Translator: Claire Ghyselen
Reviewer: Anne-Sophie Matichard My grandfather was the organist
in an Italian church, and we shared this epic love
for Italian opera and the Beatles. Also, Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody was a big one. Just that opening melody, the way the sections
kind of happen seeming randomly but come together to form
this perfect coherent statement. When I was four or five, when I remember
hearing it for the first time, I didn't necessarily
identify with the lyrical content, because I hadn't killed a man. (Laughter) But it was electrifying,
and it was really familiar, familiar like the other lyrics that go, "He was strumming my pain with his fingers Singing my life with his words". Then later going on to say, "I felt he'd found my letters
and read each one out loud". How does a great song do that? That song came from a poem
that Lori Lieberman wrote on a napkin while she watched Don McLean
in a concert for the first time. How does a great song lay out
your emotional experience as if the songwriter
had been eavesdropping on your internal dialogue. Like they were strumming
your pain with their fingers and hitting you like a memory. I've been obsessed with this
as long as I can remember. The taking of something
in the inner world, silent, formless, and finding a way to convert it into a shareable,
perceptible sonic language, via rhythms, harmonies,
beautiful noise, lyrics, whatever will get you there. I call it "translation". The reason why it's a big deal is
because if the songwriter gets it right, then chances are
that he or she gets it right on behalf of the listener also. It's a very powerful thing in a world
where we don't always have the tools or the context to express
the fullness of who we are. Music has this unparalleled ability to take all of one's pain,
pull it into a single frame and invite us to relive it
with all of the joy of the experience and none of the suffering. Like a wind turbine converts the wind's
kinetic energy into electrical power, the songwriter has an ability
to convert the emotional experience, the human experience, however transitory, and convert it into redeeming beauty
long after the pain has past. I have some machines over here,
just let me get up. This one here -- (Piano) if we can get a little bit
more sound in here. This is D minor, a great mind once said
that it was the saddest of all keys. I don't know why, but it makes
people weep instantly. You can do amazing things with D minor. (Piano) But the thing about D minor is that it's not sadness itself. It does not create the sadness. The thing is that we carry
the sadness already, that D minor seems to be a harmonic match
for a particular kind of sadness. I've spent my entire life trying to accurately convert
the human experience into sound. And for that conversion, we either need to find
or build a sonic vocabulary. When I was a kid, I drove my very,
very patient family insane. I had this 80's keyboard
that had the horrible drum sounds, the synth choirs, the fake marimba. And I had this double
cassette tape player, and I would record
all the drums to one side, all the drums of my
arrangement to one side, then the drums and the base
to the other side, the drums and the base, the vocals
and then the horns and whatever - And it's tape, so each dub, you multiply
the hiss that's there, so in the end, you are left
with this (shhhh) sound in the background. A kind of R&B-Caribbean-pop-bossa number arranged by a very odd eight-year-old. (Laughter) I loved how the parts interweaved; I loved how, within a chord, a single note can have the final word
on the way you are caused to feel, or at least which part of your emotional
experience it matches up to. In songwriting, just like in language, in order to express a feeling, you absolutely have to capture
and seize the thought, the experience, the memory,
the feeling inside the mind and be able to understand it. But in language, we are often
using ready-made templates, reaching for the nearest possible word and then adjusting
our thoughts accordingly. But in songwriting, just like in art, just like in any accurate
or faithful self-expression, sometimes we have to push
a little further than that, beyond the linguistic templates. Sometimes you have
to get inside the cracks that exist between the words, or at least between the feelings
that already have names. And you have to kind of blindly
and bravely feel your way around that very non-illuminated space until you stumble across the light switch in the hope that none
of the monsters are real. In art, in faithful self-expression,
you go until you've lit up the dark space. Singer-songwriters are often
teaming up with music producers. In very broad terms, music producers are like
the interpreters of the artist's vision, guiding where the song goes
in its recorded form. I've worked with
a lot of great music producers and we've made some great music. But it's always been tricky because this idea of translation
goes beyond the realm of good or bad. It's not a rule, and it's definitely not for everyone. But for some, if the feeling translates into the song
and the song into the record, then it stands to reason that when the artist hears
the recorded song back, that some of that emotion
of origin would be evoked, or at least somewhat -
some emotion at all. And if not, then it's possible
that something has been mistranslated or lost in the conversion. And it's challenging. Tom Waits said it was like trying
to capture birds without killing them. Sometimes you end up with nothing
but a mouthful of feathers. And so at that point,
when I understood that, I realized I would have to
become both fluent in songwriting and music production. My current live show is centered
around these dazzling machines, which make for a very interesting
futuristic style conversation to have with my Italian "nonna". (With Italian accent) "I no understand
why you not play with human musicians." (Laughter) Human musicians. I do love human musicians, and I've played with real-life
human ones my entire life, but in a production process, I've only ever accessed
that sacred state of flow in solitude. You know, that state
from which the really true stuff comes, and that's the only stuff that I kind feel at this point of my life
is worthy of sharing. Solo and surrounded by machines,
I can kind of pretend that I am unwatched, unjudged, safe and free. And so, these guys make up the vowels, the consonants,
the diphthongs, the slurs, the cadences
and the swear words in my current sonic language. So over here is the drums. (Drums) Just let me hook myself up further,
let me be tethered, because I do not look like
enough of a switchboard person as it is. (Laughter) Oh, hi ! This is Randa calling from TEDx. (Laughter) Just wondered if would you like
to partake in a survey on translation, yeah, converting the feeling into sound. OK. Those were the drums. This is the bass. (Bass) Here we have a kind of analog synth. (Ethereal sound) This one here is a kind of synth strings
that I like to play on this device (Ethereal sound) that I've asked the machine to be limited
to a certain musical scale, that's F phrygian. I could also play it over here. (Ethereal sound) But when I reduce exactly the notes
that I am playing, it causes me to think
about melody differently so it inspires something else
when I'm playing it. Of course, we have the beautiful piano. (Piano) Then you got this arpeggio kind of vibe. (Harpsichord sound) And this here is my vocal effect. So, I've got a little pedal down here
that switches where the mike goes, or what source the sound is pulled from. So if I just flick this switch - (Voice echo) ... in real time,
and I can loop, of course, which means we take some parts
and sort of have them play endlessly. The way it happens up here
is that I construct songs and build them layer by layer,
instrument by instrument. They stack upon one another, and each of the instruments
is attributed to each of these faders. So I can manipulate
this myriad of buttons and controls that I've asked previously
to do certain things so I can manipulate each one individually
or the track as a whole. If I am not looping something live,
then it's because - either there's something
I don't want you to hear until I feel like it's time
to come in, you know, or I don't want to spoil the reveal, or if I want the part to change
all throughout the tune, or if there's something in the set up that makes me get
into a certain mental space, to kind of get me in the zone. These guys are like my pet wolves, in that it's technology
and technology is fickle. And they often sabotage me,
(Laughter) but it's the price
that I am willing to pay for this feeling as close to the source as electronically, technologically,
humanly possible right now, for as little as possible
to be lost in the conversion, for the essence of who we are
to not be lost in translation. (Music starts) (Singing) I used to play in a band [Inaudible] Something like that I used to play in a band [Inaudible] Something like that [Inaudible] Hmmm Hmmm [Inaudible] Hmmm Hmmm I was a rock star I was a rock star I never had a fast car I was a rock star I used to play in the band Hmmm, [inaudible] Something like that No need to get [inaudible] Hmmm [inaudible] Play the hi-hat [Inaudible] Hmmm Hmmm [Inaudible] Hmmm I was a rock star I was a rock star I was a rock star I was a rock star I was a rock star I get paid to play for real 20-inch drum and a bass head [Inaudible] 20 inch drum and a bass head 20 inch drum and a bass head 20 inch drum and a bass head 20 inch drum and a bass head (Music Ends) (Applause) Thank you. Thank you so much. (Applause)
Ted talks always feel very r/iamverysmart to me. Especially for something like music which is more just messing around. When I make a song at least I'm not trying to make "auditory poetry" or "translate the feelings of the artist and a certain shade of sadness of the human experience", I just want to make a cool sound. I think stuff like this over emphasizes the artist's intensions and underestimates the importance of new techniques, practice, etc. Whenever I try to deliberately create a certain kind of thing it fails.