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The Rupture If you want people to say you’ve written a “Beatles-esque” song (a Good Thing, by any standard), put The Minor Four chord in it*. Of course, a minor four chord is but one of many very common musical devices which were employed (relentlessly perhaps) in hundreds of thousands of songs by thousands of writers throughout the creation of the American Popular Song (and yes, I know; way before too). It would seem that to interpret its appearance on a horizon as being indicative of a “Beatles-esque” landscape is a fundamentally wrong reading of the signposts in a work. This is cultural amnesia of a very high order. And it just aint right. It’s the Disconnect. I think signposts are important, and I think the only way to read them right is to educate yourself, and then fix your gaze wide. They might be pointing to places you’ve never been, but you gotta read ‘em right to know if you’re standing someplace new, and, new or not, which paths might ultimately yield the richest discoveries. Before there was the singer/songwriter, I suppose there was the singing songwriter. A tidy legacy of performers who possessed musicianship, instrumental skills, and a creativity and delivery that allowed for elegantly constructed, emotionally resonant songs. Maybe, even, songs that might encourage some blowing**. There’s no reason to assume they weren’t plugged in- that is, honestly interacting with grace and sophistication to their times and their muse. Hoagy Carmichael, Merle Travis, Willard Robison, and Randy Newman spring to mind. There are many more***. Many of these artists’ essential qualities became suspect a long time ago - to contemporary ears they may smack of elitism or worse yet, detachment: Their “realness” tethered by their knowledge, their “confessions” hobbled by stylishly crafted language, subject matter, melodies, and harmonies. Lately (say since the second half of the most recently departed century) a different type of performer has found a cozy home in the public imagination and the corporate heart. These performers, who’ve sprung from a fist full of strings, a heart full of wrongs, and an ease with wearing a lot on their sullied sleeves, have, I suppose, offered a disassociated public a chance to connect once more with that part of themselves that’s still alive. That part that’s heard crying out on the radio; or glimpsed just beyond the dashboard, chasing down the blacktop. Living epically. You know: Real. Oh well. I got no real beef with rock. I get to play electric guitar. My life is good. The new sonic worlds (you know, within the last forty-odd years) of amplification, and then programming, have offered a different set of building blocks for the composer. And they have helped broaden the definition of music beyond the placement of pitches together. But in my search for what makes me feel real -or at least not alone (it’s an existential problem; I fault no one for not sharing it), a rich little tune that can be plunked out by two hands generally serves to plant my two feet back on terra firma. No sense in throwing out, or dumbing down 100 years of a shared harmonic language and musical culture in the name of some quest for a modern truth. It would seem we need all the tools we can get our hands on for that navigation. Careful not to throw granny out with the sponge-bath water. *Music Critics: perhaps now would be a good time for you to explain to the folks what I’m talking about. Begin. OK. I’ll give you a hand: Remember in “For No One” when the words “Her love is dead” is sung? That’s sung over a minor four chord. But I didn’t need to tell you that… ** i.e.: Songs whose melodic, harmonic, and lyrical content and form might spark the jazz musician to want to improvise over them. ***Can I include Paul Simon? Harold Arlen? How about Robbie Robertson? Stevie Wonder? Jimmy Web? Do I hear a David Bowie? Smells Like Teen Spirit?
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