Ah, music.

Music – that causes transcendent God moments and wallow-thons alike. Music with subtextual healing lyrics. Music with wordless instrumental wonder. When everything from religion to a rapidly lightening Valium bottle failed me, music never has. Like comedy, it’s among the quickest ways to un-feel a feeling or switch the ick off – to tune into some other frequency.

Through college, I would wear headphones everywhere. Fully embracing my self-centered fear, I just wasn’t that interested in spontaneous potential connections with random students I might encounter. Thus, I just poured a constant score into my ears, as if trying to paint some cinematic reality for myself via melody – some movie I would occasionally realize no one else was part of when I’d see them pass by, scowling.

The only thing that made me feel alright about this habit (and less alone) was ironically the fact that I saw other people do it. A lot of them. Much the same way I feel deprived and envious when I see a few people laughing together at a cafe about some inside joke, I’d see these headphone junkies sporting serene smiles and relaxed brows and I’d think with a pang, “what’s that they’re listening to?! I want to hear!”

I long believed that happy people had something I could get only by duplicating their external possessions for myself. This is generally false.

Until we talk about music.

That’s a game changer.

It’s one thing to realize the insanity in valuing transient facets of the false self, like the Lacoste dress I can only wear once in a whatever and then forget about how cute it looks halfway through wearing it anyway. That, or even having near mythic Helen-of-Troy beauty (that I’d overvalue, torture myself to maintain, lose in a few decades, then slowly die without being able to express focus through a frozen botulinumask).

botox

But music always delivers – and there is always the promise of something hitting us internally. If it’s Gwen Stefani, I’ll be moved – literally – when Rock Steady plays, I’ll be on the elliptical with a broken leg. If it’s Chino Moreno, I floor the gas even though the dead-zotic dancer’s still in the trunk (J/K there’s no such thing as speeding in traffic like there is here). And if it’s country music, I politely wipe the blood from my ears on my way out the door.

I think I just love that there’s something out there that can do that brain-change thing that usually takes a chemical cocktail to accomplish. Yeah, yoga and working out and meditation can all do this. But it’s nice to know there’s something as instant as it is innocent, and where I can do naught but recline and receive auditory cunnilingus.

But if I’m in the mood for stratified aural pleasure – something like a film can be transformed by the right tunes, too. In fact, I’m so easily influenced that almost all of my favorite flicks would not make the cut without the musical masters they had doing the soundtracks. As I’ve been on an experimental-minimalist-ambient-drone kinda kick, today we’ll focus on some soundtrack geniuses informing the contents of my more introspective playlists: Cliff Martinez, Clint Mansell, Jon Brion, John Murphy, and Shane Carruth.


Cliff Martinez
Cliff + Clooney = stuff of dreams. When I first saw Solaris, I had on the subtitles. The moment Cliff’s instrumental ditty began, the titles read “ethereal music playing” and I remember thinking, “yeah! I agree with that robot translator at the bottom of the screen!”

I bought that soundtrack on CD, still have it – all scratched and stuff, and always start stargazing out my window when I hear it play. Cliff’s hypnosis waves over me like a binaural brain massage:


Clint Mansell
Clint Mansell doles out the emotional lap dances as well. That combined with Wolverine and some breathtaking imagery in The Fountain, and my chick senses stood no chance…

John Murphy
Not since Romero has someone made me think outside the zombie filled coffin box like Murphy has with his musical additions. 28 days later had the good acting, those beautiful scenic shots, and – of course – the creatively constructed sanguine sputtering deadsies. But it was the soundtrack that drew me in and made me feel the kinda feels that make you say, “Ah! I suddenly care if the people they’re pretending to play get dead now!”

In fact, I dig this dude’s work enough to like a song from a movie I’ve yet to see: I’ll view “Sunshine” some rainy day soon:

Jon Brion
Jon Brion has wowed me consistently: Eternal Sunshine, I <3 Huckabees, Synechdoche NY, and Stone stand out as particularly spectacular. My argument for ardent praise of Brion is that when he branches out with varied styles, it's all effing amazing - not "okay" or "so-so" but unmitigated greatness. Homeboy can sing, too.

Shane Carruth
Up until Upstream Color, I’d not seen Shane’s name. Then I saw it about 15 times – when the credits rolled. I shit you not- it was like that Mae West play where she eventually starts adding fake names so she won’t look like a pompous ass. At first, I was sure this was a Cliff and Aronofsky or Soderbergh collab. Nope! Shane wrote the story, played the lead, composed the music, and won.my.heart with his natch acting and cult-dazed gaze.

Upstream was no film but a full on experience. Bet he tortured himself making this thing perfect. I know I would if I was micromanaging all those creative bits.

That’s all for today.

This invocation of emotional Schizophrenia has been brought to you by PMS