Emerald

Emerald Literature

An analysis of the “Emerald” Sound Recording, Music and Lyrics, Album Artwork, and Music Video. Authenticity declaration: artificial intelligence was not used anywhere in these works or in the analysis of these works.

“Emerald” Sound Recording, Music and Lyrics © Thomas Bernard Howard
“Emerald” Album Artwork © Thomas Bernard Howard
“Emerald” Music Video © Thomas Bernard Howard
“Emerald” Story © Thomas Bernard Howard


Artist Statement

I knew “Emerald” would inherit from “Diamond,” track 3 on the Rose album, but I didn’t know what shape the cutting introspection would take. Then a classic crisis came into view—my 30th birthday—alongside a surreal companionship that observed itself in the style of a David Lynch film. With my controversial milestone on the 22nd of May, his coincidentally on the 2nd, and a series of synchronicities between our lives and the films we happened to share, my next subject took form—something intricate like the facets of a diamond, but even more individual. I step into my birthstone, a nostalgic mineral that resembles time frozen, whose chemical composition happens to contain the hour, minute, and second of my birth, and process the moment we shared together in slow-motion, like a character in a dream, but this time, my role is more advanced: that of an amphibious vocalist who lures its audience out to sea, or even that of a certain reptilian model known for immortalizing her muses.


The Song

“Emerald” is as stagnant as the stone, promising one of the most haunting melodies of the discography in its chorus, which repeats not only throughout the song in traditional places, but distinctively at the beginning and end like a tenacious spirit. Dubbed “phantom melodies” in the Rose mixes historically, these dampened background tracks in “Emerald” are especially possessed by literal meaning, as they sonically consummate a truly impossible romance, and physically refuse to let the song end in the positions they occupy. In this way, the chorus aims to transcend sound recording. The instrumentals follow, allowing muted electric melodies and key synth intervals to swim in a distant yet visceral soundscape. Symbolically, the song is equally ubiquitous, wrought with personal, poetic, and numeric links that traverse life and art.

Then I’m 30 watching films
about my dreams and hidden feelings
Beam a Light into my birthstone
Frozen time, I might be lying, but

The story starts at ground zero of an existential crisis and a surreal romance.  From this point on, the song splits in two, in typical Rose fashion, and engineers the literal and the figurative simultaneously. Films being watched is an analogy of the dread of watching life itself play out on a screen instead of in a way a person could influence. The films are also literal, however, as movies which just so happen to study the human subconscious—dreams and hidden feelings—surveilled the romance in real life, and became symbolic anchors as a result. Musically speaking, the first line is in unison for the monotony in what is being stated, about growing older and wasting time, and to set the stage for a more melodic, idealist second line about aspirations and desires. The third line behaves just like the first, with a visualization of a beam of light beside the straight unison—because light is linear. It also functions as the first, and far from the last, effort at literally freezing time to contain mortality and lost love, and it foreshadows the lighthouses that become a very oppressive presence later. Furthermore, “Light” is capitalized as a fragment of “Flame,” the ambiguous anthem that was foundational to “Diamond.” The fourth line is like the second, creating deviation in both melody and in meaning from the previous. The presence of a dynamic narrator, or someone who may be lying, draws from “Diamond,” as well as from the movies watched in real life, as they all featured notoriously unreliable narrators. An unreliable narrator can be anywhere.  

What I see
Is still Green
I wish we could be the same
You and me

Illuminating the birthstone reveals the preserved clarity of the stone—preserved youth or hope. The color being capitalized is also a reference to the “trees all around are so green” statement in the “Rose” single, which infamously describes exploring a dream. The guitar accompaniment toggles across some inquisitive chords, and the pads center on a more somber feeling with minor seconds. Green is opportune here not just because it is the color of the birthstone, and a crucible of innocence and nature, but because, in this case, it will always signal descent into a dream, and each time this musical section is visited, it deepens. However, the previous verse warned that the following could be misleading. Even inside this dimension, the narrator understands it is not real in his wish that he and the other person could be the same—that is, be similar intrinsically, and also remain the same against the passage of time. At this point, things shift into minor and chords condense underneath to create tension. On the surface, he is saying this to the love interest and, beneath that, he is speaking to himself. All instrumentals then cease in the mix as “You and me” is delivered in isolation with the lonely and ominous cadence of someone who, contrary to what they may claim, already understands that their wish cannot be granted, and does not intend to accept it.

Me, me and you
Old men, 2 and 2
Lighthouses, coincidence
David Lynch and innocence

The chorus opens in C Major and inverts the former phrase, “You and me” in a euphoric game of “Marco Polo,” but “You” travels a minor third and notes proceed to drop from the fretting of the original chord, illustrating loss instead. The word “Me” comes before “me and you” so it is declared twice consecutively, like there is redundant identity, but also for the reason that being sandwiched between “You and me” and “me and you,” intimates that there is only one person in this equation in the end: “Me.” “Old Men” falls into full A Minor momently as a pinch of the progression from “Diamond” and to signify rite of passage. The word “and” is mirrored by a clairvoyant echo, and finally, as the second “2” is sung in the pitch of D, and the instrumentals sink one semitone, what feels like a lifetime of longing seeps from one syllable. The note resonates with a supporting layer of subtle brass before it ends, like glory still shines somewhere in the sadness, and the most important motif in the song is established: two. Two old men, two dates of birth consisting of 2, and, of course, two sets of gonads. In the romance, the first movie that they watched together was No Country for Old Men. This was timely because the two men who watched the movie were embarking upon their 30th birthdays in May on dates based on 2—the 2nd, and the 22nd. The two shared many things, not limited to an estrangement to a transient world, but despite some impeccable similarities, there were things on which they were simply incompatible. As one example, one was very committal, and the other was the opposite. “Old Men, 2 and 2” therefore becomes innuendo where the romantic is telling the recluse to “put two and two together”—to use common sense and see the chemistry—and then, to “grow a pair” by taking a risk. Taking the double entendre a step further, “2 and 2” also summates the ultimate intimacy between two men—where ‘two’ has become ‘four.’ Then the second half of the chorus arrives. The guitar accompaniment inches into a more incremental space, like the music is taking tentative steps towards the truth, with two notes in close proximity inside a chamber that is greater than an octave in scale. A low undulating, sliding sine also surfaces for the first time and repeats at the start of the last two lines in the pitch of A to parody a particular foghorn. This musical rendition of a foghorn scores the rest of the song at its most dubious places just like the foghorn in a movie known for its duplicity. The last movie these two watched together in their curious sampling of psychological suspense was none other than The Lighthouse, in which two men are at odds with one another over a lighthouse. It came as quite a shock to the more assertive of the two viewers, knowing they were only on a first-name basis, when his first and last name were called out verbatim in the film itself as part of its central twist: that a character’s name was actually Thomas Howard—quite the coincidence. Another conversation these two had was on the very subject of coincidences. Naturally, Thomas believed in destiny—no coincidences—whereas the less of the two believed in chaos—only coincidences. The second half of the chorus then becomes a cheeky response in that discourse, in a language the latter could speak, as his favorite film director is David Lynch. Lighthouses are evidently to coincidences as David Lynch is to innocence. ‘Lighthouses,’ or the events that seem to transpire nearby, are just as conducive to coincidences as David Lynch films are to the sanctity of innocence. In other words, coincidences are unlikely. On the first ‘s’ in the word “lighthouses,” an echo of the vocal timed to a quarter note returns, and on the prefix ‘co’ in “coincidence,” there is one more to emphasize the sensitive nature of the debate, and act as yet another enactment of the number ‘2.’ The prefix ‘co,’ of course, also plays a prominent linguistic role, being based on the idea of two or more parties, as seen in words like ‘coincidence,’ ‘cooperate,’ and ‘coexist.’  The word “innocence” then brings the chorus to a close in G Major with a vocal simplicity that truly embodies the meaning of the word, making way for something less so.

Say what we may say but sailors
disappear on stormy days
Split apart in Twin Peaks I would
rather sink than drift away

At its center, the track begins to submerge in maritime metaphor. Even though it continues to speak to the original romance, it now occupies a much larger scale. The first two lines challenge the cowardice of many men who are emotionally noncommittal. It also recognizes the statistics that disproportionately claim men, like depression, and the disastrous outcome of men abstaining from their feelings. And on an even deeper level, these two lines are menacing and foreshadow the true antagonist of the song: a legend known for making sailors disappear. The next two lines speak to the idea of dying trying, or taking an emotional risk, rather than passing up chances in life. It uses a play on words for Twin Peaks, another product of a certain sailor’s favorite director, and describes crashing upon two treacherous rocks in pursuit of something, presumably a love interest. However, it also describes cognitive dissonance, splitting in half internally by conflicting beliefs.

In my sleep
You join me
Stone lovers frozen in place
You and me

Crashing upon the rocks is followed by falling unconscious and sinking into the waters, prompting a passage deeper into the dream. In the vision, the wish has now solidified, with the two becoming lewd statues at the bottom of the sea—certainly not what the nomadic captain signed up for. The stone is a symbol of permanence he surely cannot stomach, but also the consequence of being tempted by a beauty known for turning her observer into stone. Perhaps, in this case, the sailor’s instinct to steer clear was correct.

Me, me and you
May I sing to you
Just one kiss, I promise
Wheel of time meets siren

Like a beast bursting from the ocean in a last-ditch effort to secure its prey, the second chorus confesses who has been singing. A siren asks a ship on the horizon for permission to cast his spell, the way a vampire requests invitation before he enters, and he promises that he’s only after one kiss, as his voice echoes twice. The word “May” also doubles to identify his birth month, which, in tandem with the mention of “2 and 2,” completes his spoken date of birth—May 22nd—transforming the entire song into one large incantation, and allowing him to speak on the subject. He calls upon every trace of the sorcery he’s always known to do the impossible: to usurp the wheel of the ship; to command a man’s beating heart; to seduce father time.

The ensuing bridge is the wish. In one breath, he delivers a legato manifesto of fifths and seconds that culminates in a bass choir with one position dropping as low as D2, only to unleash a monstrous whistle crescendo in the pitch of A6. The whistle, being in A, shares a note with the foghorn, albeit a different frequency, because the different kinds of ‘sirens’ are, and always were, synonymous, as objects that attract sailors. Likewise, the extreme highs of the whistle and lows of the choir respectively are a dichotomy despite being a duet, just like the masculine and feminine caricatures distinguished thus far are separate and one and the same, just like destiny and chaos are contradictory and quite ideologically indispensable to one another. In a manner of speaking, the wish is humored because siren and sailor coalesce—but it does not stop the wheel of time.

Me, me and you
Hold me, I’m see-through
Crystal skin and voice of fifths
Little Stars and legends

The final chorus arrives with the same proposition, “You and me, me, me and you,” but this marks the point of no return, where he has become transparent after performing his swan song. Vibrant pads wash over the vocals like white water as he succumbs to his curse. Against the full wrath of fomented elements with a heart that is on the verge of shattering, he can ask only to be held—a kindness nature is reluctant to extend.  “Little Stars” loops in Lynch’s Mulholland Drive and the Call Me by Your Name novel, letting on that there is more than meets the eye, and that dreams can be experienced in different ways. “Legends” likens this ordeal with the way legends are understood by history, as things that may or may not have happened. After all, it was truly a surreal experience.


The Album Artwork

Like its predecessors, the Album Artwork is a self-portrait, but it steps into unique, unobscured presence just as this song steps into a progressed role. His hair is voluminous like the clouds, his shoulders are preternaturally broad and almost impossible in proportion, his frame is sharp like rocks, his Pre-Raphaelite complexion shines truly like crystal against a melancholy emerald overcast, and his expression is that of someone looking down on another. All things suggest he is rising from the sea like Ursula from The Little Mermaid, but with the natural visage of Ariel instead. Certainly, there is also something serpentine in his dark vectors, statuesque form, and imposing gaze. And yet, at the same time, there is softness as well. There is affection in his eyes, a painterly warmth in his tone, hairs on his chest, and there is even a special little easter egg in his locks that seems to celebrate male anatomy. Whatever he is—Ursula, Ariel, Medusa, or Poseidon—there is no mistaking that he now fully embraces both his blessing and his curse, just as there is no mistaking that this is a role only he can play. This photograph was captured in a suburban bedroom without studio lighting, makeup, or direction. Save basic color processing and a greenscreen of a sky captured at a local lake years prior, this is just destiny. This is not so easily purchased, although a princess may try. She should know first, if she has not learned already, that curses are devastating, even in the hands of legends.

The Music Video

The Music Video for “Emerald” is a work based on compilation using various footage from around the world for the themes of the story. “You and me” enters in darkness, just like it is sung in solitude in the mix. Then the chorus begins on “Me,” with a burst of color and waves crashing against the shore, to equate the feminine counterpart with the fluidity and life of the ocean itself. It is followed by “Me and you” on a clip of billowing water, used in transition for its latitudinal bands of light, with the next shot timed on the word “you” flanking in stark contrast, as a cliffside that is masculine, unmoving and vertical. From here, there is a fade to black used as a cinematographic trope and to insulate the following interior scene on “Old men,” as if to direct an old man by a stormy sea working by candlelight. On the book rests a magnifying glass tilted about ten o’clock that mimics the male gender sign.  “2 and 2” is then exemplified by a trinity of sentimental pairs: two rocks, two liminal gulls timed on the echo of “and,” and two men engaging in an arm wrestle, like the old man is reminiscing. For safe-for-work purposes, the catalog is spared of the principal pair, but these objects substitute well, and go as far as to convey that love transcends classification, which is ironic because this love, canonically, refused classification on account of one being avoidant. The seagulls also vindicate the device used in The Lighthouse, and the arm wrestle silhouetted by diegetic green light engages the idea of two men contending with one another, be that context combative, homoerotic or existential. As the light blooms, and the tides turn between the men, the beacon of a lighthouse enters in parallel, turning until it produces a white flash superimposed on one frame, that heralds in the rest of the chorus. A flash used here is not only a physical symptom of being spotted, but a Shutter Island-esque cue that awareness has switched. “Lighthouses,” accompanies the phallic master of ceremonies in full glory on the right, and then, within the beacon, as it continues, the hemispheres change, and the corresponding word, “coincidence,” emerges on the other side in darkness as red media moves from left to right. Being the complement of green, red is on brand in this relationship. The word remains in that position in a subsequent sequence of an adjacent full moon being momentarily exposed by clouds. This alternating voyage ends on a lantern room interior where the line completed “Lighthouses, coincidence” straddles the pedestal and lattices to demonstrate that there is, indeed, design behind everything, even if it cannot yet be perceived. The words in the foreground remaining fixed while the background imagery bends to them, with the reverse normally being true, reinforces the meta dynamic of this narrative, how the outside becomes in and vice versa. Lastly, in the very art, “David Lynch” makes a discreet cameo before vanishing over the banister inside the tower of a lighthouse, a luminous spiral of red and green, and the spectator dives into darkness to find the full line, “David Lynch and innocence.” This is a nod to the precarious end of The Lighthouse, and more blatantly to the pitch-black box from Mulholland Drive, representing reality and often the gravity that comes with it. However, if one thing could be said about the life’s work of Lynch, stories, and the lessons they instill, it is that there is seldom one static truth.  Truth, like time, is not necessarily an object to be captured in a box or a birthstone. And shadows on cave walls, images on a silver screen, voices of friends, dreams at night, and journals in hindsight, make history all the same as legend.






~ Thomas Bernard Howard