On Interlude Music

Cross posted from (Sounds From) The Hole, our weekly album recommendation newsletter.

There is, I have come to believe, a recurrent phenomenon in modern recorded music that I want to dub interlude music.

An interlude is an intervening period of time, a break between events more significant than itself. In modern music, an interlude is a track on an album, but not really a song in its own right. It will often be a shorter, less musically interesting, transition piece; something to give the listener a break between A and B, or to get from A to B more smoothly. To the extent that an interlude is musical, it will typically only involve a single, largely undeveloped musical idea, and the lack of any real structure. There are no verses, choruses, or movements in interludes, just a little repetition.

Nor is an interlude typically the proper object of musical judgment when considering the quality of an album, except to the extent that it plays its role well as an interlude. It doesn’t purport to be the main event, in other words (and you’d be wrong to consider it as such). It is a break between events more significant than itself.

What I want to call ‘interlude music’ is music that takes the idea of an interlude – a single, largely unstructured musical idea – and instead of using it to bring together, elevate, or transition between the more important cuts of an album, uses it create an album on that basis alone.

In Praise of Caravaggio’s The Sacrifice of Isaac

I. Abraham’s sacrifice of his only son Isaac is one of the most enigmatic stories in Genesis, and arguably in the bible as a whole, from a religious and moral point of view. After all, God appears to test his most prominent follower’s faith by asking that he travel three days to murder his only son—who is loved, and who has done no wrong—at a distant mountain. He does not give a reason for him to do this, he just commands it.

The King James Version of this story reads as follows:

1 And it came to pass after these things, that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: and he said, Behold, here I am.

2 And he said, Take now thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.

3 And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him.

4 Then on the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place afar off.

5 And Abraham said unto his young men, Abide ye here with the ass; and I and the lad will go yonder and worship, and come again to you.

6 And Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering, and laid it upon Isaac his son; and he took the fire in his hand, and a knife; and they went both of them together.

7 And Isaac spake unto Abraham his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here am I, my son. And he said, Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?

8 And Abraham said, My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering: so they went both of them together.

9 And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood.

10 And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.

11 And the angel of the Lord called unto him out of heaven, and said, Abraham, Abraham: and he said, Here am I.

12 And he said, Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me.

What is perhaps most shocking about this story, at least by the way it’s told, is Abraham appears to take up God’s command with solemnity, but also apparently unthinkingly. There is no mention of his psychological state after being asked, of any torment over what he has been asked to do. There is no deliberation as to whether he should go through with what has been asked of him, or any questioning as to whether there is some purpose to it that he doesn’t understand. Rather, he effortlessly packs his things, his son, and is on his way.

Between Subjectivity & Objectivity: The Desiderata of Any Future Ethics

A sketch of my own thoughts on metaethics. This essay tries to do a host of things, perhaps none of them particularly well, but I do say a little bit of what I want to say. Hopefully informative at least in marking out some conceptual space.

I. There are broadly three ways you might carve up positions on the metaphysical foundations of an ethical theory. You could be a moral realist, a moral constructivist, or a moral antirealist. While these distinctions might not be exhaustive, or discriminate existing theories in a fine-grained enough way to capture and appreciate their subtle differences, broadly speaking, they cover most of the really substantive metaphysical differences. Here I attempt to sketch out their general characteristics, some of their greatest difficulties, and gesture towards potential solutions to them.

A Review of The Sound & The Fury, by William Faulkner

The Sound & The Fury by William Faulkner is an exercise in descriptive phenomenology. By descriptive phenomenology I mean something like: a detailed description of actual experience, as it is actually lived, in all its richness. This is as opposed to the kind of faculty psychology that carves up the operations of the mind into perception, imagination, and memory. This psychology, while useful and to some extent true, deals in idealisations. Experience, as it is actually lived, is a rich and chaotic flux of perturbations that only roughly gesture in the direction of these operations, to differing extents at different times. The book is an attempt to convey what that experience is actually like. It is a phenomenological depiction of life.

It is important here that I call it a depiction, rather than a translation of experience. Something being translated implies that it has been rendered into some other, different mode of expression, so that the original can be made sense of, through it. This is what someone like Tolstoy does, with remarkable dexterity, when he writes about his character’s thoughts and motivations. Faulker attempts something wholly more difficult.