Some Songs Considered

“I Love Life” – Pulp
(Words/music: Nick Banks / Jarvis Cocker / Doyle / Steve Mackey / Mark Webber, available on We Love Life, PolyGram 2001)

Hi.

It’s been a while, and life got cluttered up with the kind of things that clutter one’s life, so blogging fell off considerably.  I convinced myself that it was OK by reminding myself that I proved that I could write everyday, and that over time it became more important that what I wrote was good rather than just writing for the sake of writing.  And it was OK – I didn’t feel guilty about it, and most of the time felt grateful that having one less thing to do somehow made it a lot easier to get to bed at an hour where I didn’t feel it the next morning. 

Then today I had a strange revelation.  I was OK with not writing because I forgot why I started in the first place.  Three things led me here.

The first is the return of Conan O’Brien’s show to television tonight.  To make an extremely long story short, I ended up identifying with his experience this year all the way down to ending the year in a better place than where it began.  More importantly, I admired the way Conan handled it in a classy and composed way.  Sure, it’s easy to take the high road when it comes with millions in a contract buyout and another huge contract after it, but his triumph comes from doing what he loves and creating opportunities for himself, whether through his tour or the web. 

The second came in Google Reader today.  Pitchfork Reviews Reviews today shared that he’s working on a screenplay about his childhood and apologized in advanced for extended absences.  Something he said struck a nerve with me.  “I write this blog because it is something I like to do,” he says near the end of his post, and after reading that I stared back at the screen for a few minutes lost in thought.  I felt like that too. 

(Speaking of PRR, indulge me for a moment as I address him directly: I enjoy reading your blog, David, and find a lot of moments in your posts where I nod along in vigorous agreement.  Best of luck on your screenplay.)

The final one came when I read about Pulp reforming to play shows next summer.  I caught myself reacting with joy and a little anxiousness hoping that Pulp would make it over to the States next summer and started thinking about it.  I’ve been lucky to see a lot of terrific bands this year – some old favorites I’ve seen more than a dozen times, and other long time favorites that I hadn’t seen before.  Each time, there’s a similar moment of joy in getting the confirmation e-mail for the show, or in removing the shrink-wrap off the new record, or in that breathless moment when the house lights dim and the band walks out on stage.  These are the same tiny joys that I try to think about every time I sit down to write.  On my best days, I got to return to these moments, and in the rarest instances, I created new ones for myself.

These tiny joys are the things that led me to put on Pulp rather than do work that needs to be done tomorrow.  The same joys I find in Jarvis Cocker’s voice and his imagery.  The same joy in the way that the music in “I Love Life” restrains itself until it can’t help but explode into distorted chaos.  The same way that Cocker’s lyrics read sincere and sarcastic, often in the same line, and the way I marvel at his ability to paint complex pictures in his words (in this case, by making a song full of affirmation still sound dark). 

Today though, I’m most grateful for the joy I find in putting together all these thoughts in my head.  I’ve always thought a lot about music – I did it long before I started writing this blog, and I’ll do it long after I’ve stopped writing this blog.  Today, however, it was important to me to remember why this made me happy in the first place, enough to start writing a post without really knowing where to begin (and having it end up far longer than expected, and certainly enough to hit publish before forever dooming it to my drafts folder. 

And it worked.  Thanks for indulging me.

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

“The Boys are Back in Town (Live in Belfast, 2001)” – Belle and Sebastian
(Words/music: Phil Lynott, available on The BBC Sessions Bonus Disc, Matador 2008) 

The thing that always catches me off guard about “The Boys are Back in Town” is the way that Phil Lynott crammed in so many words during the verses.  I tend to think of the way the chorus just repeats the title of the song, so the longer half spoken verses sometimes sneak up on me.  Of course, Lynott tossed off these lyrics with casual grace and general coolness that made Thin Lizzy enjoyable.  This chunk of story forgives the somewhat hurried feeling to the vocals in this cover version, making the rushed feeling admirable rather than admonishing; after all, it’s impressive that he remembers all of the words and manages to keep up with the band’s somewhat raucous (at least as far as Belle and Sebastian goes) cover version. 

The band steals the spotlight here, giving the song the crowd pleasing enthusiasm it deserves.  However, it’s not just giddiness that makes this enjoyable; the band flexes some serious chops.  From the double guitar attack to the crispness of the off-beat fills, Belle and Sebastian showcase a tightness and precision that many of their early shows lacked.  All of the markings of a masterful live band – a playful tone, a precise performance, and an captivated crowd – shine here.  Even if the pairing seems unlikely (as Thin Lizzy and early Belle and Sebastian records share few sonic qualities), the marriage sounds healthy on this recording. 

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

“Hard to Explain” – The Strokes
(Words/music: Julian Casablancas, available on Is This It, RCA 2001) 

Simply put, the Strokes were the right band at the right time.  Is This It was one of the first new records I remember discovering at college, and by the time the Strokes appeared on Saturday Night Live in January 2002, it felt like a capital-B “Big Moment.”  The better part of a decade later, this wasn’t the case – at best it was a near miss, vaulting the Strokes into the rock mainstream yet not the superstardom some of us saw coming.  At worst, it was another case of teenage emotion taking charge – this was an exciting new band with an excellent album and EVERYONE would love it if they only heard it (or so I thought at the time).  Like most things, this probably falls somewhere between those two extremes of inflated enthusiasm and expectations, yet I still remember it vividly. 

I don’t remember anything about the music itself, as the Strokes’ TV performances from that era sounded uncannily similar to the record – even Fabrizio Moretti’s machine-like precision on his high hat locked in perfectly.  Julian Casablancas’ eyes, however, remain burned into my brain.  As he sang the verses in “Hard to Explain” and the camera closed in on him, he stared directly into it with a mix of burning passion and a little crazy.  Especially when paired with “Hard to Explain,” a song waiting to burst out of its taut precision, Casablancas seemed prime to explode at any second.  This intensity just beneath the cool demeanor made the Strokes exciting in 2002, and even if my enthusiasm ran a little too hot, I understand why it swept me up.  I know I wasn’t the only one. 

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

“Central Standard Time” – The Get Up Kids
(Words/music: Ryan Pope, Robert Pope, Matthew Pryor, Jim Suptic, available on Eudora, Vagrant Records 2001) 

I associate the Get Up Kids with a very specific part of my life – specifically, my senior year of high school – and somewhere along the line it became next to impossible to listen to this band without venturing back into time.  It’s unfortunate, because it’s made it next to impossible to listen to most of their catalog objectively; I feel as though I’d still enjoy these records today if they didn’t immediately conjure up images of me at seventeen.  It’s not that I have negative associations – generally I look back fondly at this time (and at the way I discovered this band, but more on that another time).  Instead, it’s just uncomfortable in the way that’s its uncomfortable to read an old journal entry years later. 

So the question becomes why these songs carry these associations while there are other bands I liked as much (or more) from that same era that are free of this emotional baggage.  My best guess, listening to “Central Standard Time” today for the first time in a while, is that the things I like about this song remind me of myself at that age.  This goes beyond the heart-on-sleeve thing too, as there’s always a place for that kind of emotional discourse.  Instead, it’s the urgency in the song – the way Matt Pryor strains out some of the words, or the way the drums fill in the measures with tiny fills – that that echoes back to the way that the tiniest things felt tremendous.  Like I said, the discomfort comes from me and not the record; “Central Standard Time” is one of the band’s best moments, especially in the way that it cultivates a cool melancholy tone.  It’s the trigger on the firehose of emotions from my teenage years that most days I’m not willing to indulge, if for no other reason than I’d rather not think about how dumb I was back then. 

It’s a shame because I really loved this band.  I guess that’s growing up, though – some things get left behind.

More on The Get Up Kids: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“I’m Finding It Harder to Be a Gentleman” – The White Stripes
(Words/music: Jack White and Meg White, available on White Blood Cells, V2 2001) 

AN OPEN LETTER TO JACK WHITE

Jack,

During my usual afternoon browsing of my subscriptions in Google Reader, New York Magazine’s Vulture blog pointed out something you said to the NME recently.  “In my head I’m still living and working as if there is no internet, and treat it as a nuisance.”  That word “nuisance” caught my attention, so I continued reading.  You added that “The internet is a beautiful tool for many, many things, but it is in direct opposition to the art of music being treated with respect.”  This made me, for a couple reasons, sad and frustrated. 

First, I put myself in your place and tried to look at what the internet means to someone who has been making critically acclaimed music for roughly a decade.  At this point in your career, the signal-to-noise ratio must be pretty low, and I’d imagine Googling yourself would lead to a miss of YouTube comment trolls, ad hominem judgments of your music, and an endless stream of sycophants.  I’d imagine that for someone as accomplished as you, what might be a useful feedback loop to some ends up sounding like, well, feedback; you don’t need people to tell you how wonderful or awful you are, as I’m pretty sure you’re capable of that honest assessment yourself.  Compound that with all of the business e-mail you get, and I’m pretty sure I’d never turn on my laptop if I was you.

Ultimately, I came back around to the second half of the quote – the part about it being “in direct opposition to the art of music being treated with respect,” and the only thing I can think is that you aren’t looking in the right places.  The comment section of a Raconteurs video might not be the place for “respect,” but to paint everything on the internet with that broad of a brush would be like refusing to listen to your band because you use a distortion pedal.  The internet brims with people who want to discuss music and share and recommend new bands, but more importantly there are people who actively discuss why they like music, highlighting the specific things that someone like yourself does well.  These are the kind of things that lead people to spend fifty dollars on a ticket to your concert and then bombard their friends with blurry pictures and cell phone videos to try to share the joy the music brings.  Hell, on my better days here, this is my goal – to get down to the root of why a particular song brings me joy or inspires me in some way.  This is how I someone like me can honor music.

All of this brought be back to one of my favorite songs of yours – “I’m Finding It Harder to be A Gentleman.”  To refresh your memory, this is the song where the guy frets about his manners and as a result of his worrying ends up both acting ungentlemanly and covered in mud.  I’ve always read this as a “you get what you put into it message” – your narrator worried too much about appearing to be a gentleman that he blows his opportunity.  I suppose the internet is the same way – if you want to find people honoring music the way it deserves to be honored, there are plenty of us here trying to do our part.  If you’d rather brush it off with a sentence or two, then you’ll find plenty of people doing the same to your band. 

Love,
Brian

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

“Church on White” – Stephen Malkmus
(Words/music: Stephen Malkmus, available on Stephen Malkmus, Matador 2001) 

“Church on White” bears two of Stephen Malkmus’ trademarks.  First, Malkmus plays with the words in his lyrics, using homophones and twisted meanings to bend phrases in different directions.  Whether it’s the possibility of a double meaning (“pot” in the first line likely referring to the one on the stove, but the “do the fakers drop out” line leaves the possibility for “pot” being the drug) or the twisting of pronunciations (“carry on” and “carrion” in the second verse and “alive” and “a lie” in the chorus, “Church on White” never gets close to being a linear narrative.  Instead, Malkmus offers something more surreal – a series of disjointed images running through his brain while walking through lower Manhattan.  Even without a storyline, Malkmus draws a rough sketch of these characters as overwhelmed yet cautiously optimistic; where others might paint a well-defined portrait, Malkmus lets all of the colors bleed together, making it difficult to discern where one ends and the next begins.

The second discerning characteristic is the guitar riff.  Even though the riff isn’t as fast or jagged as many of Pavement’s, the main guitar riff lets notes pop out at different times.  These aren’t misplayed – rather, they are just unexpected – a high note in the middle of a lower phrase or an entire chord strummed in the middle of an arpeggio.  However, after the rolling triplets in the main riff give way to the overdriven chords in the pre-chorus, the lead guitar takes control of the melody, playing it expressively with lots of vibrato.  It’s this lead phrase in the chorus and in the outro where the guitar articulates the unspoken feelings in these characters. In a recent article on indirectness in Spoon’s music (and indie rock in general), Tom Ewing suggested (somewhat skeptically) how Pavement used words “as a misdirection, giving the ache or bittersweet delight in the guitars space to get under your skin.”  In this case, the words set up the guitar’s communicative qualities; without the conversation derailed by double meanings and a lack of a narrative thread, the guitar can’t become the unspoken subtext.  In other words, without a failed attempt at communication, we can’t consider the possibilities for what isn’t said.

More on Stephen Malkmus: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Champagne Supernova (Live)” – Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks
(Words/music: Noel Gallagher, live at the Cat’s Cradle, 11 November 2001) 

From his days fronting Pavement, Stephen Malkmus has a legendary reputation in the world of alternative rock.  Over time, his reputation evolved, particularly to include the guitar heroism on his recent solo albums, but in general Malkmus is known for his sarcasm, his way with words, and his disjointed songs.  He also has a tremendous sense of humor and an acute sense of the absurd, and from the first Pavement album through his most recent solo release, his songs contain numerous non-sequiturs, nonsensical digressions, and surrealist images.  Part of digesting a Malkmus recording is deciphering his skewered viewpoint and appreciating the humor.

Malkmus’ playfulness takes centerstage on this recording of his band covering Oasis’ overblown epic.  Appropriately, Malkmus’ version teeters between mockery and reverence, ultimately striking the proper balance between the two.  As a card-carrying Oasis fan (and someone who gets upset when radio stations fade out before the guitar solo), I will still acknowledge the ridiculousness of “Champagne Supernova,” both in its extended arrangement and its lyrics.  Malkmus twists the lyrics both to mock the original (hence the reference to a Coke can pipe) and reflect on the drug-laden mid ‘90s that helped birth the song.  Despite this mockery, Malkmus giddily declares the lead guitar his “favorite part” before playing the lick perfectly.  Yes, it’s overblown and absurd, but that’s part of the song’s charm, and Malkmus capitalizes on the song’s character.  Sure, he’s tossing off lines about being a “natural Englishman” and about ecstasy “raining from the sky,” but he’s also staying faithful to the song’s arrangement.  It’s this blend of admiration and absurdity that not only captures Malkmus’ interpretation of the song, but Malkmus’ legacy as well.  Ultimately, one appreciates this cover similar to one of his songs – while the humor might be more exaggerated here, it’s foiled by solid musicianship and a respect for the source material.

More on Stephen Malkmus: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Juxtaposed with U” – Super Furry Animals
(Words/music: Super Furry Animals, available on Rings Around the World, Epic 2001)

So I haven’t really been thinking too much about 2009 in its historical context, but I’m sure someone will make a case for it (or the last couple years even) as the year of auto tune.  From T-Pain’s iPhone application to the brilliant Auto-Tune the News to the overuse in every other pop single, Auto-Tune earned plenty of detractors.  What was once a way to make tuneless starlets into passable pop singers (remember the ‘90s?!), Auto-Tune became the space age effect that everyone wanted on their single.  Like many other things Auto-Tune is neither inherently evil (nor inherently good, to be fair).  Instead, it’s the abuse of Auto-Tune that makes it so deplorable.  As an aesthetic effect (I won’t comment on its use as a pitch corrector, as someone who can’t even come close to holding a tune), it works well when used properly.

My best evidence (at least off the top of my head) is “Juxtaposed with U.”  Super Furry Animals use a vocoder (which, unless I’m mistake, is the same thing Auto-Tune uses, right?) to create a distinctive vocal effect.  Then, they juxtapose this mechanized voice with the sweet strings behind it.  Then, when Gruff Rhys sings the pre-chorus unadorned by the vocoder, the melodic qualities of his voice (which lead me to think of his first name as a sort of juxtaposition) stand out more.  It’s a unique way of setting apart the hook from the verse, and as a deliberate aesthetic choice (as opposed mindless bandwagon jumping), it accomplishes the task.  I’m not sure it makes up for the forthcoming Lil’ Wayne Auto-Tune/rock album, but it’s a useful card when trying to convince a “vocal purist” that technology can help make a pretty cool song.

More on Super Furry Animals: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Hey Pretty (Drive-By 2001 Mix)” – Poe
(Words/music: Kenneth Burgonmaster, Mark Z. Danielewski, Poe, and Matthew Wilder, available on Haunted, Atlantic 2000 (Reissued 2004))

I had only the vaguest recollection of “Hey Pretty” when House of Leaves took hold of me in college.  What started as an assignment for a modern fiction class grew into a semester long independent study on Mark Z. Danielewski’s novel, and somewhere in the process I realized that Poe is Danielewski’s sister.  Moreover, her Haunted album makes numerous detailed (page numbers!) references to her brother’s book.  When I sought out her album during the week that my paper sent me nocturnal, I never really got much further than the remix of “Hey Pretty” featuring Danielewski reading part of the book over her song.  Even if Poe told an interviewer that the collaboration grew out of a desperate desire for airplay on the testosterone heavy modern rock radio, Danielewski’s reading builds on Poe’s original.

Of course, Danielewski picked a relevant section of the book for “Hey Pretty.”  Rather than use one of his labyrinthine footnotes or detailed explorations of the novel’s mysterious house, he reads from a section detailing a romantic tryst in a fast car.  These sections lean heavily on visual descriptions and sexual tension, pushing the driving-as-sex metaphor awful close to obviousness.  Still, Danielewski’s pacing and eye for detail fit the song well as he balances rhythmic passages (the “fast, slow, fast-fast, slow” sounds better than it reads).  Particularly, the focus on communication in the jazzy breakdown puts the two lovers (for lack of a better word) as physically close yet emotionally detached – a recognition that the narrator acknowledges when he laments that “dark languages rarely survive.”  Even if it’s a little odd to have such an explicit affair in a song performed by siblings, Danielewski’s storytelling and Poe’s chorus suit each other well.  Even if the remix isn’t as darkly complex as either of their other works, it’s a rare bright spot in an otherwise labyrinthine intertextual multimedia web of storytelling. 

(And yes, Poe, we get the gist of the song now. Thanks for asking.)

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

“The Other Side” – The Dismemberment Plan
(Words/music: The Dismemberment Plan, available on Change, DeSoto 2001)

I saw the Dismemberment Plan once before they broke up; they played for close to two hours before we had to leave so my friend could get up early the next day.  The live show only confirmed the sense of adventure I heard in their music.  As the band plowed through a series of fast paced, rhythmically complex songs, it felt like a sonic high wire act.  Rather than play it safe, the band pushed the more frantic songs to the edge, giving the illusion that the whole thing could come crashing down.  In reality, the band remained in control the entire night, whether building up one of their mid-tempo songs or letting loose on the fast ones. 

That night, the band felt close to perfection, and while their music relies on the flawless execution of complex arrangements, many of Travis Morrison’s lyrics focus on imperfections.  “The Other Side,” for instance, presents a series of circumstances that mire our lives – fights based on misunderstandings, weeks that take too long, and a general sense of feeling clueless and without direction.  Perhaps it’s not as exciting as their music – emotional honesty isn’t known for raising adrenaline – but it’s adventurous in its own right.  Morrison catalogs his vulnerabilities realistically, without downplaying or distorting the facts, and he does this as a way to achieve a personal breakthrough – in this case, to reach the “other side.”  Perhaps Morrison feels spurred on by the frenetic drumming behind him, or perhaps the quick pace reflects the urgency of his situation, but he’s trying to make progress through an honest self-assessment.  It’s not as glamorous as a high wire routine, but looking inward often feels like looking a long way down.

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

“Higher and Higher” - Theodore Shapiro and Craig Wedren
(Words/music: Theodore Shapiro and Craig Wedren, appears in Wet Hot American Summer, Eureka Pictures 2001)

Many, myself included, lean a little too hard on the “classic” part of the term “cult classic.”  We spend so much time evangelizing a band, movie, book, comedian, or any other under-appreciated cultural artifact that we lose sight of the reasons for its obscurity in the first place.  Sure, sometimes these things grow into the audience they deserve (think of something like Office Space), but most of the time we only think it’s brilliant because it speaks to a particularly unique part of their personality.  In my case, a film like Wet Hot American Summer seems brilliant to my warped sense of humor.  It’s a perfect example of a movie that speaks to a very small audience (the “cult” to most, “those with a sense of humor” to others less diplomatically inclined).  Appropriately, Wet Hot American Summer is the product of its own cult of sorts – a group of comedians, actors, writers, and filmmakers that began out of MTV’s early ’90s sketch comedy show The State, itself a (cult) classic that’s been recently reissued on DVD.  While the cult has grown since the early ’90s and includes newer members, these folks (responsible for Reno 911, Role Models, and Stella among other things) often help each other on their projects.  Loyalty more than success has helped keep the group intact over the years, and that loyalty goes right down to the music.

Craig Wedren, the frontman from Shudder to Think (a fine band on Dischord in the early ’90s), has produced a lot of the music for The State and their offshoot projects.  With help from Theodore Shapiro (who did the score for the movie), Wedren’s “Higher and Higher” flawlessly sets the mood for an over-the-top training montage near the end of the film.  As a long-time collaborator with director David Wain and many of the actors, Wedren undoubtedly understood the tone of the montage scene, balancing the motivational tone with a dramatic undercurrent.  Most importantly, it treats the scene with integrity; in the film’s world, this is a last-ditch effort, and “Higher and Higher” plays on this sincerity, especially in the build-up in the opening bars.  Essentially, “Higher and Higher” is only the build up and the payoff, but it accomplishes those two with skill – the opening sounds uncertain and the refrain sounds joyous.  The fact that Wedren’s guitar heroics push the song towards sounding over-the-top doesn’t really matter; it’s a way for Wedren, Wain, and the rest of the filmmakers to wink at the audience to show that they aren’t losing sight of the absurdity.  That being said, it makes for a hell of a training montage.

More on Craig Wedren and Theodore Shapiro: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Everything Hits at Once” - Spoon
(Words/music: Britt Daniel, available on Girls Can Tell, Merge Records 2001)

More than any other band on Merge’s roster (and most bands in rock music right now), Spoon plays tight rock and roll.  They grab hold of every melodic and rhythmic thread and pull them to their most taut, and just like a drum’s head stretched to its limit, interesting sounds develop right before the snapping point.  Spoon’s songs never reach that breaking point, but these songs find their own funky reverberations even at their most precise extremes.  Rather than sounding mechanical or soulless, their precise rhythms and studio tweaks infuse the song with an unlikely groove.

Even if they’re repetitive, it’s not repetition in the same way that trance music repeats phrases.  “Everything Hits at Once” builds around a defined core.  The guitars, keyboards, and drums establish a groove and keep returning to it over the course of the song.  Meanwhile, the other elements of the song orbit around this center, periodically disappearing into the mix only to return again.  Even Britt Daniel’s vocals work like this – rather than have a chorus as a celebratory refrain, Daniels’ repetition feels like a weary mind running through the same thought process.  He promises that he can change his mind yet keeps returning to this one thought.  Just like the music, Daniel feels trapped by the gravity of his situation.  While it leads to paranoia for his protagonist, the listener enjoys a woosy groove and a catchy tune revolving around us.

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

“Art Class (Song for Yayoi Kusama)” – Superchunk
(Words/music: Superchunk, available on Here’s to Shutting Up, Merge Records 2001)

It took about three minutes for word to spread upon walking into the Cat’s Cradle last night.  “Superchunk is closing tonight,” and with that a sudden burst of unexpected energy rode through my body.  The rush of being hours away from seeing the band (I would have put good money on them playing on Saturday night) made everything a little sharper, even when sitting down with a beer.  The Broken West’s power pop, Richard Buckner’s guitar explorations, Guv’ner’s muted trumpet, Versus’ heavy pop, and the 3Ds fuzzy melodies all helped build the anticipation for Merge’s flagship band.  Superchunk came on at quarter of one but it might as well have felt like the middle of the afternoon.

Superchunk blew through a set of old favorites - “Precision Auto,” “Detroit Has a Skyline,” “Driveway to Driveway,” etc – and new singles “Crossed Wires” and “Learned to Surf” and sounded equally as ebbulent and muscular as in their heyday.  Not surprisingly, nothing from Here’s to Shutting Up showed up in the setlist (although the keyboard was out for “Watery Hands”), widely considered Superchunk’s “mellow” album.  It’s a shame, because some of that album’s best songs would have fit in well in the middle of the set.  The upper-mid tempo “Art Class” would have dialed the energy back only half a notch and provided a perfect “why so serious” sing along in the crowd.  In addition to fitting in with the rest of the setlist’s melodic assault, “Art Class” captures the spirit of the entire week-long celebration.  “Life is the art that you make,” sings McCaughan as his band plays with the same intensity they’ve exhibited over the past two decades.  Much has been said and written about Merge’s continued success and the role of a label run by musicians and fans, but Superchunk proved last night that they are far away from hanging up their guitars and solely concentrating on the label (I hope).  If nothing else, they have plenty more art to make, and plenty more nights to make us pogo along.

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

“Johnny Appleseed” - Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros
(Words/music: Pablo Cook, Tymon Dogg, Scott Shields, Martin Stattery, and Joe Strummer, available on Global a Go-Go, Epitaph 2001)

In many ways, it makes sense for Joe Strummer to reference Johnny Appleseed in a song.  Like Appleseed, Strummer is a sort of folk hero whose legend expanded over time.  With the Clash, Strummer started with punk rock and wandered through different musical styles, including reggae, soul, and arguably hip hop (specifically with the vocal inflection on “The Magnificent Seven.”  Even if the Clash didn’t originate any of these styles, they served as master curators who excelled at all of these different styles.  Even though his bandmates deserve more credit than they might normally garner (Mick Jones specifically), Strummer seemed like the one with musical wanderlust.  I’m too young to have experienced the Clash during their time and I never got the chance to see Strummer perform during his lifetime, and in a way this makes him a little more mythical.  As Appleseed’s reputation grew with stories told, Strummer’s part of our own aural tradition – one that Strummer and his band helped to spurn along.

“Johnny Appleseed” continues Strummer’s musical wandering, blurring the lines between a number of different genres.  It alternates between a quietly plucked verse and a rollicking chorus section.  Strummer tells his story in a delivery that seems somewhere between a rant and a folk singer’s story.  A simple melody runs through his words and gives them an almost chant-like quality; the melody remains consistent even when Strummer’s focused on describing something else.  However, like the melody, theme remains the same – one that champions those who speak for and represent the common man.  Strummer doesn’t place himself along side these men (and both Appleseed and Martin Luther King dwarf him in any comparison), but in the musical world, Strummer served the same purpose.  He always struck me as one who made music for the bees rather than for the honey, and someone who worked hard not to lose sight of the big picture.

More on Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Timorous Me – Ted Leo / Pharmacists
(Words/music: Ted Leo, available on The Tyranny of Distance, Lookout! Records, 2001)

I wasn’t introduced to Ted Leo until Hearts of Oak came out, but it was a case of “better late than never.”  Tyranny of Distance came out the week I graduated from high school and I wish it was in my life at that time.  It’s the perfect combination of Leo’s punk rock ethos with his extremely personal songwriting.  These songs seem like intimate portraits straight from the core of his being yet still resonate with almost everyone that hears these songs.  He’s streamlined his production since The Tyranny of Distance and (arguably) has written dozens of better songs since this album, but this group of songs straddles the line between intensely personal and overtly political. 

“Timorous Me” is, in Leo’s own words, “an Irish wake,” yet as a remembrance of the past it focuses more on lost moments rather than lost souls.  Each of the verses details moments where the opportunity for connection went unfulfilled – whether it’s reconnecting with a childhood friend, a member of the audience enjoying herself, or a loved one spending an evening uncharacteristically quiet.  Even if he’s describing specific personal moments, the listener feels a sort of kinship with Leo, sharing in his emotions as he paints the picture with the words.  While we weren’t there for the instances he describes, we have our own missed opportunities and can share in these brief moments of recognition (if not regret).  It’s appropriate that “Timorous Me” generally appears near the end of Ted Leo’s shows, as it’s his most accessible song as well as an opportunity for him to share the spotlight with his audience.   We might not share all of the moments he sings about, but we all have these times where we wish we said one more thing or offered one more bit of advice.   It’s helpful to have an engaging performer like Ted Leo leading us through these moments because together we can share our moments of regret, accept our shortcomings, and move on.  We might not come to this conclusion on our own, but with Leo’s songs to guide us along, we can start to move on and enjoy the present moment.

More on Ted Leo and the Pharmacists: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm