40 Days, 40 Moments in Art — Day 4: “Jaxel B. and Axel F”
Do you remember your first love? Well, actually, let me re-direct the question a bit: do you remember that first thing you wanted desperately from your parents for your birthday? Or maybe you wanted it for Hanukkah or were hoping Santa Claus would leave it on that conveniently empty space of carpet between the fireplace and the Christmas tree. Whatever the gift-giving traditions were in your family (assuming gifts were given), I imagine there were a few things that you dreamed about, hoped for, longed for, and fantasized about (within reason) before you unwrapped them in all their glory.
When I was six-ish years old, I wanted a stereo for Christmas. Yes, I had gotten into sound systems at a young age, or at least the idea of a sound system. I wanted to have a boom box, and I had hopes of carrying it down some city sidewalk like one of the cool guys on TV. It was as if I half-expected break dancers to see me coming, grab some cardboard, and bust out headspins and backflips as I walked by.
The stereo was just the vehicle, however. It was the magic lamp that I wished for, but the genie inside was the music. I had found my first love, and her name was “Axel F.” The fact that she was named “Axel,” and my last name was “Jaxel” was simply a coincidence (as was the fact that my Dad’s coworker had given me the nickname “Maverick” based on the character “Brett Maverick” from the old TV show, which was later turned into a feature with Mel Gibson and Jodie Foster; Maverick, of course, being the call-sign for what would later be one of my favorite 80s flicks as a kid: Top Gun #tangent). I was also unaware at the time that “Axel F” was short for Axel Foley, the name of Eddie Murphy’s character in Beverly Hills Cop, a film I would not have been allowed to watch at the time (and one I have still yet to see all the way through). If the song was a she, she was named after a he. Or was it the other way around?
It didn’t matter. Names didn’t matter. What’s in a name? Would a rose by any other name be capable of making such echo-phonic, synthesized awesomeness? I doubt it. I wasn’t in love with a rose. I was in love with an Axel. I was in love at an age when I was way too young to know what love was, and I had it bad. We’re talking head over heels infatuation, a Christmas-wish-list-number-one type of love.
Why the obsession? Why was I so smitten by a song that most people wouldn’t breakdance to and that, if I’m being honest, is some sort of cross between a simplified film score and glorified elevator music? I wish I could say. What I can tell you is that it’s a love that persists to this day, even if the raw obsession is gone and other songs in the same genre have since faded in my eyes (or rather in my ears)… although the Miami Vice theme is still pretty fun.
The artist, who I now know is named Harold Faltermeyer, layers a handful of distinct digital tracks on top of each other. The bassy reverberations echo the simple stocattos of the higher track, which almost sounds like a robot snapping its fingers in the back of a hangar (okay, I know that comparison is a bit of a stretch, but I’m trying to put myself back into the mindset of my six-ish-year-old self). The synthesized melody seems to suggest something semi-heroic and cool, while the low notes suggest something semi-sinister or, at the very least, sneaky. The tracks are distinct, but complementary, sliding together into the bridge’s key change in a way that creates an almost reflective moment before the final, familiar cool of the conclusion.
When I started piano lessons and first learned how to read music, one of the things that struck me immediately was that there was more than just notes on the page. One of the most notable non-note symbols that I discovered (aside from the obvious treble clef in all its cool curvaceous calligraphy) was the rest, which came in a variety of different shapes and lengths, just like the notes. Reading the rests, the moments when the instrument is not making noise, proved to be just as tricky as reading the notes, and equally vital to the song.
This rant about reading music has a point, I promise, and that is quite simply that I think “Axel F” uses rests exceptionally well. The musical statement at the beginning of the song has a distinct beginning and end because of the rest that comes after the last note. The rest offers a pregnant pause, a brief moment of anticipation that leaves the listener wondering what is coming next. Faltermeyer wasn’t afraid of a little silence. The brief moments of quiet make the noise all the more lyrical and pronounced, the audio equivalent of using shading in a painting to make a figure three-dimensional. Contrast is a powerful tool. Maybe the term chiaroscuro can be applied to music as well as painting (if chiaroscuro is a curious term, check out my Day 2 article on Caravaggio #shamelsssplug #tangent).
The opening notes of “Axel F” were the flirty tease that brought me in to listen to more. My love of music started out as puppy love in simple, synthesized, cassette tape glory. It was the sort of love that would make a kid ask for a stereo for Christmas, an infatuation that echoes to this day. Everyone remembers their first love. For some of us, it just never fades away. It just plays on repeat.
