No. 058 - Tom Odell's “Sparrow” changed my life

The night Ezekiel Decker surrendered to life's uncertainty

Sep 27, 2024

This Song Changed My Life is an independent music publication featuring essays from people all around the world about the songs that mean the most to them. Created by Grace Lilly, supported by readers.

Odell, Tom - Wrong Crowd(Deluxe) - Amazon.com Music

• 4 min read •

On a cold January night in North Texas in 2017, a few friends and I sat in my bedroom sharing a smoke. One of my friends, who had the aux, played a track he’d recently heard — “Sparrow” by Tom Odell.

The subtle groove of drums painted a safari-esque landscape for the piano, moving between bitterness and sorrow with uplifting notes that echoed the song's search for meaning.

Why, sparrow, why?
Won’t you tell me why I’m sad?
Sing us both a melody, the best that you can

Usually our nights were filled with “chill vibes only,” but this night was different. We had just come from a house party, a gathering of acquaintances from over the years, but there was a disconnect. This little group hotboxing in my room were the day-ones. And we all had something in common: deconstructing from religion.

My parents' divorce was imminent, some friends were becoming alcoholics, and one of my best friends was about to have his first child. We grew up in a world where "God" was always watching, providing, and testing. The real world was hitting us like an earthquake. There was no time for thinking about the heavens.

We were learning to let go of the dogmatic religion that promised us heaven and sold us a lie that our doubts would send us to hell. At the party, we faked laughter at sanitized jokes, overcompensating for not fitting in, taking on the judgmental eyes of those who looked down on our absurd attempts to belong.

Speak, sparrow, speak
Please, won’t you try?
Tell me why you’d walk if you knew that you could fly
Speak, sparrow, speak
Oh, please, won’t you try?
Tell me all the answers to this meaningless life

We stepped out for a smoke, and one friend brought a bottle of bourbon. Hearing the party from outside, we hit the road, windows down, leaving the earth salted behind us. Back in my room, I remember one friend turning off the lights while the song played, wanting to cry without being seen. I did too.

Stay, sparrow, stay
Won’t you stay in my window?
I’d never been so close to anything so beautiful
Wait, sparrow, wait
Oh, please don’t you go
I love the way your feathers move as the wind it blows

Part of me was holding back. I didn’t want to think that I’d stunted myself with complacency. I wanted to believe I was one of the good Christian boys, that I could keep the real world at bay by living a lie. But the real world comes to us if we don’t go to it — loved ones pass, friends grow distant, and you find yourself waking up at 7 a.m., looking in the mirror, wondering, "How did I get here?"

Ezekiel and friends in Scottsdale, Arizona (2020)

Years later, I catch myself looking at a bird outside the window before work. It’s looking back at me, the cold air coming in, and the bird will fly south soon.

Sing, sparrow, sing
Sing away our pain
When you get the bones of it, we are just the same
I said sing, sparrow, sing
Sing away our pain
I’ll never hear a melody as sweet as today

We shared a hopeful embrace that night, with sniffles and watery eyes as the song ended. Maybe my state of inebriation colored my memory a bit, but who cares? I realized that we and the sparrow are no different, ever unknowing of the meaning of all things, finding ourselves walking when we can fly.

“Sparrow” isn’t the most nuanced song, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s bombastic in its paganistic celebration of sorrow. It doesn’t hide deeper meaning, but sometimes we need art to be simple with us. This song changed my life, lighting a fire within me to embrace life’s uncertainty and make something of the little time we’re given.

That night, I was ready to break free of my complacency, to learn to fly in life. To face the uncertainty of a life without a defined meaning, to clear my own path.

Because you’re up on that tree, and you look in my eyes
And I wonder how, but you’re saying goodbye

Nearly eight years later, and after ten years of friendship, those friends and I still meet every weekend for games and good talks. Someday, an earthquake might pull us apart, but it’ll take a lot more than that to lose those memories.

When you get the bones of it, we are just the same. ◆

Ezekiel Decker is an American filmmaker and musician based in Dallas, Texas, born in Oklahoma. In 2022, he made his debut feature film The Woman Under The Stage, an award-winning psychological horror film about the struggles of a theater actress. His new film Ties That Bind Us is currently being written and is slated for production in the coming months.

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