Darryl Blood scores. Literally (and yes, I use the word correctly here). Clearly a fan of John Carpenter’s soundtracks (even tagging Carpenter and “vintage synthesizers” on his bandcamp page), he composed the score for this year’s The Campus, an indie that has been described as “five bad horror films in one.” I haven’t seen it yet, but I’ve listened to the synth-heavy score several times, and I’m here to tell you that it’s crazy good.
Actually, I’m here to tell you that Mr. Blood is a hell of an artist, but it’s his mastery of composition that elevates “The Staircase” from another great track on another great compilation to a beautifully-painted work of aural art. He makes great use of the elements available to him, but the two that work best on “The Staircase” are those that few artists ever employ, much less master: silence and the pause.
The song opens with a quick but gentle stroke on the cello and then pauses for nearly FIVE SECONDS (a lifetime in broadcasting terms), followed by five uncertain piano notes. Though this phrase quickly ends, the notes are sustained while another sul tasto from the cello forces the key. The two trade back-and-forth a bit before a two-second pause, after which the track’s real movement begins. The cello functions here as the subject’s mind, considering whether or not to ascend/descend the titular passage. The first notes of the piano are those first tentative steps into the unknown.
When the piano motif gets into full swing (accompanied by several longer cello strokes), it is the sudden and suddenly irreversible entry into this passage, a brief journey fraught with fear and the intent to not look back. But at or near what should be the finish line, the motif slows frustratingly rather than ending abruptly, even as the cello sings a higher tone that signals anxiety. It’s not the end that was anticipated, something is wrong. Another pause and the piano moves to several dyads and triads, measured out and augmented by calmer tones from the cello until . . . no resolution.
Why not? What is happening here? What is on the landing that gives the climber pause? Or is there a landing? Perhaps the staircase is infinite or the end moves continually away from the climber a la Danielewski’s House of Leaves? These questions will (and should) go unanswered. The best musical works, like the best films, don’t exist to provide all of the details for the audience; they exist to evoke tension, emotion, curiosity, and wonder, and they do this most effectively in the details they leave out.
