Alicia Keys, a slow 6/8, and the greatest love song ever written

One thing about me: I love a superlative. Anyone who knows me knows I love making rankings, tier lists, and Mount Rushmores of literally whatever. I find immense satisfaction in being able to articulate an opinion about why I think something is definitively "the best."

That said, I know how ridiculous it sounds for me to say that, out of some 100 million love songs ever made, there is one that can be called the greatest ever. And yet I think it's a terribly fun exercise to make the claim anyway and then try to back it up. So here we are.

Intros and outros

A conductor I once had for an orchestra I played in said that his favorite instruments were the piano and the human voice. His primary instrument was the cello, and yet somehow he didn't feel like he could call it his favorite! I think about that sometimes when I listen to the intro of If I Ain't Got You – how a well-played piano melody just feels like home.

And with this song in particular, there's a trance-like quality to the way those repeated triplets move, the way they sway idly throughout each measure and then step ever so carefully up and down the scale. I say trance-like because it feels very meditative. It floats – but at the same time we're grounded by the chords on the beats leading up to, and on, the 1. A waves-on-the-beach-like ebb and flow. Calm and thoughtful.

Meditation and tranquility are also closely tied to breathing, which to me is why the big pause between the end of the intro and the start of the first verse fits so perfectly. It's the deep breath you take right before doing or saying something important. We think of this as something we do just for our own benefit, a go-to strategy for easing our anxieties or keeping a level head in the face of some emotional trigger. But I think it's also something we do for others' sake. The act of "taking a deep breath" helps us every day to avoid saying hurtful things we don't mean or making bad decisions that could affect those around us. And I think it acts as a signal to whomever we're with that we're taking the moment seriously and making a real effort to do or say the right thing. "Taking a beat" helps us ground an otherwise intense or high-stakes conversation in earnestness; helps us push past the sarcasm and irony we've grown so accustomed to hiding behind; helps us talk about the hard things while admitting we don't have all the answers.

The outro mostly feels like a mirror image of the intro, but with a few key differences – namely the addition of light drums (love the change from hi-hat + snare in the body of the song to cross-stick and cymbal in the outro, perfect way to move the vibe from the ground up into the air) and the vocal runs being complete phrases rather than oohs/mmms/yeahs. Alicia sings, "nothing in this whooa-woah-world don't mean a thing," her thesis plus a dash of vocal improvisation. Then she finishes the song with a classic piano run up the scale followed by a single low tonic note, which is a standard enough ending, except it feels just a tad out of place here doesn't it? It feels more classical than R&B, which makes me wonder if, like the "woah" in the phrase I just mentioned and the riff extension on "babayyyaayy" right after it, the song's conclusion is meant to be part planned, part improvised. Maybe it's a kind of counterweight to the big breath at the beginning. After bearing her soul to her partner over the course of the song, she's putting her own unique stamp on the ending, concluding this love letter on her own terms.

I've been there before

In the verses, Alicia sets up a simple contrast: Some people live for superficial things like money, fame, power, youth, desirability, admiration. And more often than not, those people never feel like they have enough of whatever it is they want. But for her, even all of those things put together wouldn't be enough to make her happy if she doesn't have the person she loves. The last line of the pre-chorus is "so full of the superficial." A life can be full and empty at the same time – and many people's lives are this way, perhaps without them even knowing it.

I don't think it would be crazy to argue that these lyrics are the teensiest bit judgy, at least at first glance. As tender and vulnerable as this song is, I can't help but hear a touch of distain for those materialistic people Alicia is calling out in the verses. But then Alicia admits that she, too, has spent time looking for purpose, fulfillment, and connection in all the wrong places. She's been there before, so she's judging herself just as much as she is anyone else. No one finds love easily; no one seeks love without having given up on it at some point in their lives; no one knows what it's like to be filled up by love without first having tried those other, lesser ingredients, work and wealth and success and vanity and all the rest, that are so much easier to find. Rather than judging our (the listener's) story, Alicia makes it clear she's simply telling her own – and trusting that the listener will find something in it that they can relate to.

In this way, she's able to communicate to two different audiences at once. On the one hand, she's speaking to her love, declaring to him that she would trade away anything and everything as long as it meant they could be together. And at the same time, she's helping the listener see themselves in her own personal journey. By describing both her past experience chasing material happiness and her new perspective on what does and doesn't matter in her life, Alicia plays a kind of fortune-teller role, giving her account of what it might feel like for the listener were they to someday fall this deeply in love.

Backbeats and cliffhangers

I once heard someone describe this song as a "painful 6/8." I can only assume he was referring to the unusually slow tempo – and I do sort of get his point. That backbeat is almost as jarring as it is comforting. There's so much space between each snare hit that you almost forget the next one's coming. And if you're a rhythm section player, you know how tempting it is to rush a 6/8 groove like this, even though the piece demands you move through those eighth notes at a snail's pace.

Still, the song does create a solid, satisfying pocket – especially in the chorus, where the vocal melody avoids syncopation for the most part and simply outlines the six beats of each measure. That's the case harmonically as well: The notes in the vocals don't stray very far from G-B-D, the basic triad of the song's G-major key signature.

So you could say the chorus, for the most part, "stays home" both rhythmically and harmonically. Yet there's one element that doesn't quite fit this narrative. And how could we miss it, when Alicia practically shouts it out? "But I DON'T" – the minor 3rd interval here feels like a bigger jump than it is because it diverges from the stepwise melody of "some people want it all." And that big pause after "don't" – it hangs in the air so long you might think it's the end of the sentence; in fact, the line right before it is "some people want it all," a statement that could reasonably (and conclusively) be followed by "But I don't." But even before we hear the rest of the chorus, we know that's not what she's saying. She's told us in the verses that no longer "wanting it all" is just the tip of the iceberg for her. More than simply not pursuing material comforts, Alicia intends to actively reject them. If she has her love, there's no need – no room – for anything else. And if she doesn't, well, what use would a consolation prize be, when all it would do is remind her of the emptiness she feels?

Everything means nothing

Have you ever started to say something vulnerable, but then paused in the middle of the sentence because you were second-guessing whether you could actually go through with it? Just for a moment, imagine that's what's happening to Alicia on the "I don't" of the chorus. She's about to reveal what (or who) has emerged as the true source of meaning in her life. The catch is she has to reveal it to that very person. And she has to tell him not only that she loves him, but also that she's incapable of loving anyone or anything else that deeply. If I were about to place my life in someone's hands like that, I think I would hesitate – wouldn't you? Wouldn't it be rather difficult to ignore the voice in your head telling you to stop, to abort the mission, to save yourself before it's too late?

For the second time in one of these essays (and probably not the last), I want to tell a brief story about my high school drum teacher Joe Galeota. When I was a junior, Joe had me learn the drum part for If I Ain't Got You. We spent a good three weeks studying it; I experienced firsthand the difficulty of playing such a slow 6/8 groove, and the triumph of finally settling into its pocket. So when I played through the tune for Joe in my next lesson, I did so confidently, proud as I was of my progress. Overall, Joe seemed happy with my grasp of the song – until I did something that made him so upset he turned off the track I was playing along with so he could address my mistake immediately.

At 2:45, instead of putting a bridge section between the end of the second chorus and the beginning of the third, Alicia elects to simply repeat the chorus right away. To differentiate those two choruses, and more specifically to ensure that the second one is the true emotional climax of the piece, we get the one-measure build from 2:45-2:49: "you, you, you, some people..." Listen closely to that section and you'll hear a sneaky triplet in the drum part, played on the first of the three "you"s, followed by crescendoing sixteenth notes through the next four beats before going back to the regular groove on "want it all."

My cardinal sin was this: When I played that transition, I never changed my dynamic level. The "build" wasn't really a build at all; I played it more like a march, staying at forte the whole time. Joe wasn't pleased. "No! This is the key moment! You have to start soft there and build! It's heartbreak, don't you hear it?!"

It's heartbreak. Huh? I didn't understand what Joe was saying, but even in the heat of the moment I could tell he wasn't actually angry with me. When he raised his voice it wasn't because he was scolding me; it was because he so wanted me to understand what this part of the song was about. It wasn't quite clicking for me, though. I thought this was a love song – where's the heartbreak, and what does it have to do with this one particular measure?

I think I understand a little better now. I think the build into the final chorus is so important for the same reason that Alicia makes the word "don't" into such a cliffhanger: It's scary to tell someone that they're all that matters to you, that their rejection would be your heartbreak. It's like jumping off a cliff. If you're going to do it, you don't just march straight into it – your body won't let you. You go to the edge, look down into the abyss, feel your stomach drop, build up your nerve, and 3...2...1...JUMP.

These days, I can't listen to that last chorus without thinking about Joe and his valiant effort to impress upon me something I was years away from understanding. My love for this song is forever tied to the memory of learning it, and especially of being held, really for the first time, to such a high standard of musical comprehension. If I Ain't Got You is an all-time great love song because it is so well composed and so beautifully played. But to me it's the all-time great love song because, from "I've been there before" to "you, you you," it's just so honest. Alicia hides nothing from the listener; admits she doesn't know what will happen after she says the one thing that can't be taken back. Meticulously, painstakingly, she crafts for us an image of her at the edge of this cliff. And she jumps, and we jump with her.