Music and romance have always been an item.
Though no one knows what the first song ever written was, odds are it had something to do with love. Most songs do, after all. It is probably the most enduring theme in music, cropping up in everything from the Song of Solomon to troubadour ballads to Viennese opera to today's Top 40. In 1600, Shakespeare wrote, "If music be the food of love, play on" -- and play on we have, generating literally millions of love songs over the centuries.
Yet as vast as that catalog is, it's amazing how consistent the musical language of love has been. Even though numerous styles have gone in and out of fashion, our basic notion of how a love song should sound hasn't changed appreciably in the last 200 years. "Aura Lee," for example, seemed just as romantic in 1861, when it was first published, as it did in 1956, when Elvis Presley recorded the tune (with different lyrics) as "Love Me Tender." And with Valentine's Day just around the corner,
perhaps it's time we looked at why these traits have endured.
It could be argued that all anyone really reacts to in a love song is the lyric, which often expresses emotion in language far more memorable than anything the average lover could manage. Lord knows, more than a few lovers have pleaded their case with words borrowed from some song or other, but is that really all there is to the phenomenon?
No. Not only does it take more than having the word "love" in the title to set hearts aflutter, but some of the songs people perceive as romantic appear less so when looked at from the lyric sheet.
The Police hit "Every Breath You Take," for instance, seems at first to be a wonderfully warm and affectionate piece of music, what with Sting's gentle croon and the heartbeat pulse of bass and guitar. Listen closely, though, and you'll find that what Sting's dulcet tones are describing isn't love but an almost totalitarian relationship, in which the protagonist wants not love but complete control over the other. Then there's Elvis Costello's ballad "Alison," a tune many new-wave fans construed as romantic despite the fact that Costello's hero wants to snuff this woman who spurned him. (When he sings "My aim is true," he's talking target practice.)
On the other hand, "Sukiyaki," which has made pop fans feel affectionate for three decades now, regardless of whether the vocal is in English (as with the 4 P.M. version currently on the charts) or not (as with Ryu Sakamoto's 1963 version, which was sung in Japanese).
Clearly, what people react to in love songs is not the words but the music -- an aural vocabulary that seems to spell l-o-v-e to almost any listener. But what are those musical cues? Why do they work? And what do they tell us about our notions of love, sex and romance?
Perhaps the best way to begin would be by pointing out that when we speak of romantic music, we're actually talking about two different kinds of song. First, there's the Romance Kindler, a variety of song that not only celebrates the power of love but actively fans the flames of passion. Examples of this type would include "When a Man Loves a Woman," "I Swear," and (especially) the Whitney Houston rendition of "I Will Always Love You."
Then there's Make-Out Music, a style that seems to be about sex but actually works to create an aura of romantic intimacy more than sexual abandon. That's why 2 Live Crew, which is often as explicitly sexual as pop music gets, is lousy make-out music, while Roxy Music's "Avalon," which doesn't even mention the word "sex," is a sure-fire classic.
We should also mention a third, false form of love song, the Lost-Love Lament. This genre is directed not at lovers but at those who wish they were. Rather than evoke passion, what these songs convey is longing and melancholy, emotions that appeal more to lonely individuals than to loving couples. As such, these aren't love songs in the usual sense, unless you consider self-pity a kind of inwardly directed love. Still, the Lost-Love Lament remains a pop staple and has become a virtual cottage industry in Nashville.
Romance Kindlers
Each type works in a specific way, and as such has its own musical vocabulary. Romance Kindlers, for instance, tend to be slow, sweeping songs, with lots of sustained notes and a sense of melodic uplift at the chorus. How they're sung, in fact, seems to matter less than the way the melody is constructed; "Ohh Baby Baby" works equally well whether crooned by Smokey Robinson or belted by Linda Ronstadt.
Why do these particular musical devices work with Romance Kindlers? Some of it seems to be purely physical. Slow dancing, remember, is always more romantic than fast, if only because it's hard for a couple to maintain close contact when moving quickly (polka experts aside). Romance Kindlers aren't just slow, though -- the beat is often deliberate to the point of seeming to guide the listener, as if some unseen hand has set a million hips swaying to the same gentle pulse.
But there's also an emotional aspect to the music, one that takes a commonplace emotion and inflates it to epic proportions. In the song "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," what draws the listener in isn't just the defiance of the lyric, which bravely states that nothing on earth will keep these lovers apart; it's the way the melody shifts from short, choppy phrases on the verse ("Remember the day I set you free/I told you you could always count on me") to the bold, flowing strains of the chorus, which seems to stretch each word for maximum impact ("Aaaiin't nooo mounnn-tainnn hiiiiigh ee-nufff . . . "). Add in the way the tune
swoops upward as it reaches the chorus, and the listener can't help but feel swept up by the emotion.
Although the song lies at the heart of this experience, the performance plays a large part as well. Percy Sledge's version of "When a Man Loves a Woman" is certainly the most soulful on record, but it's easy to understand why many listeners find Michael Bolton's rendition more romantic. What Sledge's performance emphasizes is the heartbreak implicit in the song, and his voice seems almost on the verge of breaking as it leans into the high notes of the chorus.
Bolton, by contrast, conveys none of Sledge's wounded intensity; his take on the song makes the challenge of loving a woman seem an almost Herculean struggle, one that requires enormous strength and fortitude. As a result, what seems like over-singing to soul aficionados comes across as vocal heroism to Bolton's fans -- an effect that registers as real romance in the age of Fabio.
It's the impression of passion that matters most. When John Doe, playing a country singer, did "I Will Always Love You" in "The Bodyguard," he conveyed honesty and a kind of hard-bitten sentimentality, but the song didn't really convey big-time
emotion until Whitney Houston took it over.
Why? In part because the dramatic structure of the film gave Houston's performance more impact, but mostly because the sheer roof-raising power of her voice made the romantic promise of that chorus sound like a declaration of undying love. It wasn't just the mighty sweep of her voice as it surged upward, pushing harder with each note; even the way she ornamented each note, adding extra syllables that stretched each word into a mini-melody, seemed to reinforce the notion that this emotion was about to sweep her -- and everyone in the audience -- away.
Make-Out Music
There's nothing like that kind of over-the-top enthusiasm in the world of Make-Out Music. Instead, what it aims for is a kind of quiet intensity, a sound that's whisper-quiet and as intimate as a kiss. That's not to say there isn't passion involved; there is. But instead of the broad, sweeping statements of the Romance Kindler, Make-Out Music relies on subtlety and sophistication for its impact.
Musically, these songs have little use for drama or fireworks. Where Romance Kindlers surge upward with the chorus, Make-Out songs tend to keep a more even keel, offering a shift in the melody and an increase in the rhythmic intensity as their only pay-off. Their goal is to create a sense of intimacy, of private pleasures, not to suggest some larger-than-life emotion.
As such, the realm of Make-Out Music belongs more to the performer than to the songwriter. It's one thing to write a song as insinuating and evocative as "In the Still of the Night" or "Close to You," something else again to deliver a recording as moody and atmospheric as Frank Sinatra's "In the Wee Small Hours" or Anita Baker's "Rapture." After all, not every version of "Close to You" makes the listener want to cuddle, but it's hard to play "In the Wee Small Hours" without wanting to share the experience.
Why does this music inspire such emotion? Some of it has to do with the way the melodies mute the uplift of Romance Kindlers, funneling that energy into more introspective channels; some also stems from the general quiet of this music, which evokes a similar hushed intensity in the listener.
Mostly, though, what sets Make-Out Music apart is fondness for lush textures and soft edges. If put in visual terms, the Romance Kindler would be like a Van Gogh, all bold strokes and contrasting colors, whereas Make-Out Music tends more to the blurred lines and smoky palette of Cezanne. Yet no matter how that's expressed -- be it through the rich, rock romanticism of Roxy Music's "Avalon" or the quiet chamber jazz of "The Tony Bennett/Bill Evans Album" -- the same mood comes across.
Nor is this phenomenon likely to change any time soon. Although social and sexual mores have changed considerably over the years, our notions of love and romance remain largely the same. That's why stories like those of Romeo and Juliet or Arthur and Guinevere endure long after they were originally told, and why certain musical devices convey the same emotional cues
generation after generation.