Feeling without understanding: The Cocteau Twins’ lack of lyrics.
What is it to ache without knowing the true meaning behind it? The Cocteau Twins’ lyricless songs entrance, enthrall, and encourage you to fade away.
photo by Michael Conen.
As a self-described soundtrack-obsessed girly, I can affirm that backing tracks make or break a song and provide the foundation upon which it stands. After all, how else could you provide outside context to a lyric if not with a tone-affirming strum? I stumbled upon The Cocteau Twins as a complete accident and was instantly struck with the manner in which they are comprised only of lyrical controversies—with nearly every track being composed of overlays and fades that frustrate, mystify, and entrance listeners. There is no right answer to what message they are hoping to convey.
I spend a lot of time in my reviews thinking about what kind of atmosphere an artist is weaving and the interplay between their soundscape and their lyricism, but in a way that is equally as unnerving as it is satisfying. The Cocteau Twins strip any listener of that ability—everything is a question. Yet, you can still connect to a song without the words to relate to them. The Cocteau Twins manage to combine the 90s alternative/indie sound and pouty ache of the likes of The Cranberries, Mazzy Star, and Björk, but with a level of confusion and transcendence of the genre like no one I’ve ever heard before. (Perhaps I’m just ignorant of other options—I’d be more than happy to explore).
One of the first times I ever bothered to listen to the lyrics of “Heaven or Las Vegas” by The Cocteau Twins, an idyllic title track, I was struck by an inability to decipher the words. The music industry and lyricism are not new to issues with annunciation–for decades, there have been classically misheard lyrics, and who could forget the “Starbucks lovers” misunderstanding from Taylor Swift’s first release of “Blank Space” in 2014 on 1989? But, at the very least, any confusion or argument could be resolved with a simple search of the lyrics or artist confirmation. You will find, however, that if you try to look up any lyrics from The Cocteau Twins, there is no official publishing and only fan-compiled guesses of what the Scottish rock band is saying. Among the more entertaining, when I looked into the purported lyrics “Heaven or Las Vegas,” was a karaoke version claiming the chorus belted out “Mike’s in Heaven or Las Vegas,” which, aside from an obvious issue of unaligned rhythm, brought up quite a few questions: Who’s Mike? What does it mean that he’s in Heaven or Las Vegas? Are the only two options really that he’s either dead or gambling? Unfortunately, we will never know what misadventures poor Mike happened upon because he doesn’t exist—not just in the fictional sense, but also literally, in lyrical form.
The first time I heard one of my favorite tracks, “Cherry-coloured funk,” it struck me as hopeful. It read as sun-soaked and warm, like a summer evening with a breeze in the air. Now, perhaps a byproduct of endless exams, a stinging wind in the air, and a 4:30 pm sunset, what was once a hint of nostalgia has expanded to an overarching melancholy tone. Whatever hope was initially presented has sunk deeper and darker into a pleading for it to be true, rather than a teasing assumption, a playful smirk, a daydream that doesn’t seem so far away. Formerly warm and soft edges are now crisp, tinged with a biting chill, like fingertips in the cold.
On the other hand, the energy of a “Violaine” or a “Serpentskirt” leans more sinister and seductive yet still runs strong with that familiar ache that The Cocteau Twins isolate so well. There is perhaps less ambiance in atmospheric reverb, but that is replaced with guitar and minor chords that evoke intrigue, while a whispery voice and rumbling bass beg for something akin to forgiveness. It is all winter, bitterness, and the desperate request for company. But approached on another, sunnier day, what was once sinister could now feel bright and rosy, anticipatory and optimistic. Intrigue fades to relaxation, whispering tones no longer requesting but soothing, laying soft fingertips against your cheek instead of raking nails down your back.
I could describe these songs endlessly and attempt to paint a picture, a glimmering landscape, of what they are and what they represent, but there is truly no way of knowing how much is my own projections, and how much each listener receives differently, and it is that that I think makes The Cocteau Twins the most interesting. Any song ordinarily can mean anything to anyone, but The Cocteau Twins call into question not just what you believe you feel, but what you believe you hear at all.
To feel music in the most personal manner is the magic of any lyric-less body. The Cocteau Twins further mystify this experience by lacking in lyrics but not necessarily in words or voice. You hear the words that you wish to, whether you mean to or otherwise. Images and letters filter in and out as if from a dream or the subconscious, fading ambiguously into vision and manifesting as whatever it is you need at that moment. Ordinarily, a listener must, to some extent, meet the artist where they are, living vicariously through their lyrics and their musicality—relating their specifics to our own, finding solidarity in whatever shared experience is present, or whatever you wish to relate to. There is a comforting uniqueness to the opposite, to music morphing itself to the lines of your own life. No specifics getting caught on jagged or uneven edges or forcing equivalences, but rather softening, smoothing, flowing into dips and gaps and over mountains and ridges. It is perhaps irksome at first to relate so closely due to a lack of specificity, to create meaning by putting your own vulnerabilities under the microscope for once. But even I, who avoids talking about feelings at any possible moment, could never pass up the opportunity to feel something so deeply in the form of something so pleasing to the ear, letting the sound wash me and everything else away.
edited by Eva Smolen.
photo by Michael Conen.