Songs Sung, Songs Loved

{songs sung, songs loved}

Foo Fighting as Meditation

Christopher Turney

There are moments every so often which prompt a return to old favorites, great works, or classics. Though it’s possible to find nostalgia in a familiar Bach concerto or film soundtrack, these old favorites are rarely musical masterpieces. Yes, nostalgia is the word. The songs which sooth our memories and transport our affections to warmer, brighter times; these are the classics. Moments which provoke a return to that song or album are varied and mysterious, and the feeling of nostalgia is never quite the same. Provoked by the death of Taylor Hawkins, the drummer for the Foo Fighters, I recently made one of these returns. I found nostalgia, but not as I expected. Other emotions crept in, a new light fell upon old memories, and affection for the music softened and wavered. I write this reflection to pay tribute to a favorite musician and to inquire into those dark, confusing emotions which beset a familiar tune.

In the throes of my sophomore essay, I heard the news of Hawkins’ passing a full three days after its announcement. First I was shocked, then I grew angry I hadn’t heard about it sooner. I paid my respects with a tour through the Foo Fighters’ albums, a necessary κάθαρσις following such a tragedy. This return to old favorites enlivened memories of bike rides, yard work, days in the sun, and the cool solitude of the basement. I remember ‘discovering’ Everlong and showing it to my middle-school buddies. I also recall the countless afternoons trying and failing to play this song on drums, teaching my parents true patience through longsuffering. The Foo Fighters were my first musical idols; I played along to all their albums and saw them live at a baseball stadium in Atlanta. I loved their music, and I still do. Their straightforward, highly ordinary sound provides something of an anchor to my taste and appreciation for other artists. “It’s only rock n’ roll, but I like it”, so sings Mick Jagger.

Returning from these reveries back to the catalog in front of me, I found myself still unsure of what to expect as I continued to listen. Perhaps sadness would prevail, perhaps I’d continue to delight in fond memories. Unfortunately, though it pains me to say it, the truth is that after an hour of listening the songs began to blur together. Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that. Eventually, however, I stopped at a track titled Let It Die off their 2007 album Echoes, Silence, Patience, and Grace. Let It Die is an old favorite and an oft-returned-to classic. The acoustic intro, subtle bass, steady pulse, soaring backup vocals, electric ‘chug’, and epic finale are reasons enough to like the tune, but I always loved it because it plays well in the car, especially on a long stretch of road through rural Georgia. The Fooish blur clarified when I played Let It Die and an eerie quiet followed. A surge of goosebumps and flurry of emotions beset my listening experience; Let It Die was different from all the others. It felt new, each part carried with it a heavier burden and graver purpose. My return to a classic began to feel more like an adventure into uncharted territory with dangers and pitfalls at every turn. Hostile is the word, the song seemed hostile. I felt apprehensive, almost fearful. I remember pausing the song before it finished, fearing the end would spell doom for the singer and his band.

Why did it feel so different? Why did it communicate such a heavier message? The title must be partly to blame. Right off the bat, it strikes a heavy chord that the timely, on-the-nose lyrics deliver upon: “Why’d you have to go and let it die?” Suppose for a moment there was a seminar on Let It Die. What about the lyrics of the tune would catch the table’s attention? Very likely their focus on the body would be a point of interest. “Heart of gold but it lost its pride, Beautiful veins and bloodshot eyes, I’ve seen your face in another light, Why’d you have to go and let it die?” Another consideration might be the singer’s dialogue with whomever he’s addressing. “Do you ever think of me?

You're so considerate. Did you ever think of me? Oh, so considerate.” Lastly, an observer might note the singular line, “A simple man and his blushing bride.” The seminar table could easily wonder about this line and then ask who the man being referred to is and what significance this has for the song. Speculation and ‘outside sources’ suggest that the man is Kurt Cobain and that the song is about his premature death. That being said, a closer listening of the text suggests a more general anguish. The aggressive, violent, painful repetitions towards the end paint a grander picture of inner suffering and spiritual confusion. “Why’d you have to go and let it die?” is a question with a greater range of meaning and application than the singer’s personal relationship with Cobain.

What is the source of this anguish? What is it directed towards? I can’t answer these questions yet, but the event of Hawkins’ passing adds a new, brutal context to my dialogue with the song. The anguish seems deeper, the object of the song’s inquiry deadlier. The song seeks an answer for both deaths, and perhaps for death in general. Why do people have to die? Why is there death in the first place? The song paces towards an answer but ends unresolved. There’s no ‘cadence formula’ or tidy conclusion; the song ends with an awful scream. The Foo Fighters have always had screams in their music, but this particular scream is uniquely horrifying, especially as the song is otherwise fairly subdued. Hawkins’ death recontextualizes the song beyond its original scope, beyond the death of Kurt Cobain, and beyond the singer’s original source of anguish. I might add that even the ‘taps’ in the build-up sound anxious or uneasy, like fingers tapping on a table.

It’s always a strange exercise to account for the ‘feeling’ of a song because, of course, all these observations are made from a basis of personal experience. I’ve listened to Let It Die for years now, so my return to the song following Hawkins’ death is inevitably colored. My memories of the song are unique to me, and thus I hear the song in a very particular way. Maybe some of these observations ring true for other listeners, but grasping at the ‘Truth’ of Let It Die is a question for another day. For now, let it suffice to say that the memories I have of this song are all but blurred and darkened. Nothing about the song has changed, nor did I know Hawkins personally, but simply the fact of his passing casts a shadow on those days in the yard and drives through Georgia. Does nostalgia work both ways? Can a feeling of nostalgia project a darker light on the good ol’ days? Either way, I must echo the great Lou Reed and say, “I don’t like nostalgia unless it’s mine.”

Hawkins was one of the greats. His technical ability and frenetic feel were evenly matched with a glorious stage presence and infectious smile. He played music with his drums, an ability often overlooked in a loud rock band. His part on Let It Die is close to perfection; not technically brilliant or culturally ‘iconic’, but utterly musical. The rhythm builds with the melody, matching its intensity every step of the way. The drummer’s role is supportive, his virtue is humility. Hawkins mastered his role and inculcated this virtue through a lifetime of focused work (beginning, mind you, on Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill). I always thought of Hawkins as a sort of teacher and cool uncle, and I believed that if I played loud enough then maybe I could get his attention. I’ll end this tribute and reflection with a quote from the man himself, as is required of all sappy tributes: “In hindsight, if I could go back in time and relay a message to my younger self, I would tell him to work on his time keeping, and that the job of a drummer is not to be the one that gets noticed the most on stage, or to be the fastest, or the loudest. Above all, it is to be the timekeeper.” - Taylor Hawkins, 1972-2022.

Cover Art of the Foo Fighters 2007 Album Echoes, Silence, Patience, & Grace

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