all good hats
Here's a conversation between Dorian Gray, the Duchess of Monmouth, and Lord Henry:
All good hats are made out of nothing. That's a phrase that has stuck with me since I first read the book as a thirteen-year-old. The duchess was right, and about more than hats. Any artwork worth its salt is spun out of nothing, or at least next to nothing.
The opera comedienne Anna Russell gets a good laugh out of this when she does her analysis of Wagner's Ring Cycle. "The entire prelude is E-flat major. Not the key of E-flat major: it is E-flat major. If you know the E-flat major chord, you know the prelude of The Ring."
Reductive — that prelude is ten minutes of burbling mastery — reductive but funny, and true at its heart. In fact it's not quite true enough, because the opening themes derive not just from the chord of E-flat major, but from the basic overtone series of a single note. In this, the Genesis of the cycle, Wagner is creating the entire world from scratch.
The fact is that not all good songs are made out of nothing, but the duchess is on to something, especially in American pop music. The best songs aren't the sidelong opuses of Rush or Phish, nor are they the tightly spectacular complexities of Dave Matthews or Radiohead. Just give me three chords and the truth, Dylan said.
I've always had a fondness for lean elegant pop songs made out of nothing. There's "Missing," by Everything But The Girl, a melancholy apostrophe driven by a single syncopated classical guitar figure, and fleshed out by a couple of heartbreaking quatrains. The chorus is a single phrase: And I miss you like the deserts miss the rain. It's one of the finest pop songs of the nineties.
Right around that same time, the Cardigans came out with their infectious "Lovefool." It's not as made-out-of-nothing as one wishes, and there are some inelegant missteps. But all is forgiven when you hear the girl sing, "Sayyyyy that you love me," in a voice that's delicate, feminine, desperate, mysterious, and addictive.
Then there's the finest dance song of the turn of the century, Phats and Small's "Turn Around," whose entire lyric is Hey! What's wrong with you? You're lookin' kinda down to me. Cause things ain't gettin' over. Got to turn around. Those simple words go pow when uttered by a voice that sounds like a young Elton John, over a one-bar two-chord ostinato that doesn't vary the entire song. It could have been stultifying, but instead it makes you want to get out onto the dance floor and then go change the world with your smile.
Serious competition for turn-of-the-century dance song comes from Cher, the only person to have a number one song in each of five decades. "Believe" was spoken of only scornfully during the months it was plastered wall-to-wall over our culture, but it's a streamlined masterpiece, and the only instance of the Auto-Tune vocal effect being used artfully. (The simple rhythmic riff, by the way, is the exact same one that's used in "Missing;" both are borrowed from the Brazilian sambas and bossas of the fifties and sixties.) The thumping kick drum stops for four beats as she says "Maybe I'm too good for you," then we sail into the chorus. Go ahead; sing along.
And we'll give honorable mention to her "Song for the Lonely," the only lighter-raiser in history with a beat. Her rich voice echoes from the mountaintop with those piercing, Messianic words, and no armor can withstand it. Henri Nouwen's wounded-healer theology never sounded better. (And it turns out he would have been a big Cher fan.)
The other day I was playing a pick-up gig at a downtown jazz club, with several musicians I rarely play with, and one I've never met. Late in the gig, when everyone was feeling groovy, the drummer did a little idle thing between songs, the way drummers do to fill time. It was a cool groove in 7/4, the kind of thing that gets the average audience member doing that slink-around-in-your-chair dance. I frantically gestured to him to keep doing it, and then I laid down a C-minor and then a G-minor. The band snuck in and created an instant mood piece. I mouthed the words "celebrate my love" to the singer, to go along with the five-note theme I was messing around with. She took it and turned it over and over into a breathless covenant. Ten minutes later, the audience gave us a warm round of true appreciation for a song that had never been heard before, and will never be heard again.
The band gave me an odd look when I sent a shout-out to the Duchess of Monmouth.
"Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly."Lord Henry's reply is given in the rhythms of wit, and as such it caps off this delightfully witty conversation, but it doesn't pertain to the conversation, or the plot, at all. In fact, it distracts from the amazingly perceptive comment the duchess makes.
"Well, I hope he won't stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian.
"Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me."
"And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?"
"For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight."
"How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning."
"I daren't, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone's garden-party? You don't, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing."
"Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry.
All good hats are made out of nothing. That's a phrase that has stuck with me since I first read the book as a thirteen-year-old. The duchess was right, and about more than hats. Any artwork worth its salt is spun out of nothing, or at least next to nothing.
The opera comedienne Anna Russell gets a good laugh out of this when she does her analysis of Wagner's Ring Cycle. "The entire prelude is E-flat major. Not the key of E-flat major: it is E-flat major. If you know the E-flat major chord, you know the prelude of The Ring."
Reductive — that prelude is ten minutes of burbling mastery — reductive but funny, and true at its heart. In fact it's not quite true enough, because the opening themes derive not just from the chord of E-flat major, but from the basic overtone series of a single note. In this, the Genesis of the cycle, Wagner is creating the entire world from scratch.
The fact is that not all good songs are made out of nothing, but the duchess is on to something, especially in American pop music. The best songs aren't the sidelong opuses of Rush or Phish, nor are they the tightly spectacular complexities of Dave Matthews or Radiohead. Just give me three chords and the truth, Dylan said.
I've always had a fondness for lean elegant pop songs made out of nothing. There's "Missing," by Everything But The Girl, a melancholy apostrophe driven by a single syncopated classical guitar figure, and fleshed out by a couple of heartbreaking quatrains. The chorus is a single phrase: And I miss you like the deserts miss the rain. It's one of the finest pop songs of the nineties.
Right around that same time, the Cardigans came out with their infectious "Lovefool." It's not as made-out-of-nothing as one wishes, and there are some inelegant missteps. But all is forgiven when you hear the girl sing, "Sayyyyy that you love me," in a voice that's delicate, feminine, desperate, mysterious, and addictive.
Then there's the finest dance song of the turn of the century, Phats and Small's "Turn Around," whose entire lyric is Hey! What's wrong with you? You're lookin' kinda down to me. Cause things ain't gettin' over. Got to turn around. Those simple words go pow when uttered by a voice that sounds like a young Elton John, over a one-bar two-chord ostinato that doesn't vary the entire song. It could have been stultifying, but instead it makes you want to get out onto the dance floor and then go change the world with your smile.
Serious competition for turn-of-the-century dance song comes from Cher, the only person to have a number one song in each of five decades. "Believe" was spoken of only scornfully during the months it was plastered wall-to-wall over our culture, but it's a streamlined masterpiece, and the only instance of the Auto-Tune vocal effect being used artfully. (The simple rhythmic riff, by the way, is the exact same one that's used in "Missing;" both are borrowed from the Brazilian sambas and bossas of the fifties and sixties.) The thumping kick drum stops for four beats as she says "Maybe I'm too good for you," then we sail into the chorus. Go ahead; sing along.
And we'll give honorable mention to her "Song for the Lonely," the only lighter-raiser in history with a beat. Her rich voice echoes from the mountaintop with those piercing, Messianic words, and no armor can withstand it. Henri Nouwen's wounded-healer theology never sounded better. (And it turns out he would have been a big Cher fan.)
The other day I was playing a pick-up gig at a downtown jazz club, with several musicians I rarely play with, and one I've never met. Late in the gig, when everyone was feeling groovy, the drummer did a little idle thing between songs, the way drummers do to fill time. It was a cool groove in 7/4, the kind of thing that gets the average audience member doing that slink-around-in-your-chair dance. I frantically gestured to him to keep doing it, and then I laid down a C-minor and then a G-minor. The band snuck in and created an instant mood piece. I mouthed the words "celebrate my love" to the singer, to go along with the five-note theme I was messing around with. She took it and turned it over and over into a breathless covenant. Ten minutes later, the audience gave us a warm round of true appreciation for a song that had never been heard before, and will never be heard again.
The band gave me an odd look when I sent a shout-out to the Duchess of Monmouth.
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