An artist obsession: finding peace in melody and melancholy
Revelling in the happenstance and healing power of Sharon Van Etten, Radiohead, and Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
Time out of mind
Every month, every week, every day, there is a song, or piece of music, which has the power to move me.
Whether it’s an artist I have been a long-time fan of, or a brand new discovery, if the moment is right – the melody moves, a lyric attaches itself, or the right chord is struck, a zeitgeist engages – I can be hit heavy with a connection that relates, sometimes in some real arbitrary way, often in a surprising, stealthy way, with a feeling, thought, or experience, which grounds my own reality to a twinned galaxy birthed from the ether, one often touched with grace and genius.
This is a free-flowing account of three artists who sound-tracked moments of my life this year, engaged my emotions, and made every day feel more hopeful, connected, and less alone.
These are musicians I have come to deeply admire, and whose songs found me at the right moments in my life.
Act 1: Sharon Van Etten
I began listening chronologically. Before jumping between albums and EPs. Looping tracks over and over. Humming verses, singing choruses.
And then I did it all again.
This time, from the present back to the past, following the trail of roots through the soil.
Serpents in my mind
Looking for your crimes
Everything changes
I don’t want to mine to this time– ‘Serpents’
I discovered Sharon Van Etten thanks to her Tramp (2012) album. A rolling fog of confessions, touching upon isolation and mistrust. From ‘Serpents’ to ‘In Line’, every song is swamped in scars and hopes to help and heal yourself.
Although my own wounds were different to the ones reflected upon on in these narratives, I felt an affinity with this honest sharing of feelings. I wanted to open up. To purge. To release what was inside me, whatever was eating away at me. What was making me feel less of myself.
It was with Are We There Yet (2014), where everything really clicked for me. Self-produced, it’s very in the moment. Urgent, immediate. It pulled at my own insecure strings. Asking me questions I couldn’t yet answer. Big life questions, I still grabble with.
These are songs about the fears of love – ‘Your Love Is Killing Me’, ‘Taking Chances’, ‘Every Time the Sun Comes Up’ – every song reached out and wrapped themselves around me, following me around for hours, days, weeks. ‘I Don’t Want to Let You Down’, from her next EP of the same name (2015), hit me just as hard, too.
These songs cut deep into my own feelings of trying to be a decent adult. In trying to be the very best version of myself possible, for those dependent on me.
Well, every time the sun comes up, I’m in trouble
Sharon’s latest record, Remind Me Tomorrow (2019), comes with the narrative of taking some time out from music. Studying psychology, acting – save The OA – and becoming a mother. It’s Sharon’s nostalgia album about living for every moment. One that resonates a great deal, as twenties becomes thirties, and dreams fall way to reality.
This time away from music translates into a new found form of aggression, built on cresting synths, with the dirge of the vintage Roland Jupiter-4 driving many of the songs.
Throughout, there is an engaging mixture of pride and anxiety, confidence and despair. A wonderful sense of messy self-reflection, with a keen sense of melody still prevalent, showcasing the very best of her songwriting.
Sharon followed-up the release of this album with her 2019 Glastonbury performance, which was cathartic, visceral, and beautiful.
Everything aligned that evening to draw me further inside her music and her stories. Her voice, rawer than on record, snapped at my soul, and tore away my defences. The way she held herself on stage. Her look. Her eyes. She felt every word, from the inside, out.
I could not control it.
Turning the wheel on my street
My heart still skips a beat
It’s echoing, echoing, echoing, echoing, echoing, echoing– ‘Jupiter’
The pain, angst, the feelings, flooded over me. A wave of melody and melancholy raced up my spine. I felt the neurons in my brain surging. Flying. I wanted to sing, shout, scream. Release my heart to the world, too.
This was definitely a moment where music, wrapped around songs and a special voice, spoke to me on some higher level. Her performance of these songs made them more alive. These songs were sung from the heart and soul. And they tore at mine.
Pain and sorrow, expressed in art – whether directly, or via metaphor, in songs – connect with me. And the songs of Sharon Van Etten are no exception. But the beauty of this personal connection is not of lasting misery, but a feeling of optimism. A reminder that after every great challenge is a great hope of recognition, recovery, and reward.
Act 2: Radiohead
When Thom Yorke dropped the short film for his latest solo album Anima (2019), I was drawn back into the emotive and extended world of Radiohead.
In the middle of the vortex
The wind picked up
Shook up the soot
From the chimney pot
Into spiral patterns
Of you, my love– ‘Dawn Chorus’
Released on Netflix, Paul Thomas Anderson’s one-reeler, built upon the dystopian themes in Thom’s new album, which brings the worlds of Orwell’s Nineteen Eight-Four (1949) and Metropolis (1927), the German expressionist science-fiction drama, up to date.
It was all too easy to feel a kinship to the message of a global consciousness guiding us towards our doom. The kinetic, rhythmic, choreography of the dancers, echoing robotic mass production, as well as a dream state, where we step out of our own body and witness it walking away from us. It digs deep into our fears of losing our individuality. Our personal freedom to be who we want to be.
After this, everything began to spiral. Perhaps, I was hypnotised by the choreography of the short film. Seeing Thom dance is always worth the admission fee, after all. It could also have been Thom’s lyrics, his nagging ability to be both apathetic and empathetic. Plus, Radiohead’s great sense of groove, and hooks that grasp on to your mind, as well as your feet.
Whatever the magic that took hold of me, it raced me back to ‘Videotape’. Within the key of C# Minor, and a tempo of 84 BPM, a highly complex and challenging hidden rhythm reveals itself in the song. Another form of magic. A magic that stems from Thom’s syncopated piano.
You are my centre
When I spin away– ‘Videotape’
Almost now more myth than song, Videotape has several variations on a theme. It has morphed over the years, from various up-tempo earlier live incarnations, to eventually being released as the somber final song on In Rainbows (2007). Yet the skeleton of the song is not set, as subsequent live versions continued to allow this song to grow. Or does the song itself grow on its own accord? Shifts, changes, according to the mood of its players?
If a song could serve as a metaphor for a person, it could be this. Our essence may always be us, but what contributes to this evolves over time, through our experiences. I recognise I’ve always been me, but there have been obvious times when I haven’t felt very close to the person I wanted to be. Like Videotape, I’ve worn and grown out of different skins. Beliefs have altered, outlooks matured. But always at my core, I have been me. Me and my anxieties and my self-esteem that loves to wander.
Compare performances of Videotape from 93 Feet East to Bonnaroo in 2006. Between the full band performance on From the Basement, to Thom’s solo rendition, returning later to the same show. Each one develops and shifts, adapts to mood and tone. A stand-out favourite of mine is from their Scotch Mist webcast broadcast on New Years Eve, 2007. One song, very different feelings.
Videotape led me back to the rest of Radiohead’s albums. Beginning with, at the time of release, my favourite In Rainbows, because the timing of its pay-what-you-want download emergence coincided with starting a new job, in a new part of the country. It became an album which reflected a big transition in my life. Newly forged companionship, as well as loneliness. Great hopes and great fears. New confidence. Massive new doubt.
Straight from the driving electronic ’15 Steps’, it announced itself to me. From song to song, this album showcases the multifaceted elements of the band. In ‘All I Need’ and ‘Reckoner’, it contains two of the bands best ever songs. Two songs which became welcome friends on lunch breaks, walking from work to the park, with the album playing on headphones.
The album ends with the aforementioned Videotape. Which has the magic effect of making me rewind, or skip, back to the start, to play it all over again. Repeated listens became a habit, just as how weekdays roll into one another. While the monotony of the work soon started to express itself as regular cycles of self-loathing.
Slight of hand
Jump off the end
Into a clear lake
No one around
Just dragonflies
Fantasize
No one gets hurt– ‘Codex’
I continued to play my way through the band’s back catalogue. Honing in on certain songs. ‘Codex’ means a lot to me. Definitely, at first, it was a little ignored, but then it became all I listened to for quite a while. ‘True Love Waits’, which much like Videotape has had a very long lifetime, holds a place close to me, too.
The list is long: ‘Idioteque’, ‘Motion Picture Soundtrack’, ‘How To Disappear Completely’, ‘Myxomatosis’, ‘Where I End and You Begin’… every album has a handful of songs that cling on over time, but to list them all defeats the purpose. If the right song comes along and breaks through the defences, tides appear again, the stasis shifts, and waves push in, and pull out, your feelings towards the horizon. The right song is a beacon of hope.
And then of course, there are the B-sides. Often orphaned little children, tethered to a recording session, bobbing away in the distance. ‘Worrywort’ from Amnesiac (2001) has become a stand-out listen, and part of my family. In fact, alongside Kid A (2000), those two might be my current favourite Radiohead albums. But views change, just like songs. Just like humans.
Bouncing between the same, but different, versions of Radiohead, I watched People Is Easy (1998), a stark document of the band struggling with their uniquely uncomfortable stardom.
Following Radiohead on their exhaustive OK Computer (1997) world tour, grainy video clips and sound bites contrast song snippets with a collage of relentless boredom and flashbulbs.
I think you’re crazy, maybe
I think you’re crazy, maybeI will see you in the next life
At the same time, the band released the MiniDiscs (Hacked) (2019), nearly 18 hours of demos, studio noodling and chatter from the OK Computer sessions – a public pressing of many private moments. Among the many variations, Thom’s solo version of Motion Picture Soundtrack breaks my heart the most. It’s a link back to the documentary and a peek inside a fragile mind. Also, it is a timely reminder that everyone, at times, can be weak and vulnerable. No matter your upbringing, or achievements. Your talent or resources. We all can hurt. We all have doubts.
All is well, as long as we keep spinning
Here and now, dancing behind a wall
When the old songs and laughter we do
Are forgiven always and never been true– ‘Suspirium’
From there, I went back to Thom’s other solo releases, Eraser (2006) and Tomorrow’s Modern Boxes (2014). But it is his soundtrack to Luca Guadagnino’s re-make of Suspiria (2018), which was where a lot of my time got invested in.
As a fan of Dario Argento’s original 1977 horror classic , and of Goblin’s eerie soundtrack, I was drawn to the release for multiple reasons. At first, I nervously peeked in, unsure at what I would find, before being reassured an updated, different, version of magic existed.
‘Suspirium’, as a song, holds up as one of Thom’s finest creations. While, ‘Olga’s Destruction (Volk Tape)’, used to cracking effect in a pivotal scene in the film, showcases his talent for gauging mood and honing in on a new handling of the horrific in his sound.
Subsequently, perhaps seeking some lighter relief, I took a detour into the world of Jonny Greenwood’s film scores. His compositions for Paul Thomas Anderson are magnificent, especially those for There Will Be Blood (2007), The Master (2012), and Phantom Thread (2018). ‘House of Woodcock’ from the latter, is just as lush and handsome as the film itself.
This timely rediscovery bled into Jonny’s curated night for the BBC Proms 2019. While the premiere of his latest work, Horror vacui (2019), was the star finale, other highlights included versions of ‘Pulse’, Penderecki’s ‘Sinfonietta for strings – Vivace’, and Jonny’s own piece for piano, ‘88 (No. 1)’ (2018).
Now, more than ever, there is such a rich tapestry of Radiohead-related music to listen to. It’s an ever-expanding universe, where its players take their listeners to various different levels of extremities of mood, music, and melancholy.
Somewhere, in the multiverse of Radiohead, there is probably a song, or a piece of music, to comfort you for every possible mood you may be feeling. I know this is certainly true for me.
Act 3: Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
It began with the lead-up to the arrival of Ghosteen (2019). The seventeenth studio album by the Australian rock band Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. The first written and recorded entirely since the death of Nick’s teenage son, Arthur, in 2015.
“Can’t remember anything at all.”
– Mercy on Me, Reinhard Kleist
I read Reinhard Kleist’s Mercy on Me (2017), a graphic novel ripping through the life, songs, and characters of Nick Cave, in a manner tickled with such creative freedom, mixing myth with ego, legend with reality.
I followed this up with reading Nick Cave: The Complete Lyrics 1978–2013, in order to take in the poetry of his words, and gauge the progression of his stories and tales from dense, dark, and bloody, to streamlined and somber sketal strings of emotion.
I listened to the premiere of Ghosteen, along with thousands of others, as the band streamed it live on YouTube. I tweeted about it and felt immediate kinship with strangers, which was both odd and reassuring.
These strangers and l were presented with a world of slow, shifting ambient clouds. A textured forest where pastoral synths bathe within misty loops. It gifts poetry from the heart and soul. From myth and fantasy, too. It’s devotional. Achingly cathartic. Quietly epic. Beautiful. I was gripped from the start.
Everybody’s losing someone
Everybody’s losing someone
It’s a long way to find peace of mind, peace of mind
It’s a long way to find peace of mind, peace of mind
And I’m just waiting now for my time to come
And I’m just waiting now for peace to come
For peace to come– ‘Hollywood’
The grief and gratitude of Ghosteen’s trail led me to revisit the Bad Seed’s past. And in doing so, it unlocked some personal ghosts of my own. Stored up shards of grief that festered daily, but were always nudged aside, just enough to get by.
The album is still making me reflect on my life, and those I love within it. Others close to our proximity have been experiencing huge and unexpected grief and tragedy – far greater than I have had to experience, and to see their attitude and spirit in the face of such awful circumstances, is a testament to the resolve of the human spirit.
After reading the essays within career celebrating collection, Lovely Creatures (2017), I was blown back towards Push the Sky Away (2013) – my favourite album of theirs, with its sparse songs spun out of spectral loops. Warren Ellis has certainly become the musical spirit twin to Nick’s lyrical twist, more and more over the years.
This opened the door once again to watch 20,000 Days on Earth (2014). A portrait of an artist and their muse. A typewriter, trembling heartbeats, and his ghosts.
I always find it really inspiring to witness artists create their art. It feels as if it should be hidden, this window into their art form, the way they use their magic, pay faith to their muse, and create new stars orbiting new worlds. As someone who enjoys the act of creation, across different medium, but one who rarely feels satisfied with their results, I’m never left disappointed by watching the genius in others spin air into pure oxygen.
You’ve got to just keep on pushing it
Keep on pushing it
Push the sky away
In my traversal of the Seeds’ back catalogue, I slipped a rung of the ladder and the black sky hovered over Skeleton Tree (2016). A tree less its leaves, its roots digging into painful ground. These songs are heroic, in the sense spirits are set free. Flying. Clouds of grief hover over the earth, as man attempts to make sense of death, while fresh flowers bloom next to him, as they have for millions of years before.
When songs somehow encapsulate such grand themes, in such short timeframes, it makes everything seem so simple. And it many ways, it is. But in many other ways, it surely is not. Life is the biggest oxymoron. A juxtaposition of everything.
I believe this is a reason why we have art, and why we always shall. Why we should hail artists, because they have been touched by some other to bless upon us a tangible medium for us to process our problems.
Decades into his career, Nick Cave has strengthened his art. It’s now at a point that pushes beyond art. He has shifted back from the hyperreal of the blues, tales from the bayou, ones of murder, lust, and mayhem, to his own painful reality. His songs are still crafted, but much more bare and exposed, fused with his bones, bleeding from his heart, reaching out from his soul to powers almost unimaginable.
Under the shadow of the accompanying film, One More Time With Feeling (2016), feelings – grief, loss, heartache, despair, longing – are incredibly real and raw. So much more than a window into a broken soul. It’s a pair of clear eyes peering into a broken heart.
I called out, I called out
Right across the sea
But the echo comes back empty
And nothing is for free– ‘Skeleton Tree’
An echo, echoing
Some say songs need to be sung to be heard. To be set free and felt by someone else. Once a song is cut from the heartstrings of its originator, it becomes something else to its listener.
The song, like a novel, or film, or anything else constructed, is gifted over to the individual receiving it, and it becomes theirs. Much like the theory behind Barthes’ The Death of the Author (1967) we all have the ability to impart our own translation of a text. This interpretation wonderfully differs, thanks to our own changing experiences, viewpoints, and emotions.
This is why, surely, out there in the song universe, there is a song for each and everyone of us, for every possible moment and need we desire. Sometimes we are blessed and the right song falls into our laps. Other times, we have to hold on with a little patience, and wait to spot the shooting star dancing through the dark sky.
For these reasons alone, I thank Sharon Van Etten, Radiohead, and Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds – as well as every artist past and present that has helped me – for gifting your songs to the universe. For gifting them to me.
