Some Songs Considered - Posts Tagged '1979'

February 7, 2010

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“Dream Police” – Cheap Trick
(Words/music: Rick Nielson, available on Dream Police, Epic 1979)

When asked about his music being used in a commercial, Iggy Pop (or I think it was Iggy Pop, please correct me if I’m wrong) said (and again, I’m paraphrasing – I can’t find the exact quote) that he saw no issue with licensing his songs. Specifically, Pop said that his songs weren’t written with the intent to sell products, intimating that it’s not selling out if they come to you after an indiscriminate amount of time.

I share this along with the following statement of facts: I don’t write songs, let alone songs anyone cares about. What people do with their songs is their business, and if it puts food on the table or makes a loved one’s life a little better, then even better. So when Cheap Trick decided to rerecord “Dream Police” for an Audi commercial and rechristen it as “Green Police” (to tout the car’s environmental credentials), it’s ultimately Rick Nielson’s prerogative to provide for himself and his family. Hell, given the same opportunity, I’m not sure I’d do it differently.

That being said – ugh.

Cheap Trick, one of the finest and (generally) underappreciated power pop bands of their era, deserved the crowd who heard their music tonight. Their songs are ebullient and wry and stick in your head for days. “Dream Police” may not be on the same level as “Surrender,” but its slick production and eerily-tinged synths find the sweet spot between the song’s bubbly melody and the lyrics’ sci-fi paranoia. Yes, it’s a ridiculous concept, but it’s the right kind of ridiculous that’s tempered with the proper goofy demeanor that makes it charmingly ridiculous. Perhaps “Green Police” is the equivalent government related fear (judging by the number of folks on Twitter labeling it a “liberal dream,” perhaps it’s even more polarizing) thirty years later, but tonight it came off as hokey.

Again, I’m not against anyone collecting a paycheck. It’s just a shame that it had to come in such a patronizing way. Maybe Rick Nielson is laughing at people like me (and maybe subconsciously I’m resentful because I’ll never afford an Audi), but I can’t help but feel like “Green Police” is counter-productive. Not only will the melody to one of my favorite songs cause me to change the channel, but after tonight I’m not sure how long it will be before I’ll be able to listen to “Dream Police” and enjoy it again.

More on Cheap Trick: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: cheap trick | 1979 | 1970s | epic records | audi commercial | super bowl | wtf |

January 29, 2010

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“My Way” – Sid Vicious
(Words: Paul Anka, music: Claude François and Jacques Revaux, available on Sid Sings, EMI 1979)

Truth be told, I have little to add to this. It’s memorable in part because Sid Vicious died a premature and violent death, in part because it’s tweaking Sinatra, and in part because Scorsese used it over the credits of Goodfellas. If anything, interpretation probably falls right down the middle between Vicious desecrating a standard and Vicious embodying the song’s denouncement of detractors. Whether used to celebrate a full life or simply victory on one’s terms, “My Way” always came off to me as a bit too boastful to be truly moving.

Even if I’m not really sure whether Vicious means this belligerently or earnestly, I know that I let off a little laugh when he sneers his way into “regrets.” That, and I think of Ben Garant and Kerri Kenney’s portrayal of Sid and Nancy on a game show on The State and I laugh again. I’m not quite sure what the agenda here is, but this is probably where all those ironic punk covers of decidedly non-punk songs come back to. In that case, I’m torn; I admire the prototype yet hate the replications.

More on Sid Vicious: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: sid vicious | sex pistols | frank sinatra | 1979 | 1970s | EMI | cover song |

December 19, 2009

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“After the Gold Rush” – Neil Young
(Words/music: Neil Young, available on Live Rust, Reprise 1979)

I vividly remember the first time “After the Gold Rush” connected with me. I was watching VH-1 Classic and saw a performance from a concert (perhaps in Berlin) in the 1980s. Young performed the song on his own at the piano with his harmonica attachment, and behind him was a sea of fans largely silent (and swelling to raucous applause for the “I felt like getting high” line). I remember being struck by the simplicity of the song, specifically the way that Young commanded the attention of such a large crowd with such a simple, fragile song. At that point, I knew Harvest and the louder rock songs (“Cortez the Killer” and “Rockin’ in the Free World” for example), but this performance sent me deep into his catalogue.

“After the Gold Rush” thrives on this fragility. Whether it’s the fragile state of the environment, the minimal piano-voice-harmonica arrangement, or the narrator’s fragile mental state, the song feels like it might fall apart at any moment. Still, it’s Young’s imperfectly wavering voice that makes the track compelling. It needn’t be perfect or polished. Instead, it’s a trip into his narrator’s head and a glimpse at his view of the world. Whether it’s conspiracy theories, fears for Mother Nature, or drug-fueled dreams of leaving Earth, Young’s narrator sounds like a man clinging to his dreams as a last hope. Desperation rarely sounds this beautiful.

More on Neil Young: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

November 28, 2009

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“A Message to You Rudy” – The Specials
(Words/music: Lee “Scratch” Perry and Lee Thompson, available on The Specials, 2 Tone / Chrysalis 1979)

More than bands in other genres, ska bands look backward to their heroes for their inspiration. The Specials did this as much as anyone else and in the process became ambassadors to both the second wave ska movement and to the history of ska in general. Without the Specials pointing backwards to their roots, generations of music fans might begin and end their knowledge of reggae with Bob Marley. So it’s appropriate that the Specials debut album contained a number of old reggae songs, including a faithful interpretation of this Dandy Livingstone track. While Livingstone’s track cautioned the Jamaican rude boys against their violent behavior, The Specials sent their “message” to the new wave of ska in England. Just as the new wave of ska repurposed “rude boy” to mean fans of the music (granted, some still took the violence as part of it), the Specials took Livingstone’s warning and repurposed it as a rallying cry to their growing two-tone movement.

Personally, “A Message to You Rudy” takes on an entirely out-of-context meaning. Tonight I’m going to celebrate my friend Matt’s birthday at Rudy’s, one of our favorite bars. In addition to affordable beer (and amazing Belgian frites), Rudy’s has been a place to get together with friends, listen to an insanely eclectic jukebox, and kick back from the day-to-day grind. Even though I knew most of the songs that I associate with Rudy’s long before I could drink beer, many vivid memories attached to these songs occurred at Rudy’s. So tonight, while lifting a pint to Matt, I’ll see if I can slip a dollar into the jukebox and play the Specials in honor of a friend, a band, and a bar that I hold so dearly.

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

TAGGED UNDER: the specials | dandy livingstone | 1979 | 1970s | ska | 2 tone records |

July 29, 2009

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“Dreaming” – Blondie
(Words/music: Debbie Harry and Chris Stein, available on Eat to the Beat, Chrysalis Records, 1979)

There’s a bar in New Haven called Rudy’s, and my friends and I used to go there semi-often. We still love it and we still go every once in a while, but it’s generally out of the way, especially for friends who have since moved in the exact opposite direction. It’s one of those delightful neighborhood dive bars flooded equally with punks and Yale students (although now, I guess they’re more “hipsters” than “punks”) known for (relatively) affordable beer, excellent Belgian frites, and a killer jukebox. The jukebox is now one of those weird internet ones (and still very good), but a few years back it was this odd CD jukebox filled with mix CDs and albums ranging from The Misfits to Sam Cooke. It became routine to go in, order beers, and then pump five dollars into the jukebox for (roughly) an hour’s worth of music. The selections shifted based on mood, but we had our favorites that we always picked. Over time, I developed three fairly solid “signature” songs – ones that friends of friends would know were my selections. They are “Move on Up” by Curtis Mayfield, “Bastards of Young” by the Replacements, and “Dreaming” by Blondie (usually followed by whatever random Talking Heads song I felt like that night). I have a lingering feeling that the combination of these songs says a lot about me.

Until I started reserving jukebox credits for “Dreaming,” I’m not sure it was my favorite Blondie song. I’m not even sure how I ended up picking it – maybe it was an accident, maybe it was right around the time I found Eat to the Beat in a cheap used bin. Regardless, I know why it stuck- it’s one of Blondie’s most carefree songs. Debbie Harry turns some over-the-top lyrics into a cute and endearing performance, competing with the guitar and keyboards for possession of the primary melody. The key to the song lies in the drumming. Clem Burke, one of rock’s most overlooked drummers, fills the song to the brim with sixteenth note fills that reach the perfect blend of restraint and showing off. While other drummers would take similar freedom and turn the song into a train wreck, Burke plays fills that preserve the song’s internal pulse. As a result, his constant action makes the song sound giddy – appropriate for a song about a first date. It’s the kind of song I want to hear when I’m out with my friends – one that makes me feel energized, fun, and happy to enjoy their company.

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

June 25, 2009

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“Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” – Michael Jackson
(Words/music: Michael Jackson, available on Off the Wall, Epic 1979)

I desperately wanted to write about someone else tonight, but I’ve been surrounded by Michael Jackson’s death between Twitter, the pop radio stations playing him non-stop, and even MTV briefly playing videos tonight. It’s next to impossible for me to think about anything else tonight. I try my best to keep the focus on the songs and my personal reactions to the songs, but tonight it’s hard not to think about Jackson’s place in popular culture. Maura at Idolator says that it’s “very tempting to say that Jackson was something of a mirror of the past 40-ish years of popular culture, from his family’s band’s beloved singles in the ’60s and ’70s to his boundary-breaking solo career that followed to the celebrity-spectre existence,” but I’m not sure that does Jackson justice entirely. Jackson helped to push popular culture by expanding the boundaries of popular music and the reach of a pop star. He might have made a dozen more singles that sounded like “I Want You Back” and still remained popular, but he never seemed content to rest on his laurels. Instead, Jackson kept thinking bigger. Soon, his singles nearly burst at the seams with different sounds. He almost single-handedly turned the music video into an artistic statement by employing film directors and calling in famous friends for cameos. And even as recent as a few years ago, Jackson still outshined an entirely slew of contemporary pop stars. “Billie Jean,” his finest single, was also, in the words of Freaky Trigger’s Tom Ewing, “a disquieting, troubled record.” Sure, these quirks gave way to a man with serious personal and legal issues later in life, but Jackson’s shortcomings shouldn’t diminish his role in pushing popular culture to new heights.

“Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” was essentially the adolescence of Jackson’s musical career – the period between his beginnings as a child start and his ascendaency atop the musical world in the early 1980s. During this time, Jackson stepped out on his own, left behind the vintage Motown sound that made him famous, and made a dance record. Maybe it’s the clarity hindsight affords, but all of the elements that would catapult Jackson into becoming the world’s most recognizable entertainer are in this song – a terrific and charming vocal performance, an overriding sense of joy, and a musical arrangement that took a few risks. It’s not as edgy as some of his later singles, but it marked a steep departure from his Jackson 5 days. It’s also immensely satisfying to listen to now, and if the song comes up on shuffle and gets past that opening “woo,” I’ve committed myself to listening to the whole thing. I may not be a Jackson aficionado, but I’m overcome with joy any time I hear this song.

More on Michael Jackson: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: michael jackson | 1979 | 1970s | track analysis | r.i.p. | epic records | king of pop |

January 15, 2009

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“I Found that Essence Rare” – Gang of Four
(Words/music: Gang of Four, available on Entertainment!, EMI 1979)

A lot of music, especially in the punk/post-punk vein, revolves around a cycle of tension and release. Sometimes, the music creates the tension with fast, pounding rhythms that implore the audience to find release through relentless pogo-ing or slam dancing. Sometimes, the music itself builds in tension throughout the song, waiting for that moment of release. This isn’t unique to punk, though, as even my basic recollection of music theory remembers talking about resolving chords back to the tonic – the home base where the tones are exactly what the ear expects to hear. Perhaps we’re drawn to tension-filled music because it makes us appreciate the resolution that much more. Maybe we just like being wound up sometimes.

On “I Found that Essence Rare,” Gang of Four winds everything so tight that there’s little room for anything else. The guitars forge ahead devoid of any reverb; rather than letting the notes ring out and dissolve, they quickly forge ahead like knives chipping away piece by piece. Jon King’s words take a similar action, cutting into bourgeoisie culture of politics, tabloids, and fashion with direct, focused observations. Something strange happens amidst this tension – a groove develops. While funk musicians like to talk about getting “loose” when laying down a groove, Gang of Four achieves their unique groove as a sort of nervous twitch, like muscles that spasm slightly when held tense long enough. It’s a sort of claustrophobic, paranoid trance that manages to have some spring in it. There’s even a drum break in the bridge (granted, it’s more Mission of Burma than Parliament)

The only glimmer of release from this tightly-wound dissection of consumer culture comes in the chorus. Appropriately, the chorus shifts from observations of the outside world to a first person statement – there’s refuge from the demonic outside world within oneself, but it’s fleeting at best. Those same guitars come crashing through and bring back more images of hollow politicians and trash journalism. Then, it’s back to the nerves.

Finally, the onslaught stops, but there’s no real resolution. We’re wound up and dancing (twitching?) along, only to have the groove swept out from under our feet. Granted, it seems appropriate from a song with such a skeptical view of the world.

More on Gang of Four: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

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