Helps Both Ways
 
I’m a big believer in albums. I think that an album is the ultimate artistic expression a rock band can make. Rock is not a singles-orientated medium anymore. Hell, do rock bands even release singles anymore? And no, I’m not talking about some limited-edition 7'‘ picture disc split single with another cool band that we’ve all bought at one point, because those singles are aimed only at superfans (like me, and probably you, if you care enough to read this). What I’m talking about are actual singles -- the same song that is on the album, or maybe even a radio edit. Something with a B-side. I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember seeing a lot of them in the record store lately (except for the above-mentioned limited edition, or maybe an import, which is still appealing to the same folks as the 7”). Rock music simply is not pushing the single anymore -- commercially or musically. Sure, they still release singles to the radio and video outlets, but the goal is to promote the album, not to sell singles. I think that most music fans of my age probably don’t realize that this has not always been the case. When the Beatles had five songs in the top ten, it was because people were actually buying all five of those singles. Hell, even now singles’ sales is part of what determines the Billboard Hot 100 chart, and you notice how many rock songs get on that? The decline of the rock single may just be another symptom of the greedy music business; rock fans would rather spend $15 on an album than $5 on a single, so the label pushes the album -- and that may be so. But I, being the optimist that I am, choose to believe something different. I believe that rock musicians know that the album is the vehicle that carries whatever art is left in their music. (At this point in the essay, I considered naming albums that make some sort of artistic, intellectual, or emotional impact. But I don’t really think that’s necessary. I’m sure we can all think of records like that.)
 
What has been interesting me lately, dear readers, is the context of a given album. I believe that every album has a context, be it a consciously-created atmosphere of subject; a cohesion of sound, a unifying sense of completion attached by the listener’s personal experiences; or something extra-musical that is influenced by the media or later events (although I admittedly have not gone through my entire record collection to check this theory). While some of these contexts are nebulous or merely implied, I do believe that certain albums have an inescapable background setting that colors the way we listen to them. Sometimes the context is an implicitly stated concept or narrative that unifies the record. Rock Operas, such as Tommy, The Wall, and Operation: Mindcrime give us characters, setting, and events. Not much room for interpretation, although all of these records use the stories as (sometimes heavy-handed) metaphors for larger concerns. Other albums are a little less explicit in their stories, but still give us a clear concept of what theme the writer is dealing with. As "pretentious" as they are often considered, "concept" albums appear in almost every sub-genre of rock: in hard-rock, Rush’s 2112 (first side only); in metal, Marilyn Manson’s Anti-Christ Superstar; in punk, the Minutemen’s Double Nickels on the Dime; and many others (consult your local library). Other records, while lacking an overriding concept, do seem to be contextually bound. Take Radiohead’s Kid A, for instance. It is certainly not a narrative, nor is there any stated concept that the album follows, but (for me, anyway) the album has a unified feeling throughout. By and large, the album is cold, smooth, and sterile, like titanium alloy or the computer-and-robot-driven futures of so many science-fiction movies, but then gives to sudden catastrophic system failures ("The National Anthem"), and stolen glimpses of humanity ("How to Disappear Completely" and "Motion Picture Soundtrack"). Kid A is a record I have to listen to the whole way through; to not do so would leave the experience incomplete, like watching only half of your favorite movie. The contextual completeness makes the record indivisible, a truly realized work. That completeness, I feel, is the final criterion of a truly great album. It goes beyond being a collection of good, or even great, songs and becomes something you experience.
 
But where does the context, which seems to be required for making a great album, come from? As we’ve seen, the concept can be explicitly stated or suggested by the artist, or it can be implied by the listener (after all, maybe Kid A had a completely different effect on you). In some cases, the context can be determined by events outside of the actual writing and recording of the record, and sometimes it can be attached retroactively. Look no further than In Utero by Nirvana. After Kurt Cobain’s death, is it possible to listen to those songs without the ultimate end of his life in your mind? How differently do you approach Judas Priest’s records knowing now that Rob Halford is homosexual? Things like this effect the listening of music, for better or worse.
 
This all being said, there are two albums that I think, better than any others, demonstrate the effect context can have on an album: The Wind by Warren Zevon and ( ) by Sigur Ros. These are both fine albums, albeit by two very different artists, and the reason I would like to look at them is because they are at the opposite ends of the contextual spectrum. Zevon, as is well known, recorded The Wind in a fit of activity shortly after he was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. The album is remarkable because the context is inescapable. Quite simply, the album is the last Zevon would ever make. In a way, he was fortunate because he got one last chance to say everything that he needed to say. Not many artists get to choose their final statement; most hang around many years after the good ideas run out. Zevon got to “put his affairs in order” on this record, facing his death on his own terms. Each song is shaped by this context, and the listener goes through the emotions -- defiance, loss, and, ultimately, acceptance -- with Zevon. I have never heard another record where the context of the album is so vital and inescapable. The experience of the album is specific, uniform, and, most important, human. I’m not saying that everyone will have the same reaction to the album -- if everyone did, this would hardly be worth talking about -- but the context influences how we listen to the record, and how we respond to it (unless, of course, someone is ignorant of the circumstances of its recording), giving us all the same basis to go where we will with such a personal statement.
 
If The Wind is the most specific example of a context album you could listen to, then ( ) is the least. The context of this album is, well, a little more “open.” The album, titled simply with an empty space between parentheses, consists of eight untitled tracks, sung exclusively in a language that the band created (excluding the one instrumental song). The idea behind the record is that listeners are free to attach their own meaning to it; the context of the album lies completely with the listener. The band has consciously tried to give the listener as much leeway in interpretation as possible--even more so than in other instrumental music (that is what this really is, after all; the vocals are truly another instrument, as opposed to a separate focal point as they are in most songs) because they don’t even give you titles for the songs. Even bands with similar approaches to atmospheric instrumental rock put titles on the songs that affect your experience, however weird they may be (example: Mogwai’s "Kids Will be Skeletons"). The only possible influence on the listener’s experience that the band has given is that the made-up language is called "Hopelandic," implying that the music is at least not hope less. Even with that constant, people’s opinions and experiences vary. I, for one, find the music sad, but with a constant current of optimism and striving against the sadness. The concept of hope in the face of hopelessness is, however, a theme in all types of art that has always resonated strongly with me (and maybe has been influenced by the name "Hopelandic"). Other people I have talked to, however, have different experiences with the album. Some say they find the music joyous, devoid of any trace of the melancholy I hear. Others find it meditative -- ebbing and flowing like sleep. Others still try to hear words in the vowel-filled vocals, much like seeing shapes in the clouds. The amazing thing is that the context of the album is that there is no context -- the listener is free to choose it, consciously or not, himself. The closest analogy I can think of to describe this is the way Yann Martel describes atheism and agnosticism in his book Life of Pi. Atheists, he states, believe there is no God, whereas agnostics simply refuse to believe in anything, even if that belief is that there is nothing. "The Parenthetical Album" (as I like to call it), asks you to believe in the record, to create some meaning out of it. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what you make out of it, as long as you make something.
 
In sum, context affects the way the listener reacts to a rock album. (That’s a joke for my wife, Renee.) Honestly, I really do think this is important. It’s not something I think you should consciously concentrate on in every record, I jut think it’s something to look at in the records you really love. That’s the way I am, though. If I really dig an album, and I mean really dig it, I want to listen to it over and over again, and find out all about it, find out why it resonates so deeply with me. That reminds me why I love music so much. And why I’m listening to ( ) as I type this.

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Anthony Eldridge is a regular contributor here at the footnote, as well as his newly-minted "No Action Blog."