April 2008 Archives
The verse-chorus form of pop songwriting, part anchor and part foundation, reminds me of Clifford Geertz's observation that the webs of significance that comprise human culture both constrain us and support us. The structure that this form imposes seems very rigid if you look at it on paper, and it is very small in scale. But because of its limits, it has also given thousands upon thousands of modestly able musicians a space in which they can use their small fund of talent to craft something indelible.
It's hard to know what kind of musician Elliott Smith would have been in another time, or had he had a different life. But he grew to maturity working in this simple form, and he never left it, even as his modest talent developed into an astounding profligacy. It's all on display in this song, a pop song that's four minutes long and six hours wide.
The first statement of the verse is, in its arrangement, spare and simple: an acoustic guitar playing through its seven chords with a simple strum on every quarter note, and Smith's voice, double-miked to pick up a little reverb, presenting the song's melodic line. The arrangement may be simple, but the melody is not: there's a statement, an elaboration, and then three repeated responses, helpfully called out for you by the phrasing in the lyrics:
Now, there's something else to notice in this melody, which this repetition helps us with. The second syllable of "movie" descends three notes, but "clown" stops on a single note. The first two "sounds" bend down, the last one doesn't. The melisma in this song seems casual, but it is in fact deliberate and careful: the descending notes at the ends of these phrases signal that continuation is coming, that they're a part of a longer gesture. These notes are present again in the second verse, in the same form: "doing" is sung just as "movie" was, with the same three note drop-off in the last syllable. These seem like ornaments to the melody when you first hear the song, but they're intrinsic.
After the second repetition of the verse, we get the chorus, and again, because we're being introduced to the song still, it's done nakedly: the strings and backing vocals go away, and we're back to the simplicity of acoustic guitar and voice.
The chorus holds two surprises in store: after the first line, there's a little guitar riff, the first time in the song where the accompaniment, and not the melody, stands out. And then the second line, with the highest (and loudest) notes sung so far, reveals that the chorus is not nicely divided into halves: we're suddenly led into the second verse a little before we were expecting.
The second verse is where it all comes together.
The arrangement here shifts: up until now, we've been in coffeehouse-folk mode, with a singer and an acoustic guitar. Now, though, we have a rock and roll band: drums, bass, rhythm guitar, and lead guitar.
And what a lead guitar it is. The lead guitar line here is played with every subtle gesture of tone and dynamics that Smith infused the first verse's vocals with. The call-and-response, the descending melismas at the end of the phrases, all present here, played with a fluency and grace that George Harrison spent his whole life working towards. Harrison would have been proud to play the rhythm guitar here too, which has expanded the open chords of the first verse into syncopated descending arpeggios, played so precisely that it's easy to think that both lead and rhythm are being played on the same instrument.
The lead ends the second phrase with a flourish of ascending groups of sixteenth notes that may be my favorite guitar riff ever: instead of ending the second phrase with its descent and a pause, the melody is turned around and opened up. These notes announce that the structure of the song is breaking open. The first two phrases of the verse, the statement and elaboration, now get to develop in repetition before the response arrives.
And then the verse starts for a third time, with the harmonizing vocal line now almost taking the lead:
But the chorus is not expanded at all, it's still the same two lines of melody that were present the first time. What's different in its repetition, though, is the stomping guitar line, that overlays it, the arpeggiating rhythm guitar now asserting itself into the lead. The long notes of the melody -
have turned into a root that the guitar is now playing against. The guitar's phrase fills the space after the first line, and the end of this phrase leads into the second:
Instead of the spare simplicity of the first verse, and the baroque elaboration of the second, the third verse begins with a furious barrage of jangling strumming on the electric guitar. And instead of subtle developments in the arrangements, we just get the two lines repeated again and again:
There's something haunting about the sound of the guitar at the end of this song. Its tone is raucous and round and harsh, but it's also played with precise voicing, down to the mordent at the end (where the last "world" was sung). The strings balance it with sweetness, and help it come to earth in the last few notes, from which there's a subtle fade-out to silence.
You see the word "Beatlesesque" used to describe Smith's work. I suppose that's good as a convenient shorthand, but it really doesn't begin to get at what he's doing in this song. This is a song whose arrangement and melodies and harmonies are in constant movement and development, and much as I love the Beatles I can't think of anything they did that compares to the ambition or accomplishment of this song.
I think that on his good days, Elliott Smith had as much talent as any three Beatles. I wish he'd had more good days. I wish he were still having them.
It's hard to know what kind of musician Elliott Smith would have been in another time, or had he had a different life. But he grew to maturity working in this simple form, and he never left it, even as his modest talent developed into an astounding profligacy. It's all on display in this song, a pop song that's four minutes long and six hours wide.
The first statement of the verse is, in its arrangement, spare and simple: an acoustic guitar playing through its seven chords with a simple strum on every quarter note, and Smith's voice, double-miked to pick up a little reverb, presenting the song's melodic line. The arrangement may be simple, but the melody is not: there's a statement, an elaboration, and then three repeated responses, helpfully called out for you by the phrasing in the lyrics:
I have become a silent movieIf you listen to the first thirty seconds of the song, those five pieces should be very clear in your mind. And at any rate, to make sure you are familiar with them, he repeats the five pieces again in the second verse. The arrangement broadens in the second verse, with sustained strings filling out the simple strumming, doubled by a subtle vocal descant starting in the second phrase.
The hero killed the clown
Can't make a sound
Can't make a sound
Can't make a sound
Now, there's something else to notice in this melody, which this repetition helps us with. The second syllable of "movie" descends three notes, but "clown" stops on a single note. The first two "sounds" bend down, the last one doesn't. The melisma in this song seems casual, but it is in fact deliberate and careful: the descending notes at the ends of these phrases signal that continuation is coming, that they're a part of a longer gesture. These notes are present again in the second verse, in the same form: "doing" is sung just as "movie" was, with the same three note drop-off in the last syllable. These seem like ornaments to the melody when you first hear the song, but they're intrinsic.
After the second repetition of the verse, we get the chorus, and again, because we're being introduced to the song still, it's done nakedly: the strings and backing vocals go away, and we're back to the simplicity of acoustic guitar and voice.
The chorus holds two surprises in store: after the first line, there's a little guitar riff, the first time in the song where the accompaniment, and not the melody, stands out. And then the second line, with the highest (and loudest) notes sung so far, reveals that the chorus is not nicely divided into halves: we're suddenly led into the second verse a little before we were expecting.
The second verse is where it all comes together.
The arrangement here shifts: up until now, we've been in coffeehouse-folk mode, with a singer and an acoustic guitar. Now, though, we have a rock and roll band: drums, bass, rhythm guitar, and lead guitar.
And what a lead guitar it is. The lead guitar line here is played with every subtle gesture of tone and dynamics that Smith infused the first verse's vocals with. The call-and-response, the descending melismas at the end of the phrases, all present here, played with a fluency and grace that George Harrison spent his whole life working towards. Harrison would have been proud to play the rhythm guitar here too, which has expanded the open chords of the first verse into syncopated descending arpeggios, played so precisely that it's easy to think that both lead and rhythm are being played on the same instrument.
The lead ends the second phrase with a flourish of ascending groups of sixteenth notes that may be my favorite guitar riff ever: instead of ending the second phrase with its descent and a pause, the melody is turned around and opened up. These notes announce that the structure of the song is breaking open. The first two phrases of the verse, the statement and elaboration, now get to develop in repetition before the response arrives.
Born in the role, but he can't stopgo the vocals (and yes, there's that three-note descent on "stop"), now firmly backed by the drums and rhythm guitar. But then the last line's melody repeats again:
Standing up to sit back down
To lose the one thing foundwith vocal harmony suddenly appearing, an ascending alto contradicting the descending tenor, "found" ending on a mordent that leads right into a repetition of that beautiful guitar figure.
And then the verse starts for a third time, with the harmonizing vocal line now almost taking the lead:
Spinning the world like a toy top...and with strings swelling to fill the harmonies even fuller, until the response finally comes:
Till there's a ghost in every town
Can't make a sound...this in a form essentially unchanged from its first appearance. Except that it too gets an elaboration, one more
Can't make a sound
Can't make a sound
Can't make a soundto lead into the second chorus.
But the chorus is not expanded at all, it's still the same two lines of melody that were present the first time. What's different in its repetition, though, is the stomping guitar line, that overlays it, the arpeggiating rhythm guitar now asserting itself into the lead. The long notes of the melody -
Eyes locked and shining
have turned into a root that the guitar is now playing against. The guitar's phrase fills the space after the first line, and the end of this phrase leads into the second:
Can't you tell me what's that burning?And the chorus has again performed its function: again it ends with unexpected abruptness, again it leads us into a change in the character of the song.
Instead of the spare simplicity of the first verse, and the baroque elaboration of the second, the third verse begins with a furious barrage of jangling strumming on the electric guitar. And instead of subtle developments in the arrangements, we just get the two lines repeated again and again:
Why should you want any otherwith the entire ensemble: drums, bass, guitars, lead and backing vocals, strings, all turned up to 10 (and still, reliably, the last syllable of "other" is those three descending notes). They repeat four times, and then the last few repetitions are left to the strings alone with the guitar.
When you're a world with in a world
There's something haunting about the sound of the guitar at the end of this song. Its tone is raucous and round and harsh, but it's also played with precise voicing, down to the mordent at the end (where the last "world" was sung). The strings balance it with sweetness, and help it come to earth in the last few notes, from which there's a subtle fade-out to silence.
You see the word "Beatlesesque" used to describe Smith's work. I suppose that's good as a convenient shorthand, but it really doesn't begin to get at what he's doing in this song. This is a song whose arrangement and melodies and harmonies are in constant movement and development, and much as I love the Beatles I can't think of anything they did that compares to the ambition or accomplishment of this song.
I think that on his good days, Elliott Smith had as much talent as any three Beatles. I wish he'd had more good days. I wish he were still having them.
