#5: “Don’t Just Do Something” by Jason Pierce
Motif α: What goes up…
Lyrically, melodically, and structurally, this piece presents an argument that “what goes up must come down.” First, we can look to the lyrics. Recalling the failed hubris of the mythological Icarus:
I get to fly so high
that the sun burns my wings but I will fly
These lines more subtly suggest a rising and a falling:
I can say with pride
hold my head up high
that I had a great idea
but never mind
Some thoughts, like the one above, seem to cancel themselves out midway through. The narrator’s weary confusion is apparent as he contemplates a paradox of his existence: He can neither avoid becoming engaged…
I don’t wanna live
but I can’t resist
…nor truly get somewhere in life, as all flight seems to end in a comedown. He sings of lying in bed and sitting around, natural behavior when all action seems to bring one back to where one began:
Oh babe, I’m going nowhere
The section B vocal melody traces a symmetrical low-high-low arc, ending where it began on “sometime”:
Similar arcs of briefer duration can be heard in these section C guitar arpeggios and in this section D string figure:
The song’s overall structure presents a symmetrical arc. Sections C and D can be taken as one long midsection, as they are separated from the rest of the piece by a tempo shift, and united by a number of compositional traits (a V turnaround at the end of each repetition; legato vocals with long pauses; a single drum pattern). If one takes them as such, the piece looks like this:
Intro · Verse · Midsection · Verse · Outro
Symmetrical. Five sections. Unusually for the pop genre, where sections are usually divisible into units of four, this song’s verses, midsection, and outro are each comprised of five vocal “statements.” If the piece as a whole were to reflect the down-up-down motif, one would expect an overall upward motion to the intro, and an overall downward motion to the outro. This is indeed the case. The ascending section A (it’s in the mid-range of the orchestra):
The descending section E (it’s in the backing vocals):
One would also expect the second verse to have some new, descending quality to it, and it does. Notice how the melody falls instead of rising on “slow,” and how the harmonies have a consistently downward motion:
Unlike in the first verse, here the tempo accelerates, as if to illustrate Icarus’ fall.
Might the motif α arc be visible in the album cover?
Motif β: Sitting ’round
Various aspects of this piece seem to make the metaphysical argument that “what goes up must come down.” How does our narrator feel about this reality? In the words of the album title, Let It Come Down. There is a calm, fatalistic acceptance of life’s ups and downs, expressed in a kind of flatness.
Pierce’s vocal style refrains from ornament, histrionics, and even vibrato, however much orchestrated drama surrounds him:
The closest thing to a completely flat melody is one that oscillates between two neighboring notes. We hear this in a number of places (below: the top string parts; the woodwinds; the twangy guitar):
While its arrangement is varied and lush, “Don’t Just Do Something” essentially drones on the tonic A major for the first 1:55, until the entrance of section C. The subsequent iteration of section B, though enlivened by sprightly drums, also maintains an underlying tonic drone, as does the outro. While popular music is often simple at the chord-progression level, the radically static, meditative quality found in this and other Jason Pierce compositions is unusual and characteristic of his style.
#4: “Surfer Girl” by Brian Wilson
Lyrics:
Sketched with haiku-like understatement:
Little surfer, little one
Made my heart come all undone
Do you love me, do you, surfer girl?I have watched you on the shore
Standing by the ocean’s roar
Do you love me, do you, surfer girl?We could ride the surf together
While our love would grow
In my woody I would take you everywhere I goSo I say from me to you:
I will make your dreams come true
Do you love me do you surfer girl?
In a subjectively narrated song like this one, it is worthwhile to pause and ask what is objectively occurring. Our narrator is standing on the shore. He is still. His wood-paneled sedan is parked nearby. Separated from him by the water’s edge is his object of affection. She is surfing; she is moving. (Clear interpretation has been hindered over the years by the ambiguous preposition “on” in line four; given the overall context, I believe that this would more precisely read “I have watched you from the shore.” Which is to say: there is no corroborating evidence, musically or lyrically, for the idea that our narrator is at any point surfing and watching her on the shore.) This is not a ballad in which the man sings sweetly into the woman’s ear, say, on a dance floor. This is one in which the man stands on a beach and sings sweetly to a woman who is having a completely different experience than he is. The gentler he sings, and this song remains gentle and ends on a fade, the more inaudible his melody over “the ocean’s roar.” We find no indication that she knows of his existence.
We also find no indication that our narrator knows how to surf. If he is like composer Brian Wilson, he does not. This possible inability adds an existential ache to the narrator’s situation: He cannot surf to join her and she cannot come ashore while really remaining herself. He could take her with him in his car, everywhere he goes, but would she then be a surfer girl? Certain lines suggest an unbridgeable distance: ”We could surf together;” “Our love would grow.” Note the doubt-casting modals, and their lack of resolution in a second if clause.
In the final section B he says from him to her (reinforcing the one-way nature of their interaction): ”I will make your dreams come true.” On its surface, this is an assured, tidy ending to a pop ballad. However, since we’ve had established that they’re experiencing different worlds – her, the speed and roar of the waves, him, the stillness of the shore – such certainty seems misplaced. Does he understand her or her dreams? Does he know that he may not? The song ends on its opening question. Nothing has been resolved since the first section B, when the narrator said, with a past-tense hint of resignation, that she’d “made [his] heart come all undone.”
Section B:
A comparison of three melodies (the first two of which have been transposed to D):
The rhythmic qualities of the three are identical. (“When You Wish Upon a Star” is often performed in a Vaudevillian manner, with improvised rhythmic variations [think: Captain Kirk's speech patterns], but its essential rhythm is as written above.) The lyrics of “When You Wish Upon a Star” were clearly, if perhaps subconsciously, influenced by “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”: note how “star” falls on the same beat, as do “who you are” and “where you are.”
One of the basic ways to break down a melody is to determine whether, note-to-note, it is rising or falling. We can use a + to denote where the interval rises, a - to denote where it falls, and a = to denote where it stays the same. Rests are represented as commas. The above measures can be rewritten as this:
- “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”: = + = + = – , – = – = – = – ,
- “When You Wish Upon a Star”: + – - – + + , – + – - – + + ,
- “Surfer Girl”: + – - + + – , – + – - – + – ,
In the shape of its melody, “Surfer Girl” closely resembles its parent and only faintly resembles distant progenitor “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Art evolves over generations, by the mechanism of artists’ discriminating tastes. I believe that to a large degree Wilson chose these influences.
(In the course of writing this, I have discovered that Wilson has stated that “When You Wish Upon a Star” indeed influenced the section B melody of “Surfer Girl.” I noticed their similarities independently, and remain unaware of any analyses comparing “Twinkle” to “When You Wish.” Such writings may well exist; if they do, we can score another point for reproducibility in the realm of aesthetics.)
This melodic genealogy supports our earlier reading of the lyrics. The surfer girl has taken the place of the distant star in the sky — the star that the narrator can only wonder about but never reach, the star that promises to make “dreams come true.” Yes, in section C, our narrator promises to make her ”dreams come true,” but an undercurrent of doubt comes partly from the listener’s recognition that the narrator is positioned as the childlike dreamer, not as an active equal to our surfer girl. Like a star, it is as if she is “little” from distance.
Section C:
The bridge of this song contains genre tropes such as muted guitar triplets, a change to solo vocals backed by wordless harmonies, and a key modulation at the end. The modulation shows characteristic restraint, as it rises as little as is possible, one half step, from D major to Eb major. Typically, pop ballads modulate further than this, and sometimes more than once, to convey heightened emotion and to allow a singer to demonstrate his or her range. The 1994 piece “On Bended Knee” by James Harris III and Terry Lewis modulates first from Eb to E (one half-step), then from E to F (another half-step):
The 1995 piece “You Are Not Alone” by Robert Kelly modulates first from B to C# (one whole step), then from C# to D# (another whole step):
The subtler modulation in “Surfer Girl” is effective because it plays into the upwardy-arcing melody inherent to section B, and because anything further could destroy the structural-thematic unity of the piece by sounding unnaturally triumphant.
Section D:
The song ends on the musical ellipsis of a fade out, which doesn’t merely help it retain a radio-friendly running time, but also keeps the narrative open-ended. The backing harmonies repeat “my little surfer girl” while a bright falsetto cries out: ”little one.” The listener has cause to hope for the narrator – after the modulation and this melodic leap, he may be finally doing something to win the girl, to be heard over the ocean’s roar. Yet just at this moment, the volume drops off. We the listener can’t know how the narrative ends. We’re left with some reason to think he will reach her, though, arguably, the logic of the overall piece suggests this has amounted to a beautifully-expressed wish.
A comic
#3: “Totally Stupid” by Andrew Wilkes-Krier
Religious undertones:
This piece gains effectiveness through its almost subliminal resemblance to a Christian service.
Both organ and a choir feature prominently. The secondary vocals resemble a choir more than a mere grouping of overdubs by means of a distant production style suggestive of a cathedral setting (heavy reverb; little stereo separation), the presence of both men and women, and the way the vocals interact with the lead vocal part. Section A:
Vespers, evening prayer services, are structured musical events as much as religious rites. They open with a chant (“O God, come to my assistance…”), which is echoed in section A. There is a reading from the Bible. Note the semi-spoken nature of section C’s vocals:
Vespers feature several antiphons, or call-and-response sections between the officiant and the choir or congregation. These sections are much simpler than dedicated musical portions of the service, presumably to encourage the participation of a musically untrained congregation (i.e. “Peace be with you;” “And also with you.”). The choir returns in section D for a brief call-and-response with the lead vocalist:
Hymns figure prominently in Christian services, often underlining the significant ideas in a preceding Biblical passage. Here we find another parallel. It may seem unlikely that a piece of music could contain a distinctly “musical section,” but as you will hear, in its second half, “Totally Stupid” becomes strikingly more elaborate and melodic:
We now have the full participation of the congregation. Such an evolution draws in the listener who has subconsciously identified with the choir (which is now “on board with” the officiant, who was previously shouting messages at it).
While the piece’s lyrics resemble a sermon, their philosophy is notably un-Christian. First, an English translation of the Magnificat, a musical portion of Vespers:
Holy his name!
His mercy is from age to age,
on those who fear him.
He puts forth his arm in strength
and scatters the proud-hearted.
He casts the mighty from their thrones
and raises the lowly.
In the Magnificat, the “lowly” listener is encouraged to experience fear. By contrast, our officiant says, “here we have to face our fear” (pointedly, with a drawn out “fear” landing on the concluding beat of section E. [The song itself seems to "face its fear" at this moment, barreling forward through subsequent sections without looking back]). The unmistakably proud-hearted lyrics insist that “you” (the listener, the congregation) should “do what you want,” though “people will laugh.” This acknowledgment that fearless individualism will lead to derision casts light on the piece’s title: One gains a sort of immunity by declaring oneself “totally stupid.”
Though its message my diverge from the Bible’s, the rhetorical style is familiar:
When we look into the future
To the place we haven’t gone
See what we haven’t done
We have known it all alongIf we wait until tomorrow
Will tomorrow ever come?
This is where we’re coming from
And we’re not the only onesWhen we find ourselves in trouble
We can find outselves a way
You can find a place to stay
And the place is always safeIf you have a heart that’s in pain
Don’t be afraid
You’re not to blame
There’s a better world inside of us
Where we always thought it was
You don’t need to hide
You can open up your eyesAnd you’ll discover
That there is another world
The setting of the above-quoted text is remarkably complex for party music, which is how Wilkes-Krier’s output has been marketed. New, unexpected colors emerge in melancholy vi’s and ii’s. These aren’t spice added to a middle eight, they figure centrally in a winding chord change that becomes more and more removed from the tonic (section G: ii-vi-V-IV-ii-iii-IV-IV; for contrast, section C drones on the I, and section D drones on the V). Section G arguably represents a key change to the relative minor of C#, a proposition supported by the melody’s emphasis of the C#4-E4-G#4 triad. The tension escalates with section H (“If you have a heart that’s in pain…”), as the chord pattern opens on the dominant, creating the expectation of a grand return to the tonic, which does happen, but not after a return to section G (which opens on the ii). By now, the astute listener realizes that this he is not in the hands of a “stupid” composer. In section I, a VI-V-I coda is finally delivered, punctuated by a triumphant guitar fanfare (perhaps for those living in this “better world”). Choices in the song that may have initially seemed pastiche (the choir in section A) or meandering (the guitar-led section F, which tonally frames the rest of the song by keeping the V-centered section E from falling back to the I, and provides a sense of proportion to what proves to be an unusually long finale) prove justified. Climaxes aren’t just written; they are written towards.
Commentary:
The distinctive tonal character of Wilkes-Krier’s work should be remarked upon. In his melodies and guitar arrangements, one generally hears familiar pop intervals such as octaves, 5ths, and 3rds, boldly, loudly delivered. However, these notes do not chime as clearly as they otherwise would, because of a hyper-dense arrangement style. Reviews of The Wolf accessible through Metacritic, if they mention the music, almost universally use descriptors like “huge,” “lush,” “army of singers,” “grandiose sounds,” and “overloaded with noise,” whether approvingly or disparagingly. What sounds alien here? In such an arrangement, one may unconsciously miss the presence of overtones, subtle harmonics most plainly audible in acoustic instruments including the violin, sitar, and Jew’s harp. When one hears four electric guitars, a synthesizer, and a
synthesized piano in unison, overtones that would otherwise be audible become submerged (heavy compression can also have the effect of flattening the high end, where overtones reside). Add crashing cymbals, growled vocals, and other non-diatonic elements, and we find and only the note itself cuts though. Even that note is given a chorused, slightly out-of-tune quality by its duplication and re-duplication in the arrangement. Elements conspire against the note, while others, such as heavy use of unisons and octaves, help the note cut through the denseness. There is a crude physicality to the effect that is consonant with Wilkes-Krier’s public image.
This layering process is laid bare in the eponymous, instrumental b-side “A.W.K.” In it, one Zarathustrian theme is repeated thirteen times. With each repetition, new elements are added to the arrangement, until the simple melodic content becomes almost indiscernible. Most listeners will have their “Goldilocks moment,” a point in the song where the arrangement is powerful and rich without yet sacrificing intelligibility. The composer indicates that he is aware that this layering can be taken too far, as the piece finally collapses into a cavernous silence. An excerpt of “A.W.K.” (repetitions 1-3 ; 13):
#2: “Ludlow St.” by Julian Casablancas
Intro [section A]:
The song’s intro contrasts strikingly with every other section, having entirely different instruments, a slower tempo, and a different rhythmic logic than the rest of the song (here, the drum hits coincide with the lower synth voice, instead of falling into a “grid” pattern). Elements converge to give it an ambiguously Eastern arrangement, including a spare, tonal, synthesized hand drum, slightly warbling synths that seem to replicate a fretless instrument, and a faintly bubbling water pipe.
The melody of the intro begins on an F, which is a b2 relative to the tonic of E. The b2 and b6 are both found in section A and are both characteristic of what is known variously in the West as the Middle-Eastern/Arabic/Turkish/Gypsy scale. Though F is diatonically adjacent to E, it is sonically very remote. It is through a clever sequence of six four-measure, downward-moving figures that Casablancas helps the intro melody find its way there. Note how the cramped G clef figure avoids falling or rising to the tonic E, thereby keeping the listener in suspense:
Motif α: The jarring new
The narrator sings of Manhattan’s Ludlow Street and its drastic, seemingly never-ending cultural turnovers:
It started back in 1624
The Lenape tribes would soon get forced from their home
Soon we’ll all get pushed out….
On Ludlow Street, faces are changing
On Ludlow Street,yuppies invading…
On Ludlow Street, Chinatown’s coming
On Ludlow Street, Puerto Ricans are running
On Ludlow Street, soon musicians will haunt it
On Ludlow Street, where Indians once hunted
Echoing the fate of the Lenape, the intro section is Westernized out of existence through the entrance of a traditional folk guitar pattern. Like the Ludlow Street of 2009, this piece has predominantly Western elements:
The chords cycle through the standard folk/pop I-IV-V progression with only slight variations (for some indication of the commonness of this change, see the last piece analyzed on this blog, which happens to have a IV-V-I-IV chorus [which sounds to the ear when repeated like IV-V-I-IV-IV-V-I-IV]); a banjo solo constitutes section E; and, more subtly, the narrator invokes slang of the Old West when he concludes the chorus with, with a slight affected twang:
It’s hard to just move along
Once this Western arrangement has been established, a jarring new element is again introduced:
The handclaps and deep, inorganic kick drums suggest rap. With its steady 8th note hi-hat and stuttering triplets, this beat doesn’t mesh with most of the rest of the arrangement, but that is consistent with the churning cultural milieu being portrayed. Additionally, a Latino influence may be audible in section D. While it’s difficult to say that this was intentional, because the melody in question was never idiosyncratic, the following recalls a famous mariachi tune:
Just where in this scene does the narrator place himself? Casablancas musically underlines one part of each chorus, where the lyrics mention a certain type of denizen:
Trumpets’ fanfare, a stop in the beat, and belted vocals imply that the narrator has strong positive affect for “musicians” and those whose “nightlife is raging.”
Motif β: The faint, continuous soul of a place
While unabashedly disjointed, this piece still achieves a kind of unity of form and content, because its subject matter is itself heterogeneous. Casablancas goes further, however, inserting a melodic motif that recurs in different guises. This suggests some continuous essence to the centuries-old Manhattan location. We find the eight-note pattern at the beginning of section A:
And in brighter, conventional form as the song’s chorus (set to the call, not the response):
The song concludes with a truncated version of section A, including elements of the rap, Western, and Eastern arrangements. The Motif β melody now closely resembles the Western chorus iteration, reinforcing the “Westernization” concept:
The narrator muses on what survives after death:
The only thing to last will be my bones
…
History’s fading
…
Will their souls be at ease when you get yours?
It’s hard to just move along
I remember why I drank it all away
#1: “Turn” by Fran Healy
Intro [section A]:
The four-measure intro is structurally regular and harmonically simple, even naïve. It presents no anomalies that might need to be counterbalanced or assimilated over the course of the piece.
The bass plays even 8th notes on the I and the V; a resonant tonic E chord occurs squarely on the downbeat; the lead guitar part, in inverted 5ths like the bass line, rises from and returns to the tonic. Broad and accessible (if perhaps non-committal), a determined, expansive andante, this section presents the song in miniature.
It also introduces two motifs.
Motif α: Something powerful, confined, and monolithic occurs, followed by a softer, more human, cantabile part
This “Hesitation” motif is found in the intro, where the lead guitar “gets out of the way” of the resonant E major chord before beginning. It is also found in the melody of the verse. Note the rests at the beginning of each measure, and the stammering effect created by the unusual sixteenth rests in measure four.
Additionally, Motif α is suggested in the relationship between the punchier section A and the adjacent, more expansive section B. In section D, the vocals finally, boldly enter on the 1, proclaiming the title lyric. In repetitions of the lyric, all hesitation is done away with, as “turn” enthusiastically comes in before the 1:
Motif β: A tendency towards growth
“Growth” can heard in the vocal melody’s tendency to rise both dynamically and melodically over sections B-C-D (verse-prechorus-chorus). The melody of section B has a range of B2-B3; in section C, the range is B3-F#4; in section D, the range is A3-A4.
Motif β can be found in the intro, which contains an ascending lead guitar line, and which grows through the drums’ entrance in measure three.
Lyrics:
Many of the lyrics reinforce the harmonic naïveté of the intro section by both suggesting genuine innocence…
I want to see what people saw
…
So where’s the stars? [sic]
Up in the sky
And what’s the moon?
A big balloon
…And by wishing for a return to innocence, from an implied adult perspective:
I want to feel forever young
With the same broad brush as the overall piece, the lyrics suggest an inexperienced or sheltered speaker summoning the boldness to go out and break new ground:
We’ll never know unless we grow
There’s so much world outside the door
Commentary:
In its presentation of the thrill of moving from childlike hesitation to soaring, courageous presence, “Turn” achieves a unity of message and form. By ending with an extended restatement of section A, the song underlines the notion that one can explore the “world outside the door” without leaving behind the serenity found at home (“home” being the familiar tonic drone of the intro).
The song could be criticized for passing on certain development opportunities in favor of restating the familiar. For example, as an uplifting piece that utilizes the metaphor of singing, there might be a powerful, climatic vocal section sung without words, perhaps drawn as an inversion of the elegant downward shape of the section D melody. Where this moment would be most likely to occur, after the ascending section E (the “we’ve got to turn” bridge) we instead get a sparse, vocals-free iteration of section D.
Another passed-on opportunity arises from this moment in the second iteration of section C:
The melody softly descends at “sing my song” to G#3, where before it was belted on the F#4. This suggests a counter-current of “Restraint” to the “Growth” of motif β. Alas, the piece eschews the complex task of integrating an additional idea in favor of its perfectly effective wide-eyed universality.
An Introduction
Hello Seattle.
This blog will contain detailed analyses of popular songs and albums. Who am I? A part-time songwriter, part-time business analyst, and a committed rationalist. Let me know if there’s any music that you’d like to see here. Also, I’d love to hear your take on the songs discussed. Just try to keep it objective.
Sooner than later,
Gv
See also:
Testing my songs against the Golden Ratio
Analysis of the Smashing Pumpkins’ Teargarden by Kaleidyscope
