Some Songs Considered

“Holy Diver” – Dio
(Words/music: Ronnie James Dio, available on Holy Diver, Reprise 1983) 

Given different circumstances, I might have been a metalhead.  If I had a close friend who slipped me a Metallica record, or if the guys who worshiped Iron Maiden in high school weren’t completely intimidating, my shelves might be full of obscure Scandinavian dark metal and not jangly late-80s college rock.  So only approaching metal from a curiosity later in my listening life, it’s been a series of brief dabbles.  That explains why my strongest memory of Ronnie James Dio comes with “Holy Diver” and only after South Park used it in an episode in its early days.  Only later did I find that the voice carrying this recording, one of potency due to its weight and clarity, voiced some of the late 1970’s essential metal albums.  Even if I only knew of him tangentially, I grew to respect Dio’s credentials. 

So today, upon hearing about Ronnie James Dio’s passing after a long bout with stomach cancer, two thoughts filled my head.  The first was sadness not only for Dio’s family but also for the many, many people who spent days and months of their lives listening to his records.  Knowing how the metal community looks at its idols like gods, Dio’s passing is one felt deeply.  I found myself thinking too that the world lost itself one of metal’s strongest ambassadors.  Where metal, at least to an outsider, feels like an insular community, Dio regularly championed music and other musicians he felt carried the torch.  Even on those lame VH-1 countdown shows, Dio always came across as someone who loved music and appreciated the music that others made.  He’s far from the genre’s only champion, but his death marks the departure of someone who cared about music (and, to get back to the song, had one hell of a voice too).  The world is a little quieter without him in it.

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

“American Music” – Violent Femmes
(Words/music: Gordon Gano, available on Why Do Birds Sing?, Reprise 1991)

In celebration of Mother’s Day tomorrow, I wanted to repost the one I wrote for Mother’s Day last year (May 10, 2009).  Originally shared with a live version of “American Music,” tonight I will post the album version instead.

My brother and I were born about 20 months apart and according to my mom I rarely slept from my birth until my brother arrived.  My eye for revisionist history loves to spin stories out of this childhood fact, specifically honing in on the fact that when my brother arrived, I moved from a crib to a bed.  Whether using this story as justification for my nocturnal habits in high school or joking that my aversion to my crib was a statement about being “caged in,” I’ll joke about this with my mom when I should probably have more sympathy for her spending late nights with her restless child.  I was born a few months after MTV came on the air, so my mom tells me that she would sit up in the rocking chair with me and watch MTV until I fell asleep.  Again, I’m sure I barely paid attention to the videos, instead pondering the meaning of life or whatever else keeps a baby up late at night.  Still, part of me points to this moment as the groundwork for my musical obsession twelve years later, so to a small degree, I owe my mom for this decision.  I know cable was limited in 1983, but if my mom decided to watch HBO or Johnny Carson whatever else was on late at night, this blog might be about movies or comedy instead of music.

In addition to exposing me to the strange videos on MTV in 1983 (perhaps part of the reason I love VH-1 Classic), my mom always encouraged my musical pursuits, whether it meant sitting through grating middle school band concerts or reading my record reviews in my college newspaper.  When I went back to school to get my masters’ degree and picked up a Saturday morning timeslot on the college’s radio station, my mom would occasionally listen to the station’s internet feed.  On the days she’d listen, she’d tell me the songs that she liked and would occasionally ask me to put some of the songs on her iPod shuffle.  Her favorite, at least gauged by the number of times she would mention it, was “American Music.”  Needless to say, it’s a bit stranger than the Neil Diamond songs I helped her download off of iTunes.  While Gordon Gano writes it from the same slightly askew perspective that made his early songs cult classics, “American Music” bounds like a classic pop song and continues in the tradition of songs that celebrate music.  Even if the songs Gano wrote about those that aren’t quite in step with everyone else (and the ones that “remind me of me” in the song), they still capture an essential part of the human experience – the phase where we don’t quite fit in, mired in awkwardness – the kind of phase where only our mothers could love us.  Even if “American Music” came out in 1991, I’d like to think that somewhere in our late nights together we heard a few Violent Femmes videos on MTV and it made those nights a little less frustrating for her.  I suppose the least I could do to thank her is put a couple songs on her iPod for her and walk her through plugging it in every time the battery runs out, even though she knows how to do it.  After all, she introduced me to American music in the first place.

More on Violent Femmes: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Misunderstood” – Wilco
(Words/music: Jeff Tweedy and Peter Laughner, available on Being There, Reprise 1996)

When we start to frame this decade in music, particularly after we have some distance from it, Wilco’s narrative will be one that will represent the decade in many ways.  At the turn of the century, Wilco was a quirky band caught between the “power pop” and “alt-country” genre sections at the local record store.  By the end of the decade, the record store is on its last legs and Wilco stands as widely respected, alternative “powerhouse” teetering on the mainstream.  In the years between, Wilco was the underdog screwed over by major label restructuring, the phoenix reborn as a mix of experimentalism and traditionalism, a band struck with personal and interpersonal strife, and a growing reputation as a live juggernaut.  While it’s a bit of a generalization, Jeff Tweedy went from virtual obscurity to cult worship to voice of the indie establishment.  This, of course, is only the tip of the iceberg, as Wilco lends itself to a discussion of the changing technology in the music industry (form streaming Yankee Hotel Foxtrot without a label contract to all of the bonus materials offered with each record and DVD), the gentrification of indie rock, and the formation of a new blueprint for success outside of the mainstream.

All of this to say that the past decade will ultimately be known as the decade that Wilco got weird and got popular.  Like most thumbnail sketches, it’s reductionist logic, but in this case it’s neglecting a significant part of the band’s catalog.  Wilco’s “weirdness,” for lack of a better word, goes through 1999’s subtly dark Summerteeth and (at least) back to “Misunderstood.”  On Being There, an album that generally stays close to its country and blues-rock roots, “Misunderstood” provides a strange introduction.  The guitars sound watery at times, gnarled at other points, and fuzzed out when neither of those descriptors fit.  Amidst this haze of guitar, Jeff Tweedy sits at the center of it.  With all the chaos around him, Tweedy alternates between G and D chords, quotes an obscure Midwestern punk band, and tosses off lyrics of suburban frustration, paranoia, and existential angst.  Five years later, Tweedy would be lauded for an album full of weird sounds, tales of broken communication, and a darkly melodic streak.  However, in 1996, “Misunderstood” was the first harbinger, both of Tweedy’s potential as songwriter and of the internal demons that nearly silenced his pen.  In 2009, after their most straightforward record since, well, Being There, it’s easy to peg Tweedy and his band as complacent, but hearing the way Tweedy still barks out the final line in “Misunderstood,” especially when he hangs on “nothing” like a broken record, that the same creative mind that brought the spotlight in the early part of the decade was always there.  If nothing else, tracing Wilco’s past only suggests that many turns remain in their path before Tweedy becomes entirely understood.  I’m excited to see what story he writes this decade.

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

“She” – Green Day
(Words: Billie Joe Armstrong / Music: Green Day, available on Dookie, Reprise 1994)

My first memory of associating music with status occurred in sixth grade.  Green Day’s Dookie represented the idea of coolness – the really interesting popular kids were raving about it and I was completely clueless.  This was when both Green Day and the modern rock radio format blew up, so it’s fair to say that in 1994, I knew almost nothing about music.  I don’t remember a lot of specifics from middle school, but I remember it being extremely awkward (or, at least, that’s how I think back to it).  I wonder if coming around to Green Day a few years later somehow subconsciously related back to my yearning to be cool as a twelve year-old.   Regardless, Dookie became a personally seminal album, and despite the band’s periodic evolution (and waves of popularity), it’s this brash version of the band I think of when they’re brought up.

Strangely enough, “She” is the song I listen to the most off of this album.  Again, there’s probably some kind of subconscious pull towards this song, as “feeling like a social tool without a use” sums up middle school pretty well.  These days – a safe distance from those awkward middle school years  - I admire how taut the song sounds.  If the songs with the fancier drum fills and smarmier lyrics pulled me in when I was a teenager, I’m now looking at songs like “She” and marveling at the efficiency and control in the arrangement.  Whether it’s the way the bassline first carries the song and later adds a bit of counter-melody, or the way the guitar sits out the first verse entirely, nothing feels wasted.  More importantly, an efficient arrangement makes the embellishments, whether they’re those bassline embellishments, Tre Cool’s lighting quick fills, or the sporadically harmonized vocals in the chorus, feel essential.  The band cut everything that wasn’t essential (the third verse is entirely wordless!) and made sure that the song doesn’t overstay its welcome.  Instead, it accomplishes the difficult task of saying more with less.

More on Green Day: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Gypsy” – Fleetwood Mac
(Words/music: Stevie Nicks, available on Mirage, Reprise 1982)

At some point, whether it was when they covered “Dreams” on their live album or in a review somewhere, I started thinking about the similarities between the New Pornographers and Fleetwood Mac.  Aside from the obvious touchstone – both groups feature both male and female vocalists – these two groups represent a rock band as a collective.  Both groups combined singers and songwriters with distinctive styles coming together as a pro-pop coalition.  Their eccentricities – whether Lindsey Buckingham’s distinctive fingerpicking or Dan Bejar’s off-kilter narrative perspective – slot in right next to their knack for melody and their often expansive stage presences.  It’s also a mutually complementary association to me.  While Fleetwood Mac wrote some schlocky singles, they composed some modern classics as well.  Similarly, mentioning them in the same breath as the New Pornographers might encourage some to go deeper into their catalog (Rumors and Tusk to start, if you ask me) while serving as a coronation for the NPs as the new pop torchbearers.

“Gypsy,” a rare bright spot in the band’s diminishing 1980s work, only solidified my connection.  It might not have the same energy or edge as something like “All for Swinging You Around,” but it contains the same sort of melodic density as those songs by tying together several different melodic strands simultaneously.  The harmonies – both in the vocals and the strings – shine like a shimmering reflecting curtain behind Stevie Nicks.  On “Gypsy,” Nicks sings with just enough emphasis and vibrato to seize the spotlight without overpowering the rest of the song.  Ironically, Nicks sounds a lot like Neko Case (or, perhaps, Neko Case’s best vocal performances with the New Pornographers remind me of this specific Nicks vocal performance).  While Case’s solo material often treads in darker, more nuanced waters, her vocals with the New Pornographers give her a chance to use the brightest, most powerful parts of her voice.  Finally, it’s the new wrinkles tossed in at the end, whether it’s the glockenspiel doubling the melody or Buckingham’s spirited guitar line, that make the song so compelling to me.  “Gypsy” ends up in the same category as my favorite New Pornographers’ songs: tracks that I have to resist the urge to press “repeat” on when I hear them.

More on Fleetwood Mac: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“I’m Not Like Everybody Else” – The Kinks
(Words/music: Ray Davies, available on Kinkdom, Reprise 1966 & Rhino reissue 1988)

Many times, when talking about music, we throw around “subtlety” as a prerequisite for being a masterful piece of art.  Many times, subtle art yields a deeper appreciation because we need to spend more time engaging it to learn all of the nuances.  Many of us (and I know I’ve done this more often that I’d probably admit) make the mistake of gravitating towards something difficult over something that looks easier, in part because many of us hold the false notion that something that looks chaotic or dense requires more skill or effort.  Sure, a masterpiece requires the utmost precision and skill, but it takes a masters’ touch to make something difficult look easy.  Sometimes we’re duped by genius into thinking something is easier than it looks, and I think this holds true for many songs.  Writing a short, “simple sounding” song requires discipline and self-editing, not to mention a moment of inspiration and the ability to act on it.

Some things are best presented directly as well.  Take Ray Davies’ ode to eccentricity – “I’m Not Like Everybody Else” reveals itself in one listen – Davies proudly (and repeatedly) asserts that he’s not like everybody else.  It’s not so much about what he’s saying as how it’s presented; Davies’ vocals start off like he’s having a conversation with a friend – the kind of discussion where it’s more about hearing your own ideas out loud to make sure they make sense outside of your own brain.  When Davies convinces his friend (or himself), his voice swells as we proudly declares his mantra.  His bandmates echo this feeling too, as the ringing guitars in the verse give way to the more forceful, tightly-arranged stomp in the chorus.  As Davies gets more comfortable with his personal acceptance, the band encourages his emotional outburst, climaxing during the outro.  The guitars strum frantically as Davies and his brother Dave echo each other.  There might not be new wrinkles to discover after several years of listening to the song, but it’s so well put together that I’ll never get sick of hearing it.

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