Some Songs Considered - Posts Tagged '1994'

March 5, 2010

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“Root Down” – The Beastie Boys
(Words/music: Beastie Boys, available on Ill Communication, Capitol Records 1994)

Boiled down to one sentence, the Beastie Boys began as brats and became Buddhists, and somewhere in between they made their most interesting work. With the benefit of hindsight, this broad arc makes senses given that the Beastie Boys strike me as guys with lots of ideas. Whether it’s the range of sounds in their catalogue, the crowded production the Dust Brothers lent to Paul’s Boutique, or just the rapid pace the three MCs delivered their lyrics (and their tendency to accent each others’ rhymes by tripling up on certain words), the Beasties always seemed willing to explore an idea and see where it took them.

“Root Down” is neither the weirdest nor the best track in the Beastie Boys catalogue (or on Ill Communication, to be honest), but it synthesizes many of their best qualities. It combines together the live instrumentation (or at least the spirit of live instrumentation – I can’t quite tell) with a DJ’s touch. The feel of the track depends equally on the funk guitar that swells underneath the hook as it does with the gentle hiss of the record needle hitting the groove at the start and the hairpin turn the DJ triggers right after the hook. Lyrically, the Beasties are nimble, rhyming quickly and somewhat breathless. It’s a distinctive flow for a Beastie’s track; as with much of their work, the distinct tone of their voices and their cadence tips off the listener within a few words. In essence, “Root Down” works as an interesting introduction to the Beastie Boys. Proceeding deeper into their catalogue means scattering across their different stylistic endeavors, but “Root Down” captures their general essence as much as a single track can encapsulate a group with so many ideas.

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

February 8, 2010

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“Who Are You (Single Edit)” – The Who
(Words/music: Pete Townshend, available on Thirty Years of Maximum R&B, MCA 1994)

The Who sounded fine last night at the Super Bowl – not quite revelatory yet not quite embarrassing – and provided enough overly-obvious age-related fuel for people who think that they are funny. The band’s medley of CSI theme songs sidestepped the question I wondered going into the weekend – would Roger Daltrey still sing the “who the fuck are you” line in “Who Are You?”

In reality, I knew it wouldn’t happen; I imagine that Super Bowl producers have snipers waiting for anyone who might go off script. I only raise this question because this is an obscenity that frequently makes its way onto the radio. It doesn’t happen every time, but it happens regularly enough for me to stop noticing it as something out of the ordinary. I don’t mention this because I’m offended, but rather that I’m curious. Sure, Daltrey runs through the line quickly, but it’s not exactly a subtle obscenity either. If nothing else, I’m fascinated by it – do radio programmers not notice it, or did someone sign off on it? In any case, I found this far more interesting than commenting on the band’s age this weekend.

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

December 8, 2009

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“Savory” – Jawbox
(Words/music: Jawbox, available on For Your Own Special Sweetheart, Atlantic 1994 / Dischord 2009)

For all of my interest in music, I still find that I take a lot of styles for granted. Specifically, the licks that fall under the umbrella of “post-hardcore” feel natural to me, in part because I’ve spent most of my active listening life hearing bands put these things to use. Wiry, dissonant guitars, odd time signatures, and oblique lyrics fill many of the megabytes on my hard drive, and while hearing a nimble bassline under a wall of feedback used to turn my head, it gets lost in the fuzz these days. In a way, I’ve become overloaded and fatigued by the imitators before I got to the original sources.

So when I came across Jawbox years ago (but years after they heyday), the record didn’t stick immediately. It was only later, going back to For Your Own Special Sweetheart, that I appreciated the songwriting. On “Savory” in particular, I’m in awe of the way all of these knotted melodic strands, whether guitars, vocals, or bassline, wind together. It seems like every time one tugs in a certain direction, all of the rest react. It creates this densely jarring and deceptively melodic fog, and like the fog it gradually rolls out and changes its shape. It’s this nuance that made me reconsider the band.

Today, as the reissue of For Your Own Special Sweetheart sat on my porch when I got home the same day that the band reunited for a one-off gig on Jimmy Fallon’s show, I’m curious how many other bands I’ve slept on because of the bands that imitated them. This isn’t to say that a band is great because they did something first, as there are plenty of “important” bands that don’t inspire the same reaction that others have. Instead, I wonder how many bands I’ve overlooked (or prematurely judged) strictly because my first impression reminded me of a derivative band. Optomistically, this just means I have more Jawbox moments in my future – moments where I find a pleasant surprise within my own collection.

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

November 20, 2009

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“She” – Green Day
(Words: Billie Joe Armstrong / Music: Green Day, available on Dookie, Reprise 1994)

My first memory of associating music with status occurred in sixth grade. Green Day’s Dookie represented the idea of coolness – the really interesting popular kids were raving about it and I was completely clueless. This was when both Green Day and the modern rock radio format blew up, so it’s fair to say that in 1994, I knew almost nothing about music. I don’t remember a lot of specifics from middle school, but I remember it being extremely awkward (or, at least, that’s how I think back to it). I wonder if coming around to Green Day a few years later somehow subconsciously related back to my yearning to be cool as a twelve year-old. Regardless, Dookie became a personally seminal album, and despite the band’s periodic evolution (and waves of popularity), it’s this brash version of the band I think of when they’re brought up.

Strangely enough, “She” is the song I listen to the most off of this album. Again, there’s probably some kind of subconscious pull towards this song, as “feeling like a social tool without a use” sums up middle school pretty well. These days – a safe distance from those awkward middle school years - I admire how taut the song sounds. If the songs with the fancier drum fills and smarmier lyrics pulled me in when I was a teenager, I’m now looking at songs like “She” and marveling at the efficiency and control in the arrangement. Whether it’s the way the bassline first carries the song and later adds a bit of counter-melody, or the way the guitar sits out the first verse entirely, nothing feels wasted. More importantly, an efficient arrangement makes the embellishments, whether they’re those bassline embellishments, Tre Cool’s lighting quick fills, or the sporadically harmonized vocals in the chorus, feel essential. The band cut everything that wasn’t essential (the third verse is entirely wordless!) and made sure that the song doesn’t overstay its welcome. Instead, it accomplishes the difficult task of saying more with less.

More on Green Day: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

November 19, 2009

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“Juicy” – Notorious B.I.G.
(Words: Christopher Wallace, Produced by Sean Combs and Jean “Poke” Oliver, available on Ready to Die, Bad Boy Entertainment 1994)

Plenty of rappers juxtapose their humble beginnings with their luxurious lives as entertainers. MCs did it before Christopher Wallace stopped selling crack, and they continue to do it over a decade after his murder. That said, few could rap about riches in a way that didn’t sound like rubbing it in the faces of everyone else, let alone with the eye for detail and distinct voice that B.I.G. brought to the mic. Sure, he starts out by dedicating the track to those who stood in his way, but as soon as it seems like he’s bragging to the non-believers, he switches gears when he declares that “it’s all good baby bay-be.” It’s almost like he’s caught himself falling into that trap, resets himself, and gets back on track toward where he wants to go.

This purpose is to capture his metamorphosis and the details along the way. After all, we’ve heard this basic story of overcoming hardships to achieve success countless times. We’re not even won over by the track itself – it’s a good beat and a good hook, but he’s rhymed over better supported by better hooks. “Juicy” sticks with us because of the way Biggie paints the portrait of his life. Whether he’s listing the magazine clippings that hung in his bedroom, the things that filled his house in 1994, or even just the side-by-side comparison of his youth and his adulthood, he gives us the details essential to see how his life changes. He’ll acknowledge his success, but it’s never to boast solely; instead, he’s pondering the ways his life changed so rapidly, acknowledging that he’s in a much better place both financially and emotionally as well. Moreover, he ties these details together effortlessly, letting us marvel in his wordplay as we start to think about our own lives. Even though he tells his story with such precision and detail, he still leaves enough room for us as listeners. We can marvel at his rise (knowing that the “it’s all good” phase would tragically end) while simultaneously dreaming about how we can find our own version of this life.

More on Notorious B.I.G: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

July 23, 2009

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“Born on a Train” - The Magnetic Fields
(Words/music: Stephin Meritt, available on The Charm of the Highway Strip, Merge Records 1994)

Night one of XX Merge was a night largely built around intimacy. Ranging from Lou Barlow’s solo performance to the small choir of voices Oakley Hall assembled in their band to the Rosebuds’ coaxing of the crowd to accompany them, this opening night put “small” songs into the spotlight. Looking back, this was the perfect night for the Magnetic Fields’ performance as a quintet of strings, piano, and voice. In the past, some of Stephin Meritt’s aesthetic choices in his arrangements prevented me from delving deeper into his catalog. Sometimes, the synthesizers and drum machines work well, but often I find that they mask Meritt’s beautiful songs. Last night, Meritt and vocalists Claudia Gonson and Shirley Simms took center stage, letting Merritt’s eye for beauty and wry sense of humor shine in the spotlight. The crowd in the front of the Cat’s Cradle played right into their hands, laughing at the humor in “California Girls” and “Yeah, Oh Yeah,” and Meritt even smirked delivering the lines about living in a dive bar in “Papa Was a Rodeo.” Last night, the songs sounded like the precious creatures Meritt sculpted (the same ones that are sometimes hard to find underneath the synthesizers). In this setting, the songs felt fragile, beautiful, lonely, and heartbreaking – often in rapid succession and often simultaneously.

“Born on a Train,” a song that wasn’t performed last night, is one song that works with its electronic arrangements. Like most of Meritt’s best compositions, “Born on a Train” paints loneliness in a melancholy light, comparing emotional disconnect with the restlessness of perpetual travel. Musically, the song kind of feels like traveling on a train with the persistent percussion and the fast moving sounds around it. In this case, the synthesized sounds help make it sound like a chamber-pop composition. However, the synthesized sounds combined with the real strings give it a woosy, daydream feel. In this state, it’s hard to imagine what’s real and what’s a dream. It gives the narrative an interesting bend – does the narrator feel heartbroken or does he truly accept his wayward state? Then again, it could all be a dream – the narrator may be dreaming of having to leave a lover he’s never met as he’s roaming down another nighttime road that looks the same as all the others. If that’s the case, it’s an even more heartbreaking story of someone so lonely that they dream up people to miss.

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

May 20, 2009

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“N.Y. State of Mind” – Nas
(Words/music: Nasir Jones and Chris Martin, available on Illmatic, Columbia 1994)

I like hip hop for two distinct reasons – I admire the way rappers use words and I’m amazed by the way DJs and producers set the stage for the MCs. More often than not, one of these forces takes the lead. It can be a gifted lyricist crafting vivid images and witty lines over a lackluster beat, or it can be a hypnotic beat (and usually a solid to spectacular hook) that makes an average rapper sound legendary for a few minutes. In most occasions, I’m drawn in by the track first – if it sounds good, I’ll probably give it a try, and if it sounds great, I’ll play it again. When Iyrics pull me in first, it’s usually from an over-the-top line (Lil’ Wayne throws these around almost effortlessly) or something so perfect that it’s hard to ignore. Otherwise, the words take time to unfold, revealing a new part of the story or a new image with each listen.

Even if I love a sublime beat or a perfectly used sample, it’s even more difficult to know when to show restraint. DJ Premier does this masterfully, creating a beat that’s minimal yet potent. On one hand, the piano loop and heavy kick drum provide a sparse, ominous backdrop for Nas, who spends part of the track bragging about his skills and part depicting life in Queensbridge. It’s a smart move by DJ Premier to step out of the way and let Nas shine, as his lyricism deserves the spotlight. However, Premier manages to keep Nas in the spotlight and make an evocative and complementary track at the same time. He casts the same shadowy, vaguely threatening feel that Nas cultivates in his lyrics. Additionally, he also provides some interesting rhythmic counterpoint to Nas’ flow; while Nas rhymes at a steady pace, the slow-moving bass line circles around like a snake coiling, ready to strike. Even the piano loop has its own distinct rhythm, repeating the same rhythmic pattern to create a trance-like beat. Once Premier lulls the listener in, Nas lets his rhymes do the damage.

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

January 6, 2009

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

“Silence Kit” - Pavement
(Words/music: Stephen Malkmus, appears on Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, Matador 1994)

I try my best to stay away from “this equals that” kind of criticism in part because more often than not it’s imposing something onto the song from the outside. Sure, there’s times where songs or albums or songwriters have obvious touchstones (and you know this because every single review will mention it), but I rarely found a “this sounds like that plus that” kind of synopsis helpful.

That being said, I’m about to break my own rule when I say that “Silence Kit” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” have some less than obvious points of relation. Both Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain and Born to Run found their creators reaching a wider audience (Springsteen soon became “The Boss,” Pavement and Matador Records rode the mid-90s alterna-boom to a gold album and a distribution deal with Capitol Records) and both albums start with songs about leaving town. However, while “Thunder Road” is a large and cinematic (or, to its detractors, “overblown) song about cars as a source for personal redemption and the opportunity to “make something” of yourself, “Silence Kit” exchanges optimism for anti-climax.

Springsteen once called “Thunder Road” his “invitation” to his listeners, and “Silence Kit” unfolds similarly. The slow groove at the twenty second mark, Malkmus’ high notes right before the minute mark (it almost sounds like he’s saying “hiiiiiii”, but let’s not get carried away), and even the way Malkmus seems to give advice to the “silent kid” (the song became “Silence Kit” on the Crooked Rain sleeve due to an ink blot on the artwork) all seem like an invitation to leave town. However, while “Thunder Road” pulls out of town, “Silence Kit” stalls at the city line where they merely talk about leaving rather than jumping town.

The vehicle, in this case, seems to be music as the last verse talks about grabbing drum sticks to pull “myself into the spotlight, ecstasy feels so warm inside.” However, just as the attempt to leave stalls at the edge of town, this rush fades after the show, leaving the narrator alone with his two hands. It shares the same sense of urgency and yearning for “more” (whatever that it), yet “Silence Kit” ends more realistically; all of our problems can’t be solved by driving away into the sunset, no matter how much we’d like to just jump in and run. Instead, Pavement explore life’s contradictions, absurdities, and quirks over the rest of Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, with “Silence Kit” as the invitation to follow the band along.

PS - this post is a hat tip to my friend Devine, who recently started a new blog this is the city line that culls its name from this song. He writes about sports, music, and other topics of interest with the same humor, self-deprication, and razor-sharp wit that makes me love Pavement, so it’s worth checking out, sports fans.

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

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