It Ain't (Always) That Serious

Just because a record has a groove don’t make it in the groove.

--Stevie Wonder, “Sir Duke” from Songs in the Key of Life (1976), Grammy winner for Best Album in 1977

Last week, instead of musing on the social merits of the musical lamentation regarding how hard it allegedly is out there to be a pimp, Terry Teachout (subscription only) and Scott Johnson at Power Line discussed recording artists from a time when real talent was appreciated and marketable. The subject? Who was the best between Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan. Terry picks Billie:

[F]or all their obvious differences, the two women [Fitzgerald and Vaughan] had one big thing in common: Neither was especially interested in the words of the songs they sang.

In Vaughan's case, this lack of interest was so total as to be startling. To hear her near-abstract rendering of, say, the first two lines of Carolyn Leigh's deftly crafted lyric to "Witchcraft" ("Tho-ose fingers uh-in my hairrrr/That suh-llie come-a-hitha starrrre") is to realize that for her, the words of a song, good or bad, had no meaning in and of themselves. They were merely a pretext for the emission of interesting sounds -- and, as Gustav Mahler wisely said, "Interesting is easy, beautiful is difficult."

Fitzgerald, by contrast, sang with the clean articulation of a swing-era canary who wanted her listeners to understand the lyrics, or at least be able to make them out. But did she care about them? I wonder. She got nothing, for instance, out of the juxtaposition of "roaming" and "Romeo" in the verse of Irving Berlin's "I'm Putting All My Eggs in One Basket," a neat half-rhyme on which Fred Astaire (for whom Berlin wrote the song) never failed to put the sliest of spins. It's as if she hadn't even noticed.

Well. I’m truly not an expert on old-school jazz, but I do own a CD or two in the style. I’m inclined to sort of agree with Mr. Teachout, since I own a couple of CDs of Ms. Holiday’s work and not any of the other two ladies.

However comma…

One of my other favorite music styles is seventies and early eighties danceable funk. You know who I’m referring to if you know the style: recording artists that could actually play instruments, but (and) could make you want to get up and dance. And, very often, the words—if there were words—were nonsensical or even silly; paleo-rappers you might call many of them, if most rappers of present-day could play instruments or produce original and/or discernable melodies. (For all of you who get a bee in your bonnets whenever rap is criticized, I will admit to tapping my foot and “singing” along during the playing of some of Outkast’s offerings. Okay, I’m throwing you a bone. Get over it.)

The point is that sometimes listening to and enjoying music isn’t always about meaningful or heart-felt words. Sometimes it’s about the styling of the vocalist: the voice, certainly, but often the phrasing. Other times it’s about the obvious joy (or pain) that the singer is feeling about the song (as Mr. Teachout asserts). Still others, it’s about tapping your foot, clapping your hands, shaking your behind or even laughing (see Outkast).

Occasionally a song may be a fine piece of work, but is so depressing that you have to turn to something else. (See much of pop artist Sade’s work, especially 2000’s King of Sorrow. Great song, but it makes you want to refer the very talented Ms. Adu to a good shrink so she can get on some anti-depressants. I submit that she is the latter-day Billie.)

The decisive factor for musical greatness isn’t (or shouldn’t be) about a singular item, but a combination of qualities. The result of those qualities is some variation on this declaration: “I like that.” How often and how widely that result is produced is still not the end of the matter, but neither is the purported feeling that the artist may put into his/her work.

Just lie back and enjoy it.

(Thanks to Pajamas Media)