Some Songs Considered - Posts Tagged '2001'

January 26, 2010

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“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

December 18, 2009

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“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

November 1, 2009

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“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

October 19, 2009

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“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

October 13, 2009

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“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

August 23, 2009

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“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

July 25, 2009

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“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

July 24, 2009

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“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

July 13, 2009

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“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

June 19, 2009

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“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

June 2, 2009

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“Worst Comes to Worst” – Dilated Peoples
(Words/music: Dilated Peoples, William Bell, and Booker T. Jones, available on Expansion Team, Capitol Records 2001)

We’re quick to ask songwriters where their inspiration comes from, whether we’re looking at lyrics or wondering about melodies. However, I’m incredibly fascinated with the way that DJs and hip hop producers create a track, particularly when it’s based around a sample. While a songwriter might talk about influences, DJs hunt through crates of their idols (and others, too), looking for the perfect element to turn into a beat. Take “Worst Comes to Worst” for example – The Alchemist builds this beat around William Bell’s “I Forgot to Be Your Lover,” a wistful, Curtis Mayfield-like soul ballad co-written by Booker T. Jones. It’s a gorgeous ballad with an awesome guitar introduction, but it’s also been the basis for samples for Brand Nubian, Ludacris, and a handful of others in addition to Dilated Peoples. Specifically on “Worst Comes to Worst,” Alchemist and DJ Babu turn Bell’s ballad into a light-hearted bounce. The Alchemist pushes the tempo and adds in some more distinct drums, and Babu cuts back and forth on his turntables, whipping the original’s slower pace into something lively. Evidence and Rakaa (with a spoken verse from Gang Starr’s Guru) run with the beat, trading off verses that sing the praises of their friends and family in addition to their love of hip hop. It’s hard for me to listen to “I Forgot to Be Your Lover” without thinking of “Worst Comes to Worst,” but I’m not sure I see a direct line between the two. I’m very curious what The Alchemist heard in that somber original that inspired such a spirited beat.

I also think back to my friend Scott, a DJ and emcee himself, who first introduced this song (and a lot of other slightly esoteric hip hop) through the radio show he did in the timeslot after mine. He’s had his hand in a couple different projects where he’s proven himself as a crafty lyricist. Most recently, Scott co-founded an educational hip hop project called Smart Songs, selling their first collection of songs through Highlights Magazine. While this might sound horrible on paper, Scott and his collaborators manage to make the tracks feel like authentic hip hop rather than the type of offensively awful “hip hop” usually dubbed “educational.” Even if they rhyme about the United States presidents, they’re also giving kids (their audience, after all) a taste of hip hop that’s more than the Nickelodeon show version.

More on Dilated Peoples: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

May 31, 2009

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“Burn Baby Burn” – Ash
(Words: Tim Wheeler, music: Ash, available on Free All Angels, Sony 2001)

“Burn Baby Burn” has left and entered my life more times than I can remember; if it was a woman, we would have the textbook definition of an “on again/off again” relationship. When I actively think of the song, I’m in love with it. Simply hearing the first few notes of the song can pull me right in, and by the time the first verse kicks in, I’m hooked. “Burn Baby Burn” flies out of the gate at a brisk tempo and continues soon afterward with the kind of power chords that make my heart rate quicken instantaneously. In particular, I’m smitten with the first verse (and maybe this “song as a woman” conceit subconsciously comes from the “your golden hair and pale blue eyes” line), as it mixes equal parts desperation, restlessness, and romance in the Springsteen-esque sense. By the time Tim Wheeler declares that his band has “never been satisfied,” I’m already back in love with the song. We’ve fallen back into our old ways – “Burn Baby Burn” sounds as fast and melodic as it did years ago, and I’m questioning how I could ever go more than a week at a time without hearing this song.

Still, something’s missing – there’s the reason why the song and I always part ways at the end. Thinking about it now, the only part of the song that lags for me is the hook – for a song that’s so intensely catchy, it lacks a strong vocal hook. The opening notes “hook” me in, and even the song’s chords progressing gets stuck in my head. I can’t think of a single time I’ve ever felt a jolt when listening to the chorus. It’s almost like the song has an inverted pop structure – the verses are more memorable than the chorus. I’m not saying that every song needs a clear, visible hook – but for a song that leans more to the “pop” side of pop-punk, it’s a shame that it doesn’t finish the job. Ultimately, this is probably the reason why I’ve never fully “committed” to the song by making it a mix / playlist staple. It’s a hell of a song, and we have a great time together, but I guess we need our space. I’m sorry, “Burn Baby Burn,” it’s not you, it’s me.

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

April 29, 2009

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“Punk as Fuck” – The American Analog Set
(Words/music: American Analog Set, available on Know by Heart, Tiger Style 2001)

About a year ago, I made the choice to stop watching TV in bed. I had heard from a variety of sources (none of which I’m going to look up now, so feel free to challenge me) that watching TV right before bed (which, aside from having it on in the morning, is when I generally watched TV) affected the quality of sleep. Being someone who rarely approaches the recommended level of sleep during the week, I want to make sure that the six hours of sleep I get a night are good ones. However, I find that many nights if I get into bed and I’m not exhausted that my mind wanders. Sometimes (Sunday night in particular), my mind gets to the list of things that I need to do, or worse – the list of things I haven’t done yet – and then I’m wide awake in bed. So when I turned off the TV (and I’ll still watch some occasionally, but generally only the nights that I go to bed “early”) I started to put on music to help me transition from wide awake to sleeping soundly. I tend to gravitate towards music with lots of held notes and minimal lyrics – when I’m in bed, I want something instrumental (Japancakes interpretation of My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless gets a lot of plays before bed) or with lyrics that are obscured or unintelligible (Sigur Ros currently fills many of my top played tracks on Last.fm for this reason) so that I don’t start to think about words. I have maybe a half dozen different albums that I listen to in these late hours and I’m open to suggestions if you have any.

The oddest album that I’ll listen to at night is the American Analog Set’s Know by Heart. It’s not as dream-like or lushly arranged as some of the other albums I like to fall asleep to, but I find it fills this role the same way. The sonically ironic “Punk as Fuck” outlines many of these reasons I find it relaxing. It has a mellow sound, specifically from the relaxed-sounding keyboards and the light percussion (both of which continue throughout the album). While Andrew Kenny sings clearly (and in English) with words worth paying attention to, he has an extremely calming voice that sends the words to my subconscious mind. I don’t always remember my dreams (or, more likely, forget them very quickly as soon as I wake up and start running through the list of things to accomplish that day), but it would be interesting to see how Know by Heart affects my dreams compared with some of the other records. It’s not a record that lulls me to sleep; instead, it helps me take my mind off of my schedule long enough to ease into slumber.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go close my windows, turn off the light, and put on Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue.

More on The American Analog Set: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

April 25, 2009

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“Nightingale” – Saves The Day
(Words/music: Saves the Day, available on Stay What You Are, Vagrant Records 2001)

While writing an entirely separate post this afternoon (one I finished and decided to save for revision), I re-discovered Stay What You Are, an album I haven’t heard since the first half of this decade. When I was a senior in high school, I discovered pop-punk through a Get Up Kids album on an end display. Soon, I was consuming as much pop punk as Napster (and whatever I used after Napster was shut down) could find me – good or bad. It wasn’t until I got to college that I started to filter the good from the run-of-the-mill (coincidentally, around the time that I started to explore Superchunk’s back catalog, but that’s for another day). At first, it didn’t matter – it was new music that sounded like music I liked, so I wanted to hear all of it.

That being said, only a few discs and some stray MP3s made it through that initial sorting period. As quickly as I developed a taste for pop-punk, I realized that I didn’t enjoy a lot of it. For every album that I loved, I had three or four other non-descript EPs or albums from bands I couldn’t distinguish from each other. That being said, Stay What You Are stuck out, perhaps in part because of my obsession with Vagrant Records circa 2000 – 2001, perhaps because Chris Conley’s voice was uniquely melodic and whiny. However, part of the credit goes to the songwriting - these songs were better than a lot of their peers. In particular, “Nightingale” stands out as slightly more complex than a lot of the three chord romps playing in my Discman. Listening to it now, it kind of sounds like the kind of cleanly produced, solidly written pop that comes with a slight “punk” sheen, but I’d be fine if there were more songs like this on the radio. When compared with his contemporaries, I appreciate Conley’s attention to detail and focus on imagery in his lyrics – his words mirror the (relatively) somber feeling of the music. It’s probably not something I’d take to right now if I heard it for the first time, but I’m also closer to being thirty than to being a teenager. That being said, I can still appreciate the care for his craft, something I didn’t always see in some of his contemporaries.

Still, I’m glad I came back across this album, as it’s an interesting personal artifact in addition to a few songs that I’ve missed hearing without even realizing it. It’s songs like these that act like Proust’s Madeleine, bringing back memories of a very specific time in my life.

More on Saves the Day: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

February 2, 2009

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“Drowned (live)” – Pete Townshend
(Words/music: Pete Townshend, available on The Oceanic Concerts, Rhino Records 2001)

The Who had so many unique personalities that each of the four members probably gave up recognition simply by being around such distinctive players. Still, these four members made up one of the most influential bands of their era (and a band I deem as underrated only because they’re too often in the “second tier” behind The Beatles (rightfully), Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and frequently Pink Floyd – I’d take The Who over the last three any day of the week). One of the best parts of these songs was the controlled chaos contained in these songs; Roger Daltrey used his incredible vocal range liberally, John Entwistle redefined the bass player’s role, and Keith Moon’s insane syncopation created generations of really bad drummers trying to imitate him. This leaves Pete Townshend as the foundation for the group, and while he could tear up a guitar solo with the best of them (more on that in a minute), his role as songwriter and sonic architect came first. Townsend created the venue for his band members to run wild, often letting the best parts of his songs come from other people (the scream at the end of “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” the bass fills in “My Generation,” and any of a number of memorable Keith Moon moments). Many times, these arrangements clouded the true genius – Townshend’s remarkable chops as a songwriter. It’s easy to see how a band with two rock virtuosos (Entwistle and Townshend) and two of the most iconic performers on their instruments (Daltrey and Moon), that the songs might take second billing (after all, Daltrey sings “it’s the singer not the song, that makes the music move along” on “Join Together”), but Townshend wrote some of the most intricate and powerful songs of his generation. Personally, I think Townshend reached his apex on 1973’s Quadrophenia – the perfect combination of an album long narrative without sacrificing individual songs. Quadrophenia plays almost like a classical piece – different musical themes (representing the four “characters” in the band) enter and exit the piece at different points, appearing in different variations when the narrative calls for them. On an entirely different level, the story tackles themes we all struggle with – self-identification, the longing for purpose, the capacity to love and to be loved – even after the teenage wounds start to close up. I started giving Quadrophenia as a high school graduation gift when I was in college in part because it captures that time in one’s life and in part because it’s an album that more people need to hear.

So, when I came across The Oceanic Concerts a few years ago, I was eager to hear how Townshend and pianist/harpist Raphael Rudd would transform some of Townshend’s compositions. In particular, Townshend’s solo interpretation of “Drowned” stood out, perhaps because I thought of it as one of the less likely songs to benefit from a barebones arrangement. On Quadrophenia, “Drowned” gathers its strength from a complex arrangement that relies on contrasts – the grand piano breaks abruptly shattered by Moon’s thunderous fills, Daltrey’s theatrically varied vocals, and the shift from the loose feel in the song to a taut reprise of the horns from “5:15.” It also features an extended electric guitar solo from Townshend, something that doesn’t usually translate well into the singer-songwriter mode. Still, I think I came away from this version of “Drowned” impressed with Townshend the performer. He varies his style at several points, touching on his trademark grace note filled chord changes with intricate finger picking, recreating the verse-chorus textual difference of the original. When it comes time for the middle section, his performance makes it sound like his fingers are in a blur; he quickly strangles out chords while still managing to play a melody line through this burst of chordal chaos. It almost sounds like two guitars playing at once. Most impressively, he’s ready to snap right back into a more restrained style when it comes time to sing again (and he sings capably – he’s no Daltrey, but he does his songs justice). Even decades later, Townshend’s performance sounds fresh – his avant-garde descendents could learn something from the master still. This performance (and a handful of others on this album) give Townshend the opportunity that he sometimes doesn’t get in his own band – the chance to be both the gifted performer and skilled writer.

More on Pete Townshend: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

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