SHREYA BOSE
Never (Angad Katari):
(Disclaimer)Never was released nine
months ago. In my infinite misfortune,
I came across it only last week.
Even if it is not protocol to review
anything after such a time-lapse, I
chose to make an exception because
of what this song brought to me.
Now answer me this, is most good
art borne out of sadness, misery and
pain? If so, then what does it say
about our ability to find joy? Does it
mean that we do not turn joy to art
as often as pain? Is it because joy
needs no meaning, while the only
way to accept pain is to elevate it?
Before you roll your eyes at my
highly amateurish musings, let me
defend myself by saying that these
questions were engender by the
song. Every time I played Never, I
had new questions to grapple with.
Angad Katari understands melancholy.
It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine
that he has lived with protracted
sadness. The maudlin influence
of youth, too, has played it's role.
Lamentation is washed with lyrics
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that resemble short, repressed
breaths. The words are memories of
an urgent anguish, rather than long
hours of carefully curated woe.
Never Fell this way,
So lost and hurt to be the same,
Never fell this way,
So lost and hurt to be the same,
Coherence is minimally adhered to,
and instruments fill in lyrical gaps.
Sounds weave around themselves
with an abandon made possible
by grief, with Nawahineokala'i
Linziloti’s cello emitting a siren
song of plea and desolation.
Katari’s sound is decidedly, almost
uncomfortably honest. It's melodic
superiority saves the listener from
the inconvenience of introspection,
unless that’s the kind of thing you
seek actively. Whatever the intention,
Never possesses a certain magnetism
made possible by familiar feeling.
It inspires connection, especially
when you come to it by yourself.