Dancing With Myself About Architecture

The U.K.’s ever-expanding No Music Day movement comes courtesy of Bill Drummond, the Scottish conceptual artist/musician partially responsible for late-80s/early-90s chart-toppers, The KLF (a.k.a. The Timelords). Now, this might be your cue to ask, “Why the hell should I pay attention to the guy behind ‘Doctorin’ the Tardis’?” Well, because he’s a damn interesting fellow. In 1988, Drummond and collaborator Jimmy Cauty wrotet The Manual (How to Have a Number One The Easy Way). Using that very same “Doctorin’ the Tardis” as a case study, they laid out a step-by-step guide to scoring a hit single regardless of financial resources or musical chops. Since its publication, The Manual has been cited as a cog in the successful pop machines known as Chumbawamba (please hold your snickering until the end), The Pipettes and Klaxons (you may now guffaw). Not that Drummond and Cauty were strictly motivated by fame and fortune. In fact, in 1994 (two years after they retired from music and deleted their back catalogue), they adjourned to the island of Juru and burned the remainder of their KLF royalties: £1,000,000. But that’s another story and we’re here to discuss No Music Day. In 2005, Drummond decided that he needed a yearly one-day break from music in order to determine what he desired from the medium. In his words: “Not to blindly—or should that be deafly—consume what was on offer.” Earmarking November 21 as his designated day, he invited others to join him for whatever reason might motivate them. This year, BBC Scotland took Drummond up on his offer and broadcast music-free to millions of listeners for a full twenty-four hours.

I got mixed up confusion Now, I’m certainly not averse to lending some thought to my listening choices. Hell, once a month I even attempt to mould those musing into something fit for public consumption with this column. So, how did I spend my No Music Day? Listening to a whole lot of Bob Dylan. That morning I had the opportunity to see Todd Haynes’ latest film, I’m Not There. In bringing the music and “many lives” of Dylan to the screen, Haynes eschews typical biopic practices and fractures His Bobness into six distinct incarnations. This is hardly surprising considering Haynes previously told Karen Carpenter’s story with Barbie dolls (Superstar) and reinterpreted David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust era as a fever-dreamt film à clef (Velvet Goldmine). Some critics have derided Haynes’ approach as “incoherent,” “arrogant” and “impenetrable.” Yet, seeing as Dylan himself has been scorned with the very same adjectives, it seems the filmmaker has selected the ideal tack for his subject matter. Throughout the film, Haynes presents Dylan is a series of multi-faceted inventions (perpetuated by both the artist and his rabid fans). In this respect, I’m Not There celebrates the lore surrounding the music rather than the mere mortal behind it. While the aforementioned Drummond might appreciate Haynes’ conceptual daring (it certainly left me gobsmacked), I suspect that he’d certainly admire the filmmaker’s ability to make the film’s music truly transcendent. Whereas I’m Not There’s storytelling may be enigmatic, its soundtrack is astonishingly immediate. Take note of “Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again” which swirls through the opening sequence and the song, heard countless times before, is rendered newly rapturous and revelatory. Haynes achieves this effect by refusing to relegate the music to simple accompaniment. Instead, he makes it a vital and intrinsic element of the narrative. In fact, Haynes elected to write the soundtrack directly into the screenplay, inextricably binding together the song lyrics, spoken dialogue and visuals. Consequently, the music is part of the very fabric of the film. That, in part, is what I took away from my No Music Day (which just happened to be spent awash in song). All too often, the music in my life is left languishing in the background. It becomes little more than a pleasant drone that only commands my full interest every few tracks. Consequently, my new commitment—and one you’re welcome to join me in—is to, once a day, let a song completely overwhelm me and likewise allow myself to become lost in the inherent mystery of the music. The name of this aim is indulgence. I think it’s what Messrs. Drummond, Haynes and Zimmerman would want me to do. There’s always next year.