Some Songs Considered

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

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

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

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

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

“The New Pollution” – Beck
(Words/music: Beck Hansen, John King, and Michael Simpson, available on Odelay, DGC 1996)

“The New Pollution” isn’t the oddest song on Odelay, as there are moments where Beck and the Dust Brothers go further off the deep end.  In fact, relatively speaking at least, “The New Pollution” passes for a straightforward song on this album.  Buoyed by a guitar riff fit for a spy movie, a saxophone and vintage organ trade off solos.  Beck stays low in his vocal range, making it not quite as soulful as he’d sound on Midnight Vultures, but certainly nudging the track toward “crooning,” at least by his standards.

Of course, “by Beck’s standards” is the key phrase here, as “The New Pollution” certainly has its weird bends.  Beck’s narrative seems straightforward, focusing on a modern woman “alone in the ‘new pollution’,” but it’s his choice of images that feels odd.  Specifically, it’s the way that Beck juxtaposes – “lily white cavity crazes” and “paradise camouflage” among others – that undercuts both the beauty and ugliness of these images.  Then there are the odd lines – “carburetor tied to the moon” immediately stands out – that I won’t even begin to parse.  Even the music has this oddly warped quality to it – whether it’s the drum beat that sounds similar to the “Tomorrow Never Knows” beat suggesting a mind-expanding quality or just the eerily gleeful opening complete with sound effects.  Whatever it is, Beck subverts the relatively straightforward groove by melting some of the edges and letting them drip onto itself. 

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

“Sucked Out” – Superdrag
(Words/music: John Davis, available on Regretfully Yours, Elektra 1996) 

Sitting there right next to the not-so-subtle critique of the mainstream music hype cycle (and think of how much quicker it’s become since then!) is a self-conscious awareness.  Superdrag never matched the popularity of “Sucked Out” yet seemed to know their fate from the song’s first line.  Off the top of my head, I can’t think of any other one-hit-wonder about being a one-hit-wonder, but here’s Superdrag asking what would become of them after their fifteen minutes ticked away (for the record: they made a few more albums (only one more on a major label) and John Davis became born again).

And in there, with the overt commentary and acute self-awareness, is a moment of sheer joy.  When it comes time for the hook, the rest of the band backs off and Davis unleashes the song’s signature line in a visceral scream.  Even if the question gets to the heart of his complaint – the industry lacks soul, essentially – and hits a little close to home for a band who would exit the spotlight as quickly as they entered it, it’s a moment of unbridled joy.  Just take it for a ride; when it gets to the hook, sing along at the top of your lungs.  When done right, it’s neither self-conscious nor cynical (and yes, it garners odd looks from the people in the next lane, especially in the summer when the windows are open).  Ultimately, this is why the song still sounds fun – not because it’s still prescient, not because it’s self-aware, but because for a few seconds, it reduces otherwise sane people into screaming messes.

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

“Misunderstood” – Wilco
(Words/music: Jeff Tweedy and Peter Laughner, available on Being There, Reprise 1996)

When we start to frame this decade in music, particularly after we have some distance from it, Wilco’s narrative will be one that will represent the decade in many ways.  At the turn of the century, Wilco was a quirky band caught between the “power pop” and “alt-country” genre sections at the local record store.  By the end of the decade, the record store is on its last legs and Wilco stands as widely respected, alternative “powerhouse” teetering on the mainstream.  In the years between, Wilco was the underdog screwed over by major label restructuring, the phoenix reborn as a mix of experimentalism and traditionalism, a band struck with personal and interpersonal strife, and a growing reputation as a live juggernaut.  While it’s a bit of a generalization, Jeff Tweedy went from virtual obscurity to cult worship to voice of the indie establishment.  This, of course, is only the tip of the iceberg, as Wilco lends itself to a discussion of the changing technology in the music industry (form streaming Yankee Hotel Foxtrot without a label contract to all of the bonus materials offered with each record and DVD), the gentrification of indie rock, and the formation of a new blueprint for success outside of the mainstream.

All of this to say that the past decade will ultimately be known as the decade that Wilco got weird and got popular.  Like most thumbnail sketches, it’s reductionist logic, but in this case it’s neglecting a significant part of the band’s catalog.  Wilco’s “weirdness,” for lack of a better word, goes through 1999’s subtly dark Summerteeth and (at least) back to “Misunderstood.”  On Being There, an album that generally stays close to its country and blues-rock roots, “Misunderstood” provides a strange introduction.  The guitars sound watery at times, gnarled at other points, and fuzzed out when neither of those descriptors fit.  Amidst this haze of guitar, Jeff Tweedy sits at the center of it.  With all the chaos around him, Tweedy alternates between G and D chords, quotes an obscure Midwestern punk band, and tosses off lyrics of suburban frustration, paranoia, and existential angst.  Five years later, Tweedy would be lauded for an album full of weird sounds, tales of broken communication, and a darkly melodic streak.  However, in 1996, “Misunderstood” was the first harbinger, both of Tweedy’s potential as songwriter and of the internal demons that nearly silenced his pen.  In 2009, after their most straightforward record since, well, Being There, it’s easy to peg Tweedy and his band as complacent, but hearing the way Tweedy still barks out the final line in “Misunderstood,” especially when he hangs on “nothing” like a broken record, that the same creative mind that brought the spotlight in the early part of the decade was always there.  If nothing else, tracing Wilco’s past only suggests that many turns remain in their path before Tweedy becomes entirely understood.  I’m excited to see what story he writes this decade.

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

“Half Right” – Heatmiser
(Words/music: Elliott Smith, available on Mic City Sons, Caroline Records 1996) 

Until Elliott Smith’s New Moon collection came out a couple years ago, I only knew this version of “Half Right” (or “Not Half Right,” depending on who you consult).  In interviews after Heatmiser broke up, Smith distanced himself from the band’s louder sound, but “Half Right” fits in aesthetically with Smith’s material around the same time period.  Perhaps it’s softer arrangement relegated it to the very end of the album.  In any case, this more restrained arrangement complements Smith’s song without crushing it.  The drums play crisply without getting too heavy (although the bass drum makes its presence known).  When coupled with the bass guitar, the drums give the song depth rather than muscle, making the tune feel fully formed.  Of course, many of Smith’s compositions thrive with just voice and guitar, but “Half Right” benefits from the additional musicians, particularly when the band cuts out before the final verse.  This light dramatic touch, when combined with the haunting harmonies and double-tracking in the second and third verses, gives the song a broader feeling beyond the basic arrangement.  While Smith is better known for his darkly confessional lyrics (and “Half Right” will do little to change that), he became a gifted arranger as well, particularly on his underrated Dreamworks-era albums.  The arrangement in “Half Right” does exactly what it needs to do – specifically, complement the hypnotically beautiful melody in the song without crushing it.

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

“Setting Sun” – The Chemical Brothers with Noel Gallagher
(Words/music: Noel Gallagher, Tom Rowlands, and Ed Simons, available on Dig Your Own Hole, Astralwerks 1996)

Even Oasis apologists won’t deny the Gallagher brothers’ overt Beatles’ emulations, and if they lifted a few moves from the Beatles, then Noel certainly took notes on “Tomorrow Never Knows” before making “Setting Sun” with the Chemical Brothers.  The Beatles’ track stands as one of the band’s most experimental moments, including the birth of automatic doubletracking, alternate vocal amplification methods, and a backwards, pitch-shifted guitar solo among others (Wikipedia’s entry on the song goes into future detail for you gearheads).  Gallagher and the Chemical Brothers used a lot of these techniques for similar effects.  They even use a dramatically similar beat as the basis of “Setting Sun.”

Even with shared pieces, the final puzzles differ in both tone and purpose.  The Beatles track, largely composed by John Lennon (McCartney brought the tape loops and Ringo accidentally titled it), grew out of an experience with LSD and draws on the “mind expanding” qualities the drug purportedly offers.  It’s somewhere between a hallucination and a meditation.  Conversely, “Setting Sun” attacks intensely with the abrupt shifts and jarring sounds.  Perhaps it’s an easy association, but hallucinogenics in the 1990s were often associated with these intense, rave-like situations rather than the meditative, mind-expanding experiments in the 1960s.  Appropriately, Gallagher’s lyrics flirt with danger and seduction, as they could either be a vague come-on to someone in a dance club or merely a flirtation with some kind of social taboo.  Either way, it offered Gallagher the opportunity to create something more intense than his day job while also offering the Chemical Brothers the opportunity to align their big beat sound with a historical musical thread.

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

“No Excuses (Live)” – Alice in Chains
(Words/music: Jerry Cantrell, available on MTV Unplugged, Columbia 1996)

I’m fascinated by bands that play against type – specifically, when a band makes the deliberate choice to step outside their bread and butter and try something different.  Saying that Alice in Chains completely played against type by appearing on MTV Unplugged, but it meant revealing their strengths explicitly.  Where many of their songs, especially on their early albums, hid behind murky grunge-era production aesthetics, the arrangements on Unplugged pushed Jerry Cantrell’s songwriting into the spotlight.  Sure, Nirvana did it first, but it’s hard to imagine some of Alice in Chains’ other peers (Soundgarden comes to mind immediately) making an Unplugged appearance work this well.  In particular, Cantrell’s nimbler, quicker songs fit this arrangement as well, giving room for all of the instruments to mingle rather than mire together in feedback.

“No Excuses,” perhaps the brightest Alice in Chains song both in melody and demeanor, benefits the most from this reinvention.  Even in the murkiest songs, Cantrell’s harmonizing vocals provided a foil to Layne Staley’s more eccentric lead vocals.  On “No Excuses,” Staley puts aside his snarl and sings along with Cantrell, letting Sean Kinney’s drums fills nimbly dance around their long phrases.  It’s Kinney’s drums and the overtly melodic solo Cantrell plays during the song’s bridge that stand out in the song; if dark, brooding songs were Alice and Chains’ “type,” this plays against type.  Still, it’s unmistakably an Alice in Chains song (particularly for Staley’s distinctive vocals and Cantrell’s trademark harmonies), even if it’s the sun to “Man in the Box’s” lurking shadows.

More on Alice in Chains: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“People of the Sun” – Rage Against the Machine
(Words: Zack de la Rocha, music: Rage Against the Machine, available on Evil Empire, Epic 1996)

Rage Against the Machine’s music will always find a place with those who connect with the primal energy in their sound and the anger in Zack de la Rocha’s voice.  Some might argue that these people miss the point, but that’s alright.  Yes, de la Rocha’s lyrics are more than just angry rants against those who piss him off, but that’s not the reason that most of his fans came to him.  If Rage’s draw was extremely far-left politics (much further left than this liberal at least), their audience might be a fraction of what they had.  Instead, their aggressive sound gave de la Rocha the audience to share his message and educate the masses about his interests.  It seems like he (and his bandmates) understand that they need the soapbox before they can start speaking.  Even if much of their crowd cared more for the “rage” rather than knowing who/what the “machine” was, many more people heard the band’s message than the people passing out the Communist newsletter on the corner of city streets.

Regardless, Tom Morello always interested me the most; specifically, I marveled at the wide range of sounds he coaxed out of his guitar, making it howl and wail in an entirely unique way.  “People of the Sun” seems like one of Morello’s tamer moments, but only because he locks into a groove early on.  The rhythm section lays down a solid beat and Morello makes his six strings sing like some sort of rare beast.  His tone articulated the same seething anger de la Rocha channeled in his lyrics, placing the Zapatista rebels in a variety of historical contexts (Wikipedia will provide a better history lesson than I can in this space).  Not to slight the rhythm section at all (who else could lay it down like that?), but de la Rocha’s verbal assault and Morello’s innovation set Rage Against the Machine apart from their contemporaries.  While bands that honed in on the angry part of their rap-rock hybrid ended up like Limp Bizkit, Rage Against the Machine produced numerous tracks like “People of the Sun” that could satiate the gear heads, fist pumpers, and revolutionaries at the same time.  No wonder so many people still love them.

More on Rage Against the Machine: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Mabel” - Goldfinger
(Words/music: John Feldmann, Charlie Paulson, Simon Williams, available on Goldfinger, Universal 1996)

“Sense of humor” is a funny term.  On one hand, it suggests that the person being described – usually a potential friend or date – can recognize and appreciate a joke rather than being offended.  We tend to load the term with far more than just that – having a “sense of humor” often means “finding the same things – and most importantly, me – funny.”  Guessing someone’s sense of humor becomes a sort of game, and so many of us put a disproportionate amount of stock into something that, at best, we can guess at.  Then again, some people claim that sense of humor is something that you can make a quick judgment about – you either have one or you don’t. 

Either way, there was a time in my musical development where “sense of humor” provided a major bonus.  I liked “serious” bands, but bands that were kind of goofy or made references to funny things strangely gained a little more of my attention.  Appropriately, the following phase went in the exact opposite direction – I seemed drawn to very serious bands making “serious art,” certainly spurred on by the glut of “silly” bands I listened to in my teenage years.  I’ve since settled somewhere in the middle – I like my music to have fun when it wants to be fun and dig deeper when it deserves to.  But while humor scored extra points in my book, Goldfinger found a place in my discman.  I have vivid memories of my friend Scott picking me up and blasting this album.  I listened to a lot of this late ’90s skate punk during that time and even though I’ve never skateboarded, this music always struck me as fun, so when Goldfinger injected some silliness into their music.  “Mabel” stands out in particular – it’s a tale of heartbreak and unrequited love filled with goofy rhymes, some absurd imagery, and even a dick joke.  When it’s explained like that, it sounds entirely unappealing, but listening to Goldfinger sing the song (especially as a teenager), they had an odd sort of magnetic charm based on the amount of fun they seemed to have playing music.  Since music was one of my major recreational activities, it makes sense that a band clearly having fun (even on a “sad” song) would be something I’d like.  Goldfinger songs still appear on my iPod from time to time, and they are a welcome reminder of times when a Saturday afternoon drive to Taco Bell was the most important event in my world.

“Virtual Insanity” – Jamiroquai
(Words/music: Jay Kay and  Toby Smith, available on Travelling Without Moving, Work / Sony 1996)

Maybe I’m permanently influenced by the video for the song, but “Virtual Insanity” feels restrained and claustrophobic.  It opens with the ticking sound of the hi-hat and the basic piano chords, and when the bass and snare drums kick in, it feels like the song should spring into motion.  However, it just doesn’t seem to move at full speed.  It’s not that the band sleepwalks through it – it feels like Jay Kay deliberately holds back the reins for most of the song.  It ends up working for most of the song, largely because of its sound structure – specifically the wonderful piano chords.  It kind of sounds like the world’s best karaoke backing track, and Jay Kay sings in a technically sound voice.  Still, it sounds like he’s trying to let the song be the star by staying out of the way while the music does the same thing.  It would be fine if he eventually seizes control, perhaps in the bridge near the end of the song.  Instead, the whole thing comes up short for me.  It’s a good song with a lot of things going for it –a pretty solid melody, a strong hook, and a great backing track – but it seems wasted without the right performance. 

Then again, perhaps the plan all along was to make the video the true star.  The song has just enough bounce in it to set up the weird visual tricks and nimble dance moves.  For most of us (in America at least), we know Jamiroquai through two iconic dance scenes – the “Canned Heat” dance at the end of Napoleon Dynamite and the video for “Virtual Insanity.”  While “Virtual Insanity” would get only a fraction of the TV airtime it received in the mid 1990s today, it would probably get millions of YouTube views in 2009.

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

“Tripping Billies” – Dave Matthews Band
(Words/music: Dave Matthews, available on Crash, RCA Records 1996)

A few weeks ago, I finished reading Into the Wild, and near the end author Jon Krakauer raises an interesting question.  He wonders why Chris McCandless’s fatal journey in the Alaskan wilderness upset so many people.  After writing an article about McCandless in an issue of Outdoor magazine, Krakauer received an influx of letters, many calling McCandless foolish for taking on such a journey.  While many made valid points (specifically that McCandless was underprepared for his endeavor), Krakauer wonders why these people – including experienced adventurers, native Alaskans, and pure amateurs – became so upset with his story.  The easy answer suggests that it’s the same thing that intrigued so many people (Krakauer included), but that’s not what this post is about.  This notion of becoming hypercritical of others’ choices when they have little to no bearing on our own lives struck a chord with me, prompting me to rephrase his question:

I wonder why many people, myself included, get upset about the musical decisions others make.

I used to be much worse about this when I was younger;  I would get incredibly upset when friends of mine, even friends who I knew had different taste, liked (or worse, proclaimed love for) something that I deemed “awful.”  Now, I try to take the stance that if someone gets enjoyment out of something and it doesn’t harm others, then who am I to deride them (sometimes known as the Sheryl Crow Corollary)? Maybe it’s the impetuousness of youth or the dire need to define myself as distinct from them (i.e. “hating the same things” as a common interest), but I think that many of us are hard wired to make these kind of value judgments.

There are plenty of different possible explanations – wanting to introduce friends to new music, caring far too much about pop culture, trying to share common ground with a friend, etc – and I started to list a few as bullet points before realizing that the list is unique to each of us (and sometimes, each situation).  We’ve all had moments where we get upset with a preference – whether it’s a friend’s CD collection, an award “snub,” or a trip across the FM dial – and by taking a step back, it seems kind of silly.  Maybe I’ve lost some of my youthful vitriol, but I look back at some of my younger, angrier moments (some of which, no doubt, are archived on blogs I’ve forgotten about) and feel foolish.

So, in the spirit of coming clean, we come to the Dave Matthews Band.  This is a band that, to put it politely, I have mixed feelings about.  First, I think there are a handful of excellent, fun songs in Mr. Matthews’ catalog, with “Tripping Billies” near the top.  I also can’t stand the Dave Matthews Band mostly due to experiences with some particularly awful “fans.” For every fan that earnestly loves these songs and lives for their concerts, I knew ten people who saw DMB shows as an excuse to get trashed in a parking lot (sounds like a good time, eh?).  Combine these punters with my general apathy towards most of the band’s catalog, and I began to actively hate the Dave Matthews Band every time I heard it playing from a car radio.  Thus, it became convenient shorthand to gauge a new college acquaintance based on his or her feelings about this ubiquitous college band – it was more fun to bond with the people who hated the Dave Matthews Band than to listen to another vapid classmate talk about how deep “Crash Into Me” was.

So, today I wish to apologize by paying this song its due.  It’s not fair to judge a band by its fans – there are plenty of assholes who like a lot of the same bands I like, they’re just easier to ignore because there aren’t as many of them.  I’ve been out of college long enough to start enjoying these songs again, and a lot of them are fun and catchy and impeccably performed (the drummer in me tips my hat to Carter Beauford every time).  Listening to it now that I don’t hear it eminating from dorm rooms every couple of hours, I can marvel at the tight arrangement and the goofy way Matthews sings.  Even if I don’t understand the hyperfandom I encountered from so many, I understand why this band makes people happy, and that’s good enough for me.  Perhaps I’m misanthropic, but if I could see the Dave Matthews Band in a near empty room, I’d probably have a great time.

More on Dave Matthews Band: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Eddie Vedder” – Local H
(Words/music: Local H, available on As Good as Dead, Island 1996)

Both in sound and spirit, Local H typifies the “modern rock radio” era of American alternative rock.  Sonically, the band squeezed as much sound as possible out of the guitar and drums duo.  By adding bass pickups to his six string, Scott Lucas created a dense and heavy guitar sound that filled the space between Joe Daniels’ bashing percussion.  Like many of their contemporaries, their songs draw on grunge’s sound, yet Local H have more in common with the slower, Black Sabbath-leaning bands like Alice in Chains and Soundgarden than the more popular sounding bands.  As for their lyrics, Local H played up to the mid-90s “slacker” stereotype, writing songs about suburban frustration and boredom.  There’s a unified front in many of Local H’s songs – Lucas’ words match the tone and feel of the band’s music (or vice-versa, I suppose).  However, Lucas approached his songs with a touch of self-deprecation, arming himself with sarcasm to ward off an entire song built around gloom and doom.

“Eddie Vedder” finds Lucas’ protagonist asking if being the Pearl Jam singer would make him better liked, and it’s hard to tell exactly how he’s using Vedder in the song.  It seems easy to hone in on Lucas’ reference to Vedder the Rock Star, asking if fame and fortune would make him more attractive.  However, by 1996, Vedder was well into his second act as a reclusive personality.  Pearl Jam was between Vitalogy, the last of their insanely popular albums, and No Code, and album that began Pearl Jam’s shift away from their platinum selling sound.  Aside from the Vedder lyric, the song describes the rejection of superficial friends, with Lucas (ham fistedly) declaring that those types of people are “as good as dead.”  Vedder made a similar retreat inward around this time by shunning the spotlight, so maybe Lucas sees that part of himself in Vedder.  Still, it’s hard to hear the lyric and not think of Vedder as one of the giants of the era, and regardless of Vedder’s personality, some people might be more attracted to his celebrity than the protagonist’s bland anonymity.  The song’s “I don’t give a shit” mantra serves two purposes – it’s the slacker’s rally cry and in 1996 this helped bring Local H to the radio.  I still can’t help but think of it as a statement of personal resolve as well – Local H’s declaration to “be themselves” rather than try to make a Pearl Jam record.   The band continues on, still plugging away with their same sound, refusing to be Eddie Vedder, or (in the ensuing years) Fred Durst, Jack White, or Brandon Flowers.  They may not be as popular as these men (or as they were in Durst’s case), but as Lucas keeps insisting – they don’t care.

More on Local H: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“2-Tone Army” – The Toasters
(Words/music: Rob Hingley, available on Hard Band for Dead, Moon Ska Records 1996)

As a teenager discovering punk rock in the 1990s, ska music was unavoidable.  Too many factors put ska in front of me - friends kept playing records by Goldfinger and The Mighty Mighty Bosstones every time they picked me up and my musician friends gravitated toward any record with a horn section, especially if those records had a bit of edge to them.  The “third wave” of ska (the one mixed with skate-punk, for lack of a better term), seemed catered to teenagers of my generation – it was fast, fun, and rebellious enough – and while I never became as obsessed as some of my friends, I enjoyed my share of it.  Even thinking about the first Reel Big Fish album brings me back to the time when I first had my driver’s license, picking up my friends to go hang out somewhere and do nothing.

The Toasters’ “2-Tone Army” styles itself as a rally call for the 90’s ska revival.  “It’s a modern look, but it’s all about roots” seemed to sum it up, as “Bucket” Hingley sings at the end of the first verse, and his song certainly owes a debt to The Specials and The Beat, in particular with his vocal delivery.  The horn section gives the song its hook and its most distinctive melodic phrase, and it makes complete sense to have the song begin with this.  After all, it’s the sound of ska music that entranced so many; people heard the horns and the upbeat music and started paying attention.  Hingley may outline his movement’s philosophical tenants in the song, but I doubt more than a handful still play it because of the “nineties beat on a fifties sound” line, no matter how well it sums up the band’s style.  While ska devotees still follow their bands with unparalleled devotion, ska’s moment in the spotlight came and left as quickly as the song.  Still, it was cool to see bands with more horns players than guitarists (and I wonder if bands like these indirectly inspired some of the current bands doing creative arrangements with brass instruments) and it gave us a handful of fun singles.  Even if most listeners don’t remember The Toasters by name, “2-Tone Army” probably rings a bell, either as the theme to Nickelodeon’s Kablam, or just bringing back fond thoughts of the late 1990s in general.

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

“Me and the Major” – Belle and Sebastian
(Words/music: Stuart Murdoch, available on If You’re Feeling Sinister, Jeepster 1996 & Matador 1999)

While their later albums make Belle and Sebastian sound like a full-forced pop collective, If You’re Feeling Sinister has a solitary feel.  At their inception in 1996, Belle and Sebastian was Stuart Murdoch’s touring band assembled to record and perform the songs he composed.  More than any other album in their catalog, If You’re Feeling Sinister focuses on Murdoch’s wry view of the world, offering beautifully composed (yet stiffly recorded) songs sung with his immaculate and meek voice.  Unlike the most recent Belle and Sebastian records (and the incredible 2006 live recording of If You’re Feeling Sinister available on iTunes), Murdoch’s songs sound small and intimate as a result of its recording.  While many are quick to praise the album while adding a caveat to the quality of the recording, the result puts the emphasis on Murdoch’s voice and words and makes it they type of album best engaged independently.

In this collection of songs, “Me and the Major” stands out primarily because it is a step or two faster than the other songs on the album, save for “Mayfly.”  It’s also the song that emphasizes feeling over story, as Murdoch repeats himself as he tells the story of his protagonist and an older man separated by their ages and experiences. Told exclusively from the perspective of the younger character, Murdoch describes the experience of being judged by someone who takes little time to consider the other perspective.  He gets his jabs in, describing the Major as out of touch and on the verge of mental collapse, and this defensiveness needs the song’s quicker pace and higher energy.  However, that lively harmonica part distinguishes this song from the rest on the album, filling Murdoch’s song with this joyous energy.  As the song progresses, the harmonica grows more prominent, swelling as the protagonist’s indignation for his elder grows.  On the 2006 live recording, “Me and the Major” sounds even more confident as Murdoch and company include a decrescendo in the final verse that gives way to a lively climax.  The original, especially when compared with this version, sounds like an internal monologue – what Murdoch’s protagonist thinks to himself as he sits on the train across from the Major, building up the list of things he’d say when he finally gains the nerve.

More on Belle and Sebastian: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm