I was watching the fifth or sixth version of Beth Hart’s “Leave the Light On” the other night when I realized my hand had been on my heart since somewhere through the first version I’d heard. I must have placed it there when I began to realize what the song was about and had become fully absorbed in its pathos.
The link to the full lyrics is here, but these four lines in the second stanza got my immediate attention, and Hart’s fine elocution and dramatic rendering do the remaining work:
Little girl hiding underneath the bedWas it something I didMust be something I saidI leave the light onBetter leave the light on
My visceral reaction was probably equal parts sympathy, horror, compassion, and revulsion, as if I wanted to physically comfort my heart so I could help do the same for hers.
Alongside it, though, was deep admiration for Hart’s ability to confront her father’s sexual abuse by making an exquisite, impassioned work of art.
It is a song she has no doubt sung hundreds of times in concert since its 2003 debut, but she leans into it with such ferocious resolve every time she performs it that from what I have seen, every time seems like the first time.
Is she still leaving the light on due to fear, or does, ‘I still leave that light on’ suggest her inner light burns bright still, and her life will not be denied?
Part of me is concerned about that, thinking of the emotional toll it must take to re-occupy that space so regularly in concert through the past nearly quarter century. But that, I think, is to misunderstand the nature of healing, if we can even use that word, from such deep-seated, devastating trauma.
The point is not to “forget” as such, since that is essentially impossible and requires no-doubt unhealthy repression, but to finally overcome the darkness of such a terrible secret by sharing it, whether with deeply trusted mates, friends and therapists, or with public audiences via artistic expression.
In a You Tube interview conducted while she was driving through her old neighborhood in Los Angeles where she lived (more like “survived,” to hear her tell it) for 16 years earlier in her life, she discusses with unabashed candor her approach to the abuse by insisting:
“I’m Bipolar 1, and my mania is the scariest part. That’s what makes me want to drink, it makes me want to cut myself. I’m going a million miles an hour, I write tons of songs (while) manic, but it’s no way to be…What do I do to get through it? I get to reach out. Whether it comes through a song or calling my mother or calling a friend or being honest in an interview. You know: the truth will set you free…Shine the light on the dark and it flees,..Tell the freaking truth. Even if everybody thinks you’re the biggest dick, or you’re such a loser. Because it’s worth it. That light will drive away the dark. I really believe that. I’ve seen it happen in my life. Shining that light, shining that truth, having the courage to tell the truth.”
I’m going to share a couple of different versions here that underscore all the above. The first is stripped down and intimate, in what looks like it might be her home studio, just her and her piano, alone only in the sense of there being no visible audience.
The second is live, in a large German concert hall, Hart bathed in sweat and adulation, telling her “truth” and obviously relishing just how deeply she is loved and respected for it. “I want to connect with everybody, of course I want to feel part of the group, I want to feel part of the human race, I don’t want to feel alone,” she had said in the interview cited above.
Mission accomplished, it would seem. Give these their few minutes each, and we’ll conclude with a few more comments below and a closing musical number with Hart and a special collaborator and special audience, in a setting recently restored with its original name.
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Reviewing the lyrics, I counted 18 lines with variations on “Leave the light on.” The lines begin as a kind of dark incantation, bathed in fear. If she makes sure to leave the light on, maybe he won’t come in, or it won’t be so bad, or someone will barge in and he will go away.
But just as critical, and here we see the lyrics doing double duty: Maybe her own light, the light of her life, the light that is born with every innocent child, won’t be snuffed out completely by the awfulness and betrayal she is being subjected to. Hence: “Better leave the light on.”
Followed by the thunderous declarations: “I wanna love! I wanna live!, and a plea to the heavens, “Can the damage be undone?”
She has had her doubts over the years, beginning with her “dirty-faced” condition, typical of sex abuse survivors who feel soiled and unclean, forced to “cut my luck with a dirty ace.” The gambling metaphor of a marked card underlines her self-perception as corrupt and compromised, before her life has ever truly started, and possibly beyond repair.
As the song winds down, however, she conjures her own redemption with a blessing, though the final two lines can be read two ways again.
God bless the child with the dirty face,Who cuts her luck with a dirty aceShe leaves the light onI still leave that light on
Is she still leaving the light on due to fear, or does “I still leave that light on” suggest her inner light burns bright still, and her life will not be denied? Judging from the multiple performances of the song I viewed, including a chatty and triumphant finale at London’s Royal Albert Hall, there’s little doubt that the song is much more anthem than dirge.
The fact that she has sung it so frequently, with such enduring power over so many years, suggests the same. Singers sick of their own songs simply don’t sing them anymore, or sing them in such desultory fashion that audiences stop asking.
Hart (such a name!) is 54 now, married 25 years to the man she says “saved me,” and still touring internationally. Fourteen July concerts are on tap through seven European countries. Another nine September dates through the American midwest will follow. “The list of what there is to be grateful for and happy for is so much longer than what there is to be sad and broken-hearted over,” she told an interviewer last year.
That may seem like a remarkable claim for someone who entertained intense death wishes and aborted suicide attempts through more than half of her life. But then music is a remarkable thing, so perhaps her example is not remarkable at all, but just another case of music’s power to change the world, along with all the people who play, listen, and love it in return.
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Homepage rotating banner photos (except for library books) by Elizabeth Haslam https://www.flickr.com/photos/lizhaslam/
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Hart in concert top of page by Bamble commune, Norway https://www.flickr.com/photos/bamblekommune/
That is some really hard stuff. I’m glad she made it through, and can share not only this, but regular hard core blues too. The session with Jeff Beck is a killer and I found another one of them doing Purple Rain at the Hollywood Bowl where they cut loose even more.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZJNbVRmI80
Beth Hart’s “Leave the Light On” is a compelling example of the healing importance of baring the truth, especially difficult in a public environment like a concert where so many sit silently, taking in the horror of the never-ending pain she suffered through those nights when her father sexually abused her. It’s a frightening scene to picture a young girl hiding in the dark from a father whom everyone says is a protector. It’s a behind closed-door crime, trapping one in a horror of permanence, self-doubt, shame, anger, guilt and the “why me?” cry of despair. All of us need to leave our light on for all the Beth Harts living behind this closed-door darkness. The image of quivering girl, unable to turn on the light, must never be thrown into a temporary state of empathy; we must keep our light on always. Musically, her skill as a pianist gives her voice more power. Finally, one can’t downplay the reality that at her recovery relied on love. In her case, a husband, a protector, who created a safe space for her to deal with the demons of sexual abuse. Don’t we all need a support system like love to sustain us through life’s difficulties?
Thanks for that, Deanna. Hadn’t clicked on that cut but you’re right, it rocks the house, as most all her stuff does. She is nothing if not “present” in her concerts, near as I can see, never just mails it in. And I love her bluesy growl!
Yes to all you say here, Robert, and I’m glad you mentioned her piano playing, which is stellar, and no small part of her performances. She plays some half-dozen other instruments as well, something I don’t really understand how people can do, but I’m glad for it! Thanks, as always, for sharing your thoughts here.
WOW!! Thanks so much for this post, Andrew – and the video link to Purple Rain with Jeff Beck & the Purple Rain video you posted, Deanna. I am a lifelong music lover like most readers of this blog, but I only had a very limited connection to the emotionally high-octane music of Beth Hart. Words fail to do justice to the videos posted in terms of the energy, emotion, and cathartic barn-burning commitment of her delivery – leaving me with tingly shivers. It was wonderful listening to the magic of Jeff Beck’s guitar genius, the perfect foil for Hart’s vocals. I asked the AI to weigh in here, and this comment was pretty spot on:
“…a masterclass in tension and release, pairing raw, soul-drenched vocal power with lyrical emotive guitar work…both artists are known for their explosive power, but their interplay shines in their quiet moments. They know exactly how to let a note breathe, building a song from a tender whisper to a roaring blues-rock crescendo.”
Indeed!
Was very glad to bump into her, Kevin. Score one for randomly scrolling You Tube links begat by the dreaded algorithms—sometimes they actually serve a useful rather than corrosive function! “Raw, soul-drenched emotive power” from AI and “cathartic barn-burning commitment” from your comment about says it all. I see she’s touring this fall in the good ol’ USA rather than Europe, so I may just plan some distant excursion around it, since she seems to be skipping North Carolina.