Everybody knows the most basic mediums of literature: novels, poetry, short stories, essays, even visual art; however, one of the most powerful forms of writing falls under the radar time and time again: lyricism. Songs began including words, written in verse similar to poetry, around the Renaissance era in Europe. I would like to argue that lyricism is the superior form of literature, as it entrancingly expresses love, pain, identity, and toxicity. Let’s be honest: as teenagers navigating romance for the first time, music is much easier to relate to than Shakespearean sonnets. Whether it is coupled with dramatic or mellow instrumentation, lyrics within a song oftentimes evoke strong emotion in the libretto.
There is no argument regarding love’s immense influence on music, as it is a central theme in hundreds of thousands of songs. Some of the most powerful and emotionally captivating poetry comes from love songs, an example being from Chicago-native band Your Arms are my Cocoon’s masterpiece Metamorphosis. Tyler Odom bellows “If I could be a river, I’d sweep you away/Deposit all my creatures at the grave where you lay/So I could sleep with you again.” Metamorphosis describes a melancholy veneration, a yearning for someone who has left. Yet I would not call this a breakup song, as even in a heartbroken state the singer is still very much in love with this person, longing in every word. To extend my argument, it is unfair to talk about love songs without even mentioning the Beatles. In this case, we are looking at Michelle, and the lyrics are as follows, “I want you, I want you, I want you/I think you know by now/I’ll get to you somehow/Until I do, I’m telling you so you’ll understand/Michelle, ma belle.” The lyrics compliment the dramatic delivery from Paul McCartney, demonstrating a need for this woman, a willingness to put anything on the line for her. If neither of these songs express infatuation in its truest sense, I am not sure what does; powerful lyricism is a form of pure expression, and in this case the sentiment is undoubtedly love that no book nor traditional sonnet could compete with.
Of course with so many love songs, there’s bound to be the opposition: musical heartbreak. Modern Baseball, dubbed “midwest emo” geniuses, sing in The Old Gospel Chair, “Can we act like we never broke each other’s hearts?/At least mine, I don’t know how you felt from the start.” These lyrics express animosity in the midst of a breakup, while simultaneously half-hidden pining and an unrequitedness. The rhyme scheme also subtly reminds the listener that this is poetry, however the delivery from the singer makes a song like this more intense than traditional poems. Moving on, theatrical post-punk band Black Country, New Road also confronts abandonment, with Isaac Wood passionately singing on The Place Where He Inserted the Blade, “Darling, I’ll spoil it myself/Thanks, you’re leaving/Well, I tried just to stroke your dreams better/But, darling, I see that you’re not really sleeping.” The singer feels deserted after a relationship ends, thinking that he did not do enough while he and his “darling” were together, blaming himself for their downfall and the pain hereafter. Aforementioned theatrical elements are included through brass and percussion instrumentals, dramatizing the whole situation and making this carry more weight than any poem on paper.
The past two paragraphs discussed yearning whether in or outside of a relationship, but love cannot be talked about without acknowledging toxicity. Music successfully expresses this topic just as effectively, blending with previously mentioned desire while recognizing issues in romantic involvement. Beloved punk-rock band Title Fight’s song You Can’t Say Kingston Doesn’t Love You shouts, “I’m dirt beneath your feet/Step all over me/I don’t see anybody else/And I don’t need anybody else/Oh, use me.” This quote demonstrates an obviously abusive relationship, the man letting his partner use him as a doormat yet not caring because his desire for her transcends anything else, letting her “use him.” The man obviously loves his partner, and in this state he can excuse instances where she hurts him. Next, in Car Seat Headrest’s twelve-minute-long magnum opus Beach Life-In-Death, lead singer Will Toledo soberly sings, “A book of Aubrey Beardsley art corrupted me in youth/And now I’m trapped inside my youth/And you’re in love with late-stage youth.” English author Aubrey Beardsley often challenged Victorian standards regarding sexuality, explaining the part about corruption of youth, with the bigger picture being that the song’s protagonist is carrying childhood trauma into their relationship, though his partner is in love with his flaws. It may sound romantic, but it is more of a commentary on the toxicity of their union. The final song I would like to analyze is by west coast folk-punk group Pigeon Pit, titled Nights Like These with lyrics as follows, “And I stayed up, chain smoking in the kitchen/Until you got home, and the curtains were on fire/F—, I’m sorry you feel all alone.” This is yet another example of toxicity in partnerships, as the relationship described is codependent, which in the end leaves the two isolated from the world outside of each other and stifling human connection wrapped up in an unhealthy romance. The way these three songs describe problematic unions transcends written poetry, as they are dependent on dramatic delivery from vocalists as well as unique instrumentals.
Music’s ability to wrap a message either straightforward or hidden in lyricism coupled with background melodies makes it the most powerful medium of romantic literature.
