“The psychometry of books. At the risk of sounding like Madam Blavatsky, the mystic friend of mystic Yeats, I can confirm that signed First Editions offer a presence not found in any book and never found in paperbacks.”
-“Art Objects Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery” by Jeanette Winterson
Coincidental convergence is spooky. The more you “risk” tuning in, the spookier and seemingly more revelatory it becomes. In a strange moment of synchronicity I reached for Jeanette’s book after one such “mystical” happenstance. My friend and musical collaborator came to visit this summer. We had delightful, winding conversations about life and art and in between we worked on covering a song he had discovered by Phil Ochs ironically called “No More Songs.” We often share music back and forth, however I was particularly drawn to a certain cover he shared by the band “Henry Cow.” I was hypnotized by the emotive singer. I can only sloppily describe it as a sensation of being sucked into a tunnel. This phenomenon has preceded many a manifestation of requisite elements that have shaped my trajectory. It happens when I suddenly can’t take my eyes off of something seemingly random, and zone out for a moment. It sometimes happens around certain words, people and specifically songs. It also happens before some type of life-altering revelation.The spirit of a thing speaks to me, or perhaps I regularly experience instances of psychometry.
While working out the song together with my friend, I didn’t know anything about the writer or his history. He filled me in on a couple details but I was more focused on finding the correct harmonies. Singing harmonies is a very multidimensional endeavor. You are reaching for correct intervals that are somewhere “out there” in the air and as a singer, you feel hyper-exposed while doodling. For a mostly self-trained musician like myself, it takes a good ear, creativity and bravery. When it clicks it’s like unlocking the key to a secret garden. It’s like being able to breathe like a singing mermaid under an orchestral sea. The song begins to grow and the components slowly emerge in an eerie kind of predestined evolution. A song is a living creature. It grows as not only a child of the original, but also carries the genes of the musicians playing it. It envelops the neurons and replays in one’s head. It follows you out of the house and into your bed and astral realm.
The night after we recorded the final version of our song I had a strange dream. There were agents in black clothes who came to my front door to take me away for having “said too much.” I had anticipated their arrival yet wasn’t any less terrified and enraged. Upon waking I was getting ready to take my friend to the airport and decided to skim over the biography of Phil Ochs while having my coffee. Such a tragic end preceded by a justified paranoia. Had I tapped into his political spirit by singing his words? Singing a song written by another person is a very intimate affair. Writer and singer become one and transcend temporal limits. It led me to believe there is also a psychometry of songs. After my friend left, I picked up Jeanette’s book and when I read her passage I nearly fell off my chair. Many of the topics my friend and I had discussed came up in her book, such as what it means to appreciate a piece of art (in our case certain music), even if it doesn’t appeal to one’s arbitrary taste. It was almost a summary of what had already occurred over the past week. Then that word, “psychometry.” Had we tapped into another dimension? For me it served as a channel into the depths of my own political and social grapplings.
Music transcends politics and allows us to say certain things and converse with others when otherwise impossible. It allows us to connect in ways we previously wouldn’t have understood. I felt the fear of being taken away in my dream perhaps shared with Phil Ochs from beyond. I began to feel a deep kinship with his song despite knowing very little about him as a person. I was also able to convey feelings to my friend regarding my own political struggles that otherwise come across prickly. Certain friendships, books and music seem to pop up at seemingly predestined times and allow deeper introspection and communication.
The various elements converged this summer and slowly served to help heal my self-inflicted nihilism that followed the pandemic. Such a cruel, grotesque period. A dark ceremony forcing us to confront the masks we wear in every sense of the word. How does one heal and still have the will to search for meaning in the chaos? I am beginning to realize how the trials of that time were a kind of alchemy. I completely overcame stage fright. I discovered new modes of research and inquiry. It forced me to confront the ugliness within me and the truths I was too vain to explore before I was stripped to the bare bones of philosophical existence. I recently read a book by Annalee Skarin, “Ye Are Gods,” in which she writes about the chemistry of all things and how every event must serve our own alchemy. I’ve learned we can retreat in defeat or take these hardships as an opportunity to create art. What we create serves as a guidepost that transcends time and strife in a period when there are seemingly “no more songs.” Without discord we would die of boredom, tear ourselves to shreds or sink into addiction. These trials give us a a renewed sense of purpose and the courage to see deeper into ourselves than ever before. Why do we do what we do and say what we say? Sometimes we don’t know until we hear a certain song.
I am a clumsy conversationalist, yet I am passionate. I can still dance with those by whom I felt betrayed, whereas those same people and others I can no longer verbally face because they served as a mirror into my own abyss. The darkness remains, a twisted tumor of projection and self-preservation. A naughty neuroticism accompanies the people I am not permitted to be, yet still am. Art is a kind of metaphysical bath, allowing a thorough sorting of the scum and revealing the luminous love that remains. It is how we make sense of the terror of meaninglessness and isolation. It is how we “sort” our life, as Dan Winter pointed out in a talk. We require a type of near-death intensity to make sense of and sort out who we are.
We’re not enclosed within ourselves, no matter how solitary we pretend to be. The songs are beacons in the noise between us and through them, we hear not only Phil, but also each other as well as our own voice. Without others there is no self-reflection or growth. Music is physical and mental exploration. Dara Dubinet so often says “when things get weird, create.” These artistic endeavors allow us to bypass the wall of propaganda and self-delusion by which we are programmed to no longer hear and understand each other or ourselves. By creating we rise from the swamp of disillusion and incoherence, full of renewed desire, outreach and divine creative power. We recreate ourselves, rising from the dull, material bones of our past. We rise from the grave in song. Perhaps the judgment card in the tarot hints to this clarity and rebirth after the trumpet sounds. We are reborn after we hear a certain song. We are attuned to a higher truth. We communicate through spirit rather than brain and bypass the ego. Only then can we clearly judge our past selves and relation to others in order to awaken to our essence.
Our works are the ingredients stirred to paint galleries and sing the songs of the Gods within us. In the beginning was the Word. Our art becomes a guidebook for those who wrestle with chaos on the precipice of defeat and serves as a new common language after our towers have fallen. Our creations are stars in a black hole; no longer a “rainbow in the dark,” we awaken to a transcendental inner light, to an inner song. Thank you for the music, Phil.
No More Songs by Phil Ochs
Hello hello hello, is anybody home
I’ve only called to say I’m sorry
The drums are in the dawn
And all the voice was gone
And it seems that there are no more songs
Once I knew a girl, she was a flower in a flame
I loved her as the sea sings sadly
Now the ashes of the dream
Can be found in magazines
And it seems that there are no more songs
Once I knew a saint who sang upon a stage
He told me about the world, his lover
A ghost with no name
Stands ragged in the rain
And it seems that there are no more songs
The rebels they were here they came beside the door
They told me that the moon was bleeding
Then all to my surprise
They took away my eyes
And it seems that there are no more songs
A scar in the sky, it’s time to say goodbye
He withers on the beat, he’s dying
A white flag in my hand
A white boat in the sand
And it seems that there are no more songs.
Hello hello hello, is anybody home
I’ve only come to say I’m sorry
The drums are in the dawn
And all the voice was gone
And it seems that there are no more songs.
Written by: PHIL OCHS
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
Creators mentioned:
“Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery” ; Author, Jeanette Winterson; Publisher, Jonathan Cape, 1995 ; Original from, the University of Michigan.
“No More Songs” by Phil Ochs cover by Henry Cow “Stockholm and Göteborg” 2008
“Ye are Gods”.; Author, Annalee Skarin ; Publisher, Philosophical Library, 1952
Dan Winter on sorting life’s experiences: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Du4tmb7_Ys0
Dara Dubinet: DaraDubinet.com
“Rainbow in the Dark” by Dio “Holy Diver” 1983