Some Songs Considered

“Close (To the Edit)” – Art of Noise
(Words/music: Anne Dudley/Trevor Horn/Johnathon J. Jeczalik/Gary Langan/Paul Morley, available on (Who’s Afraid Of?) The Art of Noise!, ZTT/Island 1984)

Art of Noise made plenty of jarring, engaging sound collages (including a one-off collaboration with Tom Jones on Prince’s “Kiss.”  Let that sink in for a minute), and “Close (To the Edit)” ranks with their best.  Their samples come from many different sources – a Volkswagon, a male vocalist repeating a single syllable, and a Yes song just to name a few.  The result is something that feels startiling cohesive despite moving in different directions.  The part where the synthesizer glides on top of the rest of the track in particular feels like a moment where these disparate sounds create the most unlikely harmony. 

The track is only part of the story.  The video is the rest of it.  When I used to get VH-1 Classic, I kept an eye out specifically for this video.  There isn’t too much to add to it (seriously, if you haven’t seen it, go watch it right now), except that the editing of the footage in a sort of semi-stop motion feels appropriate for a track that doesn’t try to hide its editing marks.  Even after countless plays on TV and YouTube, I’m still fascinated, amused, and slightly disturbed by the video – enough that I’m going to be quiet and let it speak for itself.

(If you’re interested in reading more about the samples used, or about how the Prodigy used the “hey” vocal sample in their “Firestarter,” the Allmusic entry and Wikipedia entry are good places to start).

More on Art of Noise: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want” – The Smiths
(Words/music: Johnny Marr and Morrissey, available on Hatful of Hollow, Sire 1984)

Three mildly connected thoughts about The Smiths and this song:

1. By the time I started buying albums, the “single” served one of two purposes.  The first, more traditional version, the one where a band recorded a couple songs and put them out on a 7” (or CD, or cassette, or now on iTunes) as a completed project.  Generally, these were the punk bands that weren’t on my radar in the mid-1990s.  Then, there was the idea of a “single” as the track being promoted off the album – the one that got the video and maybe a CD single with a remix or one rarity.  I started digging into music during the era of the overstuffed album, so save for a shoebox of CD singles that I acquired for curious reasons, I didn’t buy singles until I started buying vinyl.  Thus, the notion of a band like the Smiths as a “singles band,” one who had a singles collection out the same year as their debut album, was one I had a hard time wrapping my head around at first. 
2. As lovely as it is, the definitive version of this song for me is the Dream Academy’s instrumental version during the Art Institute scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.  Even without words, it underscores the melancholy beneath the scene’s playfulness, whether it’s the look of silent despair that Cameron shares with the blank-faced girl in Georges Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte or the fleeting moment Ferris and Sloane share underneath Marc Chagall’s America Windows.  I also appreciated that an oboe (I think) replaces Morrissey’s voice, even if I might have picked a lower woodwind like a bassoon to replicate his voice.
3. My favorite bit of the song comes right at the end.  Johnny Marr plays a mandolin with unexpected speed.  The quick strumming alone feels jarring, but the tone of the instrument blends well and gives the song an appropriately sweet coda.  Before it reaches the two minute mark, the whole thing gently fades away.

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

“No Surrender” – Bruce Springsteen
(Words/music: Bruce Springsteen, available on Born in the U.S.A., Columbia 1984)

This statement would probably make Bruce Springsteen’s day: I’ve largely explored Springsteen’s catalog the same way I’ve explored Bob Dylan’s output.  My most concentrated listening to both Springsteen and Dylan occurs when I want to hear a certain song, which then points me toward an entire album.  For instance, cravings for “Tangled Up in Blue” lead to an hour with Blood on the Tracks, or the desire to hear the “Meeting Across the River / Jungleland” sequence leads to an immediate play of Born to Run.  If their catalogs are a diverse, highly regarded restaurant menu, I tend to order the same dishes even though I’m confident I’ll like a lot more than what I’ve already tried.  With these records, it leads to the dual sense of embarrassment and excitement of making a late discovery.  I might feel foolish for only coming around to Blonde on Blonde recently, but it also means that it’s a new, exciting record to digest.

This is my experience with “No Surrender” a couple years ago.  Simply put, it never registered on my radar, as I spent far more time in other parts of Springsteen’s catalog.  It most likely caught my attention when I wanted to hear “I’m On Fire” and I let the album continue playing.  The driving rhythm and the quick yet effortless way Springsteen tosses off each line hooked me more than the words, but there’s still a part of me that completely understands the “we learned more from a three-minute record, baby / than we ever did in school” line.  Tonight, I’m keying in on the way Springsteen rhymes at the end of his lines – sometimes it’s every other line, sometimes it’s consecutive lines, and sometimes it’s three out of four lines rhyming.  It’s the type of rhyme that doesn’t call attention to itself.  Instead, these rhymes help link these lines together and, in a strange way, make them feel like they move even quicker.  In the context of an album with an extremely dated sound, “No Surrender” manages to convey its urgent tone and driving feel beneath the booming production.  I’ll probably keep listening to it on a semi-regular basis until I get the urge to order off a different part of the menu.  

More on Bruce Springsteen: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“So. Central Rain (I’m Sorry)” – R.E.M.
(Words/music: Billy Berry, Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and Michael Stipe, available on Reckoning, I.R.S. 1984)

The story goes that I never slept an entire night as a baby until my brother was born in October of 1984.  At that point, Pete took the crib and I moved to a bed and I started sleeping.  For those first eighteen months, my mom would sit up with me in the rocking chair in their living room and watch TV.  MTV was one of her favorites, probably because there was little else on overnight in those early days of cable, and thus even to this day claims familiarity with anything MTV played, no matter how weird or obscure, from 1983 to 1984. 

Fast forward roughly a decade and a half – I’m still watching MTV late at night (usually by choice, often through tapes of 120 Minutes the following morning) and I’ve started scouring through R.E.M.’s fairly expansive back catalog.  This includes finding a used copy of the Succumbs VHS in order to see all of the band’s videos.  Each video carried an element of familiarity (after all, I knew these songs as well as I knew anything at that age), but the visuals – often surreal, often extremely dated – were a new experience to absorb.  Except for the video for “So. Central Rain” – for whatever reason, the silhouettes of the band members behind a shaggy-haired Stipe seemed strangely familiar.  It wasn’t until a few years later that I arranged all of the pieces in a way best described as unlikely and apocryphal.

Still, it’s worth asking – did I recognize the “So. Central Rain” video from those late nights as a baby?  Was it possible that my first memory, even if I couldn’t associate it with a time, was of a music video?

I’ll be reasonable – this is wishful thinking at best.  However, the facts all align: I was already a year old when the single came out in May 1984, and if I really slept as rarely as my mom tells me, chances are we saw this video a few times during those late nights.  A decade later, in the time between New Adventures in Hi-Fi and Up, I grew to love the band, starting a life-long love and borderline obsession with music.  Is it possible that my tastes, whether specific points like R.E.M. or just general predilection for jangly, wordy, melancholy music goes back to the sounds and pictures that accompanied my newborn insomnia? 

Chances are this is a case of my brain constructing memories where there are gaps, letting “what-if” gradually twist itself until theory becomes personal folklore and personal folklore becomes history.  I accept the improbability of this chain of events and recognize that it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. 

At the same time, a tiny part of me wants to believe this version of history.  After all, how perfect would that be?

(On a historical note, Blender had a nice feature a few years ago that serves as a small oral history of the song, starting with its genesis from a weather report and including its performance on David Letterman’s Late Night before it had a title and the aforementioned video’s live vocal track.  It’s certainly worth a read!)

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

“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

“This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)” – Talking Heads
(Words/music: David Byrne/Chris Frantz/Jerry Harrison/Tina Weymouth, available on Stop Making Sense: Special New Edition, Sire 1999)

First, let’s talk about this “Naïve Melody” business.  From their art school roots up through David Byrne’s dense blog posts, the Talking Heads and their affiliated members (Brian Eno was virtually a studio-only member of this band for a few albums) are known for being intelligent musicans.  So when David Byrne’s first love song (dubbed so by him in the Stop Making Sense self-interview) comes with the word “naïve,” the implication is that it that the Heads had to put aside their genre-bending and challenging sound in order to write a love song.  Even if this was Byrne’s first love song (and I’d disagree, but that’s irrelevant), it may be “naïve” but it certainly isn’t stupid.  If nothing else, writing a simple song takes self-awareness and a little bit of faith to know to get out of its way.

Appropriately, Bryne’s narrator finds happiness in his instincts.  “Home – is where I want to be,” he sings in the first line, and it’s a sentiment that we all share, especially around this time of year.  We spend so much energy trying to find happiness without realizing what we have.  As soon as Byrne’s narrator realizes this – that he’s already home when he’s in the company of the one he loves – the restlessness ceases.  Just as a complicated arrangement might adulterate the “naïve melody” in this song, Byrne’s narrator realizes that he doesn’t have to look in far off places to be happy.  Instead, just like an animal follows its instincts, he trusts his heart and revels in the joy his loved one provides.

Of course, the song (particularly the Stop Making Sense version) isn’t as simple as that.  Letting the melody take the lead is one thing, but the Talking Heads fall into formation behind it, complementing its simplicity without squashing it.  Whether it’s that beautiful synthesizer introduction, the joyously belted vocal harmonies, or the wordless cooing and “hey” Byrne shouts out before the solo near the end of the song, the Heads sound like a band at home, basking in the glow of their song.  It’s not as urgent, oblique, or challenging as most of their work, but these qualities would crush such a delicate song.  The genius of the song is in its simplicity – by stepping outside their normal mode of operating, the band found a way to repurpose its strengths to accomplish a different goal.  It may be a simple melody, but let’s be honest – none of us would have come up with it.

(As postscript, the idea of “home” being what makes someone happy really hits home today.  In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for all the people who make my life feel like “home” everyday, whether they actively try or not.)

More on Talking Heads: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“How Soon is Now?” – The Smiths
(Words/music: Johnny Marr and Morrissey, available on Hatful of Hollow, Sire 1984)

I owe a considerable debt to the Allmusic Guide; for years, this has been one of my favorite resources for learning about music and filling in the gaps in my own personal history.  I’ve told countless people about it, even if it pained me to have to describe it as “the IMDB of music.”  It’s an apt description only because this site is to me what IMDB is to many of my friends – a crucial resource, a great starting point for a deeper knowledge of the medium, and a tremendous timesuck.  If I had even the most remote curiosity about a band or an album, I went straight to Allmusic.  Hell, they also employ (among others) Bill Janovitz from Buffalo Tom and “Hollywood” Steve Huey of Yacht Rock fame.  If a ten ton truck crushed the internet and only left me a handful of sites, Allmusic would be one of them.

That being said, I take issue with Tim DiGravina’s synopsis of “How Soon is Now? (linked here).  In it, he cites Johnny Marr’s guitar as the focal point, and I don’t take issue with that.  He also compares the track to New Order, suggests that Morrissey whistled on the track because he “knew the band would continue to be revered by a growing army of fans and discussed in tones the British press hadn’t used since the Beatles,” and uses the term “confident depression” without defining the term.  The suggestion that the whistle was Morrissey’s way of putting himself on par with Lennon and McCartney seems like a bit of revisionist history; in 1984, much of the critical acclaim was yet to come, and “How Soon is Now?” was stuck on the b-side of a single (“William, It Was Really Nothing”) that reached number 17 – an impressive showing but not quite the “swagger” DiGravina retroactively imposes on the song.

The New Order comparison, while somewhat dubious, interests me though.  Like I did with “Bizarre Love Triangle,” I see an alternate reading in the lyrics.  The standard (and probably intended) interpretation reads the verse as “I am the son / and the heir / of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.”  However, once I started thinking about the homonyms, I read the line as “I am the sun / and the air.”  With that, DiGravina’s concept of “swagger” gained some steam; rather than feel trapped by a common and pedestrian life he’s doomed to inherit, the narrator revels in his shyness, comparing himself to heavenly bodies.  It’s a sort of existential suburban alienation where the narrator feels empowered (and an elitism) by being excluded rather than being depressed.  Then again, it also feels like sour grapes – it’s easy to put down the mainstream when you’re not part of it.  Regardless, it’s an alternate spin on the protagonist’s predicament; in both cases, he’s looking in from the outside.  On one hand, he’s the shy wallflower moping in the corner, and on the other hand he’s liberated by the exclusion – if nobody cares about him, then he can be as weird as he wants!  Of course, this alternate reading falls apart later in the song – even if he finds empowerment occasionally, he also has that same base desire for acceptance and the same depression when he’s excluded.  In that case, “sun and air” makes it even more stifling – even the basic life-giving elements doom him to an existence of watching while the cool kids have a blast, with the reminders buzzing around his head just like Marr’s divebombing slide guitar. 

Regardless, it’s hard to look towards the lyrics for what DiGravina calls “swagger,” as it’s a little too self-indulgent and mopey to pass for bravado.  Instead, it’s Marr’s relentless tremolo and slide overdubs that make the song feel assertive and remotely confrontational.  Without his punch, the whole thing would collapse upon itself into a heap of wallowing.

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

“The Killing Moon” – Echo & The Bunnymen
(Words/music: Pete de Freitas, Ian McCulloch, Les Pattinson, Will Sergeant, available on Ocean Rain, Sire 1984)

This August, Echo & the Bunnymen and Coldplay will perform on the same night at New York’s All Points West festival.  It seems appropriate because these two bands have a lot in common with each other. Specifically, both bands craft pop songs in a specific style – Coldplay sounds like a ballad-heavy Radiohead and Echo & The Bunnymen buffed out many of post-punk’s rough edges.  This earns both bands their fair share of detractors, leveling claims that the two are derivative or – even worse – boring.  Sure, neither band will go down in the books as daringly innovative, but I’m not sure that was either band’s goal.  Instead, these bands pour their energy into making their songs bigger and more lavish; to them, innovation means making a grander song.  Of course, this will turn some people off right away, but it’s at the expense of the songs.  Yes, both bands are a little over-the-top at times (and if you catch me in a weaker moment, I’d probably wonder out loud how these two are closing a major music festival), but their best songs deserve the deluxe treatment.  Even if their contemporaries did it better, both bands wrote some of the undeniably best songs of their eras.

The title of “The Killing Moon” suggests a much darker song.  Instead, it strives for a sort of dour beauty rather than gothic gloom.  The tinkling piano lines and guitar phrases echo slightly and sound slightly spooky, but overall they give the song a majestic feeling.  Even Ian McCulloch’s deep voice has a rich tone on this song.  The song (like the album’s cover) sounds cavernous, yet it’s not the kind of cave with the threat of monsters lurking in the darkness.  Instead, it’s sufficiently lit by torches that highlight the cave’s distinctive formations.  It’s a grand song that sounds like a beautiful secret hiding place rather than a source of terror.  Some might label this as false advertising, but hearing “The Killing Moon” should wash away any doubts.  Everything in the arrangement – from the brooding melody to the restrained use of synthesizer in the background – works to create this cavernous wonder.

More on Echo and the Bunnymen: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“History Lesson, Part 2” – Minutemen
(Words/music: Mike Watt, available on Double Nickels on the Dime, SST 1984)

My favorite line in “History Lesson, Part 2” – a short song with a disproportionate number of lyric gems – starts the third verse.  “Mr. Narrator,” D. Boon says, “this is Bob Dylan to me.”  This reference speaks louder than the list of Boon and Watt’s musical heroes that they used to emulate growing up.  It reads as a plea for legitimacy for punk rock – an intergenerational attempt to explain how these songs mean just as much as Dylan’s songs meant to the previous generation.  It’s a specific choice to compare it to Dylan and not the Beatles, Rolling Stones, or even Led Zeppelin because punk rock (or at least the kind of punk rock the Minutemen made and gravitated toward) shares a lot with Dylan.  Both touch on political themes, both ruffled feathers of the previous generation, and both are (to some) an acquired taste.  Boon delivers this line with the genuine tone of a teenager seeking validation, and it’s this sincere tone that makes “History Lesson, Part 2” (and most of Double Nickels on the Dime) so compelling.  Sure, Boon and Watt deliver a compelling argument for punk’s place in history, but it works because it’s 100% honest.

It’s important that Boon follows this line with one containing the word “story” because I’ve always been enamored with punk rock’s storytelling capabilities.  Two main themes run throughout punk rock – viewing the world as an outsider (or viewing yourself as outside of the mainstream at least), and punk rock as a participatory democracy.  Some take this as a violent rejection of mainstream culture, but I prefer to see it as a way to tell your own story – one that may not fit in with what’s popular yet may overlap on some points.  Some take punk rock to its nihilistic end and boil it down to finding something to rebel against, but that misses part of the picture.  Take Boon and Watt – they include Blue Oyster Cult’s E. Bloom with their list of punk rock icons and cover Steely Dan and Van Halen on Double Nickels.  Punk rock, to them, is the vehicle to tell their story.  The opening line to the song – “our band could be your life” (the title of Michael Azerrad’s excellent book about the 1980s American underground) gets read as a sign of fandom – making the bands you love a critical part of your life.  In the context of the song, it’s also meant the other way – we could be in Watt and Boon’s place, singing our own song about our own music.  I’ve seen the Hold Steady play this song changing the references to Minneapolis’ punk icons (and the Minutemen as well), and my version would be yet another musical generation removed.  In this case, the details of the story aren’t as important as the actual act of telling it.

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

“Lake of Fire” – The Meat Puppets
(Words/music: Curt Kirkwood, available on Meat Puppets II, SST 1984)

In many ways, Nirvana shaped my musical taste.  In addition to being my first love, they introduced me to the idea that pop songs could also be “outside the box.”  Nevermind was my first taste of songs that were loud and abrasive yet still melodic, but it was the Unplugged in New York performance that led me down the rabbit hole toward the stranger (and often more rewarding) pop music that wasn’t wildly popular.  As with The Vaselines, I first heard of the Meat Puppets through Kurt Cobain’s interpretation of their songs.  These songs (including the Bowie cover) are peculiar and a little rough around the edges, and I was a little surprised when I sought them out and found the original recordings a little stranger.  Thinking about it now, it makes sense that the Unplugged performance was a little more polished due to the circumstances – a mostly acoustic, made-for-TV performance.  Regardless, this was the perfect scenario for someone like me at that time – a teenager curious to learn more about music – to experience these songs.  By hearing polished interpretations by an iconic performer, I heard the beauty of these songs without having to look for it buried in a recording.  It also gave me a running start when exploring some of these bands later on.

The Meat Puppets’ version of “Lake of Fire” feels more like Hell than the Nirvana performance.  Curt Kirkwood’s vocals sound like a tortured soul enduring an eternity’s worth of torture.  In particular, I love the guitar sound in this version; it sounds like a bubbling, curdling pool of lava flowing through the song, filling every crack with its watery distortion.  The whole thing sounds equal parts foreboding biblical sermon and shambolic sound collage.  When put together, the song sounds a little less serious, as both the music and the narrative sound like they’re having fun rather than waiting for the Rapture.  Strangely enough, the chorus implants itself right in your head, making you sound a little strange walking through the store singing about tortured souls.  Still, it’s a lot more fun than I imagine hell would be (maybe?)

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

“My Ever Changing Moods” – The Style Council
(Words/music: Paul Weller, available on Café Bleu, Polydor 1984)

Many are quick to cite Pete Townshend’s undeniable influence on Paul Weller, an influence that goes beyond both of their bands’ mod roots and a terrific 2000 duet on “So Sad About Us.” Still, reading some old reviews of Jam albums might paint the band as Who disciples, Weller’s influences as a songwriter go beyond Townshend.  Equally as important, especially towards the end of the band’s tenure, was the influence of soul and R&B on Weller’s compositions.  These influences manifest themselves both in Weller’s own compositions (and expanding sonic pallet on the last few albums) and the variety of cover songs in The Jam’s catalog – “In the Midnight Hour,” “Move on Up,” and “I Got You (I Feel Good” among others.  Once the band dissolved, Weller explored these influences deeper through The Style Council, his collaboration with keyboard player Mick Talbot.  

“My Ever Changing Moods” pays homage to some of Weller’s soulful forebears, probably Curtis Mayfield in particular (the percussion reminds me of the excellent instrumental breakdown in “Move on Up” and Weller’s voice at times tries to mimic Mayfield’s inflection).  The song’s biggest strength is the constant harmonies and the spotless arrangement – all of the different musical voices work together without overpowering each others.  Weller adds in horns when needed, moves the organ up in the mix when it complements the vocal harmonies, and lets the electric guitar solo briefly just to change things up.  While Weller was the creative center with The Jam, his work with the Style Council turned him into a band leader in the complete sense of the word – it could almost be The Paul Weller Orchestra if it was recorded in the 1950s rather than 1980s.  Still, it’s not a complete retro piece as Weller imbibes the song with the energy of his previous group – it’s not a punk-like romp like some of the early songs, but it’s not a slow ballad by any means.  Additionally, Weller’s command of language lets him (like Mayfield before him and many afterward) craft a song that sounds political without being preachy or partisan.  Weller’s calling for change in a subtle way by describing the uncertain times through an idealistic lens – he hopes for an era of accountability and goodness while still acknowledging the implausibility of his desires.  Still, you won’t even think about the lyrical themes for the first few listens because there are so many other engaging and enticing parts of the arrangement that will demand your attention the first couple of times through.

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