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“This is Love” – PJ Harvey
(Words/music: PJ Harvey, available on Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea, Island Records 2000) 

PJ Harvey never shied away from difficult subjects in her lyrics, but rarely is she as blunt as she is on “This is Love.”  Where she may approach a subject obliquely, Harvey lays out her thesis within the first two lines: specifically, how can this world be so confusing when my lust is so clear?  The song isn’t sensationalized – instead, it’s simplified down to its instincts.  It manages to capture the way love (or lust, or something in between) causes tunnel vision without being flowery or dopey.  Instead, Harvey asks the sort of questions rarely asked in these situations.  The human brain can process many things, but I’m sure few, if any, might simultaneously process worldwide suffering and the taste of a lover at the same time.  The song turns slightly at the end when Harvey’s narrator recognizes this tendency – when her mind is on someone else, it isn’t on the things that make her heart break, so her unasked questions become a plea for her lover to join her “to keep the walls from falling as they’re tumbling in.” 

The thick guitar riff underscores the lust in Harvey’s lyrics.  It’s slightly distorted sound fills out the arrangement yet while bludgeoning its audience.  It is as direct as Harvey’s lyrics, and its repetition throughout most of the song coincides with the repetition within the lyrics.  It also brings out the more powerful side of Harvey’s vocals, driving her voice to fill out as much space as the guitar’s dense tone.  Where it might drown out another vocalist, Harvey summons enough to make her voice shine through.

More on PJ Harvey: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: pj harvey | 2000 | 2000s | island records | make your choice: deep philosophical questions or sex |
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“MLK” – U2 
(Words: Bono, Music: U2, available on The Unforgettable Fire, Island Records 1984) 

“Pride (In the Name of Love)” salutes Martin Luther King, Jr. with one of U2’s biggest anthems.  Sure enough, in the ten minutes I was in the car today I caught the end of it on the radio.  Tucked away at the end of the same album sits “MLK,” a more somber and subdued tribute to the same man.  While “Pride” uses Dr. King’s life as a rallying cry, “MLK” meditates on his spirit.  Aside from the title and an overt allusion to his “dream,” “MLK” could be a generic plea for peace in a troubling time.  Of course, the spirit of Dr. King’s legacy (and the same one Bono wants to mobilize around in “Pride”) calls for the continued struggle to bring peace to those who need it; “MLK” reflects the opposite side of the struggle – those trying to find the strength to endure rather than to liberate.

“MLK” sonically foils “Pride” as well.  Where “Pride” rides a soaring chorus and The Edge’s guitar (and foreshadows the formula that would make them mega-stars on the next album), “MLK” bears Brian Eno’s influence.  Bono sings over a droning synthesizer that hums gently and warmly, leading from one chord to the next.  The synth is primarily atmospheric, serving as a backdrop for Bono’s echoed vocals (the 2009 remastered version brings out this echo in the left channel particularly well).  On the final note (“me” in the lyrics), Bono’s voice and the synthesizer resolve the chord, giving the song the harmonic peace that it lyrically desires.   It’s little more than a sketch of a song (most often used as an introduction for some of U2’s requiems (“Unforgettable Fire” and “One Tree Hill” primarily) but ironically never for “Pride”), but it’s a lovely piece to end The Unforgettable Fire.

More on U2: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: u2 | bono | martin luther king jr | brian eno | 1984 | 1980s | island records |
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“Fairytale of New York” – The Pogues w/ Kirsty MacColl
(Words/music: Jem Finer and Shane MacGowan, available on If I Should Fall From Grace With God, Island 1988)

Each year around this time, the number of people who claim “Fairytale of New York” as their favorite Christmas song swells just a little bit.  Understandably, of course, as this is a rare charismatic holiday song amidst a sea of mall muzak and overplayed standards.  MacColl and MacGowan sing with such convincing personality – MacGowan’s voice seems destined for telling a drunk’s story, and MacColl plays his foil with brassy, beautiful charm.  Even without getting into the story, MacGowan’s gruffness, MacColl’s melancholy, and the swelling instrumentation behind them communicates all of the emotions that play out – revelry, melancholy, regret, and hope.

Beyond the song’s vocal and melodic charms, the two lovers’ story resonates with many, particularly in a season of commercialism and abstract love.  Yes, the protagonists seem to be at rock bottom – MacGowan’s character is sobering up in jail while MacColl is dying from a drug addition.  However, despite their frustration, bitterness, and regret they never fall entirely into despondence.  MacColl comes closest, accusing MacGowan of stifling her potential, yet it’s right after she claims that anyone could “be someone.”  Instead, however the song plays out – whether it’s all in MacGowan’s head or whether this is a split screen / split narrative scene – both characters focus on the hopeful Christmases in their past.  Maybe it’s the optimist in me, but it seems like they do this not to point out that they are hopeless, but rather as a way of recapturing any shred of their dreams, ultimately realizing that the only thing they have left is each other, no matter how much they irk each other.  Even if they’re shells of their former selves, there’s hope that somewhere deep is a shred of what inspired their dreams in the first place.

I think it’s this sense of hope even in the bleakest times that resonates.  Even in tough times, Christmas represents a moment of joy and hope for many people.  In a strange way, MacGowan and MacColl’s characters find joy in their loved ones, even if they’re referring to each other in less than affectionate language.  Hopefully we can find that too without having to hit the same nadir they experience.

Happy Christmas if you celebrate it, and I hope that it’s a time of peace, hope, and reprieve for all who need it.

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

TAGGED UNDER: the pogues | shane macgowan | kirsty maccoll | 1988 | 1980s | xmas | island records |
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“Mis-Shapes” – Pulp
(Words/music: Nick Banks/Jarvis Cocker/Candida Doyle/Steve Mackey/Pulp/Russell Senior/Mark Webber, available on Different Class, Island 1995)

Eddie Izzard, while on a riff about the biblical notion that “the meek shall inherit the earth,” quips that if the meek “should be having meetings all over the world” in order to plan their acquisition.  If nothing else, Jarvis Cocker’s persona in “Mis-Shapes” isn’t standing around waiting for control to fall into his lap.  Instead, “Mis-Shapes” lays out the agenda for the thoughtful misfits.  He calls together his bookish brethren to rise up and take control on their terms.  “We won’t use guns / we won’t use bombs / we’ll use the one thing that we’ve got more of / that’s our mind.”  Where others see meek men and women, he sees a dormant revolution.

Of course, this sort of underdog fantasy rarely sounds either as confident or grand as “Mis-Shapes.”  From the opening notes, Cocker lets his words casually fall asunder, delivering lines with the right mix of spoken swagger and melody.  Behind him, the band builds from a couple guitar notes to a moderate stomp to a distorted gospel revival.  By the time he hits the chorus, Cocker sounds like a preacher singing his sermon to his tambourine-tapping congregation.  However, Pulp’s popularity would eventually swell to a point where Cocker wasn’t just preaching to the misfit choir (at least in the UK, where the entire crowd at the Glastonbury festival seemingly knew the words to “Common People”).  His effortless cool and cunning turns of phrase made him a compelling spokesman for the “meek,” and ultimately it was this charm (and a spot-on flair for the dramatic) that made Different Class such a compelling listen, whether you’re misshapen or conventionally pegged.

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

TAGGED UNDER: pulp | jarvis cocker | eddie izzard | 1995 | 1990s | island records |
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“Connected” – Stereo MC’s
(Words/music: Robert Birch, Harry Wayne Casey, Richard Finch, Nicholas Hallam, available on Connected, Island Records 1992)

I’ll be the first to admit that I sometimes lose sight of the reason why I write this blog.  In the most general terms, it’s a place to share and discuss music, but I also really like the idea of learning something about my taste – not just offering songs that I like, but trying to figure out why I like these songs.  Sometimes this requires a little backstory (or a personal digression), but largely the focus needs to be on the songs.  That being said, as I tried to brainstorm a song for tonight, I thought about the process for picking songs.  I often end up picking some less than obvious choices (I haven’t written about a lot of my favorite bands yet) because I see value in looking at the edges of one’s taste.  If I’m going to truly learn about my taste, then these “fringe” songs – whether they are songs I normally might not like or things that are pushing my boundaries – might yield insight into why I like them.  It would be easy to post something classic and fall into the trap of “this is important” or “this is timeless” without going any deeper.  In some ways, I feel like it might be harder to get to the root of why I like something like the Beatles without falling into that trap.  Maybe that’s why I’m more interested in the oddities in my collection.

This brings me to “Connected.”  I never have a burning desire to hear this song and I don’t own anything else by the group.  I even had to make sure that the apostrophe in their name wasn’t a typo (Allmusic and Wikipedia both have it that way).  I’m glad to have it in my collection and more often than not I don’t skip it when it comes on.  I particularly like the way they build this slow groove out of a disco sample (from a song co-written by KC of KC and the Sunshine Band fame).  A heavy beat dominates the song, holding everything together like a sturdy nail hammered in tight.  Around the defined drum and bass, the other elements of the song float in orbit.  The keyboards sound light and airy, the sampled horns feel lifelike, and even the vocals feel playful.  I’ve never really paid much attention to the words, but they don’t really matter to me.  The song’s groove – this blend of heavy and light – sucks me in every time.  Even if it’s about a minute longer than it should be, it almost always comes as a welcome guest.

More on Stereo MC’s: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: stereo mc's | island records | 1992 | 1990s | track analysis |
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“St. Elmo’s Fire” – Brian Eno
(Words/music: Brian Eno, available on Another Green World, Island 1975)

I love “St. Elmo’s Fire” because it sounds like a beautiful, other-worldly creature.   The title references a specific weather phenomenon that I’ll link to rather than trying to explain.  It kind of looks like purplish, static generated lightning coming off of a metal rod.  Brian Eno took this as a musical direction, trying to recreate this visual sensation in his song.  In an interview with Lester Bangs in Musician magazine, Eno recounted his directions to his frequent collaborator (and King Crimson guitarist) Robert Fripp

“…on ‘St. Elmo’s Fire’ I had this idea and said to Fripp, ‘Do you know what a Wimshurst machine is?’ It’s a device for generating very high voltages which then leap between the two poles, and it has a certain erratic contour, and I said, ‘You have to imagine a guitar line that has that, very fast and unpredictable.’ And he played that part which to me was very Wimshurst indeed.”

Fripp’s solo accomplishes this by contrasting with the repetitive piano chords.  In a way, it’s the energized plasma that springs out of nowhere to beautifully light up the night’s sky.  However, I hear a story within the music.  “St. Elmo’s Fire,” to me, sounds like a UFO landing.  The song starts quietly and gently like a peaceful night, and the clicking percussion reminds me of crickets chirping peacefully in the distance.  The steady piano vamp sets the pace and feels like a quickening pulse, making the listener an eager “first person” observer of this strange sight.  The ship shimmers beautifully, gracefully moving to earth the same way the “oooohs” accompany Eno’s vocals.  When the ship lands (near the end of the second refrain, or right at the beginning of the third verse), another, lower sounding synth starts; this is where the doors open, revealing this strange visitor.  He opens his mouth when Fripp’s solo begins, speaking in a beautiful, completely foreign tongue.  It doesn’t match the same cadence or syntax as our language, yet it fills us with distinctly beautiful emotions.  It’s clearly outside of our comprehension, yet we’re compelled to think of it as a peaceful, beautiful welcome from this otherworldly creature.

Or maybe I’ve just had one too many cups of coffee tonight.  Regardless, if there is intelligent life out there (and I’m not sure what I believe), I hope it’s as beautiful as “St. Elmo’s Fire.”

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

TAGGED UNDER: brian eno | robert fripp | 1975 | 1970s | track analysis | strange somewhat tangential story related to the song | i want to believe | island records |
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“World Shut Your Mouth” – Julian Cope
(Words/music: Julian Cope, available on Saint Julian, Island Records 1987)

I started regularly accumulating albums on vinyl about four years ago, but the habit’s origins go all the way back to high school.  Merle’s Record Rack, the record store in my hometown that’s since closed, had a small used vinyl section all the way in the back of the store (right near the posters).  Usually, my trips to Merle’s began at the new release rack and ended with a long trek through the used CD section.  However, on occasion (usually when we had time to kill), we’d explore some of the other oddities – the wall of used cassette tapes (some of which sit in my car), a rack of t-shirts that smelled like incense, and the used LPs.  We didn’t have a working turntable, so it was mostly out of curiosity unless we found an unavoidable deal.  For example, my brother bought most of Pink Floyd’s catalog for $2 each because he couldn’t pass it up.  I followed suit, nabbing a couple “dollar classics” – Born to Run, Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy, and plenty of other classic rock-leaning albums.  Thus began my obsession with dollar records.

When I finally started building a LP collection, I had a few loose rules – I only wanted to pay more than $10 if it was a record I loved (I think the Replacements Pleased to Meet Me was the first I broke double-digits for), and I would buy essentially anything I had remote interest in for a dollar or less.  This is how I ended up with Saint Julian on LP – I found it for a dollar and bought it, confusing all parties involved.  I tried my best to explain “World Shut Your Mouth” to my friend with me, describing its driving beat and snake-like lead guitar riff.   I tried to explain that Cope’s lyrical plea to ignore criticism and keep dreaming was less about the specific words and more about how he said it, with his repetition mimicking the relentless snare drum hits.  Finally, after playing it in the car on the way home (and deciding that the band OK Go probably loved that song), I figured out how to summarize it – it’s a fine bit of power pop that’s catchy, enjoyable every so often, and not worth much more scrutiny.  A dollar for the LP seemed like a fair price.

To this day, I haven’t played Saint Julian.  I still have it (somewhere), and if I ever find myself DJ-ing somewhere, I might dig it out strictly to play “World Shut Your Mouth.”  I still don’t regret spending a dollar on the album.

More on Julian Cope: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: julian cope | 1987 | 1980s | track analysis | island records |
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“Running to Stand Still” – U2 
(Words: Bono, Music: U2, available on The Joshua Tree, Island Records 1987)

I understand why some people are turned off by U2.  Bono himself would probably think he’s a little too smug, and even though he means well, he often comes off as pompous and self-aggrandizing.  U2’s music, at least since reaching mega-stardom with The Joshua Tree, strives to be as important as the humanitarian causes the band champions.  Part of the reason these songs resonate with so many (aside from being incredible music compositions, and I think the three non-Bono members don’t always get the credit they deserve) is that these sounds take in the world with a wide lens.  Most of the massive hits draw on these broad, universal themes of the shared human experience – the pains and joys of love, struggles with faith, the search for something greater, and yes, even the quest for justice in a few songs.  Bono is not a poetic genius in the conventional sense at least (meaning you won’t see a book of “poetry,” or I really hope we won’t), but in his best moments he takes an event of any size and stretches it out to find the shared human experience in it.  Still, I see how some people prefer to approach life on a smaller level by listening to songs that focus on smaller, more individual stories and do the connecting and relating on their own level.  For better or worse, U2 songs have little lyric subtlety, but I’m not sure we always need our messages subtle and nuanced.  Sometimes, we’re best served to confront life at face value.

While Bono uses “I” almost as a universal “we” (think of “Where the Streets Have No Name,” for one example), he has a few moments of narrative brilliance where his lyrics serve as a detached observer.  The “I” in “Running to Stand Still” is not Bono, but rather the character he’s describing.  On one level, it’s a story about a woman in the thrall of heroin addiction.  He describes her helplessness and despair as her alternatives fade away, leaving only the needle and the looming cloud of death out in the horizon.  In particular, I’ve always loved how the song starts mid-thought with the word “and.”  Rather than try to tell her entire story – how she came to heroin, etc. – we enter the picture in media res and fill in the details on our own. Musically, “Running to Stand Still” flows like a body of water in the middle of the night.  The bending notes on the guitar and the building toms on Larry Mullen, Jr.’s drums create a somber mood.  Appropriately, the song ends without a true climax (a rarity for a U2 song, and a remarkable sign of restraint); at the moment near the end where it might build to something, the music turns the other way and fades down to just the main guitar riff.  Both musically and lyrically, it captures the hopelessly endless feeling of addiction and being trapped in the beginning of the story without a true middle or ending.  Even as a song about heroin addiction, Bono paints it in a way (save for the penultimate “needle’s chill” line) that casts it as addiction and obsession in general.  Most of us, hopefully to a lesser degree, have these single-minded moments that drive us nuts – perhaps with our jobs, or families, or anything else – where we feel that no matter how hard we try, we’re always standing in the same place.  The hope is that we can make our way out of this song and into one that reaches soaring heights and better places.

More on U2: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

TAGGED UNDER: u2 | 1987 | 1980s | island records | bono | track analysis |
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