No doubt the supposed importance of words is a subject that has been devoted significant print. So, it’s unsurprising that any vehicle for words, this blog included, is probably the worst place to find a balanced opinion on the subject, akin to asking a militant vegan where you should eat for dinner.
There’s no shortage of lofty opinions on words. Sam Adams suggested words could lead to tyranny, uber-successful nerd-God Steve Wozniak credited song lyrics with giving his life direction and some guy I looked up named Ludwig Wittgenstein even said the limits of his language were the limits of his very world.
We can’t help it, the need to “find the right words” is all but ingrained in our culture. Entire books have been written to this subject, countless movie climaxes seek this goal and from a quick Googling, so do hundreds of millions of searches.
I’ve long gravitated toward artists with a strong lyrical aptitude. I count Bright Eyes, Nirvana and The Hold Steady among my favorite artists. All are bands known to turn the kind of phrase that contains double meanings, hidden allusions, clues that beg a deeper analysis, as if just another pass will complete the puzzle.
I’ve even frequently derided bands that seem to undercook this part of the music, making the point that great bands need to write equally great lyrics. This was long my main criticism of Rush, Iron Maiden and Incubus. (For a more recent example, see my X Years Gone on The National’s Alligator). And I’m not the only one who values words in songs. Critics in particular, most devoted wordsmiths themselves, have long had the lyricism bug. Our own Jake Roeschley (and many other pundits) lauded Kanye West’s newest release Yeezus, as musically visionary. Still, he couldn’t help get over that it was bogged down by his “never-been-superb rapping.”
But, do words have to matter? What’s the value of words when their meaning is so relative? So bound by the need for human beings who can understand them?
I recently visited my father’s hometown deep in the mountains of Sicily. There, I was held captive on the way back from a Mai Tai-filled induction to Euro clubs, stapled in the passenger seat as I barrelled down winding dirt roads in a milk carton-sized Fiat helmed by a half-sauced driver.
I had no way to voice any objection to the proceedings.
The driver was a dark-tanned Sicilian, one of those ham-handed gorilla men who favor curved sunglasses, chest hair and stubble – those types that seem destined to become overly jovial uncles.
No one we were with that evening knew him very well.
The gorilla-man looked to me for approval after up-shifting through each hairpin turn. “Bueno?” He would ask with a thumbs up extended. Bueno, I returned, half trying to convince myself.
On the radio, the opposite communication phenomenon was happening; I found myself listening to music only I understood. All the songs were the same, most of them in English. I could hear them clearly above the engine.
Gorilla-man played pop song after pop song, humming along without knowing. He was untouched by the irony that during our road race, Ke$ha’s “Die Young” played twice.
I asked him if he understood, capice and pointing. “No se,” he said: ‘I don’t know’ in Italian.
My words weren’t useful. They were shaky and rushed, like the car in our backhills road race. He knew what they traveled on, the face, the voice, the shoulders, and how they drove the cadence, tone and timber of my voice. All were equally important to get us to our destination, understanding. He slowed.
Later, Deadmau5 began to play. I could almost see it in the way he settled; finally, his body radiated ‘music that I can understand.’
He looked at me.
“Capice,” he said.
I nodded. No more words were needed.
Pete Rizzo can be reached at prizzo@thoughtpollution.com.