Some Songs Considered - Posts Tagged '1980s'

March 3, 2010

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“Brass in Pocket” – The Pretenders
(Words/music: James Honeyman-Scott/Chrissie Hynde, available on Pretenders, Warner Brothers 1980)

It’s worth getting this out of the way: every time I hear “Brass in Pocket” I think of the karaoke scene in Lost in Translation. In particular, Chrissie Hynde’s promise to use her “side step” makes me think of a pink-wigged Scarlet Johansson dipping her shoulders to the side in succession. It’s appropriate, I suppose, that I associate this song with this moment of indirect flirting, as “Brass in Pocket” details the quest to catch someone’s eye. The thing that separates “Brass in Pocket” from other seductive songs is its focus; rather than dwell on the object of her affection, Hynde’s narrator goes through her arsenal of charms. This isn’t the sort of attention-grabbing behavior that reality TV thrives cultivates. Instead, the narrator prepares her usual tricks and steps up to battle.

Of course, the song isn’t wonderful simply because the narrator promises to prove that she’s “special” (and, if we believe the video, her charms aren’t enough to win over the restaurant patrons). It’s the song’s relaxed groove and just enough of a bounce to keep Hynde’s list of preparations moving forward. She’s not the only one with an arsenal of tricks, as the rest of the Pretenders came prepared to battle with ringing guitars and a small choir of “specials’” to back up Hynde. My favorite part of her vocal performance comes right at the end – after an entire song of confident singing, Hynde slides into a more relaxed and less pronounced tone for the “I wonder where you are” line. It fits the change from militant confidence to slight hesitation, but most importantly it casts the narrator in a different light for a brief moment, suggesting that we haven’t seen her entire bag of tricks just yet.

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

February 26, 2010

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“9-9 (Live at Florida Atlantic University, 1984)” - R.E.M.
(Words/music: Bill Berry, Peter Buck, Mike Mills, Michael Stipe, originally available on Murmur, I.R.S. 1983)

(This post originally ran as a guest post on A Post Punk Tumblr’s Top 35 or So Songs of the 1980s late last summer, not because “9 - 9” specifically was one of the best songs on Tristan’s list, but because Tristan was kind enough to ask me to write a guest post. I linked to it but never ran the text of it on this blog, and with all of the new people reading this blog I thought today was as good a time as any to run it. It was originally shared with the studio version, but tonight is shared with a solid bootleg from the Reckoning era).

The paradox of music is that it’s simultaneously a shared experience and a highly personal one. Whether it’s being part of a crowd at a concert, discussing a single with friends, or giving a head nod to someone wearing a shirt of a familiar band, music unites us. It’s also the sounds of solidarity – the company on those nights where we want solidarity yet don’t want to be alone with our thoughts. While our relationship with music draws on both sides of this relationship, music discovery tends towards the social side. Specifically, it’s hard to “stumble” on music from another era without an introduction. For example, I count a bunch of records from the postpunk era among my favorites, but I discovered them many years later. Some of these records came through friends’ recommendations, but a lot of my musical discoveries seem like the results of a personal journey. Still, retracing my steps now, I’ve realized that while it often seemed like a personal and solitary process discovering to music, I wasn’t alone.

Thinking back, even if I didn’t have a cool older sibling to pass on records from bygone eras, some of my favorite bands helped “guide” me to these albums. In the mid-1990s, when I started becoming obsessed with music, I had no idea what the term “postpunk” meant, but I loved R.E.M. and started working my way through their discography. As I became enamored with their albums, I started devouring every interview, biography, and review I could find, taking note of the records and artists they mentioned repeatedly. This was my introduction to a lot of the bands I’d love like Television, Gang of Four, and Patti Smith. As I developed this personal relationship with R.E.M., I developed a sense of trust that led me to other records. I largely have R.E.M. to thank for my love of Marquee Moon, Entertainment, and Horses (in addition to Reckoning and Murmur and the other half dozen R.E.M. albums I adore).

I ended up taking to these records because I heard a lot of the same things that I loved in those R.E.M. albums, in particular the first couple discs. “9–9” from Murmur leans heavily on these influences. Listening to it now, I hear the same wiry guitar lines that stitch together Marquee Moon ringing through Peter Buck’s Rickenbacker. Michael Stipe’s rapid, free-associative lyrics feel like they came from someone who spent hundreds of hours with Patti Smith LPs. Mike Mills and Bill Berry creep into the front of the mix just like the bass and drums on my favorite Gang of Four songs. Before I owned any of these albums, I spent hours listening to Murmur, and in a way it prepared me for these other records. My time with songs like “9–9” gave me a running start toward a lot of records I now adore, and I have the boys from Athens to thank for pointing me in that direction.

More on R.E.M.: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

February 11, 2010

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“Take the Skinheads Bowling” – Camper Van Beethoven
(Words/music: Victor Krummenacher, David Lowery, Chris Molla, and Jonathan Segel, available on Telephone Free Landslide Victory, Cooking Vinyl 1985)

Two chords in the verse and a third introduced in the chorus, and that’s it for “Take the Skinheads Bowling.” If I didn’t know all the trouble I had getting a F chord to sound good when I first started playing, I’d recommend this song for beginners new to the guitar. Hell, it would be a lot better of a song for random dude at a party to pick up the guitar and start playing. It would at least make things a little more interesting.

I cite the simplicity of the chords only to set the context for my desire to over-analyze the lyrics. I’ve spent most of my intellectual life training myself in close reading, and with that comes the tendency to look deeper than necessary in some occasions. With “Take the Skinheads Bowling,” it’s a fruitless exercise trying to find some kind of motif. It’s unnecessary as well, as it’s a goofy, fun song that might be ruined by a line-by-line analysis. If anything, I’m tipped only by the final verse and its repetition of the phrase “had a dream” followed by the different images. If the whole song is meant as a series of oddly related dream images, then it explains some of the oddities. Then again, the dreams are bookended by dreams that he “forgot what it was” and “nothing,” so perhaps not.

Crap, I fell into the trap. I’m just going to stop and practice these chords. Where’s my guitar?

More on Camper Van Beethoven: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

February 3, 2010

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“Terms of Psychic Warfare” – Hüsker Dü
(Words/music: Grant Hart, available on New Day Rising, SST 1985)

The verses in “Terms of Psychic Warfare” feel like a cousin to “Wild Thing” or other similar 1960s garage rock songs. It has the same kind of repetitive riff and even Grant Hart’s vocal cadence reminds me of the extended pauses between lines. That being said, “Terms of Psychic Warfare” is the distorted, slightly twisted take on garage rock, pushing the tinny guitars to the front of the mix and sticking Hart’s somewhat mumbled lyrics further back into the mix. Ultimately, these cousins share the same loose garage-rock feel and lo-fi production aesthetics.

Of course, “Terms of Psychic Warfare” isn’t, to echo one of 2009’s recurring debate, great because it’s lo-fi; it’s a great song that transcends its production limits. Even with Hüsker Dü’s standard production budget, the coarseness doesn’t preclude ability both as performers and as arrangers. Bob Mould’s feedback-heavy guitar contrasts Greg Norton’s carefully plucked bass line, giving the song its strange pseudo-Spectorian wall of feedback beneath Hart’s rantings. There are even harmony vocals deep in the mix, eeking out just enough to hint at their presence after several listens. The song’s deceptiveness masks its assets beneath the treble-laden surface yet gives it enough charm to make it interesting many listens later. Whether it’s embellishing on the garage rock form or funneling an entire lifetime of listening through the sound available to them, Hüsker Dü’s songs like “Terms of Psychic Warfare” warrant a reputation that expands beyond simple shredding.

More on Husker Du: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

January 27, 2010

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“See a Little Light” – Bob Mould
(Words/music: Bob Mould, available on Workbook, Virgin 1989)

As much as shrill guitar defined Husker Du’s sound, the cello during the second half of “See A Little Light” signals that something changed. Where the guitars once cut like a treble-fueled buzzsaw, Mould opts for the rich sound the cello provides in the second half of the song. It gives the melody a slightly different context - where the beginning of the song feels bright, the second half of the song sounds slightly sadder even as it modulates upward. It doesn’t redefine the song as much as it incorporates a different thread, weaving this bowed melody in with the acoustic guitars and Mould’s vocals.

This melancholy thread plays off the lyrics too. If “See a Little Light,” Mould’s first single after Husker Du dissolved, comments on the band’s break (and it certainly may be read as a breakup song without that biographical link), then Mould sounds like he’s moved on. In this case, Mould focuses on the passage of time - “look how much we’ve grown,” “as the years go by,” etc - rather than casting aspersions. He’s saying all the right things and encourages the second party to “see a little light” and start to move on as well. When looking at the words and the general brightness of the arrangement initially, it sounds like Mould moved on. However, the cello line feels like the sad thought mixed in with the resolution to move on. This is the nostalgia that creeps up in these situations - one where looking back fondly yields to sadness for the end of an era - and undercuts any sense of closure. In this case, it’s perhaps fair to say that while Mould moved on (and quite successfully), he never left behind his old band entirely, performing Husker Du songs in the same sets where he sings “See a Little Light”

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

January 23, 2010

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“Atmosphere” – Joy Division
(Words/music: Bernard Albrecht/Ian Curtis/Peter Hook/Stephen Morris/Bernard Sumner, available on Substance, Qwest 1988 / Factory Records single 1980)

If Ian Curtis’ suicide dominates Joy Division’s general reputation, most of their catalog does little to refute the gloomy associations. Whether it’s dark overtones in the lyrics or the general tautness of their sound, most would find bleakness in their music before finding beauty. Even their most famous song frames love as a destructive force. As with any generalized reputation, Joy Division’s reduced biography paints the band as completely one-dimensional. Songs like “Atmosphere” show the band putting a twist on their sound, foreshadowing the more nuanced emotions New Order put into their records.

“Atmosphere” frames the iciness of Joy Division’s sound in a different context. It still sounds cold and barren, but it feels like the peaceful quiet of a chilly pre-dawn morning. The humming synthesizer and huge drum sound feels like a busy street before everyone wakes up. It’s this setting where Curtis and his second party find a sort of public privacy while the rest of the world sleeps. Whether Curtis, who sings in a deep and rich tone, intends his plea as a final desperate act or just as a reaction to a disagreement, his request for this person to remain and talk rings through the emptiness. Where emptiness in other Joy Division songs might signify isolation or loneliness, this emptiness creates a sense of intimacy only available in these very early (or very late) moments. As the hum of the rest of the world builds, Curtis feels increasingly sincere and urgent. In a scene with few other signs of life, we’re given a glimpse into the kind of private moments we never know about. Out of this emptiness comes a sense of warmth, largely from the same ringing arpeggios and “Be My Baby” beat that “Just Like Honey” would use a few years later. Just as the song reaches its climax – the moment where the rest of the world wakes up – “Atmosphere” fades out. Even without resolution, it’s a rare glimpse into a side of the band that rarely gets mentioned.

More on Joy Division: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

January 22, 2010

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“That’s Entertainment” – The Jam
(Words/music: Paul Weller, available on Sound Affects, Polydor 1980)

Tonight marks the end of Conan O’Brien’s brief run as host of The Tonight Show after an extremely public bout with his network. I won’t add onto the pile of discussion of the way O’Brien left the network and instead will focus on wishing him a fond (and hopefully temporary) farewell. Of course, since music was one of the important parts of his show – from interacting with the characters in the Max Weinberg Seven to the terrific bands his staff booked for him – I thought I’d send Conan off with a song.

“That’s Entertainment” describes some of the sights and sounds of working class Britain. Paul Weller runs through the bleak sights, shrill sounds, and general humdrum details of everyday life. As a narrator, Weller stays generally detached, only tipping us to the unhappiness of the people living here in the “wishing you were far away” line (which, to be fair, could be any place at any time). It’s this general discontent that leads me to think that the “that’s entertainment” line isn’t necessarily meant as sarcastic. Rather, if it’s to suggest that working class life isn’t entertaining, it underscores the need for entertainment in our lives.

This is where O’Brien comes in. His show provided small doses of entertainment, be it bizarre comedy bits, an engaging interview, or a favorite band playing a new song. O’Brien’s show offered levity after an exhausting day and did so in a consistently clever and genuinely warm way. He combined the razor-sharp wit and flair for absurdity that many try to cultivate with an endearing and effortless charm that most of us dream of possessing. If Weller’s song focused on the need for tiny bits of escapism in our day-to-day lives, Conan O’Brien was one of my favorites. For the sake of entertainment, I hope he returns to television soon.

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

January 18, 2010

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“MLK” – U2
(Words: Bono, Music: U2, available on The Unforgettable Fire, Island Records 1984)

“Pride (In the Name of Love)” salutes Martin Luther King, Jr. with one of U2’s biggest anthems. Sure enough, in the ten minutes I was in the car today I caught the end of it on the radio. Tucked away at the end of the same album sits “MLK,” a more somber and subdued tribute to the same man. While “Pride” uses Dr. King’s life as a rallying cry, “MLK” meditates on his spirit. Aside from the title and an overt allusion to his “dream,” “MLK” could be a generic plea for peace in a troubling time. Of course, the spirit of Dr. King’s legacy (and the same one Bono wants to mobilize around in “Pride”) calls for the continued struggle to bring peace to those who need it; “MLK” reflects the opposite side of the struggle – those trying to find the strength to endure rather than to liberate.

“MLK” sonically foils “Pride” as well. Where “Pride” rides a soaring chorus and The Edge’s guitar (and foreshadows the formula that would make them mega-stars on the next album), “MLK” bears Brian Eno’s influence. Bono sings over a droning synthesizer that hums gently and warmly, leading from one chord to the next. The synth is primarily atmospheric, serving as a backdrop for Bono’s echoed vocals (the 2009 remastered version brings out this echo in the left channel particularly well). On the final note (“me” in the lyrics), Bono’s voice and the synthesizer resolve the chord, giving the song the harmonic peace that it lyrically desires. It’s little more than a sketch of a song (most often used as an introduction for some of U2’s requiems (“Unforgettable Fire” and “One Tree Hill” primarily) but ironically never for “Pride”), but it’s a lovely piece to end The Unforgettable Fire.

More on U2: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

December 30, 2009

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“Waiting for the Great Leap Forward” – Billy Bragg
(Words/music: Billy Bragg, available on Worker’s Playtime, Go! Discs 1988)

My instincts want me to use “Waiting for the Great Leap Forward” as a way to look back at the past year of blogging. When I started writing this blog, I did it as a way to explore my taste in music. I’ve been secure in my taste, meaning that I like the things I like proudly with or without the validation of others, for a while now, but I wanted to go deeper and try to figure out why I liked the things that I like. In that sense, Bragg’s ode to contradiction seems strangely appropriate to a point. “Waiting for the Great Leap Forward” hinges not only on the allusion to the failed economic and cultural renewal plan in 1950s China but on his appropriation of the cliché “one step forward, two steps back.” He lists a series of moments where advancement and regression converge – events where the opposite outcome – whether intended or inevitable – becomes prevalent. The power of Bragg’s song, both in the original version and in the continually updated lyrics since – is that he confronts his own contradictions in addition to the glaring dissonance in our culture. Whether it’s growing old, adapting to technology, or the accidental isolation of fame, Bragg ponders where and how he fits in to a changing world.

After a year of writing about songs that cover a significant portion of my taste as well as my personal listening history, I’m left in a similar position of confusion. In some cases, I have a better handle on the kind of things I like, none of which surprise me. Still, I’ve found that I’ve raised more than enough questions, whether directly or tangentially, to offset any “progress” I might declare (or, at least, “progress” I had in mind at the beginning of the year). However, this isn’t a failure; after all, this isn’t the kind of thing with tangible results. Instead, I feel even more curious at this point than when I started. That, coupled with the list of songs and songwriters I haven’t touched yet, is enough for me to want to continue with this in 2010. The job feels incomplete not because I failed to find what I was looking for, but because I’ve found that there’s more to explore. Where I once imagined writing some kind of dossier of my introspection, I’m finding that the act of considering and writing about these songs is what I wanted all along – that the small epiphanies about a forgotten favorite or a new perspective on a personal memory are the reasons I sat down to write in the first place.

Which brings me back to the song – even if the piano chords are slow at first, Bragg and friends eventually kick into gear. For his mixed feelings about progress, Bragg isn’t moping about failure. Instead, he’s forging on the same way he has for the better part of three decades now, still singing “Waiting for the Great Leap Forward” just with different details. On a much smaller scale, that’s what I’m hoping for – continuing along with different details, hoping each day to figure out something else, or get a little better at what I’m doing.

More on Billy Bragg: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

December 27, 2009

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“Save it For Later” – The (English) Beat
(Words/music: The Beat, available on Special Beat Service, IRS 1982)

Too often, the phrase “less is more” comes across as a euphemism for being incomplete when the author intends it as a complement. It’s the kind of oxymoron that make stand-up comedians seem brilliant. Instead, if someone is to defend against embellishment (or against a more ornate object), it makes more sense to praise the “less” for efficiency (where “more” is unnecessary since the minimum pieces accomplish the task) or for potency (meaning that adding “more” would dilute the mixture). Of course, efficiency and potency aren’t as tidy as that cliché, so too many of us are trained to look at something bare bones, praise it for being unfinished, and exacerbate my pet peeve.

Anyway, I digress; the reason I bring up this phrase is that some might be tempted to apply it to “Save It for Later.” However, rather than feel incomplete, “Save It For Later” works well because of it’s efficiency and potency. Built around a single I-V-IV chord progression (which, if I’m hearing Dave Wakeling correctly, is played with a specific open tuning), “Save It For Later” makes the most of these three chords, whether strummed, arpeggiated, or augmented by strings. The persistent riff gives the rest of the song room to embellish, sometimes with horns, sometimes with a drum lick, and sometimes with a variation on the guitar figure. Wakeling understands the power of his chord progression and milks every last bit out of these three chords, using repetition of both lyrics and melody to achieve his purpose. In this sense, he doesn’t waste a single word or note; instead, he wrings out a variety of chording styles out of his progression and repeats phrases (sometimes sticking on a word or two for a few seconds) rather than invent something new (even twisting phrases to get double meanings out of a few lines). It’s not that he’s working with the minimal pieces – rather, he knows how to maximize the ones he selects.

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

December 26, 2009

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“Holiday Road” – Lindsey Buckingham
(Words/music: Lindsey Buckingham, available on National Lampoon’s Vacation OST, Warner Brothers 1983)

Every year, my friend Jeff hosts a “Festivus Party,” named after the Senfeld holiday, but also because the party happens whenever it’s the most convenient for all of us. He first held the party the year most of us were freshmen in college, and it served as a “welcome home” gathering. Years later, it’s now one of the two or three occasions that I get to see some of my high school friends who are normally scattered across the country. Aside from the holiday itself, Jeff’s party is the best part of the Christmas season.

Anyway, somewhere along the line I became (read: I claimed) in charge of making a mix to put on in the background. Each year, I pepper the disc with sound clips from that Senfeld episode, Christmas songs, and other random songs that are part of the cultural zeitgeist that year (this year includes Lady Gaga and “Empire State of Mind” among others). “Holiday Road” almost always makes its way on the mix, in part because of its inclusion in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, in part because the word “holiday” is in the title, and in part because it’s a good excuse to include it. Sometimes it sparks discussion about Chevy Chase or Vacation, and sometimes it leads to spontaneous singing of the backing “woahs” and the hook. Mostly though, it’s lively, nostalgic, and a little silly, just like these Festivus parties. Whenever I hear it during the rest of the year (usually when the Christine Brinkley scene of Vacation is on TV), it makes me think of these moments together with my friends – probably the only winter moment I’m ever nostalgic for in the middle of the summer.

More on Lindsey Buckingham: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

December 24, 2009

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“Fairytale of New York” – The Pogues w/ Kirsty MacColl
(Words/music: Jem Finer and Shane MacGowan, available on If I Should Fall From Grace With God, Island 1988)

Each year around this time, the number of people who claim “Fairytale of New York” as their favorite Christmas song swells just a little bit. Understandably, of course, as this is a rare charismatic holiday song amidst a sea of mall muzak and overplayed standards. MacColl and MacGowan sing with such convincing personality – MacGowan’s voice seems destined for telling a drunk’s story, and MacColl plays his foil with brassy, beautiful charm. Even without getting into the story, MacGowan’s gruffness, MacColl’s melancholy, and the swelling instrumentation behind them communicates all of the emotions that play out – revelry, melancholy, regret, and hope.

Beyond the song’s vocal and melodic charms, the two lovers’ story resonates with many, particularly in a season of commercialism and abstract love. Yes, the protagonists seem to be at rock bottom – MacGowan’s character is sobering up in jail while MacColl is dying from a drug addition. However, despite their frustration, bitterness, and regret they never fall entirely into despondence. MacColl comes closest, accusing MacGowan of stifling her potential, yet it’s right after she claims that anyone could “be someone.” Instead, however the song plays out – whether it’s all in MacGowan’s head or whether this is a split screen / split narrative scene – both characters focus on the hopeful Christmases in their past. Maybe it’s the optimist in me, but it seems like they do this not to point out that they are hopeless, but rather as a way of recapturing any shred of their dreams, ultimately realizing that the only thing they have left is each other, no matter how much they irk each other. Even if they’re shells of their former selves, there’s hope that somewhere deep is a shred of what inspired their dreams in the first place.

I think it’s this sense of hope even in the bleakest times that resonates. Even in tough times, Christmas represents a moment of joy and hope for many people. In a strange way, MacGowan and MacColl’s characters find joy in their loved ones, even if they’re referring to each other in less than affectionate language. Hopefully we can find that too without having to hit the same nadir they experience.

Happy Christmas if you celebrate it, and I hope that it’s a time of peace, hope, and reprieve for all who need it.

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

December 21, 2009

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“Hold My Life” – The Replacements
(Words/music: Paul Westerberg, available on Tim, Sire Records 1985)

I hold the Replacements so dearly because I fell in love with the band as a teenager. I went out on the afternoon of my first date in high school and bought a copy of Tim. I can’t remember why – if I went out specifically to buy it, or if I was going out to blow off steam and came across it incidentally. Regardless, I have a vivid memory getting ready for the homecoming dance with the first two thirds of Tim playing in the boombox next to me. I remember the circumstances behind the acquisition of most of the Replacements records I own in fact, but my association with Tim stays with me the most. Today I wonder if Tim is my favorite Replacements album because it has my favorite songs on it, or if it has my favorite songs on it because of the numerous personal connections I have with the album.

I share this because my experience with The Replacements isn’t unique to either the band or the teenage experience. We all have song bound to specific times in our lives, and it just seems that the Replacements wrote many songs that lend themselves to this hyper-sensitive period in our lives. I spent too long tonight trying to track down the source (even stumbling on another instance where I paraphrased it), and I’m fairly sure it’s in my missing copy of Our Band Could Be Your Life, but the best description I’ve ever heard of The Replacements was that Paul Westerberg wrote vividly about the teenage experience from the safety of the “other side” of adolescence. Appropriately enough, it’s something that I appreciate more as I get further away from my teenage years. It reminds me of the predicament Holden Caulfield thrusts himself on at the end of The Catcher in the Rye. Impetuous Holden tells his sister that he wants to be the one who wants to protect kids from getting hurt or going down the wrong path. He doesn’t realize that it’s a foolish pursuit; first, it’s near impossible, and moreover kids need to learn how to fall and recover. Yes, there are certain mistakes kids can and should avoid, but some struggles, such as heartbreak, rejection, or frustration, are necessary. Learning to grow up is to learn to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and continue on, and without the opportunity to fall (in relative safety), it’s impossible to learn how to get back up. To paraphrase Westerberg’s narrator in this song, they need to learn how to use their lives rather than merely hold onto them indefinitely.

The point is that no matter how much we want to intervene, there are some mistakes, injuries, and failures that we all must experience, and the only reason we feel qualified to guide others is that we have the benefit of hindsight and experience. This is what makes Westerberg’s perspective work – he strikes the right balance between experience and authenticity, knowing where to nudge the listener and where to just lay out all his cards and let the listener take stock of the situation. His songs aren’t judgmental or didactic as much as they are reflective. We can see ourselves in the bored, frustrated, alienated, and hopeful personalities that populate Replacements’ songs, and perhaps with Westerberg’s mirror we can take better stock of ourselves and where we fit in to the big picture. Rather than offering advice quickly tuned out, Replacements songs like “Hold My Life” wait passively for the next person to come along and find whatever he or she needs – empathy, understanding, catharsis, validation, or whatever – ready to help on the listener’s terms. Mark Richardson, in a review of the Replacements’ reissues, put it well by saying that records, particularly the ‘Mats records, are always waiting. “People change, but records don’t, and that’s part of what makes them great. They’re frozen in place, ready to be found by people who need them.”

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

December 17, 2009

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“Driven to Tears” – The Police
(Words/music: Sting, available on Zenyatta Mondatta, Interscope 1980)

Given Sting’s post-Police foray into soft rock, it’s understandable how some might dismiss the Police. When coupled with the way some of their songs are used - “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic” on the soundtrack to The Wedding Singer and “Every Breath You Take” surprisingly misappropriated by wedding singers (and sampled by Puffy, of course), It’s understandable how some banish the Police into the realm of adult contemporary radio. To do so, however, sells the band short, particularly in the way the three musicians in the band were more than the sum of their parts.

While Sting, the primary songwriter, vocalist, and biggest personality in the group, still receives the most attention, Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland more than held their own with their more famous bandmate. Summers, an accomplish guitarist outside of the rock world, brings his knowledge of jazz into his guitar playing, particularly in the unconventional chord voicings in “Driven to Tears,” moreover, Summers’ guitar has a distinctive echoey tone that helps cast the mood appropriate for Sting’s lyrics about poverty. His solo, however, departs from this shimmery echo into the more disjointed and dissonant sound one might expect on a Gang of Four record rather than a Sting recording. Additionally, Copeland, a cult hero in the drumming world, controls the beat with an acrobat’s prevision and flair for the dramatic. Whether locking into the double-time groove in the bridge section or tossing off-the-cuff fills into empty space, Copeland stakes claim to one third of the sonic space in the song. Copeland and Summers give sting the canvas to tell his story of disgust and empathy, giving just enough detail to communicate his point without making himself the center of the circus. Instead, as with the band’s best recordings, the entire trio shares the spotlight.

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

December 5, 2009

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“Crazy Little Thing Called Love” – Queen
(Words/music: Freddie Mercury, available on The Game, Elektra 1980)

While the rest of the world falls in love with the Muppets’ version of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” I just spent fifteen minutes searching for Queen’s performance of “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” from Saturday Night Live in the early 1980s. When I first saw it years ago, I started to think of Queen differently. I knew the song previously (having stolen my mom’s Queen compilations – sorry mom!), but it was that performance that gave me something more than Wayne’s World to think of when I heard them. The best I can find right now is a recording of a recording (with less than ideal sound), but even this clip captures the band tearing through the song. There aren’t any crazy time signatures or camera tricks – just a band doing what it does best.

Appropriately, Freddie Mercury steps into the spotlight on this track. Primarily known for both his dramatic flair and powerful voice, Mercury puts both talents to use somewhat differently on this song. Rather than overpowering his bandmates with his booming range, he slides into a rockabilly croon effortlessly. Not only does Mercury nail all of the vocal tics (specifically the intonation), he does it convincingly. Where a lesser singer might have resembled a caricature of Elvis Presley singing out of the side of his mouth, Mercury turns in a performance worthy of the King’s finest moments. More importantly, Mercury does so without having to sacrifice the power in his voice. Particularly in the SNL clip, Mercury still sings with presence; while it’s not as booming as some of his other recordings, Mercury delivers these lines with precise and focused force. By the time Brian May lays out an excellent guitar solo and Mercury can bounce around the stage, the band’s already into their victory lap.

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

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