"Call Me Maybe" and the Mannheim School

 

I live in a featureless void with no chairs

Much has been written about the success of Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe".  When a song captivates the world pop music market in such a profound way, it's only natural for us to ask why.  To this end, reviewers have tirelessly and exhaustively separated and analyzed the song's salient features, from its catchy string riff to Miss Jepsen's performance to the tone of the lyrics.  However, until now, no one (to my knowledge) has discussed the song's use of classical melodic devices.

A little music education is required before I progress further with this analysis.

The term "Mannheim School" refers to the compositional style that developed in Mannheim, Germany in the mid-18th century.  The musical devices employed by Mannheim-based composer Johann Stamitz caught on with other composers in the region before eventually spreading throughout Europe, becoming hallmarks of the classical period.  The Mannheim School technique of particular interest in this analysis is the Mannheim rocket, also known simply as a rocket theme.

A rocket theme is a melody that consists of a rapidly ascending arpeggiated triad — put more simply, an upward moving broken chord.  Rocket themes create immediate excitement, and are thus generally used to begin sections, as a means of engaging the audience.

The opening of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 1 in F minor is a textbook example of a rocket theme:

The opening of Mozart's Eine Kliene Nachtmusik, a broken, ascending G major triad, could be considered a sort of rocket theme as well:

Finally, the the first two lines of the chorus of Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe" form an ascending G major triad spanning a full octave, creating exactly the same sort of excitement as a rocket theme, beacuse, well, it is one:

Now, I doubt this exciting ascending melody was intentionally crafted as a rocket theme, but without the Mannheim School accustoming our ears to this sort of melodic motion, it's unlikely that this song would have been written the way it is.  So, next time you're rocking out to "Call Me Maybe", remember, you're listening to the end product of centuries of music history.  At least, that's what you can tell people if they catch you listening to it.

Also, Stamitz and Jepsen: long-lost cousins?

"I Feel Better" by Gotye

'Cause what's better than 8-layer blueberry cake?
 

Thanks to the success of "Somebody That I Used To Know", Gotye has gone from underground Australian indie pop genius to full-blown international star.  While it's clear that he will always retain the former title, whether or not he can hang on to the latter remains to be seen.  The chart performance of his next single "I Feel Better" will be a good indicator of whether or not Gotye has what it takes for long-term mainstream popularity here in the States.

It's tough to say how "I Feel Better" will fare.  "Somebody" was a killer tune, but its runaway success may have had more to do with its dynamic take on breakup angst (always a popular topic among the coveted youth demographic) than its raw musicality, although both certainly played a factor.  "I Feel Better" has plenty of raw musicality, but it's questionable if people will find a happy tune quite as compelling as a sad one.

 "Just change the name to 'I Feel Bitter'. Problem solved!" - Marketing

 

I think the song will do well, though, and not just because of its catchiness and brilliant sound.  To understand my line of reasoning, we'll have to take a closer look at the chorus lyrics:

I feel better

better

better than before

I feel better

much better

now I'm not down anymore

"I feel good" is a boring sentiment.  It is static, it has no motion.  "I feel better" implies movement, movement that accumulates with each additional iteration.  Add a "than before" after your "better", and suddenly the passage of time is established; a journey has been implied.

Pictured: a Journey, being more than implied

Continuing on, we have the addition of a "much" before a "better", bolstering the already accumulating intensity of the comparative adjective.  This bring us to the closing line, "now I'm not down anymore".  This line lets us know that the movement has been completed; he got better and better and now he's... good?  No!

Now he's "not down anymore".  And this is the key.  In both music and lyrics, we're not interested in "good", or even "great", all the time.  Otherwise, this would totally be just as good as this.  We're moved by the journey, the shift from mood to mood, the exposition and development of themes, both musical and lyrical.  "I Feel Better" is not compelling because it's a happy song.  It's compelling because it tells the story of somebody who feels better - better than before.

What Is Great Art?

In my daily life, I listen to a lot of music. I do this primarily because I love – have always loved – listening to music. However, that is not the only reason I listen. I also listen in order to understand the ways in which various artists employ the five basic elements of music – melody, rhythm, tone color, harmony, and form – to further their artistic goals.

As I broaden my musical horizons, I begin to see patterns - commonalities - in the way people combine these elements, whether the composition in question is 200 years or 2 days old. There are certain things expected of a composer regarding how musical ideas are presented and developed, stated and repeated that remain constant in almost all music. Music for which these expectations are not met is either intentionally contrarian or the product of a lack of skill in dealing with musical subjects.

You may be thinking that I am referring to atonal music, noise music and the like in that last statement, but I am not. These musics, like any others, obey the rules of form and treat their subjects with the same reverence as any other sort of music. I made this mistake once - I remember hearing snippets of Penderecki's famous "Threnody" and dismissing it as formless noise music. It was only when I heard the piece in its full, ten minute form that I understood it as I understood any other piece of music.

It is a curious thing then, given this universality of form among compositions, that certain compositions can still strike me as transcendent. When I examine these compositions further, I am always amazed by how consistently it is precisely the way in which they alternately fulfill and subvert the rules of form and composition that excites me. A purely theoretical example: when a return to the first theme of a piece is expected, a quick flourish introducing a short melodic variation on the second theme surprises and delights, but would be disorienting if it were not followed by the expected return to the first theme. This is what I think of as Great Art.

I have had conversations with people who believe that Great Art should be understandable and recognizable by all people. I disagree. The fact is that people are not able to understand a piece of art in the fullest sense until they understand, through experience, the ways in which the expectations of the craft have been fulfilled and/or subverted.

I will give an example. Suppose I had never seen a movie, or any sort of video narrative. Given that fact, wouldn't I be quick to proclaim any sort of half-decent film as truly transcendent art upon first viewing? The problem is that I am not acquainted with the history of film, and therefore do not recognize any of the various cinematic and storytelling devices used or not used in the film. What makes Great Art great is how it exists within its lexicon, as outside of a particular lexicon there are no standards by which it can be objectively judged.

While I don't believe in truly universal art, I understand where the perspective comes from. Most of you reading this are well acquainted with American culture, and therefore many of us have experienced a good portion of the same art. This gives us similar perceptions of what expectations said art should fulfill. Therefore, we end up heaping acclaim upon many similar things. This might lead us to believe that our collectively favorite pieces of art have complete universal appeal, when in fact our mutual admiration of it is more of a comment on our own similarities than any universality inherent in the art.

Universal art would need to mean the same thing to anyone, from any place, from any period of time since the invention of art. When the requirements of universal art are stated this way, we clearly see the impossibility. Language barriers are the most obvious obstacle. As lovely a piece of prose as this article is, only a select group of humans throughout history could make any sense of it. Even perceptions of human beauty, one of the things we would most expect to tie us all together, have changed over time.

Since Great Art is not universal, how much more should we strive to learn the tenets of our respective cultures' art forms, that we might become more cognizant of the nuance and beauty contained within the minds of our fellow human beings? That, my friends, is truly the purpose of Great Art.