"Little Bird", a work at No. 43 Baojia Street. Wang Feng and his gang named the band after the address of their alma mater, the Central Conservatory of Music. I didn’t listen to much of Wang Feng’s early works. Objectively speaking, based on the information I have now, I don’t think Wang Feng was too high-level at that time. However, this song remains in my memory as the only song signed by the collective of No. 43 Baojia Street. Why, the answer can be found in the lyrics.
The characteristic of Wang Feng’s lyrics is that no matter how abstract, general or obscure, he always tells a story, a realistic, concrete and direct story. He often sings out fragments of stories, putting emotions into lyrics, singing, melody and artistic conception. Experience, connotation, feelings, attitudes, ideas, thoughts, reflections, beliefs, and existence can all be heard in every song of Wang Feng's, and all can be seen in every lyric.
In the song "Little Bird", Wang Feng used a lot of high notes that sounded unstable, and even felt like a thick rope swaying, like a bowl-thick rope. Unprocessed wood, with uneven wood fibers rising and falling on the surface. If I didn't know who Wang Feng was, I would say he was a semi-amateur singer, and I might even conclude that this person has no future. Although I don't understand music at all, the singing style in "Little Bird" seems to be more controlled than the vicissitudes of life, the low, overly magnetic voice of "In the Spring" or the blood-heated shouting in "Brightness". Really a bit amateurish.
But if you think about this song, think about the flight of a bird that has just left the nest.
This lyric is also a story. Think of the flight of a bird.
The first section compares ideals and reality. The ideal is illusory, but the reality cannot be hidden; the ideal is full of desires, but the reality is powerless; the ideal makes people sad, and the reality makes me wanton. The little bird has just come out of the nest and is forcibly driven out of the warm home by the iron wings of its parents. It stumbles, hoping and fearing for the future, and not knowing what to do with everything. I learned to forage by my parents' side, but I didn't know how to eat any food, and I couldn't tell which foods were rotting meat or hunters' traps. Flying in search of the ideal environment that I hope for, I try my best to find some millet bugs. Freedom, hope, confusion.
The second section attempts to adapt to reality. Reality is empty, reality has nowhere to go, reality is deaf, reality is a cage. The reality is that while flying, you suddenly realize that your ideal does not exist. You look down enviously at the flocks of chickens, ducks, geese, and quails on the ground, and hopelessly look up at the few eagles and giant falcons in the sky. Completely confused, I don’t know what the falcon sacrificed in advance and what it is going through now. I have no idea what the chicken and duck will mortgage in the future and what they are enduring now, let alone how to embark on any path. No clue. Confused, crazy, disappointed.
The third section begins with a goal. Fly to happiness, fly to freedom, fly to light, fly to the real and false stars in the distance in the endless night, the speed of light is left behind. Years passed, and when I flew close enough, I finally found that the stars were rolling, hot and untouchable. Flying back and forth in the empty and dreamlike space, it became aimless again, and began to rush around again, hoping that it might find a tiny exit between reality and the hunter's cage. Disappointment, hope, despair.
Flying around, flying around, I fly around, like a little bird...
Finally dropped the burden, finally tore apart the lie, finally In unbearable pain, he pecked off every feather on his body with his blunt beak, plucked out every sharp edge on his claws that was no longer sharp, knocked off his aging hard beak on the stone, and wore a The armor made of his own blood broke free of its chains in the bloody sun and flew out of the cage. Despair, transformation, light.
Because we are born free.