Notes on the transportive function of music

(As always, the text below is not to be taken as fully fleshed out, or likely to be completed.)

Some pieces of music- riffs, melodies, whole songs- perform one of music's most potent functions, which for lack of better words I'll term the transportive function. This term can be broken down into specific types of transport, since not all music serves the same purpose, but I'm going to focus on temporal transport, i.e., the removal of the listener from the present into the past or future. Further subclassification is possible: there are riffs and songs to remind one of their actual past, free of whitewashing or embellishment; music that filters the listener's past through the lens of nostalgia; music that evokes a mythological past that never happened at all; or, looking forward, music that launches the listener to a future that may never be, or provides a more earthbound sense of the possibilities down the road. I'm not going to concern myself with examining each of these responses to music- too exhausting- but stick to musing on the general transportive function.

The right piece of music can cause the listener can enter into a state of mind similar to, perhaps almost identical to, one they've been in before. There are a number of variables that go into determining whether a given song or riff will do the trick, all of them personal and therefore outside the scope of this piece; besides, anyone who's serious about music is usually aware of why certain songs affect them the way they do. Anyway, the music producing this result need not have been heard previously; indeed, one of the most fascinating things about the transportive function is that it doesn't require familiarity, instead working as a sort of instantaneous, hands-free time machine. I can't say for sure if the first time one hears a piece of music is the most powerful in terms of the transportive function, but I lean toward a negative answer, based on personal experience and because engrossing oneself in a piece of music allows a listener to hear more deeply, which can make the transportive function either more effective or cause it to function differently. It should also be noted that specificity, in regard to precisely when in time a piece of music moves the listener, can be a non-issue. I'd hazard to guess that most people's experiences with the transportive function can be described more along the lines of "this takes me back to the fall of '04" or "that song is, like, what I imagine music will be like twenty years from now" than "January 12th, 1989, in my brother's room." Whether the music takes one to a vaguely or clearly-defined time isn't that important, although that could be argued.

One thing I'm unsure of, probably because it just occurred to me and I'm too impatient to stop and think about it, is whether the transportive function is completely involuntary or not. I don't think it is, because one can react to a song one way for X amount of time only to react differently later- e.g., one associates a song with a good (or bad) time in their life, only to reevaluate their feelings later and find that they loathe/love the song now. That said, people don't often actively change their response to music, for whatever reasons or lack thereof, and I suspect the transportive function has something to do with this. People like associating a song with a specific time and/or place, whether or not thinking about why that is would, in the long run, allow them to get more from the music. I'm as guilty of this as the next guy, and I'm not blaming anyone for anything.

That's all I've got for the time being. If I think of anything else to add, I'll try to remember to do so, but I'm already planning my next entry. It should be up within the week, if all goes well.

Zaijian!

-DAS

P.S. The song that got me thinking about the transportive function in the first place, and that has been listened to numerous times since I started writing this entry, is "Ghosts of Grace" by Nachtmystium. Where does it take me? I'm still trying to nail that down.

Run ragged.

Things I've done in the past couple weeks: started my new job at the skatepark, moved closer to finishing this semester's Chinese class, and absorbed a great amount of new music. What I haven't done: meditate. For the past eight or nine months I've been pretty strict about getting in 30 minutes to an hour a day on the ol' meditation cushion. It's been a useful habit, and when I miss more than the occasional session I notice a distinct difference in the way I perceive and react to things. It sucks.

My failure in the past week to meditate each day has been taking a toll on me. I don't think of myself as being particularly susceptible to stress, but just because I believe (or don't believe) something doesn't make it true; the confluence of recent events seems to be wearing me out, moreso mentally than physically- though that's a factor too, given that I'm standing around in the heat all day for a living now. On top of my non-diminishing to-do list, I've been listening to lots of new music, much of which is intricate, heavily textured, raw, and/or laden with textual and philosophical meaning. It's a lot to digest, and I've only begun cramming my mouth full and trying to chew. Alongside that comes a fair amount of reading about said music, via metal 'zines like Oaken Throne and Convivial Hermit, which expands the range of my thinking about what I've been hearing. Summa summarum, I've been overloading my mind and underutilizing the decompression tool of meditation, and it's no good. Interesting, maybe, but mostly exhausting.

This isn't a complaint, by the way, but rather an analysis. I'm aware of what's wrong and how to alleviate it, something I don't know that I could have done even a few years ago.

Good night.

a quick note

Something I'll try to expand upon later:

One of the reasons I love heavy metal is that it is a channel for the expression of ideas and sentiments that are usually at odds with those professed by the majority of people. Not boring political issues, but metaphysical and philosophical concepts. It's good that metal is there to provide a framework for understanding my periodic nihilism and distaste for mankind, just as I'm glad that metal has provided such an extensive network of resources for delving into the esoteric, heretical, and left-handed.

The Perils of Astral Projection in Late Imperial Russia

All right, here's some heavy metal musings at long last. Today's topic: Mastodon's latest record, Crack the Skye, which is a concept album of sorts. I'm not going to go too deeply into the details of the concept part, as such information is readily available online. Better yet, you could listen to the record and read the liner notes. The latter course of action is unquestionably the superior one, because as cool as it is to read that Crack the Skye deals with the accidental adventures of a paraplegic astral traveler who ends up in Rasputin's body just before Rasputin is offed by Yusupov and company, among other things, it's far more rewarding to absorb the songs and their lyrics as the band intended. Mastodon's graphic design is, as always, top notch, so the liner notes are an aesthetic treat unto themselves.

Blood Mountain, Mastodon's last record, didn't really do it for me, or at least I don't remember it doing much for me. It had its moments, but I seem to recall a lot of stuff that didn't strike my eardrums the right way. When I heard about Crack the Skye I decided to listen to Blood Mountain again to see what I thought of it a couple years later. To my dismay, I found the CD case but not the CD, so I said "fuck it" and went ahead and bought Crack the Skye. If my fears that the new album would be too much like the last came true, it wouldn't be the first time I was burned by giving a band another shot. (Note that Leviathan, the album prior to Blood Mountain, was fantastic, and after digging the hell out of it, I went back to my copy of Remission, which I hadn't cared for, and found that it was more to my liking the second time around.)

Crack the Skye marks the second time I've been pleasantly surprised- nay, fucking floored- by this band, and establishes, in my mind at least, a Star Trek-like one-good-one-bad pattern. The musicianship is incredible; it's expansive and intriguing without lapsing into wankery. It's got a great texture to it, which the production does an excellent job of emphasizing. It's heavy without being conventionally so, and no, that's not code for "downtuned," "lots of blast beats," or "merely heavier than what you'd hear on the radio." (It is the latter, but really, what isn't unless you're listening to KTRU?) Importantly, the heaviness is tempered by- or provides gravitational force to- a kind of ethereality that pervades the record, which is in keeping with its lyrical concept. Everything flows, too. While each song is very good on its own merits, they all work together exceptionally well to give form to that increasingly rare specimen, the album. Kudos for Mastodon for structuring things so well and promoting repeated, extended listening sessions; then again, if they hadn't done so, the record wouldn't work too well as a concept album.

One of the things that turned me off of Blood Mountain was the vocal work. It sounded like Mastodon, but not really. Crack the Skye continues in the same vocal direction, but this time the band has figured out what I imagine they were aiming for on their last release. There's a lot less harsh throatwork here than there was in the past, but it couldn't be otherwise; this is Mastodon's tribute to prog rock, and while there's certainly room for death metal vocals in such an approach (viz. Opeth), the material here requires the mostly clean melodicism found in the vocals. Some vocal effects are used, but they don't come out of nowhere or fail to make sense, keeping with the overall flow mentioned above.

When I first conceived of this little essay, I intended to spend half of it venting my spleen about the absurdity of autocracy, particularly in the form of czarism and even more specifically as personified by Nicholas II. I was also going to wax venomous about the Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia's decision in 1981 to canonize the Romanovs as martyrs. I shit you not. These are the kind of mental tangents listening to Crack the Skye inspired. I doubt anyone else would end up thinking along those lines, but I'd say it's a testament to the album's power that it not only creates a fascinating universe of its own, but that said universe seeps out into the minds of those who encounter it by listening to the record. Even if one sets the lyrical content aside, there are all kinds of riffs and melodies here that will fasten themselves to your skull like tentacles. Just as further expeditions into the depths of Leviathan yielded new insights, spinning Crack the Skye several times will provide not only hours of entertainment, but a greater understanding of, among other things, the nature of heaviness and progressiveness- not to mention the precautions that should be taken when leaving one's body for the astral plane.

-DAS, 4.16.09

Coming soon!

Hopefully within the next week- probably the next few days- I'll be writing about some records I've been diggin' as of late, and the satellite ideas I have about them.

The records:

Mastodon- Crack the Skye
Darkthrone- Dark Thrones and Black Flags
Wolves in the Throne Room- Two Hunters

Check 'em out for yourself in the meantime.

The perils of (non)alcohol.

Since I quit drinking last August I've taken to drinking non-alcoholic beer. I don't drink as much of it as I did real beer, but it's a decent analog- or so I thought. Last night I drank about four bottles of O'Doul's; several hours later, I woke up with nasty gut pains, which were as surprising as they were unpleasant since I rarely have gastrointestinal trouble. The pain continued through the night and into the next morning, finally easing up, for the most part, late this morning. By mid-afternoon, I felt more or less normal, though I was still clueless as to what caused the episode.

Tonight I had another couple NA beers, and within an hour I had both a slightly upset stomach and a sudden realization. Maybe it's just O'Doul's, but non-alcoholic beer looks like it ain't gonna sit well with me if I want to drink more than a couple over the course of an evening.

I just had another realization: I've hit a new low, whining about non-alcoholic beer. Jesus.

tonight.

Wearing yesterday's (or day before's) socks, drinking from reused water battle sans cap, wallet empty, Tommy Guerrero and YT Cracker jams on the hard drive, hundreds of old skateboarding ads scrolling by. Floodlights and pretty smooth concrete over at Target sound like fun, but there's nobody to skate with now. Quitting cigarettes is harder than breaking up with girls. Coffee- sure, but man it's gonna fuck with the dreams.

I never stay up late anymore. I hated doing it when circumstances forced me to, but now I miss it. Huh.

Christ almighty!

It's been almost a year since I posted here. I forgot my password, had mail server problems getting it back when I realized (months after the fact) that I'd forgotten it, made an aborted attempt at another blog, lost my job (not because of the blog problems)... yeah, here we are again.

Let's see what happens.

Carving the middle path

Here are your options. Choose at least one.

a) Meditate and destroy
b) Skate and destroy

Which will it be?

How about both?

Yeah, that sounds good.

It's been a good week. It pays to try and be mindful.

This is why I hate talking to you when...

The older I get, the less I have to believe in. I remember a time when things didn't sound like bullshit or totally devoid of value. I love life, but it doesn't mean shit, as much as I want it to; I want to be a good little existentialist, but I fail at it because I can't find or create the personal meaning that makes life worth living. I'm running on fear, laziness, and what passes for hope.

"Almost always the idea before the thing itself- in art, love, and all of life." -Rudi Tannemann

lectric chile (go)at (skate)

Tommy Guerrero, former Bones Brigade skater turned musician, said in an interview I read a few weeks ago that his music isn't exactly suited for skating, except for the walk back up a hill you just bombed. I can't say for sure, since I don't listen to music when I skate, as much as I'd like to (aural cues, such as the sound of approaching cars, are handy when you're cruising the neighborhood and don't feel like getting run over, and headphones tend to diminish said cues). However, for late nights like this, and contemplative mornings, it's a perfect soundtrack. I imagine it'd be good for laid-back cruising sessions, too. Whatever the case, the guy's music is killer, and makes me want to buy a Walkman and some headphones so I can jam it the next time I get to skate in the hour before sunset.

If you couldn't tell, I think about skating a lot these days.

Weighing In - II

Sometimes I sleep in the master closet, stretched out between rows of shoes, a winter coat added to my usual pile of blankets. The air does not move, and there is an odor of cedar that seems to grow stronger the longer I remain. The closet is similar to what I would want in a tomb, and is therefore a fine place to meditate on death. My closet renders death a warm, familiar, pleasantly scented thing.

-Marcus Gill, New York, NY, 2000


Writing cannot alert a reader to the purposelessness of life intending to give the reader hope. Once the world's mask has been removed, exposing the void where a face should be (or where we believe one should be), it cannot be put back on. Writing can remove that mask, and on rare occasions replace it with a new, temporary one, but that is all. Words cannot create meaning when meaning does not exist.

-Patricia Sklar, Marblehead, MA, 1952

I'd buy booze from this dude.

http://slanginliquorinthehood.blogspot.com/

Good stuff.

At least...

I'm drinking plenty of coffee these days.

Apropos of nothing, I know, but I was compelled to mention it.

Weighing In - I

It is imperative that unpleasant activities and environments be mitigated as much as possible, internal unpleasantness not necessarily excluded. However, the means of lessening the world's unpleasantness is one that should not be taken up without careful contemplation. I might suggest a method or two, but refrain from doing so, knowing that most who would apply such methods have no desire to be taken for miscreants of the highest order.

-Hernán Ochoa Dagú, Mérida, Yucatán, 1937


"Life's work" is bullshit. Everyone dies long before they've done anywhere near what they thought or hoped they'd do. Believing there's a master plan or some list of achievements laid out for each of us is stupid, and acting on that belief is even more stupid. It sets us up for disappointment and doesn't let us enjoy what's actually here in front of us. That kind of thinking takes away all the worth of leaving things unfinished, or never started at all. Failure becomes a mortal sin (and you can fucking guarantee people who believe in "God's plan" or their "life's work" believe in sin). What a joke! Why miss out on the beauty of failure or incompleteness or not doing something because we think our lives have some grand scheme? It's delusional, total self-delusion. God fucking forbid we admit we don't amount to much of anything, as far as our neighbors and the universe are concerned.

-Star Miller, Helena, MT 1988

escape

I'm drunk, just so you know. Doesn't mean any of the following is untrue (or sensible). Not that much will follow.

-Life, generally speaking, almost never excites me these days.
-I wish I'd been more of a miscreant in high school.
-She. Oh, she!
-Neck hurts.
-Bully soundtrack: missing only one crucial song.
-Marbles/ball bearings: check inventory.
-I miss Floyd boy.
-"Con su gusano.: Down the hatrch.
-I wanna move to Bullworth Vale.

Like I said, drunk. Thanks to every poor soul that's ever come on you.

Behold the bastard's blade!

After spending ten or fifteen minutes looking for parking on choked side streets, I forced myself through the packed downstairs bar at Rudyard's, got my hand stamped, and went upstairs, where the population was even denser, the temperature at least ten degrees higher, the humidity almost 100%, and the wait for a beer anywhere between five and ten minutes. Everything took forever, except breaking out into a sweat. I'd be sweating for the next two and a half hours- not some weakling forehead sheen, but the kind of sweat that saturates your clothes and seems to replace your skin.

Why did I do this? Because The Sword was playing, and since it was at Rudyard's, it was one of those rare occasions I could actually see a show after work- a show I was pretty excited about in the first place. I liked them when I saw them in 2006, their new album is solid, and this video is a stroke of brilliance. Last night they put on a good show, played what I wanted to hear, gave me reason to headbang like a fool, and sold me a classy t-shirt.

Worth the sweat and hassle, no question about it. Joe Bob says check it out.

Proud alumnus.

I've been playing Grand Theft Auto IV lately. Great game, across the board. My buddy Andy sent me the following link to this article which discusses why the GTA series has been so groundbreaking, among other things. I recommend reading it if you're a GTA fan and/or interested in the narratology of video games in general. It's also pretty damned funny.

As great as GTA is, however, my favorite Rockstar Games product has to be Bully. I'm playing it again, this time for the Xbox 360, and loving every minute of it. I got the soundtrack in the mail a couple days ago, and have spent more than a little spare time trying to track down something resembling a Bullworth Academy t-shirt. My Halloween costume this year will, if all goes well, involve someone sewing a Bullworth Academy crest onto a sweater for me (said sweater will then become a regular article of cold-weather clothing). The 360 version hasn't bugged out on me more than once, to my surprise, and while it's (thus far) not substantially different than its older PS2 ancestor, it's been very much worth buying again for the improved graphics and, well, just to play again. I'd much rather ride my bike or skate around Bullworth, tossing eggs at assholes and putting firecrackers in toilets, than committing vehicular manslaughter in San Andreas or Liberty City... but not always. There's no real comparison between the two games, in my opinion, as the tone of each is sufficiently unlike the other to nullify any "Bully=GTA with training wheels" comments. (Yeah, I know Bullworth Academy shows up tangentially in GTA IV, but I reckon you get my point.)

So yeah, two good games, two engrossing premises, two different overall moods, and yours truly gravitates towards the, ahem, "juvenile" one- unabashedly. Make of it what you will.

See you on campus, folks.

-DAS
Bullworth '06

The brown sound.

Been digging the hell out of Brant Bjork's newest offering, Punk Rock Guilt. Recorded in '05 but only released this month, it's another album of his where he plays all the instruments, and features some songs that have shown up on other albums in different forms. It's not rehash, though; the songs maintain enough similarity to previous versions to be recognizable, but are restructured in such a way as to be fresh and vital. Really good stuff, and not a bad introduction to the man's solo work if you haven't had the good fortune to hear him before.

I'd write more, not just about Brant Bjork, but I've gotta get to bed at something resembling a reasonable hour so I can take my madre to the airport tomorrow.

Later.

A stroll down Danny the Street

My parents are celebrating their 33rd wedding anniversary this weekend, so I'll be up in Jasper Saturday and most of Sunday, along with my brother, Tracey, kt and Altoid. I doubt there'll be anywhere to skate other than the driveway, but if space permits I'll probably bring my board with me.


I'm close to finishing the final volume of Grant Morrison's Doom Patrol run. Like a lot of comics, I bought the first volume, liked it, and then bought all the other volumes within a relatively short span of time, which works out fine if the whole run is available but sucks when you have to wait months for the last volume to come out. This volume, Planet Love, feels like an epilogue for some reason, despite containing some rather massive developments on par with events from prior volumes. I should probably read the whole lot again, one right after another, and then comment... hey, maybe that could be an actual project of sorts. I'd probably enjoy doing something similar with Welcome to the NHK, another series that hasn't been released in its trade-paperback entirety yet, much to my vexation.


I suspect that regularly feeling that things will return to normal, or fall into place, or make sense (I can't decide which, if any, of these, is the right way to describe it) real soon now is not a good sign. It reeks of a misguided approach to the here and now, which bothers me. Gotta work on that, somehow.



Enjoy these Simon Bisley Doom Patrol covers while I help myself to a cigarette. G'night, y'all.