Bandwidth

14.01.10

IF YOU CUT ME, I BLEED DARKNESS

by Steven Rainey

A Moment Of Clarity

If You Cut Me I Bleed Darkness
Illustration by Stephen Graham

The artist sits alone in his musty manse, contemplating those subjects that others fear to face. His suffering, monumental in it’s nature, dwarfs all other consideration. He pauses, hunched over a battered acoustic guitar, out of tune, but powered by pure soul, and the audience lay down their everyday concerns, content to basque (sic) in his greatness.  

This, my friends, is the real pain.

 I hate singer-songwriters, always have. There’s just something so nauseating about the concept of the lone troubadour pouring his thoughts and emotions into the song, coughing up pearls of wisdom for us mere mortals to cling to. It makes me barf.

  Or it used to anyway. Over the last year or so, I’ve found myself mellowing on the subject, no quite so quick to call a jihad whenever someone picks up a guitar and begins strumming a few minor chords whilst looking thoughtful.  

(Indeed, I’ve found myself mellowing on a number of subjects lately. No longer do I pour scorn on musicians who commit the crime of trying to make money from their music! Ian MacKaye – I have misinterpreted you for several years now. I apologise.)

  Two singer-songwriters have elevated themselves out of the great pantheon of recorded music, and entered the hallowed halls of my heart. Both err towards the melancholic, miserable side of things, and both of them died young in tragic, not to mention mysterious circumstances. And sadly both of them attract a following which occasionally threatens to destroy and obscure the great legacy they have left behind.  

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, allow me to introduce Elliott Smith and Nick Drake.  

For those that aren’t familiar with them, here’s the info. Elliott Smith, before his untimely demise on the business end of a carving knife, was a critically acclaimed songwriter, famed for his intimate and layered delivery. Dealing with dark and frequently depressing subject matter, Smith had a wonderful way with words, neatly avoiding the clichés inherent in the genre, whilst simultaneously celebrating them, and possessed a voice like silk which weaved its way through the Beatles-esque music he frequently used to frame his bar-room vignettes. He was found dead in 2003, having been stabbed twice in the chest. The wounds may or may not have been self-inflicted. He was 34 years old.

  Nick Drake, before his untimely demise on the business end of some prescription medication, was a critically acclaimed songwriter, famed for his intimate and intricate delivery. Dealing with dark and frequently depressing subject matter, Drake had a wonderful way with words, neatly avoiding all the clichés inherent in the genre by creating a new lexicon with which to express oneself, and possessed a voice like velvet which weaved its way through the haunting and frequently stark* music he used to frame his bedroom vignettes. He was found dead in 1974, having overdosed on prescription medication. The overdose may or may not have been part of a suicide attempt. He was 26 years old.  

(* I am particularly referring to his final album, Pink Moon. The first two are deceptively jolly in places.)

Both men have a slender legacy, which has expanded posthumously, and have largely been canonised since their death. Smith was nominated for an Oscar when one of his songs appeared in the 1998 film Good Will Hunting, which attracted him a considerable amount of attention, but his legacy has continued to grow in the aftermath of his death. Drake, on the other hand, was virtually unknown in his lifetime, and it has taken over twenty years for his music to slowly permeate into the popular consciousness, largely down to his music being played in a car commercial. Such is life, I guess.  

As I said at the start, I hate singer-songwriters, and there’s a lot about Elliott Smith and Nick Drake that epitomises what I don’t like about the genre. Both of them exemplify the ‘troubled loner’ persona which has become such a cliché. Also, they have – inadvertently it has to be said – inspired legions of less talented songwriters to inflict their misery upon the world, whether we want them to or not. Anyone with a guitar and a bag full of emotions seems to think that they’ve got carte blanche to share said emotions with the rest of us, as if their insights have some kind of weight which lifts them outside of the normal world and makes them some kind of Supermen or Gods or something, and then expect us mere mortals to lap it up, like we have no way of articulating our emotions at all, AND I’M LOOKING AT YOU, DAMIEN RICE!!!  

Sorry, I got a bit carried away there.  

But hopefully you get the point.  

Once I’ve got past the emotional baggage that others have brought to the show, I can settle down and just wrap this stuff around me. Whilst both songwriters deal with intensely personal visions, that we can occasionally struggle to comprehend, there is a universality at the core of their writing that we can all connect with. Unhurried and gentle, this is music that slowly sidles up beside you and embraces you. And, as with many things, my own personal connection is borne entirely out of love.

  Both were introduced to me by lovers with whom I have seemingly outstayed my welcome, and as such, both songwriters remain an undying connection to a life I used to lead. Like a hotline straight to my heart, I can dial into this any time I want to, and be transported to a place which is both comforting and painful. I’m not in any way connected to the subjects either man wrote about (although they both have a fair few songs where I can strongly identify with the lyrical content), but rather I have imposed my own involvement with these songs. One listen to Elliott Smith, and I can feel pale skin against pale skin, a brush of hair on my face. As Nick Drake sings of the River Man, or the Pink Moon hanging in the sky, I can feel a tear on my cheek, sunlight on my bones, and hope in my heart.   

These days it’s the worst crime imaginable for a person in my position to commit, exposing one’s feelings and trying to rationalise them in the face of the increasing scepticism of my peers. Adolescent angst and suffering is easily mocked, and the laying bare of emotions is the domain of the emo, fringe straightened and dyed black. My fringe isn’t straightened, and it’s red instead of black, but I’m not ashamed of my compulsion to share my feelings. I ain’t saying my pain and sadness is more sad and painful than yours, rather I’m happy that my pain and sadness is mine, and I can share it with two very special songwriters.

 This music makes me sad in the most comforting way imaginable, and for that reason I will never ever let go of it, or the connection it still holds to special people I have met. Nick Drake and Elliott Smith are long gone, as are the people I want to remain connected to, but the connection itself is just a drop of the needle away.  

Next week: How the Ramones feel like a kick in the balls.