Listening to The Bee Gee’s Number Ones

Recently I started getting obsessed with the various strata of compilations and what they say about a band. At the bottom level, you’ve got your “best of,” which states that this material is the best the band has to offer, but doesn’t really make any claims beyond that. Next is “greatest hits,” which implies a certain popularity based on the assertion that at least some of these songs have charted. (I realize these two are rarely used strictly in this context, but that’s what they should mean.)Then you’ve got singles compilations. This is where it starts to get impressive, because a artist with enough a-sides to fill an entire album makes some claim to longevity and consistency. And on the topmost rung, the king of compilations, is the number ones album. Only a few artists have enough numbers ones to achieve this feat, among them Elvis, The Beatles, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, and of course (or maybe surprisingly), the Bee Gees.

The Bee Gees' Number Ones album cover

And so the first stop on my beyond-disco tour of the Bee Gees is their hits compilation Number Ones. While the Bee Gees have plenty of great albums that are worth getting into, Number Ones is an ideal gateway to the band’s catalog. Arranged chronologically, it spans the bulk of their career and range of styles from 1967 through 2001. It’s also a testament to their popularity and the echelon of the music world to which they rightly belong. (It’s worth noting that the album represents worldwide numbers ones — many of them were not U.S. number ones, and their popularity here was pretty variable. I’d be curious to know more about how the Bee Gees are regarded in the UK.)

The earliest Bee Gees songs sound a bit like the Beatles if you were to strip away every sound and image that could properly be called rock ’n’ roll. The result is the purest distillation of pop: sublime melodies and vocal harmonies set against a backdrop of string arrangements and only the politest guitars. This music is not cool, but it is good. The first number one, 1967’s “Massachusetts,” sets the tone, and its narrative of failed hippiedom is a kind of metaphor for the Bee Gees themselves, out of place among their far-out ’60s peers. The first five tracks on the album stick to the same template, but the quality of the melodies prevents them from getting too same-y. For me, this early period ends with “I Started a Joke,” a song so beautifully abstract that it demands (and will get) its own blog post.

Next up is a run of songs that demonstrate greater stylistic experimentation. This is the Bee Gee’s creative, Revolver-like mid-period. “Don’t Forget to Remember” sounds like 1950s country, and “Lonely Days” tempers a classic Bee Gees verse with an almost rollicking chorus backed by a stomping piano and even some horns. This impulse toward a less wimpy sound would lead to the magnificent Mr. Natural and Main Course albums, of which “Jive Talking’” is sadly the only track that made it to number one. This one’s got a beat, and it’s one of the earliest uses of the iconic Barry falsetto, particularly appealing here thanks to a soon-to-be-abandoned restraint.

“Jive Talkin’” was the first step on the road to the disco years, and the next group of songs on Number Ones encompasses the Saturday Night Fever period. I’ve already covered the Bee Gee’s disco sound pretty thoroughly, so I won’t spend a lot of time on it here other to say these songs are great, and it’s fun to listen to them in the context of the band’s overall evolution.

Finally the album wraps up with the Bee Gees’ adult contemporary years. These songs are not the Bee Gee’s strongest, but they’re improbably listenable. The tracks from the hugely popular Spirits Having Flown album move away from disco but retain a certain dance/soul vibe. “Tragedy” is an earworm nonpareil despite the incomprehensible delivery, and “Too Much Heaven” captures a little of heart-gripping balladry of “How Deep is your Love.” I actually quite like “You Win Again,” the Bee Gee’s last real worldwide hit from 1987. It’s similar to late-period Abba, and the Gibbs have wisely abandoned their worn ’70s trademarks, most likely in response to an aging fanbase and disco’s tarnished reputation. It’s not a triumphant ending, but it’s better than many middle-aged pop groups could pull off.

(The final song on the album is 2001’s “Man in the Middle,” which as far as I can tell was not actually a number one. I believe was included because it’s a Maurice lead vocal and the album was released shortly after his death. It’s not bad, but “You Win Again” feels like the real ending to this disc.)

Taken as a whole, the Bee Gees’ career is one of the strangest in pop. They were hitmakers despite being deeply uncool. They were defined by disco despite dabbling in a variety of genres. They made forays into styles and trends that have not aged well, yet those songs are better than they really should be, largely on the strength of their melodies. But this lack of cred takes nothing away from the astonishing number of beautiful, memorable songs they recorded. Number Ones stands as an achievement in its own right and an excellent introduction to a deep and wonderful career.

Do you know what Saturday Night Fever is?

Here’s a conversation I had with my dentist last time I got my teeth cleaned:

Dentist: Do you know what Saturday Night Fever is?
Kristen: Yes.
Dentist: Really? I’m surprised someone your age would know that!
Kristen: [At a loss] Well, my parents had the record when I was a kid.
[Satisfied with this explanation, dentist proceeds to begin a long and not all that interesting story about seeing a really bad production of the Saturday Night Fever musical.]

This conversation raises a number of questions: Do I look so young as to not know what Saturday Night Fever is? (No.) Do today’s youth not know what Saturday Night Fever is? (Possibly, but I hope not.) Is there any good way to explain to your dentist that you love the Bee Gees? (Not in under 25 words and with one of those wands blasting air at your teeth.)

The problem with being a Bee Gees fan is that expressing a love for the Bee Gees is synonymous with expressing a love for disco. That’s because the Bee Gees are synonymous with disco. Saturday Night Fever and “Stayin’ Alive” are two things that almost everybody associates with them — along with leisure suits, medallions, and long, flowing hair. What a lot of people don’t realize is that the Bee Gees had a long, varied career dating back to 1966. During this time they experimented with a many different styles and produced some amazing songs that would be unrecognizable by most people as belonging to the Bee Gees. So when I say I love the Bee Gees, I want to express that I love them in a grand, sweeping, pop aficionado sense — not just a disco sense.

Leisure suits, medallions, and long, flowing hair.
Leisure suits, medallions, and long, flowing hair.

That being said, the disco era is an integral part of the Bee Gees’ career, and their songs on Saturday Night Fever are excellent. It can be hard to appreciate a song like “Stayin’ Alive” because it’s so ubiquitous that even when you listen to it, you don’t really hear it. But every once in a while, you catch it just right, and the brilliance comes into focus: the unforgettable hook, the funky guitar, the swooping disco strings, Barry’s falsetto joined in harmony by his brothers. My husband and I saw the music video on MTV Classic recently, and we were transfixed, both by the song itself and the undeniably striking image of the brothers Gibb. Josh must have repeated the sentence, “His hair is like a long, flowing mane,” about three times during the course of it all.

“How Deep is Your Love” might be even better, though less overtly disco. The piano and the more sparing use of falsetto give it warm tone, and I love the way that Barry’s voice gets a little low on the verse, before moving up to a falsetto on just the last word or two. The chorus — particularly the lines “’Cause we’re living in a world of fools/breaking us down/when they all should let us be” — has the kind of yearning melody that makes you feel like your heart will burst out of your chest. It’s one of my top five BeeGees songs.

The rest of the Bee Gees’ tracks on the Saturday Night Fever album are great as well — though a couple are re-releases, and pretty much all of them are better heard in other contexts. There’s also a bunch of other stuff on there, including some disco standards and what looks to be obvious filler. But to be honest, I couldn’t really get up the momentum to listen to a seven-minute song called “Calypso Breakdown.” So I wouldn’t necessarily advise listening to the whole album unless you really do love disco.

If there’s a conclusion here, it’s that I love the Bee Gees’ disco years, but I don’t only love their disco years. I’d originally envisioned this post as a guide to some highlights of the Bee Gee’s catalog, beyond the well-known disco hits, but it’s already gotten too long. So instead, I’ll plan to do a handful of Bee Gees posts over the next month or so, delving into some of my favorite songs and albums. Keep your mind open and prepare to have your mental model of the Bee Gees shattered.

Liam Gallagher’s new single is good!

It’s funny that my first Oasis-related post should be about Liam Gallagher, when Noel is my true love. But I’m pleased and maybe a little surprised to report that Liam’s new single “Wall of Glass,” his first as a solo artist, is actually quite good. Like a lot of the best Oasis songs, it’s melodic and loud with a vaguely empowering message. It’s also got a cleaner pop sound, lacking the slathered on layers of Noel’s guitars and maybe even getting a touch danceable.

What’s exciting to me about “Wall of Glass” is that Liam co-wrote it with Greg Kurstin, a professional songwriter who co-wrote Adele’s “Hello,” along with tracks for Sia, Kelly Clarkson, and tons of other hitmakers. (Better still, Kurstin is also one half of The Bird and The Bee, purveyors of the fantastic “Polite Dance Song,” as well as an entire Hall and Oates cover album.) I generally love it when superstar songwriter teams up with a classic act. This combo has produced some unexpectedly enjoyable late career hits like Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” (co-written by Max Martin) and Aerosmith’s “Pink” (co-written by Glen Ballard). The addition of a co-writer seems to have given Liam some new life as well, especially after the disappointment of the second Beady Eye album.

Liam said in an interview that’s he’s happy to work with other songwriters and that his real gifts are his ability to interpret and deliver a song. Especially for a certain kind of listener, it’s easy to fall into the trap idolizing only those rare individuals who can deliver the whole package: writing, singing, playing, and performing. And that’s impressive. But it’s also important to remember that great interpreters of songs are not no-talent hacks. Liam’s voice sounds strong and brash on “Wall of Glass,” and the material really suits him. Given the synergy that Liam and Greg Kurstin have so far, I’m hopeful that the full album will deliver at least a more more winners.

It’s also worth noting that Liam as a successful songwriter is not unprecedented. Admittedly he’s kind of like the veggie burger to Noel’s real burger: usually a serviceable substitute, but occasionally transcending his status as an imitator on his own merits. The two Oasis singles he wrote — “Songbird” and “I’m Outta Time” — are both great. “Songbird” is uncharacteristically simple with a gentle harmonica and some basic two-chord strumming. “I’m Outta Time” is a solo-Lennon pastiche with a delicate touch of falsetto at the start of the verses, supplemented by Noel’s trademark poignant guitar. It would be great to hear a few of these more contemplative tracks on the new album, perhaps penned by Liam himself, as a counterpoint to the big, loud stuff.

This tension between obnoxious and contemplative is the crux of Liam’s appeal. (It’s probably Noel’s appeal as well, but in a less exaggerated way.) On Oasis’s DVD video compilation, Liam provides commentary for his two Oasis single credits. On “Songbird,” he talks about how the song was a really honest expression for him and concludes with a bit of insight only Liam Gallagher could come up with: “All these geezers walking around, thinking they’re tough and all that. If there’s not a songbird inside you, then you’re a fucking pussy.”

Liam’s kind of a lout, but I’m glad he’s back.

Watching Morrissey’s “Suedehead”

You know you’re an Anglophile when your strongest association with the state of Indiana is Morrissey’s music video for “Suedehead.” In this video, Morrissey travels to James Dean’s hometown of Fairmont, IN, visits various Dean-related sites, and does a bunch of weird stuff that he possibly considers to be indicative of small town America. Or maybe it has something specific to do with James Dean. I really have no idea.

I’m actually here in Indiana this week for work, and I seriously considered traveling to Fairmont to see some of the sights featured in this video.  (Talk about meta: visiting a place to pay homage to a famous person who visited that place to pay homage to another famous person.) I might have done too, it if my husband could have come with me. Sadly he couldn’t get away from work. But if we do ever get to travel to Indiana together, our short list of things to do in Fairmont includes:

Read a book in a really cold barn

Drive a tractor

Morrissey drives a tractor

Play the bongoes in a field with some cows

Morrissey plays the bongoes in a field with some cows

And carry a dog around

Morrissey carries a dog around

I was also delighted to find that Morrissey covered the making of this video briefly in his book, Autobiography. He mentions that he got permission from James Dean’s cousin to shoot it on the family’s property.  Morrissey managed to get in a fight with the cousin before the day was out, and he and his crew got kicked off the farm. If you’ve read Morrissey’s book, you will realize that was not unexpected. Luckily for the world, enough footage had already been shot to make the masterpiece that is “Suedehead” a reality.

Listening to “Different Drum”

I feel like I have a special intuition for when a song is written by a famous songwriter. I’ll be thinking about a song and suddenly overcome by a desire to know who wrote it — and it always turns out to be Carol King or Jim Steinman or Max Martin or some other classic writer. A few days ago I was thinking about “Different Drum,” having recently heard The Lemonheads’ version for the first time, and I was convinced I would find that it had been written by someone famous. So I looked it up on Wikipedia and sure enough it was written my Mike Nesmith of the Monkees. One of the song’s first appearances was actually as a gag on The Monkees, as Mike pretends to be an inept folk singer:

(An aside: I know YouTube comments are the scourge of the internet and whatnot, but I find that one of the benefits of looking at more obscure material is that the comments are often quite good. One commenter here astutely points out here that Mike’s performance is particularly brilliant, given the difficulty of performing your own song so badly.)

So I admit that Mike Nesmith does not meet the criteria of “great songwriter,” but he is famous, and he did write “Mary, Mary,” and “The Girl I Knew Somewhere,” two minor Monkees classics. So I think this counts as an example of my songwriter intuition. And there’s no real argument that “Different Drum” isn’t Nesmith’s best song. It’s endured and spawned tons of great renditions. So I thought I’d go down the rabbit hole and highlight some of the versions I’ve loved over the years.

The Stone Poneys had the most famous version of “Different Drum” in 1967, with a young Linda Rondstadt on lead vocal. It hit number 13 on the Hot 100. The Stone Poneys’ version is textbook baroque ’n’ roll, full of lush strings and jaunty harpsichord. It’s super catchy, and the melody sticks with you’d despite the lack of a traditional verse-chorus structure. Linda’s got a good voice, and her her vocal, while not life changing, has a appealing, slightly vulnerable quality to it. She’s also amazingly pretty, which I’m sure didn’t hurt.

“Different Drum” is particularly memorable because of the quirky lyrics, full of odd colloquialisms (“make eyes at me,” “it’s not that I knock it,” “honey child”) and a jumble of metaphors (“travel to the beat of a different drum,” “can’t see the forest for the trees,” “pull the reins in on me”). The song is about not wanting to make a commitment to a serious relationship, and it really works so much better when delivered from a female perspective — here’s a woman who wants to enjoy her freedom and avoid a bad decision, rather than just another dude who just doesn’t want to get tied down. Linda’s version is also brilliant in that she switches the genders on the all the pronouns, but still keeps the line “I ain’t saying you ain’t pretty.” This line would be fairly unremarkable in a song addressed to a woman, when when directed at a male, it’s attention-grabbing and conjures a nuanced image of what this guy might be like — attractive but slight, not someone who really understands the full responsibility of commitment.

On the Lemonheads’ 1990 version, Evan Dando keeps the the pronouns exactly as they are on the Stone Poneys’ version. I like when singers do this. It doesn’t come off like Evan is deliberately singing the song to a man — it’s more like he’s just singing a song he likes, the way he’s always heard it on the radio, and the effect is charming. The Lemonheads’ version is also pretty raucous, with some unlikely squalls of feedback toward the end. That noisy approach isn’t usually my thing, but when someone is singing the melody to “Different Drum” over top, it suddenly becomes a lot more appealing. I should mention that Evan Dando was also very pretty, which probably didn’t hurt either.

Me First and the Gimme Gimmes included a version of “Different Drum” on their ‘60s-themed covers album Blow in the Wind. I hadn’t listened to this in years and couldn’t really remember if it was good. Turns out I’m impressed. The Gimme Gimmes play it a little extra fast, as befits a pop-punk cover, and the singer (who is awesomely named Spike Slawson) attacks the song with loose, sloppy gusto. There’s also a nice whistling bit at the end.

Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs tackle it on their ‘60s-themed covers album, Under the Covers Vol. 1. While their version is closest to the original in terms of tone and tempo, they add some unique touches. Susanna’s voice is more weathered and mature than Linda Ronstadt’s, which recasts the song from the perspective of someone whose reluctance to commit stems from experience. Matthew contributes some stellar backing vocals, completely different from any I’ve heard on other versions. The two harmonize together wonderfully, and “Different Drum” is one of the standout tracks on their album.

Finally, I saw Paul Westerberg perform “Different Drum” live at the TLA in Philly in 2005. At the same show, he also covered “If I Had a Hammer” and “I Think I Love You,” and I was pretty much beside myself with excitement at these song choices. Unfortunately, there don’t appear to be any easily accessed recordings of the performance. As I was searching for one, I was reading some Westerberg fan message boards and was surprised to find that reaction to Paul’s choice of covers on that tour was mostly negative. I forget that “Different Drum” might be considered a little poppy for the too-cool-for-school crowd. But if you look at the caliber of the artists who have covered this song and the variety of approaches that have worked, I think you’ll find it’s a keeper.

Sounds Delightful Mixtape #1

Here’s the first installment in my new monthly online-only mixtape series. Listen on an  array of options! And read the notes below for a few thoughts about the tracks I’ve selected.

YouTube | Spotify

The BeeGees — “Nights on Broadway” (1975)
I love the Main Course album, because it’s the perfect midpoint between the delicate pop of the early BeeGees and the disco years to come. “Nights on Broadway” hints at their classic sound on the bridge, but is also notable for being the first use of Barry’s infamous falsetto.
Ed Sheeran — “Galway Girl” (2017)
This is clearly ridiculous, but I’ve come back to Ed Sheeran’s new album ÷ more than a few times since it’s release. It’s straight up mainstream pop, but the variety and uniqueness of each song make it an unexpectedly compelling listen. On this track, Ed treats us to some rap-singing, alongside a hackneyed (but not unenjoyable) Irish fiddle tune.
Magic Man — “Paris” (2014)
When I heard this song I thought to myself, “this has a real lilt to it.” I’m not exactly sure if lilt is exactly the right word, but it feels right.
Prefab Sprout — “Appetite” (1985)
I’ve been enjoying Prefab Sprout’s album Steve McQueen as part of my ongoing sophisti-pop obsession. This song is particularly lovely, and maybe a little less ostentatious than some other sophisti-pop tunes. I particularly like the way the high keyboards seem to pick up the same tone as the female singer’s backing vocals.
Wesley Stace — “Better Tell No One Your Dreams” (2017)
Stace (better known as John Wesley Harding) has managed to endure as a favorite of mine, even as many other singer-songwriter types have lost their allure. I think his humor and melodicism help him overcome the sometimes too-earnest qualities of the genre. This is also one of two recent songs that capture the tedium and mystery of dreams.
The Last Shadow Puppets — “The Dream Synopsis” (2016)
Here’s the other dream song. A similar sentiment to the above, but Alex Turner really shines with his ability to make nonsense sound meaningful, particularly this most poetic summation of dreaming: “Visions of the past and possible future/Shoot through my mind and I can’t let go/Inseparable opposing images/When can you come back again?”
David Dundas — “Jeans On” (1977)
I heard this on BBC Radio 6 the other day. It’s pretty good for a song that started life as a commercial jingle. Dundas has a fun Wikipedia page full of random trivia. He’s the son of a Marquess and is properly styled Lord David Paul Nicholas Dundas. He also wrote the original score for the horrible movie Withnail and I.
The Magic Gang — “How Can I Compete” (2017)
The Magic Gang have had a string of terrific EPs over the past year or so. They remind me a bit of Green-era Weezer, in that their songs are a nearly flawless execution of a classic pop ideal, rather than an innovation. That’s OK with me.
White Hart — “Friction” (2017)
Another straight-ahead British rocker, “Friction” is White Hart’s first single. There seem to be a ton of British groups out there right now releasing Strokes-influenced rock and roll, and many of them are pretty good.
Estelle — “American Boy” ft. Kayne West (2008)
This song is dangerously catchy. I mean that seriously, in that I can see myself awake at 2 a.m. unable to sleep as this plays on repeat in head. But I’ll risk it, as Estelle brings a somehow quintessentially British songwriting sensibility to the R&B milieu. Kayne’s contribute is quite good as well — “Who killing them in the UK?/Everybody going to say “You, K.”
HAIM — “Want You Back” (2017)
Beyond an inexplicable knowledge that HAIM are part of Taylor Swift’s “squad,” I haven’t really been familiar with them. This new single is pop perfection, and I’d go so far as to say it has an almost Michael Jackson-like quality. Song of the summer contender?
The Isley Brothers — “Summer Breeze” (1973)
The original Seals and Crofts version of “Summer Breeze” is a quintessential 70s solid gold jukebox kind of tune (and excellent in its own right). But this cover version by the Isley Brothers is unexpectedly wonderful as well.