The Ways of the Wind

Inspired by the challenge of Mackenzie Davis, I compiled four songs that uniquely remind me of the wind. I have always conceptualized music as a way to explore different cultures and experiences. Thus, each entry represents one of the cardinal directions, guiding us through colorful universes that reflect the tempestuous nature of our human condition. Let's see where the current takes us!

The Winds of the East

Concerto Grosso No.1: 4. Fugue by Ernest Bloch

Every adventure must start with a breath. A song's breath varies in each respiratory system. Noise rock hyperventilates under gurgling basslines and crash cymbals; bubblegum pop cutely snorts with twinkling synths. The best artists masterfully bend the wind to breathe forth the sensations they want us to experience.

Starting Bloch's Fugue, the violas breathe forth a playful and striking theme, exerting a whimsical yet fierce determination rife with accent marks. The violas establish the pulse of our breathing. As the orchestra gradually joins the onslaught, this wind pattern continuously morphs in unexpected ways. The flurry of key changes, dynamic shifts, half-time tempos, counter-melodies, and B-melodies - one of which sounds like Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture - bring energy and ferocity to the wind. Uplifted by the breeze, the instruments effortlessly pass around the theme in musical rounds, changing the wind's trajectory by remixing the common rhythm. I cannot help but marvel at the evolution of a breath into an uproarious cyclone. I find something new every time I revisit.

The Winds of the West

Rent 2 High by Avantdale Bowling Club

The Winds of the West drift through alleyways, ramen shops, and broken promises. Mascara-stained palms toss their lotto tickets into dumpsters marred by graffiti. Burnt tires and factory smoke waft into one-bedroom apartments. A knocked-over coat rack blocking the doorway lies next to an eviction notice. As the heatwave beats down on polluted lungs, the breeze imitates their exhaustion. The wind wheezes, but never wails.

The only escape in this distorted, blasé world is sedation. Shove that shit to the side, and dedicate a moment for breath. Let the brass take drawn-out, pensive hits of momentary flight. Let the meditative percussion gently massage the bags under our bloodshot eyes. Let the glossy skitters of piano tap-dance over broken bottles, pitter-pattering like the rain that never falls. Let the morose Tom Scott tranquilize our minds as bills sprawl across the dinner table. Forget about the generational trauma, the sputtering air conditioner, the late-night sprees and Uber rides, the mouths we feed, the product we sell, the addiction we perpetuate, the lives we lost.

Just forget it all. Let the wind raise us to euphoria.

The Winds of the North

Alps by The Vassar Devils

A photo by the lake. A Paramore tee under the bed. A hummingbird feeder low on nectar. Bushy, milk chocolate curls. Benign as they are, the invasion of these relics - timestamps of a sitcom once loved - stirs the stomach. The wind parches the mouth, flushing the face. You try to suppress it, but their departure circulates in your brain, almost as much as their memory.

Enter The Vassar Devils. Covering the Novo Amor and Ed Tullett track, the college acapella group breathes forth the messy winds of heartbreak. The breeze materializes at a wistful hum. The wind chill brushes against the hair on your arms, yearning for the crisp intimacy. As the wind surges, beckoning the desire, the chorus confesses its truth: I would do anything and everything, even destroy myself, to gain the love I once had.

Relinquishing the forbidden desire only magnifies its ache. The mind descends into a never-ending spiral of what-if questions and scarred memories. Heavenly harmonies ebb and flow across the overcast skies, navigating the pain through restraint and reflection. Yet, the breeze builds and broods until it finally reaches the mountaintop. The place is beautiful, majestic, even ethereal... and meant for two people.

The avalanche screams. The wind belts and howls. Icicles pierce through flesh. The magnificent force of a thousand wind tunnels cascades down the mountainside. And, just as quickly, settles into the earth. The relics are buried like middle-school time capsules. The breeze softens. The air smells of blueberries and pine. The birds sing a cheery tune.

And you get off your ex's Instagram.

The Winds of the South

the perfect storm by aja monet

Throughout our journey, we have assumed wind as natural phenomena: an uncontrollable sensation that tingles our tempers, temptations and temperatures. With the assertion that wind manifests out of thin air, we talk about wind purely as direction. We care about where the wind blows, but never how or why. So, what rouses the wind?

The rattling of djembe drums. The roar of trumpet blares. The remorse of gentle flutes. The rhythm of rampant assimilation into picket-fenced nuclear families. The tasteful reminder of the broken reality for the foreign tongued, the darker-skinned, the huddled massed. The resonance of a ruthless spitfire, dry-rubbed in bourbon seasoning and paprika, simmering in a smoky snarl. The rabble rousing of resilient revolutionaries who wake up to empty refrigerators and suicide rates. The ringing and rapping of a righteous revolt that rose to restore our rights, our race, and our redemption. The rustle of our resistance, the rumble of our persistence, and the wrestle for our existence.

Wind patterns are a result of temperature. As air becomes warmer, the amount of gravity exerted onto the air (known as air pressure) decreases, causing the air to rise. Cooler air rushes to replace the rising air, creating the flow of wind. Similarly, the voice of wind rouses from a change in climate. The wind rushes when its dynamic soundscape plays with our senses. The wind flutters when the world's carcinogens are mellowed out by therapeutic fumes. The wind roars when we reach the summit and succumb to its reality. And the wind surges when we strive for a better future for ourselves, our people, and our society.

Wind starts with a breath. The best art leave us breathless.