LET'S discuss a song called “Juggernaut”, by a band called Periphery. This particular unreleased version features their former singer Casey Sabol, with whom I attended university. I'm assuming Periphery sent him the instrumental and asked him to write / record the lead vocal part, which he eventually shared with me.

I find this song to be exceedingly sophisticated, and in the following illuminations of my reasons for feeling as such, I also hope to share in an enjoyable fashion some of the mental imagery that accompanies my listenings:

The song consists of guitar, drums, and vocals. The seemingly arrhythmic rhythm guitar is like a machine of death, slowly rotating and churning its forces. The chords are heaven-sent. The vocals are exquisitely expressive, demonstrating drastic contrasts and dynamics, emotion, and definition, effortlessly moving between both deep- and high-timbre blood curdling screams, and beautiful soaring melodic singing filled with breath and anguish. The polyrhythmic, irregular structure of the rhythm guitar part can be analyzed on multiple levels. You mostly have a repeating pattern infused into a heavy 4 backbeat, with the subdivision in 6, and the eighth-note pulse remaining consistent throughout (see attached transcription).

The drums are unbearably heavy, with the kick emphasizing in detail the syncopation of the guitar part.

I was so infatuated with this song that I couldn't help but listen to it on repeat, over and over again before going to sleep, night after night, trying desperately to decipher the codes within. Every pass revealed something new, another function within the whole. This repeated listening lasted for months, when at last I finally sat down and transcribed the rhythm guitar and kick parts.

The transcription process felt as though I were up against an enormous digital dragon, a beast of all beasts whose sole intention was to hypnotize and kill. Its secrets of power were encoded into the mechanisms of interplaying rhythms — by transcribing them, I unraveled and revealed the mysteries behind its hypnotic effects, rendering myself no longer susceptible to them. This was both a good and bad thing. It was a most ecstatic experience to get lost in the world of the song, allowing the beast in my mind to seduce my emotions with glistening beauty and grace. Now though, as a result of the transcription, I have brought myself closer to understanding the ingredients of the magic — one cannot, as it’s said, have their cake and eat it too.

Being a musician makes it fairly difficult to avoid the “What is art?” debate, and its relevant offshoots:

• What is good art?
• What is bad art?
• Is this good or bad? Why?

These topics naturally give life to quite interesting conversations, and as in any other debate, each party involved deserves a logical foundation along with any worthwhile opinions being presented by their opponent. Upholding the standards of logic can be difficult when the subject matter is irreparably infused with subjectivity. The following is my attempt to argue the fact that screaming in music can, in fact (and contrary to popular belief), be very musical:

There is harmony, and there is melody. Harmony implies a certain movement, a certain flow from one color to the next, at the composer's whim. The changes can be abrupt, smooth, drastic, or subtle. Then, there is the melody, usually consisting of a single note at a time. It is the main idea, the primary communicator of sorts, finding itself and its existence and function surrounded by, defined by, and forever bound by the context of the harmony.

The melody passes from note to note, creating what could be considered a linear progression of points relative to the harmony. What happens, one might ask, when there is just no note that is sufficiently appropriate to depict the intended picture, or evoke the intended emotion? What if, as the harmony chugs along at full strength, the colors all there in absolute perfection, there needs to be a melody communicated, however no particular note choice will serve with proper justice the intensity of the situation in that moment? That is when, I argue, the scream is a perfect fit. Of course, as with anything else, the technique can be abused. Please recognize, nevertheless, that it is in fact a technique of potentially high regard and validity.

The scream consists of words, syllables, or sounds that have no pitch — an arguably musical (yet pitch-less) entity. Similarly to rhythm, it is a communicative tool that, when properly employed, can invoke the darkest, most threatening of feelings and images. Colors of pain and beauty explode in one’s mind's eye, having nowhere safe to turn away. It is raw data, alleviating itself of any melodic-harmonic responsibilities. It is primal, instinctive, biological.

This brings us next to explore the concept of a note. Let's imagine an entity (a color, perhaps) that remains intact while its contextual backdrop changes (hence changing the entity's relative function). When the only means of measuring a function is relativistic by default, one can go a step further to say when the backdrop of context changes, the entity itself also necessarily changes.

Imagine a note (within the human vocal range) soaring high and distinctly. Then, imagine a chord bellowing underneath this note, perhaps one created by a colossal cathedral organ. Finally, imagine the organ shifting chords entirely, the lowest bass note settling into a new rumble, the harmonic series scrambling to catch up and adjust itself accordingly within the confines of the new structure. The soaring note that remains above is forced to change colors, and therefore undergoes a complete metamorphosis — all while simultaneously remaining exactly the same. Now, imagine this scenario within the dark and hellish setting of a song containing thrashing drums, unforgiving rhythm guitars, and human screams. The note itself is an eminent victim of bloody murder. It gets ready for execution, and as the instant of rhythmic cue arrives, it throws itself into dimensional existence. Now, once again, context is left to determine its fate… yet it prevails. It is true only to itself. It knows its identity, and does everything possible to remain unchanged. Yet as soon as the earths below begin to shift, although trying with all its might to persist, the note is forced to transmogrify, forced to become something new. Has it, in the end, succeeded in remaining true to itself?

Be it a note, or be it a scream, the entity has a real and important musical function, always relative to its context.

Here is the audio:

Here is the rhythmic transcription: