Some Songs Considered

“Burn Last Sunday” – Superchunk 
(Words/music: Superchunk, available on Indoor Living, Merge Records 1997) 

In a way, Superchunk gently plays with expectations on “Burn Last Sunday.” Where many bands, especially in 1997, stepped on the gas during the chorus, the band pulls back slightly. After a brief introduction, twin guitars and energetic guitars fill the verse.  Even Mac McCaughan’s vocals push toward the upper end of his register – a vocal maneuver many rock singers save for the song’s climax. When the song’s hook comes along, the drums quiet and the guitars slide into an accented three note phrase. McCaughan’s vocals calm as well, and a mellow synthesizer joins in halfway. It has the melody and repetition that an anthemic chorus might have, but by getting gentler rather than rowdier, it gains attention with a slight surprise. 

Of course, the band didn’t invent this maneuver, but like with many of the band’s best recordings, Superchunk pulls it off flawlessly. If the band’s most famous songs suggest a frenzied energy, “Burn Last Sunday” shows off the band’s less heralded yet equally important gifts – namely, an underrated sense of arrangement, precise execution, and the ability to turn simple melodic phrases into potent earworms. It’s this precise craftsmanship that I admire in a lot of the band’s late ‘90s albums. Whether it’s the restraint to keep the guitar melody simple during the chorus, or the “oohs” carefully hidden in the mix toward the end of the first verse that aren’t always noticed yet always heard, there are plenty of little moments to notice and admire each time I listen. 

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

“Apologize” – Lou Barlow + Missingmen 
(Words/music: Lou Barlow, available on Sentridoh III, Merge Records (Digital) 2010) 

“Time’s been known to flicker / drag uneven, fly” is one of my favorite opening lines from recent memory particularly for the image it creates.  The idea of time passing in uneven bursts the way candlelight flares and recedes feels both beautiful and accurate.  This arrangement of the song (originally on Barlow’s 2009 record Goodnight Unknown) parallels this fluidity in the musical arrangement.  The Missingmen, on loan from Mike Watt, encase Barlow’s voice with watery distortion and subtly swirling guitar effects.  Even the song’s arrangement itself – quieter and looser verses followed by louder, tighter sections – somewhat flickers itself.  

“Flicker” is an interesting way to describe the song’s narrator too.  He seems to alternate between moments of illumination and moments in darkness. It’s an interesting and very familiar conflict for many of us who moments of clarity interspersed by pockets of confusions and don’t know how we moved from one to the other.  Ultimately, it’s a fight where temporary victories are the best, and the narrator seems to understand this.  The only thing that’s certain is his command, whether to himself or just as general advice, not to apologize for it.  Even if we’d want our lives illuminated by floodlights at times, isn’t there a degree of beauty and romance to the flicker of candlelight?  If so, the ups and downs come with the territory.  

More on Lou Barlow: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“In the Backseat” – Arcade Fire
(Words/music: Arcade Fire, available on Funeral, Merge Records 2004) 

Right now, I have minimal expectations for the Arcade Fire’s forthcoming album The Suburbs.  I’ve thought so little about their album that I was startled to realize earlier today that it comes out in roughly two weeks and that I will see them close out Lollapalooza the following weekend.  This isn’t apathy – their two previous albums rank among my personal favorites – but this is something new.  When Neon Bible leaked, I scoured with a singular focus.  Today, I barely blinked at song clips posted online. 

This general patience somewhat ironically comes from those fanatic listening binges, particularly the hours spent with Funeral.  Without over-generalizing, I end up cycling through favorite songs on many of my favorite albums.  It begins with the first couple tracks I hear – either singles or ones someone dropped on a mix or whatever – that feel familiar before the album’s first spin.  Then there are the immediately grabbing songs.  These are the ones that work in every setting – in the context of the album’s sequencing, in random, isolated iTunes double-clicks, and in those frantic, volume escalating moments in the car to name a few.  Then, over time, the other songs on the album creep up one by one and seize attention.  Sometimes it takes hearing an alternate version or a live performance, while other times it takes hearing a lyric differently or an instrument leaping out of the mix unexpectedly.  Sometimes, it’s unexplainable. 

Both of Régine Chassagne’s lead songs on Funeral earned this belated affection, but “In the Backseat” fits this description perfectly.  Tucked away at the end of the album with many sonic and emotional peaks and valleys, “In the Backseat” rarely got my full attention.  Listening with less than engaged ears, the quiet beginning and even volume to Chassagne’s voice slipped past me.  It was only the day that, for whatever reason, I keyed in on the lyrics that the song clicked.  The lines “my family tree’s / losing all its leaves” gripped me, but it was Chassagne’s voice – the beautifully crystallized and generally even foil to her husband’s gruff and theatrical vocals -  that floored me.  Her voice throughout the song quivers yet never buckles whether backed sparsely or engulfed in the swelling sound around her.  To call it the peak of the album might be unfair (or, at the very least, a matter of opinion), but its delivery crept up on a way that I’ll never completely shake.

More on Arcade Fire: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Sleep All Summer” – The National and St. Vincent
(Words/music: Eric Bachmann, available on SCORE! 20 Years of Merge Records: The Covers!, Merge Records, 2009) 

The first ever second post on a single song!  Here’s what I said about the original version last October:

Sonically, it feels like these warm October afternoons, specifically in the way the guitar sounds.  The gently picked acoustic guitar sounds warm yet tempered by the wistful slide guitar lines that gently come and go.  Whenever the bright notes cut through to the forefront, the somber slide guitar swoops back in like a cool breeze.  Eric Bachmann and Lara Meyerratken’s vocals tug at these emotional strands as well. Bachman, especially when reaching for the higher notes, sounds bright especially when contrasted with Meyerratken’s even-keeled vocals.  It’s when they sing together that Bachmann and Meyerratken bring out the best in each other’s voices and channel that early autumnal warmth.  Even without listening to the words, it’s clear that these two characters sound conflicted – in this case, it’s a longing to reconnect with a lover while realizing that the spark is gone.  Lots of pop songs use the seasons as a metaphor for life, but few feel as focused on the moments of flux between seasons as “Sleep All Summer.”  It captures the feeling of summer’s last moments before fall.  Like the love between these characters, change is inevitable, for better or worse.

And even in June, I’m not going to argue with that logic.  If anything, The National’s Matt Berninger’s deeper voice sounds even more autumnal than Eric Bachmann.  Like Bachmann and Meyerratken in the original, Berninger and Annie Clark play off each other, letting their voices gently intertwine during the chorus without becoming completely inseparable.  It’s a faithful homage to the original without being redundant, largely because it’s nice to hear Berninger and Clark sing together.  Hearing it now at the beginning of the summer, I’m more drawn to the breezy tone rather than the somber story; in short, I hope my summer is full of evenings where “Sleep All Summer” would be an appropriate soundtrack.

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

More on St. Vincent: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Learned to Surf” - Superchunk
(Words/music: Superchunk, available on Leaves in the Gutter EP, Merge Records 2009 / Merge Records 2010 Digital Sampler)

Saturday night’s post on the Strokes marked the 500th different song covered since starting this blog.  These five hundred posts include two I wrote last year as part of a now-defunct feature titled “More Songs Considered.”  This post is the second of those two and ran in a much longer form last July. 

From last July:

It’s now 2009 and Superchunk have reemerged with a new EP and a new single.  “Learned to Surf,” the lead track from the Leaves in the Gutter EP, springs forth with the same energy that inhabits the band’s best work.  I’ve listened to this song dozens of times over the past few months and I’m still in awe of the way it snaps so quickly from that opening riff into the muscular verses.  Drummer Jon Wurster is the secret weapon, particularly for the way he uses his toms efficiently in the first chorus. Rather than barrel through the song, Wurster dances across his kit, making it sound even stronger when he hits full speed.  This doesn’t sound like a band trying to recapture their golden days – this is a band that sounds completely rejuvenated and ready to contribute.

I especially love the sentiment in the chorus - “I stopped swimming and learned to surf.”  At this point, Superchunk could have made ripples by reissuing their albums and touring on old material.  However, true to form, it’s not merely good enough to tread water – Superchunk is back in the ocean and ready to tackle the waves.  It’s a great point about the difference between surviving and remaining vital.  At some point, we all feel like we’re content enough to just keep our heads above water.  However, sometimes we end up in a pattern where we get used to “good enough” and lose sight of getting better.    Once we hit some level of success, it’s easy to feel content and tread water for a while.  In a way, that’s how this blog came about – I’ve been swimming in music for more than half of my life, and it was time that I stopped swimming and learned to surf.  It means falling off my board every so often, but I feel like I’m getting better and (if nothing else) I can spot which waves I want to take in now.  So I can appreciate the risk involved with learning a new trick.  I should be amazed that Superchunk came back sounding as good as ever, but the band’s never been content to settle for treading water.

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

“Come Back from San Francisco” – The Magnetic Fields
(Words/music: Stephin Merritt, available on 69 Love Songs, Merge 1999)

As lovely as Shirley Simms sounds here (and good lord, does she have a beautiful voice), the electric guitar strikes me every time.  Whether it’s the melody or the bass notes, the strings resonate with a rich tone and just enough reverb.  I find guitar sounds incredibly fascinating – and sometimes more fascinating than technique (which probably explains why I’ve spent more time playing around with the knobs on my guitar than getting any better at playing it).  When the sound and technique dovetail and complement each other, I tip my hat out of respect.  In “Come Back from San Francisco,” the electric guitar acts as the song’s skeleton, holding together the different vocal lines and giving Simms’ lead vocal somewhere to rest.  The melody, when coupled with the finger-picked bass notes and ringing just long enough, balancing the heartbreak and hope in Merritt’s lyrics.

Like Merritt’s finest lyrics, “Come Back to San Francisco” navigates through sweetness, humor, love, and heartbreak.  A few lines always make me smirk, particularly the “kiss me, I quit smoking” declaration that only a non-smoker could love.  I’m always fascinated by the first simile in the chorus: “You need me like the wind needs the trees to blow in.”  I’m drawn into the elusiveness of the image; I read it different ways depending on my mood.  It could be the recognition that the two need a little friction in their relationship to get by.  At other times, it’s a statement of dependence – after all, one can’t tell if it’s windy outside unless the branches of a tree are moving around, giving the otherwise invisible wind visibility.  Still, it might just be designed to evoke the simple, peaceful image of a breezy spring day.  Either way, it’s the link that matters most, even if it means late night, transcontinental phone calls until the lease runs out.

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

“Bobby Jean” – Portastatic 
(Words/music: Bruce Springsteen, available on Autumn Was a Lark EP, Merge 2003)

Many of my favorite Bruce Springsteen songs make the world seem small.  This is strange given that his music fills stadiums on a regular basis, but many of his songs, particularly his “character” songs, feel like close up scenes that tightly frame the characters in the middle of a feature film.  Springsteen brings his characters to life with the right balance of detail and mystery, filling in the picture enough to get to know them while still leaving enough room for our imaginations to sketch in the rest.  Even on the Born in the U.S.A. album, when Springsteen’s music swelled to match the arenas he traversed, he never lost his fondness nor his respect for the characters who inhabited his songs.  It just was hard to find the intimacy at first when the drums boomed at a level appropriate for tens of thousands.

Mac MacCaughan’s take on “Bobby Jean” moved this intimacy right to the forefront.  Armed only with his acoustic guitar and a voice considerably thinner than Springsteen’s, MacCaughan’s version puts the focus onto the frayed relationship in the song.  This version amplifies the resignation in the narrator’s story, particularly in the “good luck, good bye” lyric near the end.  Where Springsteen sounds like he’s projecting the story out for us to watch on the screen, MacCaughan’s take puts the emphasis on the narrator.  While we may not know much about Bobby Jean, we know that the narrator’s sad to see her walk out of his life. 

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

“Your Blood” – Destroyer
(Words/music: Dan Bejar, available on Destroyer’s Rubies, Merge Records 2006)

To those of you who don’t know Dan Bejar’s music, I’ll tell you that this song sounds a lot different than “‘Your Blood’ by Destroyer” might have sounded were I to describe the song based solely on the two names involved.  Somehow, I imagine Bejar likes that sort of misdirection; his songs defy typical genre labels, calling for the even less-telling adjectives “quirky” and “eccentric.”  Whether composing mini pop-suites complete with MIDI synthesizers or twisting the pure pop of the New Pornographers a couple times each album (and his contributions are always among my favorites), Bejar has a way of making these less-than-likely decisions sound catchy.  Against whatever odds one might place on a pop song successfully referencing several of Camus’ works, Bejar succeeds.

“Your Blood” may as well be called “The Freewheeling Dan Bejar,” as it glides across a crisp shuffle with tinkling piano and bluesy guitar fills.  I imagine Bejar, complete with his giant poof of hair, walking down the same cold Greenwich Village street captured in that Dylan album, quietly singing along to his companion in that tunefully nasally tone he uses so well on this track.  The voice merits a Dylan comparison not because he specifically sounds like Dylan (he doesn’t to me at least) but because it may put some off initially.  However, just like Dylan, Bejar knows how to use his vocal capacity – not to sing arias, but rather to open a valve and let his subconscious mind flow freely, tangling itself with these dense melodic threads.  Usually, it’s these melodic knots that make Bejar’s songs so interesting, but here all of the threads braid together naturally.  Where some of his other songs require some patience, “Your Blood” satisfies immediately.  Sure, there are different sounds to appreciate each time (recently it’s the burst of guitar accompanying the “Tabitha takes another stab” line), but few of his songs are both immediately and continually gratifying.

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

“Atlantic City (Gonna Make a Million Tonight)” – East River Pipe
(Words/music: F.M. Cornog, available on The Gasoline Age, Merge Records 1999)

I won’t try to rehash Fred Cornog’s journey from homeless junkie to reviled pop recluse because others have covered his biography better.  You should go read the feature on Cornog from New York Magazine or the Allmusic entry for East River Pipe (or the recent Merge Records oral history Our Noise), because it’s difficult to separate the biography from the songs, specifically the idea of a guy making these weirdly charming songs with keyboards and drum machines in his bedroom.

The single element that stands out the most to me – more than the nine and a half minutes of running time (although the last minute is mostly just a sound collage), more than the hopefulness in Cornog’s voice – is the way the long keyboard notes and delayed guitar shine in the background like a fluorescent light.  It ends up giving the song “soft lighting” as well – keeping the focus on the dream of becoming a millionaire rather than the impossibility of the feat.  Eventually, I end up losing myself in the reverberations, as the delayed guitar decays into that strange hum of slot machines whirling.  This is the point where Cornog’s dream fades into reality – one where (in my experience, anyway), casinos are far more depressing than those “Vegas, baby!” exclamations might make you think.  For a long stretch of time tonight, every time the song hit the eight minute mark, I went back near the beginning and dropped the cursor, getting lost in that loop again for a few more minutes.

Then I thought of how its creator made this in his bedroom studio.  At that point, I looked around at all the clutter in my bedroom, dropped the cursor back around the two minute mark, and closed my eyes in an attempt to fall back into the sound.

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

“100,000 Fireflies” – Superchunk
(Words/music: Stephin Merritt, available on Incidental Music 1991 – 95, Merge Records 1995)

I first knew “100,000 Fireflies” through the Superchunk version, and because my original copy of Incidental Music was on a CD-R, I didn’t know it wasn’t a Superchunk song.  With a bit of hindsight and and much deeper love for Superchunk’s catalogue, it stands out from a bunch of their earlier songs.  Lyrically it’s a little more dramatic than Mac McCaughan usually gets (I don’t think the phrase “I want to kill myself” appears in any of his songs).  Their cover highlights a lot of the things I love about the early Superchunk, particularly their fusion of melody and mayhem without sacrificing either.  It’s also more complex than the three chord pop-punk birthed at the end of the decade; the arrangement rises and falls in both volume and intensity.

There’s a certain justice to follow the “when I turn up the tone / on my electric guitar” lyric with electric guitars, and the energy Superchunk breathes into the song is infectious.  McCaughan’s strained vocals, particularly in the post-chorus section, lean on the desperation in the lyrics.  The guitar slows down and feels heavier as he pleads for another chance.  Gradually, Jim Wilbur embellishes on the main riff, twisting it into a brief solo before the song ends. 

In many ways, Superchunk gets right to the core of the song, bringing the urgency to the forefront with distorted guitars.  Like the Magnetic Fields version (and more on them in the next post – give me a half hour or so), the Superchunk cover relies on crafting a specific mood.  Their mood draws on the ones that run beneath the surface – ones I might not have gleaned just from the original version alone.

(Part 2 on the Magnetic Fields’ version can be read here)

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

“Since K Got Over Me” – The Clientele
(Words: Alasdair MacLean, music: The Clientele, available on Strange Geometry, Merge Records 2005) 

Follow my logic here: “Since K Got Over Me” borrows a bit of the melody from The Crystals’ “Then He Kissed Me,” a song I strongly associate with Goodfellas.  Martin Scorsese used the song in the film’s famous single-take shot of Henry Hill and date entering the Copacabana through the service entrance.  As the camera snakes through the kitchen to the front of the club’s room, the Phil Spector-produced track lends some of its giddiness to this very unique date.  “Then He Kissed Me” helps to set the mood in this scene perfectly, from the liveliness of the club and the people working behind the scenes to the surreal feeling of the world bending to Hill’s whim. 

The connection between “Then He Kissed Me” and “Since K Got Over Me” led me to start thinking about the kind of scene this song would soundtrack.  Even if the production isn’t like Spector’s “Wall of Sound,” “Since K Got Over Me” relies on reverb to create atmosphere.  In fact, the cleaner, more distinct instrumentation gives the song a woosy feeling to it.  Alasdair MacLean’s vocals describe feeling out of sorts, so I’m inclined to think that my “Since K Got Over Me” scene would not be capturing a rise to power (like Henry Hill in Goodfellas) but rather someone hitting a snag.  Perhaps, as homage to one of cinema’s more famous scenes, my character could go through the same sort of gauntlet that Hill follows through the unseen side of the Copacabana.  Wherever he is – entering a club through the service entrance, taking the long way in to work, or whatever – he ends by pulling up his own chair alone, left to sort out the issues running through his brain.  While Hill becomes the most powerful man in the room, I’d want this character to seem powerless, or at least restrained by these issues.

Anyway, that’s just my idea.  What kind of scene would you soundtrack with “Since K Got Over Me?”

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

“Jonathan Fisk” – Spoon
(Words/music: Britt Daniel, available on Kill the Moonlight, Merge Records 2002)

In the deluge of retrospectives over the past six months or so, I noticed a trend.  A surprising (well, to me at least) number of people rated Spoon as one of their best (read: favorite) bands of the past decade.  I don’t mean to knock Spoon – I like their records a lot and frequently refer other people to them.  They just never struck me as a transcendently great band – one that would be in the second list of my favorite bands, and certainly not a band I would ever question someone for loving.  I’ve always enjoyed their records, with “enjoyed” being the key word.  They are a consistently good band even if I’ve never been head-over-heels enamored with them.  This is precisely what put the band at the top of MetaCritic’s compendium – by their math, Spoon proved to be the most consistently excellent band of the past decade.

“Consistent” is a bit of a double-edged sword, and to be fair Spoon embodies the most positive qualities of this term.  Even if the sound of each record shifts (and their new record Transference makes Spoon sound a little funkier and looser, at least from the couple of listens I’ve given it over the past few days), they thrive on this sense of sonic equilibrium.  “Jonathan Fisk” does this through heavy repetition, both in the stomp of the drums and the heavy chording hand in the guitar.  From the first note to the end of the song, the band locks into this moderate groove, leading Britt Daniel to sing rhythmically.  Where many of Spoon’s contemporaries use jagged guitar riffs or polyrhythmic percussion, it’s Daniel’s vocals (and a brief burst of guitar at the end) that add a layer of rhythmic variation over the solid bed.  Even if Spoon is opening up their groove (and I imagine that their current live sets will reflect this looseness), they could whip up a consistently tight track with the best of them.  In that sense, it’s easy to see how so many could love a band that delivers so consistently.

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

“Coast of Carolina” – Telekinesis
(Words/music: Michael Benjamin Lerner, available on Telekinesis!, Merge Records 2009)

“Woke up in another lifetime / It’s a shame that it’s just not right now” encapsulates the playfulness and light touch of surrealism.  From the woozy acoustic opening (briefly poached by a Ford commercial late last year) to the keyboards echoing behind the lead vocals in the chorus, “Coast of Carolina” feels more like the hazy daydreams that happen between the time we wake up and the time we get out of bed.  All of the things Michael Benjamin Lerner describes – from dreaming of the Carolina coast at the beginning to the visions of companionship in the final verse – feel like the kind of half-awake, half-asleep daydream that seem so vivid yet so fleeting. 

It’s an intriguing perspective for a pop song, especially one that drives ahead in such a straightforward manner.  Dreams in songs tend to be ambitions or desires.  Lerner’s rely on the shards of images we string together when we wake up – vague visages of others, uncertain feelings, and hesitant memories.  Even the timeframe in the opening line is vague – is he dreaming of the past or dreaming of the future?  Regardless, Lerner captures the fluid nature of dreams – specifically the way the tone shifts quickly – and all of the associated emotions - specifically euphoria and uncertainty.

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

“Crossed Wires” – Superchunk
(Words: Mac McCaughan, music: Superchunk, available on “Crossed Wires” single, Merge 2009)

I’ll keep this one brief, mainly because I already wrote about why I was so excited that Superchunk was recording again in 2009 and that I finally got to see them last summer as well.  If these two moments were enough to reignite my nostalgia, “Crossed Wires,” the second Superchunk release last year (granted, their entire 2009 output would fit on Side A of a cassette if we still used those), sounds like a power-pop master class.  It’s three and a half minutes of hooks – from the guitars, from Mac McCaughan, even the bass throws in a couple excellent melodic licks too.  This forceful melody combined with a lively tempo makes “Crossed Wires” as immediately compelling and infectious as anything else in 2009.

On its own, “Crossed Wires” would be a great pop song, but the deeper parts of the track kept it in my rotation months later.  Specifically, Jim Wilbur’s lead guitar spends the verses complimenting the melody in a subtle and unobtrusive way that it’s easy to miss out.  While it takes a back seat to McCaughan’s double tracked vocals in the chorus, Wilbur’s lead lines bend notes, slide up and down the neck, and generally encase the vocals in the verse.  He never wails in an overpowering way (and after seeing the band last summer, I’ll vouch that he could if he wanted to!), instead nimbly dancing between the vocals, the acoustic and electric rhythm guitar parts, and the rhythm section.  Would it be a good song if a power trio tore through it? Yes, but it’s these extra touches that distinguish a Superchunk single from their imitators.

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

“Sleep All Summer” – Crooked Fingers
(Words/music: Eric Bachmann, available on Dignity and Shame, Merge Records 2005)

Beautiful autumn days – ones warm enough to sit out on a porch all afternoon – make me think about the end of summer.  Perhaps I’m a pessimist when it comes to the weather, but I always take these days as the last gasp of summer before winter takes hold.  While some people see changing leaves as a pretty backdrop, each falling leaf means another day closer to digging out my car.  To be fair, I’m not sitting around thinking about icy windshields on these days – if anything, the impending frost motivates me to get out of the house and enjoy the warmth before it’s a fading memory.

I share this anecdote because these are the things I hear in “Sleep All Summer.”  Sonically, it feels like these warm October afternoons, specifically in the way the guitar sounds.  The gently picked acoustic guitar sounds warm yet tempered by the wistful slide guitar lines that gently come and go.  Whenever the bright notes cut through to the forefront, the somber slide guitar swoops back in like a cool breeze.  Eric Bachmann and Lara Meyerratken’s vocals tug at these emotional strands as well. Bachman, especially when reaching for the higher notes, sounds bright especially when contrasted with Meyerratken even keeled vocals.  It’s when they sing together that Bachmann and Meyerratken bring out the best in each other’s voices and channel that early autumnal warmth.  Even without listening to the words, it’s clear that these two characters sound conflicted – in this case, it’s a longing to reconnect with a lover while realizing that the spark is gone.  Lots of pop songs use the seasons as a metaphor for life, but few feel as focused on the moments of flux between seasons as “Sleep All Summer.”  It captures the feeling of summer’s last moments before fall.  Like the love between these characters, change is inevitable, for better or worse.

More on Crooked Fingers: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm