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by Justin Pearsall
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Wed:13-Feb-08 |
“What Came First? The Music or the Misery? … nobody worries about kids listening to thousands – literally thousands – of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.”
It’s a question that’s the Gen-X equivalent of the chicken-and-the-egg conundrum. First posed by John Cusack in the film adaptation of Nick Hornby’s brilliant High Fidelity, this paraphrasing of the novel’s thematic centres of manliness, fear, the nature of love and the history of heartbreak serve not only as a succinct descriptor of the record obsessed lead character, Rob Fleming, but also as a characterisation of the listening hang-ups of many twenty/thirtysomethings.
“Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable, or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?”
While it’s hard to justify the argument that pop music actually is the cause of our suffering, the emotions behind this music (the tales of the survivors, the guilt-stricken philanders and the broken souls) undoubtedly serve as the centrepieces for which we hang our own chest pains upon. This type of connection with a song or an album reserves for that music a special place, an almost holy realm where initial iTunes play counts are likely to run in double and triple digits; where repeat performances, even year’s later, can still retrace the weight of those emotions.
All this is well and good; the ‘heartbreak’ music by this stage a positive reformation of how we survived what we thought was a once insurmountable grief – a shot-like pang of the pain we previously felt. But this doesn’t address the issue of why we craze the ‘heartbreak/break-up’ music in the first place. Are we not feeling shitty enough that we need to obsess over a medium that will intensify these feelings? From an outsider angle (I imagine) the whole practice must look clearly self-harming.
My desert-island, all-time, top five most memorable break-ups … Can you see your name in that list, Laura? Maybe you'd sneak into the top 10, but there's no place for you in the top five. Sorry. Those places are reserved for the kind of humiliations and heartbreaks that you're just not capable of delivering.
But for Rob Fleming, and undoubtedly many other nomadic men, the prospect of extreme heartache can even be slightly appealing, creating a bitter ball of anger and determination. I myself must admit having slight pangs of these feelings pre-my own initial break-up album days. It’s like a less physical manifestation of Tyler Durden’s self-discovery challenge: “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?” Well, how much can you really know about yourself if you’ve never had your heart trampled upon? Your visions of love mashed from bedpost-to-bedpost finally curling up in a disordered pile of loss and regret that hangs on you like the scent the other person left in the bed, your only refuge from this torment your compulsive listening to music that morbidly and accurately reinterprets your own mini-hell. For a man there are elements that are nearly heroic in this battle of denial and resiliency.
So, is that why we loop these break-up albums? So that we can look pain in the face and say bring it on, you fucked with the wrong guy? I don’t think so. Unfortunately these fleeting moments of outsider prestige and survival mentality are grossly outweighed by the general shitty-ness that comes with the darker sides of love and wanting (and if this isn’t the case then you haven’t really had an A-grade strain of heartbreak).
I believe that we need these albums and songs in the same way that an addict needs an intervention: while the affects of having the issue isolated may be far more intense than a gradual weening, going through the ordeal allows us to process the experiences faster and more fully. By constantly outpouring our feelings over a seemingly mood-perfect soundtrack we are purging ourselves of the past. And as painful and confronting as this experience can be, it is these records that communicate with us when often words fail.
My desert island, all-time, top-five most memorable break-up/let-down songs, in chronological order are as follows:
Art of Fighting – ‘Reasons Are All I Have Left’ from Wires
Undoubtedly the song I hit repeat on the most in my life. Its sense of atmosphere and Ollie Browne’s voice perfectly encapsulated the confusion felt in breaking from someone you love. Removed from my initial mass consumption of the song I realised other things about it, like how it is very moment specific and one viewpoint particular, so now when I hear it I wonder what happened to the characters. While leaving was necessary, can it still be a regret?
Art of Fighting – ‘Sing Song’ from Second Storey
Clearly the more aggressive element of parting. The whole song’s near violence (a very atypical quality for AOF) affects me, the highlight of it being Browne’s second verse-to-chorus transition: “but if you really wanna know what I’m like/take a fucking look in my eyes/and so you keep on singing that song as if nothing is wrong”. While on paper it may read too obvious, the way it’s juxtaposed with analogies of stolen photographs and the illusions to the other’s seeming indifference, makes it all the more poignant and animalistic.
Beck – ‘Lost Cause’ from Sea Change
Many will argue that Beck’s true legacy is Odelay, Mutations or Midnight Vultures, but his party and folk sides can never match the way he dissected heartache in Sea Change. While I admit the album is patchy (the first half infinitely better than the conclusion), Beck’s understatement was the anti-thesis of what typified his success: slacker rhymes replaced with a world-weariness that spoke to those with a crushed spirit because they were essentially talking to one of their own. Of the brilliance that is Sea Change, ‘Lost Cause’ is its centrepiece and jewel. Lyrically it is scathing (There’s no one laughing at your back now/No one standing at your door
/Is that what you thought love was for?), vulnerable and accepting; traits that are at once the product of a confused but absolute mind.
Jeff Buckley – ‘Vancouver’ from Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk
Many would choose other Buckley songs, but as beautiful as ‘Last Goodbye’ and ‘Grace’ are, for pure regret, ‘Vancouver’ has no parallel. While the lyrics are mostly abstract, there’s an air of urgency to the performance and the few images that do clarify (“I am your failed husband contender”) only reinforce this power and insatiable regret.
Radiohead – ‘How to Disappear Completely’ from Kid A
One of the most majestic and chilling songs ever written. For me the song is almost devoid of any hope.
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