Bossa nova was a self-fulfilling prophecy; it was the new wave before there was
new wave. It was, by definition, the in sound from way out, to paraphrase the Beastie Boys. Without irony, the French band Nouvelle Vague appropriated its formal theory without really understanding what it was all about, which is why nylon string guitars covering "Love Will Tear Us Apart" will only really be a temporary novelty and not a lasting testament to a time and place.
The irony of this could not be greater, since bossa nova was, at the time, the latest movement in the eternal history of love songs: love of place, history, culture, and most of all, love in all of its swooning yet lustful glory. That being said, bossa nova's crowning achievement isn't so much lyrical prowess, advanced harmonic usage (for popular music, at least), or successful stylistic synthesis (jazz + traditional Brazilian songwriting). Bossa nova's legacy is the palpable and visceral feeling one gets of a beach, a girl, grainy film, modernist apartment buildings on the waterfront, and fluttering hearts. Even the most cited criticisms of bossa nova as a movement acknowledge this power of image conjuring as fact, only to dismiss it as an incomplete view of Brazilian culture of the period at the hands of cultural imperialists, who took the saccharine aspects of samba and combined it with smooth sounds of Chet Baker or Gerry Mulligan.
It would be conjecture for me to try and understand why bossa nova is so palatably visceral. Maybe it was
Black Orpheus, though I hadn't watched it until last year and didn't find it nearly as evocative as I would've hoped. Maybe it was old photographs of linen pants and aviator glasses, but again, I wouldn't make the connection until much later. As far as I can tell, the sound of Stan Getz's saxophone against the backdrop of João Gilberto's guitar is as ingrained an image as there can possibly be. It feels, almost objectively speaking, to be the voice of its time and place, a time and place I would have loved to have been a part of. Even if I understand, intellectually or even intuitively, that bossa nova was an incomplete rendering of Brazil in the 1950's and 1960's, I cannot help but be drawn into its cosmic romanticism, into a world devoid of conscious contrivances and comprised of organic bliss. When I listen to Caetano Veloso and Gal Costa's
Domingo, the images are so clear that I can smell the sea salt. This must be what heaven is like.
It got me thinking of other perfect confluences of music and time that I have experienced. There is something to be said for the image of the Palace of Versailles that pops up anytime I listen to Mozart or even Bach. Whether it is historically accurate is a moot point; what I know to be true is decadent waltzes and a world still unperturbed by the annoyances of industrialism. Of course, what is hidden behind that is the oppression of early colonialism and the arrogance that comes with such blatant, forceful conquering, but again, that is a story for another day.
Acid jazz, eletronica, lounge and trip-hop all conjure up images of the contemporary urban landscape. As absent as these genres are from the American mainstream, their ubiquity in commercials has left a lasting impression on my imagination. It is impossible for me to hear Groove Armada, The Cinematic Orchestra, Portishead, Thievery Corporation and the like without thinking of being in a pretty nice sports car, traversing the almost post-apocalyptic empty urban landscape with four people that are presumably my friends. Maybe this is a bit commercially whorish of me, but frankly, I think it is more important to acknowledge these images than try to repress them as unrealistic, capitalist-induced fantasies that are the result of early indoctrination. At the very least, if I can articulate these images then maybe I can be more aware of the behind-the-scenes manipulations that created them in the first place. The soundtrack to a walk through my cavernous old stomping grounds of Greenwich Village late at night are usually accompanied by one or more of these groups.
Another genre that really manipulates emotionally is alt-country. When I listen to Wilco, Ryan Adams, Cat Power and even Calexico to a certain degree, it isn't hard to imagine a summer porch scene replete with mosquito tape, a neighborhood bar or a desert ranch alone in solidarity. Whether the imagery or the music came first is beyond me, but these are the images I have attached to them.
Strangely enough, while I was in Tucson for my friends' wedding a couple of years ago, I thought not only of Calexico, a hometown band whose soundscapes are as influenced by their surroundings as is possible, but Aaron Copeland, with whom I associate images of canyons, "wild west" frontier land and general Americana. That Americana is both used in reference to turn of the century landscape painting and bluegrass-influenced music is both strangely divergent and completely coherent. I suppose they differ only in the periods of time they depict.
One cultural artifact that synthesized the auditory and visual cues succinctly and coherently was the film
Amelie. The film so perfectly illustrates the romanticized view of Paris so often conjured up by tourists and foreigners that the city is almost bound to be a letdown upon arrival. But like any great city, Paris deserves its reputation for being a city of romance and the line between cinematic perfection and urban landscape reality quickly erodes on a beautiful night walking around the Eiffel Tower while hearing the faint sounds of an accordion player.
To examine the genres that do not elicit such strong imagery for me is almost to show a history of genres I have fallen out of love with. Though I still carry a deep affection for jazz, the kind of jazz that moves me is drastically different than the music I used to (and still occasionally do) perform. It may speak to my lack of mastery of the saxophone, or it may speak to the development of my emotional maturity, but regardless, it took me several years after I stopped playing regularly to appreciate the beauty and thoughfulness of Nat "King" Cole, early Miles Davis and many others. To me, the idea that jazz could be not only emotional but evocative was foreign until after I put down the saxophone for some time. Now, when I listen to "Kind of Blue", I am awash with emotion and find myself sitting in an Eames chair next to a fireplace, wearing thick-rimmed beat glasses and a khaki jacket, an image so sublime it makes me want to re-enact it without pause.
It says something to me that a lot of indie rock fails to elicit this kind of emotional response. For me, indie rock is an exploration of energy levels and vicarious technical virtuosity (otherwise known as "air drumming/guitaring"). It is rare for an indie rock song or album to elicit this kind of emotional response for me. I think of indie rock as a focused channeling of energy more than an exploration of mood creation. But there are, of course, exceptions, even if I can't currently remember what they are.
Sorry if the post rambles quite a bit, but this exercise actually proved to be extremely cathartic. Music is such a powerful force that it can be easy to forget how it affects our day-to-day reality as well as our dream universe, but once in a while it's nice to stop and take stock.
------
Postscript:
The wonderful irony of the photos I have posted to accompany this piece is that not a single one of them really encapsulates the emotion or mood I discuss. Maybe it is innately impossible to capture this universe, but each one of the examples I mention above corresponds to such a visceral image that I find it impossible to believe that the image doesn't exist somewhere in non-imagined form.
------
Second Postscript:
What are some songs, artists, albums or genres that give you that real palpable, visceral sensation? There are plenty that I left out: Celtic and Acadian music, classical guitar, Cuban trova, afro-pop, etc. I'm curious to see what makes you guys tick.
