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"Tokyo Sunrise" by LP

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Every once in a while, I will stumble across a song that crashes onto the couch of my mind and stays there for days like an out-of-town house-guest. I first heard the song above just a few days ago on Monday and it's been fading in and out of my mental soundtrack ever since. As I've previously discussed, sometimes what makes a song standout is a single, subtle twist on an old familiar convention. This song contains several. Here are a couple:

Thematic Production: When the song begins, you might not expect it to venture beyond the borders of the pop-ballad formula. There's a guitar, some percussion, and a singer, all strummin', drummin', and hummin' up a great tune. Around 1:05, some violins dance their way into the mix and begin to recolor the song. This is now the chorus ("Where you gonna go, where you gonna go?") and the instrumentation is busier than before with additional percussion and other subtleties added to the track. Then, at 1:36, following a sweeping vocal glissando (the cool thing she does at the end of the word "again") we're suddenly in the midst of a soaring, ethnically-themed ballad that immerses the listener into the "Tokyo" imagery.

Melody: Part of how the song conveys this theme to the listener is the melody that is being sung by the vocals and played by the strings. They are playing around a series of five notes (with a few exceptions) that sound good pretty much anywhere at any time during the song. Many melodies are based on this scale and although it is common in countless folk tunes all over the world, it sounds characteristically Oriental if played in a certain manner. Technically speaking, the song is in the key of F#, so the melody is being played with the F# major pentatonic scale. Here's a quick visual:

Typical F# major scale:                           F#     G#     A#     B     C#     D#     E     F#
Solfege ("do -  a deer, a female deer..."):            Do    Re      Mi     Fa    Sol    La      Ti    Do

F# major pentatonic scale:                     F#     G#     A#     -      C#     D#     -       F#
Solfege:                                                    Do    Re      Mi      -      Sol    La      -       Do

If you are near a keyboard, you can easily play it: Notice how all of the black-keys are in repeating pairs of two and three. For every group of three black keys, the F# is the first one on the left. Play only the black notes anywhere on the keyboard, and you are playing the notes of the F# pentatonic scale (F#, G#, A#, C#, D#). If you want to play along with the song, you're guaranteed to sound pretty good if you stick to these notes.

It is this smart use of the pentatonic scale that richly blends a new vibe into the track, uniquely distinguishing it from a standard, American pop radio song.

Meter: A songs meter describes part of the general format of the song. It determines how many beats (or 'counts') are in each measure (a repeating chunk of music). Regardless of genre, but especially in pop music, most songs tend to have four beats per measure. That means you could repeatedly and steadily count "1 - 2 -3 - 4" to the beat of the music. If you've ever seen a live performance, you may have noticed that the drummer (usually) will click their sticks and count these numbers out loud right before the band starts playing. By doing this, the drummer is counting each beat (the meter) so the band can get a sense of how fast (the tempo) they are about to play the song.

This song breaks that convention in a pretty major yet subtle way: It has seven beats per measure. Seven?!? Yes, seven. But the way it is played out in this song feels so natural that its almost unnoticeable at first.

To hear these beats, focus on the drums. They begin playing at the 0:10 mark, right when LP starts singing (on beat 1 of that particular measure). Notice that they are played in groups of two. They are playing on beats one, three, four, and seven of each measure throughout the song. See if you can count along. You may also notice that the general rhythm of the guitar and some other instruments follow this pattern (rewind to the beginning of the song and hear how the guitar is playing this rhythm even before the drums come in).

Songs with four beats per measure are usually pretty easy to dance or clap along with because four is a very even, rounded number. You would think that a song with seven beats would feel a little "wobbly." But not so here. There could be many reasons for this. I think the largest contributor is the singing. As listeners, our ears tend to be drawn to the vocalist in the band. The instruments play repeating sequences of music that ease into the background but the vocalist is singing words with specific definitions and those words change throughout the song, bringing them to the forefront of our attention. LP sings this song with a fairly relaxed vibe. Nothing about the singing communicates, "I'm singing over seven beats per measure and this is really difficult; I might lose count!" Coupled with the minimalistic rhythm of the drums, pounding out only every few beats, this musically mathematical anomaly is cleverly disguised.

Check out some of the songs that have recently found their way into your "favorites" playlist. Maybe you'll find some hidden gems within them too!

Childhood: Lost or found?

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I found this song recently on a Spotify playlist. I like it because the lyrics capture the sometimes wordless phenomenon that seems to be fairly common among individuals trekking their way through the wide world of adulthood. It seems to be a popular subject for artistic expression as it has been portrayed from many different perspectives in media such as "Stop This Train" by John Mayer, "Cat's in the Cradle" by Henry Chapin, and the book "Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger, just to name a few. 

This phenomenon, in a nutshell, is a feeling of loss in regards to childhood in the face of adulthood's challenges.  

This theme is all over the lyrics of this particular song as it depicts the stress of adulthood and changing values:

"I was told when I get older all my fears would shrink

But now I'm insecure and I care what people think...

Wish we could turn back time, to the good ol' days

When our momma sang us to sleep but now we're stressed out"

Does this ever happen to you? Do you ever notice yourself being overly conscious about what someone (or a whole lot of someones) are thinking about you? Do you wonder why that stresses you out when you might not have been concerned about it when you were younger? 

It sure happens to me at times. 

How come? It's not like the world with all of its problems wasn't there when we were little. The end of the song seems to provide a theory: 

"We used to play pretend, give each other different names

We would build a rocket ship and then we'd fly it far away

Used to dream of outer space but now they're laughing in our face

Saying, 'Wake up, you need to make money'"

Money. The turning of a child into a profitable cog in the economic machine. I think that's part of it. Perhaps money is a branch of a deeper root that feeds this nostalgic condition. 

When people look back on childhood, different words may come to mind. From the descriptions and depictions of childhood that I've come across, it seems to me that "carefree" is a common characteristic that many would agree is part of the ideal childhood. To be carefree can be interpreted many ways: without responsibility, without anxiety, without fear. This isn't the same as being lazy or ignorant. 

Think of how a child interacts with the world. They have a very small but growing library of knowledge, experience, and wisdom with which to operate. They haven't yet learned how to do things efficiently, gracefully, or professionally and haven't yet been taught the mechanics of qualities like greed, kindness, hatred, love, envy, or generosity. They're taking everything in and responding to it based on the basic elements of who they are. In other words, they're just being themselves and they're really good at it. The concept of "saving face" or "fake it 'till you make it" are as distant to them as stars in another galaxy. 

As a child grows up, those distant concepts come closer as they learn them through direct instruction and practice or through indirect observation. As we grow, we understand that there is more to do in life than to just be. We start learning concepts in school, getting grades, being rewarded or punished for our performance, getting jobs, getting paid, getting promoted or demoted. We start to realize that there are certain people we want to impress; friends, family, a potential employer, date, or spouse. Winning their favor feels good. Losing it feels bad. 

Here's a thought: Childhood is about learning to be, which provides the context for an adulthood of learning to do. When you were little, you didn't need the latest gadgets, cars, a fat paycheck, or be the popular prom king to be content. For the most part, you could probably keep yourself pretty well entertained by running around in the backyard, playing with sticks or drawing with chalk. As an adult, many people seek to build, learn, advance their careers, expand their circle of influence. 

I think the tension arises when the culture around us isolates childhood and adulthood from each other, treating them as if they are two completely different and irrelevant worlds. Society doesn't currently have a great system for rewarding people for being. It's more focused on the doing. Students are pressured to choose the best colleges, to pursue a major that will land them a job in a secure and profitable field, to strive for a well-polished GPA. Not that good grades and career choices are bad goals but like most things, when they're taken out of proper context, things can get messy. People start to be valued not for who they are but for what they can do. The message that looms over children like an ominous storm-cloud is often something like, "Enjoy these years because these are the best years of your life." Does that mean it's all downhill afterwards and the fun stops? Is it any wonder that adulthood can be intimidating and overly complicated? And is it any wonder, still, that so many people seem dissatisfied with it? 

I don't think that's the way it has to be though.

Rather than fostering a culture that segregates the wonder of childhood from the productivity of adulthood, we should be bridging them. The order should be something like: because of who you are, therefore do. That way, when the job falls through or you don't make as much money as everyone else around you, the world doesn't fall apart. You keep on truckin'. In other words, what you do, make, and produce should be qualities that grow like fruit from the rich soil of your identity. Not the other way around. 

In the bible, a very well-educated and formerly highbrow man named Paul wrote something quite profound when he said "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret to being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." What is that secret? "I can do all this through [Jesus] who gives me strength" (Phillippians 4:12-13). Paul knew that his identity was secure in the God that created it. That's why, even though being hungry and "living in want" were still challenging, he didn't freak out when those times came. His identity didn't hinge on whether or not he was able to bring home the bacon. Not exactly the motivation that propel some folks up the rungs of the ol' corporate ladder.

So what about us? Do we treat ourselves (or others) as though we're worthless without a six-digit bank account to prove other-wise? Are the raw components of our identities, unmasked in childhood, a far-off blip in our memory that is preserved only in photo albums and fuzzy home-videos? 

A lot of good can be done to change the world. But what we do to change it isn't everything. 

Just a thought. 

The Spirit

Whenever I think I've "caught" the Spirit in anything,

Whatever "the thing" was dies

You see, the Spirit is a being that will not be contained

It is best observed in its elusion

It is most at rest in its pursuit

It is fully seen as a flickering glimpse in the far corners of our sight

It is understood only when its mystery dances tauntingly above our intellect

It is captured only when it is just beyond our ever-reaching grasp

The Spirit is the fiery stallion that, dancing wild and free,

Will trample the cage of the mind

And set ablaze the mountainous plains of the heart and soul

The Reflection of Art

This painting, entitled "Adventurer", was created by Janet Seaman. This painting has a story. And so do I.

Janet lived very full life that will be remembered for many things. As my Grandmother-in-law, I was honored to get to know her during her last three years on earth. Janet's life was spent in the service of others as a dedicated school teacher, artist, and mother of six. From what I have been told, it was hard to catch her when she wasn't deeply involved in one of those pursuits. However, she did find time for traveling the world where she observed beautiful landscapes that may have served as the inspiration for most of her paintings.

One of her many notable accomplishments involved painting the walls of the Niles-Buchanan YMCA indoor running track with a panoramic mural. The work was a historical portrayal of the cultural and industrial milestones that took place in the region of Michigan where the YMCA is located. The project covered 1/18th of a mile with colorful landscapes that changed occupants from the Native Americans to French and British colonies to modern society. Runners making their way around the track could watch history unfold in seamless transitions across the centuries.

Before her passing in December of 2014, Janet often told the stories behind her paintings and the process involved in creating them. No matter how daunting or technically difficult the task seemed to be, it was clear that those details easily gave way to the joy and love with which she accomplished them.

My wife has written, edited, and published two books that catalogue many of Janet's works and convey the stories behind them. Every piece has its own story. Every work that was made through the creative intention of someone's mind, heart, hands, and soul has its own story.

And every human has their own story too.

There are at least two ways to appreciate any work of art, whether it is a painting, a song, or piece of literature: technically and personally. Often times, one's technical appreciation goes hand-in-hand with their personal love for a work but not always. For example: Regarding jazz music, I can appreciate the fact that there is technical mastery and skill in both the instrument playing and composition. However, I do not have a personal taste for jazz; given a choice between several styles of music I would likely not choose to listen to jazz. On the other hand, my parents personally loved the finger paintings and mysteriously shaped pottery I produced in elementary school, but there was nothing technical about those masterpieces to praise.

For Janet's work, the viewer will immediately find a broad palette of technical skill to hold their attention and awe. The depth, color, and shade that enlivens the contoured landscapes, the choice of historical or geographical content, and the time spent on the piece are a few examples.

On the personal side of things, what can this piece, as one that you have likely never seen before, do for you? As I said at the beginning, this painting has a story. But perhaps not the kind of story you may expect.

In a way, art works similarly to color. When light strikes an object, some wavelengths are absorbed by the object while others are reflected. The object obtains its distinct color according to the wavelengths that are reflected. When we are exposed to art, it can either pass right through or strike something within us that can color and lighten that which was previously invisible or unknown. This is a principle that I am certain we are all familiar with to some degree. Just think of a song you've heard or a movie you've seen that seemed to aptly put un-named emotions and memories into words.

The painting above strikes something in me that encapsulates a scenario I have repeatedly found myself in throughout life, like a recurring dream. While I have had the pleasure of being in the midst of grand mountain landscapes geographically speaking, this painting colors the figurative landscapes that I have encountered. Just like the hiker in the painting, I have found myself dwarfed by the immensity of all that surrounds me. And just as color changes based on wavelengths, my reactions and emotions to being the tiny hiker change based on the setting. At times, I am frightened to be so small in the presence of such looming mountains. At other times, I am struck with wonder at what lies ahead and the joy of being able to explore and discover. And there are those moments when both are simultaneously true.

For me, this is the story of the painting, "Adventurer", as I best understand it now: my wife and I are awaiting the arrival of our child. Once again, I am a small hiker in the presence of something greater and larger than myself. Life in all of its color is being drawn out in shimmering yet mysterious patterns as it reflects off of this new season.

I am joyful.

I am overwhelmed.

I am the adventurer.

Pogo and Jesus

Let's talk about pogo and Jesus. No, not the Pogo Stick craze that rocked the socks off of your childhood and no, I'm not talking about Jesus jumping on one either...although that image is pretty funny.

The pogo I'm talking about haunted my pre-adolescent waking life like a canker sore for a long time. A very long time. At-least-a-year long time (which, to a 12 year-old, is about 8-16% of their entire life-span).

Pogo was a "game" that was really a form of sociological torture, likely invented by an alpha-dog monarch who used it to stealthily sift his like-minded allies from the clueless peasantry. I was first introduced to pogo as a wee-lad in Boy Scouts where said sifting was enacted on a frequent basis. We met on Tuesday nights in a church hall that, for two-hours, became an independent nation in which we lowly younger Scouts were subjugated to the authoritarian elder Scouts and their bidding.

Such bidding sometimes involved keeping them entertained. Keeping them entertained sometimes involved pogo. And pogo always involved anguish and madness.

Here's why: Pogo was a "repeat-after-me" game in which the initiating player would draw in the dirt with a stick while saying the phrase, "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?" The observing player would then have to mimic their sequence. What made the game "fun" was that there was a secret action included in their sequence that the observing player would have to repeat in their performance in order to win. As far as I know, the gesture was always the same in every game. In my experience, gameplay typically went as follows:


Pogo Guy:       <ahem>
                        "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?"
                        <rhythmically chanted while drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick...hands stick to me>

Me:                  <takes the stick>
                         "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?"
                        <said in the same rhythmic speech while drawing the same patterns I observed>

Pogo Guy:       <smirking>
                         "Nope"
                         <turns to another guy>
                         <ahem>
                         "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?

Another Guy:   <ahem>
                         "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?"
                         <said while sort of mimicking the patterns, but not entirely accurate>

Pogo Guy:        "You got it dude!"

Both Guys:        <hi-fives, chest bumps, and hoots of celebration>

Me:                   <a year of wallowing in despair for want of forsaken knowledge>


Do you get the point? There was a secret society and I was not in it. And, technically speaking, that was really lame. On two accounts. One was the secret; the fact the I couldn't figure out the answer to the puzzle and it stuck in my head like a bad riddle. Second was the society; the feeling of exclusion from the in-crowd who was having a grand old time with their warm and cozy "in-the-know" status while I was shivering outside in the cold.

I wanted to solve the riddle and join the party. I meticulously studied the way they played the game, perfectly repeated every lilt in their voice as they spoke the words, and precisely reproduced the minutiae of every dot, dash, and swoop of the patterns they drew with the stick. I would always be crushed because I just "didn't get it." I begged them to tell me the secret. In one impassioned moment, I even shed tears while imploring for the answer. My pleas succeeded only in causing the pogo-knower before me to repeat the game slower and louder. Needless to say, that's not what I wanted.

The torment ended one day when my friend Ben decided to tell me the answer. I have no idea why he did or how he found out. Ben and I were the same age so he had no need to establish age-based dominance over me. Perhaps he was let in on the secret and wanted to share it with me in the same way a prisoner shares rumors of coming rescue with his inmates. We were on a campout and I suddenly found myself in conversation about the game with him. He happily told me the secret and when I heard it, it was as though a river of living water was poured into the parched mouth of my soul.

What was the secret? It was simple: To clear your throat.

That's right. The secret that kept me in bondage for all that miserable time was the little <ahem> that preceded "Do you know pogo like I know pogo?" In the arena of pogo, once you got that little cough out into the air, you've won the game.

Everything that follows, hinged on that one little gesture.

Just like Jesus.

Uh...what? 

Let me explain.

In high school, I wanted to get to know Jesus. I started reading about him, thinking about what he's like, trying to be like him, asking myself things like "what would Jesus do in this situation?" and then trying to do it. Yet I still had a hard time wrapping my mind around the concept of trying to get to know someone that I couldn't physically hang out with in the same way that I could with my friends. I could call a friend of mine on the phone, go over their house, hi-five them, hear the inflections in their voice, see what color shirt they were wearing, see their facial expressions in reaction to what they were feeling. I couldn't do the same thing with Jesus.

High school saw me changing in terms of personality, behavior, and beliefs. Yet at the same time, problems arose from a combination of confusing elements: some long-held struggles with obsessive compulsive disorder, guilt and fear over my recent understanding about sin and hell, and an apparent inability to call Jesus on the phone and talk to him directly about my worries.

Things got more confusing in college when I would find myself with people that spoke a different spiritual dialect than what I was used to. I would hear things like, "I was talking to God yesterday and he said that ____ (insert deep spiritual truth here)" or "I don't know about you, but when I ____ (insert regular spiritual practice here)." It is certainly not wrong to express one's experience this way and I'm certain that the impact those folks had on me was unintentional. But, due to the personal complications I mentioned earlier, this was the beginning of a long and difficult journey.

And this has what to do with pogo?

Alright, alright.

I felt like I was on the outside. It seemed I was perpetually on the losing side of a spiritual pogo game. Whether this was their intention or not, it seemed as though someone had just scribbled some cryptic script into the sand and chanted, "Do you know Jesus like I know Jesus?" and was now offering the stick to me. But I couldn't do it. I didn't know the secret trick. I wasn't at a point where I could confidently affirm to other people, "God told me ___" or claim to have unshakeable confidence in areas where I still had doubt. I didn't know what that meant. But I was trying. I really wanted what they had. I really wanted to talk to God, tell him how insecure I was, and have a back-and-forth dialogue serve as evidence of the fact that he cared about me and loved me. Something must be so terribly wrong with me that my time with God doesn't resemble theirs.

The more I began to feel excluded by those around me, the more I began to feel excluded by God. I started to feel like God himself was now handing me the stick, after writing the complexities of the bible and life itself into the sand, and was now expecting me to figure it out. In my mind, God became the frightening leader of a confidential club and I didn't know the secret hand-shake to be admitted. Initially, things like reading the bible, going to church, and praying were the natural result of a blossoming and relational faith. However, they were quickly becoming forced attempts to learn the trick and gain acceptance.

Eventually, this all began to change. Whereas pogo changed for me in an instant, my poisoned thoughts detoxified over time with steady doses of truth.

It's a long story and I'm sure you'll hear more about it in later posts. For now, I'll summarize:

The contrast between the God I claimed to believe in and the God that I actually believed in became increasingly obvious. Jesus said he was the one and only necessary ingredient for our sin records to be wiped out. I, however, lived as though it were up to me to clean that slate and that the single ingredient of Jesus was too simple, too elementary to apply in my case. There must be something else, like praying more, being more devoted, or helping every old lady within a 10-mile radius cross the street. Jesus blew the cover off of religious secret societies who treated God's acceptance like a trophy to be won or bought by the rich, strong, popular, and morally impeccable. He freely offered it to the poor, the weak, the nobody's, the disgraced. Yet I was living as though God was an untouchable celebrity who would never in a billion years even know who I was until I had somehow worked my way into his circle of influence.

I think Jesus came to simplify and broaden the accessibility of God to people, not to complicate and constrain it. Sure, there are spiritual complexities that are not easily clarified and there are practices like church-going and praying that are helpful. But if Jesus is only the subtle <ahem> that is quickly forgotten in the grand display of our devotion, then we're going to miss the point of it all.

And so will the watching world around us.

No games. No tricks.

Simple.

What's your story?

Please note: In case the video above does not play properly in this window, you can view it directly by clicking here.

Google Glass, in case you haven't heard of it, was a Google project that involved a set of glasses with a built-in camera and computer display that would occupy the upper-right quadrant of the wearer's field of vision. With a series of voice commands, the user could perform the same basic functions of a smartphone; send and receive calls and text messages, take pictures, record video, look up directions, navigate maps with live GPS data, hold a live video call, and translate words between languages (seems odd to call those "basic functions" doesn't it?). 

The video above is a succinct yet engaging overview of all the capabilities of the product. Through the clips composing the video, we get to experience the heart-stopping thrill of a skydive, the precision of a trapeze artist catching a fellow performer as they sail through the air, and the beauty of a horse mane that billows around the riders hands as it leaps over hurdles in a graceful gallop. Interestingly enough, we get to experience simpler moments that we are all perhaps more familiar with: playing catch with an excited dog, a father twirling his daughter by the arm, and an airline passenger rushing through an airport to catch ones flight. But the first few times you watch this video, you don't really notice the distinction between the grand and the ordinary, do you? 

Why is that? 

Part of it is the production. The music**, the cuts from sweeping, green mountain landscapes to crowded city streets lined with yellow cabs, the sound effects of laughter, plane engines, and gasps of breath all do a great job of contributing to the general message of the video. That message, the take-away for the viewer, is: life is happening everywhere to everyone and it is beautiful. A talented producer can take whatever material the camera catches and draw out the details hidden within the shot to magnify the beauty in even the most mundane of images or videos. That is why events like an epic sky-dive and a tranquil afternoon picnic in the park can coexist seamlessly in media such as the video above.

**("New Lipstick" by The Kissaway Trail in case you're interested)

But the other contributing factor to the deceptive quality of this life-collage is a deeper, existential one. Think for a moment about how you want others to perceive you and your life. What do you want them to see? Hear? Experience?

Are the scenes that arise in your mind raw, un-doctored snapshots of life as it is or was? Or are they stylized to some degree? Polished? In motion? Slow motion? Set to a soundtrack? If so, then I can assure you that you are not alone.

Just take a look at the content social media enables us to share: Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and Youtube are filled pictures and videos of everything from half-eaten burritos styled in gorgeous, sepia coloration to cliff-diving escapades shot in HD (or 3D) in first-person perspective with a sweeping orchestral soundtrack. What's happening on social media isn't new. Ever since we've had the printing press, photo albums (the physical ones that weigh 200 pounds), and home-recording, people have been sharing snapshots of their life with the world. The same principal is there; the only thing that has changed over time is the technology with which to carry it out.

So what does this mean?

People want to live meaningful lives. We want our lives to be captivating, enchanting, and breath-taking to a watching audience.

Whatever form of content we choose to share with the world, the "likes", comments, and subscribers almost seem to function as a way of validating the author. It's a way of saying, "Someone else thinks this is meaningful too." This system can be strongly encouraging and supportive, fostering life-appreciation amongst a broad community.

But the truly great thing about all of this is: Life is already meaningful whether it is on camera or not. Meaningful moments are happening everywhere, all the time, and all around you.

Donald Miller is an author I respect and he writes and speaks on God, life, and the elements of story. In general, his message is that God wants to write a story with your life. I agree. If you think about it, life is written like a story. It has a beginning, an end, conflict, resolution, themes, and a variety of dynamic characters.

Sometimes capturing a moment on camera (or a blog...) is the best way to understand part of the story. But the camera exists for the story, not the other way around.

Camera or no camera, blog or no blog, Facebook or no Facebook: what's your story?