Singing is not over-sung, it is not faked expressiveness. It is what truly cannot be held in any longer.
When aching sorrow or full joy bursts from the beating heart, there is no inclination toward flashy posturing.
Vincent Van Gogh didn’t
over-polish his songs.
And just as a movie actor abides by the vision of the director and screenwriter, so to a singer defers to the sovereignty of the written song.
Singing is one measured voice in a larger arrangement, with other instruments carefully woven in. Counter melody pulls. Shifting harmonies resolve in centered truth.
A song is real, with a bit of dirt and some rough energy. Van Gogh didn’t paint smooth and slick pictures, he didn’t aim to win trendy favor. He unleashed a raw, original vision.
And though a song be bold and unrepressed, still – not a single note is wasted. Furthermore…
Every word carries significance and the lyrics are void of hackneyed expression. Great writing has precedents. Steinbeck listens and smiles, Dostoyevski pays attention, Rand nods, Salinger takes note, Hemingway approves.
A song is not judged by temporarily-popular celebrities, but by the Gods against a backdrop of immortal art.
Confucius said: “In music more than aught else, there should be nothing showy or false.”
Amen to that.
-Todd and Jingyu
