Some Songs Considered

“Born to Be Wild” – Steppenwolf
(Words/music: Mars Bonfire, available on Steppenwolf, MCA Records 1968) 

One time in a college writing class, I wrote a short story inspired by a local news story about noise complaints directed toward bikers on the other side of town.  In my story, these bikers noisily gathered in front of the GAP and talked about philosophy.  I thought I was being clever by subverting the local reputation of the bikers as aged hooligans – a feeling that only grew when I titled my story “Easy Rider.”  When my professor asked about it, I told him that I wanted to build on “the film’s cliché scene – the one that everybody parodies.”  I hadn’t seen Easy Rider at that point, so my knowledge of the film came filtered through the endless barrage of commercials and second-rate films that soundtracked motorcycles with “Born to Be Wild.” 

In short, I was young and skilled at spotting clichés.  I often missed the thought that many clichés become tired because everyone wants to recapture the original’s magic.  When I finally saw Easy Rider, I understood why everyone wants “Born to Be Wild” playing behind motorcycle scenes – the opening sequence used it perfectly.

When I heard about Dennis Hopper’s passing this afternoon, I thought about Easy Rider soon afterward, and I started thinking about “Born to Be Wild.”  I’ve realized that there are only a handful of songs that come with such a strong visual attachment, but I’m not sure if any of them are as complete as the “Born to Be Wild” – Easy Rider union.  The two match each other in tone and attitude, and to someone a few generations together, are equal parts of the cultural zeitgeist of the counter-culture ‘60s.  Even if commercials made “Born to Be Wild” into a cliché, it still sounds badass when it’s backing Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper.  This is a case where being a cliché is a compliment. 

More on Steppenwolf: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Masters of War” – Bob Dylan
(Words/music: Bob Dylan, available on The Freewheeling Bob Dylan, Columbia 1963) 

These days, I rarely think of Bob Dylan’s voice when I listen to his music.  It’s part of the entire package; it generally doesn’t add or detract to my appreciation of his songs.  “Masters of War” may be the exception, as Dylan’s voice suits the song’s tone perfectly.  His gravelly vocals help keep him reserved enough for the song.  Where a more boisterous vocalist might overwhelm the words with a powerful performance, Dylan’s comfortable range underplays the song’s intensity, making the most striking moments more powerful.  He lets his contempt come through the imagery in his words rather than the power of his voice. 

Additionally, Dylan gives the song a natural rolling motion, giving the melody peaks and valleys as the verses roll on.  As the notes climb higher, his voice naturally accents those specific lyrics.  Appropriately, Dylan stacks some of the more resonant words on these higher notes – “casket” right around the four-minute mark stands out in particular as one where Dylan’s voice naturally accentuates a lyric.  The cycle up and down the melody fits in with the repetitive strumming pattern, giving the song a circular feeling as Dylan slowly unravels the “masters” by calling them out into the open.

More on Bob Dylan: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Dirty Water” – The Standells
(Words/music: Ed Cobb, available on Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelic Era 1965 – 1968, Sire Records 1972)

Tonight’s post, originally posted April 17, 2009, goes out to my friends in the Boston area.  Yesterday, a major pipe in the city’s water system broke, rendering the drinking water for Boston and surrounding communities undrinkable.  The “boil order” reminded me of one of Boston’s signature songs - the garage rock classic turned Red Sox anthem “Dirty Water.”  This one is for the folks boiling, cooling, storing, and repeating over the next few days.

Before I discovered music, I consumed sports voraciously.  During middle school – those awkward years in the lonely gap between the childhood friends I grew apart from and the teenage friends I was yet to meet – I watched a lot of SportsCenter replays.  I used every opportunity in school to study sports.  I remember carrying an oversized NBA history book in my backpack in sixth grade and writing my eighth grade research paper on the baseball strike.  Even though I lost track of sports for a while in high school (yes, around the same time I started obsessing over music – my in-school reading changed from the 1980s San Francisco 49ers to Sonic Youth’s Confusion is Next biography), I eventually came back around in a more moderate way.  I still have a few moments where music and sports cross paths – I remember going to my first game at Yankee Stadium in high school with my Dad and being excited because I could listen to K-ROCK on my walkman on the bus and in the stands.  Even now that the baseball season’s started back up, I’ll find that during commercials of Mets games on TV, I’ll mute the sound and open up iTunes for a couple songs.

While the Mets have a few solid musical connections (Yo La Tengo, Belle and Sebastian’s song about Mike Piazza, and even Piazza’s affinity for metal), the Boston Red Sox have music woven into the Fenway Park experience.  First, there’s Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” that leads the Sox fans to sing out the “bah bah bah” part in unison (a tradition that the Mets woefully tried to steal).  There’s also the Dropkick Murphys’ “Tessie,” referencing a song that fans of the Boston Americans (later the Red Sox) sang while rooting for their team in 1903.   The Dropkick Murphys wrote the new “Tessie” in 2004 – the same year the Sox made their improbable playoff comeback.

The most interesting of the Fenway music selection, at least to me, is the garage rock classic “Dirty Water,” a song by the Standells.  I don’t know the history of the Standells’ song being played at Red Sox games (let me know in the comments if you do), but I’d like to think someone upstairs at Fenway spins the Nuggets box set of “lost” 60s rock gems.  Aside from it’s obvious lyrical content (“Boston, you’re my home” probably earned this song its place in the Red Sox’s postgame playlist), “Dirty Water” plays as an archetype for the garage rock genre.  The song contains two key elements – the slow moving riff that snakes its way into our brains, and vocalist Dick Dodd’s charismatic performance.  Sure, he’s a little over-the-top, but with such a simple foundation, Dodd has the space to steal the spotlight.  This is the part that many of garage rock’s revivalists missed – most can replicate the straightforward riffs and the aesthetic feel, but too many mistook the idiosyncratic vocals by Dodd and others to mean that they don’t need to sing.  Even if Dodd goes a bit too far (and if the song topped three minutes, I’m not sure I’d let it continue), he deserves credit for charming his way into Boston’s hearts (even though the band was from Los Angeles). As a song for a specific moment (I’m going up to Fenway for a game tonight), “Dirty Water” serves its purpose and lets the crowd revel in the team’s victory.

More on The Standells: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Love Buzz” – Shocking Blue
(Words/music: Robbie van Leeuwen, available on At Home, Pink Elephant 1969) 

If I may go out on a limb to begin, most people would know Shocking Blue for their song “Venus,” a number one single in 1969 and a staple of TV commercials in recent years.  Admittedly, I knew the song but not the band for the longest time.  I say this because I knew song “Love Buzz” for years before I ever heard of the band.  “Love Buzz” was the A-side to the first Nirvana single in 1988, the first in the Sub Pop Singles’ Club series that helped fund the label during lean years.  A decade later, “Love Buzz” was among the Nirvana songs I extracted from CDs for use in mix tapes.  I loved the agile bass line underneath the wall of distortion.  In particular, I loved “Love Buzz” because it was one of the popier songs on Bleach (an album I never fully loved the way I loved the band’s later output).  Of course, this was still “pop” run through a distortion pedal, sung with a slightly deranged vocal tone.  In short, this was pop that I could co-sign at fifteen.

So at some point (one of the unsung tragedies of the digital era is that acquiring albums don’t leave imprints as much), I heard the original “Love Buzz.”  I knew it was a cover, but some of the more high profile Nirvana covers (The Man Who Sold the World was the first Bowie album I owned).  I knew that Kurt Cobain (born today) loved some offbeat pop songs, but “Love Buzz” still took me by surprise.  Despite adding a far more aggressive guitar tone, Nirvana streamlined the song somewhat.  The original version moves at a slower, deliberate pace with Mariska Veres’ deep vocals flanked by a sitar.  If the Nirvana song churned along at the same pace as much of their early material, Shocking Blue’s version sounds eerier at its slower tempo.  Then, there’s a double-time section where the drums, measured and restrained to this point, pound away.  The whole thing, whether it’s Veres’ tone or the sitar or just all the open space, sounds slightly creepy yet still entrancing.  I understand why Cobain was fascinated with a song like this.

More on Shocking Blue: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“King of Ska” – Desmond Dekker and the Cherry Pies
(Words/music: Desmond Dacres, available on The Definitive Collection, Sanctuary 2005) 

When reggae music started to gather steam in the mid-to-late part of the 1960s, Desmond Dekker was right in the middle of things.  By the end of the decade, Dekker wrote one of the most iconic tracks of the time period (“Israelites”) and found commercial success with several other tracks (including Jimmy Cliff’s “You Can Get It If You Really Want”).  However, as early as 1964 Dekker declared himself “King of Ska.”  Recording with the Cherry Pies (later known as the Maytals, reggae icons in their own right), Dekker seized the throne.  While the music sounds dated to the mid-1960s, lyrically Dekker sounds more like a battle rapper than a young reggae star.  “I am going to burn your skin like a blazing fire” he declares in the song’s contrasting section, giving his proclamation of power some more teeth to it.  If nothing else, it foreshadows the unforgiving nature that made “Israelites” its urgency. 

While I can’t refute Dekker’s royal lineage, I will always consider my friend (and frequent SSC commenter) Kevin to be “Ska Royalty” in my world.  I met Kevin in college and to this day I’ve never met someone with a more complete knowledge of a genre both in its contemporary form and its historical roots.  I’m pretty sure he was introduced to me as “Ska Kevin” and he certainly lived up to the name (all the while possessing one of the most open minds to non-ska music as well).  Today is Kevin’s birthday and he’s currently coping with the “Snopocalypse” blanketing the mid-Atlantic region, so I send warm happy birthday wishes along with this post.

More on Desmond Dekker: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“With a Little Help from My Friends” – Joe Cocker
(Words/music: John Lennon and Paul McCartney, available on With a Little Help From My Friends, A&M 1969)

For many, Joe Cocker’s version of this song evokes The Wonder Years.  I’m only nostalgic about the show because it was my dad’s favorite show when I was a kid (I was ten when it ended).  Between my parents viewing and the backdrop of Vietnam War-era America, it felt like another world for me.  Of course, the show might make more sense now that I lived through (and have a healthy distance from) my early teenage years.  Regardless, Joe Cocker’s voice makes me think of this show, and perhaps that’s why his version makes sense.

Cocker takes the Beatles’ original, slows it down, and twists the emotions on the original.  I like the bouncy Sgt. Pepper’s take on the song (and as I’ve suggested before, I’m a Ringo apologist), but Cocker’s version focuses on the anguish in the song’s lyrics.  Perhaps it’s Cocker’s voice, particularly the way that he trails off near the end of some of the lines, that makes the song sound worn out, but Cocker’s narrator feels fatigued.  That, combined with the backing vocals that lead him through the chorus and later share the burden with him in the final verse, puts the focus on the aid from friends.  It’s this spirit that the show – one that focuses on growing up during one of the more tumultuous moments in twentieth century America – captures, and having Joe Cocker set the stage every week feels appropriate.

(Side note: I learned tonight that Jimmy Page played guitar on this.  I’m too tired to try to work it in to the rest of the post, so I’ll just share it here).

More on Joe Cocker: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Wouldn’t It Be Nice” – The Beach Boys
(Words/music: Tony Asher, Mike Love, and Brian Wilson, available on Pet Sounds, Capitol 1966)

Right now, when I think of Pet Sounds I’m drawn in to the tone of the bass guitar.  All over this album, the bass resonates in such a full-bodied way that it’s impossible to ignore.  Maybe it’s from spending the better part of my life listening to songs with over-compressed or underplayed bass lines, but these songs gain a sense of depth from having such a rich lower end of the sound spectrum.  If nothing else, this is a bass sound worthy of these meticulously arranged compositions.

Of course, “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” isn’t great because of its bass sound.  It gets some of its bounce from the bass, but as a whole it radiates with relentless sweetness.  Brian Wilson crafts his own Spector-ian wall of sound by stacking melodic bricks on top of the opening drum beat.  Ultimately, it’s the lyrics that make this bright sounding pop sound feel sincere.  It’s a simple statement of desire to be with a loved one and looking forward to the day when it becomes a possibility rather than a pipe dream.  Sure, it’s not as simple as the song suggests, but it’s a refreshing look at the simplicity of love.  When the world starts to seem more complex, it’s these beacons of love that bring us back to the place where out world feels as cheery and hopeful as this song.

Songs like “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” also remind me of Jenny.  Today’s her birthday, and dedicating such a beautiful song to her is the least I can do to thank her for making me understand songs like this one.  Happy birthday, dude!

More on The Beach Boys: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Suspicious Minds” – Elvis Presley
(Words/music: Mark James, available on RCA Single 1969, Elvis: 30 #1 Hits, BMG 2002)

When I was young, my mom would quiz my brothers and me on the performers of songs we’d hear on the radio.  However, she really only did this with The Beatles and Elvis Presley, so after a while if she asked, one of us would guess the Beatles and one would guess Elvis.  I suppose it was her way of giving us a basic musical education, as one might make the case that Elvis and the Beatles were the two biggest forces in pop music.  This, for the most part, is the only story I have attached to Elvis Presley’s music.  I’ve admired him from afar and read about how he fits into the history of popular music – for example, “Ed Sullivan” would be my immediate free-associative response when Elvis comes up.  I’m not proud of this gap in my knowledge (and I’d appreciate any non-Greatest Hits starting suggestions if you have one). 

Somehow, either on one of those mid-ride quizzes in my parents’ minivan or on a jukebox somewhere, “Suspicious Minds” stuck with me.  This isn’t the young, rebellious Elvis most people picture when thinking of him.  Instead, this is Elvis the Pop Star, fresh off his 1968 televised comeback special, surrounded by horns, backup singers, and a jangly guitar.  Still, it’s Presley’s distinctive voice that commands the spotlight.  I especially love the way he distorts the word “love” with a couple extra syllables thrown in.  It’s appropriate, as love gets distorted by jealous feelings and accusations in the song.  Ultimately, it’s the breakdown in the middle where Presley shows off his chops as a vocalist.  The band slides into a gentle half-time feel while he belts out a couple key lines.  It’s Presley’s assertion that even if he needed to reclaim the spotlight on television, he was capable as ever this second time around.

More on Elvis Presley: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Kick Out the Jams” – MC5
(Words/music: Michael Davis/Wayne Kramer/Fred “Sonic” Smith/Dennis Thompson/Rob Tyner, available on Kick Out the Jams, Elektra 1969)

One of the (admittedly few) things I remember from my high school physics class is the law of conservation of energy.  Specifically, it suggests that energy can be converted but can never be created or destroyed (Einstein connects this to mass as well – that energy may be converted into mass and vice versa, but the basic idea remains the same).  Regardless, this sat dormant in my brain until I put on the MC5 a little while ago.  Its primal energy and bluesy guitars must have knocked this loose, because it made me start thinking about “energy” as it relates to this song.  “Kick Out the Jams” remains one of the most commonly credited predecessors to “punk rock,” but that’s little more than an intellectual exercise.  I’m sure that someone with a more extensive knowledge of the 1960s (specifically garage rock) could trace this thread deeper to find the first proto-punk record, be it “Kick Out the Jams” or something from the Stooges or whatever, but I’m more interested in the spirit of punk rock – or, in this case, punk’s “energy.”

Thinking of it in that sense – of the spirit of punk rock as “energy” – it stands to believe that it’s always existed, only in different shifting forms.  If it came to New York and London in three chord romps in the 1970s, as hardcore in California in the 1980s, and to the radio in the 1990s, the spirit and undercurrent remain consistent as the sounds change.  In 1969, punk rock sounded like Detroit garage rock; it morphed into the joyful chaos provided by these crashing cymbals, sped up blues riffs, and Rob Tyner’s profane proclamation to start the music.  As hesitant as I am to declare this punk rock (as I think this sounds equally like AC/DC), this is the same joyous spirit founds in its descendants.  Regardless of its label, “Kick Out the Jams” still sounds riotous forty years later no matter what you call it.

More on MC5: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Help!” – The Beatles
(Words/music: John Lennon and Paul McCartney, available on Help!, Parlophone / EMI 1965)

Almost four decades after their split, we still talk about the Beatles.  This week alone, an all-Beatles installment of Rock Band and an extensive box set of remastered albums hit the marketplace, and rather than decry this as a cash grab (which, to be fair, some are suggesting), it’s become an opportunity to celebrate the band anew.  In the upcoming weeks, music geeks will discuss the fidelity of the new reissues, baby boomers will buy these albums yet again, and teenagers will gather to kill Saturday afternoons trying to nail the three part harmonies while mashing plastic buttons.   In each of these cases, the Beatles music will be right there at the forefront of the discussion, debate, and diversions.  It’s only appropriate, as the Beatles remain an element of pop culture that unites people from all ages and backgrounds.  The simple reason for their enduring legacy lies in their songs – no matter what you listen to, you probably listen to the Beatles as well.

“Help!” reminds me of the way their songs continue to inspire wonder.  In college, I helped out a friend of mine on his senior music project.  As a music student with a concentration with songwriting and recording, his “recital” consisted of performances of a variety of different styles of compositions.  One day, while rehearsing one of his songs, he came in excited that he just learned how to play “Help!” the night before.  At that point, I knew the song but hadn’t spent a whole lot of time thinking about it.  He walked me through the chord progression, marveling not only at the harmonic selections but also the ways they were voiced.  I followed along as he played through the intro/chorus and the first verse calling out the chords and their variations, marveling simultaneously at the way each chord fell perfectly into the following chord as well as my friend’s wide-eyed wonder at the whole thing.  Here was a composition student (who wrote some very meticulous, very beautiful arrangements for his recital) at the brink of speechlessness over a sub three minute pop song.  In retrospect, this was one of those moments that helped shape my appreciation for art – specifically noting the skill and precision in making something extremely difficult look easy.  It also helped recontextualize the Beatles, cementing that idea that their catalog contains a lifetime of personal revelations waiting to be unearthed gradually.

More on The Beatles: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Fortunate Son” – Creedence Clearwater Revival
(Words/music: John Fogerty, available on Willy and the Poor Boys, Fantasy Records 1969)

In my mind, “Fortunate Son” remains one of the most essential protest songs.  In many ways, it does everything that the punk movement a decade later strived to accomplish.   It seethes with righteous anger, targeting upper class hypocrisy with the same pointed anger every punk envies.  John Fogerty sings with more indignation than anyone this side of Joe Strummer, making his performance sound personal and desperate.  In the same year as Woodstock, Fogerty’s song stood as the angry answer to the Summer of Love by pointing fingers and refusing to compromise.  Critics point towards the Stooges or McCartney’s “Helter Skelter” as punk rock’s touchstones, but fewer songs seem as “punk rock” as “Fortunate Son,” even to this day.

This made those awful, blindly patriotic Wrangler Jeans’ commercials from a few years ago so infuriating.  These commercials, which I think included Brett Favre, took the song’s first two lines out of context.  It stripped the song of everything that made it so powerful, undercutting Fogery’s undercutting.  I imagine it was some advertising agency employee Googling partriotic songs and ending up on some misguided webpage listing “Fortunate Son” as one.  Yes, it’s patriotic in the sense that it embraces freedom of speech, but it doesn’t fit the conventional definition of “patriotism,” or at least not the definition Wrangler tried to shove down its audience’s throats.  I’m not sure who owns the publishing rights to Creedence’s catalog (whether it’s Fogerty or someone else), but the egregious misuse of the song remains with me to this day.  Even the song’s (slight) rebirth during the recent War on Terrorism as a protest song can’t make me forget about Wrangler’s mangling – and if John Fogerty signed off on it, I can’t help but think a little less of him.  If it’s true that once a song becomes public, it belongs to all of us, it’s our responsibility to demand to have it back from those who choose a cut-and-paste interpretation of it.

More on Creedence Clearwater Revival: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“96 Tears” - ? and the Mysterians
(Words/music: Rudy Martinez, available on 96 Tears, Cameo 1966)

Some characters come to us completely formed and require little to no embellishment.  Rudy Martinez is one of those characters that seems too ridiculous to be true.  Twenty five years before Bono created his “Fly” character on the Atchung Baby tour, Martinez bopped around stages in similar wraparound sunglasses.  He’s made repeated references to being born on Mars and having lived with the dinosaurs in a past life.  He legally changed his name to “?” - not the phrase “question mark,” but the actual typographical mark.  He also wrote and performed one of the singularly most infectious songs of the garage rock era.

For a man with as many interesting biographical points (being diplomatic about it), “96 Tears” is a fairly mundane song about heartbreak.  There’s a brief moment where he declares that he’ll “be on top [and] you’ll be way down there,” but he only threatens to turn his heartbreak around on his former sweetheart.  Honestly though, he could sing about anything – even drawing on his memories with the pterodactyls – and it would take a back seat to that organ riff.  It’s a terrific melody (even Smash Mouth couldn’t ruin it when they stole it in the late ’90s) on its own but benefits from the Farfisa organ sound.  The organ player alternates between a quick series of staccato stabs and longer notes that seem to float along ?’s vocals.  If he’s right about being a Martian (and I can’t prove that he isn’t, I guess), I hope his spacecraft sounds like that organ.  Don’t get me wrong – I love the theramin as much as the next blogger, but I’d prefer my UFOs to sound ebullient and bubbly as The Mysterians sound.

More on ? and the Mysterians: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“It Ain’t Me, Babe”– Bob Dylan and Joan Baez
(Words/music: Bob Dylan, available on The Bootleg Series, Volume 6: Live 1964: Concert at Philharmonic Hall, Columbia Records 2004)

I don’t know as much about Bob Dylan as I should, and while I could beat myself up about this gap in my knowledge of music, I look at it as a gradual discovery of these songs.  As I go deeper into Dylan’s catalog, I see all of the different aspects of his personality.  Maybe because I started exploring his songs in my early twenties, I’ve always found the young, slightly angry Dylan the most compelling.  Maybe it was borne out of understanding all of the absurd “new Dylan” talk that gets tossed around, but I find Dylan’s more pointed songs the most interesting.  These songs, like “Positively 4ht Street” or “It Ain’t Me, Babe,” find Dylan somewhat resentful of the spotlight.  After a series of brilliant songs full of youthful optimism, Dylan became a “reluctant spokesperson” for his generation.  Later on, we turned this Dylan into an archetype for any young, disaffected artist that reacts to a spotlight like a deer staring into headlights.  Whenever we do this and evoke Dylan’s name with someone like Conor Oberst or Elliott Smith, we usually cut to something like “Blowin’ in the Wind” rather than “It Ain’t Me, Babe.”  Sure, “new Dylan” is shorthand for a singer who is young, socially conscious, at least moderately literate, and has folk leanings, but it usually draws comparisons to the wrong Dylan.  Many of the songs on Bright Eyes’ Fever and Mirrors or Lifted… albums have more in common with the resentment in the post-electric era rather than the rallying cries in Dylan’s Greenwich Village days.

I’m writing about Bob Dylan tonight because it’s the closest I’m coming to a Fathers’ Day post.  My dad never really played a lot of music around the house but a couple times referred to a time where he skipped swimming practice in high school to go see Bob Dylan perform with some friends.  I’ve selected the version of “It Ain’t Me, Babe” from a 1964 bootleg because I’d like to think that would be what he saw that night he skipped out on practice (minus Joan Baez, I’d imagine).  Even if my dad didn’t pass down records from his youth the way others might (and if I ever have children, the way I probably will innately), he’s always been incredibly supportive of my various musical endeavors.  I remember he bought me my first drum set and drove nearly forty minutes away to go buy it.  He always read my music articles and listened to my radio show (when the internet stream was available) even if he rarely knew (or liked, I imagined) and of the bands.  Most importantly, my dad taught me the merits of perseverance.  He would sing the praises of hard work and consistency when he needed to, but he taught these lessons every day by example.  He’s a living, breathing example of someone who aims to be better every day and approaches it in small, manageable doses.  He’s given my brothers and me encouragement to follow our passions, the resources to be successful, and the space to fail.  From a young age, my parents both taught me to follow the path I wanted to follow, and there’s no way I could spend (at this point) nearly six months of my life trying to learn a little more about music and a lot more about being a better writer without either of them.  So I’m sharing a Bob Dylan post today in part because of my dad’s story, but in part because the way that many idolize Dylan is the way that I idolize my father.  Just as there will never be a “new Dylan,” I don’t want to be a clone of my dad.  Instead, my pursuit to be a damn good version of myself is a tribute to the way that he (and my mom) raised me.

More on Bob Dylan: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Tighten Up” - Archie Bell and the Drells
(Words/music: Archie Bell and Billy Buttier, available on Tighten Up, Atlantic 1968)

I’m usually skeptical of any song that comes with its own dance, as Archie Bell suggests in the opening to “Tighten Up.”  However, Bell’s showmanship quells my fears instantaneously.  He manages to sound both genuinely delighted to front his band and completely in control of his group as he calls on each of his bandmates to step into the spotlight.  Musically, “Tighten Up” sounds like a fun dance record – the drums skitter briskly, the bass player nimbly moves up and down the neck of his guitar, and the guitarist lays down a funky rhythm track.  I’m drawn in every time by the informal, almost live feel to the track – even for something with such a simple structure (no verse, no chorus), the song gradually evolves as the different parts start and finish.  These different layers – the soloists, the hand claps, Bell’s own soulful bursts of vocals – keep the song interesting throughout its duration.

My two bits of trivia (one old, one new) on “Tighten Up.”  Earlier this season while watching the Mets, current broadcaster/ former player (and Seinfeld-made icon) Keith Hernandez insinuated that “Tighten Up” was his favorite song.  It was during a discussion of another song, so it was only a passing mention, but the idea of Hernandez wiggling around on the dance floor to “Tighten Up” stuck with me, for better or worse.  Earlier today, I looked up “Tighten Up” on YouTube and the note on the video suggested that Bell recorded “Tighten Up” while on leave from the Army and that the song became a hit while he was stationed overseas.  Allmusic confirmed the story, adding that “Tighten Up” topped the pop and R&B charts while Bell was recovering from wounds from the Vietnam War.  I haven’t done much research on this fact, but I can’t imagine that there are a lot of people who enjoyed their number one single while laid up in bed wounded in combat.

More on Archie Bell and the Drells: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“In the Midnight Hour” – Wilson Pickett
(Words/music: Steve Cropper and Wilson Pickett, available on The Exciting Wilson Pickett, Atlantic 1966)

Previously, I’ve owned up to the gap in my musical knowledge about soul music and 1960s/1070s R & B music, and it hasn’t changed much over the past few months.  It’s still on my “to do” list because I enjoy the few things I know (I’d be game for any and all starting places you might offer me as well).  I first came across Wilson Pickett when my high school band played “Land of 1000 Dances” at football games.  Years later, “In the Midnight Hour” would be the first of his songs that caught my attention.  It’s a fairly simple arrangement – even the instrumental break (where one might expect a solo) sticks to the written part faithfully.  There really isn’t much of a hook – there’s a contrasting section like in a twelve bar blues progression, only there are more than twelve measures.  Instead, it’s mainly an instrumental vamp to set up Pickett’s vocal performance.  Pickett’s voice isn’t as smooth as someone like Otis Redding, but this rough-around-the-edges performance gives his songs a grittier feel.  When he sings the line “you’re the only girl I kno-oh” at the end of the second “verse,” his voice cracks perfectly as he’s reaching just out of his comfort range.  I hear this like a saxophone player who plays a note slightly out of tune on purpose – it’s a deliberate gesture that calls attention to the performer rather than a “mistake.”  I think Picket could croon if he wanted to croon, but instead his songs thrive on this raw energy.

It’s this paradox – the calmly paced soul vamp fueled by “raw energy” that makes the song so compelling to me.  Often, we think that energetic music has to be fast (or, in some cases, rushed), and while it’s often the case, but one doesn’t require the other.  Just as we can have “lazy” punk song, we can have moderately paced, high energy songs.  Pickett’s vocals ooze energy, yet his band keeps the tempo from speeding up.  Perhaps this only encourages him, daring him to improvise and create those vocal flourishes rather than just trying to keep up with his accelerating backing band.

On a (semi) related note, I chose “In the Midnight Hour” as a slight reference to my tendency to post my entries in the hour just before midnight (and as I write this, it’s 11:13 PM).  I’ve also found at the end of this post that the song’s “paradox” applies to my writing process as well – I often find it takes longer to write than I’d like, and even when a deadline approaches (the end of the day, in my case), I can’t write any faster, no matter how energized I am.  Sometimes, this is a good thing – it forces me to think through an idea rather than spew out whatever I’m thinking at that moment.  Other times, however, it’s frustrating when I want to finish but can’t find the words fast enough.  So as I continue to scratch out these late night posts, I’ll take a cue from Mr. Pickett and follow my band’s pace, letting my energy come out through the keyboard rather than changing up the tempo.

More on Wilson Pickett: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm