Some Songs Considered - Posts Tagged 'indie rock'

February 24, 2009

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“Hopeless” – The Wrens
(Words/music: The Wrens, available on The Meadowlands, Absolutely Kosher 2003)

Every six months or so, I put on The Meadowlands as a strange sort of challenge – not a challenge to my personal taste or to figure it out, but rather a challenge to the album’s near mythical status. Every so often, something will make me think of the Wrens – a passing news mention on Pitchfork, a band dubiously compared to them, or even just a track popping up into my iTunes party shuffle. Almost every time, I think the same thing – “there’s no way The Meadowlands is as great as everyone claims.” Usually, I only pose these questions once and I’m content with being right or wrong. However, I ask myself this question almost like clockwork, and every time I put The Meadowlands on, I’m convinced all over again. The songs pull the band in different directions, but in a way that avoids cheap genre experimentations. Instead, The Meadowlands adopts different modes in order to tell different stories – like many of the great pop bands before them, The Wrens take risks not for the sake of being edgy or playful, but rather to create a very specific sonic effect for their listeners.

The songs on The Meadowlands display the band’s diverse sonic pallet (often within the same song), but it’s the slowly building “Hopeless” that stands out the most for me. A five note guitar figure runs through the entire song, ranging from the clean plucks the beginning to the overdriven rush in between verses. It serves as an anchor for the song, letting different instruments enter and exit in the different parts of the song. Sometimes, the guitars dominate and rush to the front of the mix, while at other points the piano or drums move to the head of the pack. Still, the song moves along at a steady clip – musically, the band sounds more resentful and angry than hopeless or despondent. Lyrically, Charles Bissell sounds like a man hardened by heartbreak, as he promises “oh no, not this time” in the very first line of the song, later claiming to be the one “used and used to just about anything you would tell me. When I think of “hopelessness,” I also think of helplessness. Instead, the song is only hopeless in the sense that the narrator seems resigned to the fact that a past relationship is beyond repair. However, the time to sit at home and mope appears to be in the past, as he sounds confident and convinced to learn from this experience, the same sort of resolve that this powerful arrangement conveys as well.

More on The Wrens: 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

February 17, 2009

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“Upon Viewing Brueghel’s Landscape with the Fall of Icarus” – Titus Andronicus
(Words/music: Titus Andronicus, available on The Airing of Grievances, Troubleman Unlimited 2008)

While I love melody (think of how many times I’ve used “catchy” to describe songs over the past month and a half), I also have an affinity for loud, noisy songs. That’s not to say that I like anything turned up to 11 – I’ve tried to understand hardcore a few times and came to the conclusion that it’s not for me. My preferred type of noise still contains a melody. The noise might fracture, rearrange, or obscure it, but there’s still a melodic force driving these songs. I guess I find these songs fascinating for a couple of reasons. First, I think it’s interesting to see how far melodies stretch before breaking. That’s not to say that I like all my pop songs played loud and fast (I tend to abhor punk covers of pop songs) – it’s kind of a case by case basis. Sometimes, the song needs a lush arrangement or a sparce performance to do it justice. Sometimes, the melody serves as the thread holding together the rest of the chaos; it becomes more of a structural element than a spotlight focus. In these cases, the melody lets the band explore different sounds and create a composition that benefits from the cacophony.

Still, as a student of literature, I’m drawn to noisy songs because when done well they tend to hold their secrets in close like a short story. These works reveal different aspects with each exploration, depending on the point of entry. Appropriately, Titus Andronicus combine allusion (perhaps to excess) with their raucous and noisy songs. Like Icarus, Titus Andronicus aim their sights high on The Airing of Grievances, an album bursting at the seams with desperate (and sometimes despondent) vocals, barreling drums, and layers of furiously fuzzed out electric guitars. One might even say that the album sounds like Icarus’ melted wings after he flew too close to the sun – the album spends its 45 minutes sounding on the verge of collapse, while vocalist Sarim Al-Rawi sounds on the verge of an emotional meltdown as well. However, the album works because it revels in its near collapse; it’s almost as if Icarus approached the sun, felt his wings melt, and howled the entire way down like he was on a rollercoaster rapidly dropping. It sounds like a band pushing themselves to the brink and enjoying every feedback-laden moment of it.

One notable thing about the Brueghel painting referenced in this song is that Icarus is a tiny spec in the landscape – without the title, we wouldn’t even know he was there. In a way, Brughel seems to undercut Icarus’ ambition by painting him as a tiny detail within a larger landscape – it’s nice that he strove for greatness, but the world goes on without him. After seeing Titus Andronicus this past weekend, this makes sense, as Al-Rawi constantly put his band into contex with commentary between almost every song. He pointed out friend in the audience, made numerous reference to being from New Jersey and having spent time in Massachusetts (they were playing in Boston), and addressed the crowd with self deprecating charm and a hint of scorn. They played cover songs that framed their upbringing (tearing through Springsteen’s “Badlands”), their musical style (by letting one of their songs seamlessly transition into “Wipeout”), and their understanding of musical history (by covering “Roadrunner” by Boston’s own Modern Lovers). He even repeatedly told the crowd that they needed to leave early because their hometown paper (The Glen Rock Gazette) was taking their picture and it “meant a lot to [their] moms.” Their set was an energetic burst of these combustible songs, but it seemed like Al-Rawi wanted to put his band into context by painting their landscape as much bigger than their own glorious, thrill-seeking drop to the ocean.

More on Titus Andronicus: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

February 9, 2009

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“Please Visit Your National Parks” – Oxford Collapse
(Words/music: Oxford Collapse, available on Remember the Night Parties, Sub Pop 2006)

One way that I’ve noticed my taste shift in the last few years is that I find myself engaging in more “situational listening. There were times where I could listen to anything I pulled out of my CD wallet – yes, I’ve always had urges to listen to a specific band or album, but I find now that I “have to be in the mood” for certain things far more often. This doesn’t mean that I don’t like these bands – that would be entirely false. I think this was how I got back into Pandora radio about a year ago – I’ve found that in certain situations, I want to hear something that sounds a certain way (or, at least, don’t want to hear something that sounds a certain way), and rather than trust one of my huge, randomized playlists or pick out an entire album to listen to, I fire up Pandora and let it work its magic.

Remember the Night Parties is an album that fits this mould perfectly. When I hear one of these songs in the right situation, I want to listen to the rest of the album. While a few years ago, I would have put the album on my discman and got to work on whatever I needed to do for class, I’ve found that I can’t listen to a song like “Please Visit Your National Parks” and get anything taxing accomplished (and appropriately, I’m writing this blog post in silence after having listen to the song a couple times). When I first thought of this, I wanted to say that I’ve lost the ability to multitask and split my attention between a couple different tasks. However, I’d like to think that it’s more that I want to give what I’m doing my complete attention, or at least the attention it deserves. “Please Visit Your National Parks” has a lot going for it – it’s a fun, playful blast of guitar that sounds like a boat on a lake being tossed around enough to make the excursion exciting, but not enough to endanger the passengers. It’s the rare studio recording where the band sounds like it’s having fun in the studio (and having seen them play live once before, they without a doubt enjoy making music). I just find that once I hear those guitars start, I can’t concentrate on anything else. To a degree, it’s fine because the song is worth the attention; it only causes a problem when I have something else I’m trying to accomplish (such as writing a blog post before the end of the day).

More on Oxford Collapse: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

January 30, 2009

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“Certain Songs” - The Hold Steady
(Words/music: The Hold Steady, available on The Hold Steady Almost Killed Me, Frenchkiss 2004)

When I started on this project thirty days ago, I knew that I was embarking on something without a specific roadmap. I knew that I had a yearning desire to share music and write about songs that have personal importance or sparked specific memories. I also knew that I had the vague goal of “learning something about my taste in music.” At this point, I know what I like, but I don’t always know why I like it. Sometimes, it’s easy for me to explain; I can point to a specific lyric or a specific musical phrase that I’m constantly amazed by. I can sit amazed at all the different textures and layers in a song that gradually reveal themselves over repeated listens. Sometimes, however, there’s not a specific reason why I like a song. It might make me think of the time when I first heard it or a specific time associated with it. I might even dislike the rest of an album (or an entire catalog of songs) but love a specific song.

So far, one of the things that I’ve learned is that for all of the different reasons why I love songs, there’s a few songs that I can’t quite explain. Craig Finn says it best - “certain songs, they get scratched into our souls.”

I can’t understand people who see music as a fashion accessory – liking a band because it’s “cool” to like them, or because it fits a certain aesthetic. Sure, we all have moments where we want to like something, whether it’s out of loyalty (like how I desperately tried to like R.E.M.’s Around the Sun), or a yearning to belong, or simply a desire to understand the appeal of something specific. Still, there’s people who are too concerned with listing all of the bands they like – a sort of self-definition by iPod. Many people will have you believe that you are what you listen to, but I strongly disagree. It lies much deeper.

No, you are not what you listen to, but what you listen to becomes a part of you. Even though we try, it’s near impossible to give a purely objective critique of a song or a band – we’re always filtering it through our own personal taste or our own circumstances surrounding the band. I have certain songs accidentally associated with low moments that I no longer want to hear; conversely, I have songs that I didn’t like as much until I heard it live or heard it through a different context. It’s impossible to take the critic (or, in this case, the blogger) out of the critique.

Instead, there are certain songs that supersede a rational critique. Once we’ve experienced a song in an active way – more than just listening to it subconsciously while it plays in the background at our desks – it becomes a part of us and, to a degree, we becomes a part of the song. The song becomes moments of personal recognition, remembrance, or rediscovery of ourselves. This has been one of the true joys of this project – I’m trying to give due to these songs (all of which I love), but by doing so, I have to acknowledge the part of me that’s present in each of them. It’s been a uniquely rewarding experience to do so, and I’m looking forward to what awaits over the next eleven months, and I’m humbled that you’re coming along with me too.

I love “Certain Songs” for several reasons. Craig Finn expertly crafts a few scenarios where songs augment some specific situations – Meat Loaf and Billy Joel soundtracking lazy summer nights on the east coast, hardcore shows for the rebellious youths out west, and different jukebox presets for the different groups of people that interact with it. I love how the section before the final verse sounds like the heaviest marching band commanding compliance. The guitars squeal and the drums barrel forward, only to reach a climax during the final moment of the song. In each of the scenarios, Craig Finn reminds us that certain songs are “scratched into our souls” and by the end of the song, we all understand. Two years ago I took a trip down to see the Hold Steady play at the Stone Pony in Asbury Park, NJ – Bruce Springsteen’s hometown. During the encore, Finn and keyboard player Franz Nicolay came out and performed a piano and voice version of this song, with Finn’s drunken gestures mimicking his narrative. Every time I hear this song, I think of Finn turning his right hand into a claw and digging in towards the audience as he delivered his thesis to us. That concert, and in particular this song, will always be scratched into my soul.

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

January 21, 2009

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“Fireworks” – Animal Collective
(Words/music: Animal Collective, available on Strawberry Jam, Domino 2007)

Right now, the internet is abuzz about Merriweather Post Pavilion, and for good cause. The latest Animal Collective album combines the odd vocals and unconventional sounds with some increasingly cohesive songwriting. It’s (after only a couple listens) a challenging record that manages to reveal just enough in interesting sounds and textures on the first listen yet reveal more of itself after time. This is the type of record that people are going to have strong opinions about all year long (and, to a lesser degree, beyond that point), and in that sense the band’s succeeded – art (and some will argue that this is art) should evoke strong opinions and should not receive universal praise or condemnation. It’s better to be loathed passionately than to be ignored, and Merriweather Post Pavilion will bring Animal Collective to many new ears, prompting the numbers on both sides of the argument to swell.

One of the common threads in the discussion of the new record discusses how the new set of songs are exactly that – songs – as opposed to the sometimes meandering, dissonant, and anarchic recordings in their early catalogue. Those championing the record are calling it a satisfying blend of craft and chaos; many of these songs have a structure and melodic thread holding it together while still letting the experimental flourishes stray away just enough. Personally, I’ve started to find the last couple Animal Collective albums listenable; I realize that I’m a song-first person in that I’m a sucker for well made compositions. “Fireworks” was the first moment that I found myself drawn into an Animal Collective song, perhaps because it’s the first Animal Collective song where I’ve been drawn in by the arrangement. The percussion running through the song sounds like it’s on the brink of caving in the entire time (perhaps it’s the triple meter or perhaps it’s different layers) yet it stays consistent the entire song. Different melodic phrases enter – the toy piano, the wordless background vocals, and the muddy electric guitar among others – and exit throughout the song, but their reoccurrences bring a certain familiarity (as well as a hypnotic quality) to the song. Avery Tare’s vocals shift between calm singing and impassioned yelling, but utilize the same melodic phrase throughout the whole song. On paper, the song sounds like it’s a droney trance track, but the different combination of these melodic pieces in different layers keeps the song sounding interesting. Additionally, when something deviates from the standard phrase – usually Tare’s vocals either by moving to a half time feel or shifting into the polarizing yelp from earlier Animal Collective records – new textures are born. Even Tare’s yelp fits the song well – where an entire song of screams might not fit my taste, a few instances offer something new into the mix.

I’m not saying that I’m a convert (far from it), but the band’s recent output starting with “Fireworks” has my attention.

More on Animal Collective: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

January 13, 2009

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“You! Me! Dancing! (EP Version)” – Los Campesinos!
(Words/music: Tom Campesinos! and Gareth Campesinos!, available on Sticking Fingers into Sockets EP, Arts & Crafts 2007)

I understand why I like Los Campesinos! – they play frenetic pop music that seems ready to explode at any minute. Their songs burst from the seams with violins, glockenspiel, rapid fire streams of words, and melody from all angles. No, if you described a band like this to me, I’d ask to borrow the album, no questions. I’m more curious why this band has taken such a hold on me. From the first time that I listened to the Sticking Fingers into Sockets EP a couple years ago (when I listened to all sixteen minutes of it three times in a row – an act unheard of in my post-iPod era of song shuffling) through the moment that I received the We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed LP in the mail today after a prolonged backorder, I’ve been so smitten with the Welsh youngsters.

The easy way out of this would be to say that their youthful exuberance brings me back to my own days as a teenager, and that’s certainly true. Their volumnuous, Live Journal like lyrics are sweet, snarky, and so full of charm and life that it harkens back to those teenage days when everything burned a little brighter – the highs seemed higher and the lows seemed cavernous. I’m not sure that the youthful energy alone answers my question, though; otherwise, I’d still have an affinity for anything that was on the radio in 1996 just because it reminded me of being a teenager again. No, there’s something that makes the twentysomething Brian melt with each note.

One of my favorite college professors loved to share his favorite (and almost always esoteric) words, sometimes to the point where my roommate and I would place bets on how many times he would put a word on the chalkboard and tell us to remember it. One of his favorite words, and one that’s stuck with me since, is “palimpsest” – a painting that’s been painted over an older painting. As the newer work wears, the “original” painting shines through, creating a new piece of art as a hybrid of the two. To a degree, I think that our personalities are palimpsests – we change over time, but our previous paintings always manage to shine through. As we grow older and add new details about ourselves, certain details from the past manage to shine through – we’re not the same, we’re not different, but we’re something new and old simultaneously.

So thinking about myself this way, I see the different layers of my taste reflected in “You! Me! Dancing!” The slow build up into a distinctive riff that sets the song off on its way reminds me of Sonic Youth’s “Teen Age Riot,” only this sounds like “Teen Age Riot” played by actual teenagers – it’s a bit sloppy, a bit bubblier, and not nearly as restrained as Thurston and company. Still, for all its nervous energy, it’s a well made composition – the backing harmonies, shifts from verse to chorus, and different texture changes (the legato violin lines in half time set up the snappy, full speed chorus) – show a band with a gift for arrangements and enthusiasm at the same time. It’s equal parts wise beyond its years and young for its age – a perfect way of presenting a song about those joyous nights with friends that always seem to end too soon. Gareth Campesinos! paraphrases Rousseau at the end when he declares that we’re “ignorant, we’re stupid, but we’re happy.” Even if we grow out of this youthful naïveté, it’s still in there, waiting to peek through our current portrait and bring us back to that state of mind.

More on Los Campesinos!: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

January 7, 2009

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“Dirty Old Town” - Ted Leo
(Words/music: Ewan MacColl, appears on “Tell Balgeary, Balgury is Dead” EP, Lookout! 2003)

I’ve been blessed to have been involved with college radio while earning both of my degrees (first at WDOM in Providence, later at WQAQ in Connecticut), and it was (and continues to be) an important factor in my ever evolving musical taste. This post, however, isn’t my love letter to college radio (that comes with a different song) but rather a reflection of my favorite experience as a DJ.

I was fortunate enough to meet and interview Ted Leo during February 2003, right after the Hearts of Oak album came out (and right after I discovered his music). It was a surreal experience for a college sophomore to have to plan questions and interview someone who would be on Conan O’Brien later that week. From the moment that we helped Ted cart in his amplifier and guitar case (the same ones he still uses years later), it was apparent that Ted was almost as grateful to have the opportunity to appear on our modest station as we were to have him come to us. Through all sorts of stumbling blocks – our station’s faulty heater (it didn’t work a lot that winter), a less than vegan friendly cafeteria, his nagging vocal chord problems, and my nervous propensity to mix metaphors (he signed a poster with one of my quotes - “top to bottom, front to back” - my attempt to complement the body of songs on Hearts of Oak), Ted remained upbeat, enthusiastic, and completely engaging. We had Ted on for an hour or so – a mix of discussions about ska music, going to Catholic school, listening to New Order, and other topics with about half a dozen performances of songs from The Tyranny of Distance and Hearts of Oak. By the end of the afternoon, everyone in the room not only became fans of his music, but became fans of the man. In addition to his kindness and wit, Ted’s personal ethics shine through everything he does. Few contemporaries champion their causes as earnestly and completely and it seems that he has time to play on behalf of people and causes that he supports (for example, playing a benefit for a local punk rock promoter who recently passed away).

“Dirty Old Town” was the last song that Ted played that day, introducing it as a “song for the city of Providence.” I didn’t know the song (I hadn’t discovered The Pogues at that point), but I was struck by how he sang someone else’s song with the same passion and conviction that he sang his own songs. Looking back at that day nearly six years later, I have two prevailing thoughts. The first is the refreshing realization that the people that we’re fans of are fans themselves. It’s clear that Ted has a passion for music (look at the wide body of cover songs in his repertoire – in particular the obscure songs he’s playing on his recent solo tour) and that even to this day he remains a fan. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, I’ve learned that songs don’t belong exclusively to their authors – they belong to us all. We all have our own unique memories associated with individual songs – sometimes shared, sometimes private – and that some songs immediately can immediately bring us back to a specific place or time. I’m not sure what Ted Leo thinks of when he hears Shane MacGowan sing “Dirty Old Town,” but this song will always make me think back to that afternoon in Providence where I got to interview one of my favorite musicians.

More on Ted Leo: 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

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“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

January 4, 2009

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“Tonight I Have to Leave It” - Shout Out Louds (Words: Adam Olenius, Music: Shout Out Louds, available on Our Ill Wills, Merge 2007)

One thing I know for certain about my taste in music – I have a propensity for sad songs that sound deceptively upbeat. On a first listen (and this song grabbed me from the first listen), the bright acoustic strums, a-go-go bells (those multi-pitched cowbells rarely heard outside of latin music), and even that bright synth make it seem like it’s a cheery indie-pop song. Even the lyric about going out dancing strengthens the bond to The Black Kids’ “I’m Not Going to Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You” (of course, the fact that both songs bear debts to Robert Smith’s melancholy pop only strengthens the connection. However (like in “Boyfriend…”), beneath this perky veneer lies a melancholy tale of someone who “just want[s] to be bothered with real love” and thus has to move on from a current love interest / dance partner. Only once we get to the second verse where Olenius addresses this former flame by declaring “oh you’re not sorry, no you’re not”. The song comes close to the time honored pop song tradition of “I’m better off without you”, but instead it seems content enough to celebrate the choice to move on. In this case, absence prevents the heart from feeling fonder.

I’m not going to attempt to explain why I/anyone likes sad songs (I’m content enough to let High Fidelity tackle that one), but I know that I’m always suckered in by these types of songs. Maybe it’s the optimist in me coming out - “yeah, it’s a bummer that you’re getting burned, dude, but at least we can dance it away?”

More on Shout Out Louds: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

January 2, 2009

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“Lost Coastlines” - Okkervil River
(Words/music: Will Sheff, found on The Stand Ins, Jagjaguwar 2008)

Part of my goal for this project is to help me better understand why I like certain songs (or certain types of songs, at least). “Lost Coastlines” is an interesting one for me because it was one of my favorites (if not the favorite) of the end of 2008 and I can’t quite pinpoint why. It’s a well written song, but I’m wont to point out the Klosterman-esque “Good Part” of a song and I can’t identify it here.

Maybe the secret lies in its structure; the song itself is rife with contradictions. Will Sheff’s capable yet somewhat nasally voice mingles with former bandmate / Shearwater frontman Jon Meiburg’s cool croon on alternating verses. The arrangement contrasts a peppy, upbeat instrumentation (in particular, the snaking bass line propels the song along faster and faster) with lyrics that touch on the loneliness and apprehension before an uncertain voyage. Sheff and Meiberg seem like two different parts of a conflicted mind - Meiberg’s voice expressing the relaxed, rational thoughts while Sheff’s vocals express the fear and restlessness of the narrator as the boat sails off from civilization. The song itself shifts halfway through when Sheff finally notes that “we have lost our way / nobody’s gonna say it outright.” By finally acknowledging that the crew is lost, the song finds its own way to a climax filled with cascading horns and soaring “la”s from both singers, propelling the song (and also the Stand-Ins album) outward onto its unknown journey.

So in a way, this song fits well at this point of my “project” - I too have nothing else to add as to why I like this song (or why I like most songs, to be honest), so I’ll just join in with Will Sheff’s final few minutes of “la la la”s and see where the rest of the journey takes me.

PS - Here’s a link to a YouTube video of Sheff and Carl Newman of the New Pornographers singing the song together. Interestingly, Newman sings Sheff’s part and Sheff sings Meiburg’s.

More on Okkervil River: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

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