Poetry in Music: A Decline?

We all love music (if you don't, go away). It can cause great surges of emotion, inspire you, distract you and impress (or disgust) you. Often what I look for in music, in order to acquire these things from it, is creative, admirable lyrics or at least creative, admirable instrumentation. Most of my love for poetry stems mainly from great lyricists of the past and present and much that I write finds its origins in a rhythmic, musical womb.

However, is poetry and careful lyricism dying out in music? Modern day 'popstars' such as Rihanna, Chris Brown and Katy Perry seem to think it should be. Lyrics like ' Do you ever feel like a plastic bag?' are hardly the most incisive, heart-rending, spine-tingling lyrics one can ever have heard. Compare the inane lyrics of Rihanna's 'What's My Name' with the masterful, beautiful lines in Leonard Cohen's 'So Long, Marianne' and you'll begin to see what I mean.

Poignant, poetic and even bizarre themes & lyrics seem to have had much more prominence in the past decades of music. In the 90s, Stephen Malkmus and Pavement brought a madcap touch of poetry to their alt-surf rock, whilst Trent Reznor haunted listeners everywhere with chilling, goosebumptastic Nine Inch Nails songs. Going back further and to even more obvious examples, Bob Dylan's constantly brilliant wordplay and imagery make his lyrics just as effective on the page as in the earphones. See the heartbreaking but brilliant 'The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll' for just one example.

Despite the fact that it would be both harsh and naive to state that there is no great poetry remaining in music (bands such as Bon Iver, Sufjan Stevens & Frank Turner keep that flame alight), it would perhaps be acceptable to say that the majority of modern music eschews meaningful subject or theme in favour of distressingly uninteresting ideas. Notice how often the words 'dj' and 'floor' are used these days? Jeez. Hardly the pagan imagery and beautiful acoustics of 'Stairway To Heaven' is it?

That being said, it's wonderful that bands with provocative, engaged lyrics such as Arcade Fire are beginning to get the recognition that they thoroughly deserve. What's not so wonderful are the countless number of genuinely poetic, earnest bands and songwriters left in the shadows because of a mass clamour for trash like that already mentioned. If I hear 'Do It Like A Dude' one more time....

I'd love for something of a resurgence of original, thought-provoking lyrics. Until then, though, I'll make do with this:

Keep it surreal.

A Trip to Newcastle

A typical Newcastle panorama.

Earlier this week I stepped away from the hectic publishing whirlwind for a small holiday in Newcastle, and thought I'd do a quick post about it, just to add a bit of contrast to the blog (traditionally not a source of interesting travel anecdotes).  I was mainly there to see musical hero Sufjan Stevens (previously featured in the final video on this post), but also for a general poke around this city of noble literary tradition; as you'll hear later on, I got my chance to see some of that up close.

Sufjan was ably supported by his own band member, DM Stith, who of course has been profiled by Cora on this very blog in days gone by...it really is a small world, isn't it.  He seemed to have a good night, I enjoyed his set and heard the people sat around me afterwards muttering things like: 'Wasn't he good?'  'Oh yes, so glad we came early, wouldn't have wanted to miss that.'  This was despite the venue's tannoy introducing the concert as 'Sufjan Stevens supported by...uh...DJ...Smith.'  Of the two names, his is probably the easier to pronounce, I'd have thought.

The venue was the incredible Sage (see picture above - it's the shell-like building on the left), and the show more than lived up to the grandeur and spectacle of the building.  Sufjan expertly captured the spirit of his latest album, just upping the ante a bit to make it intensely thrilling; an engrossing and dangerously arty couple of hours.  One of the things that impressed me was the 'duelling drumkits', one at either side of the stage, facing inwards (so looking at each other), an idea not used to make more noise, but to produce intricate and carefully planned rhythms... I was scrutinising the behaviour of the drummers regularly during the night.  The noise quotient was mostly provided by the trombone section, who were absolutely devastating, making their proclamations (possibly the most memorable bit of the album) with almost physical force.

Cue tickertape, near the end of Sufjan's show.

Basically, spectacle is the word... I struggled to engage my senses and brain sufficiently to take it all in, and make the most of this twice-a-decade chance to see Suf.  But I did okay.  And fortunately, other attendees took videos... you can see one of the quietest songs of the night here, from a very interesting angle, and head here for a short look at the climax of the evening, the end of the thirty-minute long 'Impossible Soul', with ticker-tape pouring down and some very odd costumes.

That was Monday.  The next day (before I went home...I did say it was a short holiday) I was determined to find a literary landmark, and with no street vendors selling 'maps to poet's homes' (though the city is full of them), I ended up at the Literary and Philosophical Society - my first visit.  My suspicions that this would be exactly my kind of place were proved accurate... I've never seen so many poetry books, old and new, in one place - if you have, let me know and I'll go there next!  The people also seemed infinitely agreeable; I overheard a bloke tell his friend a joke where the punchline was: 'and then he says, "have we met?  My name's Rilke"' at which they both guffawed.  On leaving, the friend said: 'well, tara then old boy, see you anon.'  I wish I could get away with speaking like that.

After a quick read of Bertolt Brecht's Collected Poems (I'm into him at the moment... I opened the book onto a poem where he reckons Los Angeles is full of 'houses built for happy people, therefore standing empty / even when lived in') I headed to some sort of refreshment hatch, where I met a very nice woman with the classic Geordie accent who sold me, without question, the best glass of orange juice I've ever had.  I went back to see if she'd fill up my water bottle for the train - not only did she provide this service, she slipped a large bar of chocolate into my bag, winked, and said: 'have this for the journey, pet...on the house.  Remember us next time you're in town.'  I certainly will!  She also asked me 'what the deal was' with 'that Lady Gaga' - I forget how we got onto that topic, but I didn't have any insight for her.

That about concludes my travel report.  If you're the sort of person who likes photographs, there's a decent selection of snaps from the trip on facebook - otherwise, stay tuned to the blog for some decent book-related posts later this week, not least of which a report from James Mcloughlin's launch on Wednesday 25th.  Don't just read the report though - try and get there, it's going to be fantastic.

Adam Gnade: An American Voice

More and more American art is becoming obsessed with identity. We seem to be having a difficult time lately understanding exactly what it is that makes us us, what sets our stars and stripes apart. When I first came across Adam Gnade's work, I felt a major sense of relief (not only as an American, but as a human being as well) because his art brings this struggle with identity to the surface, laying it out unashamedly for all to see. Whether it’s via his writing or his music, he's blazing a trail in sole search of the self, taking a cerebral road trip through the American landscape with reckless, fulfilled abandonment. He chronicles it all—the drugs, the sex and loneliness, the rock and roll—all the while maintaining a genuine, gritty honesty. There is no sugar to make the medicine go down. He kicks his head back and swallows the good, the bad and the ugly, never bothering to stop for air—all the while making me 100% proud to be American (whatever that may mean).




*Adam Gnade's work is released by an independent publisher/record label called Punch Drunk Press, which you can follow here.

National Poetry Month Celebration (Pt. 4): Contemporaries

At the root of poetry is oral tradition. David sang his Psalms. Homer recited his epics, just as countless others have bared and shared their souls by telling or singing stories in metre and rhyme. Participating in that tradition are the following modern musicians who, in essence, are poets in their own right. The first is (and forever will be) the artist of all artists to me. He could sing; he could dance; and he proved with Billie Jean that he could write. The second has always had a special place in my heart. My father (himself a published author) would sing along to such profound lyrics as "Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light/ You've known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight" while washing the dishes at night. The third I consider to be one of the greatest poets of the 20th century (far ahead of Pound & Eliot, in fact), having painted the sistine chapel of poems in Calling Out Your Name. And the last is one who I am convinced should not be known as a musician at all, but as a writer; for he exemplifies the role of poet in our modern-day society perfectly, carrying the weight of that role with an easy, natural grace.

So, listen to the music. Watch the performances. And remember that poetry is meant to be seen, heard and felt as well as read.


Purchase


Purchase


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DM Stith Concert Review—Tucson, AZ

The desert is a strange place to call home. We who live here measure our lives by rattlesnakes, by the sloughing off of serpents’ skins, saguaros and monsoon seasons. This summer the rain has stayed stagnant in the clouds. The monsoons keep holding their tongues, and we’ve had to stay stuck in the humid heat, spending the day watching heaving clouds pass us by. We can’t help but feel forgotten.

I stumbled into Solar Culture, a small, unpretentious venue, right smack dab in the middle of Tucson, AZ, hoping to find respite from the humid summer heat, but having hoped in vain. The temperature of the interior matched the exterior: There was no air conditioning, and the boiling energy of an excited audience only increased the degrees of Fahrenheit. Art lined the walls—a collage of independent, modern pieces. The venue was perfect in its dark simplicity. I was sweaty, sure, but completely at ease.

The setting and scene fit the upcoming performer: DM Stith is desert-like in nature, serpentine and haunting. His art is the skin he sheds, perfect in its dark simplicity.

Before his performance started DM Stith was so kind as to engage me in a little small talk. He told me a little about himself, his past. He had taught sculpture before, he said. It didn’t surprise me. His music is a physical medium more than anything. We, the audience, feel like putty in his hands.

When DM Stith took the stage, quietness enveloped the room. The crowd of soul-searching college students and contemplative adults seemed to understand that a force of nature, quite like the monsoons hovering overhead, had begun to work its magic. David sat down on a small, unpretentious rolling-chair, acting as if he were completely oblivious to his sacred charms. Not for one second did I believe that he was unaware of his powers.

What ensued was an entrancing musical manipulation of the mind. At the end of the set I felt as if I had just been molded into something along the lines of Degas’ Little Dancer Aged Fourteen—transformed into something part human, part primate.

What I appreciate the most about DM Stith’s music—and art in general—is its honesty. It’s an unashamed wrestle with the self, with God. He is Jacob, caught in the grasp of an angel; and he has no shame, no fear or trepidation in relating the struggle that results from picking such an epic fight. We, the audience, limp away from his presence with a hurting hip—with our minds, hearts, and souls having been dexterously pummeled—but also with the ultimate blessing: DM Stith himself, and the realization that no matter how dry the desert may be, we haven’t been forgotten.

*DM Stith will be touring Europe and the UK in the Spring of 2011. For further details, click here.

Cora Charis is a writer from the United States who is currently finishing her first book of expiremental poetry while teaching English as a Second Language to refugees in Tucson, AZ.