Some Songs Considered

“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

“So Sad About Us” – The Breeders
(Words/music: Pete Townshend, available on Safari EP, Elektra 1992) 

In high school and college, I used to spend hours wading through used CD bins.  Today there are so many different ways to give a new band a shot before spending money on an album, but back then I relied on used CDs as a source for broadening my back catalogue.  So when I got my paycheck from working at Walgreens’ or my work study job, I’d go to the record store and flip through bins until I stacked up a half dozen albums or so.  On an ideal trip, I’d find at least one album from a band that was new to me, one copy of a record that I probably would have bought brand new, and one random back catalogue item that I would eventually get around to later on. 

This was how I ended up with the Breeders’ Safari EP. Its dollar price tag sucked me in to the point where I bought it without scrutinizing the track list.  I don’t remember what else I brought home that day, but it must have been pretty good because the EP went unlistened for a few months.  Then, for whatever reason, I picked up the EP and saw that the final track was “So Sad About Us.”  Sure enough, I put the disc in and discovered that it was a cover of one of my favorite songs by The Who.  The Deal sisters gave it a faithful treatment, keeping the nimble bass line and distinctive rhythm guitar sound prevalent in their version.  The harmonies and edgier tempo cemented my obsession with this version and highlighted the paradoxical relationship between the happy tone and melancholy lyrics.  It’s the kind of cover that fits well at the end of an EP – one that honors the original material while playing up to the band’s strengths.  My delayed discovery made it feel like I sent myself a present from the past, and I’m certain that these circumstances only contributed to my love of this cover version.

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

“Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” – The Vaselines
(Words/music: Eugene Kelly and Frances McKee, available on The Way of the Vaselines: A Complete History, Sub Pop 1992)

Today’s song is a repost from March 25, 2009.  The selection is somewhat tongue-in-cheek due to the title on Easter, but it’s always worth hearing, especially if you only know the Nirvana version.  

I feel guilty starting this entry with a reference to Nirvana, but without Kurt Cobain’s repeated championing of the Vaselines, most of the world would not know them.  It makes sense that Cobain would be a fan, as the Vaselines shared the same love of wry, sometimes noisy pop music that Cobain rode to fame.  Throughout The Way of the Vaselines (which is being rereleased as Enter the Vaselines in May 2009), Kelly and McKee explore some strange sounds (the bike horn on “Molly’s Lips” being one of my favorites) yet always retain a sense of song structure.  It made sense that Nirvana would cover some of these songs on early singles and perform them faithfully (although, they played them a bit louder).  Still, it’s “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam” from the MTV Unplugged in New York that pays the most loving homage to the band.  The Unplugged performance contained a lot of off beat covers (including a mini Meat Puppets’ set with actual members of the band performing with Nirvana), but it’s the Vaselines song and Cobain’s matter-of-fact introduction that stands out as a moment of pure reverence to a song (and band) that he admired.

The Nirvana version does the original (which the Vaselines would later rename to add in the “doesn’t” from the song’s first line), especially the string melody recreated by Krist Novoselic’s accordion.  The song, a parody of a children’s hymn, skillfully toes the line between poking fun at the original and standing on its own.  Even without knowing the original hymn, the song stands as an ode to being imperfect.  The narrator accepts his shortcomings and acknowledges that he’s not “sunbeam” material, yet he refuses pity.  While the song feels a little sad, I’ve always heard the chorus as a frank acceptance of the narrators’ imperfections, preferring to be taken as is rather than pitied for being flawed.  It’s the kind of song, one composed by a couple of melodically inclined outsiders, that Cobain, the quintessential outsider, would be drawn to, and it probably explains why he produces such a stirring performance.

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

“It’s a Shame About Ray” – The Lemonheads
(Words/music: Evan Dando and Tom Morgan, available on It’s a Shame About Ray, Atlantic 1992)

“It’s a Shame About Ray” fascinates me because it hints at a story more than it actually tells one.  Evan Dando laments someone without giving a specific reason why.  The best guess is that Ray is gone; it could be anything from Ray just leaving before Dando arrived to moving away to passing away.  It doesn’t really matter, because this lament ends up telling more about Dando’s narrator than about Ray.  Whether intentional or not, Ray becomes an excuse for the narrator reflect on himself.  He tells us that he’s “never been too good with names” twice, and in between he suggests that he’d be better off putting his feelings back with the cobwebs – hidden away in a place rarely touched.  Whether he’s an introvert or he’s extracting a lesson from Ray’s situation, the narrator sounds resolved to keep to himself for a little while.

Thankfully, the entire song isn’t as mopey as it sounds.  Dando sings with a deceptively melodic voice; he isn’t belting out the song like an arena rock singer, but he still projects his voice with a bright tone.  In an era where singers hid behind their hair and a wall of distortion, Dando puts his voice front and center (ironically with an introverted narrator).  Even with his generally upbeat tone, Dando finds just enough sadness in his notes at the right times.  Perhaps the moderate tempo helps to give the song a general melancholy quality around the end of the verses, but something about the melody keeps it from completely contradicting the lyrics.  It’s difficult not to let the music influence the story in the lyrics, but with so few clues in the narrative it doesn’t feel like too much of a leap to suggest that even while he laments Ray, he feels like it’s for the best (whether for him, for Ray, or for all involved).  Perhaps that’s just the optimist in me hearing what he wants to hear.

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

“Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me (Live)” – George Michael and Elton John
(Words/music: Elton John and Bernie Taupin, available on Duets, MCA 1992) 

Maybe it’s from a lifetime of waiting rooms filled with easy listening music, but given the right circumstances a sappy song hits the spot.  It’s not necessarily a specific mindset; it could just be a moment where a chord change captures my attention or a harmony makes me look up from what I’m doing.  This isn’t to say that every bit of muzak can stir a soul.  Rather, there are moments that deserve more than something to cover up the sound of magazine pages flipping.

“Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me” immediately comes to mind.  It’s not the smartest or deepest Elton John song.  I don’t even really have a deep personal attachment or association with this song the way I do with a song like “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters.”  It’s just an extremely well written ballad with some stunning moments.  Particularly, the harmony at the beginning of the chorus melts my heart even on my grumpiest days.  When put into George Michael’s hands – (whose tabloid tales overshadow his pipes) – this approaches ballad perfection.  I don’t watch American Idol (mainly because I don’t watch a lot of TV) but I imagine this is similar to the show’s transcendent moments – where a gifted singer takes a beautiful song and rivals the original.  For me, at least, this is the definitive version, and the one that I’d actually listen to outside of a waiting room.

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

“Sugar Kane” – Sonic Youth
(Words/music: Sonic Youth, available on Dirty, DGC 1992) 

At no point in their career could Sonic Youth be described as “timid,” so it’s difficult to compare the band’s different albums in terms of confidence.  Their early records presented an uncompromising band delving deeper and deeper into noise.  A few albums later, noise still filled their songs, but shards of melody (however twisted or jagged they may be) started appearing.  By the time Butch Vig worked with the band on Dirty, Sonic Youth already started to put their spin on more traditional song structures.  Vig helped the band decide when to strengthen the structure underneath the layers of guitar and when to let the song start to bend and buckle under the weight of their noise.  “Focused” might be the more applicable word, but these songs have more of a confident swagger, especially when compared with the band’s earlier output.

“Sugar Kane” sounds particularly self-assured.  The guitar hooks aren’t as big as some of the other bands Vig produced (including Sonic Youth’s labelmates Nirvana), but the main riff is crisper and more defined than before.  Even the bridge has a moment where it feels like a tidied up version of “Schizophrenia” with the odd chords bending behind a drum fill.  Even Thurston Moore’s vocal delivery sounds clearer and more confident.  However, it’s the lead guitar that highlights the difference.   Where it might have hidden itself deeper in the mix, the lead line floats above everything else.  It still has the same twists and turns as before, but it sounds far more melodic than most other Sonic Youth lead parts, even overshadowing Moore’s vocal hook.  In fact, it sounds like a J Mascis lead part – technically complex yet bright and loud.  Like Mascis’s leads, the guitar on “Sugar Kane” deserves the spotlight that it commands.

More on Sonic Youth: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Pump It Up” – Mudhoney
(Words/music: Elvis Costello, available on March to Fuzz, Sub Pop 2000)

I’ve had two relatively short, strictly recreational stints in garage bands.  The first happened in high school, playing with a couple guys who wrote songs before I even was in the picture.  The second happened during summer vacation during college with some friends who wanted to play songs that we loved.  With these two bands, I played a total of one gig – a barbeque as an excuse for our band to play the five or six songs we knew.  However, as soon as I started listening to records and playing the drums, I started thinking about the kinds of bands I wanted to be in.  I still, from time to time, find myself listening to a song and thinking “I want to be in a band that sounds like this.”  Of course, the next song starts and I still haven’t picked up one of my dormant instruments.

Regardless, Mudhoney always struck me as the ideal form of my garage band ambitions.  From the first time I heard the band (first on “Overblown” on the Singles soundtrack, then on “Touch Me I’m Sick”), their blistering pace and tongue-in-cheek lyrics seemed like the right mix of energy and edge.  Their cover of Elvis Costello’s “Pump It Up” plays like the world’s best garage band, stomping through Costello’s snotty song with the right combination of abandon and attention to detail.  While Mark Arm is no Elvis Costello (comparing how the two handle the “listen to the propaganda, listen to the latest slander” line illustrates the difference), he sings the verses with a chip on his shoulder, seemingly sending the message that he can pull off a song that few others would attempt.  This, ultimately, is Mudhoney’s legacy – one where they were skilled enough, whether as songwriters or musicians – to make what they did sound deceptively simple.  Perhaps this is why Mudhoney exists in the shadow of their more ambitious peers, but it’s also what gives the band the attitude and charisma that radio-grunge often lacked.  If nothing else, they would blow away your neighborhood’s best band.

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

“Chloe Dancer / Crown of Thorns” – Mother Love Bone
(Words: Andrew Wood / Music: Mother Love Bone, available on Singles - Original Soundtrack, Epic 1992)

40% of Mother Love Bone went on to form Pearl Jam, so it’s appropriate that “Chloe Dancer / Crown of Thorns” sounds like a cousin to the Pearl Jam catalog.  I only point out the percentage (the shared members being Stone Gossard and Jeff Ament) because it gives a rough estimate of the shared DNA between the groups.  For as theatrical as Eddie Vedder was in his early days (see the band’s performance of “Porch” on MTV Unplugged), Andrew Wood made Vedder look like the shy kid in the back of the room.  Wood’s friends spoke about his magnetic personality, and he certainly pumps it into “Chloe Dancer / Crown of Thorns.”  Of course, the same theatrics that made him “magnetic” to some make him unbearable to others, particularly in the lyrics.  Wood strives for heartbreak in his story yet often relies on some questionable images (that substitute teacher line is particularly weird).

Still, the correlations lie in the arrangement.  In some ways, this is the predecessor to “Black” – a swelling power ballad fueled by heartache.  The “Chloe Dancer” might be mostly Wood’s craft (and if it is, it’s a testament to his strengths), but as soon as “Crown of Thorns” starts, Gossard’s supporting riff immediately bolsters the arrangement.  Even the breakdown near the end, with Ament’s bass sneaking out front, gives the necessary momentum to push the final chorus over the top.  It’s only appropriate that Pearl Jam, starting in 2003, occasionally include the song in their setlist.   Even without the lovely “Chloe Dancer” introduction, Vedder keeps Wood’s lines intact yet sings it with his own natural cadence and emphasis.  Whether it’s Vedder’s personality or just the luxury of aging a bit, he doesn’t sound as overactive as Wood does near the end of the song.  In short, it’s a way of Pearl Jam, Vedder included, paying tribute to their heritage.

More on Mother Love Bone: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Found Out About You” – Gin Blossoms
(Words/music: Doug Hopkins, available on New Miserable Experience, A&M 1992)

I’m too young to remember the Gin Blossoms when they were active, and for a long time the only music I knew from 1992 came draped in flannel.  This is how I have little to no nostalgic attachment to their songs – I spent my free time playing Super Nintendo when their songs flooded American radio.  For whatever reason, whether it’s detachment or objectivity, these songs came to me in a unique way – first as underwhelming, unassuming relics from an era I vaguely remember, and later as a strange sort of underdog.  Somehow, through sporadic plays on the radio, these songs (mainly the singles) started to win me over.  I realized that the Gin Blossoms won me over when I heard “Found Out About You” while paying for my groceries this spring and I started to bag my food slower so I could hear the end of the song.

I do know, however, that it takes roughly three notes into the jangly opening riff to pull me in.  Perhaps a lifetime of listening to R.E.M. makes my ears perk up anytime an arpeggio rings out of a guitar, but the opening riff hooks me every time, whether I’m paying for cereal at the self-checkout or not.  It was only later that I delved a little deeper that I saw the darker side to the song.  “Found Out About You” was one of the songs guitarist Doug Hopkins wrote before getting kicked out of the band (and later committing suicide).  Appropriately, “Found Out About You” comes from a place of bitterness and resentment.  It’s certainly not the first angry song to find its way into supermarket playlists (nor will it be the last), but few encase betrayal in such a melodic package.  It also helped me pay more attention to a band I wrote off without a particular reason.

More on Gin Blossoms: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“If I Can’t Change Your Mind” – Sugar
(Words/music: Bob Mould, available on Copper Blue, Rykodisc 1992)

(Note: Thank you to thisistheglamorous (who you should read/follow because he is hilarious and a wonderful read) for reblogging this. I accidentally posted tonight’s post to my personal tumblr and Tumblr won’t let you reblog yourself. Anyway, here’s the original post)

Popular culture – music included – provides an opportunity for escapism. We don’t always consider that with music, though; instead, we focus on connecting to lyrics or emotions in songs – on having music to comfort us or celebrate or anything in between. Occasionally, we consider music as a mood adjuster – something that helps to change our mood, motivate us, or drown out something undesirable. Maybe because I’ve always had an overactive imagination (and that I’ve watched enough movies in my lifetime), but I often spend wandering moments playing out alternate scenarios in my mind. It’s sort of like spontaneous short story writing – it begins with a “what if” question and then I play out one or more of the possible outcomes in my mind. I never think of it actively, but these daydreams often have a soundtrack.

Anyway, I remember having a very vivid sequence one time where I turned “If I Can’t Change Your Mind” upside down. In Sugar’s incredibly catchy version, Bob Mould offers a plea to make a lover stay immediately after a breakup. Whether I was sucked in by the bright guitar and up-beat tempo, my daydream involved using “If I Can’t Change Your Mind” as a method of persuasion; someone using it to help woo over a reluctant love interest. I’m not even clear on the details (and I’m not sure I was at the time, either) – whether it was someone who was hurt previously and unwilling to be vulnerable again or whatever – but nonetheless it was the soundtrack to this strangely vivid out-of-context scene in my head that’s stuck with me. Maybe I imagined the song as a dialogue – the part about being heartbroken and teary was one person and the other replying “if I can’t change your mind, who will?” Maybe in my head romantic comedies expand their soundtrack past the half dozen stock songs that end up in every movie and I wanted to give Bob Mould one of those sweet royalty checks. Probably, though, it was a bit of wishful thinking – we all want to be the kind of person to win each other over, and in both scenarios (the song and this imaginary sequence), the protagonist has a longing to be important and persuasive to a specific person. I’d like to think that my subconscious honed in on this shared idea and made the connection between the real song and the imagined scenario. Maybe I’ve just watched too many movies where music carries this sort of charged emotional persuasion (Say Anything and High Fidelity off the top of my head) that I immediately targeted that part of the song – since it’s so melodically convincing, it must be emotionally as well.

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

“Connected” – Stereo MC’s
(Words/music: Robert Birch, Harry Wayne Casey, Richard Finch, Nicholas Hallam, available on Connected, Island Records 1992)

I’ll be the first to admit that I sometimes lose sight of the reason why I write this blog.  In the most general terms, it’s a place to share and discuss music, but I also really like the idea of learning something about my taste – not just offering songs that I like, but trying to figure out why I like these songs.  Sometimes this requires a little backstory (or a personal digression), but largely the focus needs to be on the songs.  That being said, as I tried to brainstorm a song for tonight, I thought about the process for picking songs.  I often end up picking some less than obvious choices (I haven’t written about a lot of my favorite bands yet) because I see value in looking at the edges of one’s taste.  If I’m going to truly learn about my taste, then these “fringe” songs – whether they are songs I normally might not like or things that are pushing my boundaries – might yield insight into why I like them.  It would be easy to post something classic and fall into the trap of “this is important” or “this is timeless” without going any deeper.  In some ways, I feel like it might be harder to get to the root of why I like something like the Beatles without falling into that trap.  Maybe that’s why I’m more interested in the oddities in my collection.

This brings me to “Connected.”  I never have a burning desire to hear this song and I don’t own anything else by the group.  I even had to make sure that the apostrophe in their name wasn’t a typo (Allmusic and Wikipedia both have it that way).  I’m glad to have it in my collection and more often than not I don’t skip it when it comes on.  I particularly like the way they build this slow groove out of a disco sample (from a song co-written by KC of KC and the Sunshine Band fame).  A heavy beat dominates the song, holding everything together like a sturdy nail hammered in tight.  Around the defined drum and bass, the other elements of the song float in orbit.  The keyboards sound light and airy, the sampled horns feel lifelike, and even the vocals feel playful.  I’ve never really paid much attention to the words, but they don’t really matter to me.  The song’s groove – this blend of heavy and light – sucks me in every time.  Even if it’s about a minute longer than it should be, it almost always comes as a welcome guest.

More on Stereo MC’s: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” – The Vaselines
(Words/music: Eugene Kelly and Frances McKee, available on The Way of the Vaselines: A Complete History, Sub Pop 1992)

I feel guilty starting this entry with a reference to Nirvana, but without Kurt Cobain’s repeated championing of the Vaselines, most of the world would not know them.  It makes sense that Cobain would be a fan, as the Vaselines shared the same love of wry, sometimes noisy pop music that Cobain rode to fame.  Throughout The Way of the Vaselines (which is being rereleased as Enter the Vaselines in May), Kelly and McKee explore some strange sounds (the bike horn on “Molly’s Lips” being one of my favorites) yet always retain a sense of song structure.  It made sense that Nirvana would cover some of these songs on early singles and perform them faithfully (although, they played them a bit louder).  Still, it’s “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam” from the MTV Unplugged in New York that pays the most loving homage to the band.  The Unplugged performance contained a lot of off beat covers (including a mini Meat Puppets’ set with actual members of the band performing with Nirvana), but it’s the Vaselines song and Cobain’s matter-of-fact introduction that stands out as a moment of pure reverence to a song (and band) that he admired.

The Nirvana version does the original (which the Vaselines would later rename to add in the “doesn’t” from the song’s first line), especially the string melody recreated by Krist Novoselic’s accordion.  The song, a parody of a children’s hymn, skillfully toes the line between poking fun at the original and standing on its own.  Even without knowing the original hymn, the song stands as an ode to being imperfect.  The narrator accepts his shortcomings and acknowledges that he’s not “sunbeam” material, yet he refuses pity.  While the song feels a little sad, I’ve always heard the chorus as a frank acceptance of the narrators’ imperfections, preferring to be taken as is rather than pitied for being flawed.  It’s the kind of song, one composed by a couple of melodically inclined outsiders, that Cobain, the quintessential outsider, would be drawn to, and it probably explains why he produces such a stirring performance.

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