Once upon a time, music was not something made by computers. In that not-so-distant age, it was so much more than a ringtone or the sound you heard when a program started up. As wonderful as technological advancement may be, it remains my view that pushing buttons does not, of itself, make you a musician. That’s because the melodies that inspire the human spirit are not to be found in a dos-based programming language or algorithm. They lie in the depths of the human heart. The problem with letting the IT Department write songs is that you get a very limited worldview as a result, as anyone who has recently listened to commercial radio may well attest. The language of music these days is so confined. It’s as if in a bid to reach to broadest selection of people, musicians have resorted to speaking in the musical equivalent of Esperanto when music should really be a whole Tower of Babel kind of experience.
Once upon a time, music was not something made by computers. In that not-so-distant age, it was so much more than a ringtone or the sound you heard when a program started up. As wonderful as technological advancement may be, it remains my view that pushing buttons does not, of itself, make you a musician. That’s because the melodies that inspire the human spirit are not to be found in a dos-based programming language or algorithm. They lie in the depths of the human heart. The problem with letting the IT Department write songs is that you get a very limited worldview as a result, as anyone who has recently listened to commercial radio may well attest. The language of music these days is so confined. It’s as if in a bid to reach to broadest selection of people, musicians have resorted to speaking in the musical equivalent of Esperanto when music should really be a whole Tower of Babel kind of experience.
Before computers took over, music was made by people. And it smelled of leather. At that time, rock music was not something your laptop coughed up but was handed down from on high. A gift, if you will, from the lap of the rock gods. Hairy of chest, leather of trouser; these big haired galloots knew how to party, but they implicitly knew when to flip the switch to ‘sensitive’. Lights were dimmed, trademark six-stringed axe swapped in favour of an acoustic guitar, maybe even a stool. Thus, the power ballad was born.
Power ballads work to a formula that is surely the equal of E = MC2. For whilst most rock music in the 1980s was built for the stadium and an audience of thousands, a good power ballad is more your bicycle built for two. However, it wasn’t enough just to hear a power ballad – you had to see it. Dry ice, venetian blinds and a slightly confused model wearing a red dress – these were the essential ingredients of a power ballad music video. Candles, a car pulling sharply away from a kerb and, most confusingly, a random exotic animal such as a diamond headed carpet python or panther. The singer, clutching a rose to his ruffled shirt unbuttoned to the naval thus exposing a chest so hairy that it resembled a community garden undergrowth, pleads for understanding. A soaring chorus then gives way to a wailing guitar solo.
Rarely can you identify a moment when a particular art form attains perfection. But when it comes to power ballads, there is no need for any debate as the answer is as obvious as the hair on David Coverdale’s barrel-like chest. The song ‘Is This Love’ is brave enough to ask a big question without even bothering to use a question mark. The band ‘Whitesnake’, fronted by Mr Coverdale, released their masterpiece in 1987 and this is now widely recognised as the point at which the art form reached its zenith. Having reached an apex of perfection, the only way was, naturally enough, down. Way down. By the time grunge became rock music’s dominant currency, the power ballad was all but extinct.
I was never much a fan of the power ballad. Mostly, they were so cheesy that to hear the first verse alone would likely raise your cholesterol level and make you pop a button on your skinny jeans. But whereas once power ballads were a near-compulsory part of any band’s repertoire, they have all but disappeared. Sales of leather trousers have suffered enormously as a result, to say nothing of those of diamond headed carpet pythons and panthers. But like a precious (heavy) metal, their scarcity has made them all the more valuable.
In just a couple of weeks, I will be getting married. For reasons that are likely to forever remain a mystery to me, I volunteered to write the music for the occasion. Such events are, of course, extremely important and it’s vital that I come up with a piece of music that suits the occasion. Something too jolly could lead to accusations of frippery. Anything too dour may put a dampener on the mood. It is, without doubt, a very fine line that I must now walk. Clearly, the occasion calls for something strong and sincere, preferably with an epic guitar solo. Indeed, the only kind of music capable of stepping up to the emotional plate is a power ballad.
Writing your own power ballad is possibly the most difficult thing that you can attempt. My self-interest means that I have lost all the perspective necessary to make vital editing decisions. For example, will the inclusion of a seven minute ‘double barrelled’ guitar solo be regarded as self indulgent and over the top or – as Goldilocks would have it – ‘just right’? Is there such a thing as too much double kick drum? I very much doubt it, as I set aside all aspects of my better judgement and simply go for broke.
As luck would have it, on the big day I will be wearing leather trousers and a ruffled shirt. I have already removed the buttons. As the dry ice begins to waft around the feet of our guests and the music starts, I will be perched on a stool, red rose at my chest, panther by my side. When the bride appears, it will be an emotional moment, to say nothing of when the drum solo kicks in. Although writing your own power ballad is a lot of trouble, if asked whether I think the effort is worthwhile, my answer will be simple as it is direct: ‘I do’.