June 10, 2011LungsNext weekend I will attend a concert by one of my favorite musical artists. This feels, oddly, both momentous and mundane. In my life I've attended maybe a handful of concerts, and most of those were free (usually a prerequisite). One was logistically complicated, including a multicar caravan of college friends, an overnight stay, and some relationship nightmares--but at the time we felt that it was worth it to see both Jennifer Knapp and Third Day. (I'll let you do your own math on how long ago that might have been.) They billed it as a worship service, which was weird to me--I considered it a concert, since I'd paid for it.
This year I discovered Florence + the Machine. Who knows why certain artists capture our attention; I grew up on Willie Nelson and the Forester Sisters, then for a while listened to lots of "Contemporary Christian Music" in college. Artists like Florence, who represent a much broader range of music, have sometimes felt like a reward at the end of a long process. At any rate, I've been surprised by how strongly I connected to Lungs, Florence's debut album. In some ways, listening to it has felt like therapy.
The way in which she combines her odd, disturbing, dark stories and images with whimsy is probably another reason I've kept returning to Lungs. Part of the whimsy is in the instrumentation (as especially heard in "Cosmic Love," "Rabbit Heart" and "Blinding"), which includes the use of flowing harp arpeggios--unusual in some music genres, especially in rock-esque music. The effect is lovely, ethereal, sobering, hopeful and lofty. In other words, she satisfies my intellectual need for realism and my ego's need for a bit of creative self-indulgence. For instance, when she sings "No more dreaming / like a girl so in love with the wrong world," I find myself questioning whether I need to change my perspective on things a little. When she sings about being a "rabbit-hearted girl" who needs to be "lion-hearted" I think of Alice in Wonderland and courage. And when she sings of the dog days being over and happiness hitting her "like a train on the tracks," I am conflicted--does such a violent happiness, when it happens, really make us happy? Are we sometimes afraid of embracing something good out of fear of losing the familiar? Is there a downside to being surprised by joy? At the same time, it's bewitching to think of being hunted down by happiness, instead of endlessly seeking it out, only to be met by disappointment. But much of what Florence writes about is visceral as well as ethereal, and the title of the album should be considered fair warning. Lungs, hearts, eyes, the cosmos, death, sex, depression, happiness, disillusionment and freedom all figure in. Even God makes an appearance at the end of the album. And while I have a feeling it's a strategic inclusion, the lyrics are also a simple yet worthy reminder: when things are rough, when "sometimes I feel like throwin' my hands up in the air, / I know I can count on you.../ you've got the love I need to see me through." All that to say, seeing her live should be quite an experience. |
|

Comments are closed for this entry.