I am a firm believer that the greatest songs are about yearning. Since I was 13, I’ve compiled countless playlists focused on admiration from afar — desperate longing for affection, waiting around for a chance with someone who has eyes for another. The first song I ever eked out on guitar was Clairo’s “Sofia,” if that offers any insight into my taste for wistfulness. At 14 I wrote diary entries about wanting to make music like Phoebe Bridgers, hypnotized by her poeticized woes. With that fascination came a strange sort of obligation to write about yearning.
The greatest songs simply sound even greater when you’re able to feign the romantic longing mirrored in the lyrics. For the sake of artistic reverence and relatability, I tend to find myself longing alongside the singer, without anyone in particular on my mind. In yearning, you bring yourself the slightest bit closer to the artist’s interiority, and what better feeling is there than recognition from another?
So when The Brian Jonestown Massacre (BJM) lead musician Anton Newcombe sings “does she love you, you suppose? … you’re my favorite thing by far” on the 1996 track “(David Bowie I Love You) Since I Was Six,” I tend to fabricate someone to have on my mind. To enhance the listening experience, of course.
I’ve become entranced by Newcombe’s fake British accent and the percussive nature of the acoustic guitar strumming against fuzzy horns and accordion, tied together with the earnest romanticism of the lyrics. Its slow, swaying instrumental, punctuated with downtrodden sighs, evokes the image of a solitary stroll over rain-soaked cobblestone as you grasp for the hidden meaning in a fleeting glance.
Alternatively, I’d like to propose that this tendency toward hopeless admiration can function as a springboard for bettering yourself. As we peer at our beloved (imagined or otherwise) in cosmic isolation, our gaze must at some point turn to the faint reflection in the spaceship window.
As its title may suggest, the song’s vocal melody and chord progression pay homage to David Bowie’s “Space Oddity.” The track is about literal alienation: an astronaut speaks over the radio as he floats further and further from Earth and is lost to outer space. Given this context, by weaving in “Space Oddity,” BJM suggests that alienation is a fundamental aspect of longing.
The love in “(David Bowie I Love You) Since I Was Six” is unreturned, the singer’s affection and vulnerability one-sided. Its romantic object best left just out of reach, a star to gaze at rather than a real human being to understand. Below is a verse from the track that emphasizes how the vocalist utilizes unrequited romance as a crutch in the face of the lack of brightness in his life:
There’s no place left to go
When I’m feeling kind of slow (Slow down, sir)
Do you like the way you are?
Yes, it is, ‘cause you’re the star
So is ameliorating loneliness the only practical use case for admiration, this “brightness in your eyes” that Newcombe sings of? That would be rather pathetic.
Alternatively, I’d like to propose that this tendency toward hopeless admiration can function as a springboard for bettering yourself. As we peer at our beloved (imagined or otherwise) in cosmic isolation, our gaze must at some point turn to the faint reflection in the spaceship window. In a recent foray into romantic longing, I came to the realization that I could really improve at asking people questions about themselves. Perhaps there’s a chance to grow from unrequited love, as loserly as it feels. You just might become less of a loser while you’re at it.
In thinking about the instrumental role desire plays in coming into one’s own, I find myself returning to James Joyce’s “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.” I came across this novel at 17, at the crossroads of my obsessive study of music theory and a crisis of placelessness and dulled passion in my artistic endeavors and daily life.
In the novel, protagonist Stephen Dedalus rejects an offer to become a priest, which would have resulted in a life of desireless Catholicism. What follows is an ecstatic dream sequence in which he hears “notes of fitful music leaping upwards a tone and downwards a diminished fourth, upwards a tone and downwards a major third, like triple-branching flames leaping fitfully, flame after flame, out of a midnight wood.” It is in choosing a path paved with lust and longing that Stephen can live out his artistry.
While the vast majority of us are not on the precipice of priesthood, it’s worth considering the creative delirium that emerges from Stephen’s refusal to live without lust. From a life of unfettered desire comes an overwhelming flow of music, free and wonderfully dissonant. Why shy away from the pain and wonder of longing when it can guide us to who we can become, flames and all? After all, it is yearning that brings us the brilliant songs of so many, sung in the language of pining we comprehend all too well.
Like David Bowie and BJM, like Phoebe Bridgers and my 14-year-old self, the idol-worshipping amateur artist slips into the language of longing to compose the perfect song. I can’t say I’ve made it that far in my journey in musicianship just yet, but it sounds to me like BJM did with “(David Bowie I Love You) Since I Was Six.” The track just might nudge you closer to something to fall in love, and grow, with.
Chloe Mossey PO ’29 is longing for her miniature acoustic guitar with a broken head and tarnished 10-year-old strings. Oh the tales that guitar could tell.
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