Some Songs Considered

“LA” – Elliott Smith
(Words/music: Elliott Smith, available on Figure 8, Dreamworks 2000) 

I’ve never been to Los Angeles, so the mental picture of the city is a patchwork of film scenes, tourist clichés, and other assorted images.  One of these is the album cover of Elliott Smith’s Figure 8 album, where the late singer (decked out in a vintage Los Angeles Summer Olympics t-shirt) stands in front of a swirling mural in the Silver Lake neighborhood of the city.  Smith recorded most of his previous album in Los Angeles, but by the sessions for Figure 8 had relocated to the city, with the references to the city on both the cover and in the album itself, including the song sharing the city’s initials. 

Where most people think of Smith’s music as a “sad guy with a guitar,” Smith’s ambition and chops as a songwriter went well beyond the singer-songwriter mould.  Like much of Figure 8, “LA” features full instrumentation, including a highly melodic lead guitar riff.  It also leans heavily on Smith’s multi-tracked vocals – one of his underrated skills as an arranger.  Smith had a knack for using his voice like a painter; he knew when to blend colors, over-saturate part of a piece, or gently shade to set the tone for the entire work.  On “LA,” Smith’s blending of his own vocals makes it catchier and sunnier as his harmonies bolster his lead vocal and the lead guitar riff as well.  This is the kind of song that fits the LA in my head – one that borrows heavily from an East coaster’s idealized California and its perpetual sunshine.  I know that the actual city has its own clouds, but the LA in my brain remains closer to this idealized concept.

(Also, since this post came as a result of the Lakers’ NBA championship tonight, I present the following tenuous sports connection:  Smith’s later albums, Figure 8 in particular, loosely remind me of Lakers’ forward Pau Gasol.  Both face persistent reputations of “softness,” Gasol in his play from a lackluster 2008 finals appearance and Smith for his hushed early work.  However, both have a deeper toughness and a broader range than often credited.  Neither is the flashiest part of the team (be it the Lakers of Smith’s discography) nor the MVP (Kobe Bryant and Either/Or respectively), but both deserve closer consideration.)

More on Elliott Smith: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Make Me a Mixtape” – The Promise Ring
(Words/music: The Promise Ring, available on Electric Pink EP, Jade Tree 2000) 

Sometimes random shards of memory stick inside far longer than ever expected.  For instance, I remember years ago, probably in 2002, having an instant messenger conversation with my friend Dan that touched on the “perfection of Davey [vonBohlen] from the Promise Ring’s lisp.”  It was a passing point in a conversation long forgotten, but that single moment tucked away deep in my brain and resurfaces whenever the Promise Ring crosses my consciousness.  It’s the quickest way for me to identify a deep cut in their catalogue – I usually cue in on his voice before actively considering the song (or, sometimes the band itself).  In a way, it’s the Promise Ring’s beauty mark – a subtle, humanizing flaw that grows more charming with more time spent in its company. 

At times, it makes vonBohlen sound younger, particularly on “Make Me a Mixtape.”  Maybe I just associate the sentiment in this song with the time spent as a teenager on the floor of my bedroom with my boom box and stacks of records (and not to mention bands like the Promise Ring), but I imagine vonBohlen singing this song from a nostalgic place.  Considering the lyrics tonight for the first time in a long time, I’m struck at the similarities between my mixtape process and the one in this song.  I tend to think of a few songs or bands to serve as tent posts and then fill in the rest with things that work well around those.  I (almost) always accompanied these mixes, whether on tape or CD, with some kind of note or letter as well, generally opting for a track-by-track accompaniment (many of which read like a primitive form of these blog posts).  It makes me want to dig out the blank tapes in the back of my closet, gather a bunch of records, and over-think song transitions until dawn. 

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

“This is Love” – PJ Harvey
(Words/music: PJ Harvey, available on Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea, Island Records 2000) 

PJ Harvey never shied away from difficult subjects in her lyrics, but rarely is she as blunt as she is on “This is Love.”  Where she may approach a subject obliquely, Harvey lays out her thesis within the first two lines: specifically, how can this world be so confusing when my lust is so clear?  The song isn’t sensationalized – instead, it’s simplified down to its instincts.  It manages to capture the way love (or lust, or something in between) causes tunnel vision without being flowery or dopey.  Instead, Harvey asks the sort of questions rarely asked in these situations.  The human brain can process many things, but I’m sure few, if any, might simultaneously process worldwide suffering and the taste of a lover at the same time.  The song turns slightly at the end when Harvey’s narrator recognizes this tendency – when her mind is on someone else, it isn’t on the things that make her heart break, so her unasked questions become a plea for her lover to join her “to keep the walls from falling as they’re tumbling in.” 

The thick guitar riff underscores the lust in Harvey’s lyrics.  It’s slightly distorted sound fills out the arrangement yet while bludgeoning its audience.  It is as direct as Harvey’s lyrics, and its repetition throughout most of the song coincides with the repetition within the lyrics.  It also brings out the more powerful side of Harvey’s vocals, driving her voice to fill out as much space as the guitar’s dense tone.  Where it might drown out another vocalist, Harvey summons enough to make her voice shine through.

More on PJ Harvey: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“One More Time” – Daft Punk f/ Romanthony
(Words/music: Thomas Bangalter, Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo, and Anthony Moore, available on Discovery, Virgin Records 2000) 

Even if its creators make themselves up to look like robots, even if the lead vocal clips and bends from computer manipulations, and even if the beat loops in a way that only technology could allow, the core of “One More Time” remains distinctly human.  Whether it’s the emotional ups and downs in the arrangement, the focus on the visceral and distinctly human response to music, or even the way that the track sounds like a tight soul band behind the digital curtain, the human heart outshines the mechanical components.  Here, the robots are at the service of the humans on the dance floor, pumping in the music that will fuel the celebration.  (For what it’s worth, Tom Ewing does an excellent job describing this song, particularly the breathy vocal delivery, in the Pitchfork 500 book, so I’ll direct you to that rather than retread that analysis (EDIT: Thanks for the link, Tom!)).

While we’re celebrating the end of the year (or, for many, the beginning of a new one), I’m celebrating a year of writing.  Even on the most uninspired and lethargic days, I managed to write something and I have the people who read this blog to thank.  I never expected anyone aside from a few friends to read this blog, and I’m flattered by every person who subscribes, reblogs, comments, tweets, or links to this blog.  I’m humbled every time someone takes a few minutes to read something I wrote and even more when they take the time to write back or share it with someone else.  Without all of you, I couldn’t have stuck with this blog, let alone tried to write about someone different every day. 

So thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this year.  I’ll be more specific tomorrow with the thank yous and my plans for 2010, but you are the reason that I’m going to keep writing.

More on Daft Punk: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“So Fresh, So Clean” – Outkast
(Words/music: André Benjamin, Antwan Patton, and David Sheats, available on Stankonia, LaFace 2000) 

At the end of the track, Andre 3000 declares himself and Big Boi as “the coolest motherfunkers on the planet,” and nearly a decade later, it’s hard to argue against.  “So Fresh, So Clean” in particular gives off an air of effortless cool, from the light ticking of the hi-hat to the restrained wah-wah guitar gently giving the right touch of funk.  Even the pairing of Sleepy Jackson’s smooth hook vocals with a deep low harmony gives the track the perfect laid back vibe for Dre and Boi to do their cool thing.

They do hit the major requirements for the hip-hop slow jam – they name drop soul singers, boast about their swagger, and vividly detail what they would like to do to their lady friends.  Of course, Outkast’s brand of “cool” isn’t standard issue – Big Boi drops references to patty melts and milkshakes in the midst of name-checking classic soul singers and later promises to “lick you like a lizard when I’m slizzard.”  Andre 3000 starts by complimenting his baby’s big eyes immediately followed by the declaration that she’s “malnutritioned.”  This leads up to his plea for her to stop being shy by calling her “so Anne Frank.”  In the hands of virtually any other MC, these lines are creepy at best and laughable at worst; however, Outkast made a career out of their surreally tinted world view.  Ultimately, it’s a tribute to their coolness – only a group with enough confidence to openly indulge in these unfiltered free associations could even dream of delivering them with any success.  After all, confidence is contagious, and if Outkast is sick, I hope they never get well.

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

“Pump It Up” – Mudhoney
(Words/music: Elvis Costello, available on March to Fuzz, Sub Pop 2000)

I’ve had two relatively short, strictly recreational stints in garage bands.  The first happened in high school, playing with a couple guys who wrote songs before I even was in the picture.  The second happened during summer vacation during college with some friends who wanted to play songs that we loved.  With these two bands, I played a total of one gig – a barbeque as an excuse for our band to play the five or six songs we knew.  However, as soon as I started listening to records and playing the drums, I started thinking about the kinds of bands I wanted to be in.  I still, from time to time, find myself listening to a song and thinking “I want to be in a band that sounds like this.”  Of course, the next song starts and I still haven’t picked up one of my dormant instruments.

Regardless, Mudhoney always struck me as the ideal form of my garage band ambitions.  From the first time I heard the band (first on “Overblown” on the Singles soundtrack, then on “Touch Me I’m Sick”), their blistering pace and tongue-in-cheek lyrics seemed like the right mix of energy and edge.  Their cover of Elvis Costello’s “Pump It Up” plays like the world’s best garage band, stomping through Costello’s snotty song with the right combination of abandon and attention to detail.  While Mark Arm is no Elvis Costello (comparing how the two handle the “listen to the propaganda, listen to the latest slander” line illustrates the difference), he sings the verses with a chip on his shoulder, seemingly sending the message that he can pull off a song that few others would attempt.  This, ultimately, is Mudhoney’s legacy – one where they were skilled enough, whether as songwriters or musicians – to make what they did sound deceptively simple.  Perhaps this is why Mudhoney exists in the shadow of their more ambitious peers, but it’s also what gives the band the attitude and charisma that radio-grunge often lacked.  If nothing else, they would blow away your neighborhood’s best band.

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

“Roseability” – Idlewild
(Words/music: Idlewild, available on 100 Broken Windows, Capitol 2000)

I’m amazed how other songs can alter my impression of older songs.  When “Roseability” starts now, I hear the same pounding drums that start Interpol’s “PDA.”  It’s a fair comparison, as both start with this distinctive mid-tempo stomp a few bars ahead of a wave of guitars, but that’s not my point.  When I first heard Turn on the Bright Lights, I wasn’t thinking about where else I heard those drums.  However, when I dusted off the Idlewild record I rescued from a used bin a year or two earlier, I couldn’t help but think of the parallel. 

It’s indicative of my personal relationship with 100 Broken Windows.  I think I’ve alternately loved and forgotten this album more times than any other single album.  I don’t mean that I’ll just go months without listening to anything from the album – I actually go stretches of time forgetting its existence.  In a way, it’s a pleasant gift meaning that I can rediscover my favorites from this album semi-periodically.  “Roseability” usually brings me right back to the beginning of the decade when I would scour the used CD bin at a few record stores looking for albums like this.  Listening to it the better part of a decade later, I find the transitions the most interesting.  Even if it’s just something as simple as stepping on a distortion pedal, the textural differences between the different parts of the song only seems to quicken the pace.  Even if I still don’t understand the Gertrude Stein reference, I understand why Idlewild kept tiptoeing close to a breakthrough in the states.  It makes me wonder what kept them from rushing through the same way “Roseability” bursts through the speakers.

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

“Change (In the House of the Flies)” – Deftones
(Words/music: Deftones, available on White Pony, Maverick 2000) 

Earlier this week, my friend (and amateur archivist) Mike produced a copy of what I believe to be my first piece of published music criticism.  He handed over a slightly browned copy of our high school’s newspaper The Trojan Times, folded over to an article titled “The Best Kept Secrets of the 2000 Music Scene.”  Some people, when confronted with an artifact from their youth, get nostalgic and eagerly delve in head first.  I usually end up focusing on the awkwardness in things that I wrote as a teenager, but this was too good to be true.  I wrote about six albums (well, five and first set of Pearl Jam bootlegs as one collective entity).  One of my highest marks went to the Deftones’ White Pony in a capsule that starts with a rap-rock takedown and continuing with a dazzling list of facts that one would now glean from the band’s Wikipedia page – name drop their previous album, credit their hometown, and make note of all the guests.  In a way, this was my concept of “music journalism” when I was seventeen – list facts, say something snarky, and make a few statements of the music itself.

To be fair to teenage Brian, I described the album as “intelligent, layered, and compelling hard rock,” and while I’ve only occasionally listened to the Deftones in the last nine years, my statement touches on the reasons I found the band compelling in the first place.  “Change” invites the term “Kafkaesque” because of the morphing-into-a-bug plot in the song, but it also shares the same feelings of alienation, disconnect, and faint despair suggested by the term.  While their music is loud and heavy, a strange vulnerability runs underneath the distortion.  When Chino Moreno screams, it’s not a sound of pure aggression like some of his peers.  Rather, his voice feels like a wounded animal trying to protect itself.  His claws come out as a defense mechanism rather than a predatory weapon, just as his growl masks his confessional lyrics.  Even when he’s detailing an act of aggression (the removal of the wings), he couples it with an act of self-destruction, making it feel more like a commentary on his lack of power rather than an assertion of dominance.  It’s appropriate that an artifact from my teenage years would feel this awkward yet compelling and only underscores why I loved it then.

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

“Rock DJ” – Robbie Williams
(Words/music: Kevin Andrews/Guy Chambers/Ekundayo Paris/Nelson Pigford/Robbie Williams, available on Sing When You’re Winning, Capital 2000) 

For whatever reason, Robbie Williams never really caught on in the States.  He enjoyed a brief moment in the spotlight when his The Ego Has Landed compilation came out and his James Bond-esque video for “Millennium” earned some airplay.  He had all the makings of a pop star – stage presence, well-written songs, and an ego bigger than the English Channel.  Still, he made David Beckham’s foray into the American tabloids look like a successful campaign.  Ultimately, it probably came down to his songs; in general (and I only have a cursory knowledge of him beyond a lot of the singles), but a lot of his material feels like flashier versions of singer-songwriter compositions.  Even with his best songs, it felt like Williams was an American Idol contestant singing someone else’s songs – they just didn’t feel like they were his for whatever reason.

“Rock DJ,” on the other hand, plays into Williams’ strengths.  He gets to play with a few different styles – rapidly semi-speaking the verses, laying back on the pre-choruses, and leading a group of joyous background singers on the chorus.  It has the trappings of a great single as well – it’s lively, it’s fun to sing, it has a few clever one-off lines.  It also has that distinctive video where Williams’ flesh falls off until he’s a roller-skating skeleton at the end.  He’s in a groove on the song and (appropriately or ironically, I’m not entirely sure) loses himself in it.  The result is a song that will liven up a room yet not really leave the crowd clamoring for more from the man who sings it.  He’s done such a good job composing the song that it shines on its own, ego or not.  For a man so hell bent on world domination, that’s poetic justice.

More on Robbie Williams: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Once Around the Block” - Badly Drawn Boy
(Words/music: Damon Gough, available on The Hour of Bewilderbeast, Twisted Nerve / XL Recordings 2000)

Even if my habits indicate otherwise (or, in this case, my readers), I like to think of myself as a creative person.  Like many creative minds (as opposed to concrete minds for the sake of argument), mine wanders a fair amount.  I spend a lot of mental energy (both conscious and sub-conscious) making connections between things, often leading me to re-imagine something as something else.  Over the past seven months, this blog became my primary hobby, so a lot of that idle mental energy goes towards these songs or the act of writing itself.  Naturally, these roads intersected, leading me to start pondering what my writing process would sound like – if I were to soundtrack a montage of me sitting at my computer hammering out one of these posts, what might I choose.  “Once Around the Block” feels like the best fit, perhaps because the snare drum sounds like a typewriter.  More importantly, it sounds like a typewriter working in an irregular rhythm – sometimes it locks right into the waltz-like rhythm on the track, other times it creates a polyrhythmic effect, and other times it sounds lost.

Listening to the song again this morning, I still hear the typewriter hammering away, yet I noticed for the first time that it feels slightly behind the beat, whether by design or just because it’s played with brushes rather than sticks.  Combined with the starts and stops, it almost sounds like the drums are chasing the rest of the band (or, for the sake of my metaphor, that the words are chasing the song).  This captures the purpose of writing about music (for me, at least) – taking a song and trying to get to the root of it, chasing the magic until it reveals itself to me.  These mini-revelations make the pursuit worthwhile – all of the sub-par posts, blank stares, and revisions morph from pain to payment when I learn something new.  Ideally, good writing strives to be like “Once Around the Block,” sounding effortless and light despite careful and precise orchestration.  Even Gough’s lyrics fit in with the act of writing – chasing infatuations, outrunning fears, striving for the perfect word, and ultimately starting over again.

More on Badly Drawn Boy: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Let’s Get It On” – Jack Black
(Words/music: Marvin Gaye and Ed Townsend, available on High Fidelity OST, Hollywood Records 2000)

Jack Black is many things, but he is not Marvin Gaye, and a prerequisite for this cover working as well as it does is that Black understands this.  That’s not to say Black turns this into a Tenacious D song, because that wouldn’t work as well.  Like his character in the film, Black turns in a sincere version of the song that pays homage to the original without trying to one up it.  He sings in a comfortable place in his vocal range, occasionally dipping into his falsetto but only to hit high notes.  In fact, Black sings without any of the usual theatrics that fill his Tenacious D songs (or his performance in the movie – think of his unnatural swiveling during “Walking on Sunshine” when we first meet him), instead sounding relaxed and almost reserved.  It’s a testament to Black both as a singer and an actor, knowing when and where to turn on his absurdist charm and where to refrain.  Ultimately, Black’s personality yields to the song, one Gaye sang with his natural charisma and Black’s (relatively) subdued performance works as a silent hat tip to Gaye’s original performance; Appropriately, Black’s version becomes enjoyable because it doesn’t force us to compare it to the original and pick out the “superior” version.  Instead, it becomes a loving tribute to a soul standard and, to those who hadn’t seen the HBO episodes, a public introduction to Jack Black as a singer, one that (at least in part) helped create the opportunity for his ridiculous career as a rock frontman.

More on Jack Black: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“The Crystal Lake” – Grandaddy
(Words/music: Jason Lytle, available on The Sophtware Slump, V2 Records 2000)

At best, I have mixed feelings about The Sophtware Slump.  While some praise it as a masterful work of man versus machine (and go as far as talking about it in the same breath as OK Computer), I find that it’s a very uneven album.  The long songs tend to be too long and either overstay their welcome or spend too much time getting started, and a handful of the short songs sound like incomplete ideas.  If I didn’t like a handful of the songs on Sumday, I’m not sure I would have made it past “He’s Simple, He’s Dumb, He’s the Pilot.”  In my experience, Grandaddy is a band that I enjoy much more in the MP3 era; if I had to listen to one of their albums on vinyl, I’d almost always select something else that I enjoy the entire way through.  However, on my computer I can take the handful of songs that I love (and love is the right word – I adore these particular songs) and put them into the pool of songs I shuffle through.  Every time one of these songs comes up, I wonder why I don’t listen to the band more often.  Then, I put on an album and find myself skipping through to my favorites and remember why I skipped over the others in the first place.

“The Crystal Lake” is one of the Grandaddy songs I enjoy on its own.  In particular, the opening guitar riff and appreciating synthesizer mix well to create a distinct atmosphere.  The problem with “atmosphere” in music is that it can’t carry a song on its own – once the mood is set, the song needs to do something with it either melodically, structurally, or musically.  This is where a lot of Grandaddy songs fall flat for me – they create a mood that lulls me to sleep and before I know it, the song is over.  “The Crystal Lake” takes hold right away with that opening riff - the fuzzy tone and tempo keep the song feeling laid back, but the phrase sounds like it came out of the mid 1980s post-punk era.  Jason Lytle uses his voice perfectly in this song, letting it gently creep up to the higher points in his register.  He sings with such a clear and lifting tone that makes his voice blend in with the rest of the arrangement.  In particular, Lytle pushes the boundaries of his voice , making himself sound more human at the end of the chorus just in time to deliver the lines about finding his way after losing it.  The rest of Grandaddy’s hallmarks are here – the odd sound effects, the slight textural change entering into the chorus, but it’s Lytle’s voice that puts this song over the edge and moves it from skipped album track to playlist staple.

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

“To Be Young (Is to Be Sad, Is to Be High)” – Ryan Adams
(Words/music: Ryan Adams and David Rawlings, available on Heartbreaker, Bloodshot Records 2000)

Something about “To Be Young” seems off – not necessarily in a bad way (to the contrary – this is my favorite Ryan Adams song), but there’s something atypical about its structure for sure.  Adams counts in the song and immediately whips his band into an enthusiastic fervor of steel guitar and shuffling brushes on a snare drum.  For lack of a better term, we have a hootenanny on our hands – the quick beat and Adams’ twang and vocal inflection suggest that he’s having a blast.  Here’s where the first flag comes up – doesn’t he say that to be young is to be sad?  He doesn’t sound that sad (maybe that’s the “high” talking).  This certainly isn’t the first deceptively sad song in pop music history (or the first one I’ve written about), but just from listening to the music without considering the words, I’m not sure we would attach it to its title.  Also, doesn’t Will Ferrell sing along to this song in Old School?  I can’t remember for sure, but that certainly doesn’t scream “sad” to me.

Perhaps Adams uses the liveliness to help build his protagonist’s character.  “To Be Young” is the first song (second track, but first song) on Heartbreaker, and maybe the protagonist offers us a front – sure, he’s broken hearted, but nothing a little party won’t fix, right?  Personally, I know that sometimes it’s easier to put up this happy front rather than tackle emotions.  Appropriately enough, Adams pull the curtain away slightly at the end of each chorus – the band drops down to a single guitar, handclaps, a tambourine, and some vocal harmonies for the last line.  In a way, the arrangement seems backwards – the chorus ends with few quiet bars rather than the soaring climax we hear in many songs.  Adams continues this feel after the second chorus into the final verse, shifting out of his lively yelp into a quieter, more melodic voice.  Lyrically, Adams stops imploring his ex to leave him be and sounds wistful and yearning for “the days the rain would fall your way” – enough that he repeats the line twice.  Even if his narrator tries to shrug off heartbreak as a part of youth, it still stings deep – classic symptoms of hearbreak.  Adams employs this reverse structure – starting out a full power and pulling back rather than building to a climax – perfectly as a way to show how the scars of heartbreak still lie under the stony (stoned?) façade.

More on Ryan Adams: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm