I once heard a man declare that all contemporary music is founded in pessimism. Much as I wanted to disagree with him, I couldn’t find the evidence. (On reflection, however, I didn’t try very hard. I was in a pretty dark mood at the time.) But lately, I’ve been kind of overwhelmed by art that is, in fact, pessimistic. Case in point, Birdman. I’d really been looking forward to that movie, but was deeply disappointed by it; small wonder, since it was the story of several people who’d been deeply disappointed by life. Don’t let me dissuade anyone from seeing it, unless you’re in a dark mood; believe me, it won’t help. (Though, it should be noted that the soundtrack was utterly brilliant.)
Tonight I went for a walk. We live in a small complex, nestled amid the the foothills of the Santa Monica mountains, and so the night is quite dark. It reminds me a bit of walking among the trees in Anchorage. Initially, I was walking next to the hills, stripped bare by a fire last year. Then the path curved and went right next to an open field and some trees. I don’t know what exactly causes it, or if I’m just imagining it, but it seems that parks, especially when bounded by trees and hedges, give off a particular smell on cold nights; and the only way I can describe it is that it smells like cold. (Isn’t synesthesia fun?)
So I’m walking along like a good Californian, in flimsy shoes and shorts, shivering in the cold, when a sudden warm wind blew in, unexpectedly. And I found it reassuring, especially as I was listening to some deliciously chilling music at the time. (The brilliant debut album from San Fermin, which I will doubtless cover at some future time.) I needed that little lift of warmth, so I’ve decided that I’m going to talk about a warming song; ironically, it’s about a pretty cold place. The song is “Dear Old Greenland” by Andrew Bird, from his album “The Swimming Hour.”
The song begins with strings, over a plodding piano, plunking out a dancefloor of repetitive chords. The strings swirl, flirting with mixolydians and all sorts of accidentals. (It called to mind the likes of Etta James.) There is, of course, some subtle guitar strumming underneath it all.
Once the theme is established, the strings quiet down a bit, making room for the vocals. But instead of a powerhouse voice howling about loss, we’re met with the reedy sound of Andrew Bird, singing about a trip to Greenland. He’s preparing himself:
On my way to Greenland, I shall find
All the disparate fragments of my mind.
I shall return a different man;
And darling, do all that I can.
Each of these lines is repeated by a quiet-but-soulful chorus, giving some gravity to the whole ridiculous endeavor. Here we have a man, preparing for a journey to a cold and foreign land; but his introversion is celebrated and sung by a choir. Such is the conundrum of the introvert: time spent looking inward tends to amplify itself; thoughts in isolation bounce off our skulls to reverberate in the brain-case, giving a sort of solemnity to the internal monologue. Is the choir real? Is it simply imagined by the thinker? How can we ever trust our innermost thoughts?
The second verse is much of the same; it ends with the beautiful line, “If beneath the ice-fields there’s a room, I’ll find my peace: a lovely tomb.” Then, after a little guitar swell, the instruments draw back as the singer launches into a spoken-word monologue:
Friends, Greenland is a place where souls go to dry out
It is a vast and terrifying place of ice fields and tundra
Bereft of fire; and in the horror of its imposing irrelevance
There’s a sort of peace; the peace of pain,
the peace of nothing.
Well friends I’ll tell you what, I’m going there.
That said, the drums announce a change; the strings swell to meet the drums. The piano strikes back up, bringing with it the singing, although only for a short time; there is precious little left to say. The singer has encountered Greenland, this mythic force which has come to embody his anxieties. Now, seeing it as the very embodiment of fear, he turns to declare:
Fear is lying, dying, in the sand;
And it’s breathing from the gills of my Greenland.
This last verse, sung in the same style as the first two, affirms that his pilgrimage is at an end; his fear is dying, and its final gasps are sucked through the “gills” of his Greenland. This is an appropriation, a conquest, all in under 4 minutes. That’s impressive.
So that’s what I thought of, as I walked in front of those cold bushes and rejoiced in that unexpected, warm breeze. I hope that my words have warmed you; if they haven’t, then the music surely will. (If you’re still in need of a little warming, by chance, listen to Mr. Bird’s interpretation of “Don’t Be Scared” from the impossibly deep “Weather Systems” album.)