August 2017 Archives
Day 25: An acoustic song you love
"Could This Be Magic?" by Van Halen 4:45 PM
Well, here's another prompt that could be absolutely paralyzing. Had I grown up listening exclusively to theremins and synthesizers, I suppose choosing an acoustic song could be somewhat easier, but alas, I started life listening to folk music. Though my taste has certainly branched out, it has never abandoned the acoustic side of things for more than a little while. There are artists I love dearly--the Carolina Chocolate Drops, the Balancing Act, the David Wax Museum--who operate just about exclusively in the realm of the unplugged, and there are others whose occasional willingness to unplug makes for some delightful changes of pace.
Still, for this prompt, I'm going to focus on a group whose use of acoustic instruments is especially transformative. Why? Because their oeuvre is almost entirely electric. Their best-known songs, by far, depend on electric guitars, basses, and effects pedals, plus the occasional synthesizer, a big dose of attitude, and a heaping helping of bombast. Yes, we're talkinga about Van Halen.
I will not dispute that these guys are ridiculously talented. I don't always care for their style--Alex Van Halen's drumming is a little busy for me, and I'm a guy who likes Keith Moon, for crying out loud--and their juvenile sense of humor (naming albums For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge and OU812) is not a plus, but within the realm of hard-rock-cum-glam-metal, they deliver the goods. Screamingly fast and technically brilliant guitar work? Check. Overactive gymnast/cockslinging front man? Check. Band logo suitable for copying onto junior high notebook and/or bathroom wall? Check.
Still, they made many, many bad decisions. Yes, back in the days of MTV videos, I too enjoyed watching "Hot for Teacher," but even then I knew it was for the wrong reasons. Ragging on Elvis Costello? Bad choice. Perhaps the decision to give David Lee Roth the boot might have been justifiable, but the decision to replace him with Sammy Hagar? Not so much. And there's no way I'll ever be okay Eddie divorcing Valerie Bertinelli. Just no.
For all that, however, they had real and appreciable talent as musicians--when you could find it under all the rest of the crap. That's why my favorite of their tunes is one performed with nothing more than acoustic guitars and vocals--including a guest appearance by singer Nicolette Larson. Over the years there was so much bombast that it's hard to ignore, and it's probably the main reason why I don't actually own any Van Halen albums, but for this moment, at least, with only the barest of musical accompaniment, you can get an idea of what these guys had to offer.
Day 24: A cover song
"Within You Without You" by Patti Smith 9:16 PM
Another huge, huge, category here, with candidates for inclusion that number in the hundreds. Cover songs are a fascinating topic on their own, and you could easily do this entire meme for a month without using any song that was NOT a cover song. Still, the most common criterion that people want to discuss when cover songs are mentioned is the supposedly unusual case of a cover that is better than the original. The fact of the matter is that many, many songs can be done better by someone who was not the original singer, particular in cases where a gifted songwriter is somewhat less gifted as a performer. This is not to say the original performer is no good, however; a prime example of this is Bob Dylan, who is actually a pretty damned good performer, but that fact is obscured by his incandescence as a writer. It is thus not shocking to find a Dylan cover that's better than the original--in fact, I can think of at least two artists whose versions of "All Along the Watchtower" are superior to Bob's: Jimi Hendrix and the Dave Matthews Band. And XTC's reimagined version
is a legitimate candidate for a third slot.
I don't demand that a cover be better than the original, but I do want the cover to offer me something that the original does not, which is one reason why I have to admit disappointment in Under the Covers
, the multi-album series of classic songs redone by Matthew Sweet and Susannah Hoffs. Sweet and Hoffs have fantastic taste in songs, you must understand--they get off on the same power pop that I do, and their sincere love for every tune they do just oozes out of the speakers. The problem is, that same affection drives them to lovingly duplicate what the original performers did, which means that we're not really getting anything from the new versions that we didn't already get from the originals. I mean, this version of the Stone Poneys' "Different Drum"
is terrific, but it's nearly a note-for-note recreation of Linda Ronstadt & Co.'s version. Why shouldn't we just listen to Linda's?
So for me to really take note of a cover and say, "THAT was something new!" requires a performer who can not merely find the good stuff in the original, but also deliver some NEW good stuff. And when the original good stuff is really, really good, that's a challenge. But Patti Smith is up for a challenge, dammit, and for her covers album, Twelve, she faced unafraid the kind of challenge that many performers avoid: taking on a classic Beatles tune. Her treatment of George Harrison's "Within You Without You" eschews the Indian instrumentation of the Sgt. Pepper track, and it takes a somewhat more straightforward approach to the song's 6/8 rhythm as well, but those alterations actually serve to separate the cover from the original in a helpful way, giving Smith's voice room to claim the lyrics as her own. It's an outstanding piece of work, and on an album full of fantastic cover songs (Stevie Wonder's "Pastime Paradise," Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit," Hendrix's "Are You Experienced?") I think this one is arguably the triumph. The Quiet Beatle would be proud.
Day 23: A song that makes you angry
It finally happened: I missed a day.
The good news is that I did *not* miss a day of writing, as I finished up my opening faculty meetings, came home, and actually knocked out about an hour on my WIP, which is the main reason I'm doing this music-related thing in the first place. Still, I was taking some pride in sticking to the daily exercise, and even with a couple of days missed due to unusable prompts, I had high hopes for finishing out the string.
Now I have a choice: skip a prompt so that I can catch up with what should be today's prompt, or just recognize that the point is to keep writing, not to match a prompt with a particular day. I favor the latter, and I thereby declare this Day 23!
Now, of course, I have to deal with this prompt, which does have some interpretation issues. Am I looking for a song that makes me angry about something else, or a song that makes me angry about the song itself?
I'm going to assume the former, as the only way a song is likely to make me mad is to just suck outright, and who wants to read about that? Instead I'll consider other ways a song can make me mad, usually by pointing out an injustice or an offense of some kind. For a kid who grew up on folk music during the 60s, that's entirely appropriate, and I've certainly enjoyed more than my fair share of protest songs over the years. Even as late as 1992, I created a mixtape of songs written in opposition to Reagan & Thatcher; titled Ignorelands
, it featured an A-side of American artists ragging on Ronnie (Camper Van Beethoven's "Sweethearts," Gil Scott-Heron's "Re-Ron," and of course R.E.M.'s title track
), while side two was British artists taking on Maggie, featuring the Specials' cover of "Maggie's Farm," the English Beat's "Stand Down, Margaret," and Elvis Costello's blistering, beautiful "Tramp the Dirt Down,"
which has to be the among the candidates for the most stunning contrast of form and content in 20th Century popular music.
(You will doubtless be unsurprised to learn that I more recently created a similarly angry mix entitled One No Trump
on Spotify. It includes some of the above, plus more recent material such as Pearl Jam's "Not For You" and Lily Allen's cheery "Fuck You."
But when it comes to helping me get my mad on, there are really only a handful of songs that will do the job right. As an all-purpose release, the Soft Boys' "I Wanna Destroy You"
is a pretty successful piece of work, but it never quite gets up to the level of roaring that I want from my angry song. Of all the punk songs I know, the only one to really mix the attitude and the sound with the proper degree of fury is the Clash's "Clampdown,"
though the band came close on a few other occasions ("Death or Glory," "Career Opportunities," and so on). I can even get behind a few songs by the Pogues in this department.
In the end, however, I have to go with the song that for me best defines the fury of betrayal--and the realization that you helped betray yourself. You're tasting the bitterness of knowing that you let yourself be hypnotized by sunny optimism, and now you must live with the consequences. It's an anger that doesn't just fly outward at your opponents, but stays close to your heart, pulsing, shifting, never letting you forget the ugly truth: you let your guard down. You let this happen. And Pete, John, Keith and especially Roger know: now all you can do is rear back, thrash your thunderous way to an emotional peak, and let loose your loudest scream.
This, goddammit. This is what rock is FOR.
Day 22: A song that would be the theme song to a TV show about your life
Hi, again. Hope you enjoyed your hiatus. I'm here on the last day before fall faculty meetings, recovering from a morning's birding and speculating as to what approach a TV producer would take with my life. Obviously, the theme song must fit in with the overall style and purpose of the program, so a lot of possibilities must be considered.
If they make it a procedural like Bones
, or House
, or some CSI
or other, then obviously the Who's "The Real Me"
is the theme song. Really, I don't see how this is even a question.
A star vehicle for the actor playing me? (Bruce Campbell has definitely got the edge when it comes to casting, by the way.) I'd definitely go with Joe Jackson's "I'm the Man."
In all probability, though, I feel fairly sure that whatever ended up getting produced for me would have to walk the line between comedy and drama, so let's assume that it would in some ways resemble Northern Exposure, though casting the quirky people around me is going to be an important part of the show's ultimate success. Still, there's going to be a need to find a song that also walks with one foot in each zone, so to speak, so we'll need a theme that combines the somber with the absurd, mixing a sprinkle of wistful nuggets into the dark syrup of the everyday. And if that's the blend your aesthetic demands, there's really only one person to supply it: Robyn Hitchcock.
I've loved this song from the first time I heard it, thanks partly to Peter Buck's all-out Rickenbacker jangle, but there are so many other lovely touches: the bit of organ toward the end, the full-throated open chords of the chorus, the wail of the slide guitar, and the unspeakably lovely fact that the first line is not merely a line, but A GODDAM HAIKU:
A man's gotta know
His limitations, Briggs, or
He will just explode.
That alone decides the matter. When the TV executives assemble, this is the song I'm handing them.
Also, I want a moose in the credits.
As an educator, I am very conscious of the need to ask good questions. Before I hand out a test, I look carefully to see what my students are being asked to do, and in many cases I make changes so that they don't give an improper response--or worse, a proper response to the wrong question.
Sadly, the creator of the Music Meme on which I've been writing recently did not take the same care. Here are the next two prompts:
Day 20: A song from a new album you are waiting for to come out
Day 21: A song you want to dance to at your wedding
I'll ignore the awkward wording on Day 20--there's really no good way to put "for" and "to" beside each other in an English sentence--and simply note that a song from an album that isn't out is also unlikely to be out. Yes, advance singles are a real thing, but they're not that common, and I don't know of one right now. In short, this is an excellent prompt for someone paying aggressive attention to current and near-current releases, but not a good one for a person whose recent tendency is to buy new albums at the merch table in the concert venue.
The Day 21 prompt of course presumes that the writer has not already had a wedding, or perhaps that the writer intends to marry again. Neither presumption applies to me, thanks.
In other words, I'm going to take a brief hiatus from this project. There's other writing to be done, a fantasy football team to draft, and one last summer birding session to put in before faculty meetings begin on Monday. Enjoy your weekend, everybody! 8:33 AM
Day 19: A song you're currently obsessed with
My musical obsessions are like the wind, coming invisibly from nowhere, changing at a moment's notice, but generally keeping things cool and making sure the atmosphere does not become too oppressive. On those occasions when I can trace the sudden appearance of a new obsession, I find that they often come from one of three places: they'll either be triggered by making a new purchase, by hearing an old favorite, or by stumbling across a reference in print.
My current obsession was sort of the latter two. One of Facebook's features, familiar to many of you, is the On This Day feature, which allows you to go back a year, or two years, or five years, and observe the anniversary of whatever trivial topic was creating a hideous argument among your friends. Sometimes, however, you get lucky and find some kind of meme that you and your social circle were happily enjoying. A week ago or thereabouts, I discovered a years-old discussion based on a meme I had misread; you were supposed to post the cover of a great album, but I somehow read it as "post a GREAT cover of a great album," which is a whole different thing. I mean, Radiohead's The Bends
is a fantastic album, but I can't say I'm especially fond of the cover:
.By contrast, World Party's album Goodbye Jumbo
is a great record with an absolutely fantastic cover, so I dutifully posted it on FB:
When this image popped back up in my 2017 feed, I had the typical reaction to seeing a familiar album cover--"Wow, I haven't heard that one in a while"--and didn't think about it much. Not until a few days later, that is, when the second trigger kicked in: shuffle play.
For the record, I'm well aware that the streaming music service Spotify doesn't pay the artists very much money at all, which is a shitty thing to do. Despite that, I still use it, for two main reasons: one, it is a very handy way to preview music I'm thinking of buying or artists whom I might go see in concert. In this, it's much like radio used to be, except that I'm in control and don't have to wait for the next random play so I can hear that song again, and the exposure generates some revenue for the artist. Two, most of what I play on Spotify is music I already own; in the case of World Party, I own both Goodbye Jumbo and their following album, Bang! (and I really should get their debut, Private Revolution...), so by playing them on Spotify, I'm actually providing a fractional payment to Karl Wallinger, WP's sole sustaining member and songwriter. If I just listened to the copy I already bought, he'd get nothing else.
But all that said, I had put one of my playlists on shuffle mode, and up popped "Way Down Now," a song I have loved since the first time I heard it. One reason I love it is the sheer joy of its arrangement; for all the dark and disturbing lyrics, it's an extraordinarily upbeat song. Another reason I love it is the way it wears its influences on its sleeves. For example, in the video linked above, you'll notice two slightly twisted homages to classic rock, with the bass player plucking a McCartney-style Hofner bass and Wallinger himself switching to a Hendrix-style Stratocaster; the twist is that the bass player has flipped over the Hofner to play it right-handed, while the left-handed Wallinger is doing exactly what Hendrix did: playing a right-handed guitar in the lefty configuration.
The most obvious influence, however, is that rapidly galloping bassline, whose pattern is a near-perfect imitation of Keith Richards' bassline from "Sympathy for the Devil
." In most circumstances, I might be appalled by this counterfeit, because it's one of the most familiar songs in the rock and roll catalogue--it's not like I was going to be the only person who noticed it. But Wallinger just sails along cheerily, right up to the three-minute mark, when the singers cut loose with a chorus of "Woop woo!" in a perfect imitation of the Stones. "See?" they seem to be saying. "It's a Stones song! We know it as well as you do!"
In any case, it came up on shuffle, and I immediately did what I do when I'm obsessing over a song: start trying to learn to play it. I went with my bass first, slowly working out the fingering for the rather busy part, then switching to guitar to chop out chords and sing through it. Now that I've got it mostly down, I figure I'll spend a few days playing with it, adjusting matters here and there to make them sound better. And then, after living inside this song for up to a week... something else will shuffle past, and the cycle will begin anew. 9:13 AM
Day 18: A song you have as your ringtone/want to be your ringtone
This prompt is actually a bit challenging, if only for one simple reason: I don't have a ringtone.
I mean yes, there's a sound that my phone makes when someone is calling, sure, but it's the one that was installed at the factory, and I haven't the slightest idea how I'd go about replacing it.
Before you email me with suggestions or technical advice or helpful YouTube vids to watch, please note at least one other important fact: I do not have a smart phone. I am, as my children will attest while making copious eye-rolling motions, the opposite of an early adopter. I wait until a new technology is thoroughly vetted, or even exhausted, or in some cases even obsolete, before I take it up. I got a CD player in 1987, a good two years after I heard my first CD. My sound engineer friend Mike bought one in '85 and played me the digital version of Laurie Anderson's "Sharkey's Day
", which just about blew my mind--but not enough to drop several hundred bucks on a player for discs I would then have to go buy. I was so slow to adopt the idea of the cell phone itself that I had a flip phone until roughly 2011. The red LG phone I've used since then was pretty much obsolete from the day I bought it, but it's taken me a few years to even see the value of owning a smart phone. But now that I can see that day on the horizon--my LG is beginning to show the signs of its inevitable decay--this ringtone issue is something I may actually address.
As I see it, the ringtone song has to meet several criteria:
1) It must attract my attention.
2) It should not resemble the ringtones of others around me.
3) It must be a song I'm prepared to listen to over and over.
4) It must be a song with an introduction worth listening to over and over.
I'll start with #4. If I hear the ringtone and quickly answer the phone, the intro is most likely all I'll hear. That probably rules out anything with a fade-in, like "More Than a Feeling" or "Take the Long Way Home," Intros can be rather misleading--raise your hand if you've ever expected "Werewolves of London" and gotten an earful of Kid Rock instead--so the song must be considered as a whole, yes, but the intro weighs rather heavily on the question.
I worry a lot about #3. There are plenty of songs that have been ruined for me by overplay (UB40's "Red Red Wine" and a significant number of Eagles songs, for example), so I fear that when I pick a song as my ringtone, I will soon be sick of hearing it. Worse, I may begin to associate the song with the inconvenience of dealing with phone calls, which will make my feelings even more negative. Am I ready to sacrifice a favorite song on the altar of my personal convenience?
By contrast, I suspect #2 will not be much of an issue. My musical taste is eccentric enough that I can probably assume my choice will not be duplicated by anyone nearby. And on the off chance that it is, I'll almost certainly want to get to know the person who also selected the Mothers' "Wowie Zowie
" or the "Kilted Yaksmen Anthem
" from Ren & Stimpy
. (Especially if they've selected the German version of the latter
And of course, there's #1. This is no time for something soft and subtle. This should be a shot across the bow, a bracing slap of cold water across the face. I should be able to hear the opening notes of this song and immediately think "Whoa--phone!"10:08 AM
So: Arresting. Distinctive. Durable. Immediate.
Yeah, this definitely calls for a Kurt Weill song done by an American studio wizard and a British New Wave star.
Day 17: A song that annoys you
One of the good things about life in the 21st century is that you are rarely at the mercy of the music; unless you're in a public space like a bar or restaurant, or doing something incredibly retro like listening to the radio in your car, you've probably got the option of hitting "skip" any time an annoying song comes on.
But for those of us whose formative years lay back in the pre-digital past, there is still an unconscious certainty that the terrible song cannot be avoided and must therefore be endured. This near-Trafalmadorean acceptance of the unacceptable is not something I'm proud of, but it has given me plenty of opportunity to listen carefully to songs I don't like.
There are a variety of reasons why I might find a song annoying: the lead singer's voice, the banal or clumsy lyrics, the uncontrolled use of studio trickery, the derivative arrangement, you name it. Sometimes things get even more specific. For example, there's a certain midtempo pace that dozens of songs from the mid-80s used, typically introduced by a low-intensity pulsing in the bass, that eventually began to signal to me--all by itself--that I was going to hate the song, once it actually got started. I think the track that got it started was the Police's "Every Breath You Take
" in 1983, but before long, you had people like John Waite
mining that same seam, and it wasn't long before the whole thing was tapped. It's hard to imagine that you can be annoyed by a tempo
, but there it is.
Another thing I find particularly annoying is when an undeniably talented artist produces a song that just lies there, inert--or worse, one that actively repels you. This has happened more than once in the career of the incandescent Paul McCartney, whose studio throwaways are often as good as some artists' whole catalogs, and whose peak performances are better than damn near all of them, but who nevertheless will occasionally, almost perversely, drop a turd on the public from a great height. Sure, from a melodic and harmonic standpoint, "Let 'Em In
" is perfectly fine, but these are lyrics for which the term "childish" insults every child in the English-speaking world. Even worse, to me, is the combination of lyrical smarm, smugness, and bathos--not to mention a pretty dull melody--that we encounter in "My Love
." I have no doubt that it's sincere, but oy.
But there's one last touch that an artist can apply to a song that gives it that extra je ne sais quoi of annoyance: an obvious attempt to exploit a current trend. There have been plenty of attempts, for example, to give songs currency by introducing a few bars of rap, and some of the fake psychedelia from the late 60s is actually pretty funny now, but the trend I remember wincing about the most was disco. Some artists, such as the Bee Gees, used the disco craze to reinvent their sounds, and others created tunes that commented on it--probably the best being the Rolling Stones' "Miss You
"--but there were plenty of artists who had no business going anywhere near a disco suddenly slapping their material over a 120-bpm kick drum and soaking the resulting mess in strings. THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED:
But Ethel's effort wasn't the one that really rubbed me raw. That would be a song whose performer had already demonstrated actual talent ("Maggie May," "Stay with Me," etc.), had thrown together some of the most questionable rhymes (pounding/thinking, answer/together, coffee/movie) in pop music, and had jumped with both feet on the disco train: Rod Stewart.
This was the moment when he lurched across the Rubicon for me. Though it came out nearly 40 years ago, this song remains a painful bit of aluminum foil against the fillings of my musical taste. Even the magnificent bazouki break at the end of "Maggie May
" cannot wash this stain from Rod's leopard-print pants.
Annoyed? I am vexed and ratty.
Day 16: A song that holds a lot of meaning to you
Every song I've discussed here tends to hold a fair amount of meaning--I mean really, can you write at any length about a song that does not?--but today I'll dig into a song that has several very different meanings.
I got to this one relatively late. I'd been introduced to Pink Floyd during the fall of 1978, thanks to David Marion making me a cassette with several tracks from Dark Side of the Moon and a variety of techies insisting on playing Animals over and over again while we built the sets for Blithe Spirit and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. It wasn't until my senior year, however, that I purchased a copy of Wish You Were Here on the same trip to the Record Bar where I bought the Who's Quadrophenia.
I played those two albums back to back in my room and on homemade cassette copies in my car (my folks' Oldsmobile Omega--a '76, I believe) for several weeks, and they burned into my memory in a fairly significant way because these were the weeks when I was breaking up with my first serious girlfriend. Thus, they were the soundtrack for the period where her long silence was beginning to weigh on me (she'd gone off to college while I was finishing HS, and letters and calls had trickled to a halt), and for the drive I made to her college one weekend (over and over and over), and the awkward, painful reunion that I eventually declared our finale, and of course for the long drive home. Believe me, I knew Wish You Were Here intimately by the time I pulled back into my driveway, and "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" was the swirling, chiming, occasionally thunderous sun about which my emotions were orbiting.
Note: not all my associations with Wish You Were Here
have been so bleak, however. During my first year of marriage, I helped form the ska revue Rorhwaggen to help my friends the Pressure Boys defray some significant and unexpected expenses. Among other things, it was my first chance to work with singer Marvin Levi, bassist Jack Campbell and sax player Gregg Stafford, but it was also a chance to play some of my favorite two-tone songs with a crackerjack set of musicians and do it in front of large and very appreciative audiences. The group was loose and energetic and ready to try anything, so it seemed fairly natural that our discussion of possible encores went in some odd directions. One song was pretty close to unanimous--the Specials' "Concrete Jungle"--but drummer Rob Ladd wanted to do something different for the final song, so he swapped places with guitarist John Plymale and led us through a two-minute upbeat country version of "Wish You Were Here
," which still fills me with glee whenever I think about it.
But the other major association I have with "Shine On..." is a very simple one. One cold winter's night in early 1985, I was out enjoying one of Chapel Hill's relatively rare periods of snow. My friend and then-roommate Mike Beard and I were without our third roomie, Mike's girlfriend Ginny, and had decided it was time to recapture our childhoods. Having taken our sleds from our parents' houses, we hauled them off to the top of the highest hills at UNC's Finley Golf Course (where I'm about 99% certain we'd have been in trouble if we'd been caught). I was not quite 22, Mike just short of 24, so we had no particular excuse for making this excursion, but once we'd driven over the uncertain plowings of the town's street-cleaning crew, we saw no reason to hold back. Along with our friend Warren, we raced our several sleds, piled bodies onto single sleds, caught air on moguls that probably weren't intended as jumps, and crashed cheerfully into snowbank after snowbank. The air was clear, and thus cold, and we were far from any lights, so the glow of stars and the whiteness of the snow were the only things visible. It was a glorious night.
After a time, it became clear that we had packed snow into every possible nook and cranny of our clothing, and possibly our bodies, and we bid Warren adieu. Arriving home, we were still freezing, but even without discussion, we knew just what to do.
I shrugged my coat off and hung it on the rack. "I'll make the hot chocolate and cinnamon toast," I announced.
Mike nodded. "I'll get the bourbon, turn on the heaters, and put on the Pink Floyd."
And before long, there we sat, lights out, butts pointed at the two space heaters, listening to Richard Wright's synthesizers wash over the room, with the scents of cinnamon sugar, cocoa, and Wild Turkey filling us to the brim with contentment. 9:20 AM
In short, "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" has been my soundtrack for some really bad hours, and I can never forget that. But it was also there to tie together one of my life's most memorable patches of pure happiness, and in the end, I think that matters more.
Day 15: A song people wouldn't expect you to like
This prompt strikes me as in many ways similar to Day 7's "Guilty Pleasure," though I suppose it's possible for people to be utterly unsurprised that you like a song that you also find embarrassing. Maybe it depends on your musical taste and how well people know it.
But for me, this is another somewhat challenging prompt because of my aforementioned catholic taste; people who know me well enough to have expectations about my musical tastes are likely to know about that catholicity, so how surprised can they be? It's like being surprised that Meryl Streep could play THAT role, or that Donald Trump would insult THAT group of people.
The first step, then, is to consider what forms of music I'm most likely to complain about in public. I have real issues with a lot of opera, primarily due to the fact that the vocal style favored by most modern performers does not sit well with me. It's not that they're no good, but that they're really good at doing something I hate hearing. In the higher registers, operatic sopranos and even some tenors can hurt me. I love massed voices, so choral music is generally fine, and overtures and other instrumental sections are just dandy, but most arias leave me completely cold. That said, there aren't many places where I've been exposed to opera in a public space where I could comment on it, so I suspect most people don't know about my issues with it.
Similarly, I've been known to complain about a lot of individual songs, and lord knows I can rag on individual performers in other genres--the jazz musician who's not interpreting the song so much as he's showing off, the country singer whose cowboy hat is worn as a union badge, and so on--but I suppose the best song for this prompt would be a song by an artist whose work generally leaves me cold, except for That One Song.
Among the artists I've publicly denounced over the years are Morrissey and Lou Reed, though as I've aged I've gotten fonder of the latter's work, particularly with the Velvet Underground. I have not backed off my position on Morrissey's voice, however, particularly when he's draping it lazily over the third of the backing chord, as is his wont; great lyricist, but his singing will never appeal to me, and personally he seems like a bit of a prat as well. Also, there's not really a song of his that I really like (though the Smiths' "How Soon Is Now"
is pretty darned good--but almost exclusively because of Johnny Marr's guitar, and Marr I've praised on a number of occasions.)
Still, there's one artist whose catalog is widely praised by many people of respectable musical taste, but which leaves me almost entirely cold: the Cure. Despite having been exposed to their music regularly since 1981, I find their particular blend of post-punk rock, goth, and dance just doesn't move me, with two exceptions: one song I like a good deal, and one song I flat-out love.
The song I like comes from The Head on the Door
, which in 1985 appeared in the WXYC playbox in 1985, as most Cure releases did. I don't remember which DJ wrote the review on the album--maybe Ken Friedman?--but whoever it was took note of one song as a highlight, and when it came time for me to give the record its required spin, I dropped the needle down on "The Baby Screams
" and was very pleasantly surprised. I still find it a wonderfully propulsive tune whose melody, echoing piano, and skittery guitar work disturb me in just the right way.
But the one Cure song I absolutely, categorically love? It's a 1983 song that (naturally) many hardcore Cure fans dislike intensely because it's so atypical: "The Love Cats."
I'm sorry, you can complain about some of Robert Smith's choices in musical style or personal grooming if you like, but that acoustic bass line (thank you, Phil Thornalley) is just plain genius. The rest of the arrangement is equally good--spacious, but completely engaging, with lively guitar and even a tasty little horn chart. This is the only Cure song I know where they sound like they're having any kind of fun. Smith even comes close to scat once or twice. It's fantastic.
I first heard this tune on the jukebox at some pub in Manchester and was astonished when (several listens later) I found out who it was. Briefly I considered changing my mind about the band, but the other Cure songs I've heard over the years have generally confirmed my opinions. I don't really like them much, and I don't own any of their albums except their best-of collection, and I'm okay with all that. But dammit, I will go to the wall to defend "The Love Cats." It's a wonderful piece of work, a little gem of a pop song. Expectations be damned.10:43 AM
Day 14: A song you like hearing live
"Casualties" by American Aquarium
This is a pretty good-sized category on its own, but it does have one limiting factor: to know I like hearing it live, I must have heard it live already. This eliminates the work of many artists I've never seen, despite my fondness for them (XTC, Steely Dan, the Who, Stevie Wonder, the Kinks, etc.) and others whom nobody can see anymore (Nick Drake, Nirvana, Prince, Frank Zappa, etc.)
Luckily, I have seen many of my favorites live, sometimes repeatedly, and therefore have some idea of which songs work for this category. One thing I have to note is that not all performers are better live--the Police would be one act who disappointed me in concert--but there are some performers whose live shows elevate their material considerably. A short but incomplete list of those whose live shows made me like them better would include:
But today I think I'm going to go with a song and a band whom I discovered live, rather than on record. They were opening for Jason Isbell at the Jefferson Theater in Charlottesville, and I was along mostly because Kelly was very keen to hear Isbell. She also very much prefers to be at the front of the house for any show, however, so getting there early and seeing the opener is a frequent feature of our concert experience. This time the opener was a band from Raleigh (my birthplace) who were utterly unknown to us: American Aquarium.
As we soon learned, AA was a crack live outfit, combining the twang of steel guitar and singer BJ Barham's accent (courtesy of Reidsville, NC), with the heavy impact of drums, bass, and Barham's lyrics, which dealt a lot with the classic themes of country: travel, overindulgence, and heartbreak. Keen observation and a dry wit provided many of the songs with great lyrics, but BJ's presence as a frontman was also a major contributor to the band's success. At one point a guy in the crowd called him "asshole" and he just said, "Well, yeah... I mean, I'm pretty sure that's in our press kit. 'American Aquarium: five-piece alt-country band from Raleigh, NC, fronted by giant asshole BJ Barham.'"
The big sing-along of the night was the epic seven-minute howl "I Hope He Breaks Your Heart,"
but we were also treated to some tunes off their then-unreleased album, Burn. Flicker. Die.
, including the title track
and the one I've chosen for today, "Casualties." It was their opener, and I'm not sure it's not the best opening song I've ever encountered in concert. After this sucker, you by god KNEW what this set was all about, and you wanted every bit of it right down your gullet. I met BJ at the merch table after the show and bought two CDs for $15 (they were ten bucks each, but he knew a loss leader when he saw one) and told him the next time I saw him, he'd be headlining.
I was right. And Kelly and I will be heading back to see him and his new bandmates in October. And if you're smart, you'll be there, too.
Day 13: A song you sing in the shower
Here's another topic that is pretty darned broad. The shower is a great place for singing, thanks to the combination of bathroom acoustics, privacy, and the covering white noise of spray, but it has another advantage that not everyone really gets to enjoy: it's not instrument-friendly. Most of the time when I sing, I'm doing so while playing a guitar or (less occasionally) a piano. IOW, my choice of material is to some degree limited by what I can play on an instrument. I've played these instruments for decades and feel pretty comfortable accompanying myself on a wide variety of tunes, but there are innumerable songs I will not even attempt to play, let alone attempt while trying to sing.
The shower, however, takes all that out of the equation; it demands an a capella rendition. (I suppose you could have a radio or boom box playing in the bathroom, but what's the point? Do that and you might as well be singing in the car.) With the whole of my memory's musical library thus opened up for performance, the sky's the limit!
Well, not quite. There's still the problem of range. I am a tenor, though my voice has certainly become lower with the years, and my top end has moved down with it. I could reliably hit an A above middle C back in high school, and with preparation could often nail the B, but those notes are not ones I'd be comfortable trying for today. (My falsetto still goes up pretty high, though.) This puts a damper on some songs, no question, because my sense of pitch is tightly linked to the original that's running through my head; I may be able to transpose the key, but that takes effort, and who wants to expend effort in the shower?
So: I typically live or die with the original key. Most songs by male singers I can work around, especially as my low range has expanded over the years, but covering the songs of female singers can be tricky. With a soprano like, say, Kirsty MacColl, I typically just sing an octave lower. BONUS: this is how I discovered that most Kirsty songs are actually Elvis Costello songs written for a higher voice. Her lyrics really should have tipped me off, but if you sing them with the proper sneer, you suddenly realize the song sounds like something off of This Year's Model:
It wouldn't take a long time to explain what lies between us
And it wouldn't take a genius to work out what the scene is
It might just take a pilot to give you a natural high
But you're sending off those bottle caps for your free piece of mind.
Outside the soprano category, things get trickier. There aren't a lot of female singers who duplicate my range, though the late, lamented Maggie Roche sang in a contralto that fits me almost perfectly; in fact, it's actually uncomfortable for me at the low end, but she didn't spend a lot of time down there, thank god. The real problem is the altos; I would sing Aimee Mann songs all day if I could, but her range is almost perfectly set to give me problems. I can reach the lower half of her notes, but she'll leave me behind on the higher notes; I can get those high notes if I sing an octave lower, but then the floor drops out from under me when she goes back down. Basically, if I want to sing an Aimee song like "Deathly
," I have to get my guitar, break out a capo, and move that key around by a couple three half-steps. It's not happening in the shower.
Still, now that I'm there in the spray, unburdened by an instrument and freed from most restraints on taste, what do I choose? Most hip-hop is unsatisfying to me in the shower, since part of the joy of the shower song is belting out pitches, rather than just working through lyrics. Similarly, roots rock or punk songs can be too repetitive, so I don't usually go for something like "Johnny B. Goode" or "Rockaway Beach." I want something a little more varied, a little more interesting. Thus, the shower is where I will most likely unleash a category I don't often explore elsewhere: show tunes.
The varying instrumentation and complex arrangements of many show tunes usually keep me from playing them on guitar, but in the shower, those bugs become features. I can cut loose on "Reviewing the Situation" without worrying that there's no klezmer clarinet to work with, or sing multiple parts in "L'Chaim!" without feeling guilty about switching from Tevye to Lazar Wolf in midstream. I can be both Len Cariou and Angela Lansbury in "A Little Priest" if I damned well feel like it. 10:20 AM
And if I feel like going for that high B again? Fuck it. I'm going full Groff. Come in and get me, coppers.
Day 12: A song that reminds you of your best friend
It was pretty much inevitable that we'd get to a TMBG song eventually. I've listened to them too long, with too much enjoyment, for there to be no prompt calling up one of their seemingly myriad songs. Still, the reasoning behind this one may not be immediately clear, so allow me to explain:
From the summer of 1981 until 1990, I sat behind the microphone at WXYC Chapel Hill (89.3 on your FM dial) almost every week. My years there introduced me to a lot of material, but it wasn't always the station personnel who were responsible. Sure, the music director would make decisions about which new records would receive Heavy airplay (3 tracks per hour had to come from this bin) and which would receive Medium airplay (1 track per hour, but not that many albums in the bin), and which would be relegated to Light airplay (1 track per hour from all the new records judged unworthy of H or M status), but aside from those five cuts, we DJs were permitted to pick whatever music we wanted. And we were also allowed to take requests.
The request line was always a bit dicey. Sometimes it would be clear that the listener was really digging your show and wanted to hear more music like the kind you were playing, but sometimes it was obviously being used as a thinly-disguised pan of your musical taste. A request might tell you quite a bit about your listener, too. The guy who asked for "Midnight Moonlight" by the Firm, for example, betrayed a degree of ignorance about our DJs in general; when we only got three hours a week to play the music we wanted, we were unlikely to give up nine minutes of that time, especially not for a single uninspired track of Paul Rodgers and Jimmy Page flogging their rockstar reps in order to pay for new beach houses.
At times I got to use the line as an educational tool, such as the time a guy called up to request that I play Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon.
"The whole album?!" I replied, astonished, because there is no WAY a DJ will ever play an entire album (or even one album side) for you, even if it's one he knows well and loves.
"No, just the song."
I blinked, but he couldn't see me. "There is no song called 'Dark Side of the Moon' on it."
"Yes there is!" he insisted.
"There's not," I said, preparing to have to list every track from memory.
"Yes, there is! You know, 'I'll see you on the dark siiiide of the moon...'" he sang.
"Oh, 'Brain Damage'!" I replied.
He'd hung up on me, apparently upset that I'd criticized his brain. I went ahead and played "Brain Damage" (and even let the needle run through "Eclipse" to the end of the album, since the two songs are basically one finale), but I took the time to announce to my listeners that the name of the song was, in fact, not
"Dark Side of the Moon." I'm dubious about whether my listener ever heard me, and more dubious about whether he thanked me for the lesson.
But the request line was also helpful because it allowed me to make my friends happy. If Ginny or Tom or Stu or any of my Chapel Hill pals wanted to hear something, they could make it happen with a phone call, and once I started dating Kelly (in May of '85), that privilege extended to her as well. Soon we were married and I started grad school, but I could still usually count on her to tune in to my shift, and often to call in with a request. Usually she knew what she wanted, but one day in late 1988, she was a bit more tentative.
"Hey, I want to request a song," she said. "I heard it the other day, but I don't know the name."
"Okay," I said. By this time I was not only a veteran DJ, but a record store clerk as well, so I had justifiable confidence in my ability to track down a song based on limited data. "What can you tell me about it?"
"I'm pretty sure it's new, and I think it's about the singer's imaginary Vietnamese girlfriend."
"Okay," I said again. This data was rather more limited than I'd hoped.
"I think her last name is Eng or something."
"Okay," I said, hanging up, and started digging.
For a new record, obviously the first place to look was the New Release bin. I just prayed this was an album the music director had approved for regular airplay and not something hidden back in the main record library. Or worse, it could be an obscure import 12" single that belonged to a DJ instead of the station. I started looking over album covers, hoping there'd be a clue to the song's topic in a title--something like "My Imaginary Vietnamese Girlfriend," say. I did not get that lucky. But as I finally dug my way through the bin to a blue album with some kind of wooden steeple-cum-podium on the front, fortune smiled upon me: though there was no name on the front cover, the song list on the back revealed that the first track was called "Ana Ng," and I gambled (successfully) that this was Kelly's song.
And that is how I was introduced to They Might Be Giants. How I'd missed their first album I don't know--must have been while we were getting married and stuff--but their second, Lincoln, ended up in our collection almost immediately after I heard the first crunchy chords of the opening song. Since then Kelly and I have delighted in TMBG, purchasing over a dozen of their recordings, introducing them to our kids (long before the band actually made any records for kids), and seeing them live on multiple occasions, including the occasion of Kelly's birthday, where the clock struck midnight and she turned forty right as the band was playing "She's an Angel."
So yes, I'm fortunate enough to be married to my best friend, and I'm reminded of her whenever this song plays. Had she been Vietnamese, I would have been perfectly happy, but I'm so, so grateful she's not imaginary.
Day 11: A song that reminds you of summer
Day 10: A song that makes you cry
As I've aged, I've found that more and more things make me tear up. Part of the human condition, I guess: as you get older, you carry more and more associations in your memory, and with so many possible emotional connections lurking inside, it becomes easier to find a trigger for one of them. Plenty of songs can do it in passing (owing to the previously mentioned strong connections between memory and music), and as I've mentioned before, I have actually assigned some songs to people I've lost. When I hear one of those (Elvis Costello's "American Without Tears," Little Feat's "Willin'," etc.) I'm actively prepared to feel tears welling up.
Unconscious tears, however, are somewhat harder to predict for purposes of writing about them. Luckily(?) for me, I have knowledge of not just a tearjerker of a song, and not just a singer, but a backing band as well.
The story of Kirsty MacColl is one that starts out beautifully. The daughter of folksinger Ewan MacColl, best known for composing "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," she had an angelic voice and connections to a variety of England's musical movers and shakers. She wrote and recorded "They Don't Know" and later sang backup for Tracy Ullman's hit version, successfully covered Billy Bragg's "A New England" (adding two verses that he adopted for his own performances), and sang backup for everyone from the Smiths to Robert Plant to Talking Heads. In 1984 she married Steve Lillywhite, who had already produced U2's first three albums, plus work by XTC, Peter Gabriel, and the Psychedelic Furs, and would go on to work with the Pogues, the Dave Matthews Band, Chris Cornell, and Phish.
The song for which she's probably best known emerged from the Pogues' sessions with Lillywhite in late 1987. "Fairytale of New York
," a duet between Kirsty and Shane McGowan, became the band's most successful single ever, one that has gone into the UK's top twenty multiple times, typically at Christmas, and has been one of the most-played Yuletide songs of the 21st Century.
But her solo career never quite took off. Her 1981 debut hadn't generated a new record contract, and it wasn't until 1989 that she was able to release her next album, Kite
. Lillywhite produced it, along with the next album, 1991's Electric Landlady
, and both were augmented with an all-star cast of guest artists and guest writers (including David Gilmour, Johnny Marr, Marshall Crenshaw, Elliott Randall, and of course the Pogues). Despite critical acclaim, neither album generated huge sales, and when her label was sold to a new company, her contract wasn't renewed. Worse, Kirsty's marriage was dissolving, though it had produced two sons and inspired a number of songs (especially on 1993's independently-released Titanic Days
For the next few years, frustrated by the music business, she did very little recording or writing, but her fondness for Latin music (as demonstrated on Electric Landlady's brilliant "My Affair
") eventually inspired her to create her next album, Tropical Brainstorm
, an energetic and engaging mix of Caribbean and Cuban sounds framing her usual observant and sometimes-cynical lyrics.
It would be her final album.
In December of 2000, while vacationing in Cozumel, Kirsty was diving with her sons, 13 and 15. As the group came to the surface, a motorboat belonging to one of Mexico's wealthier industrialists came plowing through the marked-off dive area. Seeing that her elder son was in danger, Kirsty pushed him out of the way; both were struck by the boat, but her son escaped with minor injuries. Kirsty was killed instantly. An employee of the industrialist later claimed to have been at the wheel when the accident occurred, and he was found guilty of culpable homicide, but was able to avoid jail time by paying a fine and restitution of just over $2000. There are rumors that he received a payoff from his employer for taking the fall, but the Mexican government's investigation into the matter has never officially altered the legal case.
So that's the sad ending to the story of Kirsty MacColl, whose voice somehow floats on through the world long after she left it. "The One and Only," the final track of Electric Landlady, is a song of loneliness and sadness leavened with Kirsty's wry humor, and the plaintive instruments of her friends the Pogues only add to the poignancy. It's hard to miss someone you never knew, but this song will bring a tear to the eye of all of us who might have met Kirsty but now never will.10:53 AM
Day 9: A song that makes you want to dance
One of the great divisions in life is that between the people who love to make music and the people who love to dance. Having been a dedicated member of the former group since roughly the age of 11, my eligibility for the latter is, to put it mildly, problematic. There have certainly been occasions when I have danced, but they are, for the most part, occasions when I was chemically prepared to do so. Sometimes the chemicals were alcoholic, as seen on the evening in September 1983 when I learned that British cider is rather stronger than it tastes, resulting in a furious session of flailing around to U2's "Two Hearts Beat as One" and New Order's "Blue Monday." Sometimes the chemicals were pheromonal, as I have followed ladyfriends onto the floor to move my feet and/or other body parts to tunes such as the Romantics' "What I Like About You" or Stevie Wonder's "Superstition." And a few times I've had a kind of hormonal fight-or-flight response to singing onstage, unprotected by an instrument, which has led to a surge of adrenaline and a wild, almost spastic movement amongst my bandmates. This first occurred at He's Not Here in the fall of '84 when the group that would eventually become Terminal Mouse cut loose on XTC's "Respectable Street" and I basically lost all touch with Planet Earth for about four and a half minutes.
But these are exceptions. I am generally very shy about dancing, and when I do opt to cut a rug, it tends to be a response to songs that fall somewhat off the beaten path. Ska music is the genre most likely to get me to drop my inhibitions, though I've also been known to dance to everything from soul to rock to polkas, and any human being who can't recognize Fishbone's "Party at Ground Zero
" as a reason to get on the floor is simply devoid of funk.
In general, however, I don't feel like dancing. Which is one reason why I consider this song, with its paradoxical lyrical conceit married to an irresistible straight-up beat, to be such a marvelous achievement. It is one of the handful of pure dance songs ("Dancing Queen" and "Stayin' Alive" being two others) that justify the genre of disco. And it does, in spite of everything, make even those who don't want to dance want to dance.
Go ahead. Get down with your bad self.10:39 AM
Day 8: A song you liked when you were younger
As a professional educator, I am frequently called upon to evaluate not merely students' answers, but the questions they have been asked, and all too often I find that the questions (even my own) are not well-constructed. This is a particular problem with multiple-choice questions, where a lack of clarity may result in an incorrect answer because there's no way for the respondent to explain the reasoning behind his response.
Today's prompt is an example of such muddled clarity. Should the topic be a song you liked when you were younger BUT NO LONGER LIKE, or a song you liked when you were younger AND STILL LIKE, or a song you liked when you were younger REGARDLESS OF YOUR CURRENT OPINION? In other words, should the response demonstrate how your tastes have changed, how you were smart even as a youngster, or simply how things used to be? Are we celebrating growth, precocity, or just nostalgia?
Any of these interpretations are possible, but my song of choice is one that focuses on youth in several ways. It's a folk song, one I first learned at a very early age--probably three or four. Thanks to my parents' fondness for folk music, I got to hear material from a wide variety of performers of the folk revival of the 50s and 60s: the Kingston Trio, the Weavers, the Brothers Four, the New Christy Minstrels, Simon & Garfunkel... (We listened primarily to ensembles, now that I think about it, probably because of my mother's love of vocal harmony. Solo acts like Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, or Phil Ochs did not get as much play in our household, though Judy Collins and John Denver would eventually take over the turntable.)
One LP that got plenty of spins, though, was a 1962 album by the Limeliters, an album recorded live with a chorus of schoolkids. Through Children's Eyes
was a commercial success, charting for a solid 29 weeks, but it didn't turn the group into a household name. I suspect a lot of those who enjoyed Christopher Guest's wonderful folk-music mockumentary A Mighty Wind
didn't notice the tips of the hat that the producers and performers made toward the Limeliters, but I had been prepared by zillions of spins of TCE
. Guest's character, Alan Barrows, played banjo and sang for the trio known as the Folksmen, a group largely caricaturing the Kingston Trio, but Barrows' warbling tenor was 100% based on that of the Limeliters' Glenn Yarbrough.
In addition to prepping me for a 2003 movie, Through Children's Eyes
was also the album that introduced me to folk standards (some of which were referenced in A Mighty Wind
) such as "This Train," "Grace Darling," and "Stay on the Sunny Side." The song that stuck with me the most, however, was "The Whale," whose combination of catchy melody and vivid imagery captured my imagination powerfully. (I was even prepared to forgive it for the nonsensical lyric "whale-fish," which any young student of the animal kingdom knew was zoologically inaccurate.) The narrator tells of an English crew sailing to Greenland's waters in search of prey, but after its spout is spotted, the titular whale smashes the pursuing whaleboat with its tail, and five men are lost--the kind of grisly detail that a kid will gnaw at for years.
In fact, the song stuck with me well into the 1980s, when I was surprised to discover a version of it in an unexpected place: on side two of the Pogues' debut album, Red Roses for Me
. This version was titled "Greenland Whale Fisheries"
and it had a bit of a lyrical twist to it: in the Limeliters version, the captain is grieved by the loss of the whale, but grieved "ten times more" by the loss of those five brave men. In the Pogues' treatment, the captain's grief for the men is eclipsed: "the losing of that fine whale fish, oh, it grieved him ten times more."
I was soon to be given academic understanding of that variation thanks to Professor Daniel Patterson's popular class in folksong. As he explained, using "The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez" as his text, folk music is a terrible, terrible way to learn history, but a great way to understand people: "History tells you what happened; folk songs tell you how people felt about what happened." It's not hard to see that one of these "Whale" variants expresses attitudes about an authority that would probably keep it from being sung in the presence of such an authority, while the other would be safe, as it merely recounts the unfortunate events of a failed commercial venture. This variation led me to write a paper on the song and its various treatments (including recordings by Theodore Bikel & Judy Collins
, among others), so I can certainly consider this song one that I have enjoyed throughout my life, from preschool to graduate school, to the present day.
But yeah--I still like the Limeliters' version best. 9:05 AM
Day 7: A song that is your guilty pleasure
"Toxic" by Britney Spears10:50 AM
Some questions are pretty thoroughly loaded, and "What's your guilty pleasure?" is definitely one of them. The implication is that you enjoy something you should not, and that you are entirely aware that you should not. It's a question that presumes an awwwwful lot about you, your standards, and your interactions with other people; honestly, it's a question that places the power of social convention over the power of individual judgment. It's a strip-tease of a question, asking the respondent to say "Look how naughty I am!" while peeling off a glove and baring to the world something that, objectively, is no more shocking than the set of fingers you might see on any dental hygienist or gardener.
So yeah, I have some issues with this one. That's probably due to a personal taste in music that's catholic enough to qualify for membership in the Knights of Columbus. Though the bulk of the material stored in my music library is listed as Rock (589 hours' worth), Alternative (368), or Pop (100 even), there are 47 different genres in it--not just familiar divisions such as Country, Classical, Folk, Jazz, R&B, Reggae, and so on, but narrower genres such as Psychedelic Rock, Electronica, Southern, and "Diversen" (don't ask), not to mention recordings in the categories of Indie, Indie Rock, and Indi Rock. And it's not as though I have recordings of every single variety of music I enjoy, either. When you like this many kinds of music, it's hard to feel guilty about spreading that like to any one song, or even any one genre.
The other issue with "guilty pleasure" is that it presumes a certain degree of hypocrisy, and I've tried (lord I've tried) not to engage in such behavior with regard to music. It is certainly the case that I have learned to like some things I didn't much like the first time I heard them; the appeal of the Ramones, for example, eluded me even into college, but eventually I was able to wrap my head around their aesthetic and enjoy "We're a Happy Family
" for what it is. But even in my younger and more judgmental days, while I might not express my approval of everything I liked, I would never seek social approval by professing to dislike something I actually enjoyed; I was far too much of a nerd for that. When a significant part of your identity involves the enjoyment of comic books featuring men in tights beating up other men in tights, it seems pretty stupid to profess superiority over people who like a particular song.
In short, there's a lot of music I like. There's also a lot of music I dislike. I will cheerfully discuss both sorts. But at this point in my life, it's hard to feel bad about placing a particular piece of music in either category.
So: here's a song that I think a lot of people might expect me to dislike, which is about as close as I can get to a guilty pleasure. It's performed by an artist whose personal choices have proven, um, questionable at times, and whose catalog is not one I've explored in much depth. But what matters here is the record: rhythmically intriguing (thanks to those terrific rhythm guitar strums) with a creative vocal arrangement (the mix of breathy and full-throated voices), a big ol' hook, and an outstanding use of the sampled string section. Whether credit for this song's success belongs to Ms. Spears, to songwriter/performers Cathy Dennis & Henrik Jonback (the former of whom also co-wrote Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl
," a song which pretty directly addresses the issue of "guilty pleasures"), and/or to producers Bloodshy & Avant I couldn't say, but I must call the end result a darned satisfying piece of popular entertainment. If that makes me guilty, so be it.
Billy Bragg's gift as a writer of love songs is his eye for detail; instead of making sweeping claims about the emotions he's feeling, he points out the tiny elements that tell the listener "Yeah, I've been there, too." Maybe you know the grand passions he feels, or maybe you don't, but by god you know what it's like to share ice cream, to look through a catalog, to argue about whose turn it is to vacuum, to throw stones in the river. Those familiar, specific images create a connection between listener and performer--the same connection so thoroughly explored and exploited by Whitman in "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry"--that too many songwriters don't even try for.
This 1986 track is an old, old favorite, and one that uses those images to capture the experiences and uncertainties of a young relationship that's growing older. It came out, as some of you may recall, the same year Kelly and I got married, and I'm pretty sure that fact has informed my appreciation for it. As our own relationship moved from its whirlwind phase (we got engaged about four months after we started dating, and got married about eleven months after that) into the steadier weather systems of marriage, we never failed to enjoy listening to this song and hearing someone else moving through the same climate.
The "new brunette" is identified by some listeners as the couple's new baby, and I'm certainly prepared to see it that way, but even if it's not, I still found myself perfectly able to relate to the song when we became parents. The devotion the singer feels for his girl/his wife/his co-parent(?) and his willingness to share the passage of time with her? Yeah, I remember noticing those in my own heart. And I still do. Thanks for pointing those up, Billy. 6:13 AM
Day 5: A song that has a new meaning to you every time you hear it
After a fairly simple prompt yesterday, this one's a bit trickier, which is why my choice may seem a bit puzzling at first. Allow me to explain:
Songs can definitely shift meaning, particularly as the listener is exposed to new ideas and experiences. A good example of this would be Queen's song "'39"
from A Night at the Opera
. When I first gave a listen to the album, I loved this song's catchiness, its thumping acoustic bass, and its blend of harmonies and chromatic shifts, but the lyrics, as best I could tell, were pretty nonsensical.
In the year of '39 came a ship in from the blue
The volunteers came home that day
And they bring good news of a world so newly born
Though their hearts so heavily weigh
This didn't stop me from enjoying the lyrics--I listen to Yes, for god's sake--but I basically registered them as I do most Yes lyrics: pretty phonetic arrangements intended to highlight the music's features, rather than to impart any kind of meaning.
Not until I had the good fortune to host Scott McCloud as a guest at Woodberry did I learn how wrong I'd been. Had I taken into consideration what I knew about guitarist and songwriter Brian May--namely, that he was a trained astrophysicist--perhaps the truth would have struck me sooner, but as it was, McCloud had to lay it out for me directly: it's a song about Einstein's Twin Paradox.
For so many years have gone, though I'm older but a year
Your mother's eyes from your eyes cry to me.
The "volunteers" have volunteered to fly their ship out into the universe in search of a new planet to inhabit, but their great speed has had the relativistic effect that Einstein predicted: they've aged only a year, while back home, a full century has gone by. (It's still the year of '39 when they return; note the absence of the digits indicating the century.)
Obviously, this information changed the song for me entirely: instead of a pleasant ditty, it was now a poignant tale of sacrifice, of love lost and home abandoned, and I can never hear it the way I once did.
But most songs don't change that radically. Lyrics tend to serve as an anchor, keeping the song's interpretation from drifting too far away from the literal meaning, and even extended metaphor doesn't change much from one listen to another. (That Aerosmith song you heard in 1975? It's still about sex. Trust me.) Thus, when it came time for me to consider a song that changes EVERY time I hear it, I pretty much knew it would be a song where lyrics weren't a problem.
And that brings me to "The Grid." This is the longest section of one of my favorite pieces of music, Philip Glass's score for the 1982 film Koyaanisqatsi. The film is a wonder, containing no actors, no dialogue, and no real story. Other than the final title cards that define the title (a Hopi word meaning, roughly, "Life out of balance.") and translate some Hopi lyrics sung in the film, there aren't even any words in it. (Okay, there's a bit of archival footage featuring Lou Dobbs and Ted Koppel.) Instead, we get images, many in extreme slow motion, others in rapid-fire stop-motion, of various scenes, movements, and phenomena: clouds moving across a vast desert landscape, car headlights in a traffic grid, customers moving through checkout lanes, a rocket blasting into the sky on a pillar of flame. It's beautiful, and hypnotic, and often disturbing, and it's all held together by Glass.
"The Grid" is a building storm of threes, beginning with long, mournful, drawn-out horn notes, then punctuated by sharp peppery trumpets, a chord change, a building volume, and then suddenly transformed by a swirl of rapid-fire flutes and organ triplets. Synthesizers leap in, sometimes accelerating the pace, sometimes deliberately dragging it back. Then massed human voices join in, in figures of six notes, then three... and underneath, the keyboards continue to flow. It's a magnificent exercise in minimalism, a set of very simple patterns that combine into something intricate and shifting and grand. At over 20 minutes, the piece is simultaneously massive enough to demand your entire attention and yet detailed enough to reward your scrutiny. As you concentrate more on the pieces, you are drawn in toward the elements of simplicity, but when you allow yourself to listen to the combinations of those elements, the variable nature of the whole becomes more and more fascinating. It's a fugue of fugues, a Mandelbrot set of three-note figures, recursive and beautiful. I haven't seen the film in years, but on those occasions when I want to listen to music while I write, Glass's album is almost always among the first titles I will select.
And what comes from listening to it? Something different. Every time.
Day 4: A song that reminds you of something
"Heart of the Sunrise" by Yes
Let's face it: this is a pretty vague prompt. Almost every song I've ever heard (or at least the ones I remember hearing) remind me of something, even if it's only the name of the song and/or the artist. And a bunch of them--I'd be willing to say most of them--remind me of something else, typically something related to places or times where I was listening to them. I'm not unique in this, of course; in fact, songs have been written about this very phenomenon, including such hits as the Four Tops' "It's the Same Old Song," Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA," and perhaps most prominently Boston's "More Than a Feeling
," which has now achieved the meta-status of being a song about being reminded of a time and place that always reminds me of a time and place: the main quad of UNC's north campus, close to the Old Well between the Old East and Old West dorms, where back in 1976 I heard the familiar guitar arpeggio blasting out someone's window. Ahhh, memories...
Where was I? Oh, right. For my own memory-intensive song, I decided on the massive eleven-minute prog rock epic "Heart of the Sunrise" by Yes. Why did I pick it? Because it connects to not just one, but a number of intense memories, all of them evoking different aspects of my youth.
1) I first learned about the song, and the album (Fragile), and the band, and really about most progressive rock in general in the same place: the Cultural Arts Center at Chapel Hill High School. I was in said building for a very simple reason: the powers that be at CHHS had screwed up my tenth-grade schedule. As I discovered on my very first day of high school, they'd manage to give me two English classes and no math class, which even I knew was going to cause problems when college applications came due. Getting me an appropriate math course, however, required some rejiggering of my other classes, and as a result, I had to give up the art class I'd wanted; it wasn't offered during seventh period, the last meeting period of the day, and the only one I had available. The electives available in period seven included batik, print-making, and technical theater. In a moment that had profound implications for my future, I chose to become a techie.
Techies are a breed I've discussed here before, so it will suffice to mention that in the fall of 1979, that breed was to a large degree defined by dress (plaid flannel shirt over black t-shirt), grooming (hair that went pretty much wherever it wanted with no product, treatment, or blade to say it nay), and musical taste (rock, particularly of the prog kind.) When we were building a set, it was the norm for there to be some kind of musical accompaniment blasting from the sound booth, and as a result, my techie elders were able to teach me about the pantheon of music: Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, ELP, the Dixie Dregs, Queen, and so on. Bits of Jethro Tull, Supertramp, and Santana made it into the playlist, as well as a desultory Grateful Dead side or two. and yeah, every so often I was able to sneak in a little Kansas. Or Styx, once or twice.
But the album that got its hooks into me quickly, partly because of the cool cover art (and the awesome little booklet inside the gatefold) was Fragile
" just about killed me with its infectious bassline, the plaintive thunk of Bill Bruford's snare, and the touch of classical guitar that set my little fifteen-year-old heart a-flutter, and I was quickly drawn in by the storm sound effects of "South Side of the Sky
" as well, but "Heart of the Sunrise" would go on to stick in my memory the most, because...
2) During the spring of my junior year, I got together with some friends in hopes of performing in the annual Junior Follies talent show. The instigator of the gathering was guitarist Bill Ladd, who would go on to play in one of NC's best-known party bands, Johnny Quest. Crammed into his little brother's bedroom were Bill, yrs. truly, Reed Altman (an all-state tenor who was also a mean bass player), and the little brother in question, Rob, who at that point in his life looked sort of like a blond pipe cleaner. Honestly, his hair seemed to have more mass than his limbs and torso combined. I was a little surprised when he settled in behind the drum kit in the corner, but I was even more shocked at what happened when we started kicking around ideas for songs to play.
"Let's do 'Heart of the Sunrise!'" piped Rob.
And then, as god is my witness, HE FIRED OFF THE BRUFORD DRUM PART OF THE INTRO. A thirteen-year-old waif playing Bruford parts is not something you will see in most parts of the musical universe, but there on the second floor of the Ladd house, it was happening. I'm pretty sure my jaw was on the floor.
Rob remains the best drummer I've ever worked with, and one of the best I've ever heard. He was the anchor of the Pressure Boys throughout the 80s before going on to work with everyone from Don Henley to Susanna Hoffs to the Red Clay Ramblers to Alanis Morissette (you can hear him on "Ironic
," for example, though he's not in the back seat of the car). He still insists he never knew how to play "Heart of the Sunrise," and that my memory is faulty, but you know what? He's wrong.
We ended up playing Steely Dan's "Reelin' in the Years" for our audition. And we didn't get picked for the show.
3) That summer, my first serious girlfriend came to town and spent a week at our house, sleeping in my brother's room, since he was out of town at the time. Needless to say, when the "long-distance" part of a long-distance relationship is removed, there's a lot of time to make up for, and we did in fact spend a good bit of that week making out. (In my own bed, I should note, rather than my brother's; I have SOME couth.) I'm not going to go into detail--as I said, SOME couth--but let's just note that on the first afternoon we were at my house together, while my folks were at work, I had already dropped the needle onto Fragile, and that the slow, dreamy portion of the song became for me a powerful reminder of that afternoon, and that time, and that stupid, adolescent storm of emotions that helped make me what I am today.
Other songs may have meant more to me. I don't know that there's another song that has meant as much to me more often.
Day 3: A song that makes you laugh"Longer Than You've Been Alive" by the Old 97's
There are plenty of novelty songs that have put me in stitches, if only briefly, but it's harder to find a song that can consistently keep me laughing even years after first hearing it.
This one qualifies. It's a first-person narrative by Rhett Miller, whose lyrical gifts tend toward the absurd and amusing in many cases, but in this case it's a beautifully self-referential tale of life in a rock band, and it's hilarious. It's also sloppy, raucous, inspiring, thought-provoking, thoroughly profane, and painfully honest:
Love that comes easy's a fake or a fluke--
Love is a marathon: sometimes you puke.
When I first heard the 97's I wasn't that impressed, but I dutifully accompanied Kelly to a show in Charlottesville and suddenly I realized what their records too often obscured: the rhythm section. I don't know if it was just production muddle in the studio or what, but until I saw them onstage, I had no idea how good drummer Philip Peeples and bassist Murry Hammond are. I thank the sound man at the Jefferson, who had the kick drum loud enough that I could feel it in my sternum, for showing me the light.
This song from 2014, happily, leaves no doubt that this is a rock band, with plenty of thunder from Philip & Murry, while electric guitarist Ken Bethea wails and twangs and growls and screeches in perfect sync with Miller's observations about travel, motels, drugs, alcohol, and career opportunities. It's a beautiful piece of work, kicking off an album (Most Messed Up) that explores much of the song's territory in more detail, and I for one am always ready to laugh, curse, and play it one more time.11:24 AM
Day 2: A song that helps you clear your head
"Solsbury Hill" by Peter Gabriel
One thing I like about the structure of this meme is that it's all about A song that does something, not THE song that does it. If, like me, you have both a large musical library and catholic tastes, you're likely to find that no category in life is summed up by only a single song. Moreover, as you age, you find that just about every situation is subtly different, and that therefore the appropriate song for the occasion will vary somewhat as well.
I mention this because the song I'm discussing today is one that I've known for years, but which has become a head-clearer for me only recently: Peter Gabriel's debut single "Solsbury Hill." The song itself is well-known, having turned up in numerous movies and trailers (most infamously, and hilariously, in this parody trailer
re-purposing The Shining
as a heartwarming comedy), and I think one reason it's become famous is that it addresses a somewhat unusual topic: the need to change jobs.
Okay, that's pretty reductive. Yes, at a basic level, the song is about Gabriel's own job, i.e. being a rock star, and how his membership in Genesis became limiting to him, necessitating his departure for a solo career. That's not up for debate. But the beauty of the metaphor--no, I don't think he is literally visited by a talking eagle--is that it applies to so many other situations for every listener. Regardless of where your career is sitting, or how your love life is going, or how long you've been living in this town, this is a song that holds out the need for consideration and the possibility of change:
So I lived from day to day
Though my life was in a rut
Till I thought of what I'd say
Which connection I should cut
The narrator this song is not using the eagle the way the narrator of "Free Bird" uses the titular bird. He doesn't come off as the kind of puerile, even cowardly guy who flees all commitment because he "just can't change." No, here change is the the whole point, and the thousand connections holding him to people, places, and things must be considered; some will be severed, inevitably, but it's strongly suggested that others will be preserved. The trick, of course, is deciding.
As I believe I mentioned a few years back, this song was an important one to me as I was approaching one of my life's big decisions: whether to leave Woodberry Forest School. It wasn't a terribly hard choice, in some ways, because no matter how many connections I felt to the place and the people, they paled in comparison to the connection I feel to my wife. For her to work in Richmond, she had to live in Richmond, and there was no way I was going to live where she wasn't. Add to that certainty the fraying over time of some connections to WFS, and the decision became even easier--but it wasn't a decision made without some regrets, and having a musical balm to soothe those regrets was a big help.
A lot of that balm is specifically musical, as the song's appeal to me is not merely lyrical or thematic. The arpeggiated acoustic guitar riff that underlies the whole track is simply brilliant, and somewhat unexpected given that Gabriel isn't a guitarist. (Steve Hunter should be credited with making it work after Gabriel wrote it on piano.) I'm also very fond of the flute accompaniment, as well as the unusual 7/4 time signature. Heck, I even like the orchestration, supplied by producer Bob Ezrin, whose occasional tendency toward overproduction can in some cases be off-putting. (Gabriel himself has felt that way; he re-recorded "Here Comes the Flood" in a stripped-down near-solo arrangement on Robert Fripp's Exposure LP because he thought the orchestral bombast of his own album's version was too much.)
Basically, this is a song about both feeling and thinking. A lot of songs settle for the former, but "Solsbury Hill" is that rare pop song that asks you to try the latter as well, and that rewards you for doing so. I'm glad to have had it on hand to help serve as my own guide through some challenging times. When illusion spins her net, you need something to help you cut through it.
Years ago, as an exercise to get my writerly muscles working, I undertook the task of writing thirty daily pieces about music. I didn't quite succeed--I missed a few days and completed only 25 of them--but this morning, as the flabbiness of those same muscles draws my attention, I see the value in attempting the exercise again. Here, for all you nice people to see.
Music is a topic about which I am almost always prepared to write. Thanks to many years of performing it (let's say 45 years; if it's an exaggeration, it's only a slight one) and even more years of listening to it, not to mention extensive experience selling it and playing it on the radio for other people, I've been exposed to a good deal of it, and that exposure has left me with Opinions. It takes very little prompting to get me to share those Opinions, as readers of this feature will no doubt recall, but doing so in a steady and organized fashion is something to strive for. And it gives me a chance to link to some of my favorite music in the process, which is as close as I get to playing DJ these days. (I also have every intention of setting up a Spotify playlist of these songs for those of you who might be interested.)
The questions were originally sent to me by Friend of the Blog and altogether excellent person Q, whose legal expertise and astonishing fiber-arts skills can be explored right here
(or at Lowe Mill in Huntsville, AL, if you're in the neighborhood). I'm sure she won't mind my using them twice. Pretty sure, anyway. Shall we, then?Day 1: A song that makes me happy
"Red Baron" by Vince Guaraldi
I suppose it's possible that television has had an effect on me. It's strange to admit that, given how divorced from most TV I've been over the past quarter-century, but there's no doubt that my early years were spent in the glowing warmth of TV's warming glow. (Yes, it's a TV reference.) One bit of that warmth was the animated version of one of my favorite comic strips, Peanuts. In addition to introducing me to the Gospel of Matthew, such specials as A Charlie Brown Christmas
and It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!
made me aware of a musical genre I hadn't explored much in the halcyon days before I turned five: jazz.
In my earliest days, the music my parents played for me was almost always folk, with a bit of classical and the occasional show tune thrown in. I myself spent a lot of time listening to records of Disney songs (especially The Jungle Book
and various Winnie-the-Pooh
soundtracks), but I also indulged in a few Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers LPs. Many of my records did show the influence of other forms music, though I didn't always recognize it; I think I was in my thirties before I realized that the quartet of vultures in The Jungle Book
sang in Liverpudlian accents for a reason. And I didn't know until I heard Frederic Hand's lovely harmonica-and-guitar arrangement in the late 80s that one of my favorite Sesame Street segments
was set to the largo of Vivaldi's Guitar Concerto in D.
But there was a bit of jazz available to me. My folks owned Getz/Gilberto and Dave Brubeck's Time Out, and later they'd introduce me to Scott Joplin and Claude Bolling and a variety of other artists, but in some ways, the biggest exposure to the genre for me was watching Peanuts specials. The animation was what drew me in--well, that and the familiar comic-strip characters making their way through an angstiest of childhoods as best they could. But throughout, I couldn't help but marvel at the melodic and sometimes mournful songs of the Vince Guaraldi Trio. "Linus and Lucy" remains the best-known tune from those soundtracks, though "Christmas Time Is Here" has also gotten plenty of play over the years, but there's something about this one--maybe the twang of the electric harpsichord playing off Vince's piano--that makes it just plain irresistible. And perhaps because it's so completely divorced from the lives of the Peanuts gang--a fantasy brought to life in a beagle's imagination--it's one hundred percent happy.
I have trouble believing that even Charlie Brown could be glum while this was playing.