Song Moments💫

Digitally altered - "The Sugar Shack" by Ernie Barnes, circa (1971).

I live for specific moments in songs. Marvin’s “brother, brother” on What’s Going On. The stacked vocals on the back half of Michael’s Man in the Mirror. Prince’s guitar solo on Purple Rain. The funked-out beat switch on Sade’s Cherish the Day. Deep in the music is where you can find the purest me, occupied by convergent song elements that bring you far, far away, or deeper within. With added exposure, you even come to appreciate its ubiquity, the global diversity and appeal, the raw sauciness when masters are at work, jamming, feeling it, transcending borders and languages, skating across time itself. 

If nothing else, it forces you to be human in a wide and unpredictable universe. It affirms our place, found in the present, even when absorbed with the past or obsessed with an ever-changing future. The remarkable feel a compelling song moment gives may be experienced, but never duplicated, by other art mediums or life events – this feel is utterly unique to the texture and concept of music.

What I love most about standout songs (and there’s much to love) is the timeless factor. Songs you can listen to now, a hundred years from now, a thousand years from now, and it still leaves a healthy impression on listeners, sonically relevant, fresh to any timeline, or directly transporting you to the moment it was created like a time capsule. 

I realize this quality is not exclusive to music, and found across all disciplines of what we consider the Arts. But for me personally, there’s a tangible quality about great music that taps your emotions with such immediacy and potency you can’t help but feel. Really feel. Inviting you with comfort to tap a foot, lift a hand, sway a hip, embrace a partner, sing along at the top of your lungs or in the silent chambers of your mind. This active engagement is nearly exclusive to music, and incomparable when it comes to style and execution. The phenomenon of a song stuck in your head, whether you love the record or hate it, it cares not, engaging the body on a visceral level. At its best, this medium not only reflects and communicates the world we inhabit, but also provides a brief opportunity to transcend it. To dissolve into a record, lost in the matrix of its genius elements. Songs are these sticky, tangible things, willing itself onto the audience regardless if every note is appreciated or exists as mindless background ambiance. Again, it cares not.

It’s why I have such respect for good DJs and the art of deejaying. They know, as well as any musician, composer, and performer (perhaps more than anyone) how to squeeze pulp from the most compelling parts of a record and quench the subconscious part of us we didn’t realize is being coaxed to think, behave and feel something. With increased skill and discipline, they crystallize the emotions of the audience into rhythm, dance, and ultimately, community. Each record played delivers a feel, whether its unapologetic joy, impulsive aggression, or the endless shades in between that color the emotional spectrum. 

What motivates people to rage in a mosh pit, praise to a choir hymn, connect during a twerk anthem, or love ballad? Music acts as a channel for emotion, and once it makes contact, transfers emotional energy onto us, working to influence our immediate behavior. That doesn’t dismiss the authority of freewill and self-control but it’s wise to consider the force of musical inspiration.

For me, the anchor of any great song is the song moment, and I appreciate these precise moments because they represent a one-of-one signature or stamp. Its presence underscores authenticity in the artist, an original feature that elevates the composition, a portal to the heart and soul of its creator(s). The song moment strikes when the record solidifies its impact on you. This could manifest as a bridge or breakdown, a distinct adlib or intonation, a perfect rhythmic progression: crashing of strings, sliding of piano keys, jumping baseline, ethereal synths, scaled chords, silky breath control through trombone or sax mouthpieces. You patiently await its arrival, and are a little saddened to watch it leave, but find resolve in the fact it can be experienced again, and even found anew at different points with each added listen. It’s the magic ingredient that turns an average song legendary. It’s the DNA of making a record last forever – the song moment.

In contrast, songs that avoid an attempt at originality fall into an infinite audio junk pile. Here today, gone tomorrow. Forgotten like an old toy when a child matures into adulthood, or the name of a person who failed to forge a lasting impression.

My earliest memory of music comes from late night car rides as an inconsolable toddler, and the only method to calm the madness of my tears was the motion of the vehicle and sound of quiet storm radio selections. The backseat became a sanctuary that never failed to induce deep slumber.

It makes me think not only of how music impacts you but also how you impact music. Your real-time mood and lived-through experiences can sway your enjoyment of a record. It shouldn’t sound groundbreaking but this duality of emotional exchange, this stickiness is why music is tangible – it is housed and lives outside of us, and at the same time shaped and molded by our core, innate feelings. This exchange is cemented by the exact place we discover the song moment. 

There’s a saying that goes, “You bring yourself into every room you enter.” It acknowledges the nuanced realities we carry wherever we may go. The same principle applies to songs as we carry our endless preferences, expectations, and memories into our musical encounters. A delicate threshold exists between art and audience that dares us to crossover and confront our findings.

Another relevant cliché which comes to mind is, “Music saved my life.” Sure, there could be the literal, opportunities through the pursuit of music redirected my chosen path of discontentment or demise. Plenty of popular examples supporting this narrative are available, from street rappers to rock stars. But there is something else, something beyond, because I’ve heard people without concrete musical ambitions express this very sentiment. I think of Dash Snow’s haunting intro on Kendrick’s The Heart Pt. 2, when asked what keeps him alive, he responds:

“Four big bottles of water a day, two packs of Marlboro Reds. And… Music, I have to listen to music all day long. I'd say that keeps me going. I’m a pretty dark person, I’ve thought about ending it a million times. And I have to say that music keeps me here, by far, the main thing.”

What is it about music that could protect someone from self-harm, and become the reason why they choose life? Is it an exaggeration to be capable of putting your faith in music? And what would be the reward of this particular faith? What salvation can be granted from this type of devotion? Maybe it’s not a question of saving you and your soul for all eternity. Its domain is much smaller, and momentary. Maybe it simply targets the day by day, inspiring us enough to reach another tomorrow. 

If that’s the case, my how beautiful it is. How privileged are we to have a medium that tethers us to life, keeps the reaper at bay and offers a resounding affirmation that everything will be okay, even when faced with the world crumbling around you, or inside of you. It doesn’t demand anything from us outside of listening and remaining engaged for its short-lived duration.

There’s a million more thoughts I could give to the essence of music, of song moments that slam fists on the table and proclaim, “You make me feel alive.” But I’d rather leave on a note of solace, of careful departure - in the song moment we can identify the best part of ourselves and we should do everything within power to treasure and cultivate a million more of these prized moments until we are no longer here to feel them.