Music is a visual language
Music has always been a visual experience for me. I hear a drum, I see a drum kit. There’s a connection between the imagined world of a piece of music and the image it projects in my mind. Not synesthesia, but a whole suite of visuals that make up a feeling. When I’m playing a single note, then a simple melody, adding weight, I’m not recreating a picture I have in my head or being led by the melody to paint a landscape, it just happens and then it’s there. Of course, the lyrical world of song certainly opens those pathways up in a bold and direct way. When I’m working with words part of the aim is to arrange the visuals in a way in which to convey the emotion best, although it’s rarely a conscious decision. Language is a real leader for mental imaging, a scaffolding to organise the picture around. It’s learned, something I use all day every day. Take those words away and I’m connected to the mental projections in a much more visceral way. When I replace words with environmental sounds - whether the sonic journey of a train ride, the running of water, the crunch of frost under boots, or the languages of other creatures getting on with their existence - the feeling changes, becoming more about intuition than logic. I’ve always felt more with less literary direction. I don’t enjoy being told how to feel, so I struggle with connections being pushy or obvious. Nothing to do with my antiestabishment tendencies! My favourite soundtracks also leave room for interpretation. It’s not to say I don’t love the bombastic or symphonic moments in blockbusters, but there isn’t necessarily the same level of genuine feeling. That is to say, I feel there’s more in the subtle, the genuine, the documentary, than in the block capitals, which probably informs the way in which I tend to approach making things.
When I hear a bird I see a bird, but I don’t know the bird. Unless you’re an avid birder you may not know the bird either, but the bird is definitely a bird, and the sound conjures the possibility of a myriad of birds. A moving train could be a journey I’ve experienced or something entirely fabricated. The sound of rain isn’t a precise memory, more the idea of rain itself and the blending of a lifetime of wet memories.
There’s a complicated jumble of images that are constantly swirling around in my head. The above are the visual motivations that open up inside me both by using found sounds and by music itself, but there’s another external component that I’m interested in - the mental imagery that already exists within me, not the outcome of the building blocks chosen or of the work itself. Just like everyone else, I’ve been bombarded by pictures of war throughout most of my life, but there are also images of hope that grow through them. Nature, or our good nature, wants to win. The idea of nature recovering, rewilding and healing itself is also a big visual motivation for me. That is the hopeful, the calm. The opposite pictures of destruction, chaos, and our ambivalence as a species towards the delicate balance that is our ecosystem pushes me to try to live life in as conscious a way as possible. It’s a lifelong quest, so I’ve been aware of the visual battle between the way in which we live and the way in which we could for as long as I can remember. The images of the war in Gaza with whole towns and cities reduced to rubble really haunt me as they do so many of us. The wanton destruction of property, lives, memories that’s baked into those images exist alongside the destruction of those ecosystems too. How can humans survive in amongst that hell, let alone plants and animals. Yet they do, and with time it will become easier. I think that there’s a lot of time in my new record, Tumbling Sideways. It’s as much a protest album against the war in Gaza as it is protesting this era of disregard for our planet. It’s about the space between the hell and the hope, about trying to make spaces - or time - in which I can imagine different futures. My hope is that others might be able to find some space to do the same within it.
“Eight pieces for peace” is the phrase that has stuck around the record while I’ve been trying to focus it to some sort of end point. I suppose that phrase also paints a vivid picture. The title of the record itself does that to me. When tumbling sideways you would eventually become upright again, and similarly, nature wants to recover. Wars must also eventually end. Motion is important. I know I can’t allow myself to switch off to all those visuals I’m bombarded with. I need to push through them. I want to paint something better into existence.
This week I came across the quote 'sometimes you need the music, sometimes you need the lyrics' and it made me think about what that means for me and my role as a special needs teacher. Growing up as a passionate music lover, I've definitely found more of an outlet for my emotions by singing along to the lyrics (even though I can't hold a note). I work with non-verbal children who often find lots of words difficult to process or overwhelming. This has inspired me to think 'outside of the box' when creating music sessions for them. I feel a great responsibility in curating their emotional journeys and supporting them in sensory regulation and wellbeing. This is, for me, such a rewarding part of the job as I get to listen to playlists I've made (well my favourite musicians have made 😝). I'm starting to become a better active listener when choosing which pieces to use focusing on the dynamics and what story/emotion the music is portraying. Some days we just need the music and other days we all need the lyrics.