Women I’m Listening To #1: Lorde’s “Green Light”

Lorde’s debut album, Pure Heroine, transfixed me from my first listen. Everything about it seemed to evoke the exact feeling of premature nostalgia I had felt between the ages of sixteen to eighteen, and I only wished I could have been born a few years later, to hear that album at that age and feel it like an electric arrow to the heart. As it was, I was a late adopter – my first listen was more than a year after it first came out, but that didn’t stop me from buying it on vinyl after a week. I would listen with rapt attention in my bedroom in York, turning the lyrics over in my mind with joy and reverence. It was the record I would put on when I felt hopeless, or when I needed to escape. It’s still my favourite record that I own, despite its second-hand scuffs and the nanosecond-long skip on one track that I can’t tell if it’s intentional or not. I’ve spoken before about how vinyl collecting is an act of space-making, and I definitely have made a sacred space for that album.

It was a tough act to follow, but now, at last, Lorde is back with something new – and glorious.

“Green Light”, the first single from her sophomore album Melodrama, is the get-up-and-dance song that I didn’t know I needed. It’s the kind of song that so perfectly captures a specific emotion that it makes the urge to dance increase tenfold because you’re not just moving to it, you’re channelling it. Lorde herself explains the emotions behind the song best when she says that “I realized this is that drunk girl at the party dancing around crying about her ex-boyfriend who everyone thinks is a mess. That’s her tonight and tomorrow she starts to rebuild.” And that’s really what it is – for anyone who’s been that drunk girl, or seen her, or danced with her, “Green Light” perfectly evinces the physical restlessness that comes in the dying throes of heartache. The anticipatory chords that impatiently urge towards the explosive chorus; the lyrics – so classically Lorde – that shake you to your bones and yet are simple enough that you can chant them like an incantation (“Honey I’ll come get my things, but I can’t let go…”). The whole song is a revving-up in the chest: it’s Lorde saying emphatically that she is back, and better, ready once again to make something new and strange out of the familiar.

But it’s not just physical restlessness that Lorde seems to appeal to, it’s a kind of creative restlessness too. The lines where Lorde sings that she “hear[s] sounds in [her] mind” evoked, for me, a feeling of being trapped beneath a weight that you feel instinctively should be written away, but which presses on your writing hand and makes creation impossible. Tavi Gevinson covered this brilliantly in her talk at the Sydney Opera House in 2013: she spoke about how, when she was reeling from a breakup, she held her pain out to other people to try to make sense of it, and they’d well-meaningly reassure her with the promise that “This is what great art is made of!” But when she took the pain home and set it on the kitchen table, it didn’t turn out any original metaphors or genius verse. It just sat there. Instead, she found solace in words from others’ mouths – rewriting others’ lyrics and poetry: being, as I said above, a channel. Taking the hand that stretches out to you through art that says that somebody else has been there before, that the words will come, but they’ll stay with you while you wait.

Lorde in this song seems to be at the end of that waiting. She can feel the horrible now receding and is waiting with her eyes on the traffic light, urging it to go green, hearing “brand new sounds in my mind.” Sounds – not yet in discernible shape, not yet truly something, but approaching, gathering speed. It is a truly marvellous thing to be able to write so beautifully the feeling of not being able to write, or, in line with the song’s more generally-accepted arc, the feeling of being stuck on the brink. Her anticipation is intoxicating, joyous, explosive with kinetic energy: it reaches out a hand and promises that you, too, will reach that brink, will feel energetic and explosive and creative again.

The video to the song heightens this feeling to a giddy intensity. Lorde dances in a bathroom, in a crowded club, through nighttime city streets, even atop a parked car, all while clad in a blindingly brilliant pink dress. It’s beautiful for a plethora of reasons, many of which are covered expertly in Rosianna Halse Rojas’s vlog about the video’s use of light (in which she discusses a beloved favourite of mine, The Great Gatsby).

screenshot-2017-03-04-11-27-34What Rosianna points out and talks about in her typically brilliant and perceptive way is all true and important, and for me is key to the way in which the video so expertly navigates illusion and realism to produce a sense of delirium – of apt melodrama. In the same moment that we see Lorde dancing to the music of her own personal pianist (producer Jack Antonoff), placed beside her, as in a dream, in a grubby bathroom, we also notice the girls lined up behind her in the bathroom mirror, waiting to use the toilets. When she dances alone atop a parked car, a blazing figure bathed in red light, we also see, comically incorporated into the frame, the car’s driver vaping, waiting it out. The landscape of “Green Light” is alternatingly dreamy and mundanely lucid, pulling the feverish, transfiguring misery/joy of its central character into the same visual frame as fragments of the real world, of other people unconnected to her consuming catharsis.

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Perhaps my favourite of these moments in the video – though by no means its most dramatic – are those in which Lorde is dancing alone in the street to music from her headphones. It seems like a trivial detail to point out, but the visual presence of the headphones and her phone, clutched desperately in her hands as she dances, indicates that this is not a usual dance track video. Lorde’s is not a performance in the vein of so mascreenshot-2017-03-04-11-32-20ny pop videos in which the song appears to fill the scene like the voice of God, the singer staring directly into the eye of the camera, and the absurdity of the situation is only neutralised by its unspoken recognition as long-abiding music video trope.

Instead, what we get is the exact feeling of reckless abandon that Lorde described in reference to the song’s conception. This intensity of emotion does not belong to a separate dream world, it belongs to ours – it is solitary and ludicrous and funny but these things do not diminish it. In fact, it ties in to one of my favourite moments in Tavi Gevinson’s speech, and something that she has said in many interviews: when the audience laughs at a page from one of her journals, she turns to Screenshot 2017-03-04 11.32.53.pngthem and says, half-embarrassedly, “That’s not funny!” When things that are coded feminine are constantly held up to ridicule and women’s emotions dismissed as hysteria, girls taking ownership of their love and enthusiasm and their ability to feel recklessly for things makes me so happy. These all-important moments of puncture in “Green Light” serve to highlight the absurdity of this intense feeling, even making it (as in the case of the vaping driver) funny, but to me this seems only to elevate the experience, to make it freeing, shameless. It is an indestructible display of vulnerability and it is absolutely beautiful.

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One commenter on the YouTube video of the song suggested that this song is a radical – and radically negative – departure from the stripped-back straightforwardness of Pure Heroine. Some song, he remarked, from a girl who used to sing about how much she hated parties and celebrity life. Isn’t the glamour of the video hypocritical? We thought she was above this!

Personally, I think that if “Green Light” is anything to go by, Lorde is as aware as ever of the “real life” that her inspiration springs from and that her songs voyage out to meet. This is not an inaccessible pop video brewed in a world of its own. It is Lorde’s world, and it is also, she wants us to know, ours, and she is as unapologetic for her honesty now as she was when “Royals” first brought her to fame.

On negative space

A few weeks ago I sat at my desk and wrote a poem.

It was, as with every attempt at writing after a long interval, a bit of a painful task. I’m usually a word-processing kinda gal when it comes to writing creatively: the ability to vanish my poor metaphors as if they never existed, and instantly reclaim them if I decide they weren’t that rubbish after all, is a kind of magic you take for granted if you mainly write on a computer. But since starting this blog (whatever meagre degree of productivity it has achieved) I’ve been trying to think more about my self-censorious attitude to my own writing. The illusion that word processing gives you is that the process of writing is without mistakes, as the page you start out with is the same page that you finish with, with all the messiness of the in-between process erased. This is comforting for sure – and it’s a great feeling when you’re writing often. “Look at all these things I did recently that I’m proud of,” you can say to yourself, sweeping a hand impressively across the vista of your open “Poetry” folder. “Look at these things I created so well and so easily.” You can read your own work almost like you were reading someone else’s, and that’s great.

Except for when it’s not great. Except for when you haven’t written for months, and the process feels like pulling a tooth, and when you look back at all of these other poems – fully formed, history-less – you see no evidence of this head-butting-against-a-ceiling kind of feeling. No sense that this thing you’re doing right now could one day be one of the things you’re proud of, because there’s no evidence that any of those things were once what this thing is: vaguely incriminating, a testament to the fact that you are still learning. At these moments, when I’m feeling discouraged and distanced from the past writer self who I always think of as more confident and creative than she probably was, the “Delete” function isn’t so much a space-clearing tool as a kind of writerly ejector seat. In the moment of creative frustration and doubt, I can just press a button, and never have to look at these bad lines that seem so humiliating right now ever again.

So in the spirit of giving myself a break from my own perfectionism, this time I sat down at my desk with a notebook and pen instead. It was, predictably, hellish – at least to begin with. Writing one line out over and over again in different formations, rehashing the same ideas on different pages and with different line breaks feels like a nightmare at the best of times for me, one that’s only made worse by the exaggerated physical act of reinscription that handwriting entails. At least when you’re typing a line that you know is bad, you also know that it’ll be gone as if it never existed in a matter of moments – not so with a notebook. Not only was I writing bad stuff, I was having to look at it again and again and be discouraged by it.

Maybe I got into a bit of a stubborn frenzy, or maybe I just hit my stride around 2am, but for whatever reason I managed to push through the discouragement and stick it out ‘til the end. And I’m proud of myself for that, and proud of the poem I wrote, too. It’s not my best effort, but it is an effort, and that’s something to be happy about. And actually, throughout all this process of striking out and writing over, I found myself thinking much less about the bad stuff I was leaving out than the good stuff that didn’t make it in. I began to remember more and more the labour of love that writing is, the repeated letting-go that it entails. Meanings I couldn’t find the words for; words I did find but somehow didn’t fit. Plotting my progress physically across the pages of a notebook made it so much more apparent to me just how much negative space there is around the edges of the final thing: all the things a piece of writing doesn’t end up being that are, really, the making of it as it is.

I’m by no means the first person to think about writing as a process of selective omission. Every writer nowadays seems to know that Samuel Jonson quote (“Read over your compositions, and where ever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out”) – or at least, if they don’t know it yet, they have it quoted at them pretty quickly (case in point). Ernest Hemingway’s theory was “that you could omit anything if you knew that you omitted and the omitted part would strengthen the story and make people feel something more than they understood.” This idea – of good writing, selective writing, being able to make us feel more than we understand – is at the heart of why omission is so important to the writing process, and perhaps why it is so hard, too. Leaving out the things we once thought so good or so important is not only letting go of a part of ourselves ,but letting in a little of someone else. Chuck Palanhuik says it best in his essay instructing his readers to stop using “thought” verbs in their writing: “Your story will always be stronger,” he promises, “if you just show the physical actions and details of your characters and allow your reader to do the thinking and knowing.” Sure, leaving out lines that you’re proud of, or moments that are so integral in your head to what you’re trying to get across can feel like a capitulation. It feeds a fear I believe that everyone, and perhaps especially every writer, has: that we, our selves and our lives, are inexpressible, unreachable by anybody else. But when we relinquish the need to make someone else understand as we understand, the need to explain everything, we allow the reader to understand for themselves. To ask questions, to think of new answers, to recreate the text in their own minds in a way we would never have thought of. Though writing can feel like a monologue, in the final event it’s more of a conversation: it’s in the parts where you’re not speaking, that negative space, that real connection occurs.

Of course, omission is not always a virtue. We don’t always have control over the things we leave out. The world that we live in implicates us all the time in the erasure of people and problems through the stories that are told to us and the stories we choose to tell back, as Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (an utterly fantastic writer and human being) speaks about in her now-famous TED talk, “The Danger of the Single Story”. In a world full of stories balanced on the cusp of telling, it’s easy to be petrified by the dangers of omission, to choose silence over a flawed telling: to press “delete”. But I’m inclined to agree with Adichie in that, in this world so full of untold stories, and so overrun with systems resistant to the telling of all but a few of them, it is more important than ever that we write, that we support others’ writing and writing that is othered. That we are aware of systems of omission and our roles in them – and omission’s role in our telling of ourselves.

“How well I would write if I were not here! If between the white page and the writing of words and stories that take shape and disappear without anyone’s ever writing them there were not interposed that uncomfortable partition which is my person! Style, taste, individual philosophy, subjectivity, cultural background, real experience, psychology, talent, tricks of the trade: all the elements that make what I write recognisable as mine seems to me a cage that restricts my possibilities. If I were only a hand, a severed hand that grasps a pen and writes… who would move this hand? The anonymous throng? The spirit of the times? The collective unconscious? I do not know. It is not in order to be the spokesman for something definable that I would like to erase myself. Only to transmit the writable that waits to be written, the tellable that nobody tells.” – Italo Calvino, If on a winter’s night a traveller

Routines, rituals, and revolutions

Youth culture, in its short history, has accepted few lasting icons, but the vinyl record is undoubtedly one of them. The unmistakable crackle of the needle coming down; the loaded silence, like a drawn-in breath, before the first note: this is the siren song of the teen age, the call to find yourself, by whatever means necessary. And it has remained so, despite its having been long outmoded.

For me, I think the fascination with vinyl largely comes from movies. From William’s sister’s proclamation in 2000’s Almost Famous that “This song explains why I’m leaving home to become a stewardess”, to smitten zombie R bonding with his human captive-slash-love-interest Julie in 2013’s Warm Bodies, the message is clear: vinyls were damn cool in the seventies, and their damn coolness will definitely survive the apocalypse. But this fascination does not end with (spoiler alert) audiophile zombies finding love and becoming human again: vinyl sales were up 52% in 2014, with much of that surge coming from the under-25s age bracket. The demand for new records is reaching fever pitch, so high that it’s putting a threatening strain on the industry, and becoming known among bewildered observers as the “vinyl revolution”.

Many articles have put this so-called revolution down to the tangibility of vinyl in comparison to digital music, and indeed, there is something to be said for the almost larger-than-life quality of a vinyl record. For a generation for whom vinyl was never the default, the physical quality to records and listening to them is a novelty. Unlike a 79p download that is easy to buy and easy to forget about, they’re a conspicuous investment: you’re investing not only money but physical space in your life, as well as the time and effort put into playing the thing. As Alice Cooper put it to Billboard: “the kids … [are] tired of buying air. They don’t get anything with it.”

But there’s something else about vinyl too, not entirely unrelated to its physical-ness compared to the download. There’s an almost religious feeling to playing vinyl: entering into the vinyl mystique, a willing believer, carefully drawing the disc out of its sleeve before laying it on the altar to be traced by the needle. That’s a pretty dramatic rendering, but it’s not totally unfounded: Dominik Bartmanski, a sociologist at the Technical University of Berlin, put it to CNN that “Digital music […] is now a standard and thus routine way of consuming music on everyday basis. Analogue music requires more elaborate ritualized attention. It is routine vs ritual.” Listening to music on vinyl is ultimately an act of confirmation: of your own love, of the realness of the thing you love, and your dedication, over and over again, to its preservation and reconfirmation over time.

Perhaps that’s partly why the vinyl has been such a staple of teenage Hollywood fantasy for such a long time – isn’t this ritual the most quintessentially teenage thing? Nowadays, “fangirl” is a dirty word, but the rawness of teenage enthusiasm is what makes it so beautiful, and so easy to miss once you’ve grown out of it. That feeling of loving an album so much that you don’t just want to carry it around in your pocket, but to come home to it, to really own it, in its most beautiful, multisensory, and enduring form.

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To me, nothing drives this home quite as much as listening to my mum’s records. Dug out of the garage a few days ago and dumped into my arms, they are the remnants of a time it is otherwise hard for me to conceptualise properly. Before my mother was my mother – before I was anything at all – she was an excited fourteen-year-old running home to listen to her new David Cassidy record. I superimpose the memory of my teenage enthusiasm for All Time Low and Scouting For Girls onto the cover of Cherish and feel a strange companionship. It’s a similar feeling to when I stood beneath pealing bells in Florence last summer, the city she’d insisted I go to, in the shadow of the beautiful cathedral, watching the thriving life of the piazza. There was a familiarity to the smallness I felt beneath that tolling colossus, a familiarity that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with that sense of my mother, much younger, larger than life and looking up. It’s a feeling of proximity, of hidden similarity: companionship across time. Watching the first record she ever bought revolve on my record player elicits a similar kind of warmth.

Entering the next stage of my life, the scariness of my twenties, feels like a welcome moment to feel this kind of connection. In a lot of ways, vinyl coming to my attention now is very opportune. Its steadiness, its realness, its requirement of a love for and focus on what you’re doing right now, feels good for me. It’s a way to connect with the teenager just departed, a girl who cried when she met her favourite band and saw her favourite songs performed live. I see her in my mum’s records, and at the same time I see a vague ghost of the future, in the refusal of these records to ever really go away. There’s a sense of continuum to co-opting this classically teenage medium at the start of my twenties. The sense that, while there are new routines in store that may be daunting, and old rituals (like getting tearful over musicians with elaborate fringes) may be done with, I will find new rituals, and finding these new rituals doesn’t have to mean never looking back.

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