The Kindest Words Ever Sung

I haven’t really listened to a lyric in years, I think.

This is a bit of a weird thing, as I’m a writer who’s batshit about pop music. In theory the lyric would be the intersection between my obsessions, and so I should be freaking out over every syllable until each one is wrung dry. In theory though, universal health care kind of makes sense. In theory, Death Cab is a remotely good band. In theory, Vin Diesel is the perfect action hero. Sorry, theory.

Turns out I shut my brain down to everything but the melody, to structure and chord changes, to the candy-coating of the pop. What could possibly be gained from the average pop lyric? Do Adam Levine or Alex Kapranos have an insight to share and I’m just missing it?

No, the lyrics are just an excuse for a vocal melody, no more important than la-la’s or da-doo-doo-doo’s. Nonsense syllables in place of lyrics actually seem more true in a pop song, because that’s all I’m hearing anyway. Blah-blah-bliggedly-blah-major chord-minor fourth-blah-blah-bliggedy-blah.

I think the only time I ever listen to lyrics is when my heart’s been broked.

I caught myself, a few months ago, searching hard in the lyrics of old Motown tunes, trying to find some parallel to my real life, something to anchor this song into my psyche. Occasionally I’d catch a nugget, some “Hang on to your heart,” or “The best revenge is living well,” and I’d be certain that this is what pop music is here for. For late, late, late at night on a Wednesday, when everybody’s long asleep. For whiskey and jukebox nights. For when you feel like you don’t have many friends.

The song can actually be a better friend when shit’s unstable, because friends can be unstable too. Music, lyrics, they’ll never be. You always know how Nick Drake will make you feel. Nick Drake will never forget to call you on a Friday night, to let you know that he actually got blazed and won’t be going to the bocce bar. Bocce’s no fun by yourself, and Nick Drake will never forget that.

You can always be certain that Otis Redding will be for this particular mood (an elegant Sunday, after sleeping in), while Animal Collective is for a different one entirely (tripping in Prospect Park on a Monday afternoon).

No two moods are ever exactly the same, like snowflakes or vaginas, and there are infinite albums to fill those infinite needs. And generally, I find, the need that rings out the loudest, the one that pop exists for is the need to just make it all OK. Just tell me, pop music, that next week I won’t feel like this. Even two weeks from now, that’d be OK too. Or even just for these next two and a half minutes. Is that cool, pop song? It’d really mean a lot.

Pop tunes, these razor-cut gems, they make it possible to come out the other side. I mean, you know that you will eventually, of course. Everyone knows that, and it never makes it any better. It’s something that comes from your brain, rather than your belly. Pop music makes you know it in your belly.

In three weeks I’m going to meet a girl. She’ll have bangs that cover up one eye and these slinky black boots. She’ll make fun of my scarf, and how much I love milk. Three weeks after that she’ll forget her wallet at my place, and she’ll come back and surprise me in the night, and she’ll stay Monday night too, and then on Tuesday we’ll feel a little weird, but it’ll be OK. This is how things turn out sometimes. It’s pretty fucking great. Pop tunes, in their own little language, whisper this into my ear when I really need to hear it.

“Hey Jude.” Any tune off After the Goldrush. The “Layla” outro. “Maps.” “Tangled Up In Blue.” Painful as it may be to admit, “Everybody Hurts.” Astral Weeks. The Drifters. The walking guitar line that opens “Under the Bridge.” Spiritualized, Let It Come Down. Pete Doherty and Carl Barat singing their breakup to each other in “Can’t Stand Me Now.” I could go on for days and days. “Tonight, Tonight.” The intro to “Heavy Metal Drummer.” When “Crown of Love” swells into the chorus. Ronnie Spector in “Be My Baby.” Sweet Jane, sweet “Sweet Jane.” You can’t help but feel it. The little kids’ voices that fade into the start of “If You’re Feeling Sinister.” The Band. Our Endless Numbered Days. The Modern Lovers, “Roadrunner.” That goddam refrain from “No Woman No Cry.” That goddam refrain from “No Woman No Cry.”

Everything’s going to be all right. I swear to God. Everything’s going to be all right.