Dangle Above with Jangle Giant Griffin Novie's "Balcony Bliss"
About a decade back, I had a conversation with one of my best friends on top a balcony. He said he was afraid of heights and in return I shared, “I am finding that so am I lately, but never was before.” He replied, “It is because I do not trust myself up here.” And we both nervously laughed because it was the risk of plunging into the unknown that made our constitutions shake.
Griffin Novie’s Balcony Bliss is a conceptual piece working on this same thread. Instead of falling to the ground, Griffin expands the time we suspend in air, envisaging while appearing face-to-face with himself amongst the clouds.
Bounce Gravityless in Griffin Novie's Buoyancy
Enter into a sunrise of sound with “We Don’t Have Anything More to Say” as clouds surround you in a dream. Burning through this daydream with an electric energy, the guitar riffs like rays of sun melting the clouds away, puncturing the sky and “permeating the neurons through their membrane.” Meanwhile, the piano pulses peaceful beats, punching with ponderance, “quietly waiting quietly contemplating.” The guitar whirs in a swirl of wind with a purring percussion underneath.
All the instruments accent each other as Griffin’s voice sails into the clouds, his “ahhhs” rippling into the dream like a warm cloud dipping into sunlight. As the sun rises higher in the sky, the rays stretch behind the clouds like fingers reaching out, assenting into a surround-sound of airy vocals, a symphony of angels.
“Triptych (Change Order)” takes the plunge and dives higher into the sky. The adrenaline coursing this piece is urgent as “it’s too late” suspends in the air. With a faster tempo of dense guitar, the chorus takes on a garage band, grungy quality. However, the xylophone adds a playfulness to the intense beats driving the gravity of the song, creating a Northern Lights sound of Sci-Fi.
Exploring the “triptych mind,” Griffin comments on the inner workings of the conscience, full of layers, a multimind “held by a sturdy thread” of self; “both of your faces incline to opposite ends of the line.” A firecracker explosion delays the phrase of “it’s too” banging into “late for a change order,” releasing a frequency of division, how the parts of ourselves are divided. As the altar closes, the synth snaps as if running out of time, caught up in the caution of the wind.
Traveling further along, “Monologue” is a more relaxing reflection on the duality of self. The song is a plea, a conversation between the active part of the mind and the pure being of self. Griffin remarks, “my monologue speaks to me/as a separate entity,” holding the mirror up to this inner world as he “tr[ies] to get back to the first person.” And as he tries, “learn[ing] to curb my monologue,” he shoves the voices in the head away, dispels the overcast of his brain to make for a clearing, an alignment, and the clouds dissipate a bit.
I always envisioned a world in my mind of a purple, pink, and orange sunset with vibrant green grass and cool blue pools, and a mint colored tree to rest at the base by. With “Neural Neon,” we enter this world beyond the horizon line: a mirage of time and melting dials, like Dali’s clocks in the desert. The synth pipes in with a jazzy brassy sax against the cheeriness of the xylophone, and this deepness of the instruments cast Griffin’s voice like a faraway echo above the sky “to light a little path for me.” The harmony of the verses add dimension to the above-the-earth quality of Griffin’s aura, with an echo-whisper singing of multilayered voices mirroring the make-up of our multimind.
“As the haze settles in” to a warped guitar cry, these minor moments marking “make me choose in time” open up for a melodic phrasing. The synth pops and the piano beats like lightbulbs lighting to answers, a merriment below the constant questioning: multicolor light through a prism of crystal, which “become the locus/of hyperfocus.” These lower harmonies add a velvet depth to the overall energy and the drums glisten in the distance: “my neural neon is always answering the questions.”
“Sever” bounces in with a bungee jumping elasticity as Griffin toys with the levels of his vocals. A tingling, tinkling xylophone bursts through the bustling sky like raindrops that have “lost [their] bearing.” And a cold clapping clacks, a harrowing haunting chorus of celestial “beauty behind the threat.” Together, we walk on a tight-rope trip, “hopelessly holding the rope,” with “someone” spiraling into space. This luring lullaby of “someone” extends with outstretched arms “offer[ing] their hand” into the ethereal expanse.
Jumping into a jangle jungle, “Fear (Wait for the Rain)” is a clamor of syncopated sound, an irritated, yet anxious beat. The song opens up with an “invitation” on repeat, like a record skipping in uneasiness. The hurriedness of the sound blends into a kaleidoscopic image, a lava lamp full of pulled colors yo-yoing into a taffy of tangibility; after all, “fear is only a temporary situation” subject to a “change order.” But the feeling of fear lingers in your blood as goose bumps spring up through the sound, like music vibrating through the ground.
Against the fear, however, is a mantra like a rain-dance chant, “if you’re seed won’t sow/wait for the rain, wait for the rain,” that sooths out the panic in a beachy wave. Watch as waves clash against the shore in this surf sound of the guitar morphing a hazy daze of psychedelic sight. As “fear is only a temporary situation” layers above this rain dance, the phrases cast a spell, like a Shaman ridding evil entities. Clapping ensues and adds to the vision of a forest fire festival. These two parts converge into the inner monologue personified.
“Desolation” begins with a nod to “Monologue[‘s]” two entities with the starting line, “I know that I’ll walk alone again.” Griffin sheds the split of himself in this introspection as the emptiness of “desolation grows” into a fullness, the guitars and drums swelling through a barricade and lightly diminishing down again.
“Desolation grows” is a gentle phrasing that returns into the scenery of an empty city of “eight million faces.” Griffin floats further into the atmosphere of this bird’s eye view of the world as an organ preaches with piercing coloratura notes. As Griffin muses of his emptiness in the “lonely city,” the organ chimes an angelic ringing, answering the call of desperation, connecting neurons through desolation.
The penultimate tune is aptly named, “You’re Almost There (Don’t Panic).” The song is sampled into an old-fashioned satellite-essence that drifts our bodies down to earth. A choir echoes in a chamber, reminiscent of the New Year’s Eve classic “Auld Lang Syne,” as a cheering explodes into a blast. The floor tom brings us back through the atmosphere with a gasp, spinning into an unnerving silence.
Finally, we are “Looking Down” again, bubbling up into a virtual world of video game scenes and sequences and shapes; “balcony bliss is the feeling/of seeing the scope of the city from way up on high.” Now, in a new futuristic dream-world of pastel colors, Griffin is “weaving a tapestry magically deep and wide.” Glinting on the edge of clouds, Griffin leaps from one nebulous to another with “nothing to fear.” With the repeats of “looking down” ending in “again,” there is a redefinition of self, which is now “connecting and coming to life.”
“Looking Down” is a see-saw inflection of conga-like percussion and rainbow riding synth sliding through sparks of stars and sunlight like “ten-thousand tendrils extending out into the night.” “Balcony bliss [is] a blessing” because we all see clearer in a different perspective. This trajectory of feeling low and floating higher saves room for a clearing of thought in the psychedelic landscape of Balcony Bliss. As Griffin belts, “I’m seeing down,” the phrase can be mistaken for “I’m seeing now,” as the sun breaks and sets beyond the scope of our sight once more. We close as our feet touch the floor again and we begin to have a lot more to say than we did at the onset.
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