"Gotta Do" had slipped into the night, the sort of song one runs over when all is so quiet that the sound of personal thought is audible. I had half-woken, had the headphones on, the room seemed to be darkening its shade around me, and the first notes were like a person who was opening a door that he had kept a lot of stuff inside and could no longer keep it in his heart.
The synths are not passive instruments in the background, but rather are glowing in the distance, far and faint, as the final lights of the city you are leaving. The beat has a pulse that is more of a heartbeat than a machine. Then the voice of Allan Jamisen enters. Unmistakable, even, almost monotonous. It does not demand your attention, it just grabs it, as an honest confession does.
I literally stopped in the instant the background vocals come in, the voice of his late mother singing so softly beneath his own. It is so sensitive, listening to a person clung on to something that is no longer physically in the presence. It does not seem like a production gimmick. It sounds as though memory had spoken out loud, as though love had managed to stay in the room. It is revered, it is dear and somehow sacred.
However, the song does not remain in this silent hurt. It spreads, upwards, takes impetus. Slowly but surely, it develops into something shiny and resolute an electro-pop blast that is like pressing through your own density and finally getting back outside in the open air. You can feel him making motion instead of despair, turning injury into something which drives instead of freezes.
The juxtaposition between the sorrow that lingers, and the strength that emerges despite it, is painful. It is so visceral that you can feel the movement in the chest of your own body. I not only have found myself returning to it on the heavier days, but it helps you to remember that carrying on is not just responsibility. It's resistance. It's love. It is evidence that even when the human soul is hurt, it is still able to move in some way.
Gotta Do does not come off like another song. It is almost like someone grabbing a steady shoulder and whispering in a low voice but heavily: I have been there also, and look, we still are here. Still moving. Still becoming. Music rarely goes that deep, but when it goes there, you are left lacking that feeling even after the final note dies out.
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