Arcade Fire

Purify the colors, purify my mind

Purify the colors, purify my mind

And spread the ashes of the colors over this heart of mine

Passing down our fleeting time on Earth to future generations is an instinct that has always been present in human nature. This is why storytelling, in its many forms, is as old as time itself. Marks carved into rock, cave paintings, traditions handed down by word of mouth and then through ever more modern means, travel journals, autobiographies, myths and legends set in golden ages, impossible worlds, distant times: experiences that, to varying degrees and with due differences, can be found among peoples of every era and every part of the world. Like beacons of light in the dark of night, these testimonies speak to those who come after: "We existed." A hope of immortality passed on within the limits imposed by life.

And yet it's not easy to accept grief, the precariousness of our passage on Earth, the idea that what once was is no more. This is the opposite, or rather the mirrored, point of view of those who are still here and must face the pain. These are themes that have occupied vast stretches of centuries, millennia of literature, of art in general, and therefore of music too. So much has been said, and yet never enough: that's the whole point. And it's precisely for this reason that an album like "Funeral" not only exists in an era like ours, but manages to speak with a voice so intense it still sends chills down the spine.

I think it's widely agreed that Arcade Fire would have become the great artists we all know today regardless, and yet it took a truly singular chain of events to produce the masterpiece debut that, in 2004, turned the Montreal outfit (fifteen members in their standard lineup) into the new phenomenon of the world rock scene. The grief, or rather the losses that Win Butler and Régine Chassagne, co-leaders of the band and life partners, had to face while the Canadian group was finding its own identity and working on its first album, are the driving theme of the record, the spark that ignites the fire of inspiration, the trigger from which everything takes shape and in which everything seems to be spent.

The title itself, after all, doesn't lie. The clash-and-embrace between life and death, matter and dissolution, are the cores from which every note and every syllable move, as if at the mercy of waves sometimes calm, sometimes stormy. The epic, almost heartrending feeling of "Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)" rises from the dripping of those snowflakes evoked in the lyrics, and here reproduced by the piano, a thaw that turns into an unstoppable yet controlled crescendo, carrying the meter on an upswing and stamping down with majestic force an imagery that, as in a dream, conjures up the stages of life in images, from adolescence to the moment when oblivion makes memories uncertain. The same spirit but different feelings accompany the blazing trajectory of "Neighborhood #2 (Laika)", where instead it's the folk soul – albeit still orchestral – led by accordions that drives the dance, while Butler's vocals twist and transfigure. The bittersweet arpeggios of "Une Annee Sans Lumiere" cradle a ballad that suddenly turns into a short, breathless sprint in Neutral Milk Hotel style.

The opening triptych of "Funeral" shows not only how flexible the Canadians' musical formula can be, but also the sheer power of their imagination, a blend of epic feeling, brazen lyricism, and instrumental interlocking that covers, with equal skill, the whole spectrum from the few chimes that break the silence to a noise-making that's never superfluous, always perfectly orchestrated. It's the specific weight of the latter that tips the scales toward an exuberance that pours out in the bacchanal of "Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)", with snare hits that sound like gunshots and Butler's lyrics urging listeners to step out of the darkness and embrace the light again. And speaking of what was just touched on, it's interesting to note how the sound of the violin transforms depending on the circumstances: here it accentuates the raw, grieving soul, in the final chapter of the quadrilogy about the neighborhood-as-community that watches over and consoles those left behind – "Neighborhood #4 (7 Kettles)" – a sweet companion to a rediscovered ecstasy, and finally the protagonist in the love song "Crown Of Love", which doesn't skip the final crescendo either, one of the recurring themes throughout the album.

Also recurring is the theme of a return to youth, meant both in a strictly personal sense and on behalf of all humanity, central to "Wake Up": the combination of distorted guitars and choral voices produces one of those concert anthems that would indeed go on to define the peak moments of their live shows over the years – but here it also serves to circle back to the "usual" idea of community. The rawness on display here pours out inevitably across the five minutes of "Rebellion (Lies)", the most cryptic of the political slogans the Montreal band tucks between the lines of its debut: "Sleeping is giving in/ No matter what the time is/ Sleeping is giving in/ So lift those heavy eyelids". It's one of the most impactful tracks on the whole record, a slap in the face delivered with real force, without losing an ounce of epic feeling or orchestral grandeur.

At the same time, just how far Arcade Fire's imagination can venture out to sea is shown by the acoustic strings of "Haiti", a kind of purification rite with Chassagne as grand master of ceremonies, once again the absolute protagonist in the bittersweet orchestrations of "In The Backseat", which bring down the curtain.

"Funeral" is not, then, simply a grand allegory about existence and its negation. It's also the product of a restless, hard-to-decipher time, whether understood as the era we live in or as the passage from lost innocence to an adulthood full of unknowns. It is tears and joy, solitude and human warmth, storms and rest, melancholy and the joy of living. And perhaps, ultimately, it's a classic, at least in the literal sense Italo Calvino gave that word, because it's a work that still hasn't finished saying what it has to say.

Ride the wave of great music

Add OndaRock to your favorite sources on Google Discover. Don't miss our reviews, milestones and latest news straight in your feed.

Follow on Google

13/08/2017