The World in Six Songs: How the Musical Brain Created Human Nature by Daniel J. Levitin Read Free Book Online Page A

indicate a question. For example, we would normally say the word Eu -rope by making the first syllable a little louder than the second and by dropping the pitch of the second (unstressed) syllable. Lowering a pitch like this usually makes the syllable sound unstressed. If instead, holding loudness manipulations the same (that is, keeping /Eu/ no louder than /rope/), I raise the pitch of the second syllable, it sounds like I’m asking a question, or like I’m unsure that I’ve chosen the right word. (Or like I’m fifteen? Ya know? Like, where every statement sounds like it’s a question? Even assertions? Like this?)
    In “Russians,” Sting artfully interposes pitch accents and linguistic accents. This breathes life into the lyrics by introducing the unexpected, and allowing the text and melody to mutually support (but not entirely determine) one another. Where the melody rises, it sometimes rises on syllables that are unstressed. Such a technique would not work well in a dance or funk song, where the linguistic and melodic accents need to line up in order to give an unambiguous sense of the beat. Think “I Got You (I Feel Good)” by James Brown:
    I feel good, I knew that I would
. . .
I feel nice, like sugar and spice
So good, so nice, I got you
     
    Apart from the fact that all (but one) of the words are monosyllabic, the accent structure of the melody supports the accent structure of how this might be spoken—contributing to the pounding insistence of the groove.
    “Russians” delivers as a song lyric because it marries text to melody, and because the lyrics feel effortless. It succeeds as a poem because even without the melody, it conveys its own rhythm, the forward momentum created by its accent structure and use of plosive consonants.
    “Amelia” and “Russians” demonstrate great beauty in language and expression, used to convey an intensely imaginative interpretation of their subjects. Rather than delivering a literal description, they effectively capture feelings and impressions of events by telling us the most evocative parts of the story—often with figurative language, instead of the sort of objective details we would get in a newspaper article. We sense in them also a drive toward art—an unstoppable internal force that impelled the writer to write. In these lyrics, as in many great works of art, we feel an inevitability about them—that they have always existed and were just waiting to be discovered. When attached to the song, the words evoke additional emotions because of the harmonic tension that the musical notes add. Together, the lyrics plus melody, harmony, and rhythm bring nuances and shades of meaning that the words alone can’t deliver.
    Both poetry and lyrics and all the visual arts draw their power from their ability to express abstractions of reality. When the poet Herbert Read wrote,
    I believe he was referring to this abstraction process that is intrinsic in the creation and appreciation of all artistic objects, and that is a feature of the musical brain. Drawings, paintings, sculpture, poems, and song allow the creator to represent an object in its absence, to experiment with different interpretations of it, and thus—at least in fantasy—to exert power over it. Songs and poems derive their ultimate power in this way.
    Art, at the dawn of human culture, was a key to survival, a sharpening of the faculties essential to the struggle for existence. Art, in my opinion, has remained a key to survival.
     
    Songs give us a multilayered, multidimensional context, in the form of harmony, melody, and timbre. We can experience them in many different modes of enjoyment—as background music, as aesthetic objets d’art independent of their meaning, as music to sing with friends or sing along with in the shower or car; they can alter our moods and minds. Each of the elements of melody, rhythm, timbre, meter, contour, and words can be appreciated alone or in combination. “I Got You (I