Some Songs Considered

“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

“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

“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

“Against the ‘70s” – Mike Watt
(Words/music: Mike Watt, available on Ball Hog or Tugboat?, Columbia 1995) 

My copy of Ball Hog or Tugboat? currents sits on the far end of a translucent bin of LPs sitting in my living room.  It’s the only one visible through the container right now, so while sitting watching TV the album caught my eye and prompted two distinct thoughts.  First, I realize that it’s been years – probably back to the same time I found the LP in a record store – since I’ve listened to the entire thing.  Secondly, I tried to fathom something similar happening – specifically, a major label putting out a record brimming with alternative rock’s all-stars.  That second thought ended quickly, as it took the right mix of charm and chops to assemble such a revolving door of talent and make it a compelling listen. 

However, the famous names don’t make this a great record.  It’s the quality of the songs above all that made this record great.  “Against the ‘70s” isn’t great because of Eddie Vedder’s presence alone; instead, it’s the urgency in his voice that stands out.  Same thing with Dave Grohl and Krist Novoselic’s cameos – I’ve seen enough underwhelming award show duets to know that celebrity alone doesn’t guarantee a good performance.  Instead, it’s when these guests play with the fury and intensity they bring to their own projects that something special comes together.  In that sense, Watt deserves as much credit for orchestrating this runaway train as he does for fueling it with his nimble bass lines. 

More on Mike Watt: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Only Happy When It Rains” – Garbage
(Words/music: Garbage, available on Garbage, Almo Sounds 1995)

For the record, I hate the rain.  The only thing that made me happy about all of the rain in the Northeast this weekend was that it wasn’t snow.  While driving home in the rain today and listening to the radio, something (I wish I remembered the song) made me think of an accusation a friend made several years ago.  “You listen to sad music,” she said, and while I do like sad songs, it’s never been strictly because the lyrics are sad.  I know that some people like to put on sad movies when they are sad, but I’ve never really felt that way with music.  Instead, I find myself retreating into favorite albums when I’m sad.  If anything, I think I gravitate toward happier music – or at least music that makes me happy.  If anything, “sad songs” generally need to be that much better. 

So I imagine this was a statement on the sound of the music – quieter, more somber arrangements tend to sound “sadder” than something with a lively beat.  A quick survey of the songs I’ve written about (via the “random post” link in the sidebar) led to a disproportionate amount of lively, happy songs, which would tend to disprove this idea.  Anyway, the combination of all of these thoughts – this random memory and a rain soaked weekend – made me think of “Only Happy When It Rains.”  In the context of this discussion, this is a song that doesn’t overtly sound gloomy, save for the repeated declarations that happiness requires misery.  Members of the band claimed it was a tongue-in-cheek reference to liking alternative rock, but I always thought of that as reductionist thought anyway.  If anything, this is a song about finding happiness in a sound that others find gloomy or jarring.  If every single person saw happiness in the same things, our world would be less interesting. 

So today, my thought is that the music itself is neither happy nor sad.  Instead, we fill in the emotions.  These might change over time and they may not transfer from person to person, but I suppose that’s why we have so many different songs in our lives.  If one doesn’t make you happy, there are plenty of others out there that will.

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

“100,000 Fireflies” – Superchunk
(Words/music: Stephin Merritt, available on Incidental Music 1991 – 95, Merge Records 1995)

I first knew “100,000 Fireflies” through the Superchunk version, and because my original copy of Incidental Music was on a CD-R, I didn’t know it wasn’t a Superchunk song.  With a bit of hindsight and and much deeper love for Superchunk’s catalogue, it stands out from a bunch of their earlier songs.  Lyrically it’s a little more dramatic than Mac McCaughan usually gets (I don’t think the phrase “I want to kill myself” appears in any of his songs).  Their cover highlights a lot of the things I love about the early Superchunk, particularly their fusion of melody and mayhem without sacrificing either.  It’s also more complex than the three chord pop-punk birthed at the end of the decade; the arrangement rises and falls in both volume and intensity.

There’s a certain justice to follow the “when I turn up the tone / on my electric guitar” lyric with electric guitars, and the energy Superchunk breathes into the song is infectious.  McCaughan’s strained vocals, particularly in the post-chorus section, lean on the desperation in the lyrics.  The guitar slows down and feels heavier as he pleads for another chance.  Gradually, Jim Wilbur embellishes on the main riff, twisting it into a brief solo before the song ends. 

In many ways, Superchunk gets right to the core of the song, bringing the urgency to the forefront with distorted guitars.  Like the Magnetic Fields version (and more on them in the next post – give me a half hour or so), the Superchunk cover relies on crafting a specific mood.  Their mood draws on the ones that run beneath the surface – ones I might not have gleaned just from the original version alone.

(Part 2 on the Magnetic Fields’ version can be read here)

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

“All the X’s Have Wings” – Helium
(Words/music: Mary Timony, available on The Dirt of Luck, Matador 1995)  

I missed out on Helium the first time around (I was 12, so I think I get a pass), and even after a few suggestions, it took until last year for me to approach the band with any extended attention.  In many ways, finding an older band to explore is more exciting than falling for a new release – there’s an entire catalog immediately available to explore and people to discuss the records with and ask for “next step” type recommendations.  However, Helium was a bit of a dead end discovery for me – they only had a couple albums (and I didn’t get the Pirate Prude EP until I joined eMusic today) and their flirtation with alt-rock success came a couple years too early to hit most of my friends.  Regardless, I made up for lost time in 2009 by giving these albums – particularly The Dirt of Luck – their due.

I naturally loved the different guitar sounds, from the distorted snarl Mary Timony culled from hers to the way Polvo’s Ash Bowie explored the often neglected higher end of the bass guitar’s range.  Thus, I’m not surprised that that I leaned toward the songs build primarily around Timony’s voice and guitar.  The way Timony’s high notes bleed into each other, especially when juxtaposed by the slinky, predominantly lower tone guitar notes, sounds harrowingly beautiful.  The opening to “All the X’s Have Wings” particularly captures Timony in this mode, balancing a slow yet lovely melody with the unsettling tone of her guitar.  When the rest of the band joins in at full power (especially the huge drum sound), it brings out the urgency in Timony’s voice – rushing her slightly before slowing back down when the spotlight moves back to her.  The balance of the overloaded moments with the long stretches where Timony’s guitar notes fade into silence highlight the extremes in each, leaving plenty of space for Timony in the center to calmly yet assertively proclaim her perversions to us.

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

“Mis-Shapes” – Pulp
(Words/music: Nick Banks/Jarvis Cocker/Candida Doyle/Steve Mackey/Pulp/Russell Senior/Mark Webber, available on Different Class, Island 1995)

Eddie Izzard, while on a riff about the biblical notion that “the meek shall inherit the earth,” quips that if the meek “should be having meetings all over the world” in order to plan their acquisition.  If nothing else, Jarvis Cocker’s persona in “Mis-Shapes” isn’t standing around waiting for control to fall into his lap.  Instead, “Mis-Shapes” lays out the agenda for the thoughtful misfits.  He calls together his bookish brethren to rise up and take control on their terms.  “We won’t use guns / we won’t use bombs / we’ll use the one thing that we’ve got more of / that’s our mind.”  Where others see meek men and women, he sees a dormant revolution.

Of course, this sort of underdog fantasy rarely sounds either as confident or grand as “Mis-Shapes.”  From the opening notes, Cocker lets his words casually fall asunder, delivering lines with the right mix of spoken swagger and melody.  Behind him, the band builds from a couple guitar notes to a moderate stomp to a distorted gospel revival.  By the time he hits the chorus, Cocker sounds like a preacher singing his sermon to his tambourine-tapping congregation.  However, Pulp’s popularity would eventually swell to a point where Cocker wasn’t just preaching to the misfit choir (at least in the UK, where the entire crowd at the Glastonbury festival seemingly knew the words to “Common People”).  His effortless cool and cunning turns of phrase made him a compelling spokesman for the “meek,” and ultimately it was this charm (and a spot-on flair for the dramatic) that made Different Class such a compelling listen, whether you’re misshapen or conventionally pegged.

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

“Good” – Better Than Ezra
(Words/music: Kevin Griffin, available on Deluxe, Elektra 1995)

For people of a certain age (let’s say mid to late 20s), “Good” works like catnip.  On its own, the opening G chord alone miraculously leads to louder stereos.   When mixed with a few drinks, it gets an entire bar of young professionals reminiscing about their high school days.  Throw in closing time, and the same group will sing along whatever words they might remember.  I only say this because I’ve seen it happen a few times; Better Than Ezra were never huge in the 1990s, and “Good” probably doesn’t immediately come to mind when thinking of great songs of that era, yet many still have a soft spot for the song.

To speak of “Good” in sports terminology, it’s a “workman-like” song.  It doesn’t have a killer hook or a distinctive riff, but it accomplishes its objectives in a humble and diligent way.  Even with a standard chord progression, a solid memory, and mostly forgettable lyrics, “Good” manages to make an impression.  Even without a single standout quality, it succeeds because every part of it, for lack of a better word, is good enough.  Where others might try to cram unnecessary instruments or flashy licks into the track, Better Than Ezra wisely stay out of the song’s way, letting it play out without any unnecessary embellishments.  This rings especially true in the chorus, where Kevin Griffin manages to put a few extra syllables into the “it was good living with you” line.  If he tried to say anything more, the hook would lose its ramshackle charm.  Instead, it’s a particular favorite for sing-alongs, either with the lyrics intact or embellished.  It doesn’t really matter, because the moment always ends up being good enough in the end.

More on Better Than Ezra: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“In the Meantime” – Spacehog
(Words/music: Royston Langdon, available on Resident Alien, Elektra 1995)

I realize that when I think about music, I have a bit of a double standard when it comes to vocals and other instrumental parts.  While I’m comfortable (and prone to) citing a bit of instrumentation as being exceptional, whether it’s the main riff or the tiniest backing instrumentation buried deep into the mix.  I even feel fine praising vocalists either for style or melody or any minute detail or intangible.  However, when I single out a vocalist singing something phonetically – something that isn’t words – I feel a little guilty.  It comes back to this idea that songs are both music and words, and that on some level, songwriting is another way of storytelling.  It’s irrational, but I feel like I’m issuing a backhanded compliment when I put the non-verbal vocals over the words that the songwriter (perhaps) spent hours pouring over.

However, in some instances these non-verbal vocals say the right thing; the absence of words puts the emphasis on the melody and, to a lesser degree, the sound of the voice itself.  The first instance of singing in “In the Meantime,” about thirty seconds in, introduces the melody without words, splitting it between Royston Langdon’s vocals and the adjoining guitar fill.  It introduces the melody before the story begins, and for good reason – it’s the song’s strongest asset.  I’m hard pressed to quote more than ten words in the entire song after almost a decade and a half of knowing it, but even just a few notes from that vocal melody will instantly get the song in my head and trigger the corresponding guitar fill.  I say this not to slight the words – I take no issue with the storytelling (and there are a couple other Spacehog songs where I can cite actual lines), but the words take a clear backseat to the melody.  Everything about it – the sequence of notes, the warm tone of the vocals paired with the more pointed, lower sound of the guitar fill – feels perfect, and when Langdon pairs his part of the melody with words later on in the song, I’m still fixated on the melody to the point where it’s near impossible to focus on what he’s saying.  I only feel guilty on that until Langdon hits that first note, and then I’m hooked again.

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

“Shimmy Shimmy Ya” – Ol’ Dirty Bastard
(Words/music: Robert Diggs Jr. and Russell Jones, available on Return to the 36 Chambers, Elektra 1995)

In the world of the Ol’ Dirty Bastard, “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” plays fairly straightforward.  That being said, “straightforward” for the ODB sounds spastic and bizarre to the rest of us.  Once you get past his oddities – his declaration for his preference for “rawness,” for example – “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” follows a fairly straightforward structure.  Behind that relentless piano loop RZA crafts, ODB repeats himself through most of the track.  Unlike some of his more free-associative tracks, “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” gives the impression that Dirt thought about what he wanted to say, specifically a Wu-Tang shout-out, and set out to accomplish it.  It has a hazy, almost drunken feel to it as the beat and the piano seem out of sync – the perfect musical accompaniment to an ODB solo track.

Of course, the charm of an ODB solo cut isn’t the cunning wordplay or the masterful production – it’s the personality behind the rhymes.  Even in a fairly set routine, ODB makes the track feel like it could fall off its hinges at any given moment.  It’s an odd sort of excitement – the way Dirt’s voice rises and falls sounds hypnotic, yet at the same time it sounds inches away from collapsing in on itself.  Dirt’s role in the Wu-Tang Clan was to bring the crazy personality among many skilled lyricists, and “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” finds him flying the freak flag proudly, even if it’s not his strangest moment.

More on Ol’ Dirty Bastard: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Some Might Say (Live on MTV Unplugged)” – Oasis
(Words/music: Noel Gallagher, originally appeared on (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?, Epic 1995)

I fell hard for Oasis in the mid ‘90s, and in many ways they were just as big of a “gateway band” as the others that come to mind first (R.E.M., Nirvana, etc).  Off the top of my head, Oasis led me to Paul Weller (and the Jam), Blur, and the reviews section of Q Magazine.  Like Oasis, Q was fairly mainstream (and kind of trashy), but in the early days of the internet, it was one of the places I went looking for new music when the domestic magazines failed to catch my attention.  I haven’t read Q in years, and that’s probably the same length of time it’s been since I’ve listened to a full Oasis album.  Regardless, the news this week that Noel Gallagher left Oasis prompted two distinct responses.  First, I felt a tinge of sadness – even though we went our separate ways a few years back, I kept tabs on the band the way one might keep tabs on an old flame through Facebook – I wanted to know that they were healthy, happy, and successful with the occasional reminder why we split in the first place.  Secondly, I was surprised that it took this long.

Aside from the feuding (which gave the band that explosive “crash waiting to happen” energy that made things more exciting), Oasis seemed like a one-sided partnership.  Noel Gallagher wrote the songs while Liam Gallagher sang them.  Granted, Noel seized vocals a few times, and Liam had a marginally better voice (and stage presence), but it seemed like this imbalance would make the split an inevitability – Noel would have the better post-Oasis career because he still had the songs.  This is why I’ve always loved this recording of their MTV Unplugged performance.  In this setting, the songs (from the first two albums, plus a couple B-sides) get a horn section and vocals from Noel (who subbed for a “sick” Liam who sat in the balcony and heckled all night).  Maybe it’s the expanded band that’s influencing my opinion, but I don’t really miss Liam’s vocals.  In this setting, “Some Might Say” gets a loftier arrangement that pushes it closer to sounding like an anthem.  This was always Noel Gallagher’s prerogative as a songwriter, as he wrote songs to fill stadiums even when they played clubs.  Liam gave the band stadium-sized stage presence, but Noel’s songs sold the tickets.  Even if he hasn’t matched his early output in years, I’d put my money on Noel as the most successful Gallagher solo project.

(Of course, he could be back in the band in a week.  That’s how these things work.)

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

“Game of Pricks (7” Version)” – Guided by Voices
(Words/music: Robert Pollard, available on Tigerbomb EP, Matador Records 1995)

Tonight, my friend Mike is finishing the accompanying notes to his pseudo-step sister’s eighteenth birthday present - a collection of eighteen albums he wishes he had when he was eighteen.  It’s an inspired idea for a gift (he ran his preliminary list by me a few months ago) and it got me thinking about the kind of things that I wish I knew at eighteen but didn’t know.  This led to the only logical choice – write a gimmick letter to my eighteen year-old self in the spirit of Mike’s gift.  I’m reprinting it here tonight with the hopes that any of you with a Delorian may send this back to me in 2001 (and if you do, tell me to buy Google stock and bet on the Red Sox coming back after Game 3 of the 2004 ALCS).

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

“Molly (Sixteen Candles)” - Sponge
(Words/music: Tim Cross, Mike Cross, Vinnie Dombrowski, Joey Mazzola, Jimmy Paluzzi, available on Rotting Piñata, Work/Sony 1995)

Sponge, in many ways, typified the mid-90s.  They are a band that, to most, blends into the ether of modern rock radio.  Most people couldn’t pick them out of a lineup, let alone describe what distinguishes them from the other bands with moderate success during this era.  Still, you probably know one of their songs even if you never knew their name (or have long forgotten their name), and that’s far more than most bands ever accomplish.  Sponge’s enduring semi-anonymous legacy (and to be fair, there are a dozen different bands that one can substitute in here) isn’t unique to the 1990s – watch one of those Time Life infomercials late at night to see a hoard of performers whose songs have outlasted their personal fame) in a strange way better represents the era than its iconic performers.  We’re quick to latch onto the transcendent bands from any given time period, and with good reason since these bands are the ones who create those rare works of art.  Still, a lot of these bands are beloved because their music goes beyond a specific era, falling into the “timeless” realm.  In that sense, it’s the bands like Sponge – the middle class of the modern rock era – that represent the time period in a more direct and honest way.  Simply put, with egos out of the picture, the focus shifts to the songs.

While “Molly” reaches back to the 1980s with its nod to John Hughes Sixteen Candles, it’s a distinct product of the 1990s.  From the quieter beginning building into the main riff of the song to Vinnie Dombroski’s throaty, sub-Weiland vocals, Sponge sounds like a brighter version of Stone Temple Pilots.  While many of the STP records trudged along, “Molly” leaps out of the speakers in a rush of joyous energy.  In particular, the chugging rhythm guitar keeps the song moving along as much as the drums.  My favorite bit is the bright arpeggiated guitars behind the “don’t ask why” lyric.  This brief, chiming riff mixes well with the long, drawn out backing vocal and this sonic pileup makes the part when the band cuts out even more effective.  Even if the spotlight moved on a long time ago, “Molly” still radiates every time it comes on the radio, and while the members of Sponge might disagree, it doesn’t matter if you can’t remember if it’s a Sponge song or a Refreshments song or whomever.  All that matters is that when “Molly” comes on the radio, the dial doesn’t shift for a few minutes.

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

“Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow (Single Version)” – Frank Zappa
(Words/music: Frank Zappa, available on Strictly Commercial: The Best of Frank Zappa, Rykodisc 1995)

Outside of guitar aficionados (and largely overlapping circle of jam band fans), Frank Zappa’s music garners little attention.  We know him as the guy who wrote those weird songs, or maybe as the guy who gave his kids those odd names, or perhaps as one of the loudest voices opposing censorship in popular music in the 1980s, or as a brilliantly creative mind prematurely silenced by cancer.  I’m guilty of this too, as my knowledge of his music comes filtered through the recommendations and praise of others.

One thing I do find with each listen, whether it’s of a song I already knew or something new to me, is that Zappa’s legacy should be primarily as a musical genius.  The single edit of “Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow” condenses the original four song suite into three and a half minutes, and rather than sounding like a hastily stitched together recording cutting and pasting the best parts of the four individual songs, the single moves adeptly from one phrase into the next.  Yes, the song features Zappa’s goofy, half-spoken singing voice and the scatological humor implied in the title, but underneath this layer Zappa weaves a complex musical arrangement.  Zappa’s band shifts time signatures, styles, and tempos with immeasurable grace and skill; there’s little doubt that Zappa’s arrangements reflect the exact musical concept in his head, and the song turns out like the musical equivalent of a wandering mind, complete with all the sharp turns, bizarre imagery, and lightning flashes of brilliance.  Each musical choice – the soulful backup singers, the sinister guitar, or the momentary stutter in a steady drum beat – fits as well as a carefully chosen staccato phrase in a classical piece, the mode Zappa composed in before his death.  While this may be a low-cultural work lyrically, it’s a work of high creativity and complexity and a brief glimpse into the workings of a weird and brilliant mind.

(And for those of us getting blasted by the snow in the Northeast US today, hopefully Zappa’s advice isn’t a new revelation.)

More on Frank Zappa: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm