Some Songs Considered

“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

“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

“Half a World Away” – R.E.M.
(Words/music: Bill Berry, Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and Michael Stipe, available on Out of Time, Warner Brothers 1991) 

For someone like me who enjoys the process of writing about music – (over)thinking about a song, collecting thoughts, and finding the right words to crystallize a personal connection – Matthew Perpetua’s Pop Songs collection is essential reading.  The wonderful writing combined with the subject of the blog –   R.E.M.’s pre-Accelerate catalog – tackling the only band I’ve ever called my favorite, makes the Pop Songs blog my personal holy grail.  In fact, starting this blog sixteen months ago, it was Pop Songs (among others, including Perpetua’s flagship Fluxblog) that set the standard for the kind of writing I work toward creating. 

So naturally, before writing about an R.E.M. song, I wanted to cross-reference with the Pop Songs blog to make sure I wasn’t taking the same angle that Perpetua covered far more eloquently.  It turns out that we have entirely different associations with the song!  Buoyed by a Christmas memory of his first CD player, Perpetua associates the song with winter.  I’ve always thought of late spring or early summer, perhaps because Stipe sets the song during dusk.  It’s this feeling of dusk as the most beautiful time of day (usually during late spring / early summer) and thus as the time where heartbreak hits the hardest.  After all, the moments where separation always hits me the hardest are the moments where the missing person’s presence are missed the most.  Aside from our differing associations, we’re on the same page.  Even with the skilled instrumentation around it, the spotlight stays firmly affixed on Stipe’s vocal performance.  Watching Stipe’s voice rise and fall with his imagery is a masterclass in performance; Stipe foils his imagery with perhaps his best vocal performance on the album, letting his voice rise and fall in a way that augments his imagery.  As with many of Stipe’s best lyrics, his performance builds on the imagery; as his voice rises to meet the chorus, he runs through a series of directions – “blackbirds, backwards, forward and fall” – and by that point I’m completely sucked into the melody that Stipe that the clever wordplay becomes a bonus. 

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

“Right Now” – Van Halen
(Words/music: Michael Anthony, Sammy Hagar, Alex Van Halen, and Eddie Van Halen, available on For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge, Warner Brothers 1991)

The way I see it, there’s a difference between knowing something as fact and thinking something.  For example, I know that Van Halen was a better band with David Lee Roth, or rather that I enjoy Van Halen far more with David Lee Roth than with Sammy Hagar.  I like more of the songs, I prefer Roth’s borderline absurd persona to Hagar’s constant strain.  While I have a cursory knowledge of Van Halen at best, they seemed more adventurous in their earlier days; by the time Hagar joined the band, Van Halen seemed comfortable to rest on their laurels and/or smooth out all of the roughness in their sound. 

That’s the “fact” part (or, for the sake of argument, what I believe to be fact).  The contrary belief comes from my strange adoration with “Right Now.”  In general, the things that fascinate me in this song goes against what I would normally think about Van Halen at any other point in my life other than the five and a half minutes when “Right Now” plays.  Sure, the combination of that opening piano riff and the heavy-handed drums would be terrific no matter who played them (not to mention this is a guitar band generally moving the spotlight elsewhere), and maybe that’s why I’ll let the song continue past its opening notes.  However, these aren’t the things that I enjoy the most.  Hagar’s strained vocals, particularly the way he sings the second line of the song, suck me in every time.  It’s not even an ironic adoration – somehow, this style works in this setting.  Even the lyrics (and if you haven’t thought about them before, don’t waste your time now) don’t bother me.  I even like the second verse quite a bit, in part because of the contrast between Hagar’s delivery and the overly-dramatic music. 

This would normally be cause for cognitive dissonance, but in all honesty, I’m usually too busy air drumming.  That, or I’m hurting myself trying to sing like Sammy Hagar.

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

“100,000 Fireflies” – The Magnetic Fields
(Words/music: Stephin Merritt, available on Distant Plastic Trees, Red Flame 1991)

I was pleasantly surprised to see that the latest version of Stephin Merritt’s Magnetic Fields close one of their recent shows with “100,000 Fireflies,” as I didn’t know that the band still reached that far back into their catalogue. I’m mostly curious to see how their string-heavy recent lineup would interpret a song that relies so much on its production aesthetic. The keyboard, bouncy drum machine, and Susan Anway’s vocals make this recording of “100,000 Fireflies” sound like a slightly warped music box – it still sounds beautiful and pretty despite being a little weird. I remember the first time I heard this version after knowing (and loving) Superchunk’s cover and being amazed at the way Anway’s vocals and the change in octave on the keys sounded during the “I’m afraid of the dark without you next to me” line.

Trying to resolve the two distinct versions tonight, the best I can do is to compare them both to fireflies. The Superchunk version draws on the frenetic energy of a firefly humming around. Thus, their spin on the narrator’s loneliness draws on this restlessness and focuses it on pleading for another opportunity. This Anway-Merritt recording (perhaps influenced by my vision of a “100,000 Fireflies” music box) looks at the firefly inside the glass jar with its beauty and wonder carefully preserved. Their version feels smaller and more restrained yet feels more distant and isolated like an object untouched. Like the bugs stuck inside the jar, the narrator feels alone yet doesn’t quite know what to do to mend heartbreak. Instead, the narrator swaps out the missing lover for lightning bugs to find some solace in the dark the same way one might cling to a song when feeling lonely. This quiet, understated loneliness might not burn with the Superchunk version’s intensity, but it might cut deeper. While it looks bright and beautiful from far away, the lonliness doesn’t reveal itself until we get closer, the same way we wouldn’t notice the jar enclosing the beautiful fireflies unless we’re looking for it specifically.

(I wrote about the Superchunk version of “100,000 Fireflies” in the previous post – click here to read it).

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

“Head On” – Pixies
(Words/music: William Reid, available on Trompe le Monde, 4AD 1991) 

Even though neither Frank Black nor Kim Deal wrote “Head On,” it remains one of my favorite recordings by the Pixies.  It’s not as lyrically twisted as many of the Pixies other songs, and even though Frank Black dips into the maniacal part of his vocal register, he doesn’t sound as deranged as he does at other points in their catalogue.  Instead, it’s a two and a quarter minutes tearing through a Jesus and Mary Chain song played faithfully enough to please JAMC fans while still giving it the necessary Pixies arrangement to warrant its inclusion on their final studio disc.

Aside from running half as long (and at an increased tempo), the major difference between the Pixies cover and the original lies in the exaggerated dynamics.  The original recording mainly stays at the same volume, aside from the part where the drums cut out in the bridge.  While the Pixies cover never gets as whisper quiet as some of their other recordings (at least the ones where they earned the “loud-soft-loud” reputation that Kurt Cobain admired), the Pixies version pushes the needle into the red immediately.  David Lovering’s drums set the pace immediately with a thunderous opening roll, signaling for the guitars to charge behind him.  It’s Lovering again who sets the pace, first by cutting everything but his bass drum leading out of the chorus, settling into a solid groove when the song’s volume retreats, only to crescendo again when he opens his hi-hat.  While the guitars provide the bulk of the volume (and Black’s tone provides the most tangible gauge), it’s Lovering’s drumming that leads the band through the song.  His band mates follow along, making Reid’s song more explosive without sacrificing the melodic charm of the original.

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

“I’ve Been Waiting” – Matthew Sweet
(Words/music: Matthew Sweet, available on Girlfriend, Zoo / Volcano Records 1991) 

Most when recalling Matthew Sweet’s early to mid ‘90s heyday will use the phrase “power pop” somewhere within the first few breaths.  It’s an apt legacy, as Sweet wrote some terrifically snappy songs that rub elbows with the genre’s best.  However, the genre label usually refers to harmony and melody heavy pop music with a bit of an edge, and many of Sweet’s songs come with a full-fledged guitar army behind them.  In particular, the Girlfriend album featured dueling lead guitars from experimental guitar heroes Robert Quine and Richard Lloyd (not to mention capable playing from singer-songwriter Lloyd Cole and Sweet himself).  On some songs, the title track in particular, the dual lines seize center stage, wrestling with each other overtly.  However, Sweet knew how to integrate these guitarists’ abilities into his less aggressive songs as well, skillfully toeing the line between calculate restraint and reigning in his virtuosos.

“I’ve Been Waiting” typifies Sweet’s ability to make the complex feel simple.  At first glance, it’s a bright song about desire (or lust, if you want to take it that far), yet Sweet has far more moving pieces.  Take the opening phrase and the three separate guitar lines – an acoustic guitar at the bottom of the arrangement, the chiming, Byrds/R.E.M. major chord arpeggios (perhaps on a twelve string, but I’m not confident enough to pick that out by ear), and the slightly distorted lead guitar that mimics the arpeggios with a few embellishments.  This is before Sweet starts singing or multi-tracking harmonies as well.  Even the melody-based solo makes enough room for a few squealed-out notes near the end the end, only to give way to the interlocking arpeggios in the final verse.  Where other pop songwriters might use the guitar lines as a way to stitch together melodic phrases, Sweet weaves an entire tapestry out of the guitars on the track, wrapping his melody and everything else in their chiming, churning, and finely crafted sound.

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

“Blown a Wish” – My Bloody Valentine
(Words/music: Bilinda Butcher and Kevin Shields, available on Loveless, Sire 1991)

I realized that I have a unique relationship with Loveless.  I don’t put it on to marvel at the swirling guitars or to experience a visceral charge from the guitars.  This is my musical equivalent of “comfort food” – it’s the kind of album I’ll put on when I get home and want to try to slow down my racing mind. It fills this role perfectly because it lets me be as attached to it as I want.  On the afternoons where I want to focus on the music, I dive in and hear different guitar sounds I hadn’t heard before.  On other occasions, I’ll put it on and let it fill the rest of the room, letting its melodies and distorted harmonies drift in and out of my consciousness.  It’s also an album I’ve heard so many times now (and long gave up on understanding more than a couple phrases here and there) that I can put it on when I’m in a coffee shop and want something to block out the ambient noise. 

Of course, there are the times where I sit back and marvel at the way it sounds, and on those days I find myself drawn toward “Blown a Wish.”  If “Sometimes” and “Soon” are the individual tracks I’d listen to out of context, “Blown a Wish” feels most representative of the album as comfort listening.  Bilinda Butcher uses her voice almost like a string instrument, drawing out these long melodic lines that immediately wrap into the rest of the arrangement.  It has the trademark oscillating guitars, but here they feel warm rather than the aggressive sonic dive-bombing in their live shows.  In a strange way, it feels like a big comforter with waves from being scrunched up at the foot of the bed.  I realize that I’m in the (extreme) minority describing something with distorted guitars as a sonic bedspread, but I guess that’s how my brain works.  On the days where a little fuzz helps reorient my brain, “Blown a Wish” hits just right.

More on My Bloody Valentine: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Even Flow (Live – San Diego 2006)” – Pearl Jam
(Words: Eddie Vedder, Music: Stone Gossard, originally available on Ten, Epic 1991)

Eddie Vedder’s singing style, once dubbed a “yarl,” remains a dealbreaker when discussing Pearl Jam.  Fans of the band embrace his gruff baritone and point to his growth as a vocalist over time.  Still, some can’t get past Vedder’s voice and how it obscures his lyrics.  This, along with an incomplete set of lyrics printed inside Ten, only made it more difficult to understand a song like “Even Flow.”  Sure, “Even Flow” has a lot more going for it than just its lyrics, but those who prioritize lyrics that stand up to scrutiny might be frustrated by the song.  It’s possible to embrace the ambiguity too – either by making up words, projecting meaning upon the song, or just singing along with the stereo up.  Still, if determining meaning on a line-by-line basis is a priority, “Even Flow” won’t be near the top of your list.

However, in the case of “Even Flow,” line-by-line meaning isn’t as important as the song’s meaning shifted over the years.  In the live setting, “Even Flow” became a feature for guitarist Mike McCready, offering him one of numerous moments in the spotlight during a concert.  On any given tour, “Even Flow” remains one of the most played songs (and easily the most played song from Ten), in part because it’s a feature for McCready, but also because it keeps evolving.  Take this 2006 version – the band pushes the tempo, features McCready, and then lets former Soundgarden drummer (and Pearl Jam’s longest tenured drummer) Matt Cameron take a solo.  While the song shifted from a three minute yarl to an extended jam, it remains one of the essential moments of a Pearl Jam live show – one of the few expected pleasures in an ever-shifting setlist.  Even if Vedder seems to modify the lyrics (which he more sings than “yarls” these days), the crowd waits, ready to sing that final chorus right back at the band.  In a song’s meaning goes further than the notes and words in it – it can grow into something bigger.  In the case of “Even Flow,” it’s become one of the band’s trademark live songs, for its evolving arrangement, blistering performance, and enthusiastic crowd response.

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

“November Rain” – Guns N’ Roses
(Words/music: Axl Rose, available on Use Your Illusion I, Geffen 1991)

Like a lot of people who grew up in the mid ‘90s, I spent a lot of time listening to modern rock radio.  In the early part of this decade, that format started dying out for reasons ranging from its dwindling profitability as a format and the staleness of the genre (depending on who you ask).  In the past couple of years, the format’s returned as a sort of time capsule.  In short, it’s a radio station targeted at people my age – and rather than simply being “alternative rock,” it’s branched out to include both new and old music that people in their mid to late 20s like.  I’ve accepted that the radio in my area is no longer a place to hear new and interesting rock music (as it’s now either older, boring, or both), but I’ve noticed another disturbing trend on my station – fadeouts.  Sometimes, a well-executed fade out does us all a favor, but my local station has been fading out songs before the best part.

My surprise the first time I heard “November Rain” on a “modern rock” radio station only lasted four minutes – at this point, the song faded into a commercial.  I’m not denying that “November Rain” is overblown and probably too long for radio.  Still, enjoying the song means accepting, ignoring, or reveling in its absurdly grand arrangement.  It doesn’t need to be nearly nine minutes long, but the solution isn’t chopping off the end of the song; that’s the part where it gets interesting, where the slow and majestic ballad takes on a darker timbre, Slash’s solo feels a little more pointed, and Rose’s chanted vocals sounds slightly deranged.  Without this dark coda, the rest of the song feels limp.  That’s not to say the “main” part of the song lacks – it’s beautifully arranged and features an excellent refrain (and a couple killer solos).  However, it’s too long, and without the contrast at the end, it feels weighted down by all of its repetition.  It needs the dark turn at the end to highlight the strengths in Rose’s ballad.  However, when it’s faded out on the radio, it feels soft and meandering.  Ironically, by trying to “edit” the song down with a fade out, the radio station makes the song feel longer.

More on Guns N’ Roses: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Movin’ On Up” – Primal Scream
(Words/music: Bobby Gillespie, Andrew Innes, and Robert Young, available on Screamadelica, Sire 1991)

I wasn’t prepared for my first encounter with Screamadelica.  I only knew Primal Scream casually, and from a couple casual listens to their late 90s output (plus my preconceived notions of what a band called “Primal Scream” should sound like) I expected something harsh and jarring.  Instead, I found the record in the used bin somewhere, brought it home and watched my jaw drop.  Until Bobby Gillespie sang the titular line to this song, I wasn’t sure I had the right album.  This was far too bright, melodic, and even soulful to be the same band I expected.  Instead, the album turned out to be something incredibly unique (to me, at least) – it manages to transcend genre.  Most reviews will throw out a bunch of hyphenated genre terms, but it’s really about using elements from different genres to create a specific sound.  It shares sounds with dance records and rock records (and soul, hip hop, and others too) yet never wholly belongs to any single genre.  It bursts out of the stereo and commands attention, regardless of your genre preferences.

Screamadelica hasn’t aged equally.  A couple of the tracks (predictably, the ones that lean a bit heavier on house music, so that might just be my taste talking) sound like the early 1990s, but many of them still sounded fresh when I discovered the record in the early 2000s (and still do today).  “Movin’ On Up” still sounds vibrant and uplifting.  Appropriately, Gillespie borrows some of the language of gospel music (“I was blind / now I can see” or all of this talk about shining lights) and even recruits a couple members of the choir to assist him.  This is dangerous territory – one false step and the track becomes cheesy imitation or a bland pastiche – yet Gillespie navigates it capably with producer Jimmy Miller’s guidance.  Rather than make a gospel record (and really, who would want to hear one sung by a guy who was once in the Jesus and Mary Chain), Gillespie and Miller borrow the elements they like – the specific shades that will help color the entire picture – and place them along with that bright “Love the One Your With”-like guitar riff.  Everything works well together – especially that wonderful guitar solo, one that I can imagine Noel Gallagher tucked away in his memory bank.  It’s the kind of song that might sound clumsy on paper, but quickly reveals its graceful nature within seconds.

More on Primal Scream: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Lithium” – Nirvana
(Words/music: Kurt Cobain, available on Nevermind, DGC 1991)

If you really want to know, I have two “first albums” because I bought two at the same time.  If given fifteen minutes and a calendar, I could probably pinpoint the exact day I bought them as well.  October 1997, I was a freshman in high school and had been listening to the radio for the better part of a year.  I’d make tapes off the radio, sitting with my boom box in my room with my finger ready on the red record button, ready to commit the next song to one of my Maxell 90 minute tapes (which I have shoeboxes of).  I consumed radio (and MTV, and to a lesser extent VH-1) as much as I could until waiting to hear songs on the radio simply wasn’t enough.  So while on the way home from a family get together and a stop at a Borders’ Books, I bought an old record and a current record.  The “current” album was Oasis’ Be Here Now, a record that’s unfairly maligned even if it’s not as good as the first two, and the “old” record was Nevermind.  Looking back, 1996-1997 wasn’t that far removed from the whole grunge thing, so Nirvana still received regular play on modern rock stations (hell, they still get their fair share these days), so it makes sense that I’d buy an album that had been on my radar for years (I remember where I was when Kurt Cobain died, even if I only had a casual understanding of who he was).

Today I own an embarrassing amount of music (I measure my iTunes by months now), but back then when my money came from birthdays and babysitting my neighbors, new music never came frequently enough.  This, along with the obsessiveness of my teenage years, led to me living with albums for a prolonged period of time, and Nevermind is one that I did a considerable amount of living with.  I probably listened to it on an average of three or four times a week for the first two years I owned it.  I taught myself how to play the drums with the first half of Nevermind, and to this day I instinctively start moving my hands and feet along to certain phrases in the album (not to mention a collection of broken drum sticks from trying to play like Dave Grohl).  I haven’t listened to some of these songs in ages, but I probably know them better than songs I’ve heard multiple times in the last month as they trigger something – emotional memories, muscle memory, who knows – in me when I hear them.  This is probably one of the reasons I rarely listen to Nevermind anymore – it’s so loaded with personal associations of those painfully awkward years that’s it’s hard to hear the songs without my own personal context rising back up.

Listening to “Lithium” now, it strikes me as the perfect example of the “Nirvana sound.”  Sure it has the soft/loud/soft dynamic that everyone points out (and yes, that the Pixies did first and probably better), but there’s so much more that makes this song work.  The slinky guitar line through the verse stands out immediately as it snakes through Dave Grohl’s bright sounding ride cymbal and Krist Novoselic’s minimal yet perfect bass line.  Cobain sings in a clean and (relatively) bright sounding tone (at least compared with some of the other songs on Nevermind).  Then, with a quick click of the distortion pedal, Cobain’s guitar becomes a wave of distortion, Grohl starts bashing at his ride cymbal (the only way to get those deep, violent crash sounds), and Novoselic’s bass becomes instantly more melodic.  Meanwhile, Cobain switches from his bleak poetry to a sea of “yeahs” – content to let his melody alone ride the cresting waves of sound without words.  Some might think it’s a copout to have a lyric-less chorus, but it takes a tremendous amount of faith that the melody will keep things interesting (and it does), but it also continues with the contrast in the dynamics; the verses are subdued and somewhat morose, but when the chorus hits the mood shifts to joyous and sing-songy (almost like, uh, taking lithium as an antidepressant?).  Cobain comes out of the chorus declaring his conflicted moods – he likes it, misses it, loves you, kills you, all while declaring that he’s “not going to crack.”  After his suicide, it’s convenient to declare “Lithium” as a portrayal of Cobain’s own fragile mental state, but it’s really a case in excellent songwriting where the music and the words work together to tell a story and convey emotion.  No wonder a teenager would latch on to this.

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

“Hunger Strike” – Temple of the Dog
(Words/music: Chris Cornell, available on Temple of the Dog, A&M 1991)

I grew up on “modern rock radio,” so there’s certain songs that immediately grab my attention.  “Hunger Strike” is one of the songs I can identify from the first note, even if I haven’t heard it in months.  When I first found my way into music, I fell hard for grunge (late to the party, of course, but more on that next week) so I played through my copy of Temple of the Dog, a one off collaboration between Soundgarden’s Chris Cornell and Matt Cameron and all of the future non-drumming members of Pearl Jam (ironically, Matt Cameron became Pearl Jam’s drummer almost a decade ago, and has become the longest tenured drummer in the band) enough times to recognize the key songs pretty quickly.

“Hunger Strike” is an odd song because it doesn’t really fit into either Pearl Jam or Soundgarden’s cannon (by default, it’s become a “Pearl Jam” song, as they’ve performed it a dozen times or so over the last five years).  The riff sounds like some of the other songs on Ten, but played at a much slower, less dramatic pace than songs like “Oceans” or “Garden.”  Still, it’s not heavy enough to be a Soundgarden song, and Chris Cornell even sounds like he’s trying to sing like Eddie Vedder on this song.  Still, that guitar riff has a circular, hypnotic quality to it; it kind of sounds like waves slowly ebbing and flowing (and, to a lesser degree, has the circular quality of a fugue in classical music, like counterpoint played by a flannel quintet).  It’s soothing in a way that distorted guitars and booming drums could soothe ones’ soul.  As for the lyrics, well, it’s best not to think about them.  The lyrics seem to be a very literal take on going hungry in order to quell financial inequality in the world.  Of course, while the fat cats are eating, Cornell and Vedder just keep getting hungrier and hungrier (and they remind us of that for about 20% of the song).  Just like that circular riff, the lyrics keep repeating; however, while the guitars build on each other, the words go nowhere.  Still, it’s given us that call and response chorus – Vedder takes the low rode and Cornell rides in on the high road soon afterward.  It’s very fun to sing along to – my old college roommate Mike would sing Vedder’s part when he wanted to go eat in the dining hall, and either myself or my roommate Jim would join in with our best Chris Cornell impression (be glad you didn’t live with us during these moments).  Needless to say, I never change the radio when I hear it these days.

Then there’s the video. The song makes me nostalgic for those moments eating rough pork chops or listening to the “Flannel Five” on a Rhode Island modern rock station during summer vacation, but the video is a relic of a very specific era.  The hair, the clothes, the sullen looks off camera – they all tie this video to the early nineties and would make a pretty good “time capsule” description of that era’s aesthetics.  It’s also, almost two decades later, kind of unintentionally hilarious.  Thanks to Mike for uploading the version I remember (and as he pointed out in the comments section, the saddest beach party with Eddie Vedder’s strange downbeat swat at the 2:30 mark).

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