Song Lyrics & Negative Capability

In Shakespeare's Antony & Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen wonders what her absent lover is thinking:

... He's speaking now,
Or murmuring 'Where's my serpent of old Nile?'
For so he calls me: now I feed myself
With most delicious poison. Think on me,
That am with Phoebus' amorous pinches black,
And wrinkled deep in time? ...

I love this last phrase, even though I don't fully comprehend just what she means. Actually, what I really think is that I love the phrase "wrinkled deep in time" even more for how persistently suggestive and mysterious it is. Wallace Stevens said "Poetry should resist the intelligence almost successfully." And you could easily argue that the phrase above resists my intelligence a little too successfully. I am arguing something else:

An intractably mysterious phrase or image is a crucial, potent element in diverse modes of great poetry and lyricism.

I feel that folks today are too accustomed to being able to wrap their heads around something--if I can't understand it--I dismiss it; I reject it. This tendency is a blight upon contemporary imagination, and I aim to write songs and promote songs that combat it.

There's probably a whole long essay or book out there that focuses on Cleopatra's relationship to time as it relates to the statement above, and if you find such a piece of writing, I'd love to give it a look. But for now, let's just savor that phrase, and look at comparable examples of potent Negative Capability in American song lyrics.

Negative Capability is a term coined by John Keats in 1817, he described it this way:

I mean Negative Capability, that is when man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts without any irritable reaching after fact & reason.

Wikipedia paraphrases the term as "a state of intentional open-mindedness", and that's pretty close to how I understand it. Keats said that Shakespeare possessed this Capability "enormously" and I have no quibbles with that. What I wonder at is the fact that the term is not heard enough in discussions of what makes folk songs so powerful.

Blues is a central form of American folk music, and the seminal blues musician Robert Johnson once sang these immortal lines:

When the train--it left the station--there was two lights on behind.
When the train--it left the station--with two lights on behind.
Well the blue light was my blues, and the red light was my mind...
All my love's in vain.

In the third line here I hear a choice example of Negative Capability. I feel a strong, almost visceral sense of what the singer means with this line, but I don't know how I'd explain that feeling to anyone. We could explore the fact that the blue and red lights are receding, and then discuss other prominent uses of the colors blue and red in other song lyrics from that time period, and break down this line in a thousand ways, and it still would not manage to explain the greatness of the line. It possesses a mysterious, wrenching power over the sensitive listener--and Johnson's stellar delivery can only partly explain that power. This is a brilliantly crafted line not because of what it contains, but because of all that it suggests.

There are no shortage of examples of Negative Capability in the more traditional folk side of the American musical spectrum. Take this verse from Bascom Lamar Lunsford's "I Wish I Was a Mole In the Ground"

Tempe wants a nine dollar shawl.
Tempe wants a nine dollar shawl.
When I come over the hill with a forty dollar bill,
Baby where you been so long?

Or this, from Jody Stecher's performance of "Snake Baked a Hoecake"

Snake baked a hoecake, and set the frog to watchin'
Frog went a courtin', a lizard came and took him.

What do these verses mean? I have no idea--it is more playful language than the Shakespeare or Johnson lines quoted above, but to me it contains the same rich suggestiveness. I can savor it without being certain of its meaning.

Surely the lyrics of John Prine or Tom Waits could also provide us with numerous instances of Negative Capability--and both are songwriters that I will certainly explore here in the future. But let us start with the most prolific lyricist of the 20th century who frequently imbues his work with this quality:

You see this one eyed midget
Shouting the word, "Now."
And you say, "For what reason?"
And he says, "How?"
And you say, "Oh my God what does that mean?"
He screams back, "You're a cow--
Give me some milk, or else go home."

And you know something is happening
But you don't know what it is,
Do you, Mister Jones?

Interview footage shows a reporter's exchange with Bob Dylan, where the musician is asked something to the effect of, "Do you think your audience knows what's going on in your lyrics?" And Dylan replies that he doesn't think there's anything unclear about what he writes--that he can see everything he writes, that he would never write something (or sing something) that he couldn't see. Of course, if you think back on his lyrics, however arcane they may seem, they certainly paint vivid pictures--you're just rarely able to find a unifying thread, or an underlying message.

In another interview Dylan expresses certainty that his audience knows what's going on in his songs--he emphatically states "They know. They Know." This demonstrates a simple and wonderful irony--the most influential lyricist of the last hundred years knows in his heart that it's not all about the lyrics.

Music is a feeling first, and everything else flows from that feeling. This is true from the perspective of the creator, the performer and the listener. When Bob Dylan, Bascom Lamar Lunsford, Billie Holiday, Joni Mitchell, or whoever hits you at the right moment, it isn't because of a particular melody or lyric. It's something larger than that--the performer has created a feeling using these and other elements, and that feeling resonates with you.

So, you find out more. You become a fan, or a musician, or a songwriter, or you research the origins of the song, or add it to your iPod, and so forth. But after the song has drawn you in and resonated with something in you, it may not always pack the same punch forever. There's got to be more to it. For me, the Beatles are a great illustration of this.

Like untold billions of others, the Beatles music was an indescribably exciting discovery when it first sunk in. I listened to everything they recorded, I read biographies, I learned to sing and strum the songs. But it reached a saturation point--I no longer intentionally listen to the Beatles any more than once or twice a year. I get it. It will always be amazing music. But as I dug deeper, their music only went so deep. It doesn't continually prompt me to discover new things. It doesn't compel me to keep coming back to it, like Robert Johnson or John & Alan Lomax's prison recordings or Joni Mitchell's album Blue.

The music that endures is that which is layered on multiple levels--the rhythm, melody, and lyrics combine to forge an infinite and variable space for my imagination to roam. I can pluck out any of these elements, look at them up down backwards and forwards, and draw inspiration from the new understandings they reveal to me.

The music that endures is that which sounds fragrant with possibilities when heard in the light of new circumstance. It sets off mysterious feelings that compel you to make a change, to get up and get to where you want to be, to reach out to others, to create and follow your own vision.


This brings me to the main reasons I'm maintaining this blog:

1. To discuss, analyze, and discover new and old lyrical genius with other interested folks.

2. To explore ways to incorporate the lessons learned here into original songs.

3. To propagate the appreciation of great lyricism.


Please tell me about a song you love that is ripe with Negative Capability.