My mood after listening to Fancy is querulous. I feel itchy and like dancing. I want to fight. [Even though I should be shortening these (I go through and cut a bunch before I publish now days) I'm adding my mood after, so I can actually respond a little to the music sound.]

I would never buy this. I would delete it if you gave it to me free.

Side note: which came first: Charli or Sia?

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.27

Do or Die.
Thirty Seconds to Mars. I don't think I've ever known I was listening to a song by this group, and if I have heard one I forgot it. Honestly, the only exposure I've had to 30seconds2Mars is watching Requiem for a Dream, and that on Stephen's recommendation anyway. Also apparently I should watch Dallas Buyer's Club because Jared Leto, amirite?
This song's lyrics are shredded and pieced together again badly. I can't tell you how I'm supposed to pull the author's meaning from this, but I'm quickly getting the idea that's not the point. I'm aggravated. It's like the lyricists have mastered the art of the hollow phrase--some words that will trigger a memory that then shapes your personal understanding of the song. Whether or not they had anything in mind, I have to congratulate Jared Leto on drilling straight for that common denominator. I mean, adolescence is full of stupid nights. I will never forget the moment/the moment, Jared, but I hardly doubt the stakes are really so high as do or die. Die?
[But]
In my secret mind I see two lines I hate because they make sense. Let me explain.

In the beginning was the light of the dawning age.

This is the only mild scriptural allusion I can see in the text, but that it's there . . . this could very easily be a passion play song. I could use this as Jesus' prayer "let this cup pass from me." Do or die. On the other hand, there is the pesky repetition of fate, which has no real place in Adventist behavior. (God allows us to choose; fate has no place for all but Greeks) Eeh. I can still see it. However,

I don't wanna live a lie that I believe.

Augh, nuts. Really big un-tasty ones. Brazil nuts that get left until the trail mix is just Brazil nuts. This isn't a Christian song at all. This is a searing indictment. I knew something was fishy when you wanted me to ignore that (so you put it in the first stanza). Song, you're humanist. You'll never die, despite it being "do or." Fate is guiding you. Legitimately caring about others is uncool. Live in the moment because it feels good.
Sometimes, I miss We're Going Home because at least it told a story. This song is the one that wore me out. This is such a meaningless piece of lyricism--built to appeal but not repulse--I just can't respond.
I have nothing to say.

So I'll watch the video.
That went well. What is it about this song and this fanbase? This is like watching a cult from the outside. They have a charismatic leader and a bevy of arcane symbols and ancient-sounding phrases because you need to Provehito in Altum, the Echelon. Serious hero-worship and no mistake. They all share tattoos and gather in enormous rituals to flush themselves with a new, higher-order identity driven by one of the most powerful intoxicants known to man: (not music, with its demand for cognizant engagement, but) group dynamics.
Thirty Seconds to Mars is selling contentment, and so what if I'm buying? Here's my truth: the people in this video are so sincere that I begin to doubt my garrulous, jaded shell. What if I'm the one living in the middle of the night? I need to wake up, to run headlong into the future because if I don't, these people--these free thinkers and life-livers will pass me by. I would make so many more mistakes if I knew that I had a community of people who understood my passion and drive, people who (even though they don't know me personally) feel intensely about me and everything I believe. And oh, the music! It's building and exploding, anthemic and glorious. Jared Leto is so beautiful and maybe if I buy a ticket now before the tour is sold out, and I move to Barcelona so I can camp the stadium the week before, and I push to the front, maybe I and the throng I represent can finally, for one moment, feel truly alive despite all, and I can touch Jared Leto on the face. I'm entire. I'm whole because I heard that if I didn't do, I would die. Provehito in Altum. Yes! Yes! Raptures not just from the people around me who get it just as I do, but from the arc of the saga, the long trail of higher human life connecting me with a multitude of other zealots, all of the Echelon, stretching back to the first human who lept at a mammoth armed only with grit, determined to risk everything in the name of his belief. Glory! Height, majesty, power! A life well-lived with no regrets! Give me the injection of adrenaline and norepinephrine and call me a proselyte.
I buy it.

P.S. What's with the reference to Sisyphus?

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.28

Kiss and Not Tell.
La Roux. The lyrics to this are deceptive, like a pregnant woman wearing the shirt she used to love. I suppose its "lie" is that it pretends to be a song with words, but I can tell better. This is not a song, but a piece accompanied by cleverly arranged vocal sounds meant to approximate meaning. I mean--hahahahahahaha listen,

Ten thousand stories sent/Two lovers disguise/You've seen the future now:/A love that is blind.

Those aren't English sentences! Those are clauses strung together without any intervening meaning! Oh, good. I can give up on this song. It's clearly meaningless drivel pushed out by La Roux in a hasty effort to--hold the phone, what's this?

All along I /Feelings I can't/Feelings I can't help/All I want is/To come right out my/Come right out my shell

Wait, okay. It sounds like the lyricist is struggling to finish the words she's saying because they're difficult, but she keeps trying until she gets it. Now wait.

All along I've had feelings I can't help/Makes me want to kiss and not/And all I want is to come right out of my shell/Makes me want to kiss and not tell

Hold up. Is this about having intense feelings that society doesn't approve of, thus the author has to mask them, bite them back, cut down the young ideatrees where they grow and throw them on an increasingly self-made pyre!? Could it be that the author is struggling with intense desire for a sexual encounter (thus the "kiss) but does not feel like this action is an appropriate course (thus "not tell!?")?!??! Is La Roux homosexual?
Oh, wait a second. I remember now. Women aren't allowed to write about themselves because they're not capable of the skill required to maintain a public image. Clearly. Because there are no examples of that. This is probably just inconsequential noise.

Yeah. See? The music video has nothing to do with the content. I was right all along. That's why La Roux is selling sex to men and women indiscriminately. That's why when the sound of her voice hits them, rainbows pour from the receiver. Yeah. It's totally okay. Don't gay up my music, La Roux.

[The content of this post may or may not reflect your views. If it does, go ahead and assume I'm right. If it doesn't, I hope you caught the almost nauseating sarcastic subtext.]

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.29

A Sky Full of Stars.
Coldplay. So this is a simple song. I'm not saying that simplicity denies depth by any means (M.C. Escher's Sky and Water). I'm saying that it's much harder to deliver immense depth through a single image, even though perhaps the surrounding story is incredible (Craig Thompson's Blankets). I'm saying that when the lyrics don't tell the whole story, there needs to be depth in the music.

I guess what I'm saying is that I have nothing to say about these lyrics. They could represent a very healthy or very unhealthy relationship (I'm leaning towards not healthy re: I wouldn't care if you tore me apart). They could define a sexual or other relationship. These lyrics could describe a first-time lover or a hardened veteran. They just don't give me any solid information. So I'll stop blabbering.

And the music video is really disappointing to me, which is awful trash of me to say. Let me explain. I've seen a few Coldplay videos in my time, and they seem to get less impressive with time. The first I saw was an enormous backwards ramble that probably took months of planning and hours of shooting to get to halfway decent. The second was a colorstravaganza even though the band itself was just . . . sitting. And this . . . this is like a stunt an indie band would pull to go viral. This is like the work of OKGo, and having seen the music video masters do anything similar puts this one in the "pale imitation" category. So comparing it to other music videos, even their own, is meh.
The delivery is solid, but it's lacking a lot of what I really like about these sorts of videos. There's no zing--no life. It's a corporate production (which can be amazing, I'll give you that [see Katy Perry]), and it feels cold. It's not a single take. It's not a labor of love. It's not even technically difficult. It was created by a team of wizards who figured out how to make iPads play on backpacks of instruments and a visual team that either had a shoestring budget or a desire to look like it. It features a band so corporatized that their defining trait is popularity.
But honestly? The thing I liked least about the video was how it made me feel about myself. I saw some grown man hopping down the street, smiling his head off following one of the blandest bands in the world. Do you know what I thought? "That guy looks like a fool." Yeah. That guy, not the fool at the keyboard who literally is so jaded that the sight of someone enjoying something turns him off. Oh, the humanity. Who have I become? I look at something that was actually awesome to see--the world's sexiest vegetarian grinning his head off and a work of art being created--and I think "well, that guy's stupid for enjoying himself." Wrong. Double wrong. But . . . wait. I'm not getting the same experience he is. As good as this song is, I want to be hearing what he's hearing right now. This is crap! And so I look, and I find out that the backpacks were fake. The audio was worse at the live event. Everything is corporate and I was right to hate that guy's stupid smile.
What, support those corporate shills? I wouldn't buy this.

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.30

Brand New.
Pharrell. And JT.
Endless repetition. Pharrell (which I incessantly misspell) really is the master of vamp. When I talked about Happy, I said "I have nothing against simple songs" and then I qualified it, as if to prove that I don't like simple songs after all. Well, this song is extremely simple.
There's a narrator. He is thirsty for love. Guess who comes along? This girl. She's detergent and sunshine to his ratty tee. She's more than he can drink and he's still excited to drink her in. He's got the same up feeling as in Happy, but this time it's caused by a girl.
I don't really like the glorification of romantic love in American society, but this one does a really good job of being about a relationship without being about a sexual relationship. He just likes being around her. He's not trying to get in her pants to fulfill some Ultimate Real Life Challenge of Might. (I made it URL.COM on purpose because I'm clever.) I do have one gripe: he says God told him that this girl was right for him. I don't like when Christians blow up the Facebook with praises when they find their keys (THANK YOU, LORD, FOR YOUR BLESSINGS) and so this brings unpleasant aftertastes of people whose religious life should be, but isn't, private.
Now for the music free-write. I'm liking these less and less. But it's an excuse to be creative, so I'll jump at it.

[Turn off the music just for a moment and jump around in the silence. The whole house is built of boards scavenged from other houses, all built of other trees, all chopped down long before your great grandfather jumped around his house with your grandmother on his shoes. The whole house shakes a mess and the dust falls from the ceiling when you tromp. Bump, bump. The bass notes fall through the house like they've always been. You know you should stop, but honestly--it feels so good. Let go. The ancient boards creak underfoot and each one makes its own note; a small scream against the weight. You're trying to make a piano of the floor, and it's trying to make a man out of you. This girl doesn't know you from Adam. Why is she sweating in the kitchen with you? Why is the house making such wonderful music? Why does the beat grab the both of you? Why is the song so melodious? Why does she grab you when she's out of breath?] 

This is a really fun song. Stephen tells me it's MJ-inspired, and I can obviously see that. Even with my limited knowledge of Jackson's music, it's hard to miss when it's this in-your-face. Well, it had me hoppin' and I wrote something legitimately happy for once, so that's not bad. I think I might buy this. I'll give it time to smolder. It's certainly as good as the Haim Forever, and it says fewer depressing things. Maybe it'll light me up later. Songs do that, you know.
I wouldn't buy this--yet.

My Acolyte Journey: 2014.31

Forever.

Haim. Or should I say the Haim sisters, since there appear to be new ones every time I turn around. Now, not that I know anything at all about them, but Gary Pay seems to like them, and he likes the Strokes, so that's good enough for me. For now.

Lyrics boring. Repetitive. Nothing to prove from the outset. Is this a breakup song?

Remember me? Remember love? Remember trying to stay together?

And yet, it's not a breakup song because she's still trying to get his attention? And yet it is, because they're going to, but they haven't yet. Essentially, what I feel from this song is exhaustion. She feels stuck in this relationship because she loves him, but she doesn't feel passionate about him anymore. She's willing to "figure it out" and restart, but (perhaps fatalistically) she's aware that if he doesn't try with her, there's no point.

Forever I try to make it right Together we suck, end in sight I'm tired of fighting the good fight If you say the word then I'll say goodbye

So it's not a breakup song and it's not a relationship song. It's just a complaint. It's the point Curtis and Brooke were at when they broke up. No passionate love or hate. Just . . . forever. I hope the music video isn't as interminable as the lyrics.
It isn't? But it's too jumbled. I get some Mumford and Sons, some Lana Del Rey, a hit or two of Rumspringa or Black Keys. The video says "We wrote a hella catchy song and we're enjoying ourselves. There's no overture at connection. It's like a concert video, but instead of unrelated shots of concerts, we're seeing unrelated shots of a girl getting her hair did for a quincinera Iknowit'smisspelled or prom and dudes tricking on bikes. It doesn't even set the aesthetic for the piece--of interminability. I would have honestly preferred a slow pan from an extremely wide shot of a couple just eating a meal, entirely silent. Or a couple riding in a car through Death Valley and they never say anything to each other. Or time-lapse photography of decaying plants intercut with the Haim sisters. There are three free ideas, Haims. Don't do them all at once again.
I might look more into Haim. Their sound is fun and punchy. But this song hasn't grown on me enough to slay me yet. We'll see if--
I wouldn't buy this.

2014.35 Again

Anberlin, Reliant K, Deas Vail, Switchfoot, and any others: Christian band members, unspoken band. I don't mind it.
I write things on my blog that aren't Christian--things that aren't actively for Christ. They write songs that aren't actively for Christ, either. Neither of those things feels wrong. I live a life that contains other people than God, and I deal with them every day, too. I feel strong emotions that aren't directly related to religion, and I need to process them. I get hurt and I bleed, and I need to examine my wounds to understand them.
But am I doing myself a disservice? Jesus said that no man can serve two masters: choose one. I choose Christ, but I don't act like it sometimes. I'm stupid sometimes, but other times I actually choose to act like he isn't my lighthouse. My question remains: am I doing myself a disservice? Am I actually serving the devil when I slip? Am I moving against God when I choose the other?

I fear so. What am I doing?