Some Songs Considered

“Back and Forth” – The Dismemberment Plan 
(Words/music: The Dismemberment Plan, available on Emergency & I, DeSoto 1999 / Barsuk 2011) 

PART 1 OF 2: “You’ll always be my hero / even if I never see you again.” 

I saw the Dismemberment Plan for the first time in 2002. I ended up with their final LP Change somewhat serendipitously when it came out and obsessed over it for a good stretch of time (so much that when I listened to it earlier this year in its entirety for the first time in ages, my hands instinctively drummed along to every little nuance out of muscle memory).  I never forgot that show – from the opening local band playing the Replacements’ “Left of the Dial,” to John Vanderslice’s tight supporting set and theatrical drummer – and the kind of spastic glee the Plan induced both on stage and in the crowd in the tiny Providence rock club.  It broke my heart when the band called it quits, and not being able to catch the band’s farewell tour only bummed me out further. 

So when the band came back together for a series of shows supporting the vinyl reissue of Emergency & I, I seized the second chance. I bought tickets months in advance and dug out my Dismemberment Plan records well in advance. The first step, of course, was falling back in love with these songs.  I expected the superhuman rhythm section and hairpin shifts to still catch my ear, but rather than just rely on my old favorites, I felt pulled toward songs that never grasped me the first time around.  In particular, “Back and Forth” bridged the things I knew I loved about this band with the things that I appreciated even more now. I probably fixated on the drumming when I first got the record, but a few months ago I found my attention centered on Travis Morrison’s vocals.  He runs through the lyrics of this song quickly, so rather than decode the entire song at one, I kept grasping onto specific parts.  Each time I listened, a new phrase caught my ear, and I marveled at the way Morrison could play with the sound of words and internal rhymes without sacrificing his storytelling and imagery.  Both the sound of the words and the words themselves worked together to paint this scene if joy and nervous excitement tempered by the reminder that the night would eventually end. This duality of sound and signifiers fits the song’s duality as well – one of the awareness of memory while it’s being created while still enjoying the moment. 

It was appropriate for seeing the band this past January as well.  Like the song’s narrator, I went into the night knowing that no matter how much fun I had (and I had a blast), I didn’t know if I’d ever have another chance to see the band again. Appropriately, they closed their nearly two hour set with this song, and a few days later it sunk in – it didn’t matter if this was the last time (and from the handful of gigs and festival appearances this summer, I’m holding out hope for periodic mini-tours every so often) because I had a hell of a time. Rather than fixate on the band’s absence like last time, I’m treasuring the memory (even months later) of an exceptional gig.

Tomorrow (or the next day or so): Hearing the right thing at the right times. 

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

“Burn Last Sunday” – Superchunk 
(Words/music: Superchunk, available on Indoor Living, Merge Records 1997) 

In a way, Superchunk gently plays with expectations on “Burn Last Sunday.” Where many bands, especially in 1997, stepped on the gas during the chorus, the band pulls back slightly. After a brief introduction, twin guitars and energetic guitars fill the verse.  Even Mac McCaughan’s vocals push toward the upper end of his register – a vocal maneuver many rock singers save for the song’s climax. When the song’s hook comes along, the drums quiet and the guitars slide into an accented three note phrase. McCaughan’s vocals calm as well, and a mellow synthesizer joins in halfway. It has the melody and repetition that an anthemic chorus might have, but by getting gentler rather than rowdier, it gains attention with a slight surprise. 

Of course, the band didn’t invent this maneuver, but like with many of the band’s best recordings, Superchunk pulls it off flawlessly. If the band’s most famous songs suggest a frenzied energy, “Burn Last Sunday” shows off the band’s less heralded yet equally important gifts – namely, an underrated sense of arrangement, precise execution, and the ability to turn simple melodic phrases into potent earworms. It’s this precise craftsmanship that I admire in a lot of the band’s late ‘90s albums. Whether it’s the restraint to keep the guitar melody simple during the chorus, or the “oohs” carefully hidden in the mix toward the end of the first verse that aren’t always noticed yet always heard, there are plenty of little moments to notice and admire each time I listen. 

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

“Motorcycle Emptiness” – Manic Street Preachers
(Words: Nicky Wire and Richey James Edwards /music: James Dean Bradfield and Sean Moore, available on Generation Terrorists, Columbia 1992)

Last week, as the Arcade Fire’s new album The Suburbs was the best selling record in both the US and UK, many well-thought discussions sprung up on Tumblr centering around the band’s lyrics (ones I won’t do the disservice of trying to paraphrase now – ask me and I’ll dig up some links as starting points).  Personally, Arcade Fire’s lyrics fell far down the list of things that drew me into the band; after all, their most famous (and arguably best) song “Wake Up” opens “Something filled up my heart with nothing / someone told me not to cry” – the kind of thing I’d immediately send back to one of my high school writing students.  This discussion inspired a different tangent for me: I started thinking about songs that I loved yet barely thought about the words.  “Motorcycle Emptiness” immediately came to mind. 

I imagine my relationship with this song is unique.  After all, the Manics pride themselves on their politically charged lyrics, and I admire the words in almost all my other favorites in their catalog.  Still, in the years since I rescued Generation Terrorists from a used bin on the East side of Providence, Rhode Island, I could only transcribe a handful of fragments from the song with any confidence.  For whatever reason (but not lack of listens, trust me), these words never stuck with me. Even without parsing every single word, I still appreciate the grandeur of the song.  Whether it’s the oversized guitar riff, James Dean Bradfield’s lifting voice, or the space in between the programmed drum notes (I didn’t realized the drums were programmed until earlier tonight), the track reaches for great heights.  “Reaching” is the optimal word, as I’ve always sensed the song as being about a longing for more – something to fill the titular “emptiness.”  The shards of words that stuck to me, in particular the “living life like a comatose / ego loaded and swallowed” line before the final chorus, only spurred on my interpretation.  I imagine that many have a close attachment to these lyrics, and this isn’t an attempt to discredit that (as those people probably have more substantial things to say about the song I’d imagine).  Instead, this is just my personal and peculiar relationship with a song – one I feel that I don’t quite grasp yet still comprehend. 

More on Manic Street Preachers: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“We Dance” – Pavement
(Words/music: Pavement, available on Wowee Zowee, Matador 1995)

So if you’re reading this on the internet (and if you’re not, I’m just as confused as you), you’ve read one of those “digital kills character” pieces about the adverse effect of technology on music.  With the contemporary tools to refine a recording, precision replaces character.  This works on the consumer end as well; I have slightly warped vinyl that pops and skips in slightly different variations every time, while my MP3s play with the same tones every time.  I suppose it’s a small price to pay for the ease to obtain and carry music in your pocket. 

To say that technology breeds (using Pavement’s words here) “perfect sound forever” isn’t always true.  For example, there’s the odd slurp in a low bitrate MP3 (if you remember Napster, you have heard this).  Less likely, however, is the instance where the hardware itself adds a glitch.  Several years ago, I started the Sisyphean task of ripping my CD collection by swapping CDs while watching TV after work.  Most transfers went smoothly, but a few glitches occurred.  I remedied most of these by re-ripping or borrowing someone else’s copy, but the one at the thirty-six second mark of “We Dance” slipped by me for years.  It’s unfair to say I haven’t noticed this little skip, but rather that I haven’t been bothered by it until recently.  Perhaps this is because the glitch seems to keep the beat (or, more likely, only share off a fraction of a beat that my ears immediately remedy).  It become part of listening to the record, so much to the point that it caught my ear when my LP copy of the album didn’t skip.  It’s likely exclusive to me (and maybe the one or two people who received a mix with “We Dance” on it), making it the strangest personal relationship with a song (or rather, with a recording). 

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

“Deceptacon” – Le Tigre
(Words/music: Sadie Benning, Johanna Fateman, and Kathleen Hanna, available on Le Tigre, Mr. Lady 1999)

Rock music thrives on repetition to the point that much of the terminology relates to how certain elements repeat.  “Groove” describes the repetition of a rhythm (or in more complex cases the stressed parts of the measure) and “riff” describes a repeated instrumental figure.  Then there’s the verse/chorus/bridge/coda “road map” that indicates when certain harmonies and chord changes return.  Even the term “hook” refers to a melody that repeats and therefore “hooks” the listener back into the song.  While variety has a role (fans of improvisation can exhale), repetition anchors the music more than we often realize.

Targeting in to the repetition in “Deceptacon” feels natural.  Whether keying on the dance rhythms, the garage rock riff, or Kathleen Hanna’s do-wop quotes, many parts of the song return several times over the track’s three minutes.  However, a less obvious repetition flows through the rest of Hanna’s lyrics.  While she sometimes repeats lines and phrases, Hanna repeats certain words scattered through a couple lines.  For example, at the end of the second verse, Hanna uses “want” three times in a single line (“You want what you want but you don’t want to be”).  She does this with “I’m” in the first verse and, to a lesser extent, “walk” in the third verse (not to mention the constant peppering of “you” and “your”).  It gives her vocals, already aggressively delivered, and added rhythmic edge – the “want” line in verse two in particular creates a polyrhythm with the rest of the track.  Hanna also uses rhyme (particularly internal rhymes rather than end of line “couplet” rhymes) to create this rhythmic disruption, but it’s her repeated words that cut right to the song’s rhythmic core. 

More on Le Tigre: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“If I Could Talk I’d Tell You” – The Lemonheads
(Words/music: Evan Dando and Eugene Kelly, available on Car Button Cloth, Atlantic 1996) 

While much of the world watched LeBron James announce his departure to Miami last Thursday night, I tried my best to read his lips.  Earlier in the day, I made the choice to pass on “The Decision” in order to see the Lemonheads play in Milford, CT.  Even though I couldn’t pry any of my friends (most of which silently hoped James would play for the Knicks) away from the announcement, I still went with little to no idea what to expect in setlist or lineup, save for Evan Dando.  If nothing else, I was curious to see what this current incarnation had to offer.

What transpired caught me off guard.  Dando, backed by two members of the opening band The Candles, plowed through almost all of the high notes from his catalog.  The songs sounded as effervescent as ever, with Dando’s voice miraculously sounding like his mid-‘90s prime.  The most striking part, however, was the crowd.  A majority of the crowd looked a few years older than me (a stark inversion of how I usually feel at shows these days) yet erupted with unbridled joy at an astounding frequency.  Within a few notes of just about every song, hands clapped and voices whooped in approval, shortly followed by many singing along.  This wasn’t just on the hits (of which there were many, at least relatively speaking) but literally every song.  Dando, who grew a bit more skittish in his banter as the night progressed, nonetheless fed off the crowd’s enthusiasm even as he flubbed a couple songs.

The most telling part of the night came in the introduction to “If I Could Talk I’d Tell You.”  The song features the kind of simple yet infectious melody and spry accompaniment that Dando seemed to churn out effortlessly in the early ‘90s.  Even if it wasn’t at the top of the list of songs I wanted to hear (“It’s a Shame About Ray” and recent favorite “No Backbone”) or the one I was most excited to hear (a solo cover of Big Star’s “Night Time”), it was the most indicative song of the set both in composition and in audience reaction.  “This next one starts with a drum fill,” he said, tinkering with the tuning knobs on the top of his road worn white Gibson.  “You all know how it goes.” He was right – people bobbed their heads and sand along to the song, but it wasn’t unique to this song.  It was one of the most enthusiastic crowds I’d seen in a long time.  My guess it was repayment for a disproportionate number of classics and personal favorites. 

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

“Alcoholiday” – Teenage Fanclub
(Words/music: Norman Blake, available on Bandwagonesque, DGC 1991) 

Warmth and drunkenness often go hand-in-hand, so it’s appropriate that a song dealing with that state features a warm tone.  Teenage Fanclub accomplishes this with most of their usual tricks – the ringing opening riff, the sighing harmonies deployed periodically, and a melody that lifts at just the right moments.  These tricks, with the right combination of distortion and precision, give the song a focused haze; where a lesser band might mask its flaws in distortion, Teenage Fanclub tightens up when the tone fuzzes and uses the effect to set mood rather than compensate for technical gaps. 

As with many of Teenage Fanclub’s singles, approaching the song on warmth alone misses part of the picture.  Even if the music evokes the warmth of a good buzz, the lyrics focus on the mental lapses that sometimes come along for the ride.  There’s a general sense that the narrator put his foot in his mouth and said something regrettable, particularly in the “baby I’ve been fucked already” line.  The falling note at the end of the harmonies give the song a slightly sad tinge, making the promises in the first few lines feel a little sadder and perhaps more regrettable.  Appropriately, the last part of the song finds the narrator accepting his blunder and ready to move past it; there’s no pleading or backpedaling, only a brief acceptance of blame and the desire to move beyond this moment. 

More on Teenage Fanclub: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Game of Pricks (Album Version)” – Guided by Voices
(Words/music: Robert Pollard, available on Alien Lanes, Matador Records 1995)

I spent most of today helping my students finish compiling and editing their creative writing anthology today, so my brain is shot from tweaking fonts and fighting with formatting for most of the day.  Spending a day immersed in teen writing (some really excellent stuff, too) made me think back to the one “gimmick post” I wrote last August.  For whatever reason, Guided by Voices’ “Game of Pricks” inspired me to write a letter to my eighteen year-old self.  It’s that thematic spirit (and my tired brain) that lead me to re-share it today. 

(One note - the original post came with the 7” version, while today I’m posting it with the Alien Lanes version of the song - feel free to click through to the old post to hear the other version!)

Dear Brian,

First, let me say that few things change – you’ll start writing this letter three different times before scrapping the beginning.  It was supposed to start with some clichéd time travel commentary and a lot of “yes, you still like music” guffawing, but you never cared much for it at eighteen and don’t really tolerate it at twenty six, so I’m not sure how I ended up on that path.  You’ll still be a perfectionist and you’ll still try to bend over backwards to cater to others, even if it means blowing it in the first place.

Anyway, the whole point of this is to tell you about a song you’d like.  You don’t know Guided by Voices, but you’ll love them (trust me on this one).  You can look them up, but I’ll say they’re a very prolific band known for making the most of low fidelity recordings.  You know that Pavement record you found in the used bin a little while ago (Terror Twilight)?  They’re kind of like that, but not really.  More like the earlier Pavement albums (which you’ll love too, even more than Terror Twilight).  I’ve sent you the song “Game of Pricks” from an EP they put out in 1995 (although my version of it comes from their 2003 retrospective Human Amusements at Hourly Rates).  Ironically, it’s a cleaner, more streamlined version than the original – you’d probably like the original (from an album called Alien Lanes) once you got over the fact that your friends’ CD-R of cover songs sounds better than that album.  I think it’s something you’d enjoy – catchy, energetic, blistering pop music.  Yes, don’t be afraid of that word “pop” – it doesn’t always denote something on TRL. Also, it’s worth noting that this originally appeared on a 7” vinyl single – in 2009, you’ll have bought more vinyl singles (and a lot more vinyl LPs and MP3 albums) than CDs – but don’t worry about that right now.

Why “Game of Pricks,” you might ask?  I know it sounds like an angry revenge rant, but I see it slightly different.  This, at least in this case, is a song from your to yourself.  Eighteen is a very strange time, and I’m not sure you’ll realize it until you’re closer to my age, and my advice to you is to embrace honesty.   I don’t necessarily mean this in the “don’t lie” sense (because let’s face it, a half-truth saves a lot of trouble from time to time), but rather embracing and accepting reality, and that starts with yourself.  You’re a smart kid, but you’re a little delusional from time to time.  Yes, some of it is naiveté, but a lot of it starts with an understanding of yourself – your strengths, your limits, your friends (or who you want to befriend), your goals (or lack thereof), etc.  It’s very easy to make excuses to yourself, but it will only leave you frustrated and exhausted in the end (it’s a timespace continuum thing, and that’s the best time travel joke you’ll allow yourself).  I’m not saying that being truthful with yourself is the solution to your problems, nor an easy thing to do.  I’m saying what Robert Pollard’s singing in the chorus is kind of right – you owe the truth to yourself, otherwise you’re no better than all those pricks out there.

Anyway, keep your head up – believe it or not, every year gets a little bit better.  I’d write more, but I have a midnight deadline for this letter and I have only a couple minutes left before that time runs out.  Like I said – few things have changed.

See you soon,
Brian

More on Guided by Voices: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Time Capsule” – Matthew Sweet
(Words/music: Matthew Sweet, available on Altered Beast, Volcano 1993)

I’ve mentioned my pedestrian guitar playing abilities enough times in this space, so I’ll spare you the details.  I only bring it up because I realized a few days ago that in certain instances where I’m trying to figure out something about a song, I’ll turn to my guitar.  Maybe deep down I’m a tactile learner, but sometimes I can better understand a chord progression by playing it than by staring at letters on a page.  Sometimes, it’s a matter of playing around with the voicings by playing a specific variation of a chord.  Most of the time, however, the exercise ends with frustration aimed toward my clumsy fingers and a hat tip toward the songwriter. 

Matthew Sweet’s “Time Capsule,” one of my favorite Sweet singles, led me to my guitar a few nights ago.  Many times, the very precise strumming pattern in the rhythm guitar part sounds like something I could handle (I know better than to even attempt to try to emulate one of the lead guitar parts on a Matthew Sweet record).  So I pulled up a transcription of the song, fixed the tuning on my strings, and spent ten minutes or so trying to make my guitar sound anywhere close to the recording.  I eventually settled on a “draw” – I could play just enough to hear the changes, but couldn’t put more than a few bars together at a time.  There are a surprising amount of chords in this song, and not just in the little run leading into the chorus.  Sweet’s songwriting genius lies in this deceptive simplicity; specifically, Sweet has a knack for making a somewhat complex arrangement feel less complex on the surface.  “Time Capsule,” built around these gently repeating phrases, feels like it should be an easy song to put together.  However, after taking a look at all the pieces, the craftwork reveals itself. 

More on Matthew Sweet: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Get Off This” – Cracker
(Words/music: Davey Faragher, Johnny Hickman, and David Lowery, available on Kerosene Hat, Virgin 1993)

The charm in a Cracker record generally come from its quirks, and “Get Off This” has its share of odd wrinkles.  From using a talk box in the song’s opening to some of David Lowery’s odder associative lyrics, the weirder edges give the song a slanted swagger.  Lowery sings with such confidence and enthusiasm that it’s easy to buy into his perspective even if the images seem surreal the first time around (or, in the case of this song – images that move quickly before being deciphered). 

However, to write off “Get Off This” solely as a string of jokes or a novelty misses the big picture.  The goofiness only works because it’s a well-written song.  Lowery’s vocal cadence compensates for his odd images by giving his vocals an interesting rhythmic quality; even if he’s hard to decipher, it’s fun to listen to him.  And some of the choices that seem odd at first – the talk box or the chorus of “las” near the end, for instance – end up serving the song well.  The talk box cuts takes what might have been a lead guitar line on another song and turns it into an odd yet catchy melodic line running through the track.  By the time the “las” kick in at the end, I don’t particularly care what Lowery’s singing because I’m singing along to the best of my ability. 

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

“Fuckin’ Up (Live)” – Neil Young and Crazy Horse
(Words/music: Neil Young, available on Weld, Reprise 1991) 

Neil Young always balanced words and music well, tying his poetic lyrics with skillful guitar playing whether picking out a folk song or tearing through a rock song.  In the late 1980s, however, Young reveled in the raw energy of the electric guitar.  Maybe plugging in and turning up his guitar did precisely that for his career; after wandering aimlessly through genre experiments, Young became the touchstone for the guitar-heavy music in the early 1990s.  If Young is the “Godfather of Grunge,” then it’s only fitting that “Fuckin’ Up,” a song that fits in both tone and theme, came out in 1990 just before the Seattle bands broke through.

If one were to “drop the needle” at almost any point of this recording, it wouldn’t take long to identify “Fuckin’ Up” as a Neil Young song.  Its repetitive riff, melodic structure, and guitar tone all belong to Young’s signature sound, even sharing qualities with the folkier parts of his catalog.  The most telling part of this live recording is the guitar solo.  Young strangles out his solo through feedback and distortion and by doing so puts the emphasis on the overall sound of his guitar rather than the melodic progression of his solo.  This distressed tone only compounds the urgency and edge of the song.  Even if his classic (and, as many would argue, best written) compositions came a decade or more earlier, Young’s vitriolic sound made him a touchstone to a new generation of listeners and as vital as ever. 

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

“American Music” – Violent Femmes
(Words/music: Gordon Gano, available on Why Do Birds Sing?, Reprise 1991)

In celebration of Mother’s Day tomorrow, I wanted to repost the one I wrote for Mother’s Day last year (May 10, 2009).  Originally shared with a live version of “American Music,” tonight I will post the album version instead.

My brother and I were born about 20 months apart and according to my mom I rarely slept from my birth until my brother arrived.  My eye for revisionist history loves to spin stories out of this childhood fact, specifically honing in on the fact that when my brother arrived, I moved from a crib to a bed.  Whether using this story as justification for my nocturnal habits in high school or joking that my aversion to my crib was a statement about being “caged in,” I’ll joke about this with my mom when I should probably have more sympathy for her spending late nights with her restless child.  I was born a few months after MTV came on the air, so my mom tells me that she would sit up in the rocking chair with me and watch MTV until I fell asleep.  Again, I’m sure I barely paid attention to the videos, instead pondering the meaning of life or whatever else keeps a baby up late at night.  Still, part of me points to this moment as the groundwork for my musical obsession twelve years later, so to a small degree, I owe my mom for this decision.  I know cable was limited in 1983, but if my mom decided to watch HBO or Johnny Carson whatever else was on late at night, this blog might be about movies or comedy instead of music.

In addition to exposing me to the strange videos on MTV in 1983 (perhaps part of the reason I love VH-1 Classic), my mom always encouraged my musical pursuits, whether it meant sitting through grating middle school band concerts or reading my record reviews in my college newspaper.  When I went back to school to get my masters’ degree and picked up a Saturday morning timeslot on the college’s radio station, my mom would occasionally listen to the station’s internet feed.  On the days she’d listen, she’d tell me the songs that she liked and would occasionally ask me to put some of the songs on her iPod shuffle.  Her favorite, at least gauged by the number of times she would mention it, was “American Music.”  Needless to say, it’s a bit stranger than the Neil Diamond songs I helped her download off of iTunes.  While Gordon Gano writes it from the same slightly askew perspective that made his early songs cult classics, “American Music” bounds like a classic pop song and continues in the tradition of songs that celebrate music.  Even if the songs Gano wrote about those that aren’t quite in step with everyone else (and the ones that “remind me of me” in the song), they still capture an essential part of the human experience – the phase where we don’t quite fit in, mired in awkwardness – the kind of phase where only our mothers could love us.  Even if “American Music” came out in 1991, I’d like to think that somewhere in our late nights together we heard a few Violent Femmes videos on MTV and it made those nights a little less frustrating for her.  I suppose the least I could do to thank her is put a couple songs on her iPod for her and walk her through plugging it in every time the battery runs out, even though she knows how to do it.  After all, she introduced me to American music in the first place.

More on Violent Femmes: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Mama, I’m Coming Home” – Ozzy Osbourne
(Words/music: Lemmy Kilminster, Ozzy Osbourne, Zakk Wylde, available on No More Tears, Epic 1991) 

I don’t know a lot about metal, but I know enough to know that this is not what I would have thought a song written by these three gentlemen would sound like.  Sure, the power ballad generally fits somewhere between a daring reinvention and a damning softening, but if nothing else it gives radio something tangible to grab onto.  Aside from Black Sabbath, my introduction to most of Ozzy Osborne’s songs came from elsewhere – friend’s recommendations or the legends of Randy Rhodes’ guitar playing.  When I was growing up, radio never really played “Crazy Train” enough for my liking, but they did play “Mama, I’m Coming Home” a lot.  And that’s probably where I grew to love it. 

All joking aside, “Mama, I’m Coming Home” is a well-written ballad, from the gentle guitar of the opening through the build up to the harder sections to that terrific chord right after the chorus.  It’s this chord – the one held and resolved on “home” – that always sticks with me, and when I’m scanning the radio compulsively, it’s the main reason why I stick around.  Without this moment, I’d probably write off this song as a cashgrab and make some crack about naming this album after a shampoo bottle slogan.  With this bit of vocals added in, it’s worth every cent Misters Kilminster, Osbourne, and Wylde collect in residuals. 

More on Ozzy Osbourne: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Come Back from San Francisco” – The Magnetic Fields
(Words/music: Stephin Merritt, available on 69 Love Songs, Merge 1999)

As lovely as Shirley Simms sounds here (and good lord, does she have a beautiful voice), the electric guitar strikes me every time.  Whether it’s the melody or the bass notes, the strings resonate with a rich tone and just enough reverb.  I find guitar sounds incredibly fascinating – and sometimes more fascinating than technique (which probably explains why I’ve spent more time playing around with the knobs on my guitar than getting any better at playing it).  When the sound and technique dovetail and complement each other, I tip my hat out of respect.  In “Come Back from San Francisco,” the electric guitar acts as the song’s skeleton, holding together the different vocal lines and giving Simms’ lead vocal somewhere to rest.  The melody, when coupled with the finger-picked bass notes and ringing just long enough, balancing the heartbreak and hope in Merritt’s lyrics.

Like Merritt’s finest lyrics, “Come Back to San Francisco” navigates through sweetness, humor, love, and heartbreak.  A few lines always make me smirk, particularly the “kiss me, I quit smoking” declaration that only a non-smoker could love.  I’m always fascinated by the first simile in the chorus: “You need me like the wind needs the trees to blow in.”  I’m drawn into the elusiveness of the image; I read it different ways depending on my mood.  It could be the recognition that the two need a little friction in their relationship to get by.  At other times, it’s a statement of dependence – after all, one can’t tell if it’s windy outside unless the branches of a tree are moving around, giving the otherwise invisible wind visibility.  Still, it might just be designed to evoke the simple, peaceful image of a breezy spring day.  Either way, it’s the link that matters most, even if it means late night, transcontinental phone calls until the lease runs out.

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

“Judy Staring at the Sun (Single Mix)” – Catherine Wheel and Tanya Donelly
(Words/music: Rob Dickinson/Brian Futter/Dave Hawes/Neil Sims, original version available on Happy Days, Fontana / Mercury 1995)

The reason I own any Catherine Wheel albums traces directly back to Tanya Donelly’s voice.  It happened while driving around the ’86 Buick that I shared with my brothers in high school, and before I installed a friend’s old stereo into it, we only had AM/FM radio in it.  So I became acquainted with the lesser traversed parts of the FM dial, developing a working knowledge of the college stations and out-of-state frequencies I could pick up depending on where I was in town and the time of day.  When in the car by myself, I spent too much time with my left hand on the steering wheel and my right hand on the dial, trying to convince the tuner to pick up the static-filled station playing some kind of glorious noise.  Unless someone else was in the car with me (and, to be honest, many times I had a passenger), I’d scour the radio for a favorite song or something that caught my attention. 

“Judy Staring at the Sun” also marked the only time I ever called a radio DJ I didn’t know to identify a song for me.  This was before I owned a cell phone as well, so not only did I call a random college radio DJ, I made her run backward through her playlist.  It was an uncharacteristically nervy (or desperate, I’m not really sure which fits better) move for me, but it characterizes my reaction to the song, specifically Donelly’s vocals during the chorus.  I loved the way her voice floated above Rob Dickinson’s more grounded tone.  Her lightweight harmonies and counter-melodies stuck in my brain on their own, so when I first heard the single edit with Donelly singing the second verse, my brain nearly exploded.

After listening to the album version of “Judy Staring at the Sun” for years, I grew to love the way Dickinson stretched his voice toward the end of his verses while letting it settle lower at other time (particularly the way he sings the “in a rare and lucid state” line in the third verse), so I was surprised at first to hear Donelly’s verse reaching lower than her backing vocals.  However, by settling in a little lower, she has room to move around with her melody and occasionally lets a note or two slip higher as if it’s filled with helium.  I particularly love the way she adds a few more notes to the “she’s a volume freak” line when compared to Dickinson’s verse.  Not surprisingly though, I especially love the way she doubles her vocals and harmonizes with herself; after all, it was her harmonies that froze my wandering stereo dial for a few minutes. 

More on Catherine Wheel: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm