The Song I Wrote After We Forgot How to Listen
“The Tower and the Wall” was written in November of 2016, immediately after Trump’s first election victory. Oddly enough, despite how dense and layered the lyrics are, it was one of the fastest songs I’ve ever written. Most of my work feels crafted line by line — this one felt delivered. I wasn’t chiseling marble so much as trying to transcribe a storm before it passed.
At the time, I noticed something changing in American discourse. Political disagreement no longer seemed rooted in persuasion or understanding. It became about moral condemnation. The goal was no longer to convince your opponent, but to portray them as fundamentally evil. I remember feeling that if you didn’t hate the opposing side with enough visible outrage, you were considered “part of the problem.” Moderation itself became suspicious. Trying to understand why people believed what they believed was treated almost like betrayal.
The imagery of the song arrived before the thesis fully did. “The wall” obviously began as a reference to the proposed border wall that dominated the 2016 campaign, but then other ideas started attaching themselves to it: ivory towers, the Tower of Babel, the walls of Jericho. Those symbols all seemed connected to the same human instinct — fear, pride, tribalism, separation. One side retreats into intellectual or moral superiority. The other retreats into defensive isolation. Different structures, same impulse.
A line people often ask me about is: “They demon-eyes the working class, to see what demons see.” The phrase was partially inspired by Don Henley’s “Mercedes Bends” from Hotel California — slightly twisting language until it feels emotionally right. “Demon-eyes” made me think of someone blacking out a face in a magazine with an ink pen until the person stops looking human. That was the real concern at the center of the song: not disagreement, but dehumanization. Once people stop trying to understand one another, public discourse collapses into caricature and slogans.
What matters most to me now is that the song hopefully lives beyond 2016. Beneath the political references, it’s really a warning about human nature itself. The final stanza intentionally steps away from outrage because the world already has enough judgmental fingers pointing at society screaming “shame.” I wanted to end with a solution instead: discourse, respect, proof, understanding. Not agreement — understanding. Because once you truly understand why someone believes what they believe, you realize very few people are as monstrous as partisan culture would have us believe.
#politicalscience #Lyrics #poetsoflemon8 #towerofbabel #wallsofjericho
Reflecting further on 'The Tower and the Wall,' the song speaks deeply to a reality many of us have experienced in recent years: the growing polarization within society and the struggle to listen to one another. This piece of music not only documents the fractured landscape of political discourse post-2016 but also highlights how fear and pride can build invisible walls around us, much like the historical references to the Tower of Babel and the walls of Jericho. In my own life, I've noticed how easy it is to fall into the trap of 'demon-eyes' — seeing others not as humans with differing perspectives but as threats or enemies. This dehumanization leads to dismissiveness and even hatred, which only widens the divide. The song’s metaphor of blacking out faces resonates strongly, illustrating how people can become caricatures rather than individuals to be understood. What stands out most is the song’s call for discourse rooted not in agreement but in understanding. This approach encourages us to go beyond surface-level slogans and truly engage with the reasons behind others’ beliefs. From personal experience, such engagement is challenging yet rewarding — it often softens rigid views and opens pathways to empathy, reducing animosity. The image found in the song’s artwork, featuring phrases like 'FREEDOM IS HATE' and 'ENEMY LOVE NOT HATE Together,' further emphasizes the tension between division and the longing for unity. It reminds us that freedom can be twisted into justification for exclusion unless tempered by love and respect. Ultimately, 'The Tower and the Wall' invites reflection on how we participate in society’s divisions and what steps we can take to dismantle them. It’s a powerful reminder that while walls—physical or ideological—may rise from fear and pride, empathy and understanding are the tools to bring them down, fostering a community where dialogue replaces condemnation.
