Some Songs Considered

“Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want” – The Smiths
(Words/music: Johnny Marr and Morrissey, available on Hatful of Hollow, Sire 1984)

Three mildly connected thoughts about The Smiths and this song:

1. By the time I started buying albums, the “single” served one of two purposes.  The first, more traditional version, the one where a band recorded a couple songs and put them out on a 7” (or CD, or cassette, or now on iTunes) as a completed project.  Generally, these were the punk bands that weren’t on my radar in the mid-1990s.  Then, there was the idea of a “single” as the track being promoted off the album – the one that got the video and maybe a CD single with a remix or one rarity.  I started digging into music during the era of the overstuffed album, so save for a shoebox of CD singles that I acquired for curious reasons, I didn’t buy singles until I started buying vinyl.  Thus, the notion of a band like the Smiths as a “singles band,” one who had a singles collection out the same year as their debut album, was one I had a hard time wrapping my head around at first. 
2. As lovely as it is, the definitive version of this song for me is the Dream Academy’s instrumental version during the Art Institute scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.  Even without words, it underscores the melancholy beneath the scene’s playfulness, whether it’s the look of silent despair that Cameron shares with the blank-faced girl in Georges Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte or the fleeting moment Ferris and Sloane share underneath Marc Chagall’s America Windows.  I also appreciated that an oboe (I think) replaces Morrissey’s voice, even if I might have picked a lower woodwind like a bassoon to replicate his voice.
3. My favorite bit of the song comes right at the end.  Johnny Marr plays a mandolin with unexpected speed.  The quick strumming alone feels jarring, but the tone of the instrument blends well and gives the song an appropriately sweet coda.  Before it reaches the two minute mark, the whole thing gently fades away.

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

“And She Was” – Talking Heads
(Words/music: David Byrne, available on Little Creatures, Sire 1985)

If I asked you to ignore the audio box at the top of this post and the two lines identifying the song and album and start listing off Talking Heads songs, I’d imagine that most of you would go through a decent number before getting to “And She Was.”  I’m not condemning that because I’d be the same way.  I suppose it’s more to point out that we levy more attention toward the band’s more complex beginnings, be it the eccentricities of their first couple albums or the Funkadelic-borrowing juggernaut the band became in the early 1980s.  These recordings require effort to untie and ultimately reward this close scrutiny with new wrinkles gradually revealed over time.  Naturally, spending more time immersed in Remain in Light puts those songs in more immediate memory.

That being said, the art of “And She Was” lies in the minimal attention it demands.  This isn’t a whirlwind of Adrian Belew or a twisted string of words.  Instead, David Byrne (who started to elbow out the rest of his band by this point) put all of the pieces together with the same care that the band assembled previous records, only this time with brighter and lighter tones.  The arpeggios in the verse ring brightly, the wood block pops during the chorus, and the electric guitar turns up at just the right point at the end of the song.  Even Byrne’s vocal tics find a place in the song, most notably in the “has” and “hips” in the final chorus.  However, it’s the unbridled joy in Byrne’s voice in the repeated “hey”s in the final pre-chorus that perhaps best characterizes the song.  The band wrote plenty of simple songs (“Thank You for Sending Me an Angel,” “Heaven,” and “This Must Be the Place,” to name a few), and even if “And She Was” doesn’t rival the band’s most artfully constructed compositions, it deserves a place in the discussion of the band’s greatness.  Or, if you’re anything like me, it deserves more recognition for the number of times I turn it up in the car and sing along.

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

“Vapour Trail” – Ride
(Words/music: Ride, available on Nowhere, Sire 1990) 

Sometimes, when my mind wanders while listening, I start to visualize songs.  This works best when I’m immersed in the music as a whole, rather than keying in on a particular melody or trying to follow along with the lyrics.  This never really happens with songs with a strong narrative thread because the story engages my brain.  Instead, it’s almost like my mind turns on its screensaver and its sketching out some kind of evolving picture based on the song playing in the background. While this usually happens while I’m spacing out, sometimes I catch myself mid-daydream and the image sticks with me. 

This happened today while listening to “Vapour Trail.”  In this instance, must have thought of the album artwork – a gentle ripple in a deep blue ocean.  Rather than think of waves crashing, I found myself focusing on floating back and forth.  After catching myself in the middle of this image, I traced it back to the fluidity in the song.  The long notes, whether the way the vocals stretched a second longer or the long tones in the strings near the end, feel like a boat floating back and forth without any propulsion of its own.  I guess my brain focused not on the ripple in the album artwork but on the apparent endlessness of the ocean (the “nowhere” suggested by the title, I suppose), and thought of what it would be like being in the ocean with that specific perspective.  The repetition in the arrangement, particularly in the drum beat when the drums join in, only adds to the sense of perpetual floating.  Out of context, this sounds like a personal nightmare, but the warmth and familiarity in “Vapour Trail” made this sound more relaxing and tranquil than despondent.  Needless to say, it was one of the stranger and more powerful associations I’ve had in a while.

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

“Ask” – The Smiths 
(Words/music: Johnny Marr and Morrissey, available on Louder than Bombs, Sire 1987) 

No matter what anyone else says, vagueness is not a virtue.  I had an experience today where hollow thought took precedence over a considerate, well-formed answer, and it bugged me ever since.  Sure, there are times when full-disclosure isn’t wise, and perhaps coyness or discretion is a virtue – knowing when a one word answer or a scaled down version of a story suffices.  But vagueness for the sake of not-committing infuriates me to no end.  To oversimplify it, it too often comes down to an unwillingness to commit to an idea (or, in some cases, avoiding thinking at all).  We’re all entitled to turn off our brains every now and again or to have a knee-jerk reaction to something like a song or a movie without an accompanying defense.  The problem comes when a vague answer garners praise for insight that isn’t there.

I don’t think Morrissey and I are ranting about the same thing here, but I think the sentiments overlap.  The heart of the lyric targets inaction; specifically, that unless you advocate for your thoughts and ideas, don’t’ expect them to go anywhere.  It’s slightly ironic given that many canonize Morrissey as the patron saint of shy souls, but it’s necessary advice.  While his narrator claims that he can’t say no if asked, it’s also not the end of the world if someone says no.  After all, you’re just in the same place where you started, only without the nagging “what if” lingering in the back of your head.  In this case, vagueness about one’s intentions forces people to be mind readers, and when we leave it to others to read our minds we can’t expect to be understood.

So if anything, virtue lies in directness – whether directness in advocating for yourself or just being direct about your perspective.  And if someone asks you a question, give them a real answer.

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

“Alex Chilton” – The Replacements 
(Words/music: Chris Mars/Tommy Stinson/Paul Westerberg, available on Pleased to Meet Me, Sire 1987) 

It doesn’t matter that Paul Westerberg’s line about millions of children screaming for Big Star’s Alex Chilton never quite came true.  The “what if”s and alternate universe theories don’t really matter either.  What matters is that Alex Chilton’s music gave Paul Westerberg the kind of joy he could only quantify with a statement like that.  Art, and music specifically, often has the power to transform tiny moments into the size their significance warrants.  For Paul Westerberg (and many others), that meant giving Alex Chilton his own anthem, complete with adoring fans.

In recent years, music has become a portable artifact; it is literally possible to carry all of Paul Westerberg and Alex Chilton’s songs on a cell phone, ready to play at any minute.  So today, as news of Chilton’s passing starts to spread, I’m left thinking of all of the places his music is yet to go.  Even if Chilton’s life ended too young and before he could bring his songs everywhere, his music will continue to travel.  In one way, it will find new fans and reward the curiosity of those looking for beautifully crafted pop songs.  However, in many more, Chilton’s songs travel with those who made these tiny songs a large part of their lives.  We all have those lyrics or fragments of melody, or perfectly anticipated moments that we can recall without even hearing.  On a good day, these are the songs that end up in our heads during otherwise mundane activities, becoming a surprisingly pleasant companion for the rest of the day.

When Westerberg said that he “never travels far without a little Big Star,” he didn’t mean that he kept an LP in his suitcase.  If he’s anything like me, he kept the music somewhere far closer and more intimate, ready at any moment to transform into something bigger and something more beautiful, even if it’s just for a couple minutes and even if it’s just for one person.

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

“Grace, Too (Live)” – The Tragically Hip
(Words/music: The Tragically Hip, available on Live Between Us, Sire 1998)

Between the first and second verse of “Grace, Too,” lead singer Gordon Downie lays out one of the best improvised non-sequitors I’ve heard placed in a song.  “Jesus Christ, a big fucking bear!” He yells, charging his words with the kind of surprise and excitement that one experience when viewing a wild animal from a safe distance.  It’s appropriate for a couple reasons.  First, this particular version of “Grace, Too” contains three distinct sections of improvisation and/or embellishment on the original song.  There’s the opening, courteous nod to the Hip’s opening band (and how many would start their live album by mentioning another band in such complimentary terms?), one is this bear monologue, and the third is the “I was raised on TV / like so many of you I see around me” spontaneous verse over the song’s closing sequence.  This sort of improvisation, even if it feels disconnected from the rest of the song, isn’t unprecedented.

More importantly, Downie’s sincerity and intensity during this “bear” line is how he operates.  Once he gets going, Downie’s voice creates the bends in an otherwise linear song.  His subtle vocal variations, whether sliding slightly closer toward a scream or simply shifting his cadence, also help to highlight the building intensity in the rest of the song.  Downie sounds immersed in the song – and perhaps lost in his narrator, while singing – so perhaps these improvisations come from “living” these characters for a few minutes.  Perhaps he imagines this song’s protagonist in a situation where he might see a giant bear.  Maybe he just thought it was funny.  Regardless, it somehow works, and every time I hear it I smile a little bit and make a mental note to delve deeper into the Hip’s catalogue, if only to see what other gems Downie might improvise.

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

“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

“Blitzkrieg Bop” – The Ramones
(Words/music: The Ramones, available on Ramones, Sire 1976)

Admittedly, a lot of things come to mind about the Ramones before I think about how many excellent songs they wrote together.  If it were possible to monitor my brain while asking me about the Ramones, I’d imagine that my synapses would jump to all of the trivia associated with the band.  That fine, and at some point in my past I’m sure I would be thrilled with the way I could fluidly talk about their place in history and owning Rocket to Russia on vinyl or even making the argument that the Ramones version of punk owes more to Phil Spector than Iggy Pop.  However, there’s a marginal amount of joy I find in those facts; perhaps it’s from being in a job surrounded by facts, or perhaps it’s the burden of having so much information available that I feel like I can’t possibly absorb it all.

My point is this – the reason I care about Joey Ramone’s real name or the garage rock bands the Ramones covered ultimately goes back to the music.  While historical context can enrich music, it shouldn’t eclipse the song.  Ultimately, “Blitzkrieg Bop” isn’t great because the band played it on stage at CBGBs in the late 70s, or because someone puts it in their top five list.  “Blitzkrieg Bop” is great because of the way it makes a pulse quicken as soon as the first power chord strikes.  In the right moments, “hey, ho, let’s go” stirs my soul like nothing else, and for 2:11, the reason why so many of us know so much about the Ramones takes center stage.  It’s easy to get lost in the trivia (especially now with all of the listmaking going on), and that’s part of the fun of music.  Let’s just remember the reason why we care about any of it in the first place.

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

“How Soon is Now?” – The Smiths
(Words/music: Johnny Marr and Morrissey, available on Hatful of Hollow, Sire 1984)

I owe a considerable debt to the Allmusic Guide; for years, this has been one of my favorite resources for learning about music and filling in the gaps in my own personal history.  I’ve told countless people about it, even if it pained me to have to describe it as “the IMDB of music.”  It’s an apt description only because this site is to me what IMDB is to many of my friends – a crucial resource, a great starting point for a deeper knowledge of the medium, and a tremendous timesuck.  If I had even the most remote curiosity about a band or an album, I went straight to Allmusic.  Hell, they also employ (among others) Bill Janovitz from Buffalo Tom and “Hollywood” Steve Huey of Yacht Rock fame.  If a ten ton truck crushed the internet and only left me a handful of sites, Allmusic would be one of them.

That being said, I take issue with Tim DiGravina’s synopsis of “How Soon is Now? (linked here).  In it, he cites Johnny Marr’s guitar as the focal point, and I don’t take issue with that.  He also compares the track to New Order, suggests that Morrissey whistled on the track because he “knew the band would continue to be revered by a growing army of fans and discussed in tones the British press hadn’t used since the Beatles,” and uses the term “confident depression” without defining the term.  The suggestion that the whistle was Morrissey’s way of putting himself on par with Lennon and McCartney seems like a bit of revisionist history; in 1984, much of the critical acclaim was yet to come, and “How Soon is Now?” was stuck on the b-side of a single (“William, It Was Really Nothing”) that reached number 17 – an impressive showing but not quite the “swagger” DiGravina retroactively imposes on the song.

The New Order comparison, while somewhat dubious, interests me though.  Like I did with “Bizarre Love Triangle,” I see an alternate reading in the lyrics.  The standard (and probably intended) interpretation reads the verse as “I am the son / and the heir / of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.”  However, once I started thinking about the homonyms, I read the line as “I am the sun / and the air.”  With that, DiGravina’s concept of “swagger” gained some steam; rather than feel trapped by a common and pedestrian life he’s doomed to inherit, the narrator revels in his shyness, comparing himself to heavenly bodies.  It’s a sort of existential suburban alienation where the narrator feels empowered (and an elitism) by being excluded rather than being depressed.  Then again, it also feels like sour grapes – it’s easy to put down the mainstream when you’re not part of it.  Regardless, it’s an alternate spin on the protagonist’s predicament; in both cases, he’s looking in from the outside.  On one hand, he’s the shy wallflower moping in the corner, and on the other hand he’s liberated by the exclusion – if nobody cares about him, then he can be as weird as he wants!  Of course, this alternate reading falls apart later in the song – even if he finds empowerment occasionally, he also has that same base desire for acceptance and the same depression when he’s excluded.  In that case, “sun and air” makes it even more stifling – even the basic life-giving elements doom him to an existence of watching while the cool kids have a blast, with the reminders buzzing around his head just like Marr’s divebombing slide guitar. 

Regardless, it’s hard to look towards the lyrics for what DiGravina calls “swagger,” as it’s a little too self-indulgent and mopey to pass for bravado.  Instead, it’s Marr’s relentless tremolo and slide overdubs that make the song feel assertive and remotely confrontational.  Without his punch, the whole thing would collapse upon itself into a heap of wallowing.

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