Music is a distinctly human phenomenon, at least as far as we know. it is mind boggling to think of the many different genres and styles that man has created, and even more astounding when one considers just how different they all are. The soulfulness of the blues, the calmness of the Native American flute, the cold and calculating mind of Industrial, the lyrical wit of Hip-hop, the sheer sound of reggae, the down home charm of bluegrass and classic country, and the sheer unbridled barbaric rage, hate and death of Metal.I have always found that music sways my emotions as easily as a the wind sways a branch. It can send me on an emotional rollarcoaster, going from happy, to nihilistic, to sad, to mechanical, to spiritual. but why? What is it about these sounds that effect us so? I mean, all music is merely organized sound, isn't it?
Recall my earlier post about the direct translation of thought to speech. With music, we skip translating our thought into audio symbols(language). It remains pure, like the howl of a wolf or the chirp of a bird. Indeed, if man makes but one sound I saw it is music. Music allows us to step directly into the mindset of the artist. He is not asking you to read, or comprehend.
He is making you feel.
Music travels through the air, into ears that may be far from the original source. You cannot ignore it, nor the feelings it conjures. I am by no means a communist, and yet, when I hear the sounds of the Red Army Choir, I cannot help but feel a sense of pride for a country I have never known. I wish to enlist, to fight, anything for my motherland, her uniform and colored ribbons worth more then my life.
The industrial band Laibach knows this, and uses fascistic symbolism to make the mental assault even more complete. Even more amazing is the fact they come from Slovenia, one of the smallest and non-threatning countries in Europe. And yet, when Laibach plays, I feel as if I am goose-stepping to join some conquering blitz.
But as each song passes the mood can change just as quickly. "E Minor Waltz" by David Powell reaches my ears, and at once I am on a porch beneath the warm and pleasant southron sun. I am surronded by friends, simply watching the overworked world pass us by, content in the happiness we enjoy.
Another shift and my body bubbles with rage, hate, and contempt. I am a one man hurricane, willing to destroy everything that affronts my eyes, its sheer existence in insult. Death rules over life, the idea of balance dashed against the floor like a man's brains, my fist covered in his blood. I feel strong, powerful, and desire to go on some great raid, where I may have the inhabitants of some far off location quiver in fear at my presence. Fear me, the embodiment of Death made flesh!
Accordian? Guitair? Slavic Accent? Gogol Bordello has transformed me into a wandering gypsy, once again identifing with a culture I have never known. No book, no film can bring me closer to the essence of a gypsy then these songs, and I wish only to live, to dance, to drink and be merry! Though I cannot understand his Russian, I still somehow grasp the message, the feeling of his words, possessing a shape and texture all their own.
And then, it slows. Kingfish sings the blues, and I am a backwater Mojo man, one step ahead of the cops with a fistful of Goofer dust. Muddy Waters almost transforms my skin color, and I identify and feel the world of the Black South, perhaps in the only I can. Sadness, Happiness, Luck, Good Times and Bad all become one, and I see a life outwardly poor but spiritually rich.
Silence.
I am myself again, almost dizzy. Was it all a dream? I feel as if I was gone for a year. Where are the people I knew? The places I've been? I smile, for though they may be gone for the moment, I can always go back.
