Some Songs Considered - Posts Tagged 'personal reflection'

February 1, 2010

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“Living Well is the Best Revenge (Live)” – R.E.M.
(Words/music: Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and Michael Stipe, available on Live at the Olympia, Warner Brothers 2009)

Earlier today, Yahoo! Sports Kelly Dwyer wrote an unexpected treatise on fandom. I encourage you to read his post not only if you’re a sports fan, but if you’re a passionate fan of anything. Dwyer, a life-long Chicago Bulls fan, looked back at his obsessive fanaticism during the end of the Bulls’ dynasty and subsequent recession into mediocrity. His advice is to maintain joy even in the most critical moments. “Nothing’s guaranteed save for the joy you create,” Dwyer writes, and the more I thought about what he wrote, the more it made sense beyond the world of sports. Even if there aren’t championships to win or lose in music (and let’s be honest, the Grammy’s or Billboard #1s aren’t equivalents), there’s the same gamut of emotions when a favorite band missteps or disappears, whether it’s betrayal or disappointment or depression. To be a fan is to open yourself up to heartbreak as much as it’s to open yourself up to euphoria.

As a fan, I have the longest and strongest allegiances to R.E.M.. They were one of the first bands I obsessed over, and remain the band I return to the most often. They are the most played band on my Last.fm profile by several hundred plays. Over the past decade and a half, I’ve seen the band’s popularity recede and return gently. Their output over this period runs the gamut from surprisingly charming to crushingly disappointing, to the point where I started to write the band off around the middle of the last decade. This is what made 2008’s Accelerate such an important album – one that revived my faith in the band and brought me back to long-forgotten corners of their back catalogue.

When the band toured in support of the album in 2008, I bought tickets to three different shows, none of which were in my home state. I ventured to Massachusetts and came within 30 feet of the stage. I braved a torrential downpour and near-brush with lightning in Long Island. I took several days off from work to take the train down to Philadelphia and even bought scalped tickets just to move up a couple dozen rows. Despite the time and money invested, I didn’t question my decision because deep down, I knew the fleeting nature of this moment. Somewhere deep in my brain I knew that the band might never sound this good again (and the jury’s out on that, hopefully I’m wrong), but rather than dwell on the tour as the band’s swan song, I wanted to be in the house for every possible second I could. To this day, I have notebook pages full of thoughts from these shows, dozens of blurry pictures, and archived downloads of every bootleg I could find. I’m even on YouTube ruining a perfectly good video of “Begin the Begin” by singing along too close to the camera. All of these artifacts bring me back to the sheer joy of seeing one of my favorite bands perhaps at their best moment during my fandom.

“Joy” is the operative word here, and it’s the key to being a fan. As Dwyer suggests, there will always be imperfections (not to mention the lingering feeling that what goes up must come back down). These are valid parts of fandom yet shouldn’t preclude the reason for being a fan in the first place. In reference to these moments, Dwyer says, “So make them work for you. Don’t ever let up, and question everything, but make them work.” It’s easier said than done, especially when disappointment sets in. Still, I’m brought back to the end of Michael Stipe’s speech accepting R.E.M.’s enshrinement in the rock and roll hall of fame. Stipe shares that his grandmother interpreted the band’s name as an acronym for “remember every moment,” and I can’t think of a better definition of fandom than that.

More on R.E.M.: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

January 25, 2010

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“First of the Gang to Die” – Morrissey
(Words/music: Morrissey and Alain Whyte, available on You Are the Quarry, Attack / Sanctuary 2004)

I remember going to my college orientation, and as an awkward teenager I carefully treaded through a weekend of introductions and attachment. Near the end of the weekend, we were waiting for something – course scheduling, perhaps, but I can’t remember exactly – and were in a classroom in one of the academic buildings. This was when Comedy Central still played Saturday Night Live reruns, so one was on while we waited for whatever we were waiting for. Morrissey was on singing “Glamorous Glue,” a fairly typical Morrissey single (even if I only knew him via the Smiths – a recent discovery for me within that year). Still, one of the people sitting there looked up, directed her friends to the “weirdo” on TV, and returned to whatever they were discussing. At that point, I was ready to go home to enjoy the rest of my summer working and listening to weirdoes on my discman.

I share this story because I feel like it frames how I approached You Are the Quarry when it came out. By the end of time as an undergrad, I established a group of people who indulged my weirdo-heavy musical tastes. When You Are the Quarry came out, I took notice mainly because it sounded as strong as much of his other material even a dozen years later. “First of the Gang to Die,” a song drawing on Morrissey’s adopted hometown of Los Angeles, sounds particularly focused and polished. Most importantly, Morrissey sounds the same as he did in 1992 (and, in many ways, in the 1980s as well), his voice dancing through the guitars to the front of the mix. I’m sure if 2004 Morrissey was playing on the TV that day during orientation, he might have been dubbed “that old weirdo” compared with the pompadour-ed ‘Moz from the early ‘90s, yet it wouldn’t have mattered. If anything would have changed, I would have fixated on the music rather than dwelled on the difference between myself and a stranger. Then again, were I 21 and not 18 during that moment, I might have just said hi to a few other people in the first place.

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

December 30, 2009

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“Waiting for the Great Leap Forward” – Billy Bragg
(Words/music: Billy Bragg, available on Worker’s Playtime, Go! Discs 1988)

My instincts want me to use “Waiting for the Great Leap Forward” as a way to look back at the past year of blogging. When I started writing this blog, I did it as a way to explore my taste in music. I’ve been secure in my taste, meaning that I like the things I like proudly with or without the validation of others, for a while now, but I wanted to go deeper and try to figure out why I liked the things that I like. In that sense, Bragg’s ode to contradiction seems strangely appropriate to a point. “Waiting for the Great Leap Forward” hinges not only on the allusion to the failed economic and cultural renewal plan in 1950s China but on his appropriation of the cliché “one step forward, two steps back.” He lists a series of moments where advancement and regression converge – events where the opposite outcome – whether intended or inevitable – becomes prevalent. The power of Bragg’s song, both in the original version and in the continually updated lyrics since – is that he confronts his own contradictions in addition to the glaring dissonance in our culture. Whether it’s growing old, adapting to technology, or the accidental isolation of fame, Bragg ponders where and how he fits in to a changing world.

After a year of writing about songs that cover a significant portion of my taste as well as my personal listening history, I’m left in a similar position of confusion. In some cases, I have a better handle on the kind of things I like, none of which surprise me. Still, I’ve found that I’ve raised more than enough questions, whether directly or tangentially, to offset any “progress” I might declare (or, at least, “progress” I had in mind at the beginning of the year). However, this isn’t a failure; after all, this isn’t the kind of thing with tangible results. Instead, I feel even more curious at this point than when I started. That, coupled with the list of songs and songwriters I haven’t touched yet, is enough for me to want to continue with this in 2010. The job feels incomplete not because I failed to find what I was looking for, but because I’ve found that there’s more to explore. Where I once imagined writing some kind of dossier of my introspection, I’m finding that the act of considering and writing about these songs is what I wanted all along – that the small epiphanies about a forgotten favorite or a new perspective on a personal memory are the reasons I sat down to write in the first place.

Which brings me back to the song – even if the piano chords are slow at first, Bragg and friends eventually kick into gear. For his mixed feelings about progress, Bragg isn’t moping about failure. Instead, he’s forging on the same way he has for the better part of three decades now, still singing “Waiting for the Great Leap Forward” just with different details. On a much smaller scale, that’s what I’m hoping for – continuing along with different details, hoping each day to figure out something else, or get a little better at what I’m doing.

More on Billy Bragg: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

December 29, 2009

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“All My Friends” – LCD Soundsystem
(Words/music: James Murphy, Pat Mahoney, and Tyler Pope, available on Sound of Silver, DFA 2007)

Officially, Some Songs Considered was born last New Year’s Day, driving west on the Mass Pike on my way from Boston back to Connecticut, as it was during this two hour drive that I worked out the idea for it. However, in some ways the groundwork for the project started a little more than a year earlier when I connected on a strangely personal level with “All My Friends.” Sound of Silver came out during a period of time where I felt in limbo and could identify with James Murphy’s meditation on growing old. The strange thing – and the one that compelled me to write about it in the first place – was that I wasn’t the only one with these musical epiphanies. Writers Tom Breihan and Hua Hsu wrote two separate pieces detailing their personal experiences with the song. Breihan’s described an intensely personal experience in the midst of a single recap piece, while Hsu focused on the balance of nostalgia and melancholy in the song as well as a “pleasant shock of recognizing [his] newly 30 year-old self within it.” In many ways, my goal (often unstated) was to do both of these things – capture the raw personal reaction Breihan shares and the eloquent and potent analysis that Hsu explicates. Some days, I come closer than others (and other days I lose sight of these twin goals), but they remain, among others, the guiding thoughts dictating these posts.

Of course, it’s only appropriate that Hsu, Breihan, myself, and many others respond in such profound ways to “All My Friends.” It’s a testament to the song itself – so eloquently described by Hsu in his Slate article that I won’t go too far into it. Still, nearly two and a half years after first hearing Sound of Silver, the opening piano chords still rope me in and rouse my spirit in the way that few other songs accomplish. If nothing else, this realization makes me cherish those rare nights with my distant friends even more. Perhaps someday I’ll outgrow the song the same way I grew into it, but until that day I’ll spin the record, take stock of my life, and think about all my friends near and far.

More on LCD Soundsystem: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

December 21, 2009

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“Hold My Life” – The Replacements
(Words/music: Paul Westerberg, available on Tim, Sire Records 1985)

I hold the Replacements so dearly because I fell in love with the band as a teenager. I went out on the afternoon of my first date in high school and bought a copy of Tim. I can’t remember why – if I went out specifically to buy it, or if I was going out to blow off steam and came across it incidentally. Regardless, I have a vivid memory getting ready for the homecoming dance with the first two thirds of Tim playing in the boombox next to me. I remember the circumstances behind the acquisition of most of the Replacements records I own in fact, but my association with Tim stays with me the most. Today I wonder if Tim is my favorite Replacements album because it has my favorite songs on it, or if it has my favorite songs on it because of the numerous personal connections I have with the album.

I share this because my experience with The Replacements isn’t unique to either the band or the teenage experience. We all have song bound to specific times in our lives, and it just seems that the Replacements wrote many songs that lend themselves to this hyper-sensitive period in our lives. I spent too long tonight trying to track down the source (even stumbling on another instance where I paraphrased it), and I’m fairly sure it’s in my missing copy of Our Band Could Be Your Life, but the best description I’ve ever heard of The Replacements was that Paul Westerberg wrote vividly about the teenage experience from the safety of the “other side” of adolescence. Appropriately enough, it’s something that I appreciate more as I get further away from my teenage years. It reminds me of the predicament Holden Caulfield thrusts himself on at the end of The Catcher in the Rye. Impetuous Holden tells his sister that he wants to be the one who wants to protect kids from getting hurt or going down the wrong path. He doesn’t realize that it’s a foolish pursuit; first, it’s near impossible, and moreover kids need to learn how to fall and recover. Yes, there are certain mistakes kids can and should avoid, but some struggles, such as heartbreak, rejection, or frustration, are necessary. Learning to grow up is to learn to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and continue on, and without the opportunity to fall (in relative safety), it’s impossible to learn how to get back up. To paraphrase Westerberg’s narrator in this song, they need to learn how to use their lives rather than merely hold onto them indefinitely.

The point is that no matter how much we want to intervene, there are some mistakes, injuries, and failures that we all must experience, and the only reason we feel qualified to guide others is that we have the benefit of hindsight and experience. This is what makes Westerberg’s perspective work – he strikes the right balance between experience and authenticity, knowing where to nudge the listener and where to just lay out all his cards and let the listener take stock of the situation. His songs aren’t judgmental or didactic as much as they are reflective. We can see ourselves in the bored, frustrated, alienated, and hopeful personalities that populate Replacements’ songs, and perhaps with Westerberg’s mirror we can take better stock of ourselves and where we fit in to the big picture. Rather than offering advice quickly tuned out, Replacements songs like “Hold My Life” wait passively for the next person to come along and find whatever he or she needs – empathy, understanding, catharsis, validation, or whatever – ready to help on the listener’s terms. Mark Richardson, in a review of the Replacements’ reissues, put it well by saying that records, particularly the ‘Mats records, are always waiting. “People change, but records don’t, and that’s part of what makes them great. They’re frozen in place, ready to be found by people who need them.”

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

November 26, 2009

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“This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)” – Talking Heads
(Words/music: David Byrne/Chris Frantz/Jerry Harrison/Tina Weymouth, available on Stop Making Sense: Special New Edition, Sire 1999)

First, let’s talk about this “Naïve Melody” business. From their art school roots up through David Byrne’s dense blog posts, the Talking Heads and their affiliated members (Brian Eno was virtually a studio-only member of this band for a few albums) are known for being intelligent musicans. So when David Byrne’s first love song (dubbed so by him in the Stop Making Sense self-interview) comes with the word “naïve,” the implication is that it that the Heads had to put aside their genre-bending and challenging sound in order to write a love song. Even if this was Byrne’s first love song (and I’d disagree, but that’s irrelevant), it may be “naïve” but it certainly isn’t stupid. If nothing else, writing a simple song takes self-awareness and a little bit of faith to know to get out of its way.

Appropriately, Bryne’s narrator finds happiness in his instincts. “Home – is where I want to be,” he sings in the first line, and it’s a sentiment that we all share, especially around this time of year. We spend so much energy trying to find happiness without realizing what we have. As soon as Byrne’s narrator realizes this – that he’s already home when he’s in the company of the one he loves – the restlessness ceases. Just as a complicated arrangement might adulterate the “naïve melody” in this song, Byrne’s narrator realizes that he doesn’t have to look in far off places to be happy. Instead, just like an animal follows its instincts, he trusts his heart and revels in the joy his loved one provides.

Of course, the song (particularly the Stop Making Sense version) isn’t as simple as that. Letting the melody take the lead is one thing, but the Talking Heads fall into formation behind it, complementing its simplicity without squashing it. Whether it’s that beautiful synthesizer introduction, the joyously belted vocal harmonies, or the wordless cooing and “hey” Byrne shouts out before the solo near the end of the song, the Heads sound like a band at home, basking in the glow of their song. It’s not as urgent, oblique, or challenging as most of their work, but these qualities would crush such a delicate song. The genius of the song is in its simplicity – by stepping outside their normal mode of operating, the band found a way to repurpose its strengths to accomplish a different goal. It may be a simple melody, but let’s be honest – none of us would have come up with it.

(As postscript, the idea of “home” being what makes someone happy really hits home today. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for all the people who make my life feel like “home” everyday, whether they actively try or not.)

More on Talking Heads: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

September 27, 2009

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“Give It” – X-Press 2 with Kurt Wagner
(Words/music: Darren Morris, Kurt Wagner, X-Press 2, available on Makeshift Feelgood, Sony 2006)

Eventually, “Give It” blooms into a lively, pulsing dance with synthesized horns and a choir of backing vocals. At this point in the song, it becomes a digital gospel choir joining Kurt Wagner’s promise to be patient. However, the track must grow into this the same way that Wagner’s narrator must learn to be patient. At the beginning of the song, his narrator contemplates the future, eagerly seeking it out yet fearing the impending change. He realizes that the moment he’s experiencing will pass and has the instinctive impulse to capture this specific moment. It’s not quite that simple, as Wagner goes off in a couple tangents, but ultimately this crisis of “now versus then” comes to the forefront. Alternately put, it’s the decision to focus on enjoying a given moment or think about how the moment fits into the larger picture. In that sense, it’s a self-awareness of immediately recognizing a given moment as important and knowing that this recognition will change the moment in progress.

I’ve discussed and thought about this idea a good amount recently in a few different contexts, eventually leading back to the same conclusion and the same example. I’m way too inside my own head sometimes, and for all the positives that constant self-reflection brings, it makes it very hard to experience something and then “sort it out” later. I then think about the first time I heard this song – earlier this summer at the end of Lambchop’s set at the Merge Records anniversary shows. By this point in the set, Wagner and his dozen backing musicians won over the entire room, and Wagner’s impassioned “Give It / Once in a Lifetime” closing went to the next level. It was a rare moment where I knew what was unfolding – the event’s signature performance – yet I found myself able to silence that part of my brain and be stunned into silence. Soon afterward, I described it as “a surreal moment that ended a memorable set,” and a few months later I’m still thinking about it. Ironically, by not immediately processing this moment, I’ve been able to process it a dozen different ways. I’m still not sure I have a definitive answer, but I’m not sure that’s the point; Wagner’s protagonist turns off his meta-commentary and turns patience into a spiritual revival, and in a way I have too – albeit a series of minor personal revelations. By quieting my thoughts for a few minutes, I sewed seeds for an entire series of ponderings. In many ways, I’ll be chasing down that performance (or similar ones) for the rest of my life, and I’m only starting to realize that sometimes it’s worth letting it get a head start so that I can see where it leads me.

More on X-Press 2: 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

August 11, 2009

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

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

Dear Brian,

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

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

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

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

See you soon,
Brian

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

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

July 29, 2009

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“Dreaming” – Blondie
(Words/music: Debbie Harry and Chris Stein, available on Eat to the Beat, Chrysalis Records, 1979)

There’s a bar in New Haven called Rudy’s, and my friends and I used to go there semi-often. We still love it and we still go every once in a while, but it’s generally out of the way, especially for friends who have since moved in the exact opposite direction. It’s one of those delightful neighborhood dive bars flooded equally with punks and Yale students (although now, I guess they’re more “hipsters” than “punks”) known for (relatively) affordable beer, excellent Belgian frites, and a killer jukebox. The jukebox is now one of those weird internet ones (and still very good), but a few years back it was this odd CD jukebox filled with mix CDs and albums ranging from The Misfits to Sam Cooke. It became routine to go in, order beers, and then pump five dollars into the jukebox for (roughly) an hour’s worth of music. The selections shifted based on mood, but we had our favorites that we always picked. Over time, I developed three fairly solid “signature” songs – ones that friends of friends would know were my selections. They are “Move on Up” by Curtis Mayfield, “Bastards of Young” by the Replacements, and “Dreaming” by Blondie (usually followed by whatever random Talking Heads song I felt like that night). I have a lingering feeling that the combination of these songs says a lot about me.

Until I started reserving jukebox credits for “Dreaming,” I’m not sure it was my favorite Blondie song. I’m not even sure how I ended up picking it – maybe it was an accident, maybe it was right around the time I found Eat to the Beat in a cheap used bin. Regardless, I know why it stuck- it’s one of Blondie’s most carefree songs. Debbie Harry turns some over-the-top lyrics into a cute and endearing performance, competing with the guitar and keyboards for possession of the primary melody. The key to the song lies in the drumming. Clem Burke, one of rock’s most overlooked drummers, fills the song to the brim with sixteenth note fills that reach the perfect blend of restraint and showing off. While other drummers would take similar freedom and turn the song into a train wreck, Burke plays fills that preserve the song’s internal pulse. As a result, his constant action makes the song sound giddy – appropriate for a song about a first date. It’s the kind of song I want to hear when I’m out with my friends – one that makes me feel energized, fun, and happy to enjoy their company.

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

July 26, 2009

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“Plenty is Never Enough” - Tenement Halls
(Words/music: Chris Lopez, available on Knitting Needles and Bicycle Bells, Merge Records 2005)

Moderation makes practical sense but far too often remains an ideal. We understand the concept of it intellectually at least, but it’s also hard to shake that base instinct that suggests that more of a good thing will be even better. The past few days at XX Merge have been an exercise in excess. I’ve felt inundated with great music yet feel like I’ve had too much of a good thing. I’ve seen a lot of excellent sets over the past four nights but can’t help feeling that I might have enjoyed some of the bands more if there weren’t as many of them. Some bands were excellent (Superchunk and Lambchop among others), but I found myself thinking on a few occasions that I might have enjoyed some of the other bands if it weren’t for seven hours of standing in a room being blasted with loud sounds night after night. It came to a point where I had to give up on some bands – either sitting down in the back room, wandering outside, or going home to get some rest – in order to have energy for the rest of the week.

Tenement Halls, the new band from the Rock*a*Teens’ Chris Lopez, became one of these casualties. They played an outdoor show in the 97 degree North Carolina heat that was in addition to the seven hours later that night. As much as I wanted to see them (and Portastatic), cooler heads prevaled. I couldn’t help but think about his song “Plenty is Never Enough” while mulling through the merits of a full day of music and fatigure or trying to enjoy just a few of the bands in the lineup. “Plenty is Never Enough” is an upbeat pop song draped in a curtain of reverb and slight delay. It’s peppy, bouncy, and a little blurry – the perfect musical metaphor for the week itself. I know I would have loved hearing this if it was a single night out where I could drain all of my energy bouncing along. Instead, it became a casualty in the quest to survive to the end. At a point, there can be too much of a good thing, and I’m glad XX Merge gave me the opportunity to fill up on great music – I’ve just realized the diference between filling up and consuming everything. I’m also glad tonight’s show has seats!

More on Tennement Halls: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

July 10, 2009

More Songs Considered #2: “Learned to Surf” - Superchunk

“Learned to Surf (Album Version and Acoustic Demo)” - Superchunk
(Words/music: Superchunk, available on Leaves in the Gutter EP, Merge Records 2009)

Listen to “Learned to Surf” on The Hype Machine

I came around to Superchunk only after falling in love with some of their disciples. This is consistent with how I discovered a lot of music during my late teens. While I’ve always solicited recommendations from friends (and continue to do so, often in the comments section of this blog), music discovery has largely been a solitary expedition. Until I got to college and met people with a similar passion for music and a more extensive background in the things I was interested in, I started from the present era and worked backward. Even though Napster was around, the internet was largely a way I could research bands and supplement the reading and research I did through magazines and band biographies. Occasionally, I’d get a tip from a friend or the record store clerk, but largely I discovered new things by reading magazines or fanning out from one band to the next. This was how the process worked – I liked Nirvana, and they introduced me to Sonic Youth and David Bowie (and later, The Pixies, The Vaselines, and the Meat Puppets among others). I loved R.E.M., and they introduced me to The Replacements, Big Star, Patti Smith, and a ton of others. Those are the two bands with the largest domino effect. Even if they did so in a different way, The Get Up Kids had this same effect. I picked up Something to Write Home About blindly and loved it and it was, in many ways, to independent music.

Soon after getting into the ‘Kids, I ended up tracing the thread back to Superchunk. I have a specific memory of buying Here’s Where the Strings Come In during my first visit to a Newbury Comics store my freshman year of college and listening to it twice on the bus ride home after visiting my friend Ryan in Boston. I think I played songs from Here’s to Shutting Up on just about every radio show my freshman and sophomore years of college. I loved how these songs were contradictions – they were loud and intense yet simultaneously melodic and introspective. Superchunk wasn’t afraid to tweak the formula as they went as well – they could produce buzzsaw pop almost effortlessly yet weren’t afraid to try some different sounds or take chances on arrangements. Add in their unparalleled work ethic and their dedication to their ideals and I was floored. Superchunk was a band I was made to love, making it that much more heartbreaking that they started winding down right around the same time I really started to love them.

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 whole 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.

Merge Records will be celebrating its 20th anniversary with a five night run of concerts in Chapel Hill, NC at the end of the month, and Superchunk will be at the heart of the celebration not only because it includes Merge’s co-founders, but because they’ve set the standard for independent music over the past two decades. For someone who came around to them just a little too late last time, I’m thrilled that I’ll get to see them at XX Merge in a couple weeks and see proof in person that it’s never too late to stop swimming and learn to surf.

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

More “More Songs Considered” Posts

June 21, 2009

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

“It Ain’t Me, Babe”– Bob Dylan and Joan Baez
(Words/music: Bob Dylan, available on The Bootleg Series, Volume 6: Live 1964: Concert at Philharmonic Hall, Columbia Records 2004)

I don’t know as much about Bob Dylan as I should, and while I could beat myself up about this gap in my knowledge of music, I look at it as a gradual discovery of these songs. As I go deeper into Dylan’s catalog, I see all of the different aspects of his personality. Maybe because I started exploring his songs in my early twenties, I’ve always found the young, slightly angry Dylan the most compelling. Maybe it was borne out of understanding all of the absurd “new Dylan” talk that gets tossed around, but I find Dylan’s more pointed songs the most interesting. These songs, like “Positively 4ht Street” or “It Ain’t Me, Babe,” find Dylan somewhat resentful of the spotlight. After a series of brilliant songs full of youthful optimism, Dylan became a “reluctant spokesperson” for his generation. Later on, we turned this Dylan into an archetype for any young, disaffected artist that reacts to a spotlight like a deer staring into headlights. Whenever we do this and evoke Dylan’s name with someone like Conor Oberst or Elliott Smith, we usually cut to something like “Blowin’ in the Wind” rather than “It Ain’t Me, Babe.” Sure, “new Dylan” is shorthand for a singer who is young, socially conscious, at least moderately literate, and has folk leanings, but it usually draws comparisons to the wrong Dylan. Many of the songs on Bright Eyes’ Fever and Mirrors or Lifted… albums have more in common with the resentment in the post-electric era rather than the rallying cries in Dylan’s Greenwich Village days.

I’m writing about Bob Dylan tonight because it’s the closest I’m coming to a Fathers’ Day post. My dad never really played a lot of music around the house but a couple times referred to a time where he skipped swimming practice in high school to go see Bob Dylan perform with some friends. I’ve selected the version of “It Ain’t Me, Babe” from a 1964 bootleg because I’d like to think that would be what he saw that night he skipped out on practice (minus Joan Baez, I’d imagine). Even if my dad didn’t pass down records from his youth the way others might (and if I ever have children, the way I probably will innately), he’s always been incredibly supportive of my various musical endeavors. I remember he bought me my first drum set and drove nearly forty minutes away to go buy it. He always read my music articles and listened to my radio show (when the internet stream was available) even if he rarely knew (or liked, I imagined) and of the bands. Most importantly, my dad taught me the merits of perseverance. He would sing the praises of hard work and consistency when he needed to, but he taught these lessons every day by example. He’s a living, breathing example of someone who aims to be better every day and approaches it in small, manageable doses. He’s given my brothers and me encouragement to follow our passions, the resources to be successful, and the space to fail. From a young age, my parents both taught me to follow the path I wanted to follow, and there’s no way I could spend (at this point) nearly six months of my life trying to learn a little more about music and a lot more about being a better writer without either of them. So I’m sharing a Bob Dylan post today in part because of my dad’s story, but in part because the way that many idolize Dylan is the way that I idolize my father. Just as there will never be a “new Dylan,” I don’t want to be a clone of my dad. Instead, my pursuit to be a damn good version of myself is a tribute to the way that he (and my mom) raised me.

More on Bob Dylan: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

June 11, 2009

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

“E.M.I.” – The Sex Pistols
(Words/music: Paul Cook, Steve Jones, Glen Matlock, and Johnny Rotten, available on Never Mind the Bollocks, Virgin 1977)

Earlier this week, I was reminiscing about my cassette walkman. I remember spending hours in high school plugged into it, usually carrying at least one spare tape “just in case” I got stuck somewhere and needed to listen to more than one cassette tape in its entirety lest I’d be forced to interact with someone. I grew up in the CD era right before CD-Rs became popular (a quick aside – I remember going to a computer show with my dad and getting blank CDs for roughly $2 a piece and thought they were a bargain!), so I rarely bought a new album on cassette. Instead, my travelling companions came in two varieties – homemade tapes either with an album on each side (or a mix of CD tracks and radio recordings) or bargain bin tapes. I made a couple huge finds – most prominently I got a copy of R.E.M.’s Chronic Town at a department store going out of business sale. I also remember having the Sex Pistols’ Never Mind the Bollocks tape in this collection (and I’m sure it’s in one of my shoeboxes somewhere), and I have a very vivid memory of sitting at school waiting for a band rehearsal as the second side of the tape played. I identified with punk rock because it was many things that I wasn’t at 14 - adventurous, brazen, and uncompromising. In many ways, this cassette is my personal punk rock emblem – while my peers walked around with portable CD players, I let the cassette wheels’ gentle hum mix in with the power chords.

The Sex Pistols might be more known for their attitude than for their music, and while personality was more important to the Pistols than to some of their peers (The Clash, for example, became more defined by their eclecticism than their attitude, especially in their later years), they deserve a little more credit. Sure, these songs sneer, spit, and scoff all over the place, but they’re also well written. “E.M.I.” embodies this balance between spirit and craft. It’s a dig towards their former label (and by proxy a dig at the “punk as a fashion statement” sentiment), but it’s not as obtuse as the Pistols usually get accused of being. Sure, they explicitly name the target, but it’s more a list of (reasonable) complaints rather than a libel suit waiting to happen. It’s a cathartic release of this frustration, but it’s also catchy as hell, from the chanting of the label’s name in the background to the way John Lydon (then Rotten) annunciates every syllable. He instinctively knows what to distort and what to rush through in order to bring his audience right in line with him. Looking back at it, especially with it at the very end of Never Mind the Bollocks, “E.M.I.” seems like a triumphant middle finger towards their detractors. Sure, it’s not polite to gloat when you’ve won, but sometimes it just feels right.

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

June 6, 2009

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

“Moving to L.A.” – Art Brut
(Words: Eddie Argos, music: Art Brut, available on Bang Bang Rock & Roll, Fierce Panda 2005)

“Moving to L.A.” isn’t as musically sharp as some of the other (arguably better) tracks on Bang Bang Rock & Roll, but that’s not the point. After all, California (at least to us on the Atlantic Ocean) represents a slower paced, less stressful existence. Musically, “Moving to L.A.” captures that feel with the bright strums and the guiro keeping the pace. It seems like the typical escapist fantasy, but Eddie Argos has to put his own twist on it. For example, rather than just relocate, Argos wonders whether he should get himself deported and at least have some fun before leaving England. It’s this wicked streak that makes the song so interesting – when Argos co-opts typical rock cliches, he highlights the absurdities of these actions – imagine if Argos really rode down Sunset on a motorcycle. Of course, Argos’ word choice takes the absurdity to the next level, preferring “strip naked to the waist” to “shirtless” and makes sure to name check Axl Rose, who I can’t imagine spending more than five minutes with Argos before having him removed. Same with Morrissey – I can’t imagine Argos and the ‘Moz tipping back glasses of Hennessey in the Hollywood hills, but it’s Argos’ dream and he clearly dreams big.

I’m in the process of moving this weekend (and honestly, over the next few weeks in tiny bits and pieces). It’s not quite Los Angeles (nor the Los Angeles Argos imagines), and in fact it’s much quieter. Trust me, if I wanted the same excitement that Argos plugs in the song, it would be equally as absurd. Instead, I recognize that the collision between the dream of moving – the hope and optimism – and the mundane details that go into moving in (utilities, buying toilet paper, building a desk for hours at a time). It’s worth noting that Argos’ plans never get past considering – he’s merely thinking about it. At least that way he can always associate L.A. with shirtless rides, Axl Rose, and a new wardrobe.

More on Art Brut: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

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