Some Songs Considered

“Billie Jean” – Michael Jackson
(Words/music: Michael Jackson, available on Thriller, Epic 1982 / “Billie Jean” Single, Epic 1983)

The “Billie Jean” single came out about a month before I was born (and Thriller about a month before that).  A few months later at the Motown 25th Anniversary Special, Jackson effortlessly unleashed his signature Moonwalk during a performance of the song.  As I entered this world, Michael Jackson seized control of popular culture.  He remains the biggest pop star of my lifetime, for both the positive and negative reasons.   I say “pop star” because I only thought of him as a musician later on.  For most of my youth, I knew Jackson through his videos – ones that seemed more like mini-musicals or really short movies to a young kid.  These powerful visuals (and let’s be honest, Jackson’s shifting visage) only made Jackson seem more supernatural – more like an otherworldly character in these films rather than a real person. 

Maybe it was the larger-than-life presence behind the songs, but many of Jackson’s singles had this otherworldly feeling to them.  “Billie Jean” in particular still sounds eerie – not in the same prosthetic-creepiness of the “Thriller” video, but from all of the odd sounds in the recording.  The synthesizer hums at an eerie pitch (in the unconventional key of F# minor) while multi-tracked vocals echo in alternating speakers.  These oddities come out under this close scrutiny, yet from far away “Billie Jean” rides a flawless groove and near-perfect melody.  It’s this combination of perfect pop and tortured psyche that Jackson bounced between during my lifetime – often treading too deep in either glossiness or the grotesque – that made him compelling.  Let’s face it – at his highest moments as well as his lowest, it always felt like he was from some completely different realm. 

(Also, I don’t usually do this, but if you’re interested in some of the more interesting trivia regarding “Billie Jean,” such as Jackson recording his backing vocals through a cardboard tube or Quincy Jones’ aversion to including it on Thriller, the Wikipedia entry on the song is a great read)

More on Michael Jackson: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Somebody Got Murdered” – The Clash 
(Words/music: Topper Headon, Mick Jones, Paul Simonon, Joe Strummer, available on Sandinista!, Epic 1980) 

There’s a lot of power in word choice, particularly in the use of the right word in the right place.  For example, one may call the Clash’s Sandinista! album eclectic and diverse while others may call it scattered and unfocused.  All four descriptors technically fit – it’s a double album that continues deeper down the band’s different stylistic fascinations – yet suggest different feelings toward the album.  Regardless, “Somebody Got Murdered” provides one of the album’s more straightforward anchors.  I thought about deeming it “pop punk,” but that term carries such strong associations today that don’t really do the song justice.  However, it’s an apt descriptor, as its melodic charms and tight arrangement put this song up with the Clash’s best work and some of the best power pop of that era.  It’s not as adventurous as some of the other tracks on this album, but it makes up for it with its infectious qualities and efficient arrangement.

This idea of word choice extends into the song as well, specifically with the word “somebody.”  Jones uses the word throughout the song rather than giving his characters names.  While this might seem like a cop-out at first, this anonymity relates directly to detachment from the anonymous deaths that fill the news daily.  By naming victims, they become real deceased people.  As anonymous figures, they dissolve into statistics.  Jones’ story evidently draws on a real experience, but the experience extends beyond the nameless victim he encountered.  Whether they remain nameless because we don’t want to know the names or because we aren’t provided them, it’s easier to move past something so horrific when an identity isn’t attached.

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

“Mama, I’m Coming Home” – Ozzy Osbourne
(Words/music: Lemmy Kilminster, Ozzy Osbourne, Zakk Wylde, available on No More Tears, Epic 1991) 

I don’t know a lot about metal, but I know enough to know that this is not what I would have thought a song written by these three gentlemen would sound like.  Sure, the power ballad generally fits somewhere between a daring reinvention and a damning softening, but if nothing else it gives radio something tangible to grab onto.  Aside from Black Sabbath, my introduction to most of Ozzy Osborne’s songs came from elsewhere – friend’s recommendations or the legends of Randy Rhodes’ guitar playing.  When I was growing up, radio never really played “Crazy Train” enough for my liking, but they did play “Mama, I’m Coming Home” a lot.  And that’s probably where I grew to love it. 

All joking aside, “Mama, I’m Coming Home” is a well-written ballad, from the gentle guitar of the opening through the build up to the harder sections to that terrific chord right after the chorus.  It’s this chord – the one held and resolved on “home” – that always sticks with me, and when I’m scanning the radio compulsively, it’s the main reason why I stick around.  Without this moment, I’d probably write off this song as a cashgrab and make some crack about naming this album after a shampoo bottle slogan.  With this bit of vocals added in, it’s worth every cent Misters Kilminster, Osbourne, and Wylde collect in residuals. 

More on Ozzy Osbourne: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Wrong ‘em Boyo” – The Clash 
(Words/music: Clive Alphonso, available on London Calling, Epic 1979) 

Days like today remind me that, given the scope of the entire world, I know very little.  I sat down to write about my pet peeve of limiting London Calling to the narrow confines of the “punk album” label and planned on using “Wrong ‘em Boyo” as a talking point.  I wanted to touch on how the song pulled in these different elements – specifically incorporating the twelve bar blues form and the Stagger Lee / Stack-o-Lee legend.  In the car on the way home from work this afternoon I ran through the song in my head and started fleshing out how I’d pull these things together in a way to celebrate the depth and breadth of the Clash’s repertoire. 

And then I called up the Allmusic page for London Calling to grab the writer’s credits (since both physical copies of the album are boxed away somewhere) and fell down the rabbit hole.  I knew that part of the song came from somewhere else, but I assumed it was the bluesy introduction and that the horn-driven romp was a Strummer/Jones composition.  It turns out that the entire version comes from an early ska/rocksteady band called The Rulers.  Their version, archived on a couple of Trojan Records’ ska collections, includes the restart and the groove-shift in the second section as well.  The Clash beefed theirs up with horns and a tempo change, but it stays pretty faithful to The Rulers’ version otherwise.  I knew The Clash’s reggae roots – I just didn’t know this specific example!

So what started as a rant ends as a reminder.  Part of what makes London Calling so great was the way it grabbed from all of the different musical worlds its creators delved in, be it musical forms, prior source material, or even just the cover’s design.  It’s impressive enough to pull off so many different musical feats – doing them all this well is what makes this band legendary.  

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

“Dream Police” – Cheap Trick
(Words/music: Rick Nielson, available on Dream Police, Epic 1979) 

When asked about his music being used in a commercial, Iggy Pop (or I think it was Iggy Pop, please correct me if I’m wrong) said (and again, I’m paraphrasing – I can’t find the exact quote) that he saw no issue with licensing his songs.  Specifically, Pop said that his songs weren’t written with the intent to sell products, intimating that it’s not selling out if they come to you after an indiscriminate amount of time. 

I share this along with the following statement of facts: I don’t write songs, let alone songs anyone cares about.  What people do with their songs is their business, and if it puts food on the table or makes a loved one’s life a little better, then even better.  So when Cheap Trick decided to rerecord “Dream Police” for an Audi commercial and rechristen it as “Green Police” (to tout the car’s environmental credentials), it’s ultimately Rick Nielson’s prerogative to provide for himself and his family.  Hell, given the same opportunity, I’m not sure I’d do it differently.

That being said – ugh.

Cheap Trick, one of the finest and (generally) underappreciated power pop bands of their era, deserved the crowd who heard their music tonight.  Their songs are ebullient and wry and stick in your head for days.  “Dream Police” may not be on the same level as “Surrender,” but its slick production and eerily-tinged synths find the sweet spot between the song’s bubbly melody and the lyrics’ sci-fi paranoia.  Yes, it’s a ridiculous concept, but it’s the right kind of ridiculous that’s tempered with the proper goofy demeanor that makes it charmingly ridiculous.  Perhaps “Green Police” is the equivalent government related fear (judging by the number of folks on Twitter labeling it a “liberal dream,” perhaps it’s even more polarizing) thirty years later, but tonight it came off as hokey. 

Again, I’m not against anyone collecting a paycheck.  It’s just a shame that it had to come in such a patronizing way.  Maybe Rick Nielson is laughing at people like me (and maybe subconsciously I’m resentful because I’ll never afford an Audi), but I can’t help but feel like “Green Police” is counter-productive.  Not only will the melody to one of my favorite songs cause me to change the channel, but after tonight I’m not sure how long it will be before I’ll be able to listen to “Dream Police” and enjoy it again.

More on Cheap Trick: 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

“Foreplay / Long Time” – Boston
(Words/music: Tom Scholz, available on Boston, Epic 1976)

In the couple times in my life that it’s come up for discussion, I find that I’m the minority opinion for preferring the “Long Time” part of this track to the “Foreplay” part of the song.  That’s not to say that I dislike the opening, but I see it as precisely that – an opening fanfare before a superbly crafted pop song (more on that in paragraph two).  The thing that complicates this fanfare / main act argument is the overt display of musicianship in the opening two minute sequence.  Maybe I know too many musicians, but when I tell people that I prefer the second part of the song I’ve received strange looks (and not just strange looks for trying to start a serious discussion about a Boston song).  It’s a impressive sequence (and one that’s out of my range as a musician), but it strikes me as a sort of throwaway – Scholz and his band messing around in the studio and coming up with this improvisation.  In short, it’s very flashy with little substance – the fooling around before getting to the main event.  After all, Scholz does name it “Foreplay” for a reason.

This argument also (backhandedly) suggests that Boston leaves their chops in the opening series.  They don’t; “Long Time” isn’t as blatant with its virtuosity, choosing to use skill in service of the song.  As soon as the drums bring the song back from its ambient break, Scholz plays a blistering lead guitar lick.  While it’s not the same furious barrage of notes from the opening, it’s intensely melodic.  This is the major difference between the two parts – one focuses on chops, the other focuses on composition.  “Long Time” might not be as fast as “Foreplay,” but it’s immaculately arranged.  Every keyboard line builds harmonies, melodies dance together, all to create something vividly bright and infectiously catchy.  Even the switches in texture – from full band to acoustic guitar, vocal harmonies, and handclaps – accomplish their purpose.  Perhaps it’s an issue of preference, but I’ll take the joyous feel of “Long Time” to the rushed sonic onslaught of “Foreplay” anytime.

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

“People of the Sun” – Rage Against the Machine
(Words: Zack de la Rocha, music: Rage Against the Machine, available on Evil Empire, Epic 1996)

Rage Against the Machine’s music will always find a place with those who connect with the primal energy in their sound and the anger in Zack de la Rocha’s voice.  Some might argue that these people miss the point, but that’s alright.  Yes, de la Rocha’s lyrics are more than just angry rants against those who piss him off, but that’s not the reason that most of his fans came to him.  If Rage’s draw was extremely far-left politics (much further left than this liberal at least), their audience might be a fraction of what they had.  Instead, their aggressive sound gave de la Rocha the audience to share his message and educate the masses about his interests.  It seems like he (and his bandmates) understand that they need the soapbox before they can start speaking.  Even if much of their crowd cared more for the “rage” rather than knowing who/what the “machine” was, many more people heard the band’s message than the people passing out the Communist newsletter on the corner of city streets.

Regardless, Tom Morello always interested me the most; specifically, I marveled at the wide range of sounds he coaxed out of his guitar, making it howl and wail in an entirely unique way.  “People of the Sun” seems like one of Morello’s tamer moments, but only because he locks into a groove early on.  The rhythm section lays down a solid beat and Morello makes his six strings sing like some sort of rare beast.  His tone articulated the same seething anger de la Rocha channeled in his lyrics, placing the Zapatista rebels in a variety of historical contexts (Wikipedia will provide a better history lesson than I can in this space).  Not to slight the rhythm section at all (who else could lay it down like that?), but de la Rocha’s verbal assault and Morello’s innovation set Rage Against the Machine apart from their contemporaries.  While bands that honed in on the angry part of their rap-rock hybrid ended up like Limp Bizkit, Rage Against the Machine produced numerous tracks like “People of the Sun” that could satiate the gear heads, fist pumpers, and revolutionaries at the same time.  No wonder so many people still love them.

More on Rage Against the Machine: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“This Fffire” – Franz Ferdinand
(Words/music: Alex Kapranos and Nick McCarthy, available on Franz Ferdinand (Bonus Disc), Epic 2004)

Earlier today while in the car, I heard one of the recent Franz Ferdinand singles and for a split second thought it was a Doors song.  Admittedly, I was channel surfing and didn’t know what station I had on (and was a little tired too), but it was the first time I noticed a similarity between Alex Kapranos and Jim Morrison’s voices.  Leaving all sonic similarities aside for a moment, it’s a perfect comparision for me because I’ve found both bands to be “sometimes” bands.  I find that many times I skip right past both in my library yet sometimes, and usually never by personal request, it hits the spot perfectly.  I’ve never been able to associate either band with a particular mood, yet there are times when I welcome a Franz Ferdinand track on my iPod (or “L.A. Woman” on the radio, but that’s another story).

“This Fffire” is usually the culprit – it’s not too different than the properly spelled track from Franz Ferdinand’s debut album, but with its slightly glossier mix, it captures the things I liked about the band when I first heard them.  I’m a sucker for a song that gradually builds to a climax, and while Kapranos and company aren’t tension-and-release innovators, I like how the verses feel subdued and quickly explode into the chorus.  The jagged guitar riff and opening hi-hats were everywhere five years ago (and perhaps the reason I’ve cooled on the band more recently) but the band use them both well here, making one of the finest dance-punk songs never burdened with the label.  Even if I don’t find myself taking the album off of my shelf anymore, this is one of the songs that reminds me why I cared about this band in the first place.

More on Franz Ferdinand: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” – Michael Jackson
(Words/music: Michael Jackson, available on Off the Wall, Epic 1979)

I desperately wanted to write about someone else tonight, but I’ve been surrounded by Michael Jackson’s death between Twitter, the pop radio stations playing him non-stop, and even MTV briefly playing videos tonight.  It’s next to impossible for me to think about anything else tonight.  I try my best to keep the focus on the songs and my personal reactions to the songs, but tonight it’s hard not to think about Jackson’s place in popular culture.  Maura at Idolator says that it’s “very tempting to say that Jackson was something of a mirror of the past 40-ish years of popular culture, from his family’s band’s beloved singles in the ’60s and ’70s to his boundary-breaking solo career that followed to the celebrity-spectre existence,” but I’m not sure that does Jackson justice entirely.  Jackson helped to push popular culture by expanding the boundaries of popular music and the reach of a pop star.  He might have made a dozen more singles that sounded like “I Want You Back” and still remained popular, but he never seemed content to rest on his laurels.  Instead, Jackson kept thinking bigger.  Soon, his singles nearly burst at the seams with different sounds.  He almost single-handedly turned the music video into an artistic statement by employing film directors and calling in famous friends for cameos.  And even as recent as a few years ago, Jackson still outshined an entirely slew of contemporary pop stars.  “Billie Jean,” his finest single, was also, in the words of Freaky Trigger’s Tom Ewing, “a disquieting, troubled record.”  Sure, these quirks gave way to a man with serious personal and legal issues later in life, but Jackson’s shortcomings shouldn’t diminish his role in pushing popular culture to new heights.

“Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” was essentially the adolescence of Jackson’s musical career – the period between his beginnings as a child start and his ascendaency atop the musical world in the early 1980s.  During this time, Jackson stepped out on his own, left behind the vintage Motown sound that made him famous, and made a dance record.  Maybe it’s the clarity hindsight affords, but all of the elements that would catapult Jackson into becoming the world’s most recognizable entertainer are in this song – a terrific and charming vocal performance, an overriding sense of joy, and a musical arrangement that took a few risks.  It’s not as edgy as some of his later singles, but it marked a steep departure from his Jackson 5 days.  It’s also immensely satisfying to listen to now, and if the song comes up on shuffle and gets past that opening “woo,” I’ve committed myself to listening to the whole thing.  I may not be a Jackson aficionado, but I’m overcome with joy any time I hear this song.

More on Michael Jackson: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm