46. Dog Days Are Over - Florence + The Machine

I’m surprised at how much of this series has been dedicated to the struggles and failures of my first few years in practice.

It wasn’t deliberate – I just don’t think I realized how much music helped me in those days.

When you’re at the bottom of a hole looking up at a dark sky and waiting for it to start raining, it’s important that you have something to push you get to work. Or to keep you company as you push through the muck.

For me - as with so many people  - it was music.

I mean, I was terribly fortunate to have my family and my friends and – most of all – my TGNW to support, help and boost me.

But one thing failure does is undermine the confidence you have in the kind words of others. It’s very easy to dismiss the positive messages and compliments from loved ones when you’re banging your head against your own shortcomings.

You don’t have to worry about that with music. It’s completely reliable and unreliable at the same time.

It’s sharply powerful, but amorphous and vague. It can inspire, distract, depress, repel, attract, groove or relax, or dance through any other utterly human reaction.

It’s of incredible value in the moment, that’s without doubt.

It can help you push out that last 2% effort needed to get something done. It can force you out of bed, it can keep you company in your lonely pursuit of something better, something different, something yours.

But what I didn’t realise at the time was how stubbornly music would cling to those moments, those dozens of moments that may not define your life – but still mark the boundaries of your experience.

I didn’t know Kanye would forever remind me of gardening and recovery.

I didn’t realise Dan Sultan would always make me blush, slightly, with the memory of failures.

Nor did I think Bruce Springsteen would make me think of the final steps out of the hole.

No – I had no idea of the mark these songs would leave on my memory of those difficult, pride-shattering, embarrassing times.

I was busy enough trying to work out how to get out of the hole, far too busy to think about the music that I’d remember if I ever got out.  

One thing I did know, however, was that I’d play Dog Days Are Over if I ever did.

*               *               *

You know this song, we all know this song. It was everywhere for a while there and – for many – has fallen into the café cliché bucket, forever to be played in the background while you wait for your latte and cheeky muffin.

If you can, though, I suggest taking a few moments to listen to it again. Sit down, still and quiet, and properly listen to it.

The album version is, naturally, amazing, but if I could suggest listening to this one from 2010 instead, I think you’ll get the full blessed ride.

It opens with the harp.

Then in comes Florence’s voice – slowly, softly – starting to elongate those syllables and tease that incredible vibrato.

The crowd – young, happy, waterlogged – start singing along to this song that means something to them, something different to each of them.  

The tempo picks up a little, then the drummer starts the 1,2 pause, 4 on the tambourine.

Now for the other instruments, some guitar, that gentle bass, the keys dancing through. That beat, that simple, bombastic, boppable beat, keeps throbbing along.

Florence’s voice really building now, and now she’s also clapping along with the beat. The clapping builds as well, becoming more forceful, more insistent.

That harpist, testing their callouses on that impractically wonderful instrument.

“The dog days are over!

The dog days are over.

Can’t you hear the horses

Because here they come!”

And, DRUMS!

Florence starts kicking it up, exploring the range of that voice. The effervescent power of that voice. Like it’s been little more than a warmup to this point, just idling along.

But now? It is, to use an awful cliché, out of this world.

Then a brief reset while she – somehow – personally engages with the entire crowd like a sheer professional.

Some gentle strumming of that guitar. And this, this contrast between the forceful noise and the gentle tune is the frame this song is built on.

That and that damned kick drum.

Some more conversation.

Then, getting ready for it, waiting.

Delaying what everyone knows is coming.

Her control of the silence is sublime.

I don’t like commenting on the appearance of people, but I’m compelled to say – Florence looks like a damned goddess on that stage.

With the shimmering rain, flowing gown and complete ownership of the stage, it’s not hard to imagine her holding entire ancient islands in her thrall, citizens prostrating themselves at her feet, hoping to fulfil their fates and her every whim.

She is the rock star, the golden god, the fluid proof of magic on Earth, a barefoot lightning rod of joy and ecstasy for the crowd.

The crowd. Her crowd.

Then.

Here. We. Go.

“1

2

3…

GOOOOOOO!!!”

“Run fast for your mother

Run fast for your father,

Run for your children,

Your sisters and brothers.”

It’s goosebumps, it’s catharsis, it’s release and it’s the frenzied embodiment of what art can do to a crowd of people.

“Can’t you hear the horses

Cos here they coooooommmmmme!”

It’s coordinated bedlam, the triumphant realization of communal release. Hands clapping to the sky, exhilarated investment in the moment, tapping into that pure vein of joy.

This – this is what music can do.  

* * *

I listened to this song a lot in those difficult days.

I adored it anyway – oh, how I love a song with a crescendo rolling off a quiet verse – but the possibility it captured, of those dog days passing and being over, filled me up.

I knew I’d listen to this, with a smile on my face and glint in my eye, when we were out of the hole.

I’d look back on those days and remember how we ran, how we pushed, how we struggled, laughed, fought, doubted and persevered.

I’d anticipate that shift in gear, two thirds of the way in, and scream along with those lyrics, dancing, spinning, arms akimbo, laughing, burning the scar tissue away and remembering how things were.

This song was – is – hope.

* * *

As might be obvious, I love music.

I’m a sucker for it, a wide-eyed, naïve romantic shocked by its continued power over the emotions I can actually recognize.

More than a companion, it’s a relationship that’s sustained me during difficult times and boosted those joyous moments that little bit higher – helping stamp them on to my brain for easy, aural recall.  

This song, built around a basic hand-clapping beat and powered by a truly extraordinary voice, encapsulates everything music has meant to me and how it’s shaped my life, and fueled me during some tough times.

Thank you, Florence + the Machine.

PS: Though the Hole is a distant memory now, I haven’t achieved every goal I set myself back then. So I’ve held off on this particular dance.

But it’s coming.