It is primarily due to my exposure to the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald at the age of fifteen that has lead me to the conclusion that I am a confirmed idealist. My idea of perfection is the alliance of various aspects pieces of imagery that coalesce in one moment. It is in that moment where - with an adequate dose of pretentious melodrama about me - I say, "this is my reason for living with a sense of impetus about me".
1. The Suburbs by Arcade Fire
It was admittedly quite a few months after purchasing this CD that I realised its absolute strength as a conceptual album. To paraphrase the words of others who have critiques this album before me, it is the sort of record that Arcade Fire fans will lazily defend when criticised by others, and it takes time for a real love for the feeling of the album as a whole to develop. I remember in the summer, how I would avoid my entire family and go up to my gran's bedroom and slump down the right side of the bed. I would put my iPod on and play Arcade Fire's The Suburbs, then peel back the net curtains and open a window. I would sit there writing down my rather frustrated thoughts, or sometimes just sit and stare out of the window. Out onto a street of identical suburban houses, the kids would circle around on their bikes, people would be walking around, occasionally making their way to the corner shop, but other than that it was quiet and melancholy, where every one of the inhabitants had hovering above their heads both a ticking clock with weary batteries and a sense of magnetism clipping short the greatest distances that they could ever possibly travel. Everything lacked character, lacked emotion. I started to listen in to the lyrics, the faux-cheery tone of the songs and the feel of it was so fittingly drab and incomplete.
Optimum listening time: To be played any time during the late afternoon, preferably when the sun is either setting or non-existent in the sky and you find yourself overlooking the dull suburban skyline from your bedroom window. I find it to be particularly profound in its effect when played almost immediately after vacating school.
Provokes nostalgia because... I have regrettably poor memory of my more recent (high school) years, but I often find that I can define eras in terms of the nostalgia that was felt in any slight, temporary changes in my routine of convention. When I say slight, I really do mean slight; the assignment of a photography project, purchase of a kitchen appliance, even a difference in the way that I started my walk home were all elements of my routine that were capable of changing the way I looked back on a month long-gone. This particular album brings out a strange collection of Tuesday afternoons. With hands slightly wrinkled from an hour of fishing for photogram prints from submergence in the darkroom's water I would clutch my sketchbook and scurry straight out of school. I always felt a sense of alienation from a lot, if not all of my photography class, and so leaving at the strike of three felt like a somewhat liberating task. A hazy sunset would ensue as I watched from the lumpy cushions of my living room sofa. This is where the relevance of The Suburbs would sink in.
Top tracks: Impossible to specify. This is one of the best conceptual albums out there and I therefore make it imperative that all 16 songs are heard from start to finish in the correct order. Though I have not yet had the privilege of listening to the deluxe version or for that matter the short film, I urge that you do.
Top tracks: Impossible to specify. This is one of the best conceptual albums out there and I therefore make it imperative that all 16 songs are heard from start to finish in the correct order. Though I have not yet had the privilege of listening to the deluxe version or for that matter the short film, I urge that you do.
2. Suck it and See by Arctic Monkeys
If my generation can rightfully boast any lyrical genius amongst its musicians, then it is purely down to the work of Arctic Monkeys. It saddens me to realise that I cannot articulate my opinions on their lyrics any better than critic Bruce Dessau has already done:
"What makes Arctic Monkeys so interesting is the way they straddle various demographics. They have their fair share of Fred Perry-wearing Oasis fans, but they also appeal to the more literate pop constituency. Alex Turner may not be the best lyricist this country has ever produced, but he may well be the best since Morrissey. His compositions are beautiful, finely detailed little pen portraits full of witty wordplay and unexpected Duran Duran references featuring prostitutes, chip pans and relationships gone right and wrong. There has rarely been a better description of passion turned stale than "You used to get it in your fishnets/ Now you only get it in your nightdress" from the choppy, ska-flecked "Fluorescent Adolescent"."
The thing about song lyrics is that - when you look past the superimposed quotations on teenage girls' picnik edits (I can't believe that this is already an outdated reference!) , and the assignment of melodies to clichés older than the singers themselves- they are actually given a bad name. It was a while ago that I came to the conclusion that lyrics should not attempt to be profound, or to suggest unprecedented answers to the ultimate questions of philosophy. No, over half a century of popular music has proven that lyrics serve no such purpose. Instead, I have decided that if song lyrics should be anything, they should be clever. Clever in its use of rhyme, or the pun in ambiguous phrases, or the topical significance of its subject matter and cleverly-articulated opinions. And I find Alex Turner to be one of the few lyricists who understands that, the ephemeral nature of a song lyric; it is not there to be read and read again at one's own leisure; the song's tempo has given it speed, the vocals metre, and the unchangeable melodic flow assigned the lyric its tone. Each line cleverly crafts a scene, then in the next line an abstract element of human thought or emotion and literally places it in this image - with the paint still wet - as if it were an object that every listener knew the form and colour of. And... without an iota of conscious effort, without a single thought of poetic analysis, the lyrics of the first verse have crossed your mind and a near-tangible work of art has formed in your head.
I also need to elaborate a little on just how well the sequence of songs work at conceptualising the album, and imitating a love story that somewhat strays away from the clichés. The opening tracks are means of elevation to put her up on a pedestal that should (for the sake of mental well-being) be physically impossible to construct. The moment(s) of admiration over, Hellcat Spangled Shalala indicates the beginning of a romance, with reckless answers to the pending question "are you sure?". Then, from Piledriver Waltz onwards, the songs are the laments of a lovesick boy (trust me, in this case Alex Turner's persona cannot be described as manly) who realises that his reckless nights with a reckless girl may well have been of romantic value, a smooth transition between the two sections brought about by the sycophantic lyrics of Reckless Serenade. Suck it and See is the return of (somewhat limited) machismo and suave compliments that, as opposed to those of the previous songs, could be said out loud to a girl with the desired effect. And finally the album concludes with That's where you're wrong, a hasty goodbye to the promises of a more perennial love that was the result of temporary yearning for the meaningless.
Top tracks: She's Thunderstorms; Black Treacle; Hellcat Spangled Shalala; Piledriver Waltz; Love Is A Laserquest; Suck It And See.
Optimum time of listening: Begin to play the album in literally the last few seconds of dusk, so that the beginning of the second track, Black Treacle, coincides perfectly with the darkening of the sky.
Provokes nostalgia because... Oddly enough the playing of this album provokes memories of tuesday/wednesday nights, when the light from my desk lamp shone on my maths homework, of which small flecks would show on impressed graphite marks on the page; numbers that I stared at vacuously while singing every lyric word-for-word.
Provokes nostalgia because... Oddly enough the playing of this album provokes memories of tuesday/wednesday nights, when the light from my desk lamp shone on my maths homework, of which small flecks would show on impressed graphite marks on the page; numbers that I stared at vacuously while singing every lyric word-for-word.
3. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel
Lo-fi, poetically angsty and occasionally wailed instead of sung, the songs of Neutral Milk Hotel should be anything but absent in one's teenage years.
Top tracks: The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1; In the Aeroplane Over the Sea; Two-Headed Boy Holland, 1945; Oh Comely
Optimum time of listening: Exhibit A) It's a Monday night and you are sitting in your room surrounded by a mess that pretty much epitomises your chronic/perennial lethargy. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is playing; exhibit B) You're lying down in your grandmother's suburban back garden and your eyes are fixed on a blue sky filled with aeroplane trails as you let the harshness of erratic summer breezes rattle your bones and pierce your bare shoulders. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is playing. Exhibit C) It's somewhat sunny out and there are a thousand things your could be doing but you're lying with your best friend in a bedroom that isn't your own, which smells of must and turns the sunlight grey. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is playing as you both mouth the familiar lyrics.
Provokes nostalgia because... In the few weeks preceding summer, when stress levels regarding a photography project and music coursework shot through the roof (as did my love for caffeine), I was somehow made aware of this wonderfully obscure band, and listened to this album on repeat. Then, when I was back in England and found myself standing in the room of a friend I hadn't seen for a year when, amid the clutter, I clocked the album's indistinguishable artwork gracing the top of her CD stack. When she returned to her room I was holding up the album and let out an excited squeal. She grabbed the CD and within a few seconds The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1 was blaring out of the car stereo before her mother had even put it in gear. As we were driven back to my gran's house we blasted our favourite tracks in the typical noise-polluting manner that usually pisses me off. But it was the summer, a seven-week stay at home after which two years could pass before returning. That's two years without quiet suburban lanes and car stereos.
Provokes nostalgia because... In the few weeks preceding summer, when stress levels regarding a photography project and music coursework shot through the roof (as did my love for caffeine), I was somehow made aware of this wonderfully obscure band, and listened to this album on repeat. Then, when I was back in England and found myself standing in the room of a friend I hadn't seen for a year when, amid the clutter, I clocked the album's indistinguishable artwork gracing the top of her CD stack. When she returned to her room I was holding up the album and let out an excited squeal. She grabbed the CD and within a few seconds The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1 was blaring out of the car stereo before her mother had even put it in gear. As we were driven back to my gran's house we blasted our favourite tracks in the typical noise-polluting manner that usually pisses me off. But it was the summer, a seven-week stay at home after which two years could pass before returning. That's two years without quiet suburban lanes and car stereos.
No comments:
Post a Comment