This song is a reference to a Carson McCuller's story, or rather, its epilogue. The men in the title are in a chain gang. This is a group of prisoners usually made to do road work as part of their sentences. To prevent their escape on the road, they are chained together at the ankle. Like men working on railroad or any other menial, repetitive, rhythmic task, they often sing; the Sam Cooke song "Chain Gang" referred to such a system as late as 1960, and there are chain gangs in the 1967 movie Cool Hand Luke and 1969's Take the Money and Run.
We don't start with the chain gang, but with the town they work near. "Where I'm from," the speaker begins, "there's poverty/ All kinds of inequality. Nobody comes here, nobody leaves." So, not your typical tourism hot spot.
In fact, the local prison seems to be the main, um, industry. The "whipping report," which one assumes is an official record of their punishments, is on display "in the library," perhaps one of the few public buildings in town aside from city hall and the schoolhouse.
Now, we meet the chain gang. First, you "hear one voice start singing," accompanied by their instruments, "twelve picks... ringing... in the dirt." One voice, but twelve picks? Oh, they all join in: "Twelve mortal men in a song of liberty."
Why is it important to note that they are mortal? Of course they are; all men are. Perhaps this is to contrast them with an immortal being-- Jesus had 12 apostles, all mortal men. Or perhaps this is to highlight the amazement that they sing-- they are chained, imprisoned, and doomed... yet they sing!
And of "liberty," yet! And both "ecstasy and fear." Fear is understandable, and even hope for liberty, but how are men in such straits to be in ecstasy? Perhaps it is the music, the joy of being outside, the camaraderie of their fellow inmates, even the adrenaline rush that comes from physical labor.
The song closes with a vision, a dream, a wish: "In my heart, I see a crowd/ A thousand souls marching proud." It does not say what their purpose is, what they march for, but "everyone [is] gathered," and "each one is loved."
The song has only three verses. The first is about a hopeless, silent town of free people. The second is about a hopeful, singing gang of chained people. The third imagines a group that is not only free, but "chained" by a common purpose, and loved. The best of both worlds.
Next Song: Harper Lee
Showing posts with label prison. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prison. Show all posts
Monday, January 23, 2017
Monday, December 19, 2016
Horizon
"God is the horizon," said Vaclav Havel, a Czech playwright who became a dissident and was imprisoned, only to become his nation's leader after his release. I only learned that Vega wrote this song about him because she said so when introducing the song in a concert.
I had thought it was about South Africa's Nelson Mandela, but it also could have been about Poland's Lech Walesa India's Gandhi, or Israel's Natan Sharansky, imprisoned by the Soviets (OK, so he hasn't been made head of state in Israel... yet), or even Joseph from the Bible. It's also the story of some women, including Myanmar's Aung San Suu Kyi (she was under house arrest, not jail, but still) and Pakistan's Benazir Bhutto. Even Martin Luther King, Jr. was jailed and then led his country, after a fashion.
The relevant verse comes later in the song, however. It starts simply: "There is a road/ Beyond this one/ ...the path/ We don't yet take." It could be the afterlife, or simply the future.
"I can feel how it longs/ To be entered upon," she continues, "It calls to me with a cry/ And an ache." She feels pulled toward it, compelled to travel its length.
What powers its attraction? "Love pulls us on to that/ Distant horizon so true."
Now we get to the biography: "I knew a man/ He lived in jail... When he was free/ He led his country."
What allows someone to rise from a prison cot to a president's chair? "He dreamed of a line/ That we call the Divine." The line being, as we now know, the horizon itself.
How do these rulers tend to lead their countries? "He taught the way of love/ And he lived in that way, too/ Love pulled him on to that distant horizon so true."
What makes us go forward, onto the next path, and the next after that? What allows us to enter the realm beyond the horizon of this life? Love.
Love of country, of self, of principles and values, of one's fellow humans. Love, even, of love itself.
Next Song: Carson's Blues
I had thought it was about South Africa's Nelson Mandela, but it also could have been about Poland's Lech Walesa India's Gandhi, or Israel's Natan Sharansky, imprisoned by the Soviets (OK, so he hasn't been made head of state in Israel... yet), or even Joseph from the Bible. It's also the story of some women, including Myanmar's Aung San Suu Kyi (she was under house arrest, not jail, but still) and Pakistan's Benazir Bhutto. Even Martin Luther King, Jr. was jailed and then led his country, after a fashion.
The relevant verse comes later in the song, however. It starts simply: "There is a road/ Beyond this one/ ...the path/ We don't yet take." It could be the afterlife, or simply the future.
"I can feel how it longs/ To be entered upon," she continues, "It calls to me with a cry/ And an ache." She feels pulled toward it, compelled to travel its length.
What powers its attraction? "Love pulls us on to that/ Distant horizon so true."
Now we get to the biography: "I knew a man/ He lived in jail... When he was free/ He led his country."
What allows someone to rise from a prison cot to a president's chair? "He dreamed of a line/ That we call the Divine." The line being, as we now know, the horizon itself.
How do these rulers tend to lead their countries? "He taught the way of love/ And he lived in that way, too/ Love pulled him on to that distant horizon so true."
What makes us go forward, onto the next path, and the next after that? What allows us to enter the realm beyond the horizon of this life? Love.
Love of country, of self, of principles and values, of one's fellow humans. Love, even, of love itself.
Next Song: Carson's Blues
Monday, December 7, 2015
Woman on the Tier (I'll See You Through)
This song is from the soundtrack to the 1995 movie Dead Man Walking. It is not in the film, however; the soundtrack's subtitle is "Music from and inspired by the motion picture." The director, Tim Robbins, submitted songs from many top songwriters, and while he could not use them all in the film, he felt obliged to release them somehow (also, much of the music in the actual soundtrack is gospel songs and Armenian folksongs... and while they are beautiful, it can be fairly said they had limited commercial appeal versus the work of Vega, Springsteen, Tom Waits, Patti Smith, Eddie Vedder, and country's Johnny Cash, Lyle Lovett, Mary Chapin Carpenter, and Steve Earle).
The film's story is a true one about a Death Row inmate and the nun who tried to save him, or at least his soul, and visited him regularly in prison. (As always, Hollywood put its own spin on the story.)
It is not surprising that Vega was chosen to contribute to the soundtrack, given the industrial sound of her 99.9 Fahrenheit Degrees album and her history of writing songs about mental illness.
The song's title implies that the song is about a woman, and it is-- but most of the imagery is about the prison she visits. It begins by setting the scene of a building that resembles a "tin can," since it is full of metal bars and doors, and frustratingly ventilation-free: "Too hot. No air," even with a "loud fan" stirring up the stifling atmosphere. She is waiting on the "tier," as the title explains, this being one level or story of the prison's architecture.
The song continues with the procedure she follows: "Wait here... They've gone to get your man," the prisoner she is there to see. Then "Through Gate 3 with a picture ID." She hears "the click" of a lock, then "see(s) his face through bar and guard."
She introduces herself to the prisoner by acknowledging the strangeness of their meeting: "You're new to me; I'm new to you." Then, she makes a promise. Although she sees "his fate" as inevitable, she still says "I'll see you through."
Although... she actually says: "I'll see you/ You through," as if stuttering. But "I'll see you" is also a promise for repeated visits, and the emphasis on "you" could imply "I see through you," as in: "Yeah, I see 'these men are hard,' but I know there is a soul in there somewhere."
While the room and building are "too hot," she finds her reception by the prisoner chilly: "Ice within." Is there any clemency forthcoming? No, the powers that be are as firm as the walls of the prison: "it's all cement in the government."
Now the prisoner is being moved to the pre-execution chamber, the "plywood booth where the prisoner's sent." The prisoner sees the "red... letters" on the door of the actual execution chamber. His reaction is to "feel unreal," even as reality is very much all around, even to his "rattling chains."
Lastly, the focus moves back to the woman. She "hear(s) the clock," and knows time has run out, and that the electric switch or poison needle or other form of execution method is about to be used.
It is not uncommon in moments like this for the brain to seek distraction, but all she finds is a blank "green" wall. (As to why it is green, please see the earlier blogpost on Vega's song "Institution Green.") She also noticed that, instead of "bars," there is a "screen" to view the execution through.
She closes with the same words with which she began: "You're new to me; I'm new to you./ I see your fate. I'll see you/ You through." She has kept her promise, and stayed with him until his end.
Lyrically, the song is notable for its use of internal rhyme, which gives the sensation of small rooms and narrow hallways. Starting with no context reflects the disorientation of the nun entering the prison. Also, the imagery does the job, mostly, without Vega telling the listener in so many words how to feel, while trying to have the nun maintain some humanity in all the brutality and bureaucracy of the prison world.
Next Song: Birth-Day (Love Made Real)
The film's story is a true one about a Death Row inmate and the nun who tried to save him, or at least his soul, and visited him regularly in prison. (As always, Hollywood put its own spin on the story.)
It is not surprising that Vega was chosen to contribute to the soundtrack, given the industrial sound of her 99.9 Fahrenheit Degrees album and her history of writing songs about mental illness.
The song's title implies that the song is about a woman, and it is-- but most of the imagery is about the prison she visits. It begins by setting the scene of a building that resembles a "tin can," since it is full of metal bars and doors, and frustratingly ventilation-free: "Too hot. No air," even with a "loud fan" stirring up the stifling atmosphere. She is waiting on the "tier," as the title explains, this being one level or story of the prison's architecture.
The song continues with the procedure she follows: "Wait here... They've gone to get your man," the prisoner she is there to see. Then "Through Gate 3 with a picture ID." She hears "the click" of a lock, then "see(s) his face through bar and guard."
She introduces herself to the prisoner by acknowledging the strangeness of their meeting: "You're new to me; I'm new to you." Then, she makes a promise. Although she sees "his fate" as inevitable, she still says "I'll see you through."
Although... she actually says: "I'll see you/ You through," as if stuttering. But "I'll see you" is also a promise for repeated visits, and the emphasis on "you" could imply "I see through you," as in: "Yeah, I see 'these men are hard,' but I know there is a soul in there somewhere."
While the room and building are "too hot," she finds her reception by the prisoner chilly: "Ice within." Is there any clemency forthcoming? No, the powers that be are as firm as the walls of the prison: "it's all cement in the government."
Now the prisoner is being moved to the pre-execution chamber, the "plywood booth where the prisoner's sent." The prisoner sees the "red... letters" on the door of the actual execution chamber. His reaction is to "feel unreal," even as reality is very much all around, even to his "rattling chains."
Lastly, the focus moves back to the woman. She "hear(s) the clock," and knows time has run out, and that the electric switch or poison needle or other form of execution method is about to be used.
It is not uncommon in moments like this for the brain to seek distraction, but all she finds is a blank "green" wall. (As to why it is green, please see the earlier blogpost on Vega's song "Institution Green.") She also noticed that, instead of "bars," there is a "screen" to view the execution through.
She closes with the same words with which she began: "You're new to me; I'm new to you./ I see your fate. I'll see you/ You through." She has kept her promise, and stayed with him until his end.
Lyrically, the song is notable for its use of internal rhyme, which gives the sensation of small rooms and narrow hallways. Starting with no context reflects the disorientation of the nun entering the prison. Also, the imagery does the job, mostly, without Vega telling the listener in so many words how to feel, while trying to have the nun maintain some humanity in all the brutality and bureaucracy of the prison world.
Next Song: Birth-Day (Love Made Real)
Monday, July 20, 2015
Book of Dreams
As befits a song about dreams, this song is surreal, full of non-sequiturs, and stream of conscious-- or, more accurately, subconscious-- imagery and sound.
It is constructed to feel unconstructed, yet to deconstruct it is our task.
The song begins with the repeated line that contains the title: "In my book of dreams." This repetition serves to flash a warning: dream-imagery ahead! It also mimics the rhythm of someone drifting off, or the repetitious movements made to induce hypnotic slumber.
The wind that pushes us into the waters of the subconscious is an "urgent whisper." This is not given, but taken for this purpose, and from the "you," perhaps the listener (whom we shall consider a man for clarity's sake alone, to be able to use a different pronoun).
We know these are waters we travel because of the next series of images. The "arc of a white wing," which was not just taken this time but stolen, could be that of a seagull, or perhaps a sail looks like a white wing . Then she "rode like foam on the river... turned its tide..." So yes, the dreamworld is more an waterway, in which there are no roads, barriers or borders, than a land-bound place.
However, this is not a river of water. It is a "river of pity." She does not sink into it, but rides like foam on its surface. This recalls the expression "to wallow in pity," which this speaker decidedly does not do. Instead, she turns pity's tide to "strength." In doing so, she "heals" a "hole" than had been "ripped" in... not the sailcloth, but in "living."
So the dreamer has undergone some recent trauma, a hole that was ripped in her life. But rather than succumb to pity, she responded with fortitude. This is reflected in the active, forceful verbs that start each line: "took," "stole," "turned" "healed."
Even "rode" is not passive here. We car passengers think to "ride" is passive while to "drive" is active, but here she "rode the foam," like a horse or bicycle, so the verb reflects an actor, not one acted upon or along for the ride.
Evidently, she records her dreams in a journal or book, and a hardy one, too: "The spine is bound to last for life/ Tough enough to take the pounding." This could also refer to her own backbone, which we have just seen is formidable.
The pages of the book are "made of days of open hand" (whence the album's title). This expression implies that her days are spent in opening her hand, a gesture of both generosity and acceptance, as well as honesty.
Further, we see that the book is considered important, as the pages are numbered in "silver." This could also be a reference to money; this book also has elements of a ledger of accounts.
Yet, the book is also mundane, as the highlights are not done in gold or diamonds, say, but in ho-hum "magic marker"-- which sounds "magical" but which everyone knows is not.
We have been working, to this point, under the assumption that the book is a record of her dreams. Yet, we now she she uses it to "take the name of every prisoner." This is a somewhat shocking revelation! Does she really feel that those who have relationships with her are trapped by her, captured and kept, with no freedom to leave? Or is it that this idea applies to those in her dreams?
Perhaps he is not the victim... but she is. She may want to let people, thoughts, images, go-- but cannot. They are trapped in her memory, and they stalk the prison yards and dungeon passages of her dreams. Therefore, their names are in her book.
She promises that "yours is there," meaning the name of whomever is being addressed. He hopes that he is trapped only in her memory and subconscious, not her clutches...
The first verse was about active dreaming. She says she "stole [his] urgent whisper," and then proceeds to ignore it, and the pity that came with it. Instead, she actively turns the tide and heals the hole in her life. Then she describes her dream journal as being strong as well, and both special and approachable.
She concludes by telling the listener-- the ones that whispered pity before-- that he is part of her dreams, even though she rejected his sympathy. She still recalls the fact of it, and seems to even use it as a pushing-off point. Her rejection of the pity is part of what drives her to heal herself.
She doesn't thank him for this. But she doesn't forget him, either.
Next Song: Institution Green
It is constructed to feel unconstructed, yet to deconstruct it is our task.
The song begins with the repeated line that contains the title: "In my book of dreams." This repetition serves to flash a warning: dream-imagery ahead! It also mimics the rhythm of someone drifting off, or the repetitious movements made to induce hypnotic slumber.
The wind that pushes us into the waters of the subconscious is an "urgent whisper." This is not given, but taken for this purpose, and from the "you," perhaps the listener (whom we shall consider a man for clarity's sake alone, to be able to use a different pronoun).
We know these are waters we travel because of the next series of images. The "arc of a white wing," which was not just taken this time but stolen, could be that of a seagull, or perhaps a sail looks like a white wing . Then she "rode like foam on the river... turned its tide..." So yes, the dreamworld is more an waterway, in which there are no roads, barriers or borders, than a land-bound place.
However, this is not a river of water. It is a "river of pity." She does not sink into it, but rides like foam on its surface. This recalls the expression "to wallow in pity," which this speaker decidedly does not do. Instead, she turns pity's tide to "strength." In doing so, she "heals" a "hole" than had been "ripped" in... not the sailcloth, but in "living."
So the dreamer has undergone some recent trauma, a hole that was ripped in her life. But rather than succumb to pity, she responded with fortitude. This is reflected in the active, forceful verbs that start each line: "took," "stole," "turned" "healed."
Even "rode" is not passive here. We car passengers think to "ride" is passive while to "drive" is active, but here she "rode the foam," like a horse or bicycle, so the verb reflects an actor, not one acted upon or along for the ride.
Evidently, she records her dreams in a journal or book, and a hardy one, too: "The spine is bound to last for life/ Tough enough to take the pounding." This could also refer to her own backbone, which we have just seen is formidable.
The pages of the book are "made of days of open hand" (whence the album's title). This expression implies that her days are spent in opening her hand, a gesture of both generosity and acceptance, as well as honesty.
Further, we see that the book is considered important, as the pages are numbered in "silver." This could also be a reference to money; this book also has elements of a ledger of accounts.
Yet, the book is also mundane, as the highlights are not done in gold or diamonds, say, but in ho-hum "magic marker"-- which sounds "magical" but which everyone knows is not.
We have been working, to this point, under the assumption that the book is a record of her dreams. Yet, we now she she uses it to "take the name of every prisoner." This is a somewhat shocking revelation! Does she really feel that those who have relationships with her are trapped by her, captured and kept, with no freedom to leave? Or is it that this idea applies to those in her dreams?
Perhaps he is not the victim... but she is. She may want to let people, thoughts, images, go-- but cannot. They are trapped in her memory, and they stalk the prison yards and dungeon passages of her dreams. Therefore, their names are in her book.
She promises that "yours is there," meaning the name of whomever is being addressed. He hopes that he is trapped only in her memory and subconscious, not her clutches...
The first verse was about active dreaming. She says she "stole [his] urgent whisper," and then proceeds to ignore it, and the pity that came with it. Instead, she actively turns the tide and heals the hole in her life. Then she describes her dream journal as being strong as well, and both special and approachable.
She concludes by telling the listener-- the ones that whispered pity before-- that he is part of her dreams, even though she rejected his sympathy. She still recalls the fact of it, and seems to even use it as a pushing-off point. Her rejection of the pity is part of what drives her to heal herself.
She doesn't thank him for this. But she doesn't forget him, either.
Next Song: Institution Green
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