Some Songs Considered

“Somebody Got Murdered” – The Clash 
(Words/music: Topper Headon, Mick Jones, Paul Simonon, Joe Strummer, available on Sandinista!, Epic 1980) 

There’s a lot of power in word choice, particularly in the use of the right word in the right place.  For example, one may call the Clash’s Sandinista! album eclectic and diverse while others may call it scattered and unfocused.  All four descriptors technically fit – it’s a double album that continues deeper down the band’s different stylistic fascinations – yet suggest different feelings toward the album.  Regardless, “Somebody Got Murdered” provides one of the album’s more straightforward anchors.  I thought about deeming it “pop punk,” but that term carries such strong associations today that don’t really do the song justice.  However, it’s an apt descriptor, as its melodic charms and tight arrangement put this song up with the Clash’s best work and some of the best power pop of that era.  It’s not as adventurous as some of the other tracks on this album, but it makes up for it with its infectious qualities and efficient arrangement.

This idea of word choice extends into the song as well, specifically with the word “somebody.”  Jones uses the word throughout the song rather than giving his characters names.  While this might seem like a cop-out at first, this anonymity relates directly to detachment from the anonymous deaths that fill the news daily.  By naming victims, they become real deceased people.  As anonymous figures, they dissolve into statistics.  Jones’ story evidently draws on a real experience, but the experience extends beyond the nameless victim he encountered.  Whether they remain nameless because we don’t want to know the names or because we aren’t provided them, it’s easier to move past something so horrific when an identity isn’t attached.

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

“Wrong ‘em Boyo” – The Clash 
(Words/music: Clive Alphonso, available on London Calling, Epic 1979) 

Days like today remind me that, given the scope of the entire world, I know very little.  I sat down to write about my pet peeve of limiting London Calling to the narrow confines of the “punk album” label and planned on using “Wrong ‘em Boyo” as a talking point.  I wanted to touch on how the song pulled in these different elements – specifically incorporating the twelve bar blues form and the Stagger Lee / Stack-o-Lee legend.  In the car on the way home from work this afternoon I ran through the song in my head and started fleshing out how I’d pull these things together in a way to celebrate the depth and breadth of the Clash’s repertoire. 

And then I called up the Allmusic page for London Calling to grab the writer’s credits (since both physical copies of the album are boxed away somewhere) and fell down the rabbit hole.  I knew that part of the song came from somewhere else, but I assumed it was the bluesy introduction and that the horn-driven romp was a Strummer/Jones composition.  It turns out that the entire version comes from an early ska/rocksteady band called The Rulers.  Their version, archived on a couple of Trojan Records’ ska collections, includes the restart and the groove-shift in the second section as well.  The Clash beefed theirs up with horns and a tempo change, but it stays pretty faithful to The Rulers’ version otherwise.  I knew The Clash’s reggae roots – I just didn’t know this specific example!

So what started as a rant ends as a reminder.  Part of what makes London Calling so great was the way it grabbed from all of the different musical worlds its creators delved in, be it musical forms, prior source material, or even just the cover’s design.  It’s impressive enough to pull off so many different musical feats – doing them all this well is what makes this band legendary.  

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

“Johnny Appleseed” - Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros
(Words/music: Pablo Cook, Tymon Dogg, Scott Shields, Martin Stattery, and Joe Strummer, available on Global a Go-Go, Epitaph 2001)

In many ways, it makes sense for Joe Strummer to reference Johnny Appleseed in a song.  Like Appleseed, Strummer is a sort of folk hero whose legend expanded over time.  With the Clash, Strummer started with punk rock and wandered through different musical styles, including reggae, soul, and arguably hip hop (specifically with the vocal inflection on “The Magnificent Seven.”  Even if the Clash didn’t originate any of these styles, they served as master curators who excelled at all of these different styles.  Even though his bandmates deserve more credit than they might normally garner (Mick Jones specifically), Strummer seemed like the one with musical wanderlust.  I’m too young to have experienced the Clash during their time and I never got the chance to see Strummer perform during his lifetime, and in a way this makes him a little more mythical.  As Appleseed’s reputation grew with stories told, Strummer’s part of our own aural tradition – one that Strummer and his band helped to spurn along.

“Johnny Appleseed” continues Strummer’s musical wandering, blurring the lines between a number of different genres.  It alternates between a quietly plucked verse and a rollicking chorus section.  Strummer tells his story in a delivery that seems somewhere between a rant and a folk singer’s story.  A simple melody runs through his words and gives them an almost chant-like quality; the melody remains consistent even when Strummer’s focused on describing something else.  However, like the melody, theme remains the same – one that champions those who speak for and represent the common man.  Strummer doesn’t place himself along side these men (and both Appleseed and Martin Luther King dwarf him in any comparison), but in the musical world, Strummer served the same purpose.  He always struck me as one who made music for the bees rather than for the honey, and someone who worked hard not to lose sight of the big picture.

More on Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Lost in the Supermarket” – The Afghan Whigs
(Words/music: Mick Jones and Joe Strummer, available on Burning London: The Clash Tribute, Epic 1999)

Greg Dulli loves cover songs, and few others can reinterpret all different types of songs as successfully as he can.  With all of his musical ventures, including the Twilight Singers and the Gutter Twins, Dulli takes classic songs and reinvents them into new works.  This isn’t a new concept – jazz musicians have long taken famous tunes and spun them into something entirely different (John Coltrane’s version of “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music is an excellent example).  Dulli’s skill for taking a part of a song and building it into something entirely different (for example, using “Superstition” as a segue into the Afghan Whigs’ “Going to Town,” turning Bjork’s lush “Hyperballad” into the Twilight Singers’ fuzzed out love song, or morphing Jose Gonzalez’ fragile “Down the Line” into The Gutter Twins’ piano-fueled romp) reminds me of a mechanic restoring a car.  Like the mechanic, Dulli takes the parts that he’s interested in and builds the rest of the song around this one part, still using the song as an opportunity to craft unique arrangement rather than trying to recreate the original in totality.

On “Lost in the Supermarket,” Dulli starts with the original’s lyrics and melody and replaces much of the rest of the song.  He trades in the original’s nervous bounce for a slower wash of guitars and coo-ing background vocals.  The distinctive guitar riff is gone as well, replaced by the more iconic drum beat from “Train in Vain (Stand By Me).”  This sort of musical quilting sounds like a wreck on paper, but it plays like a true tribute to both songs (interestingly, both are Mick Jones songs).  At the slower and heavier pace, “Lost in the Supermarket” becomes a song about isolation rather than suburban boredom.  While the protagonist in the original throws out the “nobody seemed to notice me” line as a chip on his shoulder, Dulli sings it like a jilted lover – the kind of person whose heart breaks with little fanfare.  It still reads as a treatise on suburban life, as Dulli’s protagonist sounds out of touch with the supermarket culture around him, only this time it sounds less like a generation gap and more as a disconnect with the culture at large. 

The best bit comes in the outro when Dulli sings part of the first verse of Ben E. King’s “Stand By Me” followed by the chorus from “Train in Vain.”  It’s more substantial than just “tagging” the songs at the end, as the refrain from “Lost in the Supermarket” intersects these other songs.  It makes the idea of being “lost” sound like abandonment rather than betrayal, as Dulli’s protagonist responds with resolution to be brave (“no I won’t / be afraid”) despite being lost and alone.  Even with all of these disparate pieces in one song, the Afghan Whigs makes it all work together, as Dulli’s lifting voice pulls the arrangement to the next level as it plays out.  It’s an arrangement that simultaneously reinvents the song while still paying tribute to the original.

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