Some Songs Considered

“Electrolite (live July 19, 2003)” – R.E.M. 
(Words/music: Bill Berry, Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and Michael Stipe, available on Perfect Square DVD, Warner Brothers 2004)  

If you take Michael Stipe’s word for it, “Electrolite” got its title out of failure to find the right word.  I imagine anyone who writes knows how this feels and wouldn’t begrudge Stipe for seeing the warm yet distant starlight and not immediately coming up with “phosphorescence” or “bioluminescence.”  After all, “Electrolite” fits the melody better than the more accurate words.  

I bring this up for a couple reasons.  First, I’m trying to jar myself out of a wordless period (or a period where I haven’t had the energy to find the right words).  However, it’s worth noting in a song errantly titled, Stipe put together words in a way that still resonates perfectly with me.  Stipe describes the feeling of sitting on top of Mullholland Drive in Los Angeles taking in the city cloaked in a mix of streetlights and starlight and plainly encourages the listener not to be scared because “you are alive.”  In the context of the song, it’s encouragement to move closer and get a better view, but there are plenty of moments where I hear this line louder than the others.  It’s too easy to let inaction or fear make decisions for us rather than summon some courage (or nerve) to get past it.  After all, just as the best view comes right at the edge of the cliff, sometimes we have to tiptoe out of our comfort zone to get the best view.  

So as 2011 starts, I want to try to keep this in mind.  It’s OK to go toe to toe with the edge sometimes, whether that means taking a chance on something or just risking not finding the right words.  “Don’t be afraid, you are alive.”  Now it’s time to act that way.  

(As always, a more eloquent and insightful analysis of the song itself is waiting for you at Popsongs 07-08)

More on R.E.M.: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“In the Backseat” – Arcade Fire
(Words/music: Arcade Fire, available on Funeral, Merge Records 2004) 

Right now, I have minimal expectations for the Arcade Fire’s forthcoming album The Suburbs.  I’ve thought so little about their album that I was startled to realize earlier today that it comes out in roughly two weeks and that I will see them close out Lollapalooza the following weekend.  This isn’t apathy – their two previous albums rank among my personal favorites – but this is something new.  When Neon Bible leaked, I scoured with a singular focus.  Today, I barely blinked at song clips posted online. 

This general patience somewhat ironically comes from those fanatic listening binges, particularly the hours spent with Funeral.  Without over-generalizing, I end up cycling through favorite songs on many of my favorite albums.  It begins with the first couple tracks I hear – either singles or ones someone dropped on a mix or whatever – that feel familiar before the album’s first spin.  Then there are the immediately grabbing songs.  These are the ones that work in every setting – in the context of the album’s sequencing, in random, isolated iTunes double-clicks, and in those frantic, volume escalating moments in the car to name a few.  Then, over time, the other songs on the album creep up one by one and seize attention.  Sometimes it takes hearing an alternate version or a live performance, while other times it takes hearing a lyric differently or an instrument leaping out of the mix unexpectedly.  Sometimes, it’s unexplainable. 

Both of Régine Chassagne’s lead songs on Funeral earned this belated affection, but “In the Backseat” fits this description perfectly.  Tucked away at the end of the album with many sonic and emotional peaks and valleys, “In the Backseat” rarely got my full attention.  Listening with less than engaged ears, the quiet beginning and even volume to Chassagne’s voice slipped past me.  It was only the day that, for whatever reason, I keyed in on the lyrics that the song clicked.  The lines “my family tree’s / losing all its leaves” gripped me, but it was Chassagne’s voice – the beautifully crystallized and generally even foil to her husband’s gruff and theatrical vocals -  that floored me.  Her voice throughout the song quivers yet never buckles whether backed sparsely or engulfed in the swelling sound around her.  To call it the peak of the album might be unfair (or, at the very least, a matter of opinion), but its delivery crept up on a way that I’ll never completely shake.

More on Arcade Fire: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Call Me (Spanish Version)” – Blondie
(Words/music: Debbie Harry and Giorgio Moroder, available on Singles Box, EMI 2004) 

I don’t remember the exact circumstances of how I ended up with this version of “Call Me,” but I imagine it went something like this – while browsing someone’s shared music on Soulseek years back, I saw something labeled as “Call Me (Spanish Version)” and stopped in my tracks.  By my logic, this had to be mislabeled in one of two ways – either it wasn’t Blondie or it wasn’t truly in Spanish.  Nonetheless, I was still curious and downloaded it anyway.  It turns out I was wrong – this is most definitely Debbie Harry singing and it is most definitely in Spanish.

It’s been a decade since I studied Spanish, so I’m not sure how literally they translated the lyrics, nor am I really clear why Blondie recorded a version of the song with these alternate Spanish lyrics.  What I do know is that it’s odd to hear a familiar song sung in a familiar voice and not understand any of the words.  Unlike, say, Seu Jorge’s Portuguese David Bowie covers, this isn’t a different artist performing the song.  What started as a joke (this version definitely ended up at the end of a few mixes over the years) because an odd fascination – the rare example of something that sounds completely familiar yet entirely foreign at the same time. 

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

“Surf’s Up” – Brian Wilson
(Words/music: Van Dyke Parks and Brian Wilson, available on Smile, Nonesuch 2004) 

Brian Wilson’s rerecorded Smile, one of popular music’s greatest “lost albums,” came out right around the same time that I started to look at the Beach Boys as more than a kitchy’60s act.  I have a vivid memory driving around northern Rhode Island trying to match a washer for a drum set, listening to late period Beach Boys albums and discussing the efficiency in the arrangements with a friend of mine.  I asked him about Smile and he gave me the run through of unofficial sequences and alternate recordings, rattling off a few of the songs he thought I’d know, almost stopping cold on some major road when I looked back blankly at “Surf’s Up.” 

Now, I regularly listen to Wilson’s piano demo of “Surf’s Up” from the Good Vibrations box and marvel at the way he threads the song’s different sections together.  I’ve never really focused on the lyrics, so I’ve let Wilson’s voice and the different, often overlapping, melodies wash over me.  When I first heard Smile, I was curious to hear how “Surf’s Up” would sound decades later.  Remarkably, it sounds like the original with a little more shine on it.  The harmonies are flawless and perfectly balanced with each other, but it still comes down to Wilson and his piano.  His voice, particularly in every television performance I’ve seen over the last six years, feels worn both by age and by decades of demons, but when paired with one of his melodies, it sounds as arresting as ever.  Certainly as captivating as it sounded that one night stopped dead in traffic somewhere in Rhode Island.

More on Brian Wilson: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“The Town Halo” – A.C. Newman
(Words/music: Carl Newman, available on The Slow Wonder, Matador 2004)

Carl Newman may be better known as the de facto frontman of The New Pornographers, but his two solo albums continue the same sort of power pop as his more famous output.  His first solo outing The Slow Wonder generally finds Newman in the same sort of melodic vain as the Pornographers, contorting their ebullient melodies into slightly different forms.  The songs collected on this disc generally sound like they could be New Pornographers songs yet take on a different twist.  It’s interesting to see how Newman chose to adapt these songs, often by emphasizing one element of the instrumentation over the others (putting the drums front and center in the albums opener “Miracle Drug,” for instance).  Rather than use his solo outing for a radical departure (or worse – an acoustic album), Newman uses it as a playground to experiment with some different sounds, utilizing some on later New Pornographers’ albums.

The most jarring, at least off the top of my head, is “The Town Halo,” specifically because it takes what might be a normal New Pornographers riff and plays it with a cello.  The rest of the track uses standard rock band instrumentation, but it’s this main, rhythmic phrase that stands out.  It’s simultaneously characteristic of Newman’s songwriting yet distinctive (and slightly out of place) due to the instrumentation.  One usually expects a cello in a rock song to take a supporting role and play beautiful legato phrases to create mood.  Instead, Newman puts the rich instrument front and center.  It still evokes mood – not in the same manner, of course – especially when played in conjunction with those loud piano chords.  Even with a fairly typical melody for Newman (even if it’s a little more blunt and deliberate than usual), the atypical instrumentation gives it a unique twist.  Even if a song like “The Town Halo” is a notch below material from his main band, it’s this adventurous spirit that makes The Slow Wonder a worthwhile listen.

More on A.C. Newman: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Since U Been Gone” – Kelly Clarkson
(Words/music: Lukasz Gottwald and Martin Sandberg, available on Breakaway, RCA 2004) 

Great songs aren’t made solely on great hooks.  Sure, a golden hook brings an otherwise forgettable song to the top of the charts, but only a wholly great effort translates into a great song.  I’ll get to this song’s hook in a minute, but the thing that strikes me today listening to this song for the first time in ages are the verses.  From the overall taught sound of the drums and guitars to the way the title threads through the verses like a mini-hook at the end of every few lines, these verses run efficiently.  There’s even a new wrinkle after the first chorus with high harmonies accompanying Clarkson’s vocals.  The double-tracking might get tiresome throughout the whole song, but in this controlled dosage it gives this verse it’s own twist, particularly after returning from the hook.

Then there’s the hook – one that revels in its joy over its newfound freedom.  Between its infectious melody and its post-break-up rally cry, the hook would do just fine on its own.  However, when coupled with these meticulously arranged and somewhat subdued verses, the unrestrained elation in Clarkson’s voice burns brighter.  Like the background buildup in a good anecdote, the verses help to set the stage and bring us all up to speed on the relevant details.  It’s the hook that seals the deal; Clarkson gives us just enough in the verses to tip us toward her side of the story, so her bold declaration that she’s better than ever feels even more satisfying.  By the time we hit the key change in the bridge, we know enough to appreciate the way her heartbreak fortified her.  Besides, we’re already singing along, we may as well be on the same page.

More on Kelly Clarkson: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“First of the Gang to Die” – Morrissey
(Words/music: Morrissey and Alain Whyte, available on You Are the Quarry, Attack / Sanctuary 2004) 

I remember going to my college orientation, and as an awkward teenager I carefully treaded through a weekend of introductions and attachment.  Near the end of the weekend, we were waiting for something – course scheduling, perhaps, but I can’t remember exactly – and were in a classroom in one of the academic buildings.  This was when Comedy Central still played Saturday Night Live reruns, so one was on while we waited for whatever we were waiting for.  Morrissey was on singing “Glamorous Glue,” a fairly typical Morrissey single (even if I only knew him via the Smiths – a recent discovery for me within that year).  Still, one of the people sitting there looked up, directed her friends to the “weirdo” on TV, and returned to whatever they were discussing.  At that point, I was ready to go home to enjoy the rest of my summer working and listening to weirdoes on my discman.

I share this story because I feel like it frames how I approached You Are the Quarry when it came out.  By the end of time as an undergrad, I established a group of people who indulged my weirdo-heavy musical tastes.  When You Are the Quarry came out, I took notice mainly because it sounded as strong as much of his other material even a dozen years later.  “First of the Gang to Die,” a song drawing on Morrissey’s adopted hometown of Los Angeles, sounds particularly focused and polished.  Most importantly, Morrissey sounds the same as he did in 1992 (and, in many ways, in the 1980s as well), his voice dancing through the guitars to the front of the mix.  I’m sure if 2004 Morrissey was playing on the TV that day during orientation, he might have been dubbed “that old weirdo” compared with the pompadour-ed ‘Moz from the early ‘90s, yet it wouldn’t have mattered.  If anything would have changed, I would have fixated on the music rather than dwelled on the difference between myself and a stranger.  Then again, were I 21 and not 18 during that moment, I might have just said hi to a few other people in the first place.

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

“Take Your Mama” – Scissor Sisters
(Words/music: Scott Hoffman and Jason Sellards, available on Scissor Sisters, Polydor 2004)

If we made a list of influential musicians from the 1970s, chances are Elton John appears relatively late in the list. Even if we specified it down to “glam” or “pop” influences, chances are he’s still in the second wave of answers. Simply put, Elton John isn’t particularly cool, and anyone who argues otherwise is foolish. Popularity aside, John knew his way around a song, whether during his earlier, grittier days or his more outlandishly dressed days. So it’s not surprising that the Scissor Sisters would look toward him as one of their songwriting muses – it’s only surprising because he’s not a particularly stylish musical influence.

While the Scissor Sisters’ share similarly campy indulgences as John, the comparisons lie deeper. “Take Your Mama” in particular draws heavier on John’s bouncy piano-pop than the dance influences in other places on the album. Yes, it has piano like an Elton John song, but the vocals draw the most telling comparison. Vocalist Jake Shears lets his voice bend as it travels up and down his register, occasionally darting upward briefly only to return to where it started. Even the quality of his voice – broad and sturdy down in the lower range and thinner near the top – makes Shears sound even more like John vocally. When Shears slips into his falsetto, it takes a page right out of “Bennie and the Jets,” a song where John uses all of the different parts of his vocal range for different aesthetic results. When Shears and John use their falsetto, it’s a way of shifting the song into the next gear at the end of a chorus. Like John, who would later contribute piano to the group’s second album, Shears dynamic vocals give the song versatility and make it feel like it’s gradually shifting into something different each phrase. It’s this malleability that makes John the perfect musical mentor for the Scissor Sisters, even if he’s not the most obvious choice for musical worship.

More on Scissor Sisters: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“The Rat” – The Walkmen
(Words/music: The Walkmen, available on Bows + Arrows, Record Collection 2004)

“The Rat” represents an interesting personal phenomenon – this is a song that I enjoy yet rarely find myself in the mood to listen to it.  It’s not exclusive to this song – I often skip through slower songs when I want to hear something louder or faster in the car.  Instead, this provides the exact opposite – a fast, loud song that gets skipped for other fast and loud songs.  I end up going past “The Rat” and stop on songs that, at least on the surface, sound the same.

It might be the nervous energy that this song thrives on that makes me skip it.  When I think of songs fueled by nerves, I think of the tightly wound punk rock that pushes the tempo a few beats faster.  In other words, these songs thrive on the nerves we get when we’re excited about something.  “The Rat,” however, draws on the anxious side of nervousness.  Musically, the song feels pent up; while it maintains a steady tempo, it constantly feels on the verge of erupting.  Lyrically, the song focuses on the feelings leading up to a confrontation.  Maybe it’s my personal aversion to confrontation sneaking out, but “The Rat” pulls on the same strings that make me loathe confronting someone.  Ironically, this is the same energy that makes the song exciting and drew me to it in the first place.  I guess it just found the right – or in this case, the wrong – place and dug in, making me subconsciously skip a song I used to play on repeat without any specific uncomfortable associated memories.

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

“This is Not a Love Song” – Nouvelle Vague
(Words/music: Martin Atkins, Keith Levene, and John Lydon, available on Nouvelle Vague, Luaka Bop 2004)

If the search on the Tumblr dashboard is right (and I have no reason to doubt it), I’ve yet to use the term “overrated” in a post.  That’s a good thing, because it’s a generally overused term; while sometimes it fits the situation perfectly, it’s often shorthand for “I don’t like this thing that other people like, but I don’t have a good reason why.”  It rarely gets conversations – or rather, meaningful conversations – going.  Instead, things devolve into a schoolyard “am not / are too” level bout.

That being said, I think novelty covers are overrated.  I also think I’m being lazy with that statement.

I’m all for juxtaposition and irony, but I’m generally looking for a  reason with a cover song.  At one point, punk covers of pop standards made me smile, so maybe my heart has chilled, but I’m generally unmoved.  So it caught me off guard earlier tonight while making dinner when I found myself nodding along to Nouvelle Vague’s interpretation of Public Image, Ltd’s “This is Not a Love Song.”  Their lounge-tinged, boss nova rehash of the song makes sense to me because the original seems gimmicky in the first place.  If John Lydon and company took risks with PIL, “This is Not a Love Song” feels like a limp misstep that lacks the edge of some of their best singles.  If anything, the Nouvelle Vague version doesn’t feel like a gimmick; instead, it feels like a full-on embrace of the song and a willingness to take it to its extreme.  In this case, it’s embracing the cheesy synth horns and following that all the way down the elevator music rabbit hole.  I’d imagine Lydon getting a kick out of it, at least.

More on Nouvelle Vague: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Misery (Live)” – Soul Asylum
(Words/music: Dave Pirner, available on After the Flood: Live from the Grand Forks Prom, June ‘98, Columbia 2004)

I’ve walked through a lot of bookstores in my lifetime, and the sheer number of self-help books amazes me every time.  It stands to reason that a lot of shelf space equals a lot of sales, and as baffling as that seems at first, a new wave in new age thought crests every few months.  For example, the current pop-psychology pushes positive thinking – that living one’s life with an optimistic outlook will yield positive returns.  I’m not sure if I buy that, but I see merit in the opposite side of the spectrum; specifically, a lot of people bring negativity on themselves.  This doesn’t account for factors beyond one’s control; sometimes we’re stuck in awful situations with nothing else to do but wait it out or make the best out of it.  However, I also see a lot of people perpetually miserable because they (either actively or subconsciously) seek out things that make them unhappy.

Dave Pirner takes this idea, turns it into a pun, and runs with it.  “Frustrated incorporated,” the catchiest part in the song, turns the cliché “misery loves company” into this idea that people manufacture their own negativity.  It’s a clever way of approaching this idea while maintaining a thread of optimism (“we’ll create the cure – we made the disease”).  This is the essential notion in the song, especially on the After the Flood live album.  Soul Asylum volunteered to perform at the prom for a town in North Dakota devastated by flooding.  Their set, documented in this 2004 release, starts with a cover of “I Can See Clearly Now” and then into “Misery.”  Aside from being one of their catchiest songs, its early placement in the setlist seems designed for a specific purpose – the towns experienced enough misery already and it needs to put its manufacturing resources toward the cure.

More on Soul Asylum: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Mushaboom” – Feist
(Words/music: Leslie Feist, available on Let It Die, Arts & Crafts 2004)

I don’t write songs, so I can only speculate on the songwriter-song relationship and how it changes over time.  As paying audiences, we feel like we’re cheated when a performer neglects the early catalog in favor of new material.  Even when the new stuff lacks the same spark as those first few albums, songwriters still say how excited they are to play the new songs.  The more I think about my own relationship with songs as a listener, the more I feel that I have a fluid, ever changing bond with the music I like.  I’ve grown sick of favorite songs, discovered a love for songs I previously wrote off, and everything in between.  On occasion, I even see parts of myself reflecting back at me.  Therefore, I can see where songwriters have a point when describing how they grow apart from their earlier songs – in many cases, they may be snapshots of someone they’ve ceased to be.

I say this not because I think Leslie Feist distances herself from a song like “Mushaboom,” but rather I wonder what she might think of it now.  She sings that “it may be years until the day / my dreams will match up with my pay,” and at the time it seemed optimistic.  In retrospect, it seems prophetic, as Feist would later catapult to (relative) stardom with her next album.  “Mushaboom,” especially when compared with some of the arrangements on The Reminder, feels like a small, personal song.  In it, Feist convinces herself that living the rustic, less-adorned life seems alright if the company’s good, and it has the same ebullient feeling we get when love goes coursing through our veins.  Like a romantic relationship, “Mushaboom” builds on a series of these tiny yet beautiful moments, knowing that the decadent displays of love can’t compare with the genuine, understated displays.  Her song relies on this same source – it’s not as elaborate as some of her other songs, but it’s equally as beautiful.  I guess I’m just curious how Feist looks back at this – as a snapshot from a bygone era, a relic from what seems like a past life, or an underlying philosophy of life; in essence, whether her relationship has changed with her song.

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

“Ain’t That Enough” – Cloud Eleven
(Words/music: Gerard Love, available on What a Concept! A Tribute to Teenage Fanclub, Not Lame 2004)

A few years back, I ended up with the What a Concept collection probably because I wanted to hear Superdrag’s version of “Radio,” one of my favorite Teenage Fanclub songs.  This coincided with my gradual yet steadily growing love affair with Teenage Fanclub’s catalog.  Even now, every time I listen to one of their albums or the handful of (recent) live recordings I possess, I find a new song to love.  I’m also drawn to tribute albums the way that some people are drawn to cars pulled over by state troopers on the highway – you know nothing good will come from craning your neck in that direction, but you still can’t help but pay attention to it.  I say this because tribute albums generally have three types of songs.  From least to most frequent: the transcendent interpretation placing the song into a new context, the frustratingly awful version that hangs around the original like an albatross, and the play-it-safe almost too faithful recreation of the original.  What a Concept leans heavily on the play-it-safe versions, but that in itself is a fitting tribute to Teenage Fanclub.  A band that made its name on perfectly placed pop deserves to have their songs repeated note by note.

Of all the songs on the compilation, Cloud Eleven’s “Ain’t That Enough” might be the most by-the-numbers recreation of a Teenage Fanclub song.  Even if the harmonies aren’t as prominent on their version, Cloud Eleven still recreates the glockenspiel, guitar riffs, and drum beat almost note for note.  Ironically, “Ain’t That Enough” might be my favorite single song on this compilation.  It’s a bit of a backhanded compliment calling the one that sounds the most like Teenage Fanclub my favorite, but it’s a credit to the band.  “Ain’t That Enough” works because it’s simple and straightforward melody and harmony.  It wouldn’t make sense at twice the speed or in a doom metal version.  Cloud Eleven realizes this, and in this case their reverent take is the right move.  Or, in this case, it’s enough.

More on Cloud Eleven: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“The Record Store” – The Brunettes
(Words/music: Jonathan Bree, available on Mars Loves Venus, Lil’ Chief 2004)

I’ve always been philosophically for going to a concert in time to see the opening band.  When I was younger, I knew if I waited through the entire bill I could end up closer to the front of the stage.  Even now that getting close is a lower priority, I like to check out the opening act when possible.  Whether it’s a band the headliners wanted to take on tour (which after time I realized isn’t always the case) or simply just a band that I’ve heard things about, I’ve seen a lot of bands that I ended up loving after seeing them open someone else’s show.  The Brunettes are one of these bands; had I heard their cleanly produced twee pop on record first, I might have written them off.  However, they played their songs with unabashed joy even to a near-empty room at a Rilo Kiley / Nada Surf show in 2005.  They swapped instruments, picked up things that belonged more in a high school band rehearsal (clarinet, mallet percussion) , and charmed nearly every person in the room.  Even without their oddly endearing choreography, donning of Full House-era Olsen twin masks, and chatting with audience members in between sets, they had won us over with their bright and shining pop.  Their unassuming and sweet charm meant that I left with two albums rather than one.  In less than an hour, they turned me from a skeptic to a supporter.

This brief opening set still remains as this band’s defining moment, enough so that I keep looking for similar revelations in their music.  “The Record Store,” for example, starts off like a sweet bit of throwback soul-pop, and Jonathan Bree’s first line suggests that it might be a light hearted ode to cute girls with good taste in music.  A few casual listens did little to change my mind either, as I keyed in on the horn arrangement or the upbeat “la la la” verse.  Only after listening to the words closer I realized the narrator’s lament – all of the cute girls that he flirts with only make him pine for the one who got away.  His woes compound when he realizes that she’s moved on, making all of the couples in the store a sickening reminder of his former flame in the arms of someone else.  However, he hides his jealousy as not to scare her (or the other ladies) away.  Instead, I imagine him settling back behind the counter, unable to enjoy the patrons or the records without having pangs of regret.  From the song’s sound, it appears that he’s keeping up appearances pretty well, but underneath the soul music lies a soul suffering from heartbreak.

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

“Heartbeat” – Annie
(Words/music:  Anne Lilia Berge-Strand, Svein Berge, and Torbjørn Brundtland, available on Anniemal, 679 Recordings 2004)

Right now, Pitchfork is in the process of rolling out a top 500 songs of the decade contributors’ poll (a fact many will selectively ignore when letting the complaints fly tomorrow) with the top 20 set to be revealed early Friday morning.  In addition to reliving the last decade of music and reading some excellent write-ups on the songs, it’s made many a music geek think back to their own lists.  I will not be making a “top X of the decade” for a number of reasons, but I’ve been thinking about a lot of the singles I’ve discovered and enjoyed over the last decade.  “Heartbeat” stands out not as my favorite song of the aughts (again, I have no clue what that would be nor do I think I could figure that out) but remains an important song in my musical evolution.  If I had to paint the decade in one broad stroke, I’d say that this was the decade that changed my personal stance toward pop music.  I was still in high school at the turn of the decade and part of my personality involved distancing myself from pop radio.  I desperately wanted to think that listening to things that my peers didn’t know made me cool (ed note – nope.) so I grew to write off most things on mainstream radio.  It took a lot of those weird-yet-wonderfully catchy singles from the first half of the decade (think “Get Ur Freak On” or “Can’t Get You Out of My Head”) that made me rethink my stance.  Part of it, in my opinion, was an upturn in the quality of pop music (“Thong Song” was a hit around the turn of the decade, right?), but part of it was retraining myself not to worry about things like radio airplay getting in the way of a good song.

Annie’s album helped redefine my concept of pop music.  In particular, “Heartbeat” felt like it could be on the radio yet felt like it came from another world.  At its core, “Heartbeat” is another song about going out and having fun on the dancefloor.  However, it felt a little more real to me; Annie’s performance felt giddy and excited where a pop diva might just belt her way through the song.  It gave the song a more realistic personality, and maybe that’s why I let it sneak into my playlists so frequently.  It also sounds like it has a shimmery exterior, making it seem a little less real and a little more otherworldly.  Most importantly, it’s a fun and easy song to enjoy.   It’s safe to say that I enjoy this song a lot more in August 2009 than I would have in August 1999, although perhaps it would have convinced me otherwise!  Regardless, it’s one of the finest pop songs of the last decade.

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