Last week I spent a brilliant couple of days away from home on a sort of holiday (time off from work) plus recharge (visiting friends and family) plus creative exploration (working on my next record in the studio). I had a series of brilliant conversations with my friend and studio partner cum record producer. From today's politics to the incidents that fomented world war two, from the British music scene to mainstay West African guitar techniques, from the local flora and fauna to foreign and exotic species, our conversations spanned almost everything under the sun.
One thing in particular we kept coming back to though, is music; it's no surprise since we're both musicians and we spent the bulk of our time together in the studio. Pertinent to this post, is a conversation we had around analogies; specifically the human tendency to draw comparisons between things we're familiar with and things that are new to us. In the context of music discovery and categorisation (or genres), we talked about how some listeners to his music have compared his sound to Roxy music upon hearing his latest record, and how my music, to his ears, is reminiscent of the sounds of Nick Drake, Nina Simone and Ella Fitzgerald.
As those words left his lips, he wore a worrisome expression on his face for a split second, as if it dawned on him in that moment that I might find those comparisons offensive. When he asked if he'd offended, I couldn't help but chuckle and my reaction was along the lines of 'not at all, are you kidding?' These are some of the most talented musicians of the 20th century, and to regard my work by likening it to theirs, or to even mention my name and theirs in the same breath is one of the biggest compliments I've received in my musical career. Think about it; who in their right mind wouldn't be chuffed at this comparison to some of the greats? And yet, he had plausible reason to worry, because as I've come to understand, there's sometimes a tendency to view comparison as a suggestion of a lack of originality or an assertion of impropriety. In other words, you're either a copycat who lacks imagination, or you're guilty of plagiarism, or both. But is this really the case?
I've written about this previously, and about how there's a tendency to over-glamorise and venerate the pursuit of originality in art. Given this tendency to regard originality and the holy grail, as the highest ideals of art and creativity, there's little surprise that the prospects of comparison may be misconstrued as an insult or an impugning of craftsmanship.
But this couldn't be further from the truth, and here's why. A big part of human comprehension hinges on and revolves around analogies; that is, drawing a line between something we know and something that is new in order to make sense of the latter. When faced with new information, we contextualise it in frameworks that already exist in our minds, and where no such relevant or appropriate frameworks exist, we set out to build one, thus laying the foundation for the future understanding and comprehension of new information.
Think about it, when I say the words 'red cup', it probably conjures an image in your mind because you recognise red as a colour and you know what a cup looks like. 'Red' and 'cup' are ubiquitous, everyday words. But what happens when I say the words 'carmine chalice', 'crimson cannikin', or 'cerise canister'? What do you see in your mind? I'll hazard a guess that your mind is much slower to conjure concrete images to represent or visualise these word pairs. The first words in each pair are colours – all forms or variations of red – and the second words in the pairs are types of cups or containers (albeit not as popular in modern English). Still, these six words, and their pairwise combinations are just not as common as 'red' or 'cup', and so we're (probably) slower to visualise them.
The visualisation in this context is a proxy for comprehension and understanding, a similar process we go through when we stumble on new music and our ears are trying to figure out what's going on. Analogies and comparisons come to the fore, and there's no telling what sort of comparisons will ensue. To harken back to the conversation with my producer, Nick Drake, Nina Simone, and Ella Fitzgerald don't have a lot in common. One white man and two black women. Their genres spanned folk, jazz, soul, and blues. Acoustic guitar Vs electric guitar Vs piano-based music. Soft vocals Vs piercing vocals Vs velvet smooth vocals. In short, despite their similarities, their differences are on full display. And yet my producer could hear them all in my music.
These are all comparisons I've heard before, I should say, typically individually, not all at once. My guitar technique, I've been told, is reminiscent of Nick Drake's, and so is the softly sung tone of my songs. Then there's my vocal timbre and waviness which can be heard (again, I've been told) in Ella's and Nina's live recordings. I've had more than a dozen comparisons to my music, often disparate, sometimes puzzling, almost always flattering. The only reliable information I've been able to glean from these comparisons is the sort of music the person offering the comparison has been exposed to. In other words, if someone says I remind them of Ben Harper (as was the case in a pub a few months back), that tells me they're familiar with Ben Harper's music.
This sheds light on another important point, that comparison isn't made wholepiece, but rather in piecemeal fashion. Facet by facet, one characteristic after another, we isolate pieces of new information we come across and they either spark new ideas or remind us of old ones. This marvellous aspect of our cognition makes it possible to draw comparisons to seemingly disparate entities. This is all to say that this isn't a bug but a feature, and it certainly isn't an insult, or a suggestion of impropriety or unoriginality, but a compliment.
In summary, comparisons and analogies are often how we make sense of new information. These features of human cognition allow us to situate new music in the context of what we're already familiar with. The next time someone says your music sounds like X or your art reminds them of Y, chances are that's their way of making sense of it. They're probably paying you a compliment too. You get to decide – based on your goals – whether that's a comparison you'd like to lean into or step back from.