Popular music has a certain regularity, doesn’t it? Hell, for the most part, “regularity” doesn’t begin to describe the repetitiveness that has always characterized the music we hear on the radio or CD. Oh, sure, occasionally, some true departures occur. One need only think of Frank Zappa for the truly bizarre. More accessible, perhaps, but nevertheless undeniably, well, different would not be an inappropriate description for Steely Dan. We can all think of examples that bend the norms.
But for the most part, we expect our favorite tunes to be in 4/4 time, with a recognizable repetitive pattern. We’re probably wired and some deep level to sort of resonate with such patterns. So much so that when the pattern is broken, it leaps out, if not actually jarring our sensibilities, then at least causing a psychic twinge.
I wanted to mention one very innocent such departure, a rhythmic anomaly that occurs every now and then. I call it the pentacoda. It’s not a real coda, but it does generally happen near the end of song, as codas do. (BTW: if you take the time to read through this little essay, I won’t blame you if you wonder, “What the hell is he talking about? And why spend valuable brain capacity on such a nothing?” Well, we all know there’s a ton of horrible crap going on out in the real world now, and I just wanted to give my soul a rest, and think on lesser things.)
Anyway, here’s what I mean.
Near the end (or sometimes the beginning) of some tunes, the music repeats a phrase, perhaps vocally, but maybe just musically. After a number of repeats, the song exits the repeat and, well, does whatever it does. Finish up usually. But here’s the thing. Our brains are accustomed to, in general, expect the phrase to be repeated 4 times, or perhaps a multiple of 4. Almost all popular music is based on four. Yes, there are some waltzes, and 6/8 folksy rhythms, but 4/4 is the unquestioned champion of popular (and specifically rock and roll) musical time signatures. Next time you hear a repeated phrase, notice that it very likely repeats 4 times, and then the change happens.
But a pentacoda is different. Here’s my best example. Rod Stewart had a classic hit with “Maggie May”, which came out on the Every Picture Tells a Story album. At the end of the song, the mandolin repeats a figure that basically introduced the song. It’s a nice effect, just the mandolin, and it really makes a great contrast to the story Rod has just tolds us about falling in love with an older woman. So the figure repeats 4 times… and then they tack on an extra repeat. The fifth one. And then the drums kick in, and the rest of the band, and Stewart sings, lamenting Maggie until it fades out.
It’s that extra repeat that really sticks out. After the fourth one, the listener is poised for the big finish, but then they play the extra one, the fifth. The pentacoda. Penta for five, coda for ending. In the way of contrast, another tune on that album, “Mandolin Wind” (Stewart must have been going through a mandolin phase), there’s another mandolin figure that gets repeated before Rod comes back singing. But this time it’s the normal, expected, four repeats.
Okay. It’s not a big thing. But it’s always struck me as special, as a little bonus, a musical twinge that, even though it doesn’t feel exactly “right”, nevertheless gets your attention.
Here’s another example, more arcane, but I’ll wager it’s definitely been noticed by a bunch of Deadheads in the world. On the Blues For Allah album (a masterpiece in every regard), the opening track is the infectious tune, “Help On the Way”, which has a long playoff (with a separate title: “Slipknot”), which, in that Grateful Dead “let’s keep segueing” way, then resolves into an all-time favorite on every Deadhead’s list, “Franklin’s Tower”. Near the end of this chain, just before dropping into Franklin’s, Jerry play this really catchy phrase, one he had introduced at the beginning of the segue. We hear four repeats, and then he tags it with a fifth, which then veers off into what become the opening chords of “Franklin’s Tower.” As a young Deadhead, it used to catch me everytime; now I wait for it, just to feel that little twinge.
I’m sure you can come up with other examples. But maybe not; trying to dredge up little musical moments is actually hard, especially as subtle as this is. But try to listen for it. It’s kinda neat when what almost seems like a mistake becomes a fixture, and even art.
© 2019 Chuck Puckett