In our last entry, we dove headlong into the melancholy end of the swimming pool and sized up F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby and the Counting Crows "A Murder of One." The moral of those stories? Life is hard and far too often wasted, so quit wasting yours watching other people waste theirs.
(Perhaps we should say "waste" one more time. Ahh, that's better).
In the interest of fairness, I thought it only fitting that we spend today's entry tackling a track that seems to be something of a thematic opposite to the stuff we covered in our last go-round. True, life may indeed be long and hard (that's what she said?) -- but this isn't anything to get all worked up over.*
(*Ending sentences with prepositions, however...)
But as far as Coldplay is concerned, the simple fact of the matter is that while yes, it might well be raining today -- one day the sun WILL come out, ya' know. And so sets the stage for our ensuing discussion on the perpetual optimism of this man:
Chris Martin:Quite possibly a space alien.
The Great Gatsby and "A Murder of One" tackled some pretty heavy thematic elements. Sex, death, wasted potential -- the whole nine. But literature and pop music needn't always be so gosh-darned Debbie Downer in order to rise to the level of certifiably awesome. In fact, Chris Martin and his Coldplay brethren have actually carved out a pretty respectable niche in the world of rock and roll by singing songs that are anything BUT depressing. True, they do lovez themz some ballads -- but just about every single track that Coldplay has ever penned typically ends up finding some small glimmer of hope in even the saddest and strangest of situations.
Sample lyrics include:
"When you try your best, but you don't succeed... I will try to fix you." (Fix You) "Nobody said it was easy." (The Scientist) "I don't wanna' follow Death and all of his friends." (Death And All His Friends) "Death will never conquer us." (Death Will Never Conquer) "Everything's not lost." (Everything's Not Lost)
Long story short:
Chris Martin and company are "glass half full" kinda guys.
*(Bonus fun fact: Coldplay actually released a B-side track called "Glass of Water" in 2008. Neat, huh?)
But anyway...
The band's perpetual optimism is made particularly evident in their 2008 track, "Lovers In Japan" -- a plucky, uptempo breeze that sails through the riddles of life while buoyed by an underlying belief that things usually end up working out for the best in the end. As Chris Martin begins:
"Lovers Keep on the road you're on. Runners Until the race is run. Soldiers You've got to soldier on."
(Toldja' they were optimists)
True, individual patches of stuff might not always make sense along the way (Martin admits: "sometimes / even the right is wrong"). But this fact is neither anything new nor indeed cause for concern. Heck, Shakespeare's Hamlet famously grappled with precisely the same questions of relativism and self-doubt some 400 years earlier when he said:
"'Tis nothing either good nor bad, but thinking makes it so" (Act II, scene ii).
In short: you can waste a whole lotta' time thinking yourself into or out of just about anything. But in the bigger picture of life? There's really no point in allowing yourself get hung up in such mental gymnastics, especially since Coldplay is pretty convinced that things will turn out alright in the end. Martin says as much right there in the chorus:
"I have no doubt One day the sun'll come out."
And then later in the song...
"But I have no doubt One day we'll work it out."
Translation: "Don't Panic" (hey look -- another Coldplay song title)! Or as Max Ehrmann might say:
"And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should." - Max Ehrmann, "Desiderata" (1952)
Coldplay's bottom line?
No point in stressing about the here and now -- simply trust that there is, in fact, a bigger plan in place, then stay the course while letting life unfold around you as it always has. After all, the glass is half full, and thus there should be "no doubt / [that] one day we'll work it out."
"Problem Play?" More like "problem solved."
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Last week, I was talking with a friend of mine who teaches high school English. He also just so happens to be something of a huge nerd for music. Needless to say, we've got more than a lot in common -- and so I was delighted to wax philosophical on the subject of F. Scott Fitzgerald and the awesomeness that is the Counting Crows.
Particularly pertinent example of awesomeness? The Counting Crows critically underrated "A Murder of One"
How awesome is this song? Just look at the title. Right off the bat, we've got ourselves an archaic word AND a double meaning. It's like Christmas come early! Check it out:
"A murder" (translation: flock) "of one" (read: singular crow)
VS.
"A murder of one" (as in, "the death of a singular person"-- ahh... but *WHO?*).
Presumably, the "singular person" who's dying here is the girl toward whom the song is addressed -- or so we're lead to believe. Basically, the gal -- let's call her "Maria" -- is trapped in a dead-end relationship with a guy who's a total zero (Adam Duritz asks: "are you happy when you're sleepin?" Survey says: "nope").
In true hopeless romantic fashion, the ever introspective Duritz implores the girl to break things off with her boy-toy. Doleful and dejected as ever, our dreadlocked balladeer even takes to playing songs outside of her window, Say Anything style. There, he pours his heart out and urges her to "change, change, change" (after all, "you don't wanna' waste your life, baby," now do you?).
Clever -- but John Cusack totally beat you to the punch.
The irony here, of course, is that our protagonist is wasting *his* time pining after someone who simply is in no place to reciprocate. Rather than living his own life, the dude is just moping from the sidelines as he watches the lives of others unfold around him. And while urging them to "change, change, change" is all well and good, it seems our narrator would be well-served to take his own advice and actually -- ya' know -- *do something* with his own life besides whining about how screwed up the lives of others might be.
Because if you don't start living, you might as well start dying. And to that end, maybe the "murder of one" is actually a self-referential and ironic commentary on the fate of our unknowing narrator himself.
Say, I've heard that one before... The Great Gatsby (1925) - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Though widely dismissed as a trivial relic of a bygone era at the time of its original publication, Fitzgerald's Gatsby has gone on to achieve near boundless acclaim in the 80-plus years since, arguably to the point where it has become a regular fixture among most informed discussions of "The Great American Novel" if there ever was one. It's heartbreaking. Universal. And timeless.
Here's the Cliff's Notes:
A plucky young narrator (Nick Carraway) relocates to the old-money end of New York and finds himself simultaneously fascinated and disgusted by the high society life of excess of a man named Jay Gatsby and his socialite ilk. In Nick's eyes, Gatsby is the living embodiment of everything that's wrong with West Egg: the parties, the booze, the lies, the revelry, the love-without-sex, the sex-without-love -- you name it. For all of its gilded sheen and promise, the place turns out to be nothing more than a moral cesspool. Man, what a friggin' waste of life.
Adam Duritz: "You don't wanna' waste your life now, darlin'..."
Fun fact: speaking of "wasted" lives, F. Scott Fitzgerald was an American expat living in Paris at the time of Gatsby's publication in 1924. And like most of the Lost Generation, he was equal parts disillusioned with the U.S. and enamored of French culture of the time. So what does this have to do with "waste?"
Check out the French translation of the phrase "the waste."
"je gaspiller"
And the name of Fitzgerald's protagonist?
Jay Gatsby. This guy = genius.
But in spite of the wasted life, wealth, and debauchery (or perhaps because of it), Nick encounters two clearly identifiable (though equally intangible) symbols that yes, gosh darnit -- there really *is* some good to be had in this crazy, crazy world.
The object of Gatsby's desires: An elusive green light that shines waaaaay off in the misty horizon, and a thoroughly unattainable girl-next-door named Daisy, who (surprise, surprise!) is trapped in a loveless relationship just outside of his very own window.
Stop me if you've heard this one before...
Daisy (like Maria) is smack-dab in the middle of a crappy relationship. Sure, she and her hubby run in the same social circles, but emotionally? They're worlds apart -- to the point where they literally sit at the same table and barely even manage to hold a simple conversation. And Daisy's beau doesn't just take her for granted and "tell her when she's wrong" (though he does plenty of that, too) -- he's a flat-out adulterer, to boot.
Enter Adam Duritz -- err, I mean -- Jay Gatsby: the sensitive outsider with a far-off dream and a heart of gold. It's obvious -- he's a better match for Daisy and they both know it, so Gatsby spends the better part of the novel throwing elaborate parties while trying to convince the poor girl to ditch her lesser-half. Gatsby's goal? Get Daisy to leave her old life behind to sail off with him towards that far-off green light and new world of promise that it represents.
Whoah -- "a glowing light" that inspires you to change? Let's get back to the Counting Crows again, for a second:
"I walk along these hillsides / In the summer 'neath the sunshine I am feathered by the moonlight...Change, change, change!"
Dang.
First we've got two stories of dudes crushing on a girl who's stuck in a dead-end relationship. And now both protagonists are looking to ethereal, far-off sources of light to help them get their heads straight. Sounds like Gatsby and Duritz have a heckuvalot in common, eh?
More than you know.
Tell you what: let's wrap this entry up by looking at an excerpt from each of the pieces we've discussed. Keep an eye out for the tone and imagery throughout, and I think you'll see just how kindred the spirits of Mr. Duritz and Mr. Gatsby really are. We'll start with some Gatsby:
"This is a valley of ashes - a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight."
Ok -- so we've got: smoke, hills, impenetrable cloudiness, and an inability to see beyond the horizon and express what really needs to be said. Still with me? Good. And now, some Counting Crows to bring us home:
"Well I dreamt I saw you walking, Up a hillside in the snow Casting shadows on the winter sky, As you stood there, counting crows
One for sorrow, two for joy, Three for girls, and four for boys, Five for silver, six for gold, Seven for a secret, never to be told
There's a bird that nests inside you, Sleeping underneath your skin Yeah, when you open up your wings to speak, I wish you'd let me in."
Hey -- *I* see what they did there.
Heartbreaking. Universal. And timeless.
(Toldja' the Counting Crows were awesome).
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