Some Songs Considered

“Poor Places (Demo Version)” – Wilco
(Words/music: Jay Bennett and Jeff Tweedy, original version available on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Nonesuch 2002) 

I sometimes wonder about the music I’ve acquired over the years.  This specifically hits me when I wade through fifteen or twenty versions of a song and scroll through live versions and remixes to find the one I want to hear.  This especially hits me when I then listen to three or four of these different versions in succession – something that happens far more often than I’ve realized.  I ended up with all of these different versions because I’m a pack rat but also because I’m endlessly fascinated with the way songs evolve.  Some songs come to their creator like some sort of divine gift, arriving in their finished and soon-to-be-famous form within minutes of its inspiration.  Others gradually evolve long past their recording date, mutating into something new periodically. 

“Poor Places” for a long time was my favorite song on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, in part because it was the keystone in a tenuous, over-thought narrative I tried to strangle out of the album.  Years later, I still get lost in its slow decline into noise only to rise into another tune (“Reservations” on the album, and “Spiders” on more than one occasion in concert).  From time to time, I think back to the demo version of the song and think about how it changed from a bouncy piano cut to the slowly unraveling tune at the end of the album.  I even catch myself singing some of the cut lines in my head.  Looking at the song’s entire arc – beginning with this loose piano version through the tighter-wound album version to the intensified noise of the current version being played live – seems like an easy shorthand for the way Wilco has evolved over the last decade.  I’m more interested in the revision process – be it tweaking words, removing lines, or reworking the arrangement fascinates the part of my brain that likes to write. 

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

“I Wish I Was in New York” – Roman Candle 
(Words/music: Skip, Logan, and Timshel Matheny, available on Says Pop, Outlook 2002 & digitally via their website)

I’m not sure I could completely catalog all of the songs written about New York City, but this Roman Candle song always sticks with me as one of my favorites.  Aside from the specific landmarks, “I Wish I Was in New York” focuses on that feeling of wanting to be in another place.  Like many yearnings for a change in scenery, it’s not necessarily about the destination as it is about the change itself.  The vision of New York City here isn’t one of the “City that Never Sleeps,” nor is the narrator’s desire to find excitement.  Instead, it’s an early morning of pigeon and people watching with a cup of coffee and a late night trip to St. Patrick’s to “light a candle for us.”  At the part of the song, the narrative flashes back home to piles of laundry, empty words, and mundane rituals.  With this second verse, it’s the prayer associated with the candle that seems more important that the building or town that houses it.  

The instrumentation in the song always grabs my attention, too.  The skeleton of the song consists of acoustic guitar and vocals, but it’s the other touches that make the song for me.  The opening piano chords set a somber tone that generally tempers the sweetness in the vocals through most of the song, as does the organ lingering in the background of the second verse.  My favorite flourishes come near the end.  The vibraphone (complete with vibrato-inducing motor running) sounds beautiful during the bridge, and the harmonica and slide guitar in the post-chorus still feels like a pleasant surprise after years of listens.  It’s these little touches (and, to a lesser extent, the details left out of the narrative) that draw me in every time.

More on Roman Candle: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“My Slumbering Heart” – Rilo Kiley
(Words/music: Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennett, available on The Execution of All Things, Saddle Creek 2002)

It’s unfair to say that Rilo Kiley were better when they were unpolished for a couple reasons.  First, I don’t mean this to suggest they were ever rough; they were one of the tightest live bands I’ve seen far before Jenny Lewis tried to become a pop star.  It also gives the wrong impression about The Execution of All Things.  It’s less rough than it is unpasteurized – one where the rough edges were like birthmarks – attention grabbing and character building.  Where much of the later Rilo Kiley records try to set up Lewis for her star moment, her brashness feels more charming than the slick sheen backing her in recent years.

I don’t just mean the cursing; Lewis’ lyrics here have a brashness and directness without being purely confessional.  “My Slumbering Heart,” for instance, describes those moments somewhere between being fully awake and fully asleep, often triggered by too many stressful days and late nights.  Childhood memories collide head-on with adult awareness and Lewis carefully tries to balance the nostalgia for childhood games with adult irritability.  The song then shifts to a half-awake, half-asleep scenario, where her lover in bed and the song on the radio seem too hazy to be completely real yet believable enough to seem like reality.  Eventually, she takes a break from assessing her fatigue and chronicling her dreams to step back and change perspective slightly.  Rather than focus on the things draining her, she shifts her focus to the things that rejuvenate her – specifically waking up next to this person buried under the covers.  The guitar and keyboard crashes behind her, giving the most emotionally direct moment in the lyrics the musical climax.  It’s this sort of rush – both musically and lyrically – that gets smoothed out too often.  It’s too bad, because this is the spark that a lot of their later records lack.

More on Rilo Kiley: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Let’s Not Shit Ourselves (To Love or To Be Loved)” – Bright Eyes
(Words/music: Conor Oberst, available on Lifted Or The Story Is In The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground, Saddle Creek 2002)

As news of author J. D. Salinger’s passing spread this afternoon, I found myself thinking about the New York Times article “Get a Life, Holden Caulfield” from this past June.  In it, Jennifer Schuessler culls anecdotes from teachers who say that Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, no longer resonates with modern teenagers.  “Shut up and take your Prozac” quips one student at the end of the article, and from having taught the book the past few springs, this reaction isn’t unique.    I even think back to my first introduction to the book when I read it a dozen or so years ago.  I remember going home and asking my dad (an English teacher himself, and a teenager when the book became popular) what made the book so controversial (“you never read ‘crap’ in a book back then” is how I remember it).  Anyway, I remember finding all of the contradictions amusing and could empathize with the way Holden seethed with righteous anger.  It was only returning to the book later that I found his story as a series of cries for help, seeing Holden less as a snotty, self-righteous curmudgeon as a confused and damaged soul - one who desperately wanted to connect yet didn’t quite grasp the idea of meeting someone halfway. 

A few minutes later, my mind jumped to “Let’s Not Shit Ourselves.”  I’ll stop short of equating Conor Oberst’s persona with Holden Caulfield (for a variety of reasons, the primary being that things rarely equate themselves that cleanly), but my own personal relationship with these protagonists changed in similar ways.  I fell hard for Lifted when it came out in part because Oberst’s persona exhibited a lot of the same qualities I wanted to see in myself - he was angry at the world and could frame his anger and heartbreak with the eye of a poet.  I remember nodding my head along with the way he went through the different manifestations of bullshit in the song.  And like this narrator (and Holden too), I was blind to the bullshit in my own life.  Rather than take a deep look inward and risk finding something infuriating in myself, I focused my anger on the hypocrisy in the rest of the world.  Like Holden, this narrator wants something real and detests anything getting in the way.  However, neither looks in the right places.  Whether it’s Holden’s different personas or Oberst’s grades as false talismans of learning, both build their own reputations on the same phony foundations they seek to destroy. 

Eventually, Holden and Oberst’s narrator both have breakdowns.  While it’s unclear whether Holden learns his lesson after hitting rock bottom (or, to be fair, whether Oberst’s narrator genuinely believes what he says from his hospital bed), both needed to fall.  While my own epiphany thankfully wasn’t through a nervous breakdown, it changed how I looked at these characters.  Gone was the question whether they were heroic or pathetic, replaced with the thought that it was part of the cycle of coming to terms with one’s vulnerability.  What makes them both so powerful is that they speak equally to those on both sides of the divide.  The young adult, fueled by teenage invulnerability, may look at these characters as the embodiment of things thought yet never said.  At a healthy distance from that time in my life, I’m now seeing these barbs less as signs of strength and more as the moves of a wounded animal raging against a world that’s starting to crack through the surface. 

Of course, maybe I’m projecting too much of myself onto this, but I suppose that’s why these things dig in so deep.  Seeing ourselves in characters like these gives us the opportunity to look study ourselves from the outside.  When we’re lucky, it changes how we think from the inside as well.

More on Bright Eyes: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Jonathan Fisk” – Spoon
(Words/music: Britt Daniel, available on Kill the Moonlight, Merge Records 2002)

In the deluge of retrospectives over the past six months or so, I noticed a trend.  A surprising (well, to me at least) number of people rated Spoon as one of their best (read: favorite) bands of the past decade.  I don’t mean to knock Spoon – I like their records a lot and frequently refer other people to them.  They just never struck me as a transcendently great band – one that would be in the second list of my favorite bands, and certainly not a band I would ever question someone for loving.  I’ve always enjoyed their records, with “enjoyed” being the key word.  They are a consistently good band even if I’ve never been head-over-heels enamored with them.  This is precisely what put the band at the top of MetaCritic’s compendium – by their math, Spoon proved to be the most consistently excellent band of the past decade.

“Consistent” is a bit of a double-edged sword, and to be fair Spoon embodies the most positive qualities of this term.  Even if the sound of each record shifts (and their new record Transference makes Spoon sound a little funkier and looser, at least from the couple of listens I’ve given it over the past few days), they thrive on this sense of sonic equilibrium.  “Jonathan Fisk” does this through heavy repetition, both in the stomp of the drums and the heavy chording hand in the guitar.  From the first note to the end of the song, the band locks into this moderate groove, leading Britt Daniel to sing rhythmically.  Where many of Spoon’s contemporaries use jagged guitar riffs or polyrhythmic percussion, it’s Daniel’s vocals (and a brief burst of guitar at the end) that add a layer of rhythmic variation over the solid bed.  Even if Spoon is opening up their groove (and I imagine that their current live sets will reflect this looseness), they could whip up a consistently tight track with the best of them.  In that sense, it’s easy to see how so many could love a band that delivers so consistently.

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

“Get By” – Talib Kweli
(Words/music: Talib Kweli, Nina Simone, and Kanye West, available on Quality, MCA 2002) 

Jay-Z, arguably the most successful man in hip hop this past decade, pays Talib Kweli a strong compliment on the track “Moment of Clarity.”  “If skills sold, truth be told, I’d probably be lyrically Talib Kweli.”  It’s somewhat of a backhanded compliment, as Jay says he’d give Kweli a run for his money if it made money, but it’s a compliment nonetheless.  By the time Kweli went beyond his relationship with DJ Hi-Tek and started rhyming over others’ beats, he established his reputation as one of hip hop’s most gifted lyricists.  Even if pairing him with Jay-Z’s producers (in this case, a pre College Dropout Kanye West) didn’t yield Jay’s SoundScan numbers, it broadened Kweli’s range.

Of course, skills alone don’t sell, but the “Sinnerman”-spinning beat on “Get By” makes Kweli sound like the most vital MC in the land.  West’s bouncy piano beat lets Kweli excel with his occasionally off-rhythm rhymes; when Kweli deviates from the beat – particularly when he spits a longer phrase at a quicker pace – he sounds like a soloist embellishing on a melody.  By deliberately breaking the form, Kweli gains a fluidity to his rhymes, letting him play in the space between those piano chords and drum notes the way that few other MCs would dare to attempt.  He always finds his way back onto the beat though, and his embellishments never obstruct his lyrics – top notch, of course.  “Get By” would be a winner with just Kweli, the drums, and the piano, but the vocal adornments make the track soar.  Whether Simone’s sampled vocals, the small choir singing the hook, or West’s secret weapon John Legend reaching for the back row, these additions give “Get By” a fuller feel.  Even if it’s a bit of a generalization, “Get By” remains one of the finest tracks in both Kweli and West’s body of work (not the career defining highlight for either, but certainly on their “best of” collections), and if that sounds like my own backhanded compliment, it’s meant as an endorsement of this track.

More on Talib Kweli: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Something” – Paul McCartney
(Words/music: George Harrison, available on Back in the U.S. – Live 2002, Capitol 2002)

The school where I worked on my masters’ degree had a clock above the library that played a different melody every hour.  The first time I noticed the clock (and the only melody I can remember it playing) it was playing “Something.”  It was a bright, sunny afternoon early in my first semester, and as the notes carried across the campus, everything looked more vibrant.  It fit the scene so perfectly that I didn’t even realize what I was listening to until it was almost over; George Harrison’s simple melody seemed natural coming out of the bells of a clock tower, so I didn’t even realize that it was out of context right away.

It’s this simplicity that Paul McCartney’s ukulele version honors.  During his 2001-2002 world tour, McCartney took a break from his greatest hits revue to perform Harrison’s signature Beatles tune, accompanied by four tiny strings.  Recently, he’s performed the ukulele bit as an introduction, segueing into the traditional Abbey Road arrangement, but on this live album he performs the whole song by himself, including singing the lead guitar part.  Even in this reduced setting, “Something” still captivates, as a 60 year old man and a ukulele alone kept tens of thousands of fans enraptured for three minutes.  It’s appropriate, given that Harrison’s singing about the simple way that love affects us.  It’s also a tribute to the versatility of Harrison’s song that whether in its lush studio arrangement, a clock tower bell system, or a tiny stringed instrument, the beauty radiates through.  Rather than lean on its instrumentation, Harrison’s song relies on its melody and its honesty – in short, he made it simple to make it sound good.

More on Paul McCartney: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Mall of America” – Desaparecidos
(Words/music: Desaparecidos, available on Read Music / Speak Spanish, Saddle Creek 2002)

Throwing down the word “capitalism” in a song titled after the biggest shopping center in North America conjures up immediate associations.  When it’s Conor Oberst, heir to the Dylanesque title of Angry Young Man, letting the word eek out with a healthy dose of scorn, that leap becomes easier.  Capitalism is an easy punching bag, especially when set up as the antithesis of art, and when Oberst throws out the line “there are no art forms now, only capitalism,” it’s hard to deny it as a countercultural rally cry.  In our post-Carles world, this line seems either completely tongue-in-cheek or astutely accurate (depending on how you read Hipster Runoff, I suppose), but it’s easy to connect the dots between Oberst, his side project that references disappearing dissidents in South America, and an anti-capitalist stance.

It’s not that this reading is wrong (after all, that line is hard to read differently even in context), it just feels incomplete.  Oberst, better known as the brains and voice behind Bright Eyes, made a sharp aesthestetic shift with this Desaparecidos record.  Right between the Fevers and Mirrors and Lifted… albums, Oberst was on the verge of minor indie stardom, already garnering whispers as the “new Dylan” (no matter how apocryphal they may have been).  Regardless, it’s easy to see how some would chide Oberst for abandoning the mode that was in the process of making him famous.  It’s these naysayers that Oberst addresses directly in the first line of the song: “They say it’s murder on your folk career / To make a rock record with the Disappeared.”  It’s not quite Dylan Going Electric, but it’s an impressive moment of self-awareness to dismiss his critics, declare that “there is not an image that I must defend,” and declare the “death of art” all in one verse.  Of course, it helps to have such a weighty track behind one of his most vitriolic moments, and even if it feels a bit aimless, the young Oberst was at his best and most focused when his feelings were clearest.  Even if it feels a little sophomoric now, it still feels good to scream every once in a while.

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

“Always on My Mind” – Phantom Planet
(Words/music: Alex Greenwald, available on The Guest, Epic 2002)

Like many people, I first fell for Phantom Planet because Max Fisher from Rushmore played drums for them.  Thus, the one time I saw Phantom Planet years ago the goal was to meet actor Jason Schwartzman (Phantom Planet’s former drummer) and try not to geek out by asking any questions about Bill Murray.  Between a cult film star playing drums and a song used as the theme song to one of the more iconic teen shows of the decade, Phantom Planet faced an uphill battle that a little power-pop band wasn’t equipped to handle.  It’s a shame, as they played power pop with the best of them, and put on a hell of a show too – including an unexpected cover of Radiohead’s “Airbag” and Weezer’s “El Scorcho.”

My favorite Phantom Planet performance is their cover of Jackson Browne’s “Somebody’s Baby,” so that might explain why I think of “Always on My Mind” as its kid nephew.  Like Browne’s perfect pop composition, “Always on My Mind” piles melody upon melody.  Alex Greenwald’s cheery vocals join the keyboard, slide guitar, and a perfectly placed mandolin (right?) in the solo section.  Most importantly, “Always on My Mind” carries itself with the same effortless charm that makes Browne’s song so ebullient.  Even if the transitions aren’t completely seamless, the verses and choruses roll right into each other, creating one big melodic chain for three and a half minutes.  If it’s not as good as the masters of power pop, it’s clearly aiming in the right direction.  While Phantom Planet might be on an “indefinite hiatus,” I wouldn’t be surprised to see a few more gems of this caliber if they find their way back together.

More on Phantom Planet: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Inside of Love” – Nada Surf
(Words/music: Matthew Caws, Ira Elliot, and Daniel Lorca, available on Let Go, Barsuk Records 2002)

Subtle differences distinguish self-deprecation, self-loathing, and self-pity.  We see someone who makes a joke about himself as charming, someone who obsesses over a personal flaw as frustrating, and someone who feels sorry for himself as pathetic.  All three of these behaviors come from that similarly dark place in ourselves yet end up in different places.  It’s a bit of an oversimplification, but the difference involves ownership – being comfortable enough with one’s flaws to acknowledge them (and laugh, even), recognizing flaws and hating that part of ourselves, or painting oneself as a blameless victim who can’t change the situation.  This is the danger of self-pity, when we give up ownership and try to pass the blame to anyone else.  It leaves us in a frozen state – unable to improve our situation and unwilling to try anything to change the circumstances.  Whether it’s seeking a copout or making a series of behaviors a routine, feeling sorry for oneself does nobody any favors.

This is what makes “Inside of Love” interesting to me.  Matthew Caws’ narrator exists in the grey area between self-loathing and self-pity.  He finds himself in a rut, watching garbage on TV and rehashing his regrettable behavior night after night.  This character knows that he doesn’t like the cycle he’s in yet seems stuck in it; he knows enough to want “an aerial view” of his life, but has no plans on implementing it.  The whole song turns on one line in that verse – “I know the last page so well, I can’t read the first.” It encapsulates the feeling of recognizing a problem yet actively avoiding it – quitting before even playing, as the case may be.  So instead of finding the “inside of love,” he’s on the couch, watching mind-numbing television and deluding himself into thinking that it’s been “a bad night.”  Sure, we’re all entitled to a bad night from time to time, but when they become bad weeks and bad months, something has to give.  Caws paints this narrator with efficient detail, making his plea for substantial emotional connection real yet undercutting it with his self-pity.   It’s simultaneously beautiful, heartbreaking, and infuriating, and best (or worst, depending on your perspective) of all, it cuts close to home.  Some people might react better to a direct, “take control”-type song, but others might tune it out before it can hit home.  “Inside of Love” seduces us into listening with these beautiful harmonies and strikes when we recognize part of ourselves in this narrator.  Sometimes, seeing our pathos in someone else is enough to get us off the couch to switch off the TV and start picking up the pieces.

More on Nada Surf: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Walking with Thee” – Clinic
(Words/music: Clinic, available on Walking with Thee, Domino 2002)

I go long stretches of time in between listens to Clinic, but when I hear a song like “Walking with Thee,” I feel like I still know every twist and turn.  It’s not that it’s a predictable song; instead, I spent a lot of time learning these songs passively by listening to it repeatedly.  Every play, whether putting the “Walking with Thee” single on my record player, putting the album on, or letting the songs pass through on shuffle, offered another opportunity to commit another part of the song to those deep recesses of memory where things like this lie in deep storage until needed.  I probably go weeks without actively thinking about a band like Clinic, but as soon as the song starts, it’s like those neurons in my brain immediately know where to find the case file, carefully built up over years of sporadic listens.

As a song, “Walking with Thee” feels like a time capsule not only because it comes right back when I hear it, but also because it feels like it belongs in another era.  It sounds like a distorted modern take on the late 1960s garage rock genre.  The lead organ riff could fit in on the Nuggets compilation if they played it on vintage equipment.  The arrangement stays simple, riding this superb riff and a fairly simple, repetitive lyric, gently shifting from segment to segment.  On one level, this sounds like something the kids down the street could play.  However, just like the first wave of garage rock, some intangible separates songs like this from the amateurs.  In this case, it’s a general sense of uncertainty that haunts the song.  No single element points at it, but I feel a minor sense of dread in the deepest part of the song.  Perhaps from listening to other Clinic songs, it’s a weird feeling of paranoia that something else lies in the song.  Regardless, it’s this deviation from the more carefree garage rock of the 1960s that distinguishes “Walking with Thee” from its predecessors.

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

“I Get Wet” - Andrew W.K.
(Words/music: Andrew W.K., available on I Get Wet, Mercury 2002)

I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that nobody likes Andrew W.K. simply for the music.  Sure, the songs have their merits (more on that in a minute), but the real draw is the personality.  It’s possible to like music and hate the artist (Oasis is as fine an example as any other), but the dividing line for Andrew W.K. begins and ends with the man.  Since the red-hot fury of his debut faded, he’s released a few albums under the radar (including an entire album of Japanese pop songs – appropriately, he’s big in Japan), gone on public speaking tours, founded a successful club in New York City (Santos’ Party House), hosted his own kids show (that my ten year-old cousin enthusiastically endorsed this weekend), and grew his legacy as a cult figure.  Of course, his multiple-hour speaking engagements, appearance on Aqua Teen Hunger Force, weird faces on Fox News, and teaching Conan O’Brien how to dance helped build his persona, but the legend began with I Get Wet.  His debut, beginning with its iconic cover, crams enough partying into a half hour to give anyone alcohol poisoning.  It even spawned what might be the greatest Pitchfork review of all time – one that desperately tries to be snarky yet still tips its hand in Mr. Wilkes-Krier’s direction.  Naturally, it’s not music for everyone and for most people, it’s not music for all occasions.  Still, in well-concentrated bursts, Andrew W.K. accomplishes precisely what he aims to do – lighten the mood.

Ultimately, songs like “I Get Wet” work because they seem like the natural extension of this man’s personality.  If you’re going to like his music, it’s because you’re charmed (in some unconventional sense of the word) by the man creating the music.  It’s not even remotely subtle, but it has no aims of being Pet Sounds either.  It’s not the pop-metal sheen that makes “I Get Wet” (among others) irresistible, it’s the vivacity that permeates through every inch of the song.  Anything with energy and melody gets pushed to the front of the mix, pushing Andrew W.K. to the middle of the mix; as a result, the song nearly bursts with the fanfare of horns, pounding of drums, and bludgeoning with melody.  He has a gift for arranging, and he proves his musical prowess in a home movie by vamping on the opening fanfare on his piano.  Instead, he chooses to be the raving lunatic at the center of the party.  It’s understandable that some (or many, to be honest) might feel fatigued by his act, but he either plays the part so well (or truly lives this way, amazingly) that authenticity and irony get thrown out the window.  It might not scratch the itch for something quiet and precise (although he recently told NPR that he loves Bach), but when the time is right to turn the volume up to double digits, “I Get Wet” accomplishes the task perfectly.

More on Andrew W.K.: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“It Was There That I Saw You” - …And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead
(Words/music: Trail of Dead, available on Source Tags & Codes, Interscope 2002)

At the time, Source Tags & Codes was the most visceral album I owned.  It wasn’t the kind of record I thought about (and thus I probably missed out on the semiotics inferred by the title) or connected with on an emotional level.  Instead, I remember it was something I’d feel when listening to it.  I’d heard louder albums, I’d heard faster album, and I’d heard heavier albums.  But the first time I listened to the record (home for the summer from college, sitting on my parents’ floor playing F-Zero on Super Nintendo), the album felt like this huge wave crashing against me.  The grand sound – in volume but also in ambition, hit me in a way that rendered me speechless.  The guitars and drums rushed out of the speaker the way an medieval army rushes into battle in a movie.  This assault wasn’t flawless – the “general” Conrad Keeley sounded like the nasally tactician rather than Achilles (and I still can’t listen to “Another Morning Stoner” without hearing Keeley breathe in before each line), but it seemed like it while it was playing.  During an era where I thought a lot about my favorite music (like the narrative I wanted to impose on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot), Source Tags & Codes was an anomaly – when it was on, I marveled at it, and when it stopped I had almost nothing to say.  It’s one of the few records that I enjoyed that generally left me speechless.

“It Was There That I Saw You” encapsulates most of the “tricks” that Source Tags & Codes uses in its plan of attack. After a few seconds of static and radios tuning, the song uncoils like a snake attacking its prey.  In less than a minute, the band empties their barrels and recoils and rests.  Where other bands might stretch this minute into a two and a half minute song (or leave it as a sixty two second track – a far more appealing alternative), the band pulls the tempo back and plays a darkly melodic middle section.  This instrumental bridge, nearly half of the song’s running time, shows that the band excels at a lower tempo and intensity, and after the opening punch of the song’s first minute, it’s a welcome reprieve.  Whether it sounds like Sonic Youth at their slower moments or not, its the charm that lures the snake back out.  Granted, it could be the sonic equivalent of the snake gracefully slithering across the floor – looking more entrancing than excitable – but nonetheless the opening assault returns for a final reprieve.  Even though it’s almost identical to the first minute, it sounds equally as urgent and assailing as the first strike.  It’s this cycle of rawness and polished sheen that makes the album hit as hard as it does, and even if they revealed all their methods on the first track, they still work on the rest of the disc.

More on …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Go With The Flow” - Queens of the Stone Age
(Words/music: Josh Homme and Nick Oliveri, available on Songs for the Deaf, Interscope 2002)

Queens of the Stone Age third album Songs for the Deaf benefited from an enthusiastic endorsement of one of their biggest fans.  Their songwriting and production seemed ready for their moment in the spotlight on this album, channeling their raw energy into focused songs.  Still, it’s hard to imagine the album getting as much attention without Dave Grohl’s repeated endorsement of the band.  He believed so much in this band that he briefly became their drummer, recording Songs for the Deaf and even touring with the band.  Grohl seemed ready for an opportunity to play the drums again, so I imagine that factored into his decision.  However, I’m sure Grohl could have found many opportunities, so his choice to become one of Josh Homme’s supporting musicians reads as a strong endorsement of the band’s talents. 

To be fair, Songs for the Deaf isn’t a Grohl charity project; these are punchy songs that tread the line between being heavy and melodic.  “Go With the Flow” balances these two elements particularly well, weaving backing vocals and a constant lead guitar with Homme’s vocals.  The lead guitar rings with near constant vibrato and sounds like a theramin on steroids.  It gives the songs an eerie undercurrent and a dark edge to counter the overlapping vocals in the chorus.  Grohl Former Queens drummer Gene Trautman (thanks David for correcting me - Trautman plays on this song and one other) plays the drums in his heavy yet quick pace, but it’s the constant piano vamp that runs through the entire song that gives the song a sense of urgency.  By having the piano as a constant through most of the song, Grohl Trautman becomes free to embellish his part and he takes advantage to toss fills wherever he can fit them.  The final product accomplishes both of its goals by sounding urgent and heavy at first while revealing a more subtle arrangement underneath its bombast.  It’s the kind of balancing act that I wish Grohl paid more attention to in his day job (at least on their recent albums).

More on Queens of the Stone Age: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“To Hell with Good Intentions” – mclusky
(Words/music: Jonathan Chapple, Andrew Falkous, Matthew Harding, available on mclusky Do Dallas, Too Pure 2002)

I’ve realized that part of the reason I enjoy songs like “To Hell with Good Intentions” is that it ends up being somewhat cathartic.  Songs like this thrive on tension, and mclusky squeeze out every ounce available between their three members.  While the guitar chords crunch and the drums pound along, Andrew Falkous slowly unwinds.  He sounds like he needs some kind of release and seeks it out by emotionally venting.   Lyrically, Falkous leans on a series of boasts about his love, band, and dad.  Yes, these kind of taunts (“my dad is bigger than your dad”) are childish, but sometimes it provides an emotional spark (albeit a cheap and often petty one).  I’m more interested in the way he sings these schoolyard taunts.  First, he arranges them as a sort of call-and-response, repeatedly demanding that his audience sings along with him.  With the thrashing behind him (in particular the start and stop riff in the verses), Falkous makes this sound like a rally cry rather than a pep rally – he wants everyone to fall in line behind him on his march “straight to hell.”  As he continues on, Falkous’ voice sounds becomes strained; what started as a confident statement about the relative size of his “love” becomes a series of howls near the end of the song.  The longer he spends in this role leading the rally, the more Falkous succumbs to his emotions.  I have a similar reaction to the song – by the end, I’m ready to start pounding along.  On those days where I’m stressed out, “To Hell with Good Intentions” provides two and a half minutes of thrashing joy, and even if it doesn’t solve my problems in that time, I feel better having screamed (or, in this case, having been screamed at).

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