To you, I am fictional, something of the imagination. I am fictional blogging a fictional world, depicting something between us; my screen. To me, you are fictional. You are fictional reading a fictional world, depicting something between us; your screen. Don’t mistake this for something non-fiction.
Delight in Amsterdam is fading dear, I can’t tell these hotel rooms apart.
Not holding on for nothing.
What’s not fiction is the shape of my words themselves, the web address under which they’re posted. What’s not fiction is the speed and rhythm of my typing fingers on the keyboard buttons. These things remain real.
There, I’ve set the scene, I’ve disclaimed the abstract nature of the blogging, I’ve structured a type of analysis – now let’s review the music in question.
Fyfe – Holding On
The fiction: imagery of trecks, packed on the back, travelling and sweating with flailing clips and a musty dirt on the thick of their clasping thumbs, clutching a hotel room’s single bed after hotel room’s single bed, with the dark working through some empty window. A void echoing in the blinking stars, a void, a nothing that resonates in the chiasmic night and breaks like ocean waves over the window sill. A nothing that I’m somehow holding on to, later, and I’m leaning on too, with as many grams of composure as I can fit into the sultry idea of my silly cigarette outside a hotel room window.
The non-fiction through which my fiction, my imagination meditates: the foreground depicted by lyrics like “not holding on for nothing”, “I heard you calling”, “I can’t tell these hotel rooms apart”, “Amsterdam”; the contrast between a relaxed, contemplative, sultry deeper voice- and its instantly more intense, soft and emotion-drawing falsetto; the primitive style of drum sounds, the 808 closed and open hi-hats, warm clicking snares and the every-so-often breaking crash snare – these drums assert and builds a solid rhythm that progresses with subtlety in accordance with verse/chorus transitions, but also without ever detracting focus from the lyrical foreground; the dark and sinister sounding of the piano string bass notes that embrace the falsetto bridge and the chorus itself with a somewhat robust one-note underbelly, protruding on the first beat of each bar. The other components, the oos and the guitar sounds, the synthetic strings, the effects and the plug-ins, they are better referenced in a greater overview of the song structure itself: the verse is quiet, marked simply with quite particular lyrics about particular entities (Amsterdam and hotel rooms, messages and clouds, thirty thousand feet e.g.), amplified by minimally accompanying oos and 808 beat. The chorus stands of course in opposition and…
Oh, there’s not much more to say in this non-fiction fashion: I have already tired such formulaic representations of a song that represented nothing more than my sentiments, my imagination, my love, my sense of life’s unending story, unending rhythm; where the snare of day goes night goes day goes night, one concept into another, over and over, and both simultaneously somehow suspended lyrically in mind’s holy air, this really human-like interactive insight.
Fyfe, along these lines, is a great artist to finally discover, having made waves, it’s a pleasant opportunity to pay slight homage to the many minds which his music has refreshed. And perhaps I’ve done my job and uncovered some way, the only way, in which he can be properly responded to. If not, if so, don’t go anywhere and hey, here’s more: