The Instrumental

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It would be an easy record to put on in the background, this largely instrumental collection. Mirror of Wind, the new album from Jasper Lee, is full of sounds that feel ornamental, decorative: flutes flutter, strings swoop, mallets meander up and down scales. It is a kaleidoscope, its colours rotating, beautiful and meaningless. Listening to it, it very much strikes me as as fundamentally ‘instrumental’ music, in that it delights in the sounds of instruments, in the process of using different tools and gizmos and thingamabobs to make noises. Lee even builds his own instruments: his pyraharp looks like an upside down end table.

There is also something in the tone and structure of these pieces that reminds me of a mid-album instrumental in a song cycle. The tracks are generally song-length, and have an incidental feel to them, as though transitioning between more fixed points like verses and choruses, vocals and lyrics, things which act as pins in the fabric of songs. Only here there are no pins, just transitions and flutter. In such a landscape, the two tracks that do have vocals – ‘Quaint Gothic Spring’ and ‘Milk of Air’ – become bridges themselves, vocal interludes among the instrumentals, an inverse of the traditional order.

I keep thinking about this word, ‘instrumental’, and what it means. In reference to music, it is most often used to contrast a particular passage or piece with the vocally-led songs surrounding it. I’m thinking of tracks like ‘Green Arrow’ off of Yo La Tengo’s I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One, or ‘Alma’ off of Grizzly Bear’s Shields, which would be described as ‘instrumentals’ between songs. The ‘instrumental’, then, is a bridge, a path, a transition. It takes its meaning from the things (words, songs) that surround it. There is little need to describe the music of Chopin or Duke Ellington or Toumani Diabate as ‘instrumental’, for there is no contrast to be drawn.

Yet it is also a word used to describe music which sounds like it could have vocals, but doesn’t: the post-rock of Mogwai and Do Make Say Think, for example, or the circling acoustic guitar workouts of James Blackshaw and William Tyler. Notably, these are all artists who occasionally deploy vocals, but generally speaking don’t. They invert the usual ratio of vocal tracks to instrumentals, and in doing so, challenge the association of ‘instrumental’ with ‘interlude’. For there is nothing transitory about the tracks without vocals here: rather, they are the main event.

What interests me in Jasper Lee’s music is that, while almost all of the tracks are instrumental, they have an interlude-like quality that is still very much present. Mirror of Wind is like a whole album full of interludes. It feels almost entirely incidental, oddly light and buoyant. It relocates the meaning of the instrumental interlude to within the interlude itself, rather than in the pieces it transitions to and from.

 

Any binary we might draw between instrumentals and non-instrumentals is complicated by apparently instrumental music which heavily incorporates vocals. A recent example is Arca, an artist who makes predominantly instrumental music, but who on his new self-titled record brings his voice front and centre. Arca, the record, is dominated by the presence of Ghersi’s voice, which is by turns frail and bruised and confident. Yet though the emphasis is on singing rather than beats, as in his previous work, it still feels like an instrumental album. Part of this, I recognise, is my own inability to understand Spanish, and thus my treating the vocals as merely another sound in the music’s fabric. This is an important point to note – the degree to which music is instrumental is partially determined by the position of the listener. Indeed, context is everything here – the same album might be ‘instrumental’ if I put it on in the background and ‘non-instrumental’ if I listen to it closely.

And yet, I don’t think it is unfair to say that Arca’s voice is a material in Arca in the way that beats were a material in Mutant – that is, something to be mutilated. The voice is an instrument of both sonic and emotional exploration. The hallmark of Arca’s music is its bodiless – his mangled electronics have always evoked bruised and damaged bodies. That is refined here by focussing on one part of the body in particular: the throat, itself an instrument. And the manipulations are mostly done not with electronics, but in the way Ghersi stretches and warps his syllables as he sings. One thinks of Bjork (something of a mentor for Arca) and her all-vocal album Medulla. Indeed, while ‘a cappella’ music is surely, by definition, the conceptual opposite of ‘instrumental’ music, the affect of the two on the listener is oddly similar. The non-instrumental ‘song’ is perhaps a product of the interaction between ‘vocals’ and ‘instruments’, as two separate but equally present components. To remove one entirely, or to mesh the two, as Arca does, until they are indistinguishable, is to make the music ‘instrumental’.

 

The music of Forest Swords, whose new album Compassion was released this month, is also, like Arca, full of margins being blurred: the ancient past with the present, the organic with the synthetic, and the vocal with the instrumental. Clipped vowel sounds drift through this music, as fungal spores spread a species through a woodland. The spread of ideas. Blood filling a mouth. It is a fox, feasting on the carcass of a rabbit. The other day I had to brake hard when a fox – an urban fox – appeared suddenly, its quick, slinking body inches from my front left tire.

Is this instrumental? Am I writing instrumentally now?

The record Compassion is not a record of compassion, but an instrument of it, that is, something that enables or allows for it, that becomes instrumental in the delivery of it. (At least, one senses that this is the hope – why else would you call your record Compassion?) Confusingly, the word ‘instrumental’ is also sometimes used in a sense akin to ‘indispensable’ or ‘necessary’, but that is not how I mean it here. These sounds are obviously not prerequisites for compassion: rather, they are offered as potential tools for it. But the question remains of how they might act as such – how could a few instrumentals become instrumental in the delivery of actual, real world good? These are not protest songs, optimistically strummed and sung. They are just patches of smeared, ‘raw language’. Untranslatable, how could they ever translate into action?

And yet, of course, they can, and do. Music has a profound, mysterious effect on us. It is our universal language. Ideas conveyed purely through the form of instrumentals are often more powerful than the songs around them. They are pure expression. Among songs sung in the baggy clothes of words that never quite fit, instrumentals are naked, with all the attendant associations of nakedness: purity, rawness, sexuality, vulnerability. The music touches us: it puts its instruments inside our naked bodies. It is surgery. It cuts and shapes us. Compassion is a heart transplant.

There is a contradiction, then, between the instrumental as incidental and the instrumental as incendiary; between the instrumental as wallpaper and the instrumental as contact paper. It is somehow both more distant from us and more close to us than the sung song. I am still unable to reconcile this contradiction in my mind, and perhaps that is the point. Perhaps it is the tension rising from it than is generative of interesting instrumental music.

A Quiet Return

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I want to quietly return to trying to write about music.

Last year I started a blog called Ice Mask Whale. This is the next evolution of that blog. A new site, a new name. Some attempts at definition…

Attempt No. 1

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The internet is obsessed with the new, feeding on new stories, new gossip, new quick-takes and hot-takes, newly generated content, empty puffs of novelty designed only to be clicked on. Gone are actual paradigms – all that remains are paradigm shifts, a constantly refreshing page. Yet, at at the same time, it is obsessed with the past, with the cataloguing of photographs and moments, viewed through the hazy filter of time, or the false nostalgia of an Instagram filter. Music journalism is often directed down these two lines as well: it feeds, too, on new artists, new album announcements, new gimmicks, new styles, and, simultaneously, on nostalgia for the old styles: best of the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, etc. If music is not new enough to fit into the former cateogory (“check this out”) but not old enough to fit into the latter (“remember this?”) then nothing is written about it – indeed, nothing can be written about it, because we don’t have a framework for it. It is lost in the cracks, dead in the water, caught between exposure and retrospective, between review and re-view. Yet obviously we still listen to this music. Obviously there are still things to say. To listen between the noisy bugle call of the new and the hazy nostalgia of the old is to listen in the quiet return: to music after it has emerged, hot and molten and glowing, but before it has hardened. Not a hot-take, nor a hardened, established viewpoint, but something in between: a cooling take, a sustained reflection.

Attempt No. 2

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Think of a song, and it quietly returns to your mind. It is a kind of conjuring magic. The way a ghost must sense things: there and not there.

Attempt No. 3

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Aside from the immediate pleasures of actual in-the-moment listening, what other pleasures are there in music? There is a second pleasure in reflecting on music, in hearing it again in the mind’s ear, in reimagining it through metaphor. The first pleasure is outside of language: we listen to music because it is better than language, saying less but communicating more. Yet this second pleasure – the afterburn of the music, the ghostly impressions it leaves behind itself – is accessible to language. All art has this dual pleasure: there is the pleasure of actually reading a novel, word-by-word, and then there is the pleasure of remembering it afterwards, inhabiting the haunted memory palace we build in our minds as we read it. So it is with music. But with the novel, both pleasures are tangible enough to write about: the material of the critic (language) is used on the material of the examined object (language). With the music writer, this is not the case, the music itself being untouchable by language (hence “dancing about architecture“). So the music writer is left with only the afterburn of it, its quiet (silent) return in the mind. This is all we can write about. As music passes from sensory experience (present) to non-sensory memory (past), a translation occurs – it becomes not just sound but colour, tone, texture, mood, image, and indeed, language. This might happen in a fraction of a second – as when we talk of “an immediate impression” – or gradually, over repeated exposures. It is these translations and impressions we reflect on, mull over, return to, when we write about music.

Attempt No. 4

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We are sometimes prone to expect immediate gratification from things. If something doesn’t immediately make sense, immediately reveal itself fully to us, we shut it out: label it as obscure, obtuse, “not for us”. But the deepest connections we have with things (pieces of music, places, people) are often with the things we don’t immediately like, the things that take some time and work to adjust to. The ‘growers’. The best records don’t announce themselves noisily or showily or immediately but require us to quietly return to them, again and again. This quiet returning breeds its own quiet return, like the return on a long-term investment: gradual, accumulative, but eventually extensive. This is the quiet return of music.

Melted, Removed, Beached

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Of course, before we had fridges, ice was the only way we could keep our food cold. We couldn’t make the stuff ourselves, so we had to harvest it and store it in ice houses, which sound rather exciting, like that huge melting ice palace James Bond has to escape from in Die Another Day, but are really just small, very cold rooms. Perhaps you’ve seen one in a National Trust property somewhere.

Under a microscope, the structure of ice cream is very similar to that of lava.

There are 16 kinds of ice, say the scientists. The kind in your freezer is kind number 4. Kind number 3 is actually denser than water, meaning that if icebergs and ice cubes were made of it, they would sink. Kind number 11 is ferroelectric – it exhibits electric polarization, which can be manipulated and reversed.

Aristotle was the first person to notice that hot water freezes faster than cold water. We still don’t understand why.

If you freeze water really, really, really fast then it doesn’t turn into ice at all, but into a chaotic amorphous solid called ‘glassy water’. This is pretty difficult to do at home – you have to get the water temperature down to -137°C in a matter of milliseconds. Surprising, then, that it’s actually the most common form of water in the universe. Comets are made from it.

Towards the end of the 19th Century, they brought a block of ice all the way from Lake Wenham in Massachusetts to The Strand in London, where they put it on display with the day’s newspaper behind it so that passers-by could marvel at how clear it was.

This, of course, was only after the customs officials at the ports got used to the idea. When they first shipped ice to Britain, packed in sawdust to insulate it, the officials were so confused about how to classify it that 300 tonnes of the stuff melted while they tried to make their minds up.

Sometimes I feel nostalgic because I can still remember when a 99 whippy ice cream with a flake actually cost 99p.

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A mask can be used for protection, or as a disguise, or, if you’re being hunted down by a madman with an ice pick, as both.

In Ancient Greece, masks had a brass megaphone in the mouth to amplify what the actor was saying.

In Venice, the situation is pretty much the reverse. Their ‘moretta muta’ carnival masks are held in place not with straps but with a little button that the wearer holds in her mouth, rendering her unable to say much at all.

The word ‘mask’ goes back to the 16th Century, to the French masque, meaning ‘a covering to hide or guard the face’, which itself goes back to the Italian word maschera, which itself goes back to the Medieval Latin word masca, meaning ‘spectre’ or ‘ghost’ or ‘nightmare’, which itself quite possibly goes back to the Arabic word maskharah, which is to do with being ‘a buffoon’ and ‘making a mockery’ of yourself. So if you’re applying mascara around your eyes before a night out, you’re really just being a fool.

There’s also an old Occitan word masco, meaning ‘witch’, a word which still survives in some dialects; in Beziers, it means ‘dark cloud before the rain comes’.

In Indonesia, the star of a Topeng dance has around 30 to 40 masks for his exclusive use. No one else is allowed to wear these masks on fear of upsetting the spirits that reside within them. When the dancer dies, his masks are never touched again, never moved from the place they happen to be lying at the moment of his death.

The oldest mask is 9000 years old and is a death mask.

In Japanese Noh theatre, the masks are so carefully carved that they can convey different expressions and moods simply by the angle the light falls on them.

You can make a mask out of almost anything: wood, metal, clay, stone, paper, cloth, ivory, fur, shells, feathers, corn husks, human skulls and teeth. You can even make one out of ice. And, indeed, whalebone.

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Blue whales are the largest creatures ever to have lived on the earth. Their tongues alone can weigh as much as an elephant, their hearts as much as a car. Their aortas are large enough for a human child to crawl through. They are one of the loudest animals on the planet, though we can’t hear them. They hunt in the deep and breathe at the surface. In the early 20th century we nearly killed them all hunting for whale oil.

Sperm whales have the heaviest brains of any animal, weighing in at 9kg. Their heads also contain a cavity, large enough to park a car inside, filled with a yellowish waxy substance called spermaceti, a substance also much sought after by whalers.

Southern right whales have the largest testicles in the animal kingdom – each pair weighs around a tonne, which is like having 1000 bags of sugar strapped down there.

When a whale sticks its head out of the water it is called ‘spyhopping’. When it sticks its tail out of the water it is called ‘lobtailing’. These sounds like crimes, but aren’t. When it leaps right out of the water it is called ‘breaching’ and when it lies just under the surface it is called ‘logging’.

A whale’s brain sleeps one half at a time, so that the other half doesn’t forget to go up to the surface and breathe. If a whale fell completely asleep, it would drown.

Fin whales pee around 970 litres of urine a day, about as much as three very full bathtubs.

Humpback whales sing strange, eerie, and beautiful songs that can last for up to 30 minutes and include recognizable sequences of squeaks, grunts and other sounds. This makes them the jazz musicians of the whale world.

Bowhead whales have the thickest blubber of any animal, up to 70cm thick, but then they live exclusively in the Arctic, which is fairly cold, on account of all the ice.

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(This originally appeared as the “About” page of Ice Mask Whale, the predecessor of The Quiet Return.)

The Blues Are Still Blue

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The blues are blue, the colour of deoxygenated blood in the veins; the blues are red hot; the blues are grey, the colour of smokestacks. The blues are not pink prosecco, though I was humming twelve bar blues melodies this week as I poured out glass after glass for gussied-up graduates, as un-bluesy work as can be, though at least it let me rhyme ‘bubbles’ with ‘troubles’. For blues songs are work songs, their twelve bars cycling through the workday like a hand going round and round a clock.

Why ‘the blues’? The name probably came from a 17th-century English expression, “the blue devils”, referring to intense visual hallucinations set on by alcohol withdrawal. ‘Blue’ became slang for ‘drunk’; ‘the blues’ for ‘agitation’ or ‘depression’. In some U.S. States there are still ‘blue laws’ prohibiting the sale of alcohol on Sunday. To be blue, then, is to be drunk and sad. If the blues is workday music, then it’s also music for the end of the day, guzzling down pints in the bar after. In Southern juke joints, couples grind their hips together, a dance known as both ‘the slow drag’ and ‘the blues’. A ‘bluesman’ accompanies them on the guitar. This is how the blues was born.

But going back before that: why ‘blue’ to begin with? Why always this blueness, leaking over everything? Why blue devils, blue funks, blue coats, blue notes, blue states, blue gowns, blue streaks, blue moons, blue blood? Why out of the blue and into the blue and bolt from the blue? Why blue screens of death and blue walls of silence? Why talk until blue in the face? Why screwed, blued and tattooed? And just what is in the blue blazes?

Why does music and art, especially, seem so enamoured with this colour above all others? Why Blue, Kind of Blue, Blue Train, Blue Lines? Why ‘the blues’ but not ‘the greens’, ‘the creams’ or ‘the violets’?

In the beginning there was no word for blue. The word does not appear in the Odyssey, in the Icelandic sagas, in the Koran, in the Bible, in the Hindu Vedas. In these ancient texts, the sea is wine dark, the sun is red, the moon shines silver, but the sky is never blue.

Every language evolves its colour words in roughly the same order. First come words for black and white, or else for light and dark. Next — and this is true of every language ever studied around the world — is red. First black, then white, then red: for a moment the whole world is like a White Stripes video. Then, after red, yellow and green appear, usually in that order. Then others: purple, orange. But in every language ever known, the last colour to be named is blue. The blues are hidden: hard to hear, hard to see.

Perhaps this is why we sing them, paint them, write them endlessly: magic them into existence.

There are whole books on the colour blue, hundreds and hundreds of pages spent trying to understand it.

Here’s Christopher Moore, in Sacré Bleu: “Blue is the sky, the sea, a god’s eye, a devil’s tail, a birth, a strangulation, a virgin’s cloak, a monkey’s ass. It’s a butterfly, a bird, a spicy joke, the saddest song, the brightest day. Blue is sly, slick, it slides into the room sideways, a slippery trickster. Blue is beauty, not truth. True blue is a ruse, a rhyme; it’s there, then it’s not.”

Here’s William Gass, in On Being Blue: “There are whole schools of fish, clumps of trees, flocks of birds, bouquets of flowers: blue channel cats, the ash, beech, bird, bluegills, breams and bass, Adalusian fowl, acaras, angels in decorative tanks, the bluebill, bluecap, and blue billy (a petrel of the southern seas), anemone, bindweed, bur, bell, mullet, salmon, trout, cod, daisy, and a blue leaved and flowered mountain plant called the blue beardtongue because of its conspicuous yellow-bearded sterile stamens.”

Here’s Maggie Nelson, in Bluets: “Over the past decade I have been given blue inks, paintings, postcards, dyes, bracelets, rocks, precious stones, watercolours, pigments, paperweights, goblets, and candies. I have been introduced to a man who had one of his front teeth replaced with lapis lazuli, solely because he loved the stone, and to another who worships blue so devoutly that he refuses to eat blue food and grows only blue and white flowers in his garden, which surrounds the blue ex-cathedral in which he lives. I have met a man who is the primary grower of organic indigo in the world, and another who sings Joni Mitchell’s ‘Blue’ in heart-breaking drag, and another with the face of a derelict whose eyes literally leaked blue, and I called this one the Prince of Blue, which was, in fact, his name. I think of these people as my blue correspondents, whose job it is to send me blue reports from the field.”

Just as there are connoisseurs of wine, says Collette, so there are connoisseurs of blue.

Can the companies help us out? Can market research?

Facebook is famously so blue because blue was Mark Zuckerberg’s favourite colour. Google, too, have shown a love for the colour, or rather discovered our own. They once tested users of Gmail with 40 different colours of ink – that is, colours of link – to see which they clicked on most. The blue-ish links were the most popular.

We follow blue, draw into its blueness, as if it might lead somewhere magical.

Heinz once tried out making different coloured ketchups – purple ketchup, blue ketchup – but gave up on it because consumers didn’t believe it was real ketchup. The Dutch have an expression, “dat zijn maar blauwe bloempjes”, which means “those are nothing but blue flowers”, which means “what a load of old nonsense”.

We disbelieve blue, resist its blueness, as if it might lead somewhere dangerous.

Let’s turn now to the painters, to the colour collectors.

Here’s Van Gogh, in a letter to Emile Bernard: “There is no blue without yellow and without orange, and if you put in blue, then you must put in yellow, and orange too, mustn’t you?”

Here’s Kandisky: “If two circles are drawn and painted respectively yellow and blue, a brief contemplating will reveal in the yellow a spreading movement out from the centre, and a noticeable approach to the spectator. The blue, on the other hand, moves into itself, like a snail retreating into its shell, and draws away from the spectator. The eye feels stung by the first circle while it is absorbed into the second.”

Here’s Cezanne: “Nature is more depth than surface. Hence the need to introduce into our light vibrations represented by the reds and yellows, a sufficient amount of blue to give the impression of air.”

Here’s Raoul Dufy: “Blue is the only colour which maintains its own character in all its tones. It will always stay blue. Whereas yellow is blackened in its shades, and fades away when lightened; red when darkened becomes brown, and when diluted with white is no longer red, but another colour – pink.”

Here’s Yves Klein: “Blue has no dimensions; it is beyond dimensions… All [other] colours arouse specific associative ideas… Blue suggests, at most, the sea and sky, and they, after all, are in actual, visible nature what is most abstract.”

Here’s Matisse: “A certain blue enters your soul. A certain red has an effect on your blood-pressure.”

Here’s Picasso: “When I haven’t any blue I use red.”

Here’s Gauguin: “If you see a tree as blue, then make it blue.”

Hitler, by contrast, wasn’t a fan: “If artists do see fields blue they are deranged, and should go to an asylum. If they only pretend to see them blue, they are criminals and should go to prison.”

Just as painters cannot seem to dispense with the colour blue, nor with the idea of the colour blue, neither can music shy away from either ‘the blues’ (which leaves its fingerprints on everything from rock & roll to R&B to funk to jazz to samba), nor the idea of ‘being blue’. Perhaps every musician goes through their ‘blue period’, their touching on sadness and pain. Some wallow here for whole careers, mining truth from misery. Some offset essentially happy music with tinges of sadness, like a yellow-heavy painting tainted with blue.

Bill Evans, in the liner notes to Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue, describes a Japanese visual art in which the artist is forced to be spontaneous. He must paint on a thin stretched parchment with a special brush and black water paint in such a way that any unnatural or interrupted strokes will destroy the line and break through the parchment. Erasures or changes are impossible.

He is describing, in an offhand way, Davis’s improvisations, but he also suggests an art in which something is at stake. True blue, as they say. Blueness equalling truthiness.

And yet, blue remains mysterious too, ambiguous and unknowable. We still we feel like Mallarmé, haunted by blue’s blueness: “Je suis hante! L’azur! l’azur! l’azur! l’azur!”

Hidden Tracks

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Everyone loves the idea of a treasure hunt. Since The Beatles first hid a secret song in the inner groove of Sgt. Peppers, artists have loved to hide bonus material on their albums. The most common form of hidden track is to have a long silence after the final song, after which – say, 10 or 15 minutes into the runtime – another song begins to play. These songs often aren’t that good, and can disrupt the sense of closure that a good last song should bring to an album. But they can be quite fun and startling, too, especially if you’ve left the CD player on after the album’s finished and forgotten about it, and then a song erupts from nowhere to surprise you.

My favourite place for a hidden track, though, is in what’s called the ‘pre-gap’ of a CD. The pre-gap is the few seconds of silence built in at the start of the first track, also called the ‘index 00’. But it’s possible for the manufacturers to make this gap longer, as long as they like in fact, and to fill it not with silence but with secret, hidden sounds. To hide a track here makes it genuinely quite difficult to find – it is the ultimate place for a truly “hidden” track, the antithesis of those “bonus” tracks they tell you about on the back of the CD case, thus ruining all the fun.

It only works in certain CD players. You start the first track playing, and then hit rewind (not skip back) and suddenly you discover you’re travelling back in time, zooming into negative time, -0.02 secs, -0.25 secs, -2.56 secs, and so on, until blip! the whole thing crashes and you’re back to 0.00 and the first track starts playing again from the beginning. This is the thing about the pre-gap, see – if you go too far back, you die, but the only way to know how far is too far is to keep rewinding till it happens. It’s like the videogame Limbo, where the puzzles can only be solved by failing them.

So, you try to remember what number you reached just before it crashed. Was it -3.33 secs? -3.34 secs? Then you try to stop rewinding just as you get to that number, just before you start rewinding into nothingness and the player resets itself. And hopefully, if you get it right, if you stop rewinding just in time, time starts flowing forward again (-3.32 secs, -3.31 secs, -3.30 secs), counting down towards the start of the album proper and playing, in that hidden space, a secret song.

I remember the first time I discovered one of these, on Bloc Party’s album Silent Alarm. I don’t remember what caused me to rewind the CD in the first place – perhaps I was trying to skip back to the start and hit the wrong button – but I remember the sheer thrill of finding this secret song hidden in such a strange place. At the time it didn’t have a title or any context to it – it was years before I would discover its name. (“Every Time is the Last Time”). I wondered if I was the only person ever to have heard it.

The pre-gap has been put to all kinds of uses. Kanye West’s Graduation has a secret intro-song cheekily titled ‘Goodnight’. Muse’s Hullabaloo has a hidden poem read by Tom Waits. Brand New’s The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me has overlapping phone messages. The reissue of John Coltrane’s Interstellar Space contains various false starts for ‘Jupiter Variation’. Ms. Dynamite’s A Little Deeper has a cover of ‘Get Up, Stand Up’. Pulp’s This is Hardcore has the sound of a cymbal.

What I like about these pre-gap tracks is that they’re hard to access. In an age when almost all recorded music is just there, available, accessible, merely a few clicks away, the pre-gap song is concealed. It has to be actively sought, searched for. These hidden tracks reassert the CD as a physical object, too. Whereas vinyl LPs are obviously covetable objects, CDs are often seen as simply carriers of information, there to be imported onto iTunes and then forgotten about. But the pre-gap won’t show up on iTunes. It won’t import. You have to access it on the actual, physical CD. (Of course, this isn’t quite true; as the YouTube videos periodically interrupting this post attest to, people have found a way to get these hidden tracks on the internet, like all other music. But in principle, at least, they are different, and it’s much more fun to listen to them in their original hiding places than simply play them on YouTube. The treasure hunt is half the fun).

My favourite use of the pre-gap is on Arcade Fire’s 2013 album Reflektor. Put it in the right CD player and the first disc of Reflektor will allow you to rewind a whole 10 minutes, revealing a secret montage of reversed clips from the album. This odd collage of sound mirrors another hidden track at the end of ‘Supersymmetry’, which appears after a period of silence, and similarly features various bizarre, reversed sounds. Together, the two hidden tracks bookend the album, surrounding it with noises that sound like strange signals whizzing through space.

These two tracks reframe everything that comes between them. Reflektor is an album that reminds me of the internet: an enclosed space in which everything reflects off of everything else, a hall of mirrors, a ‘prison’, a ‘prism of light’. The two halves of the record are like two mirrors bouncing ideas endlessly between each other. Everything seems to be happening all at once. Orpheus and Eurydice exist alongside ‘little boys with their porno’ and the reflective glare of a thousand iPhone screens. This is true, too, of the internet. Content on the internet exists divorced from context: everything is perpetually present, without any real sense of past or future, geographical or social context. So when we read or hear or consume things on the internet, we have to translate them into our own contexts, map them onto ourselves. The Internet is surely the great Reflektor. And yet, on Reflektor, there are two secret tracks that exist outside of this self-perpetuating, endlessly reflective chamber. The sounds in these hidden tracks splinter and escape. They allow room for space and silence: things the internet doesn’t permit. There is a world outside this prism, these hidden tracks suggest. It is the world Eurydice and Orpheus are trying to escape to. It exists. We exist.