Some Songs Considered - Posts Tagged 'capitol records'

March 5, 2010

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“Root Down” – The Beastie Boys
(Words/music: Beastie Boys, available on Ill Communication, Capitol Records 1994)

Boiled down to one sentence, the Beastie Boys began as brats and became Buddhists, and somewhere in between they made their most interesting work. With the benefit of hindsight, this broad arc makes senses given that the Beastie Boys strike me as guys with lots of ideas. Whether it’s the range of sounds in their catalogue, the crowded production the Dust Brothers lent to Paul’s Boutique, or just the rapid pace the three MCs delivered their lyrics (and their tendency to accent each others’ rhymes by tripling up on certain words), the Beasties always seemed willing to explore an idea and see where it took them.

“Root Down” is neither the weirdest nor the best track in the Beastie Boys catalogue (or on Ill Communication, to be honest), but it synthesizes many of their best qualities. It combines together the live instrumentation (or at least the spirit of live instrumentation – I can’t quite tell) with a DJ’s touch. The feel of the track depends equally on the funk guitar that swells underneath the hook as it does with the gentle hiss of the record needle hitting the groove at the start and the hairpin turn the DJ triggers right after the hook. Lyrically, the Beasties are nimble, rhyming quickly and somewhat breathless. It’s a distinctive flow for a Beastie’s track; as with much of their work, the distinct tone of their voices and their cadence tips off the listener within a few words. In essence, “Root Down” works as an interesting introduction to the Beastie Boys. Proceeding deeper into their catalogue means scattering across their different stylistic endeavors, but “Root Down” captures their general essence as much as a single track can encapsulate a group with so many ideas.

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

February 16, 2010

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“The Crane Wife 3” – The Decemberists
(Words/music: Colin Meloy, available on The Crane Wife, Capitol 2006)

I’ve realized that loving songs shares a lot with romantic love. This probably says more about my own relationship with music than it does about love itself (that sound you’re hearing is the simultaneous nodding of every woman with whom I’ve been involved), but it makes sense given I spent the bulk of my teenage dating years devouring records. My point is that just like meeting someone, songs have their initial obvious charms. In this case, it might be a memorable lyric or a particularly exciting bridge or even just a really catchy melody. However, there are lots of clever lines, stunning bridges, and catchy melodies out there; the songs I end up loving reveal different aspects of itself over time. What was once a catchy song ends up being one with an offbeat chord progression or interesting instrument deep in the mix.

Tonight I was in the right mood to hear one of these tiny discoveries. While “The Crane Wife 3,” a song I love on an album I rarely listen to, played, something nondescript caught my attention right before the third verse. I paused it, grabbed my headphones(which are still on even though I’m not playing any music), and backed up the track. Sure enough, right after the little glockenspiel melody at 2:07, there’s this odd bent guitar note right before Colin Meloy starts singing again. I always loved the way that this song gathered steam, building from that solitary acoustic guitar to a fully augmented band by the end, but never noticed this little tic before. To the best of my knowledge, there isn’t any slide guitar in the rest of the song. Perhaps it’s not played with a slide and just a bent note, but it’s an anomaly in a song I thought I otherwise knew completely well. It’s not the purest form of love deepening itself (more on that another time, I suppose), but it’s the type of serendipitous discovery that makes me wish I had more time to listen to older records on a more frequent basis.

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

November 2, 2009

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“Pumping On Your Stereo” – Supergrass
(Words/music: Rob Coombes and Supergrass, available on Supergrass, Capitol 1999)

“Pumping on Your Stereo” comes out of the gates at full steam. It had a terrific video directed by Hammer and Tongs (in collaboration with the Jim Henson Creature Shop). It has an odd sort of shuffle to it that makes it boogie as much as anything that didn’t feature Flea or Fatboy Slim in 1999. It also has a great chorus, complete with the word “humping” replacing the word “pumping” (or rather, clarifying the meaning of “pumping” in the title at least). Even the pre-chorus works well, bridging the verse and the hook with the right mix of flair and embellishment. Simply put, it has a lot of different parts that I enjoy.

Still, every time I hear the song, I think about how much Gaz Coombes sounds like Mick Jagger on this track. I try my best to stay away from “this sounds like that” type of statements (remind me another time and I’ll get into it then), but Coombes seems to emulate so many different parts of Jagger’s vocal delivery that it almost seems intentional. Coombes elongates syllables and holds onto notes just a little longer than normal. Meanwhile, he sounds like Jagger pouting during the verses. Perhaps it’s residual effect from watching Coombes’ Muppet body warble around the screen the way Jagger runs around a stage, or maybe it’s some strong Stones-inspired riffs throughout the song (especially at the end), but “Pumping On Your Stereo” makes me think of the Rolling Stones. At this point (1999), I probably wrote off the Stones as a boring classic rock band (even if I loved “Sympathy for the Devil” for its polyrhythms), so maybe, in an odd way, it was my subconscious calling out to give the Rolling Stones another try. Regardless, I’ll take a back-to-back helping of “Pumping On Your Stereo” and “Rocks Off” any day of the week.

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

October 29, 2009

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“Wouldn’t It Be Nice” – The Beach Boys
(Words/music: Tony Asher, Mike Love, and Brian Wilson, available on Pet Sounds, Capitol 1966)

Right now, when I think of Pet Sounds I’m drawn in to the tone of the bass guitar. All over this album, the bass resonates in such a full-bodied way that it’s impossible to ignore. Maybe it’s from spending the better part of my life listening to songs with over-compressed or underplayed bass lines, but these songs gain a sense of depth from having such a rich lower end of the sound spectrum. If nothing else, this is a bass sound worthy of these meticulously arranged compositions.

Of course, “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” isn’t great because of its bass sound. It gets some of its bounce from the bass, but as a whole it radiates with relentless sweetness. Brian Wilson crafts his own Spector-ian wall of sound by stacking melodic bricks on top of the opening drum beat. Ultimately, it’s the lyrics that make this bright sounding pop sound feel sincere. It’s a simple statement of desire to be with a loved one and looking forward to the day when it becomes a possibility rather than a pipe dream. Sure, it’s not as simple as the song suggests, but it’s a refreshing look at the simplicity of love. When the world starts to seem more complex, it’s these beacons of love that bring us back to the place where out world feels as cheery and hopeful as this song.

Songs like “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” also remind me of Jenny. Today’s her birthday, and dedicating such a beautiful song to her is the least I can do to thank her for making me understand songs like this one. Happy birthday, dude!

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

October 8, 2009

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“Roseability” – Idlewild
(Words/music: Idlewild, available on 100 Broken Windows, Capitol 2000)

I’m amazed how other songs can alter my impression of older songs. When “Roseability” starts now, I hear the same pounding drums that start Interpol’s “PDA.” It’s a fair comparison, as both start with this distinctive mid-tempo stomp a few bars ahead of a wave of guitars, but that’s not my point. When I first heard Turn on the Bright Lights, I wasn’t thinking about where else I heard those drums. However, when I dusted off the Idlewild record I rescued from a used bin a year or two earlier, I couldn’t help but think of the parallel.

It’s indicative of my personal relationship with 100 Broken Windows. I think I’ve alternately loved and forgotten this album more times than any other single album. I don’t mean that I’ll just go months without listening to anything from the album – I actually go stretches of time forgetting its existence. In a way, it’s a pleasant gift meaning that I can rediscover my favorites from this album semi-periodically. “Roseability” usually brings me right back to the beginning of the decade when I would scour the used CD bin at a few record stores looking for albums like this. Listening to it the better part of a decade later, I find the transitions the most interesting. Even if it’s just something as simple as stepping on a distortion pedal, the textural differences between the different parts of the song only seems to quicken the pace. Even if I still don’t understand the Gertrude Stein reference, I understand why Idlewild kept tiptoeing close to a breakthrough in the states. It makes me wonder what kept them from rushing through the same way “Roseability” bursts through the speakers.

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

October 7, 2009

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“We’re an American Band” – Grand Funk Railroad
(Words/music: Don Brewer, available on We’re an American Band, Capitol 1973)

In an alternate universe, the Christopher Walken “I need more cowbell” skit that grew to infamy features “We’re an American Band” rather than “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” This doesn’t mean it would be better (as the guitar intro gave just enough of a pause before Will Ferrell’s cowbell antics), but I could imagine it happening. In some ways, the final product reaches the ideal stressed in that skit – an omnipresent, somewhat over-the-top cowbell. I can imagine the escalation necessary in the skit, from a moderately played cowbell to the flamboyant and joyous dancing Ferrell’s character engages in while playing “more” cowbell. It would require a reworking of the intra-band dynamics – specifically since Ferrell’s cowbell won’t overshadow Don Brewer’s vocals (and, most likely, Brewer himself played the cowbell). Still, it’s hard for me to hear this song and not think of that skit.

As gaudy as the cowbell sounds at times, its presence sets the tone for the song. The cowbell cuts through loud and clear on the verses and breaks and goes silent in the pre-chorus and chorus. When it’s playing, the song rigidly binds itself to the tempo. The guitar specifically feels clipped and angular with a heavy focus on the downbeat. When the cowbell stops, the song starts to groove, in part because the guitar (and later keyboard) fills in some of the empty spaces, but also because the beat feels more relaxed. If the verses focus on the rigors of travel, the chorus is the party. Grand Funk clearly took direction from Todd Rundgren, the producer of the We’re an American Band album, as his production makes the song crisp and snappy, particularly in its transitions from the relaxed chorus to the meticulous verse and back again. Just as life on the road needs structure in order to make it to the next stop on time, this song needs both the looseness and the locked-in sections to play off each other.

More on Grand Funk Railroad: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

September 16, 2009

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“Nothing Much Happens” – Ben Lee
(Words/music: Ben Lee, available on Breathing Tornados, Capitol 1999)

A drum loop starts “Nothing Much Happens,” and for the next three and a half minutes, the same mid-tempo, syncopated rhythm runs underneath the song. Appropriately, “Nothing Much Happens” flows in a circular way – verse gently shifts into chorus and back into the next verse. It’s a song about stasis that feels like it’s chasing its own tail. The chorus line “a lot goes on but nothing happens” describes what it feels like to be in a rut. It’s the same feeling we have those days where we move non-stop from morning to night only to get on the phone with someone we care about and have nothing to say. It’s not that we didn’t accomplish anything – it just feels that way.

Some songs rely on a sense of motion, whether it’s through the plot of a story, the pace of the song, or the progression from verse to chorus to bridge to double chorus. “Nothing Much Happens” spends its energy in orbit, gradually moving yet never far away. However, while the lyrics describe that experience of being stuck in a daily rut, the song takes advantage of its circular path. Lee keeps the arrangement light, focusing on the beat, the melody, and a few gentle adornments. Instead of telling a story, the song focuses on this one idea with a minimal amount of extra details. Before too long, it comes back to the “hook, and after nearly a dozen repetitions, it burrows its way into your brain. Even if the song’s lasting effect is those two lines in the chorus repeated, chances are it’s firmly lodged into your brain after a couple listens. It’s an example of a small task accomplished with a lot of effort.

More on Ben Lee: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

September 1, 2009

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“Time” – Pink Floyd
(Words/music: David Gilmour/Nick Mason/Roger Waters/Rick Wright, available on The Dark Side of the Moon, Capitol 1973)

Today I officially went back to work at my day job as my students started class. Every year, the generational gap widens between my students and me, so I’m fascinated by the pop culture that’s on their radar (or, more appropriately, what’s not on mine). I work in the suburbs, so classic rock has a tight grip on the teenagers in town. At first, this surprised me; I expected teenagers to generally care more about current artists. On further thought, it makes more sense that classic guitar rock would be more up their alley – too much of contemporary “alternative” rock (in the rock radio sense) comes with a label – “emo,” “metal,” etc. – and comes with all of the related cultural baggage. Classic rock also outnumbers contemporary rock on the radio by a three-to-one ratio around here, so these songs get played more than the new angryband on the modern rock charts. Classic rock also comes with a story, especially with a record like The Dark Side of the Moon; it too has its own “emotional baggage,” yet it seems more like a rite of passage than a clique. The Dark Side of the Moon has the Wizard of Oz legend and remains one of those cultural touchstones, at least among budding music aficionados. Suddenly, The Dark Side of the Moon t-shirts (which are trailing to Led Zeppelin in my current tally after day one) make sense.

I remember the first time these songs clicked with me in high school. I was in my friend’s car waiting to leave a regional fair parking lot when the opening of “Time” kicked in. We had been talking through the first couple of songs, but as soon as the bells rang, my friend’s replies silenced and the volume climbed. I knew Pink Floyd but I never really paid too much attention to their songs until my friend silently focused my attention on the introduction. Specifically, I remember marveling at the seamless shifts in time, jumping in and out of half time without calling attention to the metrical shift. From there, I started noticing all of the other details about the song – the dry guitar tone foiled by the languid keyboards, the soulful backing vocals, and the way reverb made the guitar solo feel like it was played in the middle of outer space. I didn’t necessarily have the words to describe it, but I marveled from the back seat nonetheless. It led me to an atypical introduction to the album – I ended up playing “Time” on repeat several times before delving into the whole album. I wasn’t quite ready to delve into the album (and all of its associated mythology) until I was done with this single song. Eventually, I gave up on trying to figure out all of its tricks and took on the album as a whole. While I often think of it as one extended suite of songs, I still think back to that moment where “Time” baffled me.

More on Pink Floyd: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

June 27, 2009

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“Swingtown” – Steve Miller Band
(Words/music: Chris McCarty/Steve Miller, available on Book of Dreams, Capitol 1977)

I’ve never seen the Steve Miller Band, but everyone I know who has seen them over the past decade gives a similar synopsis – they were a lot of fun, they “jammed” far too much, and Steve Miller uses a different guitar for virtually every song and has a story for each one. I have little desire to ever see them live, so I’m fine with taking my friend’s word for it. Still, I appreciate the lengths that Steve Miller goes to validate himself as a masterful guitar player. It’s wonderful to show off your talents (and he is talented), but it’s Miller’s songs that pay his bills. At his best, Steve Miller’s songs sound simple and offer little room for improvisation. When you’re writing snappy pop-rock songs, there isn’t much time for extended guitar solos. I guess this is how Miller ends up devoting a chunk of his show to a free form blues jam – getting it out of his system so he can get back to the pop songs that made his career.

However, it’s unfair to brand Miller’s best songs as “simple” alone; there’s a great deal of care in the arrangements. Take “Swingtown” as an example – it’s a simple song about dancing after a long week of work. However, the arrangement redeems the song from mediocrity. “Swingtown” flows in a circular pattern by constantly building itself up to a climax only to do it again. The instruments come in one at a time, vamping on each other until the entire band’s playing. Once the entire band’s in, Miller presents the song’s best melody without words. It might seem like a cheap move at first, but in a song that extols the virtues of dancing, Miller’s wordless singing sounds like the beacon summoning the crowd to their feet. By the time he’s trying to convince the crowd to dance, they’re already moving along with him.

More on Steve Miller Band: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

June 2, 2009

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

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

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

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

May 5, 2009

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“Fade into You” – Mazzy Star
(Words/music: David Rorbach and Hope Sandoval, available on So Tonight That I Might See, Capitol 1993)

At least three times over the past week, in three entirely different settings, Mazzy Star came up. This doesn’t surprise me – I’m used to hearing colleagues reminisce about warm summer nights listening to So Tonight That I Might See, discussing how stoic Hope Sandoval looked when singing “Sometimes Always” with the Jesus and Mary Chain, or how “Fade Into You” sounds like it could be from 2003, let alone 1993. People love “Fade into You” for its atmosphere and mood rather than any other specific element of the songwriting – it doesn’t overwhelm melodically, most people would be pressed to recite an entire line other than the title, and there’s very little in the way of traditional song structure – no verse, hook, bridge, etc. Still, listeners flock to it and savor its subdued psychedelia a decade and a half later. It provides affirmation that songs don’t always need to take a journey; sometimes, songs work when they plant their feet in one place and revel in their surroundings, at least when they’re this beautiful.

Perhaps we like “Fade into You” because it’s a sort of blank canvas. While Sandoval sings beautifully, she’s suited for these understated and mellow songs rather than something loud and boisterous. While other singers infuse their personality into their songs, Sandoval stands as a musical introvert by projecting as little of herself as possible into her song. To be clear, this doesn’t make her songs “bland” but rather egoless – these songs are less about her than they are anyone else. Without a specific narrative thread from Sandoval’s end, we’re free to project our own thoughts into the song, using it as a vehicle to remember specific memories or achieve a specific state of mind. Ask someone why he or she likes “Fade into You” and you’ll likely receive a two part answer. First, you’ll get a comment about the sound (or the “mood” or the like), and second you’ll almost always get some kind of memory – “I haven’t heard this in ages,” “this reminds me of…,” or “I have a friend who used to love this song…” Sure, we all have our own songs with our own personal attachments, but “Fade into You” lends itself well to these recollections.

More on Mazzy Star: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

May 4, 2009

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“Just Stay” – Kevin Devine
(Words/music: Kevin Devine, available on Put Your Ghost to Rest, Capitol 2006, Academy Fight Song 2007)

Kevin Devine came perilously close to becoming a victim of the music industry’s changing tides; instead, due to his hard work and persistence, Devine represents a triumph of the new model. In 2006, Capitol Records picked up Devine, on the strength of three solid solo records and a devoted (and expanding) fanbase, and set him up in the studio with producer Rob Schnapf, who produced Beck’s Mellow Gold and all of Elliott Smith’s records after Either/Or. The result, Devine’s fourth album Put Your Ghost to Rest came out on Capitol that fall. Whether it was Schnapf’s aid in arranging or Devine’s continued growth as a songwriter, Put Your Ghost to Rest featured Devine’s strongest set of songs – meticulously arranged, cleverly worded, and bursting with melody. Devine stood behind the curtain ready to take his moment in the spotlight - earning a VH-1 “Artist to Watch” nod (not exactly a Grammy award, but still a nice honor for someone touring the VFW hall circuit months earlier). The only problem was that before the show could begin, the audience was sent home. Capitol, in the middle of merging with Virgin and other EMI subsidiaries, put out Devine’s record with what he called “very little help.” A few months later, Capitol dropped Devine, letting him leave with the masters to his record, later released on vinyl in 2007 and re-issued on CD in 2008.

Devine, to his credit, took everything in stride, but I can’t help but wonder if “Just Stay” lost its moment in the spotlight. Like many of his earlier songs, “Just Stay” leans heavy on imagery and clever turns of phrase. Literally, Devine tells the story of a drug trade gone awry, but it’s the emotional range of his character, experiencing nervousness, desperation, longing, and regret all within four minutes. Sonically, “Just Stay” starts with a strum and builds to a scream, letting Devine’s voice scratch against a bit of feedback on the “I can hear it clear as day” line. The noticeable difference lies in the attention to the arrangement – a larger recording budget (or, perhaps more appropriately, a recording budget) offered Devine a range of musical choices at his disposal, using keyboards and different guitar sounds to enlarge his sonic pallet. All of this comes together in the final minute, when the lead guitar and Devine trade off on the melody, with the normally verbose Devine riding a chorus of “woah-ohs” to the end. He sounds like a man in complete control of his song – he tells his story, creates a specific mood with the arrangement, and buries his melody so deep into the listener that it won’t be gone for days.

Even if “Just Stay” never reached the audience that Put Your Ghost to Rest deserves, Devine landed on his feet. Even if his stint on Capitol was brief, he left with a recording worthy of his songs and an increased network of fans and supporters. Tuesday, his new record Brother’s Blood comes out on Manchester Orchestra’s record label Favorite Gentlemen. It’s available digitally right now (and for $8 on iTunes and Amazon, it’s a bargain) and reflects his time spent touring with Manchester Orchestra. Devine and his band (“The Goddamn Band”) sound like a cohesive unit on Brother’s Blood, experimenting with some new sounds for Devine’s songs and stretching out their range. If they come to your town, do yourself a favor and check them out – you’ll find him as clever, engaging, and impressive in person as he comes across in his songs.

More on Kevin Devine: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

April 7, 2009

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“A Sunday” – Jimmy Eat World
(Words/music: Jimmy Eat World, available on Clarity, Capitol Records 1999)

Tonight, Jimmy Eat World, a band I haven’t thought about in a few years, proved two separate things to me. The first is that they understand how technology, specifically the internet, has created new opportunities for bands. As a culmination of their “Clarity X 10” tour celebrating the tenth anniversary of their breakthrough album, the band streamed a performance of the six most requested songs from Clarity. During their performance, Twitter messages with the “#claritylive” tag cycled beneath the video (the band also encouraged fans to tag their tweets the night of each concert as well). Next to the video performance was a huge button enticing the nearly 2000 viewers (according to the UStream.tv window) to purchase a live recording of Clarity from the anniversary tour. Advertising for an album is nothing new (see: every band’s MySpace page), but two things jump out about the Clarity live recording; first, it’s exclusively a digital download offered in a variety of formats including MP3, Apple Lossless, FLAC, and WAV. It’s interesting that the band would offer their fans so many different options (including 4 different lossless formats), but even more remarkable is that the band is (apparently) charging just $9 for any format. The feedback from the tweets was overwhelmingly positive, and a few shared the same thought I had – more bands should do this. It’s refreshing to see a band take active steps to engage their fans and offer different ways to interact with them and experience their music. I also would not be surprised to see Jimmy Eat World sell a lot of copies of their live download simply by maintaining a noticeable, active profile online.

In addition to impressing with their tech savvy, I was pleasantly surprised to hear how sharp Jimmy Eat World sounded playing these songs. I spent a lot of time listening to Clarity largely because it didn’t sound the same as a lot of the pop punk I was getting into at the time. These songs were more complex in their instrumentation, structure, and lyrical themes, and it was the kind of thing that I listened to on many cold afternoons while walking around Providence. Specifically, the part of “A Sunday” where it drops down to just the organ brings me right back to those days. Listening to the songs during tonight’s Clarity performance (“A Sunday” was not one of the six songs but the Clarity X 10 version is on their MySpace page right now), I’m struck with how adventurous the band sounds. While many of their later albums (at least the ones that made blips on my radar) streamlined their sound, Clarity was a snapshot of a band willing to take risks as songwriters, and ten years later the band still rewards their fans accordingly.

More on Jimmy Eat World: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

February 22, 2009

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“Miss Misery” – Elliott Smith
(Words/music: Elliott Smith, available on Good Will Hunting OST, Capitol 1997)

Part I: The Song

Like many others, I came across Elliott Smith through Good Will Hunting. Both director Gus Van Sant and Smith were from Portland, Oregon and Van Sant used a few of Smith’s songs to help flesh out the film’s misunderstood mind. These songs share a lot with their creator as well - misunderstood works of precise craftsmanship and the product of a heartbreakingly romantic view of the world. In 2009, Smith’s suicide defines his legacy to many people (and provides a convenient and limiting critical entryway into his catalog). This single event unfairly eclipses his gift for songwriting. Yes, many of these songs have sad undertones, but Smith’s not the first (and certainly not the last) to sing about heartbreak or melancholy, yet many immediately link his songs with dour feelings.

Of course, having your breakthrough song titled “Miss Misery” won’t shake those casual assumptions. Beneath the protagonist’s message to his former lover, Smith lays out a carefully considered musical arrangement. Every strummed chord, snare drum strike, and keyboard line serve a specific purpose. Where others might have erred toward an overblown, theatrical arrangement, Smith’s restraint and efficiency give the song an understated dignity. In particular, Smith carefully uses vocal harmonies without making them overpowering. He might not have a choirboy’s voice, but he uses it to the best of his ability, treating it like another instrumental choice. For example, there’s a moment halfway through each verse where his voice in the background helps ease the transition into the next chord – you’ll have to listen closely for it (for example, when the band first enters) as it sounds almost like a string instrument. Others might use their moment in the spotlight (as “Miss Misery” was composed for Good Will Hunting, a major studio film – easily Smith’s biggest “break” to that point) as an opportunity to show off one’s abilities, but Smith continued to work the same way he always worked – by making the best choice for the individual songs.

Later tonight - Part II: The Academy Awards Performance

More on Elliott Smith: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

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