By Jef With One F
By Rocks Off
By Chris Lane
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
Even before Bono invoked the Judeo-Christian God directly, bridging encores "One" and "Where the Streets Have No Name" with the 18th-century hymn "Amazing Grace," U2's set list was replete with allusions to a world beyond the tangible one beneath our feet. Satan got name-checked early during new song "Get on Your Boots"; the front man again affirmed his unrealized faith in Kingdom Come in "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"; and Jesus and Judas stopped by during the apocalyptic "Until the End of the World."
And beneath the extended, techno-fied whoosh of new album No Line on the Horizon's "I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight" beat the heart of an idea that stretches back eons before mankind first knelt in prayer, one that explains why we have song, dance, music and ritual at all as well as any other Noise has ever heard in modern pop: "Shouting to the darkness, squeeze out sparks of light."
Even as a longtime U2 fan, the level of communion between the band, the audience and whatever deity was in the building Wednesday night — even if it was just Euterpe, the demigod (or "Muse," from which U2's opener took its name) the ancient Greeks believed to wield control over the supernatural spigot of music — was higher than Noise has ever seen. It's why, in terms of scale, performance and the awestruck post-show evaluations of our friends and acquaintances, Wednesday will surely go down as the local concert of the year — if not the decade.
It's also why, a few days before the show, Noise was not surprised to stumble across the following passage in the "Song" entry while paging through Man, Myth & Magic: The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Mythology, Religion and the Unknown (Marshall Cavendish Corporation, Reference Edition, 1985):
"While most pop music has a secular, commercial motivation, it is showing an increasingly liturgical trend," writes Gertrude Kurath. "The lyrics are becoming more sophisticated, using mystical, visionary ideas and words."
U2 may be the biggest, but that band is hardly the only one seeking a secular-pop route to a higher spiritual plane. Latter-day pilgrims traveling the same route — many taking at least some musical cues from Bono, Edge, etc. — include Arcade Fire, MGMT, MuteMath (Warehouse Live, October 30) and Muse, whose idea of spirituality is more X-Files than Exodus but is not entirely of this Earth nonetheless.
The calendar is rapidly approaching Halloween, or as U2's Irish ancestors once celebrated it (and many still do), Samhain. Besides lending its name to Glenn Danzig's post-Misfits horror-punk outfit, Samhain — pronounced sow-AHN — is the Celtic festival commemorating the end of harvest time, the Gaelic word for the month of November, and is said to be the time of year when the veil separating the living and the dead is at its absolute thinnest.
In other words, welcome to the season of the witch. Looking around Noise's office, we see several examples of supernatural phenomena manifested in contemporary pop culture.
Houston artist Carlos Hernandez's poster for his "Day of the Dead Rock Stars" exhibit at Cactus Music — the second installment of which opens next Friday — draws on the skeletal imagery of the Mexican festival that is a close New World cousin to Samhain. On our bookshelf rests Take Me to the River, the Reverend Al Green's recent first-person account of his soul's lifelong struggle between the sacred and the secular.
And, appropriately, Rhino Records chose Black Sabbath's The Rules of Hell to illustrate October in its Year of the Rhino wall calendar, a Celtic cross bearing a sword-tongued demon/gargoyle head dead center.
Intentionally or not, Black Sabbath invoked perhaps the earliest collision of music and the occult — which, stripped of its Satanic connotations, simply means "unseen" — on the title track of the UK heavy-pioneers' first album, released in 1969.
"Black Sabbath," points out James R. Lewis in Satanism Today: An Encyclopedia of Religion, Folklore and Popular Culture (ABC-CLIO, 2001), is hardly a celebration of the Lucifer-worshipping rite popularized by the likes of late Church of Satan high priest Anton LaVey around the time of Black Sabbath's release. Lest we forget, Ozzy Osbourne pleads, "Oh God, please help me" at the end of the second verse.
Nevertheless, the song is structured around something known as Diabolus in Musica, Latin for "the devil in music." Musically speaking, this devil in music is nothing more than a chord, two or more notes played simultaneously that form the basis of all harmony in not only Western music but, in different scales and intervals, across the globe.
What sets this chord, which came to be known as "The Devil's Interval," apart is that it is a half-step below a perfect fifth, the first true harmony the Catholic Church permitted to be used in its liturgical music, specifically the chants of the Gregorian monks. The octave, the root note of any composition (i.e., C, D, A, etc.) played or sung in a higher or lower register, was the first — but since it's essentially the same note, its harmonic use is extremely limited.