Some Songs Considered

“Darklands” – The Jesus and Mary Chain
(Words/music: Jim and William Reid, available on Darklands, Warner Brothers 1987) 

It’s a strange endeavor to approach a band’s catalog when it’s complete (or, at least seems complete – who knows with the JAMC).  There’s the compilation route – and the Jesus and Mary Chain have an excellent one titled 21 Singles that makes an incredible case for this band as a singles band – but in many ways a compilation feels like cheating.  It almost seems too easy to fall in love with a band with all of their best songs immediately put in front of you, and sometimes it makes delving deeper into the catalogue harder.  Then there’s the approach of asking for starting points.  Sometimes this is quite useful, but it also demands that you consider the source as well.  So when asking about the Jesus and Mary Chain, you’re likely going to be told to start with Psychocandy, and I’m not going to argue with that starting point.  I will, however, admit that it’s not my favorite Jesus and Mary Chain album (and, given my run of songs over the last year and a half, that probably isn’t a shock).  Based both on play count and gut instinct, Darklands comes out on top for me.

Many of my feelings about the Darklands album also explain why I love the title track.  “Darklands” captures the Reid brothers at their most tuneful.   I understand and respect the appeal of the earlier and more chaotic songs on Psychocandy, but I’m far more inclined to the gentle sweetness and tinges of melancholy in these songs.  Of course, this is easy for me to say looking at their catalog as a whole, especially considering that I’ve never seen one of their loud, chaotic, and confrontational shows.  Still, it’s hard to deny the charm in “Darklands,” whether it’s the gentle jangle or the way William Reid’s voice toes the line between gruff and brash and gently beautiful.  It may be an outlier when looked at the band’s work overall, but it’s hard to deny a guitar jangle employed so perfectly. 

More on The Jesus and Mary Chain: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Working Overtime” – New Order
(Words/music: New Order, available on Waiting for the Sirens’ Call, Warner Brothers 2005) 

My morning consisted of an uncomfortable level of humidity coupled with far too little sleep.  At a certain point, I hit the right balance of fatigue, atmospheric moisture, and frustration to channel back to my final week as an undergraduate.  At this point, I’ve been away from school longer than I actually spent there, so many of my memories now run together, but I still remember my final week spent sleeping during the day and finishing a semester-long research paper at night.  I usually speak of my nocturnal week the way someone speaks of a successful adventure, but a more honest reflection this morning points back to this week as reinforcement of a lot of poor creative habits (specifically, the idea that I can only be creative late at night).  Every year around this time, whether it’s “sympathy pain” for students preparing for finals or just a strong association with the first uncomfortably humid morning, I slide back into that same mix of sleeplessness, anxiety, and intellectual frenzy that producing a semester’s worth of work in ten days produces.

This morning, I really wanted to know what I listened to on those late nights alone in my apartment’s living room, so I started digging around to figure out what I might have listened to in May 2005.  I found the only playlist from around that time that’s made it through several different computers, and the oddest song was New Order’s “Working Overtime.”  Listening now, it sounds like a cleaner version of Primal Scream’s version of the Rolling Stones (nor is the irony lost on me), but back then it was the aggressive guitar that earned its way onto one of these late night playlists.  If nothing else, this was the kind of song I’d put on to try to spur my third wind of the evening and regain motivation to hammer out a few more pages before sunrise.

In all honesty, the Waiting for the Sirens’ Call album fell victim to this nocturnal phase and the corresponding gap in my memory.  I remember being surprised how much I liked the album yet remember very little about it.  Rediscovering it today, however, helped to recreate that moment in time.  I wonder if listening to the entire disc would do the same thing.  

More on New Order: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Half a World Away” – R.E.M.
(Words/music: Bill Berry, Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and Michael Stipe, available on Out of Time, Warner Brothers 1991) 

For someone like me who enjoys the process of writing about music – (over)thinking about a song, collecting thoughts, and finding the right words to crystallize a personal connection – Matthew Perpetua’s Pop Songs collection is essential reading.  The wonderful writing combined with the subject of the blog –   R.E.M.’s pre-Accelerate catalog – tackling the only band I’ve ever called my favorite, makes the Pop Songs blog my personal holy grail.  In fact, starting this blog sixteen months ago, it was Pop Songs (among others, including Perpetua’s flagship Fluxblog) that set the standard for the kind of writing I work toward creating. 

So naturally, before writing about an R.E.M. song, I wanted to cross-reference with the Pop Songs blog to make sure I wasn’t taking the same angle that Perpetua covered far more eloquently.  It turns out that we have entirely different associations with the song!  Buoyed by a Christmas memory of his first CD player, Perpetua associates the song with winter.  I’ve always thought of late spring or early summer, perhaps because Stipe sets the song during dusk.  It’s this feeling of dusk as the most beautiful time of day (usually during late spring / early summer) and thus as the time where heartbreak hits the hardest.  After all, the moments where separation always hits me the hardest are the moments where the missing person’s presence are missed the most.  Aside from our differing associations, we’re on the same page.  Even with the skilled instrumentation around it, the spotlight stays firmly affixed on Stipe’s vocal performance.  Watching Stipe’s voice rise and fall with his imagery is a masterclass in performance; Stipe foils his imagery with perhaps his best vocal performance on the album, letting his voice rise and fall in a way that augments his imagery.  As with many of Stipe’s best lyrics, his performance builds on the imagery; as his voice rises to meet the chorus, he runs through a series of directions – “blackbirds, backwards, forward and fall” – and by that point I’m completely sucked into the melody that Stipe that the clever wordplay becomes a bonus. 

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

“Soldier of Love” – Marshall Crenshaw
(Words/music: Buzz Cason and Tony Moon, available on Marshall Crenshaw, Rhino / Warner Brothers 1982) 

There isn’t too much going on in “Soldier of Love,” but Marshall Crenshaw maximizes every last bit of it.  It helps that he begins with strong source material.  Originally recorded by soul singer Arthur Alexander and later covered by the Beatles during a session at the BBC, Crenshaw’s treatment builds on the Beatles’ version, adding a little more edge to the guitar’s tone and moving the tempo up a couple clicks.  Still, it retains the same elements that make all of these versions work – a strong lead vocal with some even stronger harmonies underneath it.

My favorite part of the song’s composition comes in the way that Cason and Moon frontloaded it.  The song’s best line – both lyrically and melodically – comes in immediately.  Where many songs build up to a hook, “Soldier of Love” starts with it and uses it numerous times throughout the song.  It works especially well because the whole song, hook included, stays simple.  Rather than flutter all over one’s vocal register, “Solder of Love” stays in that golden zone that gives the singer the best opportunity to make it sound great.  The best part with a song like “Soldier of Love” is that it doesn’t need a diva-like performance.  In fact, aside from the very ending, over-singing would be counterproductive.  Instead, smart performers like Crenshaw let the song turn in a star performance, transferring the spotlight naturally rather than seizing it dramatically. 

More on Marshall Crenshaw: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Right Now” – Van Halen
(Words/music: Michael Anthony, Sammy Hagar, Alex Van Halen, and Eddie Van Halen, available on For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge, Warner Brothers 1991)

The way I see it, there’s a difference between knowing something as fact and thinking something.  For example, I know that Van Halen was a better band with David Lee Roth, or rather that I enjoy Van Halen far more with David Lee Roth than with Sammy Hagar.  I like more of the songs, I prefer Roth’s borderline absurd persona to Hagar’s constant strain.  While I have a cursory knowledge of Van Halen at best, they seemed more adventurous in their earlier days; by the time Hagar joined the band, Van Halen seemed comfortable to rest on their laurels and/or smooth out all of the roughness in their sound. 

That’s the “fact” part (or, for the sake of argument, what I believe to be fact).  The contrary belief comes from my strange adoration with “Right Now.”  In general, the things that fascinate me in this song goes against what I would normally think about Van Halen at any other point in my life other than the five and a half minutes when “Right Now” plays.  Sure, the combination of that opening piano riff and the heavy-handed drums would be terrific no matter who played them (not to mention this is a guitar band generally moving the spotlight elsewhere), and maybe that’s why I’ll let the song continue past its opening notes.  However, these aren’t the things that I enjoy the most.  Hagar’s strained vocals, particularly the way he sings the second line of the song, suck me in every time.  It’s not even an ironic adoration – somehow, this style works in this setting.  Even the lyrics (and if you haven’t thought about them before, don’t waste your time now) don’t bother me.  I even like the second verse quite a bit, in part because of the contrast between Hagar’s delivery and the overly-dramatic music. 

This would normally be cause for cognitive dissonance, but in all honesty, I’m usually too busy air drumming.  That, or I’m hurting myself trying to sing like Sammy Hagar.

More on Van Halen: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“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

“Holiday Road” – Lindsey Buckingham
(Words/music: Lindsey Buckingham, available on National Lampoon’s Vacation OST, Warner Brothers 1983) 

Every year, my friend Jeff hosts a “Festivus Party,” named after the Senfeld holiday, but also because the party happens whenever it’s the most convenient for all of us.  He first held the party the year most of us were freshmen in college, and it served as a “welcome home” gathering.  Years later, it’s now one of the two or three occasions that I get to see some of my high school friends who are normally scattered across the country.  Aside from the holiday itself, Jeff’s party is the best part of the Christmas season.

Anyway, somewhere along the line I became (read: I claimed) in charge of making a mix to put on in the background.  Each year, I pepper the disc with sound clips from that Senfeld episode, Christmas songs, and other random songs that are part of the cultural zeitgeist that year (this year includes Lady Gaga and “Empire State of Mind” among others).  “Holiday Road” almost always makes its way on the mix, in part because of its inclusion in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, in part because the word “holiday” is in the title, and in part because it’s a good excuse to include it.  Sometimes it sparks discussion about Chevy Chase or Vacation, and sometimes it leads to spontaneous singing of the backing “woahs” and the hook.  Mostly though, it’s lively, nostalgic, and a little silly, just like these Festivus parties.  Whenever I hear it during the rest of the year (usually when the Christine Brinkley scene of Vacation is on TV), it makes me think of these moments together with my friends – probably the only winter moment I’m ever nostalgic for in the middle of the summer.

More on Lindsey Buckingham: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

“Race for the Prize (Remix)” – The Flaming Lips
(Words/music: The Flaming Lips, available on The Soft Bulletin, Warner Brothers 1999)

I’m behind on a lot of my reading, so it was only earlier this evening that I read David Peisner’s article on the Flaming Lips in the November issue of Spin Magazine.  Despite an odd personal anecdote to help him frame the piece, I enjoyed reading it.  The one thing that stuck with me the most in the article (with Wayne Coyne’s annual $10,000 duct tape budget coming in a close second) was a quote from Dave Fridmann, the band’s producer.  Fridmann describes his interpretation of the band’s mission.  “The Lips are a beacon of hope for people who want to make a living doing something that is nonprescribed currently in popular music.  What they represent, more than anything else, is freedom.”  Peisner’s piece framed the band as a sort of alternative rock barnstormers who earned fame by building their own circus tent.  In this sense, they have freedom in that they control everything.

In addition to this idea of freedom, and perhaps the more inspiring quality in the band’s music, The Flaming Lips show the power of possibility.  Freedom is terrific, yet too often we feel oppressed by the overwhelming array of choices.  As a band, the Lips pursue every creative whim and, more importantly, follow through on these ideas.  Whether asking a major label to put out a four CD experimental project, starting every show in a giant hamster ball, or tempering dreamy pop music with an absurd streak, the Flaming Lips find success more often than they find failure.

It’s this spirit of adventure and discovery at the heart of “Race for the Prize.”  Wayne Coyne describes a pair of scientists in pursuit of “the good of all mankind.”  Rather than pit these scientists against each other, the way drug companies may speed ahead to patent the next miracle moneymaker, these two men seem on parallel tracks, competing with their own limitations as humans.  Cone depicts these men as the purist examples of competition driving personal excellence – where the competitive spirit motivates them to reach higher and further than the previous day.  Perhaps they fall short, as the chorus reiterates their humanity, yet they never reach rock bottom.  Coyne describes the “prize” as being the “cure” yet doesn’t elaborate on the rationale, whether it’s to find a specific cure, earn a monetary reward, or receive anything tangible at all; instead, the pursuit of good might be the greater prize.  In a way, this connects back to the idea in Peisner’s article – specifically, the notion that the band inspires its crowd.  Perhaps, opening each show with Coyne in his hamster ball, walking on the audience’s hands during “Race for the Prize” is a reminder of the band’s purpose to advance their cause further, in the hopes that one day someone else – perhaps their audience – will walk on their hands and see further than previously possible.

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

“Private Idaho” – The B-52s
(Words/music: Kate Pierson, Fred Schneider, Keith Strickland, Cindy Wilson, and Ricky Wilson, available on Wild Planet, Warner Brothers 1980)

The B-52s are a party band, and any effort to prove otherwise denies their basic essence.  Even “Private Idaho” and its jagged riff come packaged with a driving dance beat and bubbly vocals.  No matter what, it’s this identity as a party band that flows through all of their songs.  Even their name’s military connotation pales in comparison to the hairstyles of the same name.  No matter what, the party vibe comes first.

That said, they’re more than a three minute stop on a wedding DJ’s playlist.  “Private Idaho” in particular doesn’t have the same abandon one might expect in a dance party song.  Like many of their early songs, “Private Idaho” uses a surf rock lick as its main riff, but unlike a song like “Rock Lobster,” this one feels rougher.  The tone sounds darker and the edges seem more jagged and pronounced, and with the pounding drums leading the charge, the riff sneaks its way into the mix at times.  Lyrically, the song touches on paranoia and isolation – atypical subjects for a dance party, but the B-52s manage to toe the line skillfully between foreboding and forgetting.  The chorus of overlapping voices, especially Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson’s wordless moans, feels closed in yet never entirely claustrophobic.  No matter how dark the song gets lyrically or sonically, it still sounds like a band having fun.  Whether it’s the stampeding drum fills, Fred Schneider’s distinctive annunciation, or the ladies’ intermingling voices, the song never loses that initial sense of fun.  If it’s necessary to retreat to the underground, the B-52s advocate bringing the party down with us.  I imagine it being a party where the B-52s follow “Life During Wartime” rather than the electric slide.

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

“Ooh La La” – Faces
(Words/music: Ronnie Lane and Ron Wood, available on Ooh La La, Warner Brothers 1973)

I’ve spent most of the past two days travelling to and from two separate graduation ceremonies for two of my brothers – one graduated from law school, the other undergrad.  Aside from spending a lot of time in the car with my family members discussing whatever random things we thought of to pass the time (the word “epic,” Adam Carolla’s podcast, etc), I’ve been thinking about my own graduation from college four years ago.  I remember being drained mentally by the time I finished busily writing papers up until two days before the ceremony.  I didn’t have much time to process everything going on and I don’t think I did until much later on.  I look back now and think of how naïve I was at 22 and how I had to learn the hard way that jobs don’t fall in your lap just because you show up for the interview.  It took almost three years (and another degree) to make up for the lost time, and ultimately it worked out for me, but part of me still wonders where I would be if, as Ron Wood sings, I knew what I know now when I was younger.

I also came to the conclusion that this is a foolish question because I needed to learn these lessons for myself.  “Ooh La La” shares this sentiment, as the grandfather warns his grandson about heartbreak and the vicious, unavoidable cycle of falling in love only to get hurt.  He gives his grandson three main point – love will inevitably break your heart, simply being told is not enough because you have to learn for yourself, and finally even after gaining this wisdom, it’s easy to be “just a boy again” and fall right back into love.  No matter how many times you’re told, you have to experience both the highs and lows for yourself.  It’s kind of like the message in a commencement speech – you can listen all you want, but until you’ve lived the scenario yourself, you don’t really “own” it. 

Even the song’s mythology displays this message.  Rod Stewart, earning success as a solo artist, feuded with the band over material during the recording session, leaving future Rolling Stone Ron Wood to sing the song.  Ironically, “Ooh La La” benefits from having Wood sing it, as Stewart’s ego might have overpowered the jangly campfire vibe in the song.  It works as this sloppily fun folk song rather than as a Rod Stewart single.  Stewart drives this home when he sang the song on his 1998 album When We Were the New Boys, turning the song into a schmaltzy, pseudo-Celtic mess.  It’s a song about learning from your mistakes, and it never takes off without Stewart’s mistake to turn down the song.

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

“My Sweet Lord (Live at the Concert for George)” - Billy Preston
(Words/music: George Harrison, available on The Concert for George, Warner Brothers 2003)

When I first delved into the story behind George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord,” I was puzzled by the idea that he originally gave the song to Billy Preston.  I wasn’t surprised about giving it to Preston specifically, as Harrison and Preston collaborated frequently, but rather I was surprised that Harrison would give the song away at all.  In a way, I always heard “My Sweet Lord” as a personal song – one detailing Harrison’s quest for finding enlightenment based on his studies of Hinduism.  Maybe this seemed strange because I only knew Harrison’s version, complete with the “Hare Krishna” mantra from his backing singers.  By comparison, Preston’s gospel call-and-response take on the song on his Encouraging Words album flipped the song around; while Harrison sounded like someone searching for a connection, Preston and his choir reveled in their unity.  Maybe this is why, as someone who doesn’t practice religion yet still has spiritual moments, I’m drawn towards the yearning and searching rather than the “come and join with us” feel in Preston’s arrangement.

At the concert celebrating George Harrison’s life and music, an older Billy Preston sang “My Sweet Lord” with George’s band with the result somewhere between his version and Harrison’s recording.  When the backing vocals chime in, they sing strong and vibrantly, yet Preston’s vocal performance seems more in line with Harrison’s version.  Like the former Beatle, Preston sings the first verse on his own before the choir comes in, and even when the choir comes in, he remains the central figure rather than serving as the leader to set up the choir.  After all, it’s this main vocal line – the one yearning for unity with the higher power – that’s central to the song, with the mantra (whether it’s the Judeo-Christian “hallelujah” or the Hindu prayer) playing the secondary role.  Preston’s original version of the song flips these around, and even if I prefer it the other way, I imagine that speaks to a lot of people.  Still, I identify more with Harrison’s version, reading it as the quest for enlightenment being the important part – it’s not about finding the one right answer, but rather finding your own best path to enlightenment, whether it’s through Christianity, Hinduism, or whatever else.  Perhaps I’m projecting too much of my own beliefs onto the song, but it’s this strand of self-discovery and personal nirvana that’s made an incredibly beautiful song even more beautiful.

“Sweet Thing” – Van Morrison
(Words/music: Van Morrison, available on Astral Weeks, Warner Brothers 1968)

Last night, due to a few days with a skewed sleep schedule, I found myself up watching Jimmy Fallon’s first show even though I had to be up for work five hours later.  Still, wide awake, I took in the show, driven in part by the knowledge that it would end with Van Morrison singing a song from his Astral Weeks album, specifically the lovely “Sweet Thing.”  I hadn’t listened to that album in a while (until this afternoon, when I put it on to relax), but I was eager to hear how the aged Morrison would translate one of his more wistful songs for late night television.  The song, as with much of Astral Weeks, moves differently than traditional pop music.  Rather than move within a verse-chorus structure, Morrison’s band sounds more like a group of jazz musicians vamping and embellishing rather than a folk-pop band running through an arrangement.  His rhythm section sets the groove, and each of the musicians take turns adding their flourishes to the mix.  It creates a lovely bed for Morrison – the featured player in this jazz ensemble.  More than at any other point on Astral Weeks, he sounds off the cuff and relaxed, giving off an improvised vibe even though that’s probably not the case.  Still, the repeated phrases and the slight vocal variations remind me of a jazz master putting his personal stamp on a standard.

While Morrison’s vocals draw on the loose feel of the song, he also sings a bit like a soul singer.  Sure, it’s hard to think of any of his Motown contemporaries singing over something like “Sweet Thing,” but Morrison employs some of the same sensibilities.  The musical flourishes – the flute melodies and guitar fills, for example – act as a reaction to Morrison, directing attention back to him.  In the center stage, Morrison lets certain notes hang a bit longer when necessary and repeats certain words for rhetorical effect.  Most importantly, he senses the moments where he needs to lean into a phrase and executes these flawlessly, letting his voice carry up a bit higher.  This was the greatest disappointment watching Morrison on TV last night.  His band sounded great, and for the most part, Morrison sang well enough for someone performing a forty year-old song.  I just kept finding myself waiting for him to seize these moments and add a little lift into his voice; I’m not looking for perfection, but rather just an attempt at grabbing the reins.  Instead, the entire performance seemed a little flat – without these subtle vocal moments, it just seemed like a bunch of really skilled musicians having fun playing a Van Morrison song rather than watching a Van Morrison performance.

More on Van Morrison: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm