On Reddit someone’s posted an overcomplicated guide to the polyrhythmic drum intro on Phish’s “Mound” (from “Rift,” 1993). Here’s the real deal:
3 bars of 6/4 1 bar of 4/4 1 bar of 5/4 1 bar of 4/4
The form repeats three times. The snare always lands on beat 4, regardless of the time signature. The handclaps provide a frame of reference, staying in 6/4 time throughout and always falling on the 4.
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Assertively resigned, resignedly assertive
The Phish song “Horn” features theme and variations worthy of any classical composer.
Lactoria cornuta’s horns could be an offensive weapon. Or they may simply make it unpleasant for predators to swallow him. Image via Wikimedia Commons.
The jam band Phish isn’t all jamming. A handful of their songs are rigorously composed from beginning to end, some following theme-and-variations frameworks worthy of any classical composer.
No member of this subset of Phish songs is more beautifully constructed or poignant than “Horn,” which the band has been playing live since 1990 and which appears on their 1993 studio album “Rift.”
It starts like a regular rock song, with a sturdy riff. Enigmatic backing vocals enter: “Rhine wine, car horn.” Then begins a verse about a toxic relationship:
Now that you’ve deceived me and played my around and hung those nasty flyers on all the buildings in town, dribbled my possessions in a ring around the earth, and bought and sold my self-control for less than it was worth
The narrator seems to be working up to an assertive statement along the lines of, “It’s over.” But he doesn’t quite make it there. After more of the riff, he continues resignedly:
Now I know the reason that I’m feeling so forlorn. I’ll pick you up at 8 as usual. Listen for my horn.
The horn is his car horn, confirmed by the backing vocals and imitated by the beep-beep double strum that ends each repeat of the riff. As an astute forum commenter points out, it’s probably also the horn of a cuckold. Could it be the vessel holding the Rhine wine, too?
If the lyrics are the narrator apostrophizing his perfidious lover, then the long instrumental passage that follows is his tortured inner monolog, where he cycles through several conflicting emotions on his way to pick her up.
The passage is built on two contrasting themes: We could label one the voice of sentimentality and the other the voice of skepticism. Both themes go through variations as the two voices within the protagonist challenge one another.
The first theme is itself made up of two shorter phrases, each conforming to the minor pentatonic scale. The first, sad and subdued, is an acknowledgement by our hero that he has been wronged.
Theme 1, Phrase 1.
The second phrase is brighter, revealing that the protagonist still holds out hope for the relationship.
Theme 1, Phrase 2.
The two melodic phrases combine into a theme that seems to say, “She done me wrong, but remember how good it used to be?”
What follows in Theme 2 is a word from the narrator’s own better judgment. This statement is blunt. While Theme 1 takes up more than eight measures, Theme 2 gets its point across in fewer than four. It seems to say, “Dude, time to move on.”
Theme 2.
The two themes go back and forth for 71 measures — or about two minutes, more than half the song’s total running time. In that space they are restated, expanded, modulated, reoriented. Most of all they gain in vehemence. Nearing the end, one gets the impression that the protagonist has screwed up his courage. But the long, sustained notes that conclude the instrumental seem to ask a simple, melancholic question: “why?”
Finally the riff and backing vocals return as an outro. What will our hero do when his lover gets in the car?
A note on the score: I’m indebted to Chris Emmerson, whose excellent guitar transcription made this project so much easier. I was on my own figuring out the piano chords, although MrSteevt provided clues. The accompaniment is built around a chromatic line that rises and falls (mostly falls) much like the protagonist’s spirits.
After a cursory, thoroughly unscientific survey, I have concluded that one of the longest, weirdest chord progression in rock music is found in “His Kingly Cave” from Frank Black and the Catholics’ “Devil’s Workshop” (2002).
While certainly there are upward and downward deviations, the preponderance of rock and pop verses follow a three- or four-chord pattern spread over four, eight or 12 bars. (See, for example, virtually every Pixies song.)
In contrast, the verses of “His Kingly Cave” cram 14 chords (10 of them unique) into a 13-bar format. Exotic chords with weird fingerings, no less. Perfectly mystifying for a song about dropping acid at Graceland.
If “Cave” represents an extreme but successful aberration, what’s an example of an unsuccessful one? How many chords is too many? This is partly a question of what separates a rocker from a jazz douche. But really it’s a question of musical effectiveness. How far can you extend a progression before it becomes self-indulgent, unfollowable, unpleasant?
Here’s how the “Cave” verse is constructed and why I think it works:
The first eight bars conform to the G minor scale. Bar 9 (Fsus2 to F Major) is the gateway to another harmonic world. The final four bars revolve around the peculiar F Byzantine scale.
G minor and F Byzantine have three notes in common — F, A and C (Bb too, but that’s not important here). In other words, both can be used to build a plain vanilla F Major triad, which is what brings the progression to its conclusion and links it back to the more familiar ground of the first eight bars. So while the Byzantine scale’s sudden appearance seems to intensify the acid trip, it talks you back down just as quickly.
Exhibit A: Components of the verse of “His Kingly Cave.” Listen here.
Some other long chord progressions:
Coffee and TV – Blur 8 bars; 8 chords B Am E(add9) E G G/F Bb Db (2nd time: A)
Hallelujah – Leonard Cohen 16 bars; 16 chords, 5 unique C Am C Am F G C G C F G Am F G E Am
Jabberwocky – Daniel hales, and the frost heaves. 11.5 bars; 17 chords, 6 unique Fm Cm Dm Ab Fm Cm Dm Bb Dm Bb Fm Cm Dm Bb Dm Ab G
Blackbird – The Beatles 8 bars, 18 chords, 11 unique G Am7 Bm(b6) G C Em D F#m Em Eb D Em C Cm Bm A7 D7sus G
John Waters’ “Hairspray” (1988) is a favorite film for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the eponymous song that plays over the opening and closing credits. It’s a ’60s homage propelled by that sine qua non of ’80s pop — tons of gated reverb on the snare drum.
The song itself is simple as can be. Key of C, modulates up a wholestep at the end, verse follows a I-iii-IV-V chord progression. “Let me tell you ’bout the latest craze,” Rachel Sweet sings over the bright tonic chord (C Major), then a minor chord (E minor) creates tension: “Mama’s hoping that it’s just a phase.” But she escapes back to positivity (F Major): “But I know it’s gonna last forever,” and reinforces her triumph with the dominant chord (Gsus4 to G Major) while singing, “You’ve gotta see the way it keeps my hair together.”
The chorus uses the same chords, except the vi chord (A minor) is substituted for the iii. Layered on top of the first three chords are backup singers repeating the word “Hairspray,” with one singing the root (C) and the other the fifth (G). This takes us out of the realm of basic triads and into upper extensions, effectively making the chord progression C Major / A minor 7 / F add 9 / G Major.
“Hairspray” is a nostalgia film, and this is the harmony of nostalgia, with the fundamentals of the scale staying the same even as the chords change around them.
The Fully Celebrated Orchestra was a band I idolized in high school and college. I discovered them when a friend took me to a Thurston Moore show in 1999 at MassArt. FCO turned out to be way more interesting than Thurston.
Over the next few years I drove into Boston a ton to see FCO, including one time they were playing in a bar that turned me away because I was underage. “But I just want to see the band,” I protested.
A lot of what I love about about FCO is their frenetic skronking, which isn’t really notatable. But sometimes their tunes do contain something you can put down on staff paper. An example is “Space Demons,” which has always puzzled and delighted me.
The studio version (from “Right On,” 1998) starts with a repeating snakecharmer motif based on the B-flat harmonic minor scale. Suddenly the melody contorts into another plane of existence. Live versions of the song begin in this alternate dimension before settling into the B-flat harmonic minor, then veering off again.
The change follows no scale or chord progression I can identify. Alien as it sounds, though, it does seem to follow some internal logic.
The title may be a reference to a 1985 young adult sci-fi novel where the protagonists get sucked into a video game “Tron”-style. One moment you’re on terra firma, the next you’re in uncharted territory trying to escape demons from space.
Pop music depends on rhythmic expectations. Sometimes an artist will deliberately mess with those expectations. Other times the way you hear things will be misguided.
This happens sometimes when you turn on the radio in the middle of a song. Suddenly what the musicians think of as an upbeat you hear as a downbeat, or vice versa. Take for example this clip that starts a split second after the song does.
The rhythm guitarist seems to be playing 1 2&3 4&. The lead guitarist seems to be playing on the ands of 1 and 3. But when the drums come in something’s weird. Turns out you’ve been hearing it all wrong. The rhythm is syncopated, and the lead is playing downbeats.
The first two songs on Les Savy Fav’s “Root for Ruin” (2010) do this to me every time.
“Appetites” starts with a misleading countoff that makes me wonder if the rhythmic disorientation isn’t intentional. The guitar motif sounds for all the world like it starts on the 1. The drums are doing something unconventional, but nothing to persuade me I’m wrong. This rhythm sense persists when the bass and vocals join in. It persists right up to the B section (0:38), where now it’s clear I was mistaken.
Exhibit A: Song starts on a downbeat.
Exhibit B: Song starts on an upbeat.
“Dirty Knails” fools me for even longer (until the chorus at 1:11), with the whole band landing hard every bar on what I can’t help but hear as the 1. But I’ve been an eighth note behind the whole time — it’s actually the and of 4.
Even if I start the songs over, I can’t hear the syncopation without assistance. Which is both frustrating and kinda neat. We’re so used to hearing snare on 2 and 4, it’s refreshing to hear it somewhere else.
Does this happen to you? Send examples. One more I’ve found is “I Follow You” by Melody’s Echo Chamber, although there the spell is broken as soon as the drums start.
Exhibit A: Transcription of “Space Demons.” Listen here: 
Zögernd 