the revelator

Music: Depeche Mode: Playing the Angel The secret and its telling has been a central trope in Western music. From the song of the Greek engastrimyths queefing the will of the gods, to Mozart's scandalous disclosure of the magical Masonic word in The Magic Flute, song seems synonymous with revelation, and this is no mere coincidence: secrecy is always about form, the relation between the revelator and the enlightened. What is actually told is, in the history of secrets, relatively unimportant. Secrets concern the relationship between those who know them and those who do not; secrecy is a logic of scarcity and privilege.

Because repetition and time signatures are part of the consciousness of musical receptivity, because music is nothing but variations of form, the unfolding of a song is akin to the telling of secrets. We should not be surprised, then, that lyrically a bunch of pop music is of the “I got a secret” variety; and even more still (if it’s especially narcissistic/confessional), “I ain’t got no secret, this is all a show,” the revelation that there’s a little man behind the curtain (except the plea is to pay attention: “you could have it all; my empire of dirt”). Hark! Look for the harboring and disclosing of secrets in popular music and suddenly, you’ll see it everywhere.

I was and am listening to Depeche Mode’s new album, Playing the Angel, and was struck by the second track, “John the Revelator.” It’s another from Martin Gore in the spirit of gospel, obsessed as he is with the African American idioms these days (blues, gospel, and even some soul; check out his solo, you’ll hear). Incidentally, the album as a whole harkens back to the trend three albums go, before they ditched the beats in favor of a more stripped down, “rock” sound. Put simply, it’s a marvelous record if you are an "old," black-clothes wearin', clove smokin' Mode Head (and the first single, “Precious,” is destined for dance floor immortality, and perhaps even a symphonic cover for the elevator, eventually). Nevertheless, "John the Revelator" struck me because it’s an old gospel tune--or at least I thought it was, upon first listen. I remember the Blues Brothers covered it, as has numerous R&B , soul, and rock artists (I dimly recall Dave Matthews has a version, and so on). Unlike the gospel send-up, however, Depeche Mode is not very happy about St. John of Patmos’ secrets:

John the Revelator Put him in an elevator Take him up to the highest high Take him up to the top where the mountains stop Let him tell his book of lies

John the Revelator He's a smooth operator It's time we cut him down to size Take him by the hand And put him on the stand Let us hear his alibis

By claiming God as his only rock He's stealing a God from the Israelite Stealing a God from a Muslim, too There is only one God through and through Seven lies, multiplied by seven, multiplied by seven again Seven angels with seven trumpets Send them home on the morning train Well who's that shouting? John the Revelator! All he ever gives us is pain Well who's that shouting? John the Revelator! He should bow his head in shame

By and by By and by By and by By and by

Seven lies, multiplied by seven, multiplied by seven again Seven angels with seven trumpets Send them home on the morning train Well who's that shouting? John the Revelator! All he ever gives us is pain Well who's that shouting? John the Revelator! He should bow his head in shame

Well said, Martin, well said. When you claim to have a secret, and then disclose it in difficult language, folks will start claiming to understand your secret, to better comprehend your secret, to better protect your secret--even though we know the secret is always, in the end, empty. The song reminds me of Franklin Graham's remarks a couple of weeks ago: He said ""There's been satanic worship" [I suppose he is referring to voodoo, hoodoo, and vodoun religious practices, which means he hasn't a clue what he's talking about, of course] and that "there's been sexual perversion" [referring to the homeostatic response caused by Christian style sexual repression, I guess]. "God is going to use that storm to bring revival. God has a plan. God has a purpose." And apparently, like John the Revelator, Graham has a better understanding of that purpose and if you don't agree with it, you can go to hell.

I cotton much more, though, to the idiom of admission and confession (that, there's nothing "more than this," it's all a shell game, and in the end, we all die [repeat]). Well, I better take to the confessional song than the lyrical revelation of secrets--though not so much the idiom of confession in scholarship, which will drive you goddamn crazy ("I'm sorry I'm a white guy," you know how it goes). Which brings me to Gillian Welch, who is on my top ten of "most want to see live" list, and the top five of another list of mine (which I won't reveal, cause it's a secret). In the summer of 2001 she and her collaborator David Rawlings released the lazy and hauntingly beautiful acoustic set, Time (The Revelator). Instead of John of Potmos, the Revelator is Father Time, which unfolds in the title track:

Darling remember from when you come to me that I’m the pretender, I’m not what I’m supposed to be but who could know, lf I’m a traitor? times the revelator, revelator.

They caught the katy, and left me a mule to ride. The fortune lady came along she walked beside, but every word seemed to date her. Times the revelator, the revelator.

Up in the morning up and on the ride. I drive in to corning and all the spindles whine and ever day is getting straighter. Times the revelator the revelator

Leaving the valley and fucking out of sight I’ll go back to cali where I can sleep out every night and watch the waves and move the fader. Queen of fakes and Imitators Times the revelator.

The opening lyric is devastating but met with a force of identification that never even tempts cliché: of course, we all know we pretend (who doesn’t, except, perhaps, the Seven Dwarves, reduced to the repetative reenactment of their names?). Time measures in deed; words are immutable but forgotten easily, often willfully, and . . . who can ever know? I mean, what Welch teaches us is that we change over time ("who could know/if I'm a traitor?") and cannot know with any certainly what we will do tomorrow. Maybe, perhaps, my obsessing on the lyrics temps the cliché, but gosh, if you, gentle reader, haven't heard this song, it truly is a must.

"John the Revelator" speaks of rage; the secret is a lie. "The Revelator" speaks of honestly and humility; to make a promise about what comes is to commit to a lie, or to not changing (one's self, one's mind, one's belief; this is the robotics of evangelical faith). I guess I take to the sentiment of honesty much more than the righteousness of anger. Telling the secret that you don't have a secret at all is back, again, to the theme of love (recognition of the "disjunction," as it were)--"time will tell," as she says, and there's faith in that, this "being-toward-death."

Well, Playing the Angel and Time (The Revelator) are both excellent albums because of the smart way they deal with secrecy--and the music is good too. Still, I would prefer Gillian Welch to sing me to sleep tonight. I'll trade in my investment in angry for the solace of a little singing sadness. Besides, one cannot sleep when angry. And I'm tired of being angry.

--hailing from Atlanta