Dissect - S3E6 – Bad Religion by Frank Ocean

Episode Date: June 26, 2018

We dissect "Bad Religion" by Frank Ocean, a harrowing ballad expressing the torment of unrequited love. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

From Spotify Studios, this is Dissect, long for musical analysis broken into short digestible episodes. I'm your host, Cole Kushner. Today, we continue our serialized examination of Channel Orange by Frank Ocean. In our last two episodes, we tackled the album's 10-minute centerpiece pyramids, a tragic story of a woman named Cleopatra that spans two different historical time periods, expressed in two different but closely related musical environments. Channel Orange continues with the songs Lost, White, and Mugetra. monks, three tracks will cover in broad strokes before landing on the main subject of today's

episode, the heart-wrenching ballad Bad Religion. The song Lost and its upbeat, glittering musical texture is a much-needed reprieve from the more somber tracks, crack rock, and pyramids that precede it. But despite its external sparkle, the story told on loss is itself a tragic tale. Like pyramids, the song's subject is a woman with the story itself told from the perspective of a man. Specifically, the man is a drug dealer who uses his girlfriend. as a drug meal. He has her flying all over the world smuggling cocaine that she straps to her body. The man seems to genuinely care for this woman, but as expressed in the song's hook, both are caught up or lost in the excitement of their prosperous, illegal lifestyle.

The narrator has dreams of the two living a normal life, but by the song's bridge, the woman is actually cooking the dope herself, displaying just how deep the two have become in their drug-centered life. She's at a stove. I can't believe I got her out here cooking dog. Frank sings, she's at a stove. Frank sings, she's at a stove. Can't believe I got her out here cooking dope.

I promise she'll be whipping meals up for a family of her own someday. The narrator wants to believe they'll end their smuggling and establish a normal family life, but in the back of his mind he knows he can't escape the life. He sings, Nothing wrong with the lie, nothing wrong with another short plane ride through the sky, you and I. At the end of loss, the television motif returns, and we briefly hear someone say,

Faith is the substance, followed by a channel change, then someone saying monosariba is the substance monosariba is Spanish for hands up something cops say when arresting someone this perhaps ties back into the story on Lost as cocaine is often smuggled from Latin American countries

faith is a substance is the beginning of the Bible passage Hebrew 111 the full passage reads Now faith is the substance of things hoped for The evidence of things not seen It's fitting then that Channel Orange continues with a voiceless interlude called White, and two songs full of religious imagery, monks and bad religion. The track White is actually an instrumental rework of a Frank Ocean

song originally featured on the second odd future mixtape released in March of 2012. And I'll forget my first love like you'll forget a daydream. And what of all my wild friends? And the times I've had with them. Well, I'll fade to gray soon on the TV station. Channel Orange's version of White hands the melody played on synthesizer to John Mayer, who adapts it beautifully on guitar. White ends with the white noise hum of a television, perhaps suggesting the interlude was something like the fuzzy static screen of a lost signal.

Channel Orange continues with the explosive percussion-led introduction of monks, a complex song that likens the protagonist's experience on tour, with Eastern religious ceremony. The phrase, wave him high, reoccurse throughout the track, something you commonly hear at concerts when the performer asks the crowd to put their hands in the air. The phrase, wave him high, calls to mind the end of the song of Lost, where we heard someone from the television say,

in Spanish hands up, a connection that now seems too specific to be mere coincidence. Aside from its inherent concert-going connotations, Wave-im-Hai takes on a few meanings throughout monks. Specifically on verse 1, it refers to a woman's hands in the air during intercourse. At the end of the track, Wave-im- High refers to two runaway lovers getting high. Of course, hands in the air also evokes prayer and worship, fitting into the song's religious overtones. These religious connotations continue even more explicitly as Channel Orange progresses into its next track, the subject of the rest of today's episode, Bad Religion. Bad Religion is written by Frank Goshen, Wayne Nugget and Kevin Risto of Midi Mafia, and Charlie Gambetta. We find Frank inside a taxi cab, speaking to his driver

as if you were inside a church confessional booth talking to a priest. Frank will confess his feelings of unrequited love, which he compares to a cult, a bad religion. The song begins with a single organ playing a four-cord progression in the key of E major. We have an E major, a G-sharp minor, a C-sharp minor, and an A major, which then returns to the opening chord E-major, starting the progression over. The pipe organ is the standard instrument played in western churches and are often built right into cathedrals. The use of organ here on bad religion is of course a perfect instrumental choice on a song full of religious overtones. There's also an interesting thing going on in that chord progression,

which on its surface is pretty straightforward harmonically speaking. But when we take a closer look at that last chord, A major, which then leads back to the first chord of the progression, E major, we find what's called a plagal cadence, otherwise known as the Amen cadence. Before I lose some of you, let's quickly define a musical cadence. Generally speaking, a cadence in music refers to a harmonic or rhythmic configuration that creates a sense of resolution.

Cadences are why the ending of a song feels like an ending. One of the most common ways we find resolution in Western music is the use of what's called a dominant chord. Let's hear one in practice. First I'll play a few chords, and I'll point out that dominant chord when we get to it. And now the dominant chord, and now resolution to our home chord. Doesn't that sound complete?

Let's hear it one more time. Dominant. And now you're yearning for that home chord, right? Whether you're conscious of it or not, when you hear that dominant chord in a progression, your ear really, really wants it to resolve to that home chord. This is a cadence, specifically what's called an authentic cadence, the most common of harmonic cadence types. Now let's return to that plagal cadence, that amen cadence we heard in bad religion.

A plagal cadence uses what's called a subdominant chord for resolution. When used as a cadential chord, the subdominate isn't as obvious as that dominant chord we just heard. Let's hear a plagal cadence in action. Subdominant, and now resolution into our home chord. That's a plago cadence, the use of a subdominate chord into the home chord. It's not as strong or obvious as the dominant chord cadence, but it does create a sense of resolution. Let's hear it one more time. Subdominant resolution. So why the nickname Amen cadence? Well, in the mid-1800s, religious hymns were routinely ended with the congregation singing Amen after the hymn was complete. Almost always, this sung amen was framed within a plagal cadence, using that move from the subdominate to the home chord

we just heard. While plagal cadences were paired with the word amen dating back to the 1500s, it was in the mid-1800s that they became all but standard practice in the United States in England, a trend that lasted well into the 20th century. The plago cadence came so intertwined with this hyminal amen use that the nickname stuck, lasting to the name. this day. And so now properly contextualize, let's return to Frank Ocean's bad religion. We have the solo organ evoking cathedrals and religious overtones, while the chord progression it plays makes use of the Amen cadence, from A major to E major. Subdominant, resolution. When Frank enters bad religion, it's just him in the solo organ. For me, this intimate

environment evokes images of a confessional booth where one goes to repent their sins. With the song's opening line, we quickly realize Frank's confessional is a taxi cab and his makeshift priest is the driver. Taxi driver, be my shrink for the hour, leave the meter running. It's rush hour, so take the streets if you want to, just I'll run the demons, could you? Frank sings, Taxi driver, Be my shrink for the hour. Leave the meter running. It's rough. It's rush hour. So take the streets if you want to. Just outrun the demons, could you? Using less than 30 words, Ocean is able to create a vivid, elegant, cinematic scene, maximizing every carefully selected word. Our protagonist is in a lonely, tragic state of desperation, so distraught that he asked a stranger,

his taxi driver, to be his therapist. He encourages the driver to extend the ride by taking traffic congested streets so he can talk longer. He then asked the driver to outrun the demons that are plaguing him, the rush hour of his disheveled mind. The emotional tangibility of the scene is enhanced by the lonely solo organ and the sparseness with which Frank sings, half-spoken, half-sung, with long open spaces between each phrase, as if the words are difficult to muster into existence. As the song continues, a back-and-forth conversation ensues between the protagonist and his taxi driver, a piano enters the mix, and now there are two voices and two instruments. I told him don't curse me

Oh boy you need prayer I guess it couldn't hurt me If it brings me to my knees It's a bad religion Frank sings he said Alu Akbar I told him don't curse me Bobo you need prayer I guess it couldn't hurt me

If it brings me to my knees it's a bad religion. The taxi driver offers his advice and consolation, saying to Frank Ali Akbar. In Arabic, this phrase is known as Talk Beer and translates to something like God is greater or God is good. It's a phrase used for a number of purposes, including formal Islamic prayer. Those intentions seem pure, Frank, who is clearly distraught, misinterprets the driver's intent, responding, don't curse me. The reasons for Frank's paranoia will become more clear in verse 2. The driver continues by clarifying his intentions, saying, Bobo, you need prayer. Bobo is Spanish for something like dummy or fool.

This clarifies that the driver wasn't attempting to curse Frank, but rather encourages them to look to God for answers during his time of suffering. Frank responds, I guess it couldn't hurt me. It seems Frank doesn't believe anything could make his condition worse and is willing to try anything to alleviate his pain, including prayer. He follows with a somewhat confusing juxtaposition of religious sentiment, saying, If it brings me to my knees, it's a bad religion. So what exactly does this seemingly contradictory line mean?

Just what religion is Frank referring to. We'll find out in the song's hook, which will thoroughly dissect right after the break. Welcome back to dissect. Before the break, we examined the first verse and pre-chorus of bad religion, the 14th track from Channel Orange. We heard a distraught, desperate man inside a taxi cab, searching for relief from an as yet unknown ailment. Just before the song's hook, we heard him state,

If it brings me to my knees, it's a bad religion. As a song continues into the hook, we find out just what kind of religion Frank is talking about, as it's not the traditional kind suggested by the taxi driver. Frank sings, This unrequited love, to me is nothing more than a one-man cult and cyanide in my styrofoam cup.

I can never make him love me, never make him love me. It's here we realize the bad religion Frank speaks, of, the religion that brings him to his knees in desperation and anguish, is the unrequited love he has for an unnamed man. Given everything we know about the inspiration of Channel Orange, we might assume the unnamed man is Frank's first love he spoke of in his open letter, the one who didn't reciprocate the strong feelings Frank admitted to having for him. Of course, regardless of the specifics, the feeling of unrequited love is a universal tragedy, and if you've

ever been dumped, rejected, or felt something for someone who didn't feel the same, you know how vulnerable and pathetic and insecure can leave you feeling. If you're not careful, it can have lasting effects on your self-worth and permanently change the way you interact with the world. To illustrate his point, Frank compares his unrequited love to a one-man cult. It's a clever comparison, as Frank is on his knees and devotion to a man, much like a cult member worships and follows a singular cult leader. By saying cyanide in my styrofoam cup, Frank alludes to Jim Jones, a cult leader in the 1970s, who infamously coerced his following to drink Kool-Aid poison with cyanide, killing 914 people.

Franklin tragically sings, I can never make him love me, never make him love me. It's truly a heart-wrenching moment of vulnerability, a forlorn cry of a tragic circumstance. Aside from Frank's incredible lyricism here, I do want to point out a few compositional details that I believe brilliantly enhances Frank's sentiments. First, let's back up to that heartbreaking moment in which Frank desperately sings if it brings me to my knees. As you listen, pay attention to Frank's voice on the word knees. For me, this specific part of the song, it's incredibly heart-wrenching, and I believe there's a few reasons why that is. First, we have a sudden introduction of a string

section, who let their presence be known with a voracious descending chromatic triplet. This descending riff comes right before the line if it brings me to my knees, and that downward motion of the strings helps to evoke an image of someone falling to their knees. Next, Frank sings an ascending melody, peeking on a high G-natural. It's the highest note he's sung up until this point in the song, a climax accentuated by Frank's raw emotional performance, as well as the chord that's played when Frank reaches at G-natural. Specifically, that chord is an A-sharp diminished seventh, an extremely dissonant chord,

one that falls outside the song's key signature, making the moment even more cacophonous. Personally, I always picture the protagonist falling to his knees when those descending strings come in, with the ascending If It Brings Me to My Knees Line acting like a desperate howl up to the heavens. There's also something significant about that G-Nash, The pinnacle high note Frank sings on the word knees. The song is set in the key of E major, which is comprised of the notes E, F sharp, G sharp, A, B, C sharp, and D sharp. So traditionally speaking, any time the note G is played in the key of E major, it should be a G sharp. And so when Frank ascends with that Bring Me to My Knee's melody, the G he's supposed to land on, or the one we expect, is a G sharp.

Instead we get, again, accompanied by that dissonant chord, that diminished seventh. The strings, the ascending melody, the climactic and unexpected G-natural, the diminished seventh chord, and of course Frank's haunting vocal tone, all these elements contribute to this extremely moving and impactful moment. Let's hear it one more time, hopefully with new ears and a new appreciation. as a song continues frank jumps into his falsetto voice and as we already discussed sings about unrequited love being like a one-man cult tonally the song modulates from e major to e minor during this section remember a modulation is when the key signature changes during a composition usually causing

some musical drama and shift in mood in the majority of popular music songs don't usually modulate though in classical or jazz it's not uncommon to find multiple modulation in the same piece. On bad religion, the modulation from E major to E minor adds dramatic impact, as minor keys are darker and more somber. It's a fitting emotional shift, as Frank is referencing cult leaders and mass suicides. Modulation. If this passage were to stay in E major, it would sound something like this. Sounds happy, right? I can't imagine Frank singing about cyanide and colts over this chord progression.

So instead, there's a modulation, and we get this. Bad religion returns to its original key of E major, as the song transitions into verse 2. But there's something really interesting that happens when that modulation occurs. Let's have a listen. Frank sings, I can never make him love me, and repeats the phrase love me over and over. Here's the melody he sings on piano. Frank is singing a G natural, the same G natural he sings on the bring me to my knees line we just spoke of at length. But the thing is, the song is modulated back to E major, and the chords Frank is singing over here, are playing a G sharp, while Frank keeps singing

a G natural somewhat relentlessly. As you know, G natural doesn't belong in the E major key signature, and so we have both G natural and G sharp sounding at the same time. And now I'll play the chords Frank is singing over. You can hear that dissonance, right? That clashing of notes? You don't hear this kind of dissonance often in popular music, but in a song about unrequited love, about one person feeling strongly for someone who doesn't reciprocate, this dissonance makes perfect thematic sense, a kind of sonic representation of the inharmonious emotions between these two people. Like the immisibility of oil and water, these notes, these feelings aren't harmonious. It also makes sense that Frank is singing Love Me over and over, a kind of quiet prayer to his desired partner,

like he's asking for the man's love, but singing all the wrong notes. The love he desires, like that G. Natural, is alone, without ally, unsupported by the notes with which it's surrounded. Bad religion continues with verse two, which expounds upon Frank's feelings of isolation. Taxi driver, I swear I've got three lives, balanced on my head like stick knives. I can't tell you the truth about my disguise. I can't trust no one. And you say a lie who I'm bar. Frank sings, taxi driver, I swear I got three lives, balanced on my head like steak knives. I can't tell you the truth about my disguise. I can't trust no one. Frank compares his living three lives simultaneously to balancing steak knives on his head, of course evoking an unsettling anxiety-producing mental image.

We might speculate the three lives are his public life as artist and musician, his private life among family and friends, and his secret life of having feelings for this man or men in general, which only very few people knew about before his open letter. Because he can't trust anyone about his quote-unquote disguise, Frank lives in continual distress and anxiety trying to perpetuate his three lives independently, trying to keep the secret of one life from his other two. One can only imagine the mental effects of such a thing. To be heartbroken is bad enough, but to be heartbroken without any surrounding support because the heartbreak is contained within your secret, well that seems doubly difficult. It's no wonder the protagonist is desperately confessing

to his driver inside a taxi cab, a kind of makeshift confessional booth. He has no one else to turn to, and he's so fearful that he can't even tell this stranger the truth, as he implies with the lines, I can't tell you the truth about my disguise, I can't trust no one. After a repetition of the song's hook, Bad Religion concludes with a brief outro. Someone who could never love you. Oh, oh, only bad religion would have me feeling the way I do. Frank sings, it's a bad religion to be in love with someone who could never love you. Only bad religion could have me feeling the way I do.

This outro is a recapitulation of the song's central message. The unrequited love is like a bad religion, like worshiping recklessly an unjust god or ill-intended cult leader. You're at their will, but the relationship is one-sided and ultimately destructive. The song's protagonist recognizes this, but is unable to shake his feelings, however hard he may try. If you've ever been heartbroken, if you've ever given your heart to someone only for them to give it back, you understand this feeling exactly. The helplessness, the vulnerability, the frustration, the sleeplessness and exhaustion, the utter desperation, how it can involuntarily invade your thoughts,

how it compels you to make regrettable, uncharacteristic decisions, how it can plague your soul and cannibalize your entire being. A bad religion, indeed. Conclusions. Bad religion is surprisingly less than three minutes long, but carries the emotional weight of a tragic novel. Its brevity makes it all the more impactful, as there's an area wasted second on the track. Each measure carefully constructed to maximize its emotional resonance. As we heard, the song makes use of a number of advanced compositional techniques and strategically selected instrumentation, a testament to the detail the songs for credited writers put into telling Frank's story what the gravity and nuance it deserves. And Frank's story is of course at the heart of bad religion. Of all the songs on Channel Orange,

it's bad religion that seems to most directly refer to the unrequited love spoken about in Frank's open letter. The letter displayed an array of emotions regarding that particular situation, including some that seemed to align with the desperation and frustration found on bad religion. Frank wrote, quote, In the last year or three, I've screamed at my creator, screamed at the clouds in the sky, for some explanation, mercy maybe, for peace of mind to reign like mana somehow, unquote. It's hard to read these lines and not think of bad religion,

with its allusions to God and outpouring of despair it reveals. Of course, what makes the song so impactful is that while it's likely a very personal song, is told in a universal way, relatable to anyone with the heart that's been broken, male or female, gay, straight, or otherwise. I'm reminded of a quote from William Faulkner's first novel, Soldiers Pay, in which one character says to another, quote, the saddest thing about love, Joe, is that not only the love cannot last forever, but even the heartbreak is soon forgotten, unquote. There's a kind of tragedy in the intrinsic fleeting quality of love and loss, However strong, however heartbreaking it once was, we move on, eventually.

Bad religion is both an expression and preservation of heartbreak, a document of love lost, an artifact of unrequited love. If we allow it, bad religion can help to avoid the tragedy of forgetting. It can serve as a reminder of our past loves and losses, a reminder of a rejection that hopefully made us stronger, of heartbreak that helped to shape who we are. Again, we turn to Frank's letter, quote, To my first love, I'm grateful for you. Grateful that even though it wasn't what I hoped for,

and even though it was never enough, it was. Some things never are, and we were. I won't forget you, unquote. With bad religion, forgetting now seems impossible. And for that, we're grateful too. It's a bad religion to be in love with someone who can never love you. Bad religion is followed by a trio of tracks that bring Channel Orange to an elegant conclusion. Pink Matter, Forest Gump, and the closing skit end.

Three tracks will thoroughly discuss. Next time on Dysect. Dysect is written and produced by me. Additional project support by Spotify's Michelle Santucci. Original theme music by Birocratic. Remember, when you listen to Dysect on Spotify, you'll get new episodes a week before all other platforms, as well as access to exclusive bonus episodes only available on Spotify. Follow at Dissect Podcast on Twitter and Instagram and follow the official Dissect Spotify user profile

for playlist curated by me, as well as collaborative playlist you can contribute to. You can find that by searching Dissect Pod playlist in Spotify. Okay, thanks everyone. Talk to you next week.