One Chord Redemption

Granted, I am a heterosexual female.

Perhaps my view on the matter simply cannot be trusted. Perhaps. But, on the other hand, just chalk it up to a love (sense?) of aesthetics—rife with all the attendant observational neuroses you’d expect that love (sense?) to espouse—and maybe the trust will come.

So. Imagine you’re walking down the street, and wow! You catch a glimpse of the most beautiful woman you’ve ever had the audacious luck to lay eyes on. Yes, that’s right: each extremity may easily sum up the combined heights of you, your brothers and a family of on-hindquarter-standing squirrels, piled one on top of the other like the figures of a wobbly totem pole (wonder who came up with the whole “Daddy” longlegs thing, anyway? The gender nomenclature’s wrong. All wrong). Whatever God chose to draw her did so with the deft strokes of a master. Nothing lies out of place.

One line leads gracefully to the next. Her nose ends to make polite room for the philtrum, while it, in turn, acts the part of the foot of two sand dunes, patiently watching the crests diverge to follow their separate paths, but never intruding on either. The area separating her ribs from her pelvis bears a slight dip inward, but the line tracing shape from her ‘pits to her hips generally flows in a way uninterrupted.

In short, she possesses no jagged edges, no love-handle-caused curves. Her silhouette would take uncomplicated minutes to trace, making even those chalk spots on a murder scene look more human or foible-ridden. But that’s a morbid reference. Her face and arms contain no blemishes. No idiosyncratic mole graces her cheeks or chin. Seize a ruler, and you’ll find her eyes lie equidistant from the bridge of that scenting, center divider.

You’ll stare for a time. How could you not. She’s mesmerizing; it’s shocking, really.

You’ll stare some more, trying to reconcile those smooth lines with reality. But after an unquantifiable number of stares (really depends on your rate. Is it one long, unblinking stare per minute? And for how many minutes will you engage?), you’ll grow tired. Her presence in your habitat will be so jarring, you will wish to look no longer.

It’s not jealousy. Granted, I am a heterosexual female. Perhaps my view on the matter simply cannot be trusted. Perhaps. But I’ll say this. There’s a significant point where perfection transitions from the “fascinating” arena to that of the “boring.” Think about it. You know it’s true. Keep walking down that same street. Chance upon a lovely girl who does not, by any means, approach the incandescence of the form you’ve just witnessed.

She smiles, and but one dimple forms. The smile—may even be a wry grin—is sly and one-sided. Her hair may not fall in well-ordered waves but in stubborn and varying lengths that make you think of a willow that cheered up. Moments pass, and you cannot look away. Perhaps her boots show scuff marks. Maybe there’s a scar crossing an eyebrow. But you keep looking back thinking “this time the scar will not appear.”

Unlike her predecessor, she possesses jagged edges, love-handle-caused curves. Now, you’re no lecher, but your curiosity must drive you to revisit that curve over, and over and over again, each time wondering if the line will smooth itself out. It’s not that you want it to, but it’s as if your eye catches a visual snag, and each time you wait for it to repair itself, but it just won’t.

And it’s this girl you will continue to peer at for more than simply obsessive minutes (how many stares per minute was it? Oh, right. That’s subjective). Should you see her again, you’ll not be able to look away.

Because you can’t make peace with imperfection.

You long to put it to “rights,” but that would be simply be impossible. So your eyes attempt to do what life could not by looking and hoping and never making any headway.

And the same rule applies to music.

I don’t know about you, but I’m quite fond of listening to songs on repeat. Of course, I’m not an equal opportunity repeat listener. It all depends on the song. But that’s the whole point. There are those pieces I consider so heavenly, so sublime there’s nothing their composers or writers could add or take away that would make them better then they now are. Those songs exist. I know a few. And I love them. And once in awhile, a hankering to take a listen washes over me, and their sounds transports me to other, more wondrous realms.

Those songs do exist. They are that first woman.

But those are not the kind of song you listen to on repeat. You don’t need to. That one and only journey through the piece is so complete, so perfect, a revisiting would somehow besmirch the experience.

Now, those songs that are excellent but falter in the bridge or in a stanza, or, conversely, that are mediocre but offer one or two sensational chords to elevate the entire thing…now, those, those, are the songs you listen to on repeat. Each time you must think “no, it will be different this time” or mayhap you consider “here it comes; here it comes. Here comes the chord.” It will pass, and all you will long for is another chance to listen to its harmony.

Those songs seem to conform to what I call the unconscious “One Chord Redemption” principle.

Take, for example, the early ‘80s Israeli song “Ani Osa Li Manginot.” No, of course you don’t know it. No one does. No, I don’t know what the title means. Oh, well, ok, “Ani” means “I,” but the “I” can do and feel so many things, so who even knows what this is about?

I only came across it because my Argentinean, Israeli-folk dancing cousins were fans back in 1988, and that chord captured my fancy even then.

So. Back to the song. I looked for it for years. Years. But, again, no one had ever heard of it. I couldn’t find it. And fat chance iTunes was going to carry something like that, you know? But finally, my mom came across it on YouTube, of all places, and I can’t convey to you the joy I felt at having reclaimed this song.

And I listened it. And I listened to it. And you know what? 90 percent of it is cheesy and cliché. It uses a maudlin circle of fifths and a tonky piano sound beneath the cloying voices of afro-wearing women. But within it all that, within all of that mediocrity, lies a chord so remarkable it jumps out at you like red hair does in a crowd.

Now I’ve had entire arguments take place over this song. Friends of mine have bemoaned my affinity for it, lampooning what they saw as saccharin sentimentality. But, “no,” I told them, “it’s not like that.” Could they not hear what I was hearing, appreciate the stunning entrance of this chord, this one momentary cluster of notes that transforms a cockroach into a butterfly?

No. Clearly they did not share my views.

But I’m sticking to my guns here. Were this song to be chock full of such chords, it would be overkill. I would not need to revisit it, hope to smooth out those lines.

Those lines would need no smoothing out.

Yet each time, I hope it will be different. Or, I slog through the mire to get to the flowers because each time that chord feels like a reward. And that’s nice. That takes repetition. I cannot subsist on dessert alone. I’d like to earn it as the conclusion of a meal. Makes it precious. But that helps me crave it indefinitely—like the sight of a one-dimpled smile (may even be a wry grin) rather than the visage of an unendingly even line.

Granted, I’m a heterosexual female. Perhaps my view of the matter simply cannot be trusted. Perhaps. But I don’t think so.

The chord’s initial entrance, at 0:43.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 15th, 2009 at 12:41 pm and is filed under Essays/Op. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.