Some Songs Considered

“You Are Invited” – The Dismemberment Plan 
(Words/music: The Dismemberment Plan, available on Emergency & I, DeSoto 1999 / Barsuk 2011) 

Part 2 of 2: “No date, no place, no time, no RSVP” 

I usually think about the contrasting sections in this song. Specifically, I think of the way the live band ambushes the programmed beat during the second chorus, only to recede back to the sequencer for the next verse. Recently, I started paying closer attention to the strange sounds that creep in during the end of the second verse. They happen right around the point the narrator goes to the party held by his “ex-thing,” and they’re mixed beneath the fast clicking that runs throughout the entire second beat. Maybe it’s from knowing that the full band waits ready to bust through the chorus, or maybe it’s from the type of tension I’d feel if I went to a party at my ex’s house, but these sounds made the rest of the verse feel nervous. This leads into the cathartic blast of guitar and drums in the verse, but also the relief in the narrative when Ex-Thing repeats the welcoming advice inscribed in the invitation. 

It’s this combination of social awkwardness followed by an immediate, almost superhuman transformation that made me think of Scott Pilgrim, the comics (and movie) about a twenty-something slacker who simultaneously fights video game-style villains and the inner conflicts that plague people in their teens and early twenties. It started with this image of a party combined with an anime-like “power up” triggered by this music, but then the message of optimism and proactivity in the song’s invitation struck me as the kind of thing Scott Pilgrim needed to hear. If nothing else, it was the kind of thing I needed to hear, whether from another human being or even just a random piece of mail, when I went through the mix of heartbreak and uncertainty and parylyzing indecision that Scott Pilgrim encountered in the comics. It’s still nice to hear and even better, as the song’s narrator learns in the final verse, to pass on to those who need it more than you do. 

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

“Back and Forth” – The Dismemberment Plan 
(Words/music: The Dismemberment Plan, available on Emergency & I, DeSoto 1999 / Barsuk 2011) 

PART 1 OF 2: “You’ll always be my hero / even if I never see you again.” 

I saw the Dismemberment Plan for the first time in 2002. I ended up with their final LP Change somewhat serendipitously when it came out and obsessed over it for a good stretch of time (so much that when I listened to it earlier this year in its entirety for the first time in ages, my hands instinctively drummed along to every little nuance out of muscle memory).  I never forgot that show – from the opening local band playing the Replacements’ “Left of the Dial,” to John Vanderslice’s tight supporting set and theatrical drummer – and the kind of spastic glee the Plan induced both on stage and in the crowd in the tiny Providence rock club.  It broke my heart when the band called it quits, and not being able to catch the band’s farewell tour only bummed me out further. 

So when the band came back together for a series of shows supporting the vinyl reissue of Emergency & I, I seized the second chance. I bought tickets months in advance and dug out my Dismemberment Plan records well in advance. The first step, of course, was falling back in love with these songs.  I expected the superhuman rhythm section and hairpin shifts to still catch my ear, but rather than just rely on my old favorites, I felt pulled toward songs that never grasped me the first time around.  In particular, “Back and Forth” bridged the things I knew I loved about this band with the things that I appreciated even more now. I probably fixated on the drumming when I first got the record, but a few months ago I found my attention centered on Travis Morrison’s vocals.  He runs through the lyrics of this song quickly, so rather than decode the entire song at one, I kept grasping onto specific parts.  Each time I listened, a new phrase caught my ear, and I marveled at the way Morrison could play with the sound of words and internal rhymes without sacrificing his storytelling and imagery.  Both the sound of the words and the words themselves worked together to paint this scene if joy and nervous excitement tempered by the reminder that the night would eventually end. This duality of sound and signifiers fits the song’s duality as well – one of the awareness of memory while it’s being created while still enjoying the moment. 

It was appropriate for seeing the band this past January as well.  Like the song’s narrator, I went into the night knowing that no matter how much fun I had (and I had a blast), I didn’t know if I’d ever have another chance to see the band again. Appropriately, they closed their nearly two hour set with this song, and a few days later it sunk in – it didn’t matter if this was the last time (and from the handful of gigs and festival appearances this summer, I’m holding out hope for periodic mini-tours every so often) because I had a hell of a time. Rather than fixate on the band’s absence like last time, I’m treasuring the memory (even months later) of an exceptional gig.

Tomorrow (or the next day or so): Hearing the right thing at the right times. 

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

“Deceptacon” – Le Tigre
(Words/music: Sadie Benning, Johanna Fateman, and Kathleen Hanna, available on Le Tigre, Mr. Lady 1999)

Rock music thrives on repetition to the point that much of the terminology relates to how certain elements repeat.  “Groove” describes the repetition of a rhythm (or in more complex cases the stressed parts of the measure) and “riff” describes a repeated instrumental figure.  Then there’s the verse/chorus/bridge/coda “road map” that indicates when certain harmonies and chord changes return.  Even the term “hook” refers to a melody that repeats and therefore “hooks” the listener back into the song.  While variety has a role (fans of improvisation can exhale), repetition anchors the music more than we often realize.

Targeting in to the repetition in “Deceptacon” feels natural.  Whether keying on the dance rhythms, the garage rock riff, or Kathleen Hanna’s do-wop quotes, many parts of the song return several times over the track’s three minutes.  However, a less obvious repetition flows through the rest of Hanna’s lyrics.  While she sometimes repeats lines and phrases, Hanna repeats certain words scattered through a couple lines.  For example, at the end of the second verse, Hanna uses “want” three times in a single line (“You want what you want but you don’t want to be”).  She does this with “I’m” in the first verse and, to a lesser extent, “walk” in the third verse (not to mention the constant peppering of “you” and “your”).  It gives her vocals, already aggressively delivered, and added rhythmic edge – the “want” line in verse two in particular creates a polyrhythm with the rest of the track.  Hanna also uses rhyme (particularly internal rhymes rather than end of line “couplet” rhymes) to create this rhythmic disruption, but it’s her repeated words that cut right to the song’s rhythmic core. 

More on Le Tigre: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Come Back from San Francisco” – The Magnetic Fields
(Words/music: Stephin Merritt, available on 69 Love Songs, Merge 1999)

As lovely as Shirley Simms sounds here (and good lord, does she have a beautiful voice), the electric guitar strikes me every time.  Whether it’s the melody or the bass notes, the strings resonate with a rich tone and just enough reverb.  I find guitar sounds incredibly fascinating – and sometimes more fascinating than technique (which probably explains why I’ve spent more time playing around with the knobs on my guitar than getting any better at playing it).  When the sound and technique dovetail and complement each other, I tip my hat out of respect.  In “Come Back from San Francisco,” the electric guitar acts as the song’s skeleton, holding together the different vocal lines and giving Simms’ lead vocal somewhere to rest.  The melody, when coupled with the finger-picked bass notes and ringing just long enough, balancing the heartbreak and hope in Merritt’s lyrics.

Like Merritt’s finest lyrics, “Come Back to San Francisco” navigates through sweetness, humor, love, and heartbreak.  A few lines always make me smirk, particularly the “kiss me, I quit smoking” declaration that only a non-smoker could love.  I’m always fascinated by the first simile in the chorus: “You need me like the wind needs the trees to blow in.”  I’m drawn into the elusiveness of the image; I read it different ways depending on my mood.  It could be the recognition that the two need a little friction in their relationship to get by.  At other times, it’s a statement of dependence – after all, one can’t tell if it’s windy outside unless the branches of a tree are moving around, giving the otherwise invisible wind visibility.  Still, it might just be designed to evoke the simple, peaceful image of a breezy spring day.  Either way, it’s the link that matters most, even if it means late night, transcontinental phone calls until the lease runs out.

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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright” – Mike Ness
(Words/music: Bob Dylan, available on Cheating at Solitaire, Time Bomb / Epitaph 1999)

We’re very quick to declare sacrilege when discussing music, but we forget that we all started somewhere.  I try my best not to get angry about ignorance (now ignorance that tries to pass itself off as wisdom, that’s another story) when talking about music, but it’s hard not to think of Jack Black in that scene in High Fidelity where he’s laying into a customer for gaps in his record collection (“that is perverse – don’t tell anyone you don’t own fucking Blonde on Blonde”).  Still, I remember times as a teenager eager to explore the entire history of recorded music and not knowing where to start.  Thus, a familiar scenario: I knew who Bob Dylan was, I knew a few of his songs from the radio, but I didn’t own a Bob Dylan album.  It’s hard to imagine this in the instant gratification internet age, where almost any song is a Youtube link or Bit Torrent download away, but I felt kind of overwhelmed and didn’t really know where to start.  Sure, Allmusic was an incredible resource, but I still couldn’t find an album worth putting down $15 of money from watching my neighbors or squirreled away from a holiday.  With plenty of other records in my expanding catalog, I let Dylan fall through the cracks.

I can summarize my early years as a music fan fairly well by noting that Social Distortion was on my radar more than Bob Dylan.  When Mike Ness covered “Don’t Think Twice” on his solo album, it was one of the first times I came across one of the non-classic rock radio Dylan songs.  Naturally, I took to it almost immediately – it’s an excellent song and even to this day (I rediscovered Cheating at Solitaire a little while ago and immediately went to this track) Ness’ take on it makes sense.  He turns Dylan’s subdued fingerpicking into a rockabilly romp, but it still stays true to the seething undercurrent in Dylan’s song – one where he wants an amicable split yet the wounds still feel a little too fresh.  Maybe because this was my first experience of falling in love with a Bob Dylan song, I’m naturally drawn to the more pointed pieces in his catalog (“Positively 4th Street” perhaps being my favorite), and until tonight I never really considered Ness’ cover the reason why.  At least it’s a fairly tangible thread in his catalog (especially after he “went electric”), and even if it took me a little while to come around to all of the different sides of his personality, I had to start somewhere.  Without Mike Ness’ album, it would have happened a lot later.

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