Silk.

In the folds of my dress I smell your deceit.
On the edge of your bed, on the brink of despair,
Just a body. Justifiable. You did not cheat.

I hold my knees to my nose, feel the cold of my feet
And repress a shiver in the morning air.
In the folds of my dress I smell your deceit.

I pull at your duvet retrieving the heat
Of your skin against mine. Fingers through hair.
Just a body, justifiable, you did not cheat.

I hope that you'll turn and smile something sweet,
Pass me the night, acknowledge I was there.
But in the folds of my dress, I smell your deceit. 

I admitted defeat.
You brandished your sword with a gentleman's flair.
I'm just a body. Justifiable. You did not cheat.

Holding the door, you show me the street.
Turning I leave and you stand and you stare.
In the folds of my dress I smell your deceit.
Just a body. Justifiable. You did not cheat.

Earthquake up in here.

There’s a song that seems to play continuously on the radio at the moment by Labrinth called ‘Earthquake’.  When this song comes on, I am a very excited person.  It’s brilliant to dance to, and if you look around a club, you see people stepping onto the dance floor rather than walking off, shouting the words that they don’t really know.

I was recently one of those people mouthing nonsense, happy that the music was loud enough that no one could hear me singing, “ba bum something”.  But this morning, I thought I would look up the lyrics, just out of intrigue.

Now, I wasn’t expecting anything comparable to S.T Coleridge or William Blake in terms of refined lyricism, but I expected something a little more inspired than this:

“We got the bass banging
From here to buckingham palace
They're all moving
Hey Simon
We're fucking them up
Turning 'em psycho
Everybody rock”

 And, my favourite part of the song:

”'Cause we throw bombs on it
Throw bombs on it
Just smash something
Yeah, mosh for me
(Hey) Yeah”

I was dumbstruck.  When I listened to 50 Cent as a teenager, I knew that the lyrics were stupid, but I could merit what he was trying to achieve (usually entice a bathing suit into his hot tub).  But this?  I would love to hear Adele or Ben Howard do a Radio 1 Live Lounge cover of this song, wind it down to something soft and acoustic, and then see how much everyone loves it.  I soothed my blinking, horrified eyes with Wordsworth’s ‘Composed upon Westminster Bridge’.

“Earth has not any thing to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This city now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

…All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.”

It is confusing for me that they are describing the same city.  So, what happened?  Modernity, that’s what happened.  Two world wars, the French Revolution, the Industrial Revolution.  The technological age, advances in music production that, if I’m not mistaken, a lot of traditional music lovers are particularly loathing of.  We are content to go out on a Saturday night, drunk on bottles of wine bought in a 3 for £12 offer in Sainsbury’s, wearing plastic shoes and polyester shirts, spending two thirds of the night in the toilet queue (unless you’re male) and shouting at the bar maid because they don’t take card, forgetting this argument within a second because the DJ has put together a clever remix of two of your favourite songs...with lyrics from the likes of Labrinth, Will.i.am, Tinchy Stryder…and we enjoy it.  Unmistakably, these temporary hits all serve a purpose.  But I remember being eighteen years old and at the end of the night, falling into my Dad’s car where he was playing Leonard Cohen, The Manic Street Preachers, The Cure - and knowing that this was real music.  He could never stand the rubbish I listened to but I always loved his music collection, which I have now added to my own.  Of course there are other artists today who know how to write beautiful lyrics as well as a seamless melody underneath, such as Laura Marling, Two Door Cinema Club or Snow Patrol, and I hope that this is the stuff that will last. 

But since when did the words become the least important part of the song?  When we remember music as an art form, we recognise the problem here.  A novel falls apart if it lacks a critical element of the conventions of its form.  A poem, a painting, an article in a newspaper, too.  What if we opened today’s Guardian and all that was inside were the photos and captions?  You might still glean something from it and enjoy the sheer novelty, like club music with no more meaning than "Say yeah", but for the sake of the form as a whole, it is doing nothing. 

But, I guess I should ask, must everything serve such a longstanding purpose?  Or is this class of music actually saying something more about the modern world by its very temperament?  Is there a gap in our own sense of integrity, a hole where we once had a soul, a loss of favourability towards what’s wholesome, real, raw?