How fair is it to judge an artist by a single work? Many might consider it a slight, especially those with a lifetime invested in aesthetic development. The arc of creativity is not easily ignored, but in certain instances a single creation can level an individual’s past, rendering irrelevant anything he or she had previously concocted. Gerry Rafferty might hate to be eulogized in such a fashion, but I would hard-pressed to come up with anything he did on the level of 1979’s “Baker Street,” a song that stands the test of time as one of pop music’s great exercises in dichotomy. To indulge in the parlance of the song’s time, the verses were mellow, all sunny major chords and congas. Those are incidentally the parts of the song forgotten by all but the most devout of his followers.
The element immortalizing the man is the song’s chorus. Stepping away from pop music convention, which would place the catchiest, most sing-along ready moments at a song’s heart, “Baker Street” strips away the world-weary lyrics in favor of a saxophone riff which is simply mean. Its descent into a tough minor key enforces the song’s message–its characters battle their own existential dilemmas, struggling to claim meaning only to find that the world offers none. It’s hard to tell if the saxophone is the consolation, the stability in a turbulent existence, or the harsh reminder that everything is not as it should be.
The ambiguity is key. The fact that the song is as consoling or as disconsolate as a listener may feel at any particular moment is its own amber casing. It is a genius bit of musical sleight of hand which leaves even the keenest observer guessing and–while I won’t pretend to be the most well-versed commentator on his back catalogue–an achievement for which its creator deserves more than the passing remembrance which he has gleaned.
Gerry Rafferty, 1947 – 2011. RIP.
How fair is it to judge an artist by a single work? Many might consider it a slight, especially those with a lifetime invested in aesthetic development. The arc of creativity is not easily ignored, but in certain instances a single creation can level an individual’s past, rendering irrelevant anything he or she had previously concocted. Gerry Rafferty might hate to be eulogized in such a fashion, but I would hard-pressed to come up with anything he did on the level of 1979’s “Baker Street,” a song that stands the test of time as one of pop music’s great exercises in dichotomy. To indulge in the parlance of the song’s time, the verses were mellow, all sunny major chords and congas. Those are incidentally the parts of the song forgotten by all but the most devout of his followers.
The element immortalizing the man is the song’s chorus. Stepping away from pop music convention, which would place the catchiest, most sing-along ready moments at a song’s heart, “Baker Street” strips away the world-weary lyrics in favor of a saxophone riff which is simply mean. Its descent into a tough minor key enforces the song’s message–its characters battle their own existential dilemmas, struggling to claim meaning only to find that the world offers none. It’s hard to tell if the saxophone is the consolation, the stability in a turbulent existence, or the harsh reminder that everything is not as it should be.
The ambiguity is key. The fact that the song is as consoling or as disconsolate as a listener may feel at any particular moment is its own amber casing. It is a genius bit of musical sleight of hand which leaves even the keenest observer guessing and–while I won’t pretend to be the most well-versed commentator on his back catalogue–an achievement for which its creator deserves more than the passing remembrance which he has gleaned.
Gerry Rafferty, 1947 – 2011. RIP.
