Day Thirteen: Music as Metaphor

A lesson for you, Simoneous…

I have shown you the great epic sounds of Iron Maiden, the atmosphere and darkness of Opeth. We’ve listened to old Bob Dylan, Neil Young–on his own and combined with Crosby, Stills and Nash. We’ve sung along to John Denver, Raffi, Pearl Jam, Temple of the Dog, Johnny Cash, The Tea Party, and Chore. I’ve even played for you the spoken word/music combinations of Patrick Friesen and the unpolished beauty of The West Coast Mennonite Chamber Choir. One day you may ask why we’ve spanned such a selection of sounds. What is their importance?

I’m not sure I can explain. I believe in a human connection in all songs, the ebb and flow from dark metaphor to light. Sometimes there is anger, ominous presence. Sometimes a bright host of clarity and longing. But it is all beautiful. When we listen to Ich bete an die Macht der Liebe or Four Strong Winds we hear the sounds of voices pulling the dust from the earth and heaving it into the air. Not so much in tribute to some unknown, unseen, unavailable God, but to an unspeakable searching for something more. And this is good, Simone. This is who we are. Imagery and sound and its careful collection. A benediction of art.

But never think of it as perfection, my dear. Never seek such an unattainable goal. The beauty of art is not in the achievement of perfection, but in the constant struggle with understanding it can never be achieved. The ache of song is what is beautiful, not the perfect harmony. Listen to the choir, hear how they do not sound all as one voice. Beauty, expansive and rough. So goes the sound of whispering leaves or the claws of a crow on the rain gutter above our heads. We walk the earth not as ideals, but as who we are, in flux and constant refinement. And good music recognizes this. A good musician sees this beauty and uses it as a mirror, holds it up to the rest of the world to see the lack around us, the movement away from things of great matter to the trivial clutter of escapism.

But you are much wiser, Simone. I can see this.

And you probably won’t read this until your thirty…