On the passing of wonderful double bassist Danny Thompson
The term “creative border crosser” is misleading. The people we like to honor as creative border crossers don’t balance on any borders. They don’t cross any borders either. No, they simply don’t know any borders. They simply feel at home everywhere. What are different worlds for others is, for them, a vast cosmos with infinite facets. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to speak of creative cosmopolitans.
One of them was Danny Thompson. Born in 1939 into a mining family, he was introduced to music at an early age by his father’s two brothers, who played in a brass band. After his father died in the war, the family moved with six-year-old Danny to London, where he learned several instruments, including the trombone. He eventually discovered his love for the double bass, which captivated him so much that he built his first instrument himself at the age of 13 – according to legend, from a tea chest and piano strings he “found by chance.” Critics said they could still hear the influence of the trombone in his later bass playing.
In his early to mid-twenties, Danny Thompson embarked on what would become an exceptional career. He played in the band of jazz saxophonist Tubby Hayes, joined Alexis Korner’s Blues Incorporated, and finally, in 1967, was one of the founding members of Pentangle, the British band that effortlessly blended classic folk with jazz. It seemed only fitting that Thompson was also part of a trio around the future jazz-rock giant John McLaughlin (guitar). Blues, jazz, folk, and, of course, rock — Danny Thompson paid little attention to the criticism of the respective purists. He played what he wanted and with whomever he wanted. And this attitude catapulted him into a wide variety of musical spheres.
In the 1970s, the long-time highly esteemed string wizard went through difficult phases, was closely associated with brilliant eccentrics such as John Martyn and Nick Drake, the latter of whom died of an antidepressant overdose in 1974, and fell into alcoholism. From the 1980s onwards, having regained his footing, Danny Thompson also released his own music and increasingly contributed to albums by stars from a wide variety of genres. Only rarely were representatives of lighter pop music, such as Cliff Richard and Rod Stewart, included among his releases – mostly they were idiosyncratic artists who worked with as much vision and experimentation as he did. Talk Talk, David Sylvian, Peter Gabriel, Shelleyan Orphan, and Kate Bush are just a few of the many greats who enlisted his services. Through Peter Gabriel’s Real World label, he also participated in world music projects such as The Blind Boys of Alabama and S. E. Rogie.
It goes without saying that Danny Thompson was a virtuoso on his instrument. Furthermore, he developed a recognizable sound of his own, an almost poetic and consistently melodic style of playing, as well as the ability to absorb the music he contributed to while simultaneously enriching it with his personality. Danny Thompson never belonged to the army of ultimately interchangeable studio musicians, but was always a soulmate, a congenial artist who, with his bass playing, was known to elevate a production to the next level. You can hear it on many recordings – this bass, affectionately named Victoria by its keeper, is more than just a supporting instrument; Thompson plays it like a solo instrument, yet without obtrusively intruding on the foreground. An art mastered by few.
Danny Thompson died on September 23rd at the age of 86. With him, the world loses a great musician, whose companions always acknowledged that he had an equally big heart.
Paramore and Hayley Williams – this American band and their frontwoman have been on my mind for quite some time now. In more than twenty years, they’ve produced a collection of songs as extensive as they are stylistically diverse, and they’ve long since become international superstars. Only in Europe, and especially here in Germany, do they still fly somewhat under the radar. Why, actually?
They do exist, these clear cases: a new band, a new solo act, one or two stylish singles, and a well-made album, wonderful. As a fan, you don’t have to think about too much; the whole thing is simply fun and accompanies you through life for a while. Maybe a few nice songs more come along, and that’s it. Then there are the current sensations that come out of nowhere and supposedly shake up the pop world, but perhaps ultimately disappear into obscurity quite quickly – the garish iconoclasts and dazzling oddballs. Recently, these have often been women, and usually the topics have been gender politics, female empowerment, cheeky outsider perspectives, and/or the confident handling of apparent weaknesses and mental disorders. Sure, idiosyncratic stars like Megan Thee Stallion, Chappell Roan, Charli xcx, or, most recently, Lola Young, are incredibly exciting and important, but they are also somewhat overhyped. One can’t be sure whether they’ll still be making a name for themselves in the pop business in a year or two. Above all, of course, hover the almost untouchable megastars, sometimes in the literal sense. Just think of Pink & Co., whose live concerts are unthinkable without awe-inspiring acrobatics and an astonishing soaring above the crowd. The Madonnas, Coldplays, Beyoncés, and Dua Lipas of this world, who aim to simply overwhelm an event-hungry audience with perfectly crafted chart hits and elaborate stage shows, sometimes complemented by lavish dance crews and as many costume changes as possible – they are only topped by the biggest megastar of our time, Taylor Swift. With clever marketing strategies and a complex web of seemingly autobiographical references in her songs, she has created an entire “Taylorverse,” and no one will easily emulate her. But then there are the persistent, exceptional acts who slowly creep into your consciousness with their very own, unique sound; whom you initially encounter only sporadically, and in whom you discover more and more new sides the more you delve into them. Until at some point you realize that they have been in the business for a long time and have long been among the greats in other universes. Acts that are somehow present, but never truly tangible, that shimmer quite differently than the many flashy starlets, stars, and superstars we’re used to.
For me, these somewhat different acts include Paramore and Hayley Williams. But: Is it Paramore and their singer Hayley Williams? Or is it Hayley Williams—the frontwoman, who also occasionally pursues solo paths—with her band Paramore? The possible answers to these questions alone constitute part of Paramore’s fascination, especially since these questions have occupied and continue to occupy the changing band members as well. Indeed, the turbulent history of this American rock phenomenon is a bottomless pit, so let me just say this: When the band came together in Franklin, Tennessee, in 2004, its members were more or less teenagers. Emocore, pop-punk, and crossover rock were all the rage back then, and the extraordinarily talented combo quickly achieved initial notable success in the scene. From the very beginning, the fact that major record label Atlantic had a contract only with singer Hayley Williams, whom they hoped to develop into a mainstream pop star as a solo act, proved difficult. Williams, however, wanted to make it big with the band, so Paramore was reluctantly placed on a sublabel. This very unusual constellation resulted in constant jealousy in the early years – especially since Williams, whether she wanted it or not, always received the most attention from fans and the media. In addition, the frontwoman entered into romantic relationships with various band members one after the other, which further accelerated the already lively cycle of new additions, hiatuses, departures, and rejoinings. Enough fodder for gossip enthusiasts who, until then, had thought that the dynamics within a band couldn’t be more chaotic than those of Fleetwood Mac. I lost track of things at some point, and, to be honest, I ultimately don’t care.
Because what impresses me most is the extensive creative output of this band, which has integrated a wide variety of influences into its music, from crossover, grunge, and indie pop to classic singer-songwriter rock, dance, funk, and post-rock. This is especially true of Hayley Williams’ solo albums, which range from meditative trip-hop to quirky funk and truly serious mainstream pop. I could ramble on, but who cares? So I’ll just highlight a few highlights: Paramore’s song “Decode” was included on the soundtrack to the film adaptation of the “Twilight” fantasy saga. Hayley Williams is friends with Taylor Swift, and she has made moving guest appearances on her shows. This means that Williams and the band reach a huge spectrum of fans, from the die-hard alternative scene to charts-oriented audiences around the world. Williams is a style icon, changing outfits and hairstyles with dizzying frequency and being voted “Sexiest Female Artist” several times in reader polls for rock magazines. At the same time, she makes no secret of the fears, insecurities, and depressive phases in her life, which she often addresses in her songs. “Mental health” is a big topic. Williams is a role model for both up-and-coming lifestyle hedonists and pubescent kids in the process of self-discovery, which is actually an almost impossible balancing act. And yet this balancing act also naturally shapes the videos, some of which are bizarre and creepy, some of which are extremely tasteful and captivating. The full-blooded musicians and producers with whom Williams works have transcended all genre boundaries and know what they’re doing. The music harmonizes in a strange way with the lead vocals, which are anything but rock, but still come across as powerful and develop an astonishing number of nuances. What the collective delivers is – just like the lyrics – surprisingly free of clichés, stylistically diverse, and free of self-quotations or repetitions. Williams and Paramore don’t chase trends, but consistently cultivate their own free sound. And although they now fill huge stadiums and pull off a few rehearsed moves on stage, they don’t resort to glamorous, dazzling showmanship live, but rather stay grounded, sometimes self-deprecatingly. Essentially, Williams and Paramore – despite their intense self-promotion, including on social media – have retained a certain alternative and indie charm to this day, and their oft-demonstrated closeness to their fans doesn’t seem fake. In fact, you can still imagine these big stars in a small, trendy club.
Speaking of lyrics: They’re also worth exploring – rich in imagery, occasionally cryptic, but never mannered or overly convoluted. Rather searching, yet brutally open and often deadpan. Band dynamics are poetically reflected, as are psychological abysses, although there are always glimmers of hope. I would love to quote verse after verse here, but I’ll leave it at the opening verse of a song with the memorable title “Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party,” the title track of Williams’ current solo album. The overall context is difficult to grasp; it seems to be about a woman who feels called to greater things artistically, but never gets beyond depressing performances at bachelorette parties, at singing competitions in the provinces, or even in “fucking” karaoke bars. Perhaps a feeling from Williams’ early years? Or a reckoning with dull, restrictive social rituals and structures? The verse goes: “I’ll be the biggest star at this racist country singer’s bar.” The bold verse already hints at the tragedy of the main character, who will later realize: “No use shootin’ for the moon, no use chasing waterfalls.” Something so simple and yet profound takes some writing. For all their urge to push boundaries and engage in intense navel-gazing, there’s something very “American” about Williams and Paramore, and thus also something strange, difficult for Europeans to grasp, especially in today’s turbulent times. Perhaps one of the reasons why this exceptional ensemble hasn’t had a major breakthrough in our latitudes so far.
Music fans know the fulfilling feeling that comes with gradually getting to know and understand seemingly unwieldy artists and their music… or thinking they do. Not everything seems appealing, some of it is strange, but overall, the fascination prevails. The newly discovered music becomes an uplifting companion, and that for a long time. The oeuvre of Paramore and Hayley Williams must also be explored song by song, album by album, video by video. Here are five more tips to get you started:
“Now” A song from earlier times – stirring alternative rock with an anthemic chorus: “If there’s a future we want it NOW!” The equally stirring video depicts a brutal war scenario. Hayley Williams ends the violence – naively and poignantly at the same time – with a hug…
“Hard Times” Beguiling groove, depressive lyrics – a deliberate contradiction. The video, however, exudes humor and joie de vivre. One of Paramore’s biggest hits – occasionally heard on German radio too.
“Leave It Alone” Starts out ordinary, almost boring, but soon develops a meditative pull. The video is one of the more bizarre kinds; the lyrics speak of loss and the truth that kills. And yet, the will to live resonates here too; the song’s self can’t let go: “Can’t leave it alone”…
“Running Out of Time” This is what Paramore sounded like recently, rhythmically and sonically sophisticated, even slightly experimental. The lyrics are about a person who is completely out of sorts, feels overwhelmed, and is constantly late, also in a figurative sense. In the nonetheless entertaining video, reality becomes a morbid fantasy show – Alice is greeting from Wonderland. Yes, we’re constantly panting after inhuman expectations. And no, this band isn’t interested in trivial, everything-is-easy messages.
“Watch Me While I Bloom” But that’s also what Hayley Williams can sound like – joyful, confident, positive. “How lucky I feel to be in my body again… Watch me while I bloom,” the lyrics go, all over a cheerful groove. And one hopes that Paramore and Williams will continue to bloom for a while longer.
It’s hard to believe: Over the last few decades, I had completely forgotten about the Canadian band SAGA. And I really mean completely. Until they announced that they were stopping over in the German town Bad Vilbel. After several amazing listening sessions and a great concert, all my memories are back. And that’s a good thing.
Are you familiar with the action movie hero Jason Bourne? After being seriously injured and losing his memory, he’s rescued from the Mediterranean Sea and has to rediscover his identity. Among other things, he discovers that he was part of a secret CIA project. What does this have to do with “tedaboutsongs”? Well, when it comes to music, I actually felt a little bit like Jason Bourne recently. For a long time, I had forgotten something and needed to rediscover it: I used to be a fan of the band SAGA.
It all started a while ago when Wind Him Up, SAGA’s big hit from 1981, was being played on the radio again. I’d heard it before and enjoyed it. My wife said she liked SAGA, so when we heard that the Canadian band was touring Germany, we looked into ticket prices. They were around 50 euros each – quite a bargain considering the going rate for concert tickets. So we decided to go to the concert in Bad Vilbel near Frankfurt.
I couldn’t find a single SAGA album on my record shelf, nor a single SAGA song in my iTunes library … and apart from Wind Him Up, this putative one-hit wonder, not a single trace of the band in my memory. Worse still, at times I was confusing SAGA with another band from Toronto, namely Rush – who, for all their virtuosity, I had always found a bit tiring. So I was feeling a little curious before the SAGA concert and was open to being pleasantly surprised again. And then, one balmy evening, we had the brilliant idea of checking the band out on YouTube before their concert in Bad Vilbel. The first song didn’t ring any bells. But then the puzzle pieces came together faster and faster. Like Jason Bourne, my memory returned in increments. Suddenly I was able to reenact complicated breaks on the tabletop, “play along” with dizzying solos and double solos via my air guitar and imaginary keyboard, and sing along to one or two choruses. It was amazing: I knew quite a lot of SAGA. And I liked it.
It took me a few more days before I was able to figure out when and in which personal circumstances I was first introduced to SAGA. I don’t remember who in our clique back then had owned all the albums. I’m betting that we had endlessly listened to the stuff, and I probably even had audio cassettes with songs or albums by SAGA. So why my little bout of amnesia? No idea. Maybe it’s because of my personal life, world events and the exciting music that has come along since then. At some point in time, our brain starts deleting details from the past.
SAGA’s heyday was the late 1970s to early 1990s. It was a time when pop music was constantly spawning new genres, styles and sub-styles, from punk, wave and indie rock, gothic rock and metal, to synthpop and ambient/electronica, techno, trance and house, drum and bass, nu soul and rap. SAGA embodied the spirit of great 70s rock and art rock bands such as Blue Öyster Cult, Wishbone Ash, Genesis, Gentle Giant or Emerson, Lake & Palmer. However, they came across as cleaner and lighter and had a more modern sound thanks to the Moog bass and synth drums. Several of the band members, including frontman Michael Sadler, were experienced keyboardists. Soon, top producers like Rupert Hine were making them shine. And Michael Sadler in particular had a smart New Romantic poster boy appeal – just check out the live performances from the 80s circulating on the web. So SAGA was the perfect choice for anyone who loved lavishly produced power acts like Foreigner, Toto, Duran Duran or the elegant wave rockers The Fixx and was occasionally looking for something more intricate and symphonic. As much as I was into all the guitar-oriented and fully electronic movements of that time, I always had – and still have – a soft spot for that meticulously produced, highly aesthetic art bombast that amazes and moves you at the same time.
And now I’ve also finally discovered SAGA’s lyrics. Back then I had been distracted by the spectacularly playful music and fantasy-inspired artwork of the album covers. But recently, during a relaxed re-evaluation session, I noticed that even and especially the biggest SAGA hits don’t deal with elves, swords or science fiction motifs, but with extremely serious topics like addiction and mental crises. The protagonist stumbling through the aforementioned hit Wind Him Up, for example, has succumbed to gambling and alcohol addiction: “Once he starts it’s hard to stop…” Behind Humble Stance, with its deceptively folksy, buddy-buddy passages, one might suspect a call for humility. It’s actually about the fact that people who put themselves down and project too much humility and fear, won’t get far in life: “That humble stance and timid glance makes your world turn so slow / You know, you gotta know / There’s no one going to help you.” Where the anthemic On the Loose initially suggests unbridled celebration and boundless self-confidence, in truth it’s about people losing their balance. Quote: “I see the problem start / I watch the tension grow / I see you keeping it to yourself / And then instead of reaching conclusions / I see you reaching for something else.” Followed by the sobering refrain: “No one could stop you now / Tonight you’re on the loose.” The somewhat calmer track Time’s Up, in turn, warns against missing opportunities while daydreaming, and Tired World conjures up a gloomy apocalyptic mood – just because mankind was incapable of saving the world. For many years, singer Michael Sadler suffered from alcohol addiction, and the band experienced a lot of ups and downs. Who knows how much of this found its way into the lyrics. In this respect, SAGA, who are often ridiculed as “aesthetes” by hard-core indie and underground fans, are more rock ‘n’ roll than some of their seemingly “tough” peers.
In addition to Sadler, the band’s early members include keyboardist Jim Gilmour and guitarist Ian Crichton. The latter broke his leg before the current tour. So without missing a beat, bassist Dusty Chesterfield – who joined the band in 2018 and is a real prodigy on strings – took over the guitar parts. And a new member was brought in to handle the four strings, although his name is nowhere to be found online. Due to a cancer diagnosis, Sadler himself had recently undergone an operation. So it’s a miracle that SAGA were even able to pull off this tour – and an example of willpower, discipline and stamina, as well as professionalism and flexibility. Sadler, now a gaunt, balding man with a beard, turned 70 on July 5th. Between songs, he joked about ageing with the much younger Dusty Chesterfield during the Bad Vilbel gig.”You have to smile and bear it,” he said – the right attitude. The band had their first breakthroughs in the Netherlands and in Germany, which was actually where their success story started. So it was awesome that Sadler thanked the German audience for this and even managed a few remarks in German.
So there were lots of reasons to celebrate the band during its performance in Bad Vilbel. Even though Sadler’s vocal delivery wasn’t quite as powerful as it was back in the day, and even though the sound occasionally felt a bit unbalanced, over the course of two hours the quintet really got into their groove. They played all the hits and classic tracks their fans had hoped for. The younger fans were probably surprised by Mike Thorne’s drum solo which lasted for several minutes – something that used to be a normal part of every rock show during the last century. The older fans on the other hand – who were clearly in the majority – had no problem with one or two lengthy instrumental intermezzos and Sadler’s subtle little breaks: They allowed the frontman to pace himself and repeatedly recharge his batteries. At the end of the regular set, as well as after the first encore Wind Him Up, there were standing ovations – which the valiant performers had truly earned. The tour’s motto, “It Never Ends,” seems fitting for a reason.
Joseph is the name three singing sisters from Oregon/USA have given themselves. They have released four albums with unique and timeless songs that range from atmospheric folk music to power pop with a hint of rock – the latest is called The Sun and is about mindfulness, resilience and healing.
„I thought I was the light switch you turned on / But I am the sun.” Bang! Finally, lyrics that stick with you. Striking, clunky and inspiring in the best sense of the word. They are by the American band Joseph and can be heard in The Sun, the title track of Joseph’s fourth album which was released in the spring of 2023. In The Sun, a person frees themselves from the bonds of a seemingly healthy relationship and begins to shine. The person in the song thought that their constantly depressed mood was “normal” and looked for faults only in themselves, without realizing that the other person in the relationship was primarily concerned with feeling superior: „Well, you wanted me small / So you could feel like someone at all / And I played along / And normalized, telling myself I was wrong.“ But now something has changed. Suddenly, “Feeling good doesn’t feel bad anymore” and the unfair game stops: “I’m done playing a game that can’t be won.” The motif of the light switch that crops up in the main lyrics seems strange, but was chosen deliberately: It accentuates not just the artificial glow that the person in the song has long taken for granted, but also being instrumentalized and used. The person in the song now knows that they are not just some switch the other person pulls to create an artificial glow – they are a star shining brightly on their own!
Of course the assumption is that this song is primarily about a romantic relationship. But the lyrics are kept so general that the dynamics described can also be applied to other relation-ships: those between children and parents, between team members and supervisors, or more generally, between members of a group. And anyone who has gradually grown tired of euphoric self-assertiveness hits like Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, Cher’s Strong Enough or I’m Still Standing by Elton John, might discover an understated alternative in the hymnal-optimistic Joseph song The Sun.
What makes the song worth listening to, aside from the pointed lyrics and captivating melody, is the soulful performance and the unusual people behind it. Joseph is a trio that is already somewhat well-known in the United States, but tends to fly under the radar in the rest of the world. They are the twin sisters Allison and Meegan Closner and their half-sister Natalie Closner-Schepman, who is four years older. Together, they bring harmonies to the stage which are almost indescribable and which only such an unconventional group of sisters can pull off. And we’re not talking about clinical perfection, i.e. an artfully smooth but ultimately soulless fusion of voices, but a very special overall sound that each singer enriches with individual nuances. Natalie Closner-Schepman isn’t just a vocalist, but also “the one with the guitar” and the spokesperson in interviews. She originally tried her hand as a solo singer-songwriter and then, when things weren’t taking off, persuaded the no less talented Meegan and Allison to join her in a band. The name of the trio? Well, Joseph is a town in Oregon, the state the three are from, and Joseph was the name of their beloved grandfather – sometimes it can be that simple and down-to-earth. For almost a decade the soulful sisters have been offering up everything from atmospheric folk music to power pop, while effortlessly integrating elements of country and rock, but without allowing themselves to be pinned down to a specific genre. What they do has a timeless quality. Their music is so rich with beguiling melodies, unusual harmonies and great lyrics, their performance so charismatic, that Joseph should have been superstars long ago. But they aren’t. They are probably just … too idiosyncratic.
It starts with the way they present themselves. They usually go onstage seemingly without make-up and in casual clothes. And when they do “dress up” it looks more old-fashioned, like grandma’s birthday or a school prom, than in the style of “real” pop stars. There are flashes of rock glamour here and there, but on the whole you can’t help but get the impression that these sisters are just having fun, perhaps even self-deprecatingly putting on something of a show so they can ultimately focus on the only thing they really want to do: go out and sing.
This is why, although there are a few “official videos” of the trio’s songs, these seldom seem to be lavishly produced and, it must be said, are also rarely very riveting. Much more exciting are the countless live or unplugged clips of Joseph circulating on the internet: The three women can be seen standing somewhere in the countryside, in cramped studios or in auditoriums, stores or libraries, performing their songs in a raw lo-fi sound. Sometimes they seem so immersed in their music that you find yourself holding your breath, even when watching them on your device. As a result, the ending of every Joseph song on the sometimes lavishly arranged studio albums with a band line-up – which are well worth listening to – is properly composed, i.e. it never fades out. Joseph’s songs are self-contained compositions for live performances – they get to the point in every respect.
Yes, I can really rave about this band. But from all the exceptional characteristics described above, it’s easy to circle back to songs like The Sun. Because just like the person in this song frees themselves from negative influences and begins to shine from within, the band’s development and approach also reflects its will to resist, above all to remain true to itself, to avoid artificiality, even self-deception and to not betray its own artistic aspirations. In interviews, Joseph talks openly about insecurities, self-doubt and fears, about a family dynamic that was not always harmonious, about successes, difficult partnerships and failures – and about personal development, for which they also sought therapeutic help.
Some earlier songs were, in fact, already about intense relationship work, self-assertiveness and empowerment. The 2023 album The Sun now documents a re-emergence of the band and is almost entirely about “more-ness”, as the protagonists call it: about recognizing that you are “more” than you think you are – and even more than what society, your personal environment and your partner want to reduce you to. So the ten songs on the album are something like the sound of resilience, with unusual lyrics like the following, which come from the constantly rising and falling song Waves Crash: „There’s no need to define / How I measure up next to anyone / Or how well I stayed in the lines / I’m a tall, tall tree reaching up in the breeze / All I have to do is breathe / I’m a limb of goodness in motion / (…) / You wouldn’t tell the flower it was made of sin / You know it’s good just for being / What if, what if I’m not made of sin? / What if, what if I’m lightning?“ No, life isn’t about comparing yourself to others and fitting in. It’s about existing freely – like a tree or a flower, as a natural being, without guilt and with good intentions. Wow, that makes you sit up and take notice again. But it’s a disarming perspective. With a surprising final question: “What if I am lightning?”
Mindfulness, resilience, empowerment – these are the buzzwords of our time. Many pop stars use them too, especially female ones. But what American stars in particular are selling as “female empowerment” isn’t always convincing: Some stars who are living in the lap of luxury thanks to countless hits in the charts, and who have unlimited financial resources, suggest that you can simultaneously be a superstar, successful pop entrepreneur, sex symbol and a perfect mother, too. Other stars present themselves as especially tough and independent, but try to conceal the fact that their crude lyrics and glamorous looks, which have been enhanced by cosmetic interventions, fuel entire industries – and, even more, fulfil the expectations of heterosexual men. This all sells well, but creates ideal images which are questionable, if not downright unattainable – and which ultimately widen the gap between female artists and fans.
The Closner sisters, on the other hand, are neither models, nor are they desperately trying to be so. They seem to be focused only on their songwriting, authentic, approachable, sometimes weird and vulnerable. They interact on equal footing with their audience. This low-key, almost “normal” approach and the ultimately too complex messages are probably what have prevented them from achieving international stardom so far, even though songs like White Flag reached number one in the billboard-“Adult Alternative Airplay”-charts in October 2016. “Burn the white flag!” goes the rousing chorus. And of course it’s all about not surrendering. However, the opponents are neither personal or political enemies nor any sinister villains, but the skeptical voices and the fear of failure that prevent you from doing what you actually want to do.
In Fighter, a similarly catchy song from 2019, Joseph put their very own spin on a common theme of self-assertiveness. Contrary to all pop conventions, here it’s not the person in the song who is celebrating themselves as an uncompromising fighter for survival. No, the narrator has been fighting for love for a long time, but now also demands that the other person does not retreat, but is just as committed to fighting to save the relationship: „Don’t keep yourself from me (…) Don’t lie this time / I need a fighter / You’re my bright side / I want it brighter / Don’t leave me in the dark.“ In turn, lyrics like this tie in with Canyon, an irresistible power pop song in which the person in the song prepares to finally get closer to their counterpart, characterized as a country, a mine and an ocean. But this counterpart is so closed off and, figuratively speaking, so “far away” that even a few centimeters distance seems like an unbridgeable canyon: „Can’t get, I can’t get / Can’t get close enough to be close to you / Can’t get, I can’t get there / An inch is a canyon.“ Never getting close enough to really be able to talk about closeness – that sounds like heavy emotional labor.
Which brings us to that key word ‘love’. Yes, love is also an important topic for Joseph – as a central element in families and partnerships, but also as a driving universal force. However, in their deep dive into this universal force, the three avoid throwing around overly naïve and kitschy phrases like “All you need is love” or “Love is the answer”. On the contrary: The person in the song Love Is Flowing, also from the current album The Sun, is realistic – they feel pain, see suffering, but feel powerless and can’t help: „Something’s burning / But I can’t reach it / Phantom limb on fire / Someone’s hurting / But I can’t fix it / And I don’t know how to try.“ Even all-encompassing love, of whose existence and constant flow the person in the song is at least convinced, cannot really be felt, let alone channeled into something that benefits all people. But there is a longing for an entry point, and that at least gives us hope: „Love is flowing, love is flowing, love is flowing, love is flowing / And I wanna get in it.“ The bubbling rhythm and gently undulating vocal line visualize this inspiring river, which one wishes would eventually permeate everyone and everything. These are bittersweet lyrics. They are neither flirtatious nor pretentious. Just apt.
We live in turbulent times. The pandemic, wars and political crises have changed the world, depressing news every day, certainties are dissolving. And one often gets the impression that the people in ones own personal circle are behaving differently, more unpredictably than before. In times like these, bands like Joseph with songs like Fighter, Canyon, The Sun or Love Is Flowing don’t only provide support and comfort, but also energy and confidence. Pop as therapy – for the artists and for the audience.
In the mid-70s, Pink Floyd released Have A Cigar, a song criticizing the music industry and its scummy managers. Today, some of those historic fronts have dissolved while others have shifted significantly. And some heroes from back then aren’t what they used to be.
“Oh, by the way, which one (of you) is Pink?” We’re in the 70s, Have A Cigar by Pink Floyd is playing as usual. And like every time this song gets played, you are captivated by the heavy, almost metallic-sounding groove that the band is unleashing here within the context of a state-of-the-art studio production, as well as by the rather aloof-sounding vocals. But when the singer mentions a part of the band’s name yet again, you start to wonder. Asking about someone called Pink in a song by the British art rock band Pink Floyd of all things? That’s weird. At some point you also start to analyze the lyrics. And you realize that it is precisely this question about the band member called Pink which proves that the song’s narrator is a hypocritical ignoramus – and which reveals the lyrics’ unusual narrative situation.
Have A Cigar was released in 1975 on the LP Wish You Were Here and has the characteristics of a dramatic monologue. This lyrical form of presentation differs from the classic monologue in that the narrator is speaking within a very specific communicative or dialogic situation. Although the other person is not quoted at all, their presence can be felt: Because they are being addressed directly or because one of their comments is being responded to. The lyrics thus don’t mirror a soliloquy, but rather the monologue of a central character which has been detached from a stage drama. The great dramatic monologues of literary history are often gripping because the narrator is in a unique, emotionally charged situation and is allowing the audience to participate in an evolutionary or decision-making process. This can also lead to surprising revelations, or even self-revelations. Of course, the lyrics of Have A Cigar are far too short and compact to cover such an exceptional range of content – and yet Pink Floyd’s lyrics and vocal act in the mid-70s go significantly beyond what garrulous songwriters usually produce in pop songs.
The narrator of the piece is clearly a music manager who – in an arrogantly avuncular manner and with suggestive rhetoric – is trying to persuade a talented young musician and his band to make a deal. First he entices and impresses the artist with cigars, a symbol of success-oriented machismo and big-wiggery, then he promises him the moon. He says the “boy” – and with him his bandmates – are destined for success: “Come in here, dear boy, have a cigar. / You’re gonna go far / You’re gonna fly high, / You’re never gonna die, / You’re gonna make it, if you try. / They’re gonna love you.” However, as the lyrics progress it becomes increasingly clear that the manager is not seriously interested in either the musician or his music: “Well, I’ve always had a deep respect, / And I mean that most sincere”, he flatters and emphasizes how wonderful he thinks the group he wants to sign is: “The band is just fantastic, / That is really what I think.” It’s all so over the top that it’s hard to believe. And then the manager asks the cringey question that finally outs him as an unempathetic wheeler-dealer: “Oh, by the way, which one is Pink?” Of course, we can assume that the “authors” of the song are also addressing themselves here. And anyone who is even slightly interested in Pink Floyd will definitely know that there is no band member with the first name Pink – that the band name is in fact made up of the first names of the blues musicians Pink Anderson and Floyd Council. So our brash manager put his foot in his mouth – without even realizing it.
Worse still, in the chorus that follows he cheerfully admits that he and the company he works for are just playing a game centered around money: “And did we tell you the name of the game, boy? / We call it riding the gravy train.” By now the narrator has revealed himself to be a representative of an ice-cold, profit-hungry music business that only assesses people and artistic achievements according to their market value and is exactly the opposite of “sincere”, namely insincere and dishonest. Against this backdrop, the machine-like groove and the “windy”, slightly drugged-up vocals make even more sense – cue the cliché of fat decision-makers in the music industry who are busy doing coke and think they are star-creators, or to put it more mundanely: the greatest, i.e. gods. What is fascinating in this context is that the manager’s speech also sheds light on the construct of the rock brand “Pink Floyd”: It is not only able to stand for many other bands, it can also easily take on the role of an extra in its own song.
Have A Cigar is one of two songs on Wish You Were Here that explicitly criticize the music industry, the other is called Welcome to the Machine. And if you take this criticism as the central theme of the album, then the accompanying cover- and postcard designs, which at the time we fans simply found spectacularly surreal and somehow cool, also send clear messages: There is the man in a suit in flames, to whom another man in a suit is holding out his hand – as if he is literally being burned by closing a deal. There is the person whose bare legs are sticking straight out of the water of an almost mirror-smooth lake – a deceptively beautiful image for gleaming illusions in which the human being seems to be just an appendage, or also for the insignificance of human activity, because the person in the picture is not making any waves. There are the two machine hands that, once again, come together for a contractual handshake.And there is the faceless man with a bowler hat and briefcase, reminiscent of figures by René Magritte, who is trying to sell records to fans somewhere in the desert. All iconic images of rock culture. And maybe the casting of the vocal part of Have A Cigar was also a tiny sign of rebellion: Because the wonderfully crazy voice of the song’s sly narrator is not supplied by a Pink Floyd member, but by folk singer Roy Harper. During the production of Wish You Were Here he happened to be recording in a neighboring studio and ended up stepping in, either because the band vocalists who were supposed to do it couldn’t do it properly, or because they simply didn’t want to. In any case, this was also not quite what the record bosses were expecting from their “cash cow” Pink Floyd.
In fact, the gentlemen at the head of the record company were less than enthusiastic about the cover designs and song messages on the Wish You Were Here album. The latter have long been seen as the band’s reaction to the pressure created by the worldwide success of the previous Pink Floyd album The Dark Side of the Moon (1973). “We need a follow-up album that is at least as successful as this one”, is what the record company’s expectation is said to have been. And Pink Floyd didn’t want that. It is almost ironic that they ultimately fulfilled this expectation and that Wish You Were Here is now a frontrunner in various lists of the best albums of all time. Just like the fact that the band did end up introducing a guy called Pink into their universe just a few years after Wish You Were Here and Have A Cigar. We are, of course, talking about the fictional protagonist of the 1979 concept album The Wall: This Pink is definitely not a grinning hero, but a musician plagued by psychosis – but that is almost obvious.
Songs like Have A Cigar harken back to a time when the boisterous rock-n-roll of the 1950s and 60s had gradually come of age. Rock music had matured and become a profitable global business which produced saturated superstars – so much so that it was in danger of betraying its old ideals. It was a time when large record companies dominated the rules of the game and charismatic managers such as Brian Epstein (The Beatles) or Thomas Andrew “Colonel Tom” Parker (Elvis Presley) controlled the fortunes of “their” artists. Even the counter-movements of punk and new wave produced similarly enigmatic figures, who are also referred to as “Svengalis” after a sinister behind-the-scenes protagonist from George du Maurier’s horror story Trilby (1894) – think Malcolm McLaren (The Sex Pistols) and Bill Drummond (Echo & The Bunnymen, The Teardrop Explodes). No question: In the 1970s and 80s, being a serious fan meant cultivating a healthy mistrust of the mainstream and the major labels, combined with a passion for the underground bands and independent labels that were springing up like mushrooms. Of course, there was nothing wrong with still listening to idiosyncratic rock dinosaurs like Pink Floyd in the privacy of your own room – after all, nobody needed to know.
Big record companies and management gurus on the one side, brave indie creators on the other – this juxtaposition seemed to be set in stone and to offer a sense of direction designed to last forever. But then came digitalization, the internet and social media – and suddenly nothing was the way it used to be. Historic fronts dissolved and unprecedented opportunities arose for today’s musical artists. At the same time, new images of ‘the enemy’ emerged. Today, we look back at bands like the Arctic Monkeys and stars like Billie Eilish who became famous not with the help of a major record company, but rather through the internet, and who have long since successfully enjoyed a lot of artistic freedom. We celebrate independent starlets and stars, but also superstars like Lady Gaga and Beyoncé – the latter runs a kind of family music empire with her husband Jay-Z.
And we lionize phenomena like Taylor Swift, a megastar personality whose success across all analogue and digital platforms has almost managed to create a significant industry of her very own. Once dependent on labels that marketed her first albums without her, Swift regained control by simply covering her own early albums, i.e. by re-recording them with slight changes and then marketing them herself. Today, she is dictating terms to providers such as Apple Music and breaking all attendance records with her tours. Which leads us to a flipside of today’s music industry, the streaming services. Because they pay artists showcasing their work on these platforms negligible royalties, which means that only the industry’s top stars can actually earn any kind of money there. And that, in turn, pits the smaller artists against the top earners. Yes, the times they are a’ changing – and so are the historic fronts. So much so that the chasm between successful and unsuccessful, between rich and poor, is almost greater today than it was in the 70s, that era of industry-criticizing titans such as Pink Floyd and their ilk.
So what has become of the “good old” cigar-smoking record bosses and the egocentric Svengalis of yesteryear? They have simply disappeared. Or, except in the case of casted test-tube acts, they have become almost irrelevant. It’s true that there are still things that artists have professionals manage for them – from bookings to studio rentals, from accounting and legal advice to video shootings. But in stark contrast to 30 or 40 years ago the stars of today, including a pleasantly large number of women, very often have a high degree of control over their work and actions. Nobody would write a song like Have A Cigar these days. And to be honest, by and large some artists from back then aren’t what they used to be. In fact, the members of Pink Floyd have been at odds for years. And Roger Waters, something of a band leader and globally feted social critic in the 70s, is facing headline-grabbing police investigations and attempts to ban him from performing in 2023 because of weird pro-Putin statements and the irritating integration of anti-Semitic symbols into his stage performances.
This article first appeared in the „LyrikLINES“ series on the ‘Faust-Kultur’ portal
