Some Songs Considered - Posts Tagged 'Matador'

March 10, 2010

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“It’s Only Divine Right” – The New Pornographers
(Words/music: Carl Newman, available on Electric Version, Matador 2003)

In the past week, I’ve seen a few misconceptions about the New Pornographers that sparked the obsessive music geek in me. I’ve seen it intimated that Destroyer, the prolific musical output of New Pornographers contributor Dan Bejar, was Bejar’s side project. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Bejar contributes a few songs to the New Pornographers and generally doesn’t tour with them anymore. I bit my tongue, writing this off as a mistake in wording (he is better known for being in this band than for his solo output), but an even odder gaffe made me proclaim out loud at my desk. While going over guests on the forthcoming New Pornographers’ album (which supposedly has many of legitimate guests), “A.C. Newman” was listed as one of the guests. This baffled me – in certain parts of the internet, this would be like saying Paul McCartney made guest appearances on several Beatles albums! Newman is best described as the leader of the New Pornographers and, if anything, does his solo albums as side projects.

I make this assertion because (thus far), Newman saves his best songs for the New Pornographers. Not to diminish his two solo albums, both fine discs, but it takes maybe half of the New Pornographers’ Electric Version to see what Newman’s songs feel like when he’s firing on all cylinders. “It’s Only Divine Right” marries many of the best qualities of Newman’s songwriting – a driving beat, gently tangled melodic lines, and some clever wordplay. It’s equal parts bouncy and bombastic, enjoyable and edgy. Most importantly, it puts all of its parts to their best use, particularly Neko Case’s beautiful voice. Personally, I think Case sounds best when singing Newman’s songs, and it’s her harmony notes that bring “It’s Only Divine Right” toward pop godliness. Whether she’s doubling Newman’s lyrics or singing the series of rising notes right after the hook, Case’s voice adds a different texture to the song. While she sounds terrific when she takes the lead (“All For Swinging You Around,” among others), she’s equally deadly in this comparatively minor supporting role. Like a skilled director, Newman knows how to get the best performance out of his company of players by balancing egos to create something greater than the sum of its parts.

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

February 18, 2010

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“Little Eyes” – Yo La Tengo
(Words/music: Yo La Tengo, available on Summer Sun, Matador 2003)

“Little Eyes” always sneaks up on me. It starts with a series of innocuous beeps and long metallic tones before it locks into its groove. From there, it continues along for a little more than four minutes at the same volume. Other than the liquid-like guitar line bending throughout the song, nothing really stands out from the rest of the arrangement. The drums stay fairly low key, Georgia Hubley sings in a near-whisper for most of the song, and the bassline moves along yet does so in a subtle way. This is the kind of thing that if played in public wouldn’t turn too many heads.

Still, I have the entire melody committed to memory and could finish almost every line if you sang the first half of it for me. It’s nowhere near my favorite Yo La Tengo track, yet I know it better than the majority of their catalogue. The best guess I have is that it’s the net effect; if any part of the song were turned into the main attraction – whether it’s the vocal melody or a particular instrument turned up louder – it might be exposed in its isolation. Instead, with its unassuming presence, “Little Eyes” lets its charms work subtly. In a way, it’s an apt metaphor for Yo La Tengo as a whole, but I’ll leave that for another time. For tonight, I’m content to call “Little Eyes” a team victory despite not having a superstar performance.

More on Yo La Tengo: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

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

January 17, 2010

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“All the X’s Have Wings” – Helium
(Words/music: Mary Timony, available on The Dirt of Luck, Matador 1995)

I missed out on Helium the first time around (I was 12, so I think I get a pass), and even after a few suggestions, it took until last year for me to approach the band with any extended attention. In many ways, finding an older band to explore is more exciting than falling for a new release – there’s an entire catalog immediately available to explore and people to discuss the records with and ask for “next step” type recommendations. However, Helium was a bit of a dead end discovery for me – they only had a couple albums (and I didn’t get the Pirate Prude EP until I joined eMusic today) and their flirtation with alt-rock success came a couple years too early to hit most of my friends. Regardless, I made up for lost time in 2009 by giving these albums – particularly The Dirt of Luck – their due.

I naturally loved the different guitar sounds, from the distorted snarl Mary Timony culled from hers to the way Polvo’s Ash Bowie explored the often neglected higher end of the bass guitar’s range. Thus, I’m not surprised that that I leaned toward the songs build primarily around Timony’s voice and guitar. The way Timony’s high notes bleed into each other, especially when juxtaposed by the slinky, predominantly lower tone guitar notes, sounds harrowingly beautiful. The opening to “All the X’s Have Wings” particularly captures Timony in this mode, balancing a slow yet lovely melody with the unsettling tone of her guitar. When the rest of the band joins in at full power (especially the huge drum sound), it brings out the urgency in Timony’s voice – rushing her slightly before slowing back down when the spotlight moves back to her. The balance of the overloaded moments with the long stretches where Timony’s guitar notes fade into silence highlight the extremes in each, leaving plenty of space for Timony in the center to calmly yet assertively proclaim her perversions to us.

More on Helium: 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 29, 2009

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“Divorce Song” – Liz Phair
(Words/music: Liz Phair, available on Exile in Guyville, Matador 1993)

A literature professor introduced me to Joseph Cornell and his boxes. Cornell would create tiny surrealist “worlds” in the boxes, combining found objects together often in a maneuverable, interactive way. The thing that stuck the most with me about Cornell and his boxes was the way he described the construction of his collages, specifically how he believed the objects conversed with each other in these microcosms. The meaning of the collage (if meaning could be derived, I suppose) came not from the tally of the objects, but from the imaginary dialogue created by putting these objects in proximity of each other. Moreover, author Stephanie Zacharek takes the magic of these objects one step further, suggesting that Cornell’s collections of trinkets made his audience acknowledge “that “things” are not always just things; they can also represent the parts of ourselves we want most to secret away from the world. The treasures we hide in messy boxes under our beds are simply stand-ins for those we hide in the corners of our hearts.”

I often think of mixes, whether made on a tape, a CD, or a playlist, the same way. When assembling a playlist of songs that my friends know (or, even for myself), I’m amazed at the new things I discover in these songs. Even more startling is when the selections of songs unintentionally reveals something about myself. For instance, a few years ago I made a CD for a grad school friend as a way of starting a discussion about music. From the little I knew about her, I assembled songs that I thought she’d like and that she probably didn’t know (or didn’t remember). Right in the middle of the mix was “Divorce Song,” one I chose as being representative of the less sensational parts of Exile in Guyville (and for the great harmonica break at the end). Of course, after spending a little time listening to the mix, I realized that “Divorce Song” encapsulated how I felt at the time. On the obvious level, I was at the end of a long-term relationship that fizzled out, but it was the mix of rejection, bewilderment, and emotional fatigue that Phair described that hit close to home. Suddenly, this epiphany highlighted all of these things in my other choices – emotional fatigue in Wilco’s “Shot in the Arm,” the melancholy narrator in Big Star’s “September Gurls,” and the heartbreak in Springsteen’s “Bobby Jean” (especially in the Portastatic version I included). It made me think of Cornell and his boxes; just as his trinkets “talked” to each other, the songs on this mix got together and sulked a little bit. More importantly, they spoke things that I wasn’t ready to consciously think about.

For what it’s worth, I thought about the Phair song I’d include now (granted, a lot of the songs on Guyville spoke more to me then than they do now), and I think it would be “6’1”.” I have no clue what this says about me. I guess I have a mix to make.

More on Liz Phair: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

August 11, 2009

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“Game of Pricks (7” Version)” – Guided by Voices
(Words/music: Robert Pollard, available on Tigerbomb EP, Matador Records 1995)

Tonight, my friend Mike is finishing the accompanying notes to his pseudo-step sister’s eighteenth birthday present - a collection of eighteen albums he wishes he had when he was eighteen. It’s an inspired idea for a gift (he ran his preliminary list by me a few months ago) and it got me thinking about the kind of things that I wish I knew at eighteen but didn’t know. This led to the only logical choice – write a gimmick letter to my eighteen year-old self in the spirit of Mike’s gift. I’m reprinting it here tonight with the hopes that any of you with a Delorian may send this back to me in 2001 (and if you do, tell me to buy Google stock and bet on the Red Sox coming back after Game 3 of the 2004 ALCS).

Dear Brian,

First, let me say that few things change – you’ll start writing this letter three different times before scrapping the beginning. It was supposed to start with some clichéd time travel commentary and a lot of “yes, you still like music” guffawing, but you never cared much for it at eighteen and don’t really tolerate it at twenty six, so I’m not sure how I ended up on that path. You’ll still be a perfectionist and you’ll still try to bend over backwards to cater to others, even if it means blowing it in the first place.

Anyway, the whole point of this is to tell you about a song you’d like. You don’t know Guided by Voices, but you’ll love them (trust me on this one). You can look them up, but I’ll say they’re a very prolific band known for making the most of low fidelity recordings. You know that Pavement record you found in the used bin a little while ago (Terror Twilight)? They’re kind of like that, but not really. More like the earlier Pavement albums (which you’ll love too, even more than Terror Twilight). I’ve sent you the song “Game of Pricks” from an EP they put out in 1995 (although my version of it comes from their 2003 retrospective Human Amusements at Hourly Rates). Ironically, it’s a cleaner, more streamlined version than the original – you’d probably like the original (from an album called Alien Lanes) once you got over the fact that your friends’ CD-R of cover songs sounds better than that album. I think it’s something you’d enjoy – catchy, energetic, blistering pop music. Yes, don’t be afraid of that word “pop” – it doesn’t always denote something on TRL. Also, it’s worth noting that this originally appeared on a 7” vinyl single – in 2009, you’ll have bought more vinyl singles (and a lot more vinyl LPs and MP3 albums) than CDs – but don’t worry about that right now.

Why “Game of Pricks,” you might ask? I know it sounds like an angry revenge rant, but I see it slightly different. This, at least in this case, is a song from your to yourself. Eighteen is a very strange time, and I’m not sure you’ll realize it until you’re closer to my age, and my advice to you is to embrace honesty. I don’t necessarily mean this in the “don’t lie” sense (because let’s face it, a half-truth saves a lot of trouble from time to time), but rather embracing and accepting reality, and that starts with yourself. You’re a smart kid, but you’re a little delusional from time to time. Yes, some of it is naiveté, but a lot of it starts with an understanding of yourself – your strengths, your limits, your friends (or who you want to befriend), your goals (or lack thereof), etc. It’s very easy to make excuses to yourself, but it will only leave you frustrated and exhausted in the end (it’s a timespace continuum thing, and that’s the best time travel joke you’ll allow yourself). I’m not saying that being truthful with yourself is the solution to your problems, nor an easy thing to do. I’m saying what Robert Pollard’s singing in the chorus is kind of right – you owe the truth to yourself, otherwise you’re no better than all those pricks out there.

Anyway, keep your head up – believe it or not, every year gets a little bit better. I’d write more, but I have a midnight deadline for this letter and I have only a couple minutes left before that time runs out. Like I said – few things have changed.

See you soon,
Brian

More on Guided by Voices: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: guided by voices | 1995 | 1990s | EP | personal reflection | kind of a gimmick post I admit | Matador |

April 16, 2009

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“Sugarcube” – Yo La Tengo
(Words/music: Yo La Tengo, available on I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One, Matador 1997)

Maybe because I’ve always liked baseball, I’ve frequently thought of mixes (first tapes, then CDs, now playlists) as similar to baseball lineups (or, at least each side of a tape / half of a CD as a lineup). I like to start with a solid “leadoff” track or two – ones that either feel right as an opening or keep the tempo moving along. Then, the next few songs are the “power” songs – these are the ones that drive home the theme, command the listener’s attention, or are the ones I think the recipient will like the most. Then, it’s time to wind down the side and “set up” the next side – these are maybe old favorites that deserve another listen or something I’m taking a chance on including. It’s not a set formula, and it’s not how I make every mix, but I’ve found myself (even in the dead of winter) working in this mode to help put some structure into my mixes (and to help make the necessary cuts when I have 12 minutes of music and 3 minutes of space).

“Sugarcube” frequently finds its way into the middle of my mixtape batting orders. Appropriately, Yo La Tengo (whose members earn bonus points for being Mets fans) took their name from an anecdote about communication miscues in the New York Mets’ outfield (and do yourself a favor and watch that video - it’s priceless and features the great Ed Kranepool). It gains its muscle from the relentless fuzz that runs through the entire song. However, it’s far more than an experiment in noise, as this tonal cloud bursts at the seams with melody. The bass first lays claim to a melody (well, a counter-melody with the lead guitar), giving way to Ira Kaplan’s understated vocals. Throughout the whole song, guitars squeal and bend but always retain their melodic grounding. In many ways, this comes pretty darn close to “perfect” for me – it’s not afraid to be noisy and rough around the edges, but at the same time it’s intensely melodic and supremely catchy. It’s the kind of song you could hear once and hum for days without realizing it.

I imagine “Sugarcube” as a gap hitting third baseman. It prefers to spread its power out throughout the entire song, rather than swinging for the fences. Instead, it’s this consistency that makes it a valuable asset to the lineup. It might not make the big play with a big hook or inspired turn of phrase, but it’s consistent greatness makes it a perpetual musical MVP (as far as my mixes go). It also earns extra credit for a hilarious video featuring Mr. Show’s Bob Odenkirk and David Cross, among others.

More on Yo La Tengo: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

April 5, 2009

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“Untitled” – Interpol
(Words/music: Interpol, available on Turn on the Bright Lights, Matador Records 2002)

Turn on the Bright Lights struck so many people upon its release, myself included, because Interpol succeeded in cultivating a unified feeling in all of their songs. The untitled opening track instantly establishes the two main aesthetic themes – darkness and largeness. The dark part is well worn territory – from Paul Banks’ ominous sounding vocals and shadowy imagery to even the album’s artwork (and silhouetted band picture inside, if my memory serves me correctly). Still, the darkness in these songs works only because the arrangements give the illusion of grand space. Banks has a powerful voice, but it often sounds obscured by the instruments, giving the listener the impression that his surroundings make him seem smaller. Specifically, the echo and reverb in the instruments makes them seem larger than life. The opening riff in “Untitled” is simple enough, but when it’s repeated in rapid succession, it sounds like fog gradually rolling out with little in its way to constrict it. When the drums enter, their booming sound contributes to the large, open feeling.

Banks sings one main line with three different endings – “[I will] surprise you sometimes” followed by “I’ll come around,” “will come around,” or “when you’re down.” This repetition makes his narrator sound disoriented. If we cast the song in a dark, open area (preying on two widespread fears), Banks’ narrator would wander the surroundings – perhaps a foggy, deserted area of the city – aimlessly. As he keeps repeating this one line to himself – perhaps he’s rehearsing something he’s about to tell a friend, or rehashing a part of a letter – all these strange sounds (the sliding guitar lines, the slinking bass line) keep entering from the mist only to disappear again. It’s only once Interpol establishes this dark haze that they are ready to move the plot forward.

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

March 15, 2009

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“Me and the Major” – Belle and Sebastian
(Words/music: Stuart Murdoch, available on If You’re Feeling Sinister, Jeepster 1996 & Matador 1999)

While their later albums make Belle and Sebastian sound like a full-forced pop collective, If You’re Feeling Sinister has a solitary feel. At their inception in 1996, Belle and Sebastian was Stuart Murdoch’s touring band assembled to record and perform the songs he composed. More than any other album in their catalog, If You’re Feeling Sinister focuses on Murdoch’s wry view of the world, offering beautifully composed (yet stiffly recorded) songs sung with his immaculate and meek voice. Unlike the most recent Belle and Sebastian records (and the incredible 2006 live recording of If You’re Feeling Sinister available on iTunes), Murdoch’s songs sound small and intimate as a result of its recording. While many are quick to praise the album while adding a caveat to the quality of the recording, the result puts the emphasis on Murdoch’s voice and words and makes it they type of album best engaged independently.

In this collection of songs, “Me and the Major” stands out primarily because it is a step or two faster than the other songs on the album, save for “Mayfly.” It’s also the song that emphasizes feeling over story, as Murdoch repeats himself as he tells the story of his protagonist and an older man separated by their ages and experiences. Told exclusively from the perspective of the younger character, Murdoch describes the experience of being judged by someone who takes little time to consider the other perspective. He gets his jabs in, describing the Major as out of touch and on the verge of mental collapse, and this defensiveness needs the song’s quicker pace and higher energy. However, that lively harmonica part distinguishes this song from the rest on the album, filling Murdoch’s song with this joyous energy. As the song progresses, the harmonica grows more prominent, swelling as the protagonist’s indignation for his elder grows. On the 2006 live recording, “Me and the Major” sounds even more confident as Murdoch and company include a decrescendo in the final verse that gives way to a lively climax. The original, especially when compared with this version, sounds like an internal monologue – what Murdoch’s protagonist thinks to himself as he sits on the train across from the Major, building up the list of things he’d say when he finally gains the nerve.

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

March 11, 2009

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“The New Romance” – Pretty Girls Make Graves
(Words/music: Pretty Girls Make Graves, available on The New Romance, Matador 2003)

Something in human nature loves a wreck. This is why traffic backs up on the highway after an accident or videos of TV personalities losing their cool circulate via YouTube. Still, as much as we’re hard wired to watch these destructive courses, we’re even more mystified when the subject escapes certain danger. We cheer loudly when our sports teams win at the buzzer, gasp audibly when the trapeze artists barely grips onto the swing, and brag enthusiastically when we meet a deadline with only a couple minutes to spare. It’s has to be the combination of the adrenaline rush from the danger combined with the relief of escape. After the fact, we sit back and take stock of the skill involved to sidestep the calamity avoided, and even in instances where we should praise cautiousness, we can’t resist the shiny allure of a successful risk.

Personally, I’m often drawn in by songs that sound like they’re falling apart but never quite reach the breaking point. Sometimes, this threat of a meltdown comes from a band playing above its abilities (or under the influence), but other times it takes a great deal of skill to toe the line so well. Even though I’ve heard it dozens of times, I’m always waiting for something to come unhinged in “The New Romance.” Perhaps it’s the stuttering keyboard opening that gives way to a barrage of accents off the beat. Meanwhile, the drums move up and down the rack toms, occasionally striking these same off beats but not enough to truly lock in with the keyboard. Technically, both the keys and drums are on the beat, but that split second emphasis creates enough of an uneasy feeling. When coupled with Andrea Zollo’s vocals that don’t quite fit the song’s opening feel, “The New Romance” sounds like a bad take quickly erased in the studio. After about thirty seconds, the song shifts entirely; Zollo’s voice rises and calls her band into action and the musicians respond. Suddenly, the keyboard part doesn’t have quite as many notes, and the open high-hat deftly accents these key notes along with the bass and guitars. Suddenly, the same band that sounded like it needed more practice spends the last three and a half minutes tearing into the song by hitting complex phrases together, layering counter melodies against Zollo’s confident vocals, and pulling off everything they want to pull off. They drop down to bass and drums, they modulate the last chorus, and start and stop with the best of them. While they may have sounded like punks playing over their heads for a moment at the beginning, Pretty Girls Make Graves have every right to brag about their escape from collapse by the end of the song.

More on Pretty Girls Make Graves: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

February 20, 2009

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“Exeter, Rhode Island” – Jennifer O’Connor
(Words/music: Jennifer O’Connor, available on Over the Mountain, Across the Valley and Back to the Stars, Matador 2006)

Later tonight, I’ll drive through Rhode Island on my way to visit my alma mater for alumni weekend, and my favorite part of the drive to Providence is the stretch of I-95 in Rhode Island. This is probably because once I hit Rhode Island, I know I’m only 40 minutes away from arriving. One of my favorite sites on the highway is the sign for the town of Exeter that reads “Entering Exeter.” It makes the pun-happy kid in me light up every time I see it, and otherwise there’s not a lot of interesting sites until you get to Providence (usually marked by the giant blue bug), so I’ll take any type of amusement I can find on the roadways. Naturally, when I first came across Jennifer O’Connor’s song named after my favorite Rhode Island sign, I had to check it out.

These trips to Providence (and other places in New England as well, but let’s focus on Providence for right now) are a lot like the ones O’Connor describes in her song – they’re almost always by myself and they’re almost exclusively to see friends I haven’t seen in a while. I enjoy these drives when I’m in the right mood (and the traffic cooperates) because they give me the chance to put some music on and work through ideas in my head (this blog was conceived on one of these drives), but like O’Connor’s protagonist, they’re often fueled by thoughts of the people I’m going to see. I’ll think about the last time I saw the friend or friends in question, try to catalog all of the things I want to reminisce about, or even wonder what other people I see while in town.

Musically, “Exeter, Rhode Island” has a couple nice tricks. O’Connor eschews a big chorus by tacking a repeated line at the end of her verses. It’s like the drive itself – it keeps chugging along with some nice bits along the way (in particular, there’s some great harmonies in the second half of the song, especially on the bridge), but there’s no need for a gigantic “hook” in a song about driving through the smallest state in the union. Instead, it’s a short, enjoyable bit of music to play on the drive to see some old friends, letting the anticipation mix with the daydreams and whatever power pop songs come through my radio (via my iPod – Rhode Island FM radio is nothing special) on the drive.

More on Jennifer O’Connor: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

January 6, 2009

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“Silence Kit” - Pavement
(Words/music: Stephen Malkmus, appears on Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, Matador 1994)

I try my best to stay away from “this equals that” kind of criticism in part because more often than not it’s imposing something onto the song from the outside. Sure, there’s times where songs or albums or songwriters have obvious touchstones (and you know this because every single review will mention it), but I rarely found a “this sounds like that plus that” kind of synopsis helpful.

That being said, I’m about to break my own rule when I say that “Silence Kit” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” have some less than obvious points of relation. Both Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain and Born to Run found their creators reaching a wider audience (Springsteen soon became “The Boss,” Pavement and Matador Records rode the mid-90s alterna-boom to a gold album and a distribution deal with Capitol Records) and both albums start with songs about leaving town. However, while “Thunder Road” is a large and cinematic (or, to its detractors, “overblown) song about cars as a source for personal redemption and the opportunity to “make something” of yourself, “Silence Kit” exchanges optimism for anti-climax.

Springsteen once called “Thunder Road” his “invitation” to his listeners, and “Silence Kit” unfolds similarly. The slow groove at the twenty second mark, Malkmus’ high notes right before the minute mark (it almost sounds like he’s saying “hiiiiiii”, but let’s not get carried away), and even the way Malkmus seems to give advice to the “silent kid” (the song became “Silence Kit” on the Crooked Rain sleeve due to an ink blot on the artwork) all seem like an invitation to leave town. However, while “Thunder Road” pulls out of town, “Silence Kit” stalls at the city line where they merely talk about leaving rather than jumping town.

The vehicle, in this case, seems to be music as the last verse talks about grabbing drum sticks to pull “myself into the spotlight, ecstasy feels so warm inside.” However, just as the attempt to leave stalls at the edge of town, this rush fades after the show, leaving the narrator alone with his two hands. It shares the same sense of urgency and yearning for “more” (whatever that it), yet “Silence Kit” ends more realistically; all of our problems can’t be solved by driving away into the sunset, no matter how much we’d like to just jump in and run. Instead, Pavement explore life’s contradictions, absurdities, and quirks over the rest of Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, with “Silence Kit” as the invitation to follow the band along.

PS - this post is a hat tip to my friend Devine, who recently started a new blog this is the city line that culls its name from this song. He writes about sports, music, and other topics of interest with the same humor, self-deprication, and razor-sharp wit that makes me love Pavement, so it’s worth checking out, sports fans.

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

January 5, 2009

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

“Good Woman” - Cat Power
(Words/music: Chan Marshall, available on You Are Free, Matador 2003)

Over the last couple years, Chan Marshall completed a makeover that left her as a Chanel-modeling, soul band fronting, confident woman. Her growth into a self-assured starlet becomes more exceptional when looking back at her start as a fragile, confessional songwriter struggling with alcoholism.

2003’s You Are Free found Marshall in transition – the moth in chrysalis waiting to emerge from her cocoon. Few get to spend their metamorphosis in the company of high prestige collaborators, including Warren Ellis of the Dirty Three, Dave Grohl, and Eddie Vedder, with the latter lending vocals to “Good Woman”. Vedder’s part, along with a children’s choir, enter and leave the song. Marshall’s tortured voice (at this point of her career, she was prone to on-stage meltdowns) delivers the conflicted narrative of a woman who must leave her lover in order to become “good”. The background vocals echo her thoughts, perhaps as voices inside the protagonist’s head (Vedder’s as the lover she’s leaving, the choir as her innocence) that cloud her decision. Even though she’s haunted by something - her past, her troubles, or her feelings towards a lover she cannot love – she makes the necessary decision that moving on will be best for all parties involved.

The song – an explanation for her departure – relies on a single electric guitar, violin, and the vocal trio of Marshall, Vedder, and the children’s choir. The open spaces in the arrangement help convey the tension, hesitancy, and speechlessness this woman faces in the wake of her decision. “Good Woman” finds Marshall at her most compelling – her gravelly and still-fragile voice lend emotional weight to her character, and the distinctive yet understated arrangement creates a chilling foundation for her narrative.

More on Cat Power: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

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