Sad songs provide a great service to us human creatures, don’t they? They enable us to transfer our most dour perceptions and impressions to someone else’s melodies and (often) words, and to experience them over and over again, if we so desire. These little catharses can shorten or prolong our own sadness, giving us something on which to focus as time has its way with us, taking us further from the point at which the darkness first hit us. A song gives voice to that darkness, gives it form and substance, enabling us to engage it, keeping it from killing us gradually. The pain can be exquisite; experiencing it through music helps us heal.
Karl Wallinger’s recent death was yet another reminder to music lovers of a certain age that we are none of us immortal, nor are those who were for a time our heralds – documenters of the highs and lows of our moments on this plane of existence, who read their records back to us in song. His absence from life is itself a sad thing, but what might be even sadder is how long he was gone before he was really gone.
See, Wallinger’s albums as World Party were, for a period, works to look forward to, but by the time of his death, he hadn’t released an album of new material in 24 years, making him a creator discussed, however fondly, very much in terms of his past. A run of reissues were there to remind us of what had meant so much to us, but those reminders were like old photos of friends we hadn’t seen in decades; they brought warmth and fond memories, but, aside from sporadic tours and the unkept promise of fresh material, there was nothing new to be gained.
Wallinger’s death sent me back to what I believe to be his best record, World Party’s 1990 album Goodbye Jumbo (the one with “Way Down Now,” “Put the Message in the Box,” “When the Rainbow Comes,” “Thank You World,” etc.). It’s a perfect piece of alternative pop from that period, replete with neo-psychedelic flourishes, Beatlesque snippets, lovely melodies, and lyrics that could be about anything, everything, or nothing at all, depending on your whim or mood.
There is an exception, of course, and it comes midway through the record – a desperate, desperately beautiful ballad called “And I Fell Back Alone.” It is the showstopper on an album of wonderful songs, and arguably the saddest song Wallinger ever wrote or performed.
He accompanies himself on the song, sparingly – that’s him on acoustic guitar, piano, an upright bass, lightly played drums, a touch of synthesizer that starts about mid-way through. His voice – that imperfect instrument – is the main focus, but even if there were no lyrics to be sung, the melody and playing would unmistakably convey the song’s air of isolation.
It’s the end of a relationship – a love that has run its course. Writers and songwriters have for ages tried to answer the question of where love goes when it goes away, but Wallinger’s words and voice are grounded very much in the moment. It’s over, and the proof is everywhere you look, and right there in their living space. “Whoever you were then / I never really knew,” he sings, “And you got no need to know me now.”
The connections that bound them together are irreparably broken, and they’ve raised shields in front of themselves and against one another, to protect themselves from further harm. The problem with that is, they can no longer see what’s in front of them, no longer recognize their surroundings. “You can’t see the bottom from the top,” he declares in the chorus, “You don’t see the edge before you drop.” Then, his voice softens as gravity takes him – “And I fell back alone.”
We have no idea how long the two have been together – was it a short, intense affair, or a long, languid span of years? Regardless, by the crescendo in the middle eight, they recognize they’re on the other side of their dissolution (“Forever doesn’t mean for ever /It just means maybe some other time or place”), resigned that it’s over, sadness piling upon sadness until there’s simply nothing more to do, no more voice to raise, no tears left to be shed.
Then comes the final farewell – a benediction of sorts, to their love:
It’s time to make a wish
And let it float on down the stream
And we can cry a little
For a time that could have been
Live it all my love
Live it well my love
Live it long my love
Live it all my love
There is fondness there, to be sure – perhaps he’s flashing back to various scenes from their time together, moments when they were happy, each one in soft focus as it goes by, fading into the next, until the sequence fades to the present moment, the end. He wishes her well, straightens his posture, takes a breath, and walks away with the chorus playing one last time.
I can imagine writing something like that last verse, with tears in one’s eyes; I certainly know what it’s like to hear it, call upon a memory of a lost love, and well up. I don’t know how Wallinger sang it without losing composure. How many takes did it take? How long did he have to rehearse to get it out with the tape rolling? Or was he just that cool and collected in the moment? Probably the latter, but I’d love to know for sure.
“And I Fell Back Alone” gives voice to the darkness, yes, as all great sad songs do. Surely Wallinger understood the catharsis he had created. His listeners certainly did – this listener certainly did.
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