…It’s an experience. Music is always an experience, for me.
I’d shared Alex Clare’s “Too Close” video; my interlocutor is in Europe and hadn’t seen it, hadn’t heard the song. Not unusual, since so much of US pop isn’t necessarily popular in Europe at exactly the same time. And he’s constantly working; I doubt he hears much music that he doesn’t choose.
“So, the melody, tone, harmony/chime?” he asked, alluding to how music hits me, to why this particular song moves me, curious as to why I would choose to share this with him.
He still hadn’t heard it; with the restrictions on YouTube videos differing in Europe from North America, this version was off-limits.
“Everything,” I replied, listening for the fourth or fifth time already, watching, rapt as Alex gradually let loose his soul upon my ears.
“Everything hits me. His depth, his tone, his melody, the corresponding harmonies, beats…”
The video’s director is genius: two warriors strike each other in time with Alex’s soulful melodies, and I feel myself shaken; I relate. I know that fight, that struggle to win against an opponent one knows, one loves so well.
“In this case,” I continue in time with the fight, “the video is striking, literally and figuratively, as well. So well-paired. So passionate.”
I adore passionate music. Alex Clare’s music simply sweeps me up; I find I can’t move except in time with his voice, with the pounding beats, with the calls his soul and the music demand. And I must move in time with those calls, those demands.
I sway, undulate, writhe, free myself in time with the music, even as I sit here, as I always do with such danceable, passionate stuff. I must move….
“I don’t care if it’s sad or not. There must be truth and passion,” I respond almost involuntarily, my mind flashing immediately to Jacques Brel’s “Ne Me Quitte Pas” and how it affected me so deeply when I first heard it, years ago, though I understood little of French.
I return to speak of Alex: “There’s so much truth and passion in this song; you can hear it in the way he sings it, in the rise and fall of the music…” …I listen again, held. He takes my heart, moves my body, grips my mind with his matter-of-fact words, with his tender statements-of-fact, with his perfect decision-in-indecision; I feel he speaks so much for me, for my half-lost relationships of the past, releases and explains so much with this song. “…In the changes of the tone, from more-or-less acoustic to electronic, the back-and-forth of it….
“It’s a song of great conflict, played out perfectly,” I analyze. “He’s decided, but he’s still greatly conflicted.” In awe at their skill and deftness, at their power and intent, and removed from the fight, I watch the well-timed dance of the two in black: “The video shows the same conflict, between the warriors.” They’re almost the same, but fighting each other, I realize. Even in the contrast between the shots of the warriors and the singer, them in black, him in white, it’s clear the conflict lies in Alex: he and the warriors, they’re two parts of a whole. “…And, of course, in a sense, I can relate to the words, to the meaning.”
I find myself revealing my life much more intimately:
…Songs like this literally pull their expression, my own interpretation, out of me.
I had a friend who was a DJ; I made friends with him on the basis of the music he most enjoyed playing and my response to the tracks he played. I used to go into this lounge at the bottom of a bar I frequented, he’d be playing music; the place was mostly – if not completely – empty when I arrived.
I’d go to the front of the room, near the DJ booth; there was a fireplace set in the wall and a very small dance floor before it. I’d start swaying to the music he played. He’d play music just for me – always his favorites, and they became my own: always soulful, always passionate, always moving my body for me, as if I had no control.
I’d close my eyes and forget about everything but the music.
I’d wind up loosening up, usually without any alcohol to assist, and flay my body rhythmically to the songwriter’s demands. I’d pour my emotions out on the floor, let my tensions flow free, expressed by every beat and rhythm and word in the depth of every song with soul; he loved to watch. So did others… one of the bartenders crushed hard on me because of my dancing.
When it would get busier, later in the night, I’d find guys and girls joining me until there was no room for me to move.
I’d smile and laugh and leave, go sit with the DJ and chat… because, by this time, he was playing Top 40s music instead of the passionate stuff I liked.
But my end was achieved: I’d had time and space to empty myself, burn my passion for a bit, and I’d brought the vibe of the place to a pitch where others were dancing, drinking, enjoying themselves more.
There were always some girls, and some guys, who would ask me where and how I learned to dance in such a way. One older gentleman was convinced that I’d been formally trained. He danced with me, was a fantastic partner. Danced with me in a formal way, led me; it was wonderful.
He was in his seventies.
…I miss it. There’s nowhere I feel comfortable exposing myself, here in Atlanta.
The guys here won’t allow me room to breathe, I’m sure of it. I’ll dance, and they’ll think I’m looking for a… bed-partner. They’ll crawl all over me, I’ll be miserable. I always have to have a bodyguard – when I dance in this way.
At that lounge, I had two: the DJ and the bartender, plus all the girls who also worked there. Not to mention that it was a rich town, and people just didn’t mistreat girls, even if they were throwing their hips, their arms, their bodies around as I did…
…These are my lyrics to this song. These are my responses, the movements of my own conflict, my own desire to be, and my decision not to be – with men I’ve loved, with places of work I’ve loved, even with dancing in public and expressing myself in such visual, tangible ways; but inside me, my heart still loves, my body yet yearns to move, to let free the expanse I feel in response to Alex Clare’s songs, in response to his passion that is so familiar…
And, when I hear him, see him pulled by the intensity of his music, I move, can’t help but move, find a place to move. That love, that passion we feel must escape somewhere, must have expression, even if elsewhere it’s just too close to move.
Oceans of Mine 