After Blame

Make it sweet

As I mentioned at the time, in the fall, I found myself listening over and over to the music of Don Williams. While I’ve long been a fan of 1970s outlaw country—the outsized personalities of Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson—Don Williams offered something gentler. His brand of country is warmer and softer, lacking the radical abrasion of his contemporaries and, perhaps, the lyrical cleverness of Dolly Parton or the proto-Americana prophet Guy Clarke. But that warmth is an inviting place, easy to live in and with.

While I was playing his music at my parents’, my mum commented that his voice reminded her of Jim Reeves, the laconic, baritone crooner.¹ Both artists have a subtle tenderness to their delivery.

Earlier this year, one of my favorite blogs, Music of Africa, wrote about this connection between African music and American country. The very first artist mentioned? Jim Reeves. And not long after: Don Williams. I knew that Williams was popular in Zimbabwe—there’s a video from his tour there in the 1990s: massive crowds, long lineups to see him.² But it turns out both Williams and Reeves were popular across the continent.

Music crosses borders—yes, a cliché, but no less true. Earlier this year, a post from Music of Africa showed Oliver Mtukudzi performing a wonderful live version of his song Hear Me Lord with Bonnie Raitt. It’s worth checking out for Bonnie’s searing guitar solo. And further down the page, there’s another live performance of the song by Tuku and his band. Talking to the crowd before they play, he says something that’s stayed with me: when writing music about sadness or tension, “make it sweet.” Don’t languish in your depression, “make it sweet.”

There’s obviously cultural interest whenever music crosses borders and resonates with people from different places. And in a way it makes perfect sense that the country which gave us chimurenga, jit, and sungura so embraced the open-hearted warmth of country balladeers. There’s an affable, inviting enthusiasm to both the music of Tuku and Williams. Even when the lyrical content is more politically or emotionally charged, it’s still often sweet. On any given afternoon, my own listening might easily cycle through Mtukudzi, Mapfumo, and Williams. As Uchenna Ikonne is quoted as saying by Music of Africa, it’s “sentimental music…Sunday morning music.”

The song I recently finished draws on the warmth of both traditions. The bassline—my first recording after buying a bass guitar earlier this year—is distinctly Zimbabwean in feel.³ And the lyrics bear the gentle, slightly hopeful confession of singers like Williams.

I hadn’t set out to write this song. It began as an experiment: a simple arpeggio in 10 beats, maybe 6-and-4 groupings. I was thinking of something familiar but slightly off kilter. Floating Points meets Chris Weisman. But as the idea took shape, I realized the music wanted something steadier, 4/4, lullaby-like. From there, followed lyrics, bass, horns, and guitars. Almost every instrumental part was a first, improvisatory take. Simple music, instinctively played. In the end, this feels like quintessential Steve on Steve territory.

As often happens, my favorite part is the ending/coda. Perhaps I should try and make an entire album of endings, because it seems to be my strength. I’m not sure why. Perhaps that’s when it’s easiest to let go. Regardless, when music is consolation, maybe the best one can do is make it sweet.⁴

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Half asleep, lost from peace,
Held my breath, needed release.
Feelings hovering out of reach,
Like some old prophet refusing to speak.

We'd traded truths like worn-out clothes,
Kept those that fit our ghosts,
Threw the rest out in the rain,
'Course we're not the one to blame.

Went home and tried to text with God,
No use, maybe that signal's gone.
I typed “do better” just in case.
Then stared too long at my own face.

Tried to read, saw only runes,
Tried to sing, forgot the tune,
Tried to write, but the page withdrew,
Tried to move, but I missed my cues.

Listen to your gut, the YouTube videos say,
But feelings are deceptive, my e-book reader complains,
Be authentic, be yourself — that's Gabor Mate,
But what if it's all just status — the elephant in the brain?

Yeah I know you spiral once a week,
And I know I got philosophy speak,
But darling are you in love with me,
Or am I just a way to feel complete?

Have you given all you have to give?
I know my mind is like a sieve. 
C'mon, that's something you can forgive!
Just say it’s love and let me live!

Yeah I know my head lives in the clouds,
Writing tiny songs for a tiny crowd,
And you know I hate to go to bed,
But I'm rather drawn to you instead.
I love our talks that loop and bend,
And I hate it when the party ends.
Just stay a while, lets just pretend,
Let time distort, let nothing end.
Just stay a while, my favourite friend,
Let time take care of what's to mend.
Stay a while, my favourite friend,
Let time take care of what's to mend.

And in the thaw of April rain, I held on to you —
In the quiet, after blame, I held on to you.
And in the thaw of April rain, I held on to you —
In the quiet, after blame, I held on to you.

1. I’m not sure why relaxed baritones have fallen so out of favour. It’s interesting how vocal fashions come and go. The athletic belting popular over the last couple of decades is not for me.

2. Seriously, it’s a great watch. There are a bunch of interviews and footage from around the tour.

3. The second bassline I recorded became May 18.

4. Tunes like this remind me just how silly it is to think of major chords as happy and minor chords as sad. A basic I–IV–V progression, often thought of as cheerful or foundational to upbeat music, can just as easily evoke sadness. In fact, that particular sequence might be one of the most reliable recipes for a kind of sweet melancholy—a space that isn’t quite joy and isn’t quite sorrow. Bittersweet.