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“Pick a Part That’s New” – Stereophonics
(Words/music: Stuart Cable, Kelly Jones, and Richard Jones, available on Performance and Cocktails, V2 1999)

If I stop to think about it, Kelly Jones’ voice bothers me.  He has a gravelly edge to his voice, particularly when he’s approaching the limits of his range, that sounds good on paper.  On record, it’s generally fine too – I like a fair number of Stereophonics songs, so it is far from a dealbreaker, and I’m not sure I’d prefer to hear someone else sing any of them.  So it generally comes down to the off moments where I’m finding my attention drawn to his voice rather than the melody or the lyrics.  I guess, to boil it down, on the good songs it’s a nonissue, on the weaker songs it’s infuriating.

So I was kind of surprised tonight when I found myself focusing on his voice when I heard “Pick a Part That’s New.”  This is one of my favorite Stereophonics singles, largely because of that terrific guitar riff and its generally sunny demeanor.  The only explanation I have for this is that I’ve heard this song so many times that my attention shifted looking for something new.  Earlier on this blog, I’ve suggested that songs that reveal different virtues with repeated listening lead to a rewarding relationship of repeated listening.  In this case, repeated listening brought something unfavorable (or, more than likely, subconsciously overlooked) out front.  I’m confident that “Pick a Part That’s New” and I will get through this rough patch.  I might just need a night or two sleeping on the couch.

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

TAGGED UNDER: stereophonics | 1999 | 1990s | v2 records | odd and somewhat forced metaphor comparing listening relationship to romantic relationship |
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“Atlantic City (Gonna Make a Million Tonight)” – East River Pipe
(Words/music: F.M. Cornog, available on The Gasoline Age, Merge Records 1999)

I won’t try to rehash Fred Cornog’s journey from homeless junkie to reviled pop recluse because others have covered his biography better.  You should go read the feature on Cornog from New York Magazine or the Allmusic entry for East River Pipe (or the recent Merge Records oral history Our Noise), because it’s difficult to separate the biography from the songs, specifically the idea of a guy making these weirdly charming songs with keyboards and drum machines in his bedroom.

The single element that stands out the most to me – more than the nine and a half minutes of running time (although the last minute is mostly just a sound collage), more than the hopefulness in Cornog’s voice – is the way the long keyboard notes and delayed guitar shine in the background like a fluorescent light.  It ends up giving the song “soft lighting” as well – keeping the focus on the dream of becoming a millionaire rather than the impossibility of the feat.  Eventually, I end up losing myself in the reverberations, as the delayed guitar decays into that strange hum of slot machines whirling.  This is the point where Cornog’s dream fades into reality – one where (in my experience, anyway), casinos are far more depressing than those “Vegas, baby!” exclamations might make you think.  For a long stretch of time tonight, every time the song hit the eight minute mark, I went back near the beginning and dropped the cursor, getting lost in that loop again for a few more minutes.

Then I thought of how its creator made this in his bedroom studio.  At that point, I looked around at all the clutter in my bedroom, dropped the cursor back around the two minute mark, and closed my eyes in an attempt to fall back into the sound.

More on East River Pipe: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: east river pipe | f.m. cornog | 1999 | 1990s | merge records | bedroom pop |
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“Race for the Prize (Remix)” – The Flaming Lips
(Words/music: The Flaming Lips, available on The Soft Bulletin, Warner Brothers 1999)

I’m behind on a lot of my reading, so it was only earlier this evening that I read David Peisner’s article on the Flaming Lips in the November issue of Spin Magazine.  Despite an odd personal anecdote to help him frame the piece, I enjoyed reading it.  The one thing that stuck with me the most in the article (with Wayne Coyne’s annual $10,000 duct tape budget coming in a close second) was a quote from Dave Fridmann, the band’s producer.  Fridmann describes his interpretation of the band’s mission.  “The Lips are a beacon of hope for people who want to make a living doing something that is nonprescribed currently in popular music.  What they represent, more than anything else, is freedom.”  Peisner’s piece framed the band as a sort of alternative rock barnstormers who earned fame by building their own circus tent.  In this sense, they have freedom in that they control everything.

In addition to this idea of freedom, and perhaps the more inspiring quality in the band’s music, The Flaming Lips show the power of possibility.  Freedom is terrific, yet too often we feel oppressed by the overwhelming array of choices.  As a band, the Lips pursue every creative whim and, more importantly, follow through on these ideas.  Whether asking a major label to put out a four CD experimental project, starting every show in a giant hamster ball, or tempering dreamy pop music with an absurd streak, the Flaming Lips find success more often than they find failure.

It’s this spirit of adventure and discovery at the heart of “Race for the Prize.”  Wayne Coyne describes a pair of scientists in pursuit of “the good of all mankind.”  Rather than pit these scientists against each other, the way drug companies may speed ahead to patent the next miracle moneymaker, these two men seem on parallel tracks, competing with their own limitations as humans.  Cone depicts these men as the purist examples of competition driving personal excellence – where the competitive spirit motivates them to reach higher and further than the previous day.  Perhaps they fall short, as the chorus reiterates their humanity, yet they never reach rock bottom.  Coyne describes the “prize” as being the “cure” yet doesn’t elaborate on the rationale, whether it’s to find a specific cure, earn a monetary reward, or receive anything tangible at all; instead, the pursuit of good might be the greater prize.  In a way, this connects back to the idea in Peisner’s article – specifically, the notion that the band inspires its crowd.  Perhaps, opening each show with Coyne in his hamster ball, walking on the audience’s hands during “Race for the Prize” is a reminder of the band’s purpose to advance their cause further, in the hopes that one day someone else – perhaps their audience – will walk on their hands and see further than previously possible.

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

TAGGED UNDER: the flaming lips | wayne coyne | dave fridmann | 1999 | 1990s | warner brothers | spin magazine |
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“This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)” – Talking Heads
(Words/music: David Byrne/Chris Frantz/Jerry Harrison/Tina Weymouth, available on Stop Making Sense: Special New Edition, Sire 1999)

First, let’s talk about this “Naïve Melody” business.  From their art school roots up through David Byrne’s dense blog posts, the Talking Heads and their affiliated members (Brian Eno was virtually a studio-only member of this band for a few albums) are known for being intelligent musicans.  So when David Byrne’s first love song (dubbed so by him in the Stop Making Sense self-interview) comes with the word “naïve,” the implication is that it that the Heads had to put aside their genre-bending and challenging sound in order to write a love song.  Even if this was Byrne’s first love song (and I’d disagree, but that’s irrelevant), it may be “naïve” but it certainly isn’t stupid.  If nothing else, writing a simple song takes self-awareness and a little bit of faith to know to get out of its way.

Appropriately, Bryne’s narrator finds happiness in his instincts.  “Home – is where I want to be,” he sings in the first line, and it’s a sentiment that we all share, especially around this time of year.  We spend so much energy trying to find happiness without realizing what we have.  As soon as Byrne’s narrator realizes this – that he’s already home when he’s in the company of the one he loves – the restlessness ceases.  Just as a complicated arrangement might adulterate the “naïve melody” in this song, Byrne’s narrator realizes that he doesn’t have to look in far off places to be happy.  Instead, just like an animal follows its instincts, he trusts his heart and revels in the joy his loved one provides.

Of course, the song (particularly the Stop Making Sense version) isn’t as simple as that.  Letting the melody take the lead is one thing, but the Talking Heads fall into formation behind it, complementing its simplicity without squashing it.  Whether it’s that beautiful synthesizer introduction, the joyously belted vocal harmonies, or the wordless cooing and “hey” Byrne shouts out before the solo near the end of the song, the Heads sound like a band at home, basking in the glow of their song.  It’s not as urgent, oblique, or challenging as most of their work, but these qualities would crush such a delicate song.  The genius of the song is in its simplicity – by stepping outside their normal mode of operating, the band found a way to repurpose its strengths to accomplish a different goal.  It may be a simple melody, but let’s be honest – none of us would have come up with it.

(As postscript, the idea of “home” being what makes someone happy really hits home today.  In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for all the people who make my life feel like “home” everyday, whether they actively try or not.)

More on Talking Heads: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: kthxgiving | talking heads | david byrne | Stop Making Sense | 1984 | 1980s | 1999 | thank you friends | personal reflection |
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“Music Sounds Better With You” – Stardust
(Words/music: Thomas Bangalter, Ben “Diamond” Cohen, Alan “Braxe” Quême, available on Music Sounds Better With You EP, Virgin 1999)

A lot of pop music walks a fine line between being delightful and being annoying. A lot of this is left to personal taste – what is one person’s pop anthem is another person’s signal to leave the room. That being said, some know how to write songs that play to their strengths and others take the strong point and run it into the ground. Finding repetitive music either as an opportunity for revelry or a source of repulsion tends to vary from person to person. Perhaps this is what made Stardust, a one-off collaboration between Daft Punk’s Thomas Bangalter, producer Alan Braxe, and vocalist Ben Diamond, a one-time collaboration. “Music Sounds Better With You,” depending on your taste, either sounds like a perfectly danceable pop gem or a musical thought dragged on too long.

Essentially, “Music Sounds Better With You” loops the same keyboard riff, sound effect, and pulsing beat for the entire song. Ben Diamond sings the same few lines like a lounge singer squeezing as much charisma out of his limited script. The vocals aren’t as droll as that last sentence suggests, but the riff is the make or break portion of the song. Bangalter and company pull out a couple tricks – they fade in, drop the beat, etc – but essentially ride this riff for the entire song. Personally, I see how someone might find the song annoying, particularly the high pitched sound at the end of each bar. However, I end up getting lost in the repetition, occasionally keying in on Diamond’s vocals but generally just nodding my head along to the beat. Even if it’s not the most dynamic song, it gets firmly lodged into my brain, in part because the song threads that keyboard line together at least a hundred times before the track ends. It’s simple enough to withstand the repetitive usage and slips into the subconscious to that place where melodies go only to return at the most random times. It’s also melodic enough to become a welcome guest; while some melodies annoy me, getting part of “Music Sounds Better With You” only sends me clamoring for my iPod.

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

TAGGED UNDER: stardust | thomas bangalter | daft punk | 1999 | 1990s | virgin records |
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“Denise” – Fountains of Wayne
(Words/music: Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger, available on Utopia Parkway, Atlantic 1999)

Fountains of Wayne frontman Adam Schlesinger knows his way around a melody.  In addition to writing songs for his band, Schlesinger produces records, wrote songs for other pop acts, and composed music for Tom Hanks and Stephen Colbert (among others).  Still, it takes more than knowing how to harmonize to write a song that resonates with an audience.  Even the most formulaic hit song needs an intangible element to distinguish itself from the rest of the pack.  Some unique quality, whether it’s a specific stylistic flourish, memorable performance, or quotable lyric, helps the song transcend its formula and catch our ears.

Schlesinger, particularly when writing with his Fountains of Wayne bandmates, knows how to focus in on minute (and often absurd) details.  For instance, “Denise” references a chain of travel agencies, a late 90s hip hop icon, and a lavender colored luxury car.  These references warrant a giggle at first, but ultimately Schlesinger includes them as a way to help create a character.  While others might only name their love interest, “Denise” paints a specific picture.  Every time I listen to the song, I start to construct what this woman might look like, using the details as a starting point.  It’s that engagement as a listener that brings me back to the song repeatedly.  Once I had my vision of “Denise” constructed, I started looking at the ways Schlesinger constructed his Denise.  Specifically, it’s the small touches like the post-chorus keyboard or the punning on her name at the end of the second line that catch my attention now.  While this level of detail sometimes grates on a listener, “Denise” becomes a little more real with each specific fact we learn about her.

More on Fountains of Wayne: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: fountains of wayne | adam schlesinger | 1999 | 1990s | atlantic records | on songwriting |
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“Nothing Much Happens” – Ben Lee
(Words/music: Ben Lee, available on Breathing Tornados, Capitol 1999)

A drum loop starts “Nothing Much Happens,” and for the next three and a half minutes, the same mid-tempo, syncopated rhythm runs underneath the song.  Appropriately, “Nothing Much Happens” flows in a circular way – verse gently shifts into chorus and back into the next verse.  It’s a song about stasis that feels like it’s chasing its own tail.  The chorus line “a lot goes on but nothing happens” describes what it feels like to be in a rut.  It’s the same feeling we have those days where we move non-stop from morning to night only to get on the phone with someone we care about and have nothing to say.  It’s not that we didn’t accomplish anything – it just feels that way.

Some songs rely on a sense of motion, whether it’s through the plot of a story, the pace of the song, or the progression from verse to chorus to bridge to double chorus.  “Nothing Much Happens” spends its energy in orbit, gradually moving yet never far away.  However, while the lyrics describe that experience of being stuck in a daily rut, the song takes advantage of its circular path.  Lee keeps the arrangement light, focusing on the beat, the melody, and a few gentle adornments.  Instead of telling a story, the song focuses on this one idea with a minimal amount of extra details.  Before too long, it comes back to the “hook, and after nearly a dozen repetitions, it burrows its way into your brain.  Even if the song’s lasting effect is those two lines in the chorus repeated, chances are it’s firmly lodged into your brain after a couple listens.  It’s an example of a small task accomplished with a lot of effort.

More on Ben Lee: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: ben lee | 1999 | 1990s | capitol records | caught in the daily grind |
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“Mixed Bizness” – Beck
(Words/music: Beck, available on Midnight Vultures, DGC 1999)

Beck rightfully owns the reputation as a songwriter who can manipulate genres.  Sometimes, I’m skeptical of such a scattershot approach to genre, feeling like it’s eclecticism without a purpose.  In some cases, it feels like pandering to people with different taste at the sake of losing one’s own taste – doing a bunch of things in a mediocre manner rather than becoming skilled at a handful.  Beck’s blurred genres feels like the exact opposite – specifically, his eclecticism reveals his taste and skill as a songwriter.  He manages to utilize fragments from different styles and put them to use to create something that sounds distinctly recognizable.  It’s impossible to mistake a Beck song for anyone else, regardless of the point in his career or the evolution of his sound.  Amazingly, Beck’s used scraps from other genres to cook up a signature dish, and the hoard of imitators (think of the number of bad acoustic guitar/drum machine/half-rapped songs were on the radio in the last decade and a half) only underscores Beck’s uniqueness. 

“Mixed Bizness,” for example, clearly sounds different from the Mellow Gold-era Beck, yet it shares the same spirit as the rest of his catalog.  As with most of his best songs, the joy comes in the details.  Even the stripped down confessional folk on Sea Change felt meticulously arranged.  “Mixed Bizness” shares this same attention to detail, only on a more ridiculous level.  Here, Beck surrounds his basic track with these elastic sounding horns and strange electronic bloops yet never to the point of sensory overload.  He creates this frenzied, almost cartoonish aura the same way he built his slacker persona before or his orchestral folk later on.  In this case, it’s Beck surrounding himself with the sounds that best fit this somewhat goofy, carefree song.  It feels like an overt choice too; Beck’s best songs have a freewheeling quality, and “Mixed Bizness” brings that right to the forefront.

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

TAGGED UNDER: beck | 1999 | 1990s | DGC | the freewheeling beck hansen |
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“Olsen Olsen” - Sigur Rós
(Words/music: Sigur Rós, available on Ágætis Byrjun, Fat Cat 1999 / PIAS America 2000)

Recently, I’ve been thinking about moments I associate with songs.  In many cases, finding a new favorite isn’t about finding the right ingredients but rather the right circumstances.  This is how albums seemingly “reinvent” themselves over time; an album that evoked one set of emotions at one time period might return another time with an entirely new set of associated feelings.  Along with this, often, comes a new set of favorite songs.  It’s not that the songs change (obviously), but rather the listener.  A lot of times, I’ll rediscover a record that went hidden behind mounds of new music only to find something entirely new that I never noticed earlier.  I used to get frustrated when I’d buy an album, listen a couple times, and then abandon it; now, I see these occasions as “buying myself a present for the future,” almost like I bought the record and subconsciously stashed it away for when the time would be right.

I bought Ágætis Byrjun in 2001 and liked it immediately.  It sounded like something that beautiful, angel-throated aliens might sing.  I have vivid memories of my first winter break home from college, running errands for my mom in her mini-van listening to Ágætis Byrjun and Jeff Buckley’s Grace for almost the entire break.  Then, the record drifted to the depths of my giant CD binder, traveling with me back and forth between school and home, occasionally getting played but only sporadically.  Then, last summer while visiting my old college roommate in Chicago, we watched Sigur Rós’s Heima documentary.  While marveling at the beautiful Icelandic countryside, I absorbed all the different performances of their songs.  “Olsen Olsen” was the one that stopped me in my tracks, though.  I was compiling my things in his apartment when that scene started, and the opening crawl immediately struck me.  I started packing slower and slower, watching a crowd gather on the countryside as that beautiful woodwind melody floated in for the first time.  Then, as the film panned across a now complete crowd, “Olsen Olsen” shifted into high gear and I froze in my tracks.  I let the mix of bowed strings – some from a traditional string section, the others from the electric guitars played with a bow, wash over me.  It was the perfect wave of distortion and melody soundtracking a breathtaking scene of rural Iceland at dusk.  It was the precise moment that led me back to Ágætis Byrjun, a record that I often put on late at night when I need to unwind and shift towards bedtime.  I previously had favorites from that album – specifically “Starálfur” - but since that time, “Olsen Olsen” became my favorite (and, over the past 12 months is my most played song on Last.fm, in part from those late night Ágætis Byrjun listening sessions).  All because of a lazy August afternoon in an apartment a few blocks away from Lake Michigan.

More on Sigur Rós: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: sigur ros | 1999 | 1990s | track analysis | moments that recontextualize songs |
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TAGGED UNDER: mike ness | bob dylan | social distortion | 1999 | 1990s | cover song | time bomb records | epitaph |
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“Hey Sandy” – Polaris
(Words/music: Mark Mulcahy, available on Music from the Adventures of Pete & Pete, Mezzotint 1999)

Today’s the beginning of my summer vacation, and one of the things I associate with the vacations of my youth is The Adventures of Pete & Pete.  It’s not that I have specific memories of watching episodes over the summer, but rather that the Petes represented this idea of hope and wonder that fuels summers in our youth.  The kids in Wellsville lived in a Nickelodeon orange tinted version of magic realism – these were very believable, normal kids that lived in a slightly bizarre, slightly implausible world.  This was a world with superheroes and villains and artifacts and extra-terrestrial communication, yet it never seemed an outright fantasy.  Instead, it captured the spirit of youth by harnessing the power of possibility – to kids, anything is possible, and even the smallest endeavors become epic quests.  It’s been a few years since I’ve seen the show (even though it’s on DVD), but it undoubtedly shaped my taste for the absurd and the heartwarming wrapped together.

It’s always been a source of pride that the band who performed the opening theme hailed from Connecticut.  “Hey Sandy,” the show’s theme song, is largely unintelligible, but the parts I can make out (“it’s mighty strange… happily deranged”) fits the show perfectly.  The tone always seemed appropriate, and its odd science film introduction seems fitting for a show that combined equal parts of school age boredom and metaphorical star gazing.  Yesterday on Pitchfork, I noticed an article about a star-studded album of songs all written by the band’s frontman Mark Mulcahy.  Mulcahy’s wife passed away last year and the compilation is a benefit to help him raise his children and continue to play music.  Admittedly, I have only a cursory knowledge of Mulcahy past “Hey Sandy,” but I was struck at the collection of famous friends and admirers gathered to give him a helping hand.  It made me smile the same way that Pete and Pete makes me smile – inspiring me with optimism and giving a small spark of everyday magic.  I can’t wait to hear this compilation.

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

TAGGED UNDER: polaris | mark mulcahy | 1999 | 1990s | nickelodeon | the adventures of pete and pete | mezzotint |
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“Bodyrock” -  Moby
(Words/music: Moby, available on Play, V2 1999)

“Electronica” (or whatever you want to call it) seemed poised to become a major cultural force in the United States in the late 1990s.  While this takeover didn’t happen the way many thought it would, it wasn’t a fruitless endeavor.  Sure, the Chemical Brothers and the Crystal Method (among others) had a fair amount of success, but electronic dance music needed to evolve before its moment in the spotlight.  Two of the biggest successes in America – Fatboy Slim and Moby – bridged a gap between club music and rock music, incorporating surf guitar riffs or icy pianos with big beats and samples.  While Fatboy Slim dabbled as a rock star, he still preferred to stay behind the turntables and out of the spotlight.  Moby, however, embraced the spotlight entirely by the time Play came out.  He even fronted his own band of musicians when performing live.  In 2009, we might just call Moby a “performer” or a “rock star,” but looking back at how popular music has changed in the states over the last decade, he plays a more interesting role.

Listening to something like “Bodyrock” now doesn’t seem that extraordinary, but back in 1999 I’m not sure I had heard something like this.  Sure, Moby wasn’t the first to marry rock music and club rhythms (My Bloody Valentine’s “Soon” does this trick ten times better than “Bodyrock,” and Primal Scream squeezed out an entire album built around this blurred line), but Moby took it further by putting a face on it.  “Bodyrock” feels like a riff heavy rock song, but relies on that persistent beat and tons of repetition (both in the music and the vocal incantation).  Somehow, he’s drawn on his roots as both an electronic musician and hardcore punk nerd and found a middle ground.  It’s maybe not the ideal track for either audience, but “Bodyrock” (and much of Play) was music that many people could like.  For me, it’s this seamless blending of genres that seems significant now.  We take it for granted when a band like Animal Collective put samplers and guitars on the same stage, but it was a long road before these paths converged.  Moby wasn’t the first, and while he did it well, he probably didn’t do it the best (and to be fair, I’m not knowledgeable enough to make that argument either way), but he brought it to the most people.  I’m not sure we’d have our current musical world (for better or worse) – one where recording guitar tracks in Garageband makes sense – without Play.

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

TAGGED UNDER: moby | 1999 | 1990s | track analysis | v2 records |
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“American Music (Live)” – Violent Femmes
(Words/music: Gordon Gano, available on Viva Wisconsin, Beyond 1999)

My brother and I were born about 20 months apart and according to my mom I rarely slept from my birth until my brother arrived.  My eye for revisionist history loves to spin stories out of this childhood fact, specifically honing in on the fact that when my brother arrived, I moved from a crib to a bed.  Whether using this story as justification for my nocturnal habits in high school or joking that my aversion to my crib was a statement about being “caged in,” I’ll joke about this with my mom when I should probably have more sympathy for her spending late nights with her restless child.  I was born a few months after MTV came on the air, so my mom tells me that she would sit up in the rocking chair with me and watch MTV until I fell asleep.  Again, I’m sure I barely paid attention to the videos, instead pondering the meaning of life or whatever else keeps a baby up late at night.  Still, part of me points to this moment as the groundwork for my musical obsession twelve years later, so to a small degree, I owe my mom for this decision.  I know cable was limited in 1983, but if my mom decided to watch HBO or Johnny Carson whatever else was on late at night, this blog might be about movies or comedy instead of music.

In addition to exposing me to the strange videos on MTV in 1983 (perhaps part of the reason I love VH-1 Classic), my mom always encouraged my musical pursuits, whether it meant sitting through grating middle school band concerts or reading my record reviews in my college newspaper.  When I went back to school to get my masters’ degree and picked up a Saturday morning timeslot on the college’s radio station, my mom would occasionally listen to the station’s internet feed.  On the days she’d listen, she’d tell me the songs that she liked and would occasionally ask me to put some of the songs on her iPod shuffle.  Her favorite, at least gauged by the number of times she would mention it, was “American Music.”  Needless to say, it’s a bit stranger than the Neil Diamond songs I helped her download off of iTunes.  While Gordon Gano writes it from the same slightly askew perspective that made his early songs cult classics, “American Music” bounds like a classic pop song and continues in the tradition of songs that celebrate music.  Even if the songs Gano wrote about those that aren’t quite in step with everyone else (and the ones that “remind me of me” in the song), they still capture an essential part of the human experience – the phase where we don’t quite fit in, mired in awkwardness – the kind of phase where only our mothers could love us.  Even if “American Music” came out in 1991, I’d like to think that somewhere in our late nights together we heard a few Violent Femmes videos on MTV and it made those nights a little less frustrating for her.  I suppose the least I could do to thank her is put a couple songs on her iPod for her and walk her through plugging it in every time the battery runs out, even though she knows how to do it.  After all, she introduced me to American music in the first place.

More on Violent Femmes: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: violent femmes | mother's day | college radio | 1999 | 1990s | personal reflection | beyond records |
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“Genius of Love (Stop Making Sense Version)” – Tom Tom Club
(Words/music: Adrian Belew, Chris Frantz, Steven Stanley, Tina Weymouth, available on Talking Heads’ Stop Making Sense: Special New Edition, Warner Brothers 1999)

Like many in my generation, my introduction to “Genius of Love” came through Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy,” one of many songs to sample “Genius of Love” since its release in 1981.  It’s understandable why it’s been sampled so much – Weymouth and Frantz, the Talking Heads’ rhythm section and the main members of the Tom Tom Club, understood the blossoming hip hop culture of the early ‘80s, so it makes sense that they would be open to having their hit sampled.  In addition to its sample-friendly creators, “Genius of Love” has a relentless groove.  The version in the Talking Heads’ Stop Making Sense (essentially the extended Heads lineup minus David Byrne, who left the stage to change into his exaggerated “big suit” for the finale) really accentuates the groove, playing to the strengths of the musicians on stage (some of which played with some of the bands referenced in the song).  I also love Chris Frantz’s turn as the MC, interjecting throughout the track.  I imagine some might prefer the original and find Frantz distracting, but I find him endearing, in particular the way he “directs” the band at the end of the track.

Few would argue with the instrumental performance of “Genius of Love,” but it features a clever lyric in addition to all of the funk/soul/hip hop name dropping.  In fact, it might be the finest song ever written about a music snob.  Tina Weymouth’s narrator describes her infatuation with her music loving boyfriend (who she dubs “the maven of funk mutation” in the verse omitted in the Stop Making Sense version).  Sure, it’s his dancing that sweeps her off her feet, but he’s also quite opinionated about the music he likes, filling her ear with his musical opinions, including the future of reggae (Sly & Robbie) and funk innovators (Bootsy Collins, etc).  The narrator loses herself in his presence, only to have him disappear to the dance floor later in the song.  I hear the final verse as slightly tongue-in-cheek, reacting to her boyfriend ditching her to go dance on his own.  She pointedly reminds him, the “genius,” that if he doesn’t need to think when his feet are going, then he won’t feel hurt when she leaves him.

More on Tom Tom Club: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: tom tom club | tina weymouth | chris frantz | 1981 | 1999 | track analysis | live performance | stop making sense | talking heads | mariah carey |
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“A Sunday” – Jimmy Eat World
(Words/music: Jimmy Eat World, available on Clarity, Capitol Records 1999)

Tonight, Jimmy Eat World, a band I haven’t thought about in a few years, proved two separate things to me.  The first is that they understand how technology, specifically the internet, has created new opportunities for bands.  As a culmination of their “Clarity X 10” tour celebrating the tenth anniversary of their breakthrough album, the band streamed a performance of the six most requested songs from Clarity.  During their performance, Twitter messages with the “#claritylive” tag cycled beneath the video (the band also encouraged fans to tag their tweets the night of each concert as well).  Next to the video performance was a huge button enticing the nearly 2000 viewers (according to the UStream.tv window) to purchase a live recording of Clarity from the anniversary tour.  Advertising for an album is nothing new (see: every band’s MySpace page), but two things jump out about the Clarity live recording; first, it’s exclusively a digital download offered in a variety of formats including MP3, Apple Lossless, FLAC, and WAV.  It’s interesting that the band would offer their fans so many different options (including 4 different lossless formats), but even more remarkable is that the band is (apparently) charging just $9 for any format.  The feedback from the tweets was overwhelmingly positive, and a few shared the same thought I had – more bands should do this.  It’s refreshing to see a band take active steps to engage their fans and offer different ways to interact with them and experience their music.  I also would not be surprised to see Jimmy Eat World sell a lot of copies of their live download simply by maintaining a noticeable, active profile online.

In addition to impressing with their tech savvy, I was pleasantly surprised to hear how sharp Jimmy Eat World sounded playing these songs.  I spent a lot of time listening to Clarity largely because it didn’t sound the same as a lot of the pop punk I was getting into at the time.  These songs were more complex in their instrumentation, structure, and lyrical themes, and it was the kind of thing that I listened to on many cold afternoons while walking around Providence.  Specifically, the part of “A Sunday” where it drops down to just the organ brings me right back to those days.  Listening to the songs during tonight’s Clarity performance (“A Sunday” was not one of the six songs but the Clarity X 10 version is on their MySpace page right now), I’m struck with how adventurous the band sounds.  While many of their later albums (at least the ones that made blips on my radar) streamlined their sound, Clarity was a snapshot of a band willing to take risks as songwriters, and ten years later the band still rewards their fans accordingly.

More on Jimmy Eat World: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: jimmy eat world | 1999 | 1990s | capitol records | track analysis | bands embracing technology | claritylive |
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