So, I did something new. An imaginative something.
I wrote a song from a song. More specifically, I wrote a song in English from a song that’s in Icelandic.
As I listen to Sigur Rós’ songs, I’m constantly finding myself hearing (or, imagining) the Icelandic lyrics as English words and phrases. The first time it happened was the first time I listened to “Inní mér syngur vitleysingur” – which is another great one by them. Listen if/when you get the chance.
As someone once explained it to me:
Along with Icelandic (their native language), Sigur Rós uses “Hopelandic,” an invented, non-literal language that forms the unintelligible lyrics sung. It focuses entirely on the sounds of language rather than the language itself. And, as a result, you get the normal melodic and rhythmic elements of singing without the conceptual content of language.
How cool. Pretty inventive, right?
Their language(s) and lyrics are not the centerpiece of their music, which I think makes it very appealing to their [non-Icelandic] audiences. We’re able to sit back and simply enjoy the entirety of the sounds without worrying about missing out on the meaning in the lyrics and behind the song as a whole. This is one of the reasons their music draws me in so much – because I have trouble focusing on the beauty of the sounds in songs because I’m always so concentrated on listening to the lyrics and deciphering meaning – I can’t help it. But with Sigur Rós, I don’t have to worry about words at all (unless, of course, I’m doing the whole hearing English thing).
I think I’m hearing English in their lyrics, but frankly, all I’m really doing is making things up in my head as they sing their inimitable language. Whether we realize it or not, we’re always trying to find something familiar in everything we do and see and experience – it’s part of who we are as humans.
So I’m sitting here listening to “Glósóli,” one of my favorites, and it’s happening – I’m hearing English words. And I start writing the words down. My mind takes over and my hand follows. The words and phrases start making sense together…
It’s crazy – the Icelandic/Hopelandic lyrics are morphing into an entirely different set of English lyrics that happen to make sense. It was sort of blowing my mind.
Line by line, lyric by lyric, it was all coming together and I have no idea how. I wasn’t even actively trying to make them make sense together, it was just happening. It was becoming a song in itself. I had no idea what was coming next, but it kept on coming.
Halfway through, I stopped. Paused the song, put the pen down.
I was a bit fearful of continuing with this unique process of song-writing because I didn’t want it to affect the way I listened to the song after I was finished. I didn’t want to hear “Glósóli” differently. I didn’t want to change the song for myself. In any way. Because it’s beautiful. And holds so much meaning on its own. Why did I have to give it more?
I didn’t want to keep going, but I did. It kept coming; I kept hearing more.
Admittedly, some of it is a bit of a stretch, as you’ll come to realize if you listen to the song while reading along with my lyrics. But it still works. I still hear it – these words – every time.
In a way, it’s kind of humorous as well. Before posting this, I played the song back one final time, reading along as I listened, and I found myself laughing at one point in particular:
“In a crowded room” (“en hvar ert þú”)
Listen to that part (minute 1:57) and tell me the resemblance doesn’t make you laugh. It’s so uncanny it makes me chuckle, and I have no idea why.
It’s shocking to me how two completely unrelated languages can sound so similar, or how we are able to hear certain things in the words of another’s language. It’s captivating.
It really all just depends on what you’re listening for. We can make ourselves hear whatever it is we want to hear. Which is pretty awesome. I can have my ears tuned to hear Icelandic words and hear that line as “en hvar ert þú,” or I can have my ears tuned to English and hear whatever my mind may come up with. And what it heard was, “in a crowded room.”
Here’s what the final product came to be:
Crowded Room
You walk now, through
After days of heartbreak
You carry it too
Unless you hear your name
It’s going to be the end soon
Oh, not today, though
You bring the past to
You hear the call
It’s all in there, hun
In your home
And it’s here
Oh… We can only hope
In a crowded room….
Lock up your doors
Don’t touch the curtains now
She locked your heart
And lost the key (I admit, this line is a bit of a stretch.)
She pent up things too
Had cleared a hole
Closing me in too
And came to your home
You took the train home
With your start, once more
Oh, the path..
Standing on a flat road
She’s created two
Your head, it’s full….
Now sleep
Your head, it’s full….
Go to sleep
Your head, it’s full….
Go sleep
Your heart is full….
Go sleep
Your heart is full….
***
Now, after the fact, I’m wondering if I was hearing each line because of how I heard the previous one, or if I would have heard the same words regardless.
Example:
Lock up your doors (Legg upp í göngu)
Don’t touch the curtains now (Og tölti götuna)
Did I only hear “don’t touch the curtains now” because my mind was already inside of a room (from hearing “lock up your doors”)? If I had heard “og tölti götuna” first, would I have come up with a different lyric? Probably so. But who cares. I guess this means I could make several songs out of just one… Guess I’ve got some work to do.
*****
One of Bill Nichols’ six documentary modes is the poetic mode, centered on subjective, artistic expression. This mode moves away from the “objective” reality of a given situation and is instead about subjective (and abstract) interpretations of its subject(s). The poetic mode of documentary film tends to be light on rhetoric and abandons traditional narrative content. For example, individual characters and events can remain undeveloped, which oftentimes creates a specific mood or tone for the piece, like in Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will. It has been said of poetic documentary pieces that continuity is “of virtually no consequence at all.” Instead, the poetic mode explores “associations and patterns that involve temporal rhythms and spatial juxtapositions” (Nichols).
The poetic mode of documentary emphasizes tonal or rhythmic qualities, description, and form. My interpretation of the poetic mode is one that emphasizes this tonal/rhythmic quality in quite a literal way. The rhythm and tone of the Icelandic song is what got me to my own lyrics for a completely new and different song. If they hadn’t been sung the way they were sung, I might not have heard them the way that I did. Additionally, the English song/lyrics I came up with in listening to “Glósóli” are related to something I was going through in my actual life – though they may seem to be words pulled out of thin air, they do hold real meaning for me, which further adds to the documentary quality.
“Crowded Room” is about the overwhelming abundance of emotions and feelings that inevitably come along with falling in love, falling out of love, having someone fall out of love with you, having your emotions toyed with, or anything of the sort. It’s about being careful with your heart. It’s about the amount of space you have (or don’t have) in there. It’s about knowing when to stop, when to start – when to try harder and when to try less. It’s about knowing your [heart’s] limits and abiding by life’s rules. But it’s also about the fact that even when we think there’s no room left, whether it’s room to accept more love, more feeling, more emotion or to accept what is, we still have plenty more. It’s just crowded room.