On Hearing an Old Song for the First Time Again

A few weeks ago, while disinterestedly stumbling around the internet, I found a video of Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” on YouTube. Now, I’ve heard this song a thousand times. I grew up with a mother who enjoyed Motown and played it often. Marvin Gaye’s music is enduringly popular and thus easy to find on the radio or internet. This video was different than the standard version of the song. 

The session musicians were nowhere to be heard. There were no horns, guitars, pianos, or any accompaniment whatsoever. The video had edited out everything but Marvin’s vocals. I’ve heard other isolated vocal tracks before, but they usually feature layered editing to enhance the tone of a singer’s voice. There was none of that here. Marvin’s voice stood out, hauntingly perfect in its pitch. Stripping “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” of its backing track didn’t cripple or mangle the power of the song. It unbound the song’s power. Listen for yourself and see what I mean.

http://touch.dailymotion.com/video/x6kjcv_marvin-gaye-i-heard-it-through-the_music
(for mobile users)

I won’t say that it’s better than the original, but the simplicity of his vocals dramatically altered my reaction to the song. The dark, mysterious undertones of the accompaniment are gone, leaving behind the immensely powerful core of the song. Marvin’s voice echoed through my mind with the gravitas and timbre of a betrayed god seeking retribution. Though I had heard the song a thousand times before, it was as if I heard it for the very first time. 

Goosebumps registered my excitement at hearing such a distilled, flawless, natural performance. I felt a wave of satisfaction wash across my mind, having just been reminded how marvelous human music can be. It made me think of how it would sound to hear Marvin sing these words around a midnight campfire, a hundred years in the past. The famous version Motown released is a classic, to be sure. This version, stripped of its complex arrangement, allowed me to hone in on the crushing admissions in the song’s subject. With no other distractions to scatter my concentration, I could feel new life radiating from an old, well-worn thing. Additionally, it made me think of the virtues of simplicity.

When my daughters were very young, I was always surprised by the simplicity of their thought processes. If they enjoyed a book or movie, they wanted to watch it often. There weren’t any concerns about wearing a story out or whether or not it was obsessive to be so enthralled. If they wanted to build a fort made of blankets and pillows, they cared little for the aesthetics of the design or whether or not other people could fit comfortably within the structure. If some dissatisfying occurrence upset them, tears flowed. If they wanted a cookie in the midst of dress-up playtime, off they went, clomping to the kitchen in uncomfortable plastic heels. 

The landscapes of their lives were noteworthy for the lack of nuance and subtlety. Good books are read often. Blanket forts need only accommodate the spatial needs of its occupant and no one else’s. Injustices were clear and the appropriate response was obvious. The delicious allure of a freshly baked cookie overcame all boundaries of circumstance and sartorial resistance.

The reassuring simplicity of childhood is a state of being, at the sunrise of life, through which we pass too quickly. I’m aware that this state of being is provided by a certain set of first-world privileges and that clinging to such a self-centered consciousness is ultimately incompatible with society’s expectations. Yet, those moments echo in my pensive mind now, as both daughters are blossoming in the springtime of their own lives. Their worlds are increasingly beset by complicated relationships and an increased recognition that the sphere of experience around them is fraught with indifference and imperfection.

I think back to my own childhood, which is regretfully less vibrant in my memories with each passing year. I remember much more than most people give me credit for, but I also recognize now how self-centered and nearly solipsistic my perspective was at that point in time. I lived, quite happily, to satisfy my own desires. Fears were tangible and attached to objects in the environment. People around me had roles and responsibilities, but I didn’t need to concern myself with seeking their approval. They were, for all intents and purposes, part of the scenery.

If I wanted to watch cartoons at 6:00 a.m. on the only television in the house, I did. It never occurred to me that someone’s sleep might be disturbed by the volume of an episode of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe or my undeniable need to hold a cereal spoon aloft and imagine that it could become a fabulous, power granting sword by just simply calling out “By the power of Greyskull!”

Over time, thin tendrils of complexity began insinuating themselves into my world. My rambunctiousness elicited more punishment from adults than it did excited interest. Classmates began organizing themselves into increasingly distinct cliques, which inevitably led to a recognition of one’s status. The façade of parents, not just mine but my friends’ as well, began to crumble and reveal complex people with complicated personal difficulties. 

The phenomenal rise in the number of divorces amongst Baby Boomer couples intersected this period of my life. At first, this was a personal problem that left me with feelings of isolation. Those feelings weren’t solely mine to bear for long, as several other children went through the same experience. Before I knew it, our bodies began changing and complexity had inextricably invaded even the deepest recesses of my existence.

I say all of this now because of the recognition that my daughters, with each passing day, sink further into the swampy reality of adulthood. Where I had once only seen a series of adult faces as part of a generic whole of caregivers and bit role players, there eventually emerged an impossibly long dramatis personae with rich backstories and personal conflicts. It occurs to me now, more than ever, that I am a part of that list. 

Adults seem so boring and dull to children. This is due, in equal parts, to the fact that children are focused on themselves and to the fact that the unspoiled mind of a child doesn’t possess the sensitivity to detect the drama infused in the bleary eyes of the tired adults in their lives. Adults just look tired and worn out, comparatively.

This may not seem like a realization worth sharing with anyone, but it is one that crosses my mind frequently. I still struggle with seeing other people in my life as individual possessors of a consciousness as riddled with complexity as mine. Too often, the people I see are faces, drifting in and out of my view like human flotsam on a flowing stream. We’re not allowed, and nor should we try, to have deep connections with each person that passes through our frame of experience. It is a beauty of communal existence that two expansive consciousnesses can pass each other like ships on a channel, without the need to hail or acknowledge the other’s presence. People become scenery, hastily painted on the ever-changing canvas of my mind.

In fact, we stratify the people in our lives based upon how much we’re willing to insinuate ourselves into their own complex consciousness. Some friends become closer than siblings and take up residence in our very hearts before time and necessity move them to other places. We grow to passionately love, resent, and appreciate spouses. Our family members, both distant and close, either preserve or sever connections with us based upon their level of satisfaction with our choices. Waxing and waning, we move elegiacally downstream.

This is the normal way of all things. It is what helps us to highly value those rare relationships whose constancy is a pole star in the firmament of our experience with the world. It doesn’t take any sort of magically phrased prose to convince us of why those intimate relationships matter. What we do need a reminder of, from time to time, is the complexity in the consciousness of each person that passes through our lives. Ironically, this is achieved through an appreciation of simplicity.

Marvin Gaye’s voice, when unbound by the absence of a backing track, redefines our perception by its simple power. The people around us, even those perfect strangers walking the opposite direction down a sidewalk, live lives of unimaginable complexity. A simple realization of that, stripped of pretenses and stereotypes, reminds me that my world isn’t a cleverly disguised solipsistic fantasy. 

My world is full of a hundred thousand other consciousnesses, struggling as silently and deeply as I am. A hundred thousand other minds, considering the next move. A hundred thousand other minds, perceiving the world through wholly different perspectives than my own. It’s not my job to save them by smiling at them. It’s not even incumbent upon me to reach out to help them. These are good and kind actions, but the belief that I’m someone’s potential savior can negatively affect my relationships at times. 

My obligation to these cohabitating, complex consciousnesses is to respect their inviolability. We’re all struggling with life until we’re not. The least we can do is appreciate that the people around us, even our enemies, have complex lives. That foundational assumption can unbind our sympathy toward the world. That assumption places us on a footing for increased understanding, instead of persistent confusion. That assumption builds common ground instead of erecting higher walls. That assumption allows us to hear someone’s song for the first time, even if we think we’ve heard it a thousand times before.