Category: Writing

Some Nights revisited

Posted on by kristen

The album cover of Some Nights by fun.One good thing about getting older as a music fan is that you forget about a lot of songs. This might not seem like an obvious benefit, but there are a couple reasons why it’s great. First, hearing a favorite song after a long break is like how I imagine it would be if your present-day spouse could time travel and kiss you again for the first time — intoxicatingly novel, yet comfortingly familiar. Second, and less fancifully, it gives you some perspective on how well a song or album has held up, especially if it was brand new at the time you first liked it.

I had a particularly intense version of this experience last weekend when I listened to fun.’s album Some Nights for the first time since, oh, probably 2013. When the album came out in 2012, I was at peak infatuation with the band and more excited for their new album than I had been about any legitimately contemporary release in longer than I care to admit. I listened to Some Nights so many times that I kind of stopped enjoying it, the way you do when an album become so familiar that it fades to sonic wallpaper. And despite how much I loved it, I always wondered how all that Auto-Tune was going to sound years later.

And now — just like that — it’s years later, and I have the distance to hear Some Nights with fresh ears and evaluate its staying power. I found that it naturally divided itself up into a few groups of songs that illustrate its different elements and their varying degrees of success.

The two big hits exemplify what the band did well and are the reason they ascended, briefly, to superstar status. “We Are Young” and “Some Nights” combine the best of Queen-like classic rock bombast with signature sounds of the 2010s — big drums, shouty choruses, and a relatively restrained dash of Auto-Tune. Again, it’s that mix of the familiar and the new that people tend to like.

But I don’t think fun. would have gotten as far as they did if their music hadn’t been underpinned by some serious quality. Nate Ruess is a terrific singer. His voice is big and theatrical, with a nasal yelp that’s pleasant rather than annoying. You can especially hear this on some of the best lines from “We Are Young”: “I guess that I/I just thought/Maybe we can find new ways to fall apart.” fun. are also capable of quite good lyrics, although Some Nights — perhaps in its bid for mainstream success — tends more toward the generically relatable than the idiosyncratic. Still, “Some Nights” in particular still has a few that stand out. “Who the fuck wants to die alone/All dried out in the desert sun” has a real urgency to it, and I love the little throwaway at the end: “You wouldn’t believe/This dream I just had about you and me./I called you up and we both agreed/It’s for the best you didn’t listen.” There’s something there that alludes to a lived, ambiguous experience, rather than just an attempt at something anthemic and likable.

Another group of songs carries the vestiges of fun.’s previous incarnation: a quirky, hipsterish take on pop’s legacy, full of big hooks, creative arrangements, and classic melodies. “Why Am I the One?” is fun.’s best overall song, and I’ve written about it before. I’ve heard it plenty of times since 2013, and I’m fully convinced that it’s one for the ages. “Carry On,” also a more traditional ballad, is filled with cliches, but you can’t argue with the fact that it’s a really good singer singing a really nice tune — something I tend not to get tired of.

And then there’s “All Alone.” Hearing this was the undisputed delight of of the album for me. When it first started, I was like “Wait, what is this?” And then it all came rushing back: an uptempo-music-box-hip-hop nursery rhyme with jaunty horn bursts. Not to be too on the nose, but this is the most fun(.) song on the album. It’s also probably the best lyrical conceit, albeit in a bit of a mannered way. The song uses the metaphor of a wind-up doll to talk about a girlfriend who’s mechanical nature is off-putting to someone else in the singer’s life. It’s colorful but vague enough that I think it can be interpreted in multiple ways. If fun. ever makes another album, it should be full of songs just like this.

Like all expect the greatest masterpieces, Some Nights has a few songs that are pretty mediocre. “Some Nights – Intro” is not that memorable, especially in comparison to the similar “Some Nights.” “One Foot” has a few good lines — “I’ll die for my own sins/Thanks a lot/We’ll rise up ourselves/Thanks for nothing at all” — but the production is simply too much. And “All Alright” and “It Gets Better” are both overdone and forgettable.

“Stars” wraps up the album, and it also feel like the appropriate place to wrap up this essay. Like Some Nights itself, it shows a band straddling the gulf between classic if unfashionable pop and hit-making trendiness. I think “Stars” starts out absolutely great, picking up where “Why Am I the One?” leaves off with a snatch of the “Oh, come on” coda. The first two minutes are mid-tempo, highly melodic, and full of the kind of unrockstar-like outpouring that only Nate Ruess would attempt. Who else is going to write, let along sing, the line “But most nights I stay straight and think about my mom”? It’s temping to laugh, but next words — “Oh God, I miss her so much” — add a heart-rending element with real power to move.

Then right at the two-minute mark, it all changes. We go from something that wouldn’t be out of place on Goodbye Yellow Brick Road to a full five minutes of weird Auto-Tuned vocal riffing. I’m not sure if I like this, but from the perspective of 2018, I don’t think it’s as bad as it could have been. Auto-Tune has held up better than most traditional pop fans would have expected, so it doesn’t date the album the way it might have if no one was using it anymore. And I suppose it has the benefit of at least being weird. I mean, it’s clearly not intended to make Nate Ruess sound better, just different and experimental, so I appreciate the risk-taking aspect.

Still, I have to accept that given my age and tastes, my favorite parts of Some Nights are going to be to the more classic songs. And in the end, I don’t think it was a mistake for fun. to take a more contemporary approach, and it’s certainly an element in their chart success. Some Nights is not the consistent pop masterpiece of their previous effort, Aim + Ignite, but it’s a solid album with a few truly wonderful songs. On top of that, it’s a reminder to me that even an album that has become played out won’t stay that way forever. Life is long, and you never known when some forgotten old favorite will crop up, and you will hear it again with a mix of its old freshness, layered underneath the complexities of hindsight. You can’t force these moments, but they’re a real treat when they come.

Two songs about science and hope

Posted on by kristen
The Trylon and Perisphere at the 1939 New York World's Fair.
The Trylon and Perisphere at the 1939 New York World’s Fair.

There are not that many pop songs about science, so I find it remarkable that two of my favorites address the topic in such a similar way. Donald Fagen’s “I.G.Y.” and Aimee Mann’s “Fifty Years After the Fair” talk about science not from a technical perspective, but from a societal one. They’re about science as a proxy for hope and progress, science as a vision of a better future. And they’re about what happens when that vision breaks down.

Fagen’s song title refers to the International Geophysical Year, a real series of scientific collaborations that took place from 1957-58. It’s perfectly at home on The Nightfly, a loose concept album that describes the world from the perspective of a boy growing up in New York City during the 1950s. “I.G.Y.” opens with otherworldly synths, followed by a disco beat and an ascending sax riff. It sounds clean and modern, the kind of thing you might hear in the waiting room of a spaceship. The sonic atmosphere supports the song’s conceit, a vivid, 1950s imagining of the kind of future that will be made possible by the miracle of science. Fagen paints this picture so well, offering up a world of “graphite and glitter,” a “wheel in space,” and “Spandex jackets, one for everyone.” There’s an outlandish beauty to these images, and it’s possible to be seduced by them sincerely, in the way that young Fagen presumably would have been.

Of course there’s a layer of irony too, all the more subtle because “I.G.Y.” makes no reference to it all. The incongruity comes from the listener’s own knowledge that the world portrayed in this song is not our present reality. While “I.G.Y” estimates that “By ’76, we’ll be A-OK,” the song was released in 1982, thereby eliminating any hope that these goals would be met. The irony is reinforced by the cheesily idealistic refrain “What a beautiful world this will be/What a glorious time to be free,” which evokes clueless optimism and post-war patriotism. What modern listener would ever think, let alone say such things out loud?

Using a similar approach but with more layers, Mann’s “Fifty Years After the Fair” addresses another iconic scientific and cultural event, the 1939 New York World’s Fair. With this song, Mann first reflects on the hope of a generation who created exhibits like “Tomorrow Town” and dreamt of technicolor dishwashers and robot dogs.1 She celebrates the spectacle of the fair, with its famous buildings, the Trylon and Perisphere: “That for me was the finest of scenes/The perfect world across the River in Queens.” Reflecting this imagery, “Fifty Years” features a bright melody and a ringing, climbing 12-string guitar riff courtesy of Roger McGuinn.

But, as in most of Mann’s songs, these lovely sounds soon give way to a darker set of lyrics. Unlike “I.G.Y.,” “Fifty Years” explicitly jumps between past and future perspectives. Mann sings, “But it does no good to compare/‘Cause nothing ever measures up.” And what could measure up to a generation who “conceived of a future with no hope in sight”? She’s mourning not necessarily a failure of execution (we do have robot dogs after all), but the death of a worldview. It’s not only that this generation had such high hopes, it’s that they had these hopes despite living through the Great Depression and seeing the start of a second World War. Rather than romanticizing the past, Mann just feels a bitter disappointment: “It hurts to even think of those days/The damage we do by the hopes that we raise.”

“I.G.Y.” and “Fifty Years After the Fair” both use real historical scientific events to contrast the hope of the early 20th Century with modern-day disappointment. Fagen’s song is ironic, but it can’t help but get a little caught up in its own fantasies, perhaps reminding us that there is still value to imagining that we could one day be eternally free and eternally young. We might not create a Utopia, but if we achieve even some of our goals, it’s a small victory. Mann’s disillusionment is much harsher. Should we never have hope, because we will only do too much damage when our dreams fail to deliver? I don’t believe that as a rule, but this song plays to the part of me that is at times depressed and discouraged.

Like most things in life, hope is not binary. We can feel its pull even as we realize that it’s preposterous or misplaced or overambitious. “I.G.Y.” and “Fifty Years” fall somewhere on that continuum between hope and despair — and never in the same place each time I hear them. They illustrate the messy mix of hope, longing, nostalgia, excitement, and sadness that’s always present in the world in fluid proportions.

A Beginner’s Guide to Sparks

Posted on by kristen

Ron and Russell Mael of SparksWhen a band has released 23 albums since 1971, where do you start? That question is especially pertinent when the band is Sparks, a cult duo known for singing about 75 percent of their material in a camp operatic style, composing bizarre narratives about topics like blackmail and funeral speeches, and cramming improbable numbers of notes and words in every hyper-melodic line. But fear not because, despite existing outside of any dominant musical precedent of the last 50 years, Sparks are still indisputably pop and a lot of fun.

I’ve been listening to a ton of Sparks lately, so I decided to pull together a very short list of the songs I like the most, spanning their entire career. I’ve by no means heard every Sparks song, and I haven’t even listened to most of their albums all the way through. But honestly, with so many songs, Sparks can be a little uneven, and they’re a band best heard by cherry-picking the best bits across the years. If you know nothing about Sparks and listen to these songs, you should walk away with a decent sense of what the band is about and whether you might like them.

“This Town Ain’t Big Enough for Both of Us” (1974)

If you only listen to one Sparks song, this should be it. It’s one of their best and most well-known, typifying what their classic period was all about. Keyboardist and main songwriter Ron Mael delivers an arc that starts slow and ponderous, but quickly builds to a frantic pace, the aural equivalent of when the cartoon Roadrunner’s legs start going so fast they become a circular blur. Brother Russell’s falsetto is so indefinable that my husband had to ask me if the singer was a man or a woman. Lyrically, Sparks’ main obsession tends to be sexual politics, and this track fits that mold, albeit obliquely, presumably caricaturing some kind of male preening behavior. “This Town” comes from the album Kimono My House, probably Sparks’ best album and one that’s worth a full listen. Lots of famous people love this album, including Morrissey, and it’s widely accepted that Sparks basically created the prototype for Queen’s sound with their early work.

“High C” (1971)

Sparks’ debut album is not that consistently Sparks-like, but “High C,” one of my favorites, was an early step toward their signature sound. Despite being a story about seducing an opera singer on the decline, it actually doesn’t use Russell’s higher register, opting instead for a kind of sleazy, music hall tone. I love the way Russell unnecessarily rolls his Rs and pronounces “Vienna” as “Vie-enna,” resulting an a kind of fake, dramatized accent. Pretty much every line is a hook, and the best of them all is when the song slips into the jauntiest little “whoo-hoo-hoo” that I’ve ever heard. Seriously, if I could whistle, I’d whistle that part non-stop until my friends and family decided to band together and murder me.

“Over the Summer” (1976)

After Kimono My House, Sparks slipped into a short down period that was less critically acclaimed. I don’t have a real solid grasp on this era, but I know there’s at least one great song: “Over the Summer” from the 1978’s ironically-titled Introducing Sparks. A Beach Boys pastiche, it’s not actually that representative of Sparks, and the lyrics — celebrating a mousy girl’s transformation into a bombshell — represent the bands occasional turns toward the sophomoric. But melody conquers all, as do Russell’s captivatingly odd vocals. “July, you were the plainest of Janes” stands out as the best line to me, with its suitably weird pronunciation of “Jew-lye.”

“When Do I Get to Sing ‘My Way?’” (1994)

Sparks restored their reputation in the late ‘70s when they teamed up with Giorgio Moroder on No. 1 in Heaven and a few other albums. Their embrace of an electronic, danceable, disco sound was surprisingly successful. They continued in this vein for quite a while, up through 1994’s Gratuitous Sax and Senseless Violins, which features the excellent “When Do I Get to Sing ‘My Way?’” What I like about this song is that it’s lightly mocking of its subject, who dreams of making it big with his rendition of the titular song, but at the same time it still works as a ballad itself. When Russell sings, “When do I get to sing ‘My Way?” / When do I get to feel like Sinatra felt?” I feel the hunger and longing of this character more than I want to laugh at him. It might be something of a first for Sparks, and they continue to build on that shift in later years. The Sinatra/Sid Vicious dichotomy is brilliant as well. It seems so obvious, but did you think of it?

“Dick Around” (2006)

Jumping forward to the 2000s, Sparks shapeshifted once again to a more symphonic sound. To my entirely untrained ear, “Dick Around” is one of the more credible attempts to combine rock and classical music. Rather than the typical verse-chorus of a pop song, it flows through a series of movements that mirror the ambitious narrator’s moods as he breaks up with his girlfriend and descends into a life of slackerdom. Ominous, jaunty, angry, sad, triumphant — a full range of emotions is on display. The balance of classical instruments with some borderline heavy metal guitar is particularly effective during the angry sections. The experimental nature of the composition doesn’t mean a lack of hooks either.

“Edith Piaf Said it Better Than Me” (2017)

Possibly the most astounding thing about Sparks’ 2017 LP Hippopotamus is the fact that, at the time of its release, Ron Mael was 72 and Russell Mael 69, thus proving that one can make a great pop record at any age. It helps that Sparks’ music is so unusual that they never sound like they’re trying to recapture a bygone era or cash in on trends that aren’t rightly theirs. The writing here reaches a kind of literary height, with many of the songs telling full, subtle stories in a relatively economical space. Another benefit of age is that we get lots of interesting reflections about topics like decline, regret, and death — elements of the human experience that are generally underrepresented in pop music. “Edith Piaf Said It Better Than Me” is a perfect example, telling the story of man who has lived a boring, risk-free life. He repurposes Piaf’s line “Je ne regrette rien,” regretting nothing in a literal sense, because he’s never done anything to regret. There’s some great one-liners in here too, like “There’s no poem, just prose” and “Few amours, feu or not.” Musically, the record is a synthesis of previous Sparks sounds — some opera, some classical, some rock, some pop — but the pace has become a bit more reflective and the emotions more real.

Further listening

I have a personal Spotify playlist of my favorite Sparks tracks, which includes all of the songs above.

Sparks have an official “Essential Sparks” playlist on Spotify that features 101 songs and is six hours long. I find this works well for shuffling and discovering new songs.

Sparks appeared on Brian Turner’s show on WFMU in October 2017. They played live and Brian played a good array of Sparks tracks, as well as some crazy vintage commercials.

Top 90 of the ’90s

Posted on by kristen
New Radicals - "You Get What You Give"
The ’90s, what a time for hats.

My husband and I always talk about our “top 90 of the ‘90s” lists, a concept that up until now has been largely theoretical. It’s really easy to say, “Oh yeah, ‘Santa Monica?’ That’s definitely on my list, top 10 for sure.” It’s unclear exactly how many songs have been verbally named to my list at this point, but it’s likely that the top 10 and top 20 now represent mathematical impossibilities.

So I finally decided to sit down and write out my real top 90. As I began this exercise, one thing became immediately clear: it’s impossible. Sure, it’s easy to name 90 great ’90s songs, but it’s also easy to name more than 90 great ’90s songs, so cutting down the list is hard. Then there’s the fact that ranking the songs is so difficult as to border on meaningless. Do I like “You Get What You Give” or “Flagpole Sitta” better? It’s really hard to say. I resorted to a thought exercise where I imagined myself driving my car on a beautiful, sunny day, flipping around the radio. Two songs I’m trying to rank are each playing on a different station. Which one do I pick? That tactic actually helped a lot.

Oasis
Young Oasis, with Liam wearing a very ’90s shirt.

Then there’s the tension between representing personal favorite songs and the best songs of the ’90s. I decided I wanted my list to be the former, but this dichotomy still presented a challenge. I realized that I have a strong mental divide between “songs I like that happen to be from the 90s” and “90s songs.” The first category tends more toward indie, non-hits, and deep cuts. The second category is heavier on one-hit wonders and songs that embody some concept of “90s-ness.” I tend to regard the ’90s category as separate, something I only listen to when I’m deliberately going for a nostalgia trip, so it was hard to integrate them into my “real” favorites. I also struggled with my love for Oasis. They’re my favorite band that was most active in the ’90s, but including, like, 20 Oasis songs in the list just didn’t feel right. So I limited myself to three, though they are all ranked pretty highly.

In the end, I found the most effective strategy was to just do it and not care too much about the finer points of the rankings. I’m sure if I did this again next week or next year, I’d end up with something different. But if nothing else, the result is a list of 90 great songs from the ‘90s that I’d be happy to listen to any time.

Here’s the list! Listen to these songs on Spotify

90. Right Said Fred — “I’m Too Sexy” (1991)
89. Coolio — “1-2-3-4 (Sumpin’ New)” (1996)
88. Lightning Seeds — “Lucky You” (1994)
87. Imperial Drag — “‘Breakfast’ By Tiger” (1996)
86. LFO — “Girl on TV” (1999)
85. Lisa Loeb — “Stay (I Missed You)” (1994)
84. Jimmie’s Chicken Shack — “Do Right” (1999)
83. R.E.M. — “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” (1994)
82. Finley Quaye — “Sunday Shining” (1997)
81. Soul Coughing — “True Dreams of Wichita” (1994)
80. Sloan — “The Lines You Amend” (1996)
79. Super Furry Animals — “Something 4 the Weekend” (1996)
78. Spin Doctors — “Two Princes” (1993)
77. Sparks — “When Do I Get to Sing ‘My Way’?” (1994)
76. Citizen King — “Better Days (And the Bottom Drops Out)” (1999)
75. Nerf Herder — “Sorry” (19996)
74. Seal — “Kiss From a Rose” (1994)
73. The Lemonheads — “If I Could Talk I’d Tell You” (1996)
72. Martin Newell — “She Rings the Changes” (1990)
71. BMX Bandits — “Serious Drugs” (1993)
70. Michael Penn — “I Can Tell” (1997)
69. Old 97s — “19″ (1999)
68. Freedy Johnston — “Bad Reputation” (1994)
67. Deee-Lite — “Groove is in the Heart” (1990)
66. Blind Melon — “No Rain” (1993)
65. The Cardigans — “Lovefool” (1996)
64. Alice in Chains — “No Excuses” (1994)
63. Blur — “Coffee and TV” (1999)
62. Weezer — “El Scorcho” (1996)
61. Foo Fighters — “Big Me” (1996)
60. Skee-Lo — “I Wish” (1995)
59. Jason Faulkner — “Revelation” (1999)
58. Pavement — “Cut Your Hair” (1994)
57. Belle and Sebastian — “She’s Losing It” (1996)
56. Matthew Sweet — “Sick of Myself” (1995)
55. Presidents of the United States of America — “Peaches” (1996)
54. Bend Folds Five — “Philosophy” (1995)
53. Spacehog — “In the Meantime” (1996)
52. Stone Temple Pilots — “Big Bang Baby” (1996)
51. Blur — “Charmless Man” (1995)
50. Cotton Mather — “Lost My Motto” (1994)
49. Third Eye Blind — “Semi-Charmed Life” (1997)
48. Nirvana — “All Apologies” (1993)
47. XTC — “The Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead” (1992)
46. The Wonders — “That Thing You Do!” (1996)
45. Pulp — “Common People” (1995)
44. Stroke 9 — “Little Black Backpack” (1999)
43. James — “Laid” (1993)
42. Hootie and the Blowfish — “Only Wanna Be With You” (1994)
41. The Lightning Seeds — “Pure” (1990)
40. Ben Folds Five — “Army” (1999)
39. Blessid Union of Souls — “Hey Leonardo (She Likes Me For Me)” (1999)
38. Polaris — “Hey Sandy” (1993)
37. Jamiroquai — “Canned Heat” (1999)
36. Pernice Brothers — “Overcome by Happiness” (1998)
35. Cornershop — “Brimful of Asha” (1997)
34. Hole — “Celebrity Skin” (1998)
33. Fountains of Wayne — “Radiation Vibe” (1996)
32. Belle and Sebastian — “The Boy With the Arab Strap” (1998)
31. Soup Dragons — “Divine Thing” (1992)
30. Mariah Carey — “Fantasy” (1995)
29. Sixpence None the Richer — “Kiss Me” (1998)
28. Guns N’ Roses — “November Rain” (1992)
27. Teenage Fanclub — “Alcoholiday” (1991)
26. Mary J. Blige — “Real Love” (1992)
25. They Might Be Giants — “Birdhouse in Your Soul” (1990)
24. White Town — “Your Woman” (1997)
23. Backstreet Boys — “I Want it That Way” (1999)
22. Jellyfish — “Baby’s Coming Back” (1990)
21. John Wesley Harding — “The Devil in Me” (1990)
20. Fastball — “The Way” (1998)
19. Sheryl Crow — “Everyday is a Winding Road” (1996)
18. Fountains of Wayne — “Troubled Times” (1999)
17. Harvey Danger — “Flagpole Sitta” (1997)
16. New Radicals — “You Get What You Give” (1998)
15. Oasis — “The Masterplan” (1995)
14. P.M. Dawn — “Art Deco Halos” (1998)
13. Pulp — “Disco 2000” (1995)
12. Macy Gray — “I Try” (1999)
11. Big Audio Dynamite II — “Rush” (1990)
10. Oasis — “Don’t Look Back in Anger” (1995)
9. Aimee Mann — “Fifty Years After the Fair” (1993)
8. XTC — “I’d Like That” (1999)
7. Barenaked Ladies — “It’s All Been Done” (1998)
6. Violent Femmes — “American Music” (1991)
5. Hedwig and the Angy Inch Original Cast — “Wig in a Box” (1998)
4. Blackstreet — “No Diggity” (1996)
3. Everclear — “Santa Monica” (1995)
2. Jellyfish — “Joining a Fanclub” (1993)
1. Oasis — “Whatever” (1994)

Billboard Excavation 1974: Reflections

Posted on by kristen

Disco Tex and his Sex-O-LettesRecently I decided to listen to every song that made the Billboard Hot 100 in 1974. I got the idea from hearing the occasional rerun of Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 on the local oldies station. Casey likes to build up the songs with long, meandering stories or crazy teasers like, “Next up, a man who started beating his wife two months ago.”1 But, surprisingly often, when the payoff comes along, it’s a letdown because I’ve never heard the song before. That experience made me realize that, for any given year, there is a lot of music that was once popular, but for some reason hasn’t survived in the public consciousness.

I decided I wanted to learn more about these forgotten songs and possibly unearth some treasures. I chose a year — 1974 — for no real reason other than that I’m into the ’70s right now. My goal was to put together a one-hour mixtape that highlights lost classics of that year. I envisioned it being like a bizarro version of the hits compilations I used to listen to with my parents when I was a kid. But instead of the same old songs that everyone already knows, it would be filled with songs that sound fresh and new, while still capturing the spirit of the time. You can find that mix, along with notes about each of the songs, on a separate blog post.

As a side effect of this exercise, I learned a lot about 1974 and spent a lot of time reflecting on the nature of hits and the Billboard charts. This companion article shares some observations about the boogie-filled, politically tumulus year that was 1974, as well as some big theories on what makes music endure.

Methodology

To do this project, I used Billboard’s excellent online Hot 100 charts, which let you page through each week of chart history and are visually quite well designed. I started with the week of January 5, 1974, scanned through the chart, and added every song I wasn’t already familiar with to a “new to me” playlist on Spotify (or bookmarked it on YouTube, if it wasn’t available). For the first week, 77 out of 100 songs weren’t familiar to me — quite a high percentage, and probably more than I was expecting. I listened to all the songs and copied any that I liked to a second, “would hear again” playlist. That first week, there were 12 songs that made the cut.

From there on out, things got easier. For each new week, I just had to scan the chart and look for new entries. I ended up with probably 5-10 new songs to hear for each Billboard week. I didn’t keep detailed stats on how it all broke down, but in the end, I listened to 419 songs on Spotify, and maybe another 40-50 on YouTube. Of these, 63 were good enough to hear again. I chose 16 for my final mix, all songs that had their chart peaks in 1974. 2

As an outcome of my method, the definition of “lost classic” became “song Kristen has never heard before.” Who’s to say these songs are really that obscure? I didn’t live through the 70s, and someone who did may end up knowing many of them already. All I can say is that I’ve listened to a lot of oldies and classic rock radio in my life, and I’m very alert to incidental music in my environment. I have a pretty good feel for what’s well-known and what’s not. As a check, I played this mix for my husband, and he didn’t know any of them either, so I think my instincts were sound.

One caveat: I didn’t usually listen to songs that I already knew, since I wouldn’t be considering them for my final mix. But I did notice a lot of what was on the charts, and it’s definitely informed my perception of the year. I also want to acknowledge that there are plenty of great songs from 1974 that were not hits, and many of those may be ironically more well-known now than some of my lost classics. (Big Star’s Radio City came out in ’74, for instance.) And there are probably a lot of great, lost non-hits as well. But the Hot 100 served as a convenient bucket of songs that at least a few people must have liked at some point, and it helped me put some boundaries around the project.

The sounds of ’74

Eddie Kendricks

There’s no question the dominant musical trend of 1974 was soul. The chart was absolutely filled with all variety of soul from slow jams to funk to early disco. Stevie was literate and melodic on “Living for the City,” Marvin smooth on “Let’s Get it On,” James Brown defiant on a track brilliantly titled “Papa Don’t Take No Mess.” Disco Tex turned out the gloriously shambolic “Get Dancin’” and First Class pioneered some powerful, female-led dance tracks. It was also a breakout year for soul artists gone solo. Eddie Kendricks of the Temptations had a big album yielding multiple hits, and as did Motown songwriter Lamont Dozier.

For all that, soul also demonstrated a pattern that held true across genres. For every great track with original melodic and lyrical ideas, there were two or three songs that were straight up dull. Not technically bad or incompetent, just lacking hooks and inspiration, content to coast along sounding mostly like a lot of other songs that were popular at the same time. These songs tended to follow trite romantic conventions like “Sexy Mama” or “Bring Back the Love of Yesterday.” Occasionally, a few artists went off the rails just enough to be noticeable, usually on the lyrical end of things. The sometimes-excellent Chi-Lites turned out two notable clunkers: “Homely Girl” and “There Will Never Be Any Peace (Until God is Seated at the Conference Table).” Oof.

From a rock perspective, 1974 is usually seen as a post-Beatles, pre-punk doldrums, and there’s certainly some validity to that. I found it difficult to represent rock music on my final mix, largely because all rock songs seemed to disqualify themselves in one of two ways. Some were awesome mega-hits that everyone still knows: “Jet,” “Bennie and the Jets,” “D’yer Maker,” “Rikki Don’t Lose that Number” — you get the picture. Everything else was pretty uniformly bad, tending toward boring medium-hard rock by Grand Funk imitators or phone-ins by the already-famous, including Dylan and Ringo. One rare bright spot was “Candy’s Going Bad,” a lesser hit by Golden Earring from the same album as “Radar Love.”

A few other genres made a respectable showing in 1974. Country music was a consistent presence on the charts and demonstrated a good deal of heart and humor, without the overly slick, faux-redneck crap that would mar it in the ’90s. You had lovable simpletons like Tom T. Hall, classy guys like Glen Campbell and Hoyt Axton, and great singer-interpreters like Linda Ronstadt. Novelties were also huge, particularly those by Dickie Goodman, who interspersed fake news interviews with borderline nonsensical responses culled from popular songs. Q: “Mr. President, what really caused the energy crisis?” A: “Smokin’ in the boys room.” Hilarious? Maybe. Finally, bubblegum and light rock continued to have their day. Seals and Crofts turned out pretty, delicate harmonies on “The King of Nothing,” Blue Swede created their immortal “ooga-chaka” backing vocals on “Hooked on a Feeling,” and Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods deliver a surprisingly acidic anti-war message on “Billy Don’t be a Hero.”

On the whole, however, there was nothing on the charts that felt particularly unique or revolutionary. It was a perfectly ordinary year filled with some great songs that that distinguished themselves on craft and performance, lots of mediocre songs that coasted in their wake, and only a small handful of truly awful tracks.3

The wider world

Listening to the music of 1974 opened a window into what was happening in the world at that time, from politics to social trends. Sometime in the February charts, Dickie Goodman’s “Energy Crisis ’74” appeared, followed shortly after by NRBQ’s “Get that Gasoline Blues” and Jerry Reed’s “The Crude Oil Blues.” The degree of humor afforded to the energy crisis is hard to contextualize, because I think people really were panicked at the time, but they also seemed to be laughing about it. It’s probably more apt to compare these songs to today’s YouTube videos and late night comedy sketches than anything on the current pop charts. Parody of world events is still a constant, it’s just changed venues.

After two years of Watergate controversy, Nixon finally resigned in the summer of 1974. While Goodman released his trademark interview send-up, a lot of songs treated these events more seriously. Lamont Dozier’s “Fish Ain’t Bitin’” is eloquent and direct in its hopelessness, ending with the plea, “Tricky Dick, stop your shit.” James Brown, who I sometimes think should have just released a series of song titles and called it a day, turned his attention to Gerald Ford in “Funky President (People It’s Bad).” The song encourages a range of dubiously helpful behaviors from “Get on your good foot, change it!” to “Turn on your funk motor.” Less cogent, perhaps, but equally urgent.

Perhaps directly related to these events is a slew of songs about patriotism. Some are presumably meant to be a conservative backlash to public opinion about the president. However, 1974 conservatism seems borderline liberal by today’s standards. Case in point: Donna Fargo’s “U.S. of A.,” which delivers the unsubtle message, “And when one of/My brothers makes a mistake/Be he peasant or a President/I will try to treat him/As I would want to be treated/With compassion and understanding.” And, yet, the very next lines are “And I will continue to be proud/To pay taxes for the opportunity to live/In the greatest nation in the world.” 4 Jud Strunk’s song-poem “My Country” has a similar mix of now-incompatible views, extolling nature, the Kennedys, veterans, and Jesus, before declaring, “And I don’t stand for everything my country is about/But I am willing to stand for my country.” Despite these moderately refreshing attitudes, all of these songs are pure schmaltz musically and unlistenable except as historical curiosities.

On the lighter side, 1974 was peak streaking, with Ray Stevens’s novelty “The Streak” hitting number one and staying there for three weeks. This song is not very good, and I can’t imagine anyone enjoyed seeing a bunch of random naked people all that much either. 1974 was also the ramp-up to peak boogie, with everyone from rockers to soul singers to country balladeers working this word into their songs with a complete lack of irony. No one sums up the boogieing craze — and perhaps 1974 itself — better than Brownsville Station on the opening to their song “Kings of the Party”: “You can always count on about one hundred to five hundred people/Down at the very front row screaming one word/At the top of their lungs/BOOGIE!!”

What makes a hit endure?

When I started this project, the big question I wanted to answer was “What makes a hit endure?” Having done it, the trait I’d say most correlates with a song’s longevity is it’s memorableness. In many cases, this can be roughly equated with quality, which is a good thing. Songs that have great hooks and melodies, powerful vocal performances, or virtuosic playing tend to be memorable. “The Joker,” “Waterloo,” “Jungle Boogie,” “Rebel, Rebel,” — everyone knows these songs and they hold up. Memorableness can also be the result of more ambiguous sources, including gimmicks, weirdness (how many times do I have to reference Blue Swede?), and even badness. People love to make lists of bad songs, and one of 1974’s biggest hits, Paul Anka’s “(You’re) Having My Baby,” has been a frequent contender for one of the worst songs of all time, even decades after its original release.

This theory is consistent with the 1974 lost classic mix I put together. I’ve really enjoyed listening to the tracks I selected and I think the overall quality is on par with many more famous songs of the day. But I will say that many of these songs took me several listens to really appreciate. Joni Mitchell’s “Free Man in Paris” is a good example. The melody is gorgeous, but I didn’t catch on to it immediately. Contrast this with Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi,” which was actually less successful on the charts, but more remembered today. The instantly memorable “don’t it always seem to go” line is a big reason why. Without an immediate hook, songs seem to stand less of a chance of making it to household name status.

Another factor in the endurance equation is the commercial structures that deliver music to our ears. You can hear music from 1974 on oldies and classic rock stations, but in either case it’s only a sliver of what was actually popular at the time. Since these stations are generally covering the better part of three decades, it makes sense that they play a only few songs from each year and that they choose songs that people like best — determined by extensive market research. One perhaps unintended outcome of this structure is a pro-rock bias. It’s not surprising, since classic rock has an entire radio format of it’s own, while I’ve never encountered, say, a classic soul station.5 I’d hypothesize that this bias is a result of the demographics of U.S. listeners, and even more so the demographics of U.S. radio station owners and executives. The end result that that rock gets a lot of air time and thus is better remembered, while genres like soul, vocal pop, bubblegum, classic country, and comedy must always share their exposure with rock, at least in the mainstream.

The Bee GeesFinally, you can’t discount the role of luck in a song becoming a hit, much less becoming an enduring classic. I recently read a novel called Shadowbahn that explores this idea by imagining that Elvis had never been born. Without Elvis, the Beatles never made it big, and rock/pop fizzled completely as a genre. So one element of luck is the existence of a genealogy of previous music all leading up to your moment, allowing your vision to succeed because the groundwork has been laid. You can see this in the chronology of The Bee Gees. Their 1974 album, Mr. Natural, while incorporating subtle soul elements, didn’t make it big, perhaps because it didn’t sound enough like the zeitgeist. Their next album, Main Course, was a stunning success, maybe because their ideas were more fully realized, but also because they struck while the disco iron was hot.

Big Star’s Radio City was another classic example of bad luck in 1974. It got good reviews, but the band’s record label ran into distribution problems, so copies of the record simply could not be sold. However, attention from music critics in later years has resulted in Radio City ultimately becoming better remembered — at least by a certain crowd — than songs that were hits at the time. You could even say that Big Star’s early obscurity has contributed to their mystique, enhancing their cult status even more. These are factors that no artist can control, yet they have great impact on their trajectory in the public memory.

It’s only natural, given all of these factors, that many deserving hits have been forgotten. But there’s a big bright spot for lost classics, and that’s the current greatness of the internet as a music platform. Even 10 years ago, it would have been very difficult for me to listen to all of these songs without spending an enormous amount of time and money. I probably would never have done it. But thanks to Spotify, YouTube, Mixcloud, and other services, anyone can go back in time, dig up hidden treasure, shine it up, and share it with the world. If nothing else, this project has been a testament to the depth of the pop era and power it still has for renewal and rediscovery.

Lost Classic: Dean Friedman S/T

Posted on by kristen

A few days ago, a song called “Ariel” popped up on for me some randomized Spotify playlist. It was by an artist I wasn’t familiar with, Dean Friedman. Knowing nothing about this song, my initial assumption was that it was from the ’90s. It had a slightly camp vocal and the kind of specific, narrative humor that I’d associate with groups like Fountains of Wayne or even Nerf Herder. The album cover was no help either. Sure, this guy looks a bit like my dad in certain pictures from the ’70s, but he could just as easily be a hipster parody from anytime in the last 20 or so years. If there was one clue that this song was older, it was the lyrical reference to Channel 2 signing off the air.

It turns out that “Ariel” is from Friedman’s 1977 self-titled debut album. Having continued to enjoy the song after a few more listens, I decided to spin the whole thing. This is something I do a lot: hear a random good song, wonder if it’s just the tip of some amazing pop iceberg, listen to the full album, become very disappointed. But in this case, I wasn’t disappointed! I turns out that Dean Friedman is actually a really good album. Friedman is able to make the kind of direct, memorable connection with the listener that is the mark the of successful singer-songwriter. Even after one listen, musical and lyrical ideas from these songs stuck in my head and made me want to listen again.

“Ariel” is in fact the standout track. It was a minor hit, peaking at #26 on the Billboard Hot 100 in June 1977. It’s got a fantastic pop chorus comprised entirely of the name “Ariel” sung repeatedly with layers of soaring harmonies. The verses are where you get the humor, as Friedman tells how he falls in love with a beautiful stoner girl who he meets at the mall in Paramus, New Jersey. The joke that begins “I said hi” is an exemplar of comic delivery in song; he absolutely nails the punchline. There’s also a nice rock’n’ roll-style saxophone solo, not terribly different from something you might hear on a Springsteen record from the same era, but enjoyable and not too dated. All in all, a true lost classic of the type I always hope to discover.

The rest of Dean Friedman is not as overtly funny as “Ariel,” but there’s definitely a sardonic wit that underlies the whole thing. On “Company,” Friedman wonders if “maybe one day I’ll be a famous man with an L.A. tan/A million fans, and a catamaran floating movie stars.” The story of a mother’s suicide on “Song For My Mother” is really sad, but the last line has a dark and surprising humor to it. And “Solitaire” has some great lines too, particularly “If the lies don’t do it, then the honesty will.” The melodic fall of this phrase is great, and the combination of big piano, smart-aleck vocal style, and clever songwriting remind me strongly of Ben Folds.

Another theme running through the album is Friedman’s New Jersey upbringing. But unlike working-class hero Springsteen, Friedman gives us a much more suburban take, prefiguring Fountains of Wayne. There are the references to Paramus in “Ariel,” (the only time the word “Paramus” has occurred in a Top 40 hit, per Wikipedia), as well as callouts to apple cider and donuts, New York radio station WBAI, taking the train into the city, and more. While Friedman’s album predates my teenage years by more than two decades, there’s still a lot about its setting that feels familiar to me as a native of the New York City exurbs.

Friedman is also capable of real feeling, and the album’s other standout track, “The Letter,” shows off his philosophical side. It’s the story of a friend or lover who’s gone off to find herself, leaving those close to her to wonder about this journey of self-discovery. The song has a great arrangement, building from simple piano on the verse to swelling strings and a multi-tracked vocal on the chorus. It’s got a yearning feeling, heightened by lyrics like “Freckles still misses you/She always sleeps on the floor in your room” and a mournful trumpet solo. There’s also narrative complexity, as Friedman both romanticizes the journey and wonders if it’s all it’s cracked up to be.

If you need any further convincing to listen to this album, let me just tell you that I wrote this review after hearing most of these songs only two or three times. There are albums that I like well enough, but that I’ve heard a dozen times without being able to single out some of the tracks. Dean Friedman’s immediacy and originality of voice makes it compelling from the first listen, and at 35 minutes it’s tight and filler-free. The possibility of digging up gems like this is why I stay obsessed with pop.

What’s the Story Interstate Managers?

Posted on by kristen

A few months ago, I was listening to Fountains of Wayne’s Welcome Interstate Managers — a favorite album since its release nearly 15 years ago — and for the first time I realized that it’s hugely influenced by Oasis’s (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?. Since then, I can’t stop making this connection. It’s not exactly a revelation, as cursory Googling reveals that many initial reviews of Interstate Managers remarked on the similarity, and various Oasis fan forums have some chatter about the topic as well. Still there’s no definitive analysis of the phenomenon, so I figured why not provide one?

Mashup of What's the Story Morning Glory and Welcome Interstate Managers album coversThe most obvious example of the FoW-Oasis connection is “Supercollider.” This song is such a clear Oasis homage that I can’t believe I listened to it for over a decade without realizing it. (I suppose my excuse is that I wasn’t thinking much about Oasis from about 2003-2013.) The title references “Champagne Supernova” and “Supersonic,” the opening acoustic guitar sounds a lot like the opening to “Wonderwall,” and Chris Collingwood’s vocals are amazingly similar to Liam Gallagher’s when he wants them to be. But what really makes this homage pop is the way that “Supercollider” captures the feel of an Oasis song. It evokes a kind of grand emotional landscape, despite being mostly nonsense.

Most of Interstate Managers’ more rockin’ tracks repeat this trick to varying extents. “Bought for a Song,” “Elevator Up,” and “Little Red Light” all borrow a bit of Noel’s guitar tone and Liam’s snarl — just listen to the line “It may be time to pay up and gee-ohh,” on “Elevator Up.”

Of course the two bands are very different in a lot of ways. Oasis is brasher and more straightforward in their rock sound, and they’re also known for being obnoxious louts. Fountains of Wayne favor a suburban naturalism defined by ironic story-songs and polished arrangements. Still, even in a song like “Fire Island,” which is classic FoW in every respect, a little bit of Oasis influence sneaks in. The middle eight features a guitar solo that owes much to Noel’s playing on “Champagne Supernova” or “Don’t Look Back in Anger.” It has that burbling quality, like beads of oil rising up through a jar of water.

And maybe the connection isn’t that surprising after all. The gorgeous muted trumpet that starts out the middle eight on “Fire Island”’ is certainly influenced by some mid-century, easy-listening Bacharach — a sound that Noel Gallagher has unsubtly embraced on Oasis’s b-sides. And really, Fountains of Wayne and Oasis are both bands whose raison d’être is creating songs that sound good and that people will like. Morning Glory and Interstate Managers are like pop twin stars — one British, opaque, and defiant; the other American, witty, and glossy — united  by a devotion to great melodies above all else. Fountains of Wayne may have been emulating Oasis on Interstate Managers, but both bands likely share many of the same influences and have worn different paths from the same pop truth.

Pop Masterpiece: Mr. Natural by The Bee Gees

Posted on by kristen

I see the Bee Gees two best albums — Mr. Natural and Main Course — as having a yin and yang relationship. Main Course was The Bee Gee’s first foray into the R&B/disco sound that eventually made them superstars, but it still retained touch of their old vocal harmony roots. Its predecessor, Mr. Natural, is a gentler album that features a touch of soul, but still tips the scale toward the easy-listening vocal pop that had defined The Bee Gees’ career thus far. But Mr. Natural is also an eclectic album that shows the group searching for a new sound, incorporating a wider range of influences, and all the while remaining completely themselves.

The title track is easily the standout, and it’s got the kind of opening I adore. After just a few bars, Robin’s voice comes right in, warm and clear and high in the mix. He’s got that unmistakable Kermit the Frog quality that’s odd and appealing all at once. The lyrics are unique and vivid, especially the lead-in to the second verse: “Rusty rainbows/that’s how the pain goes.” The chorus is a triumph as well, featuring some gorgeous harmonies and a lovely, natural falsetto on the “cry, cry, cry” lyric. “Mr. Natural” also uses that great pop conceit of hiding one’s tears by going out in the rain. It’s one of the great mysteries of pop that a song can take something ridiculous that no real person would ever do, and make it seem so poignant and emotionally true.

“Down the Road” is probably the closest to rocking that The Bee Gees ever came, and there’s a definite Lindsey Buckingham vibe on Barry’s vocals and the guitar. There’s also a swagger to Barry’s vocal performance that really had no precedent in the group’s catalog. I love the lyric “I don’t care/I’d show my feelings anywhere.” That line might be the crux of The Bee Gees whole career for me. They’re a band who’s never shied away from being openly emotional, but suddenly on Mr. Natural, that emotion comes bursting out in new ways.

On “Dogs,” it sounds like Barry’s been listening to a lot of Elton John. This is primarily a piano ballad, and both the verse and chorus feature Barry singing largely without backing harmonies. There’s a little pre-course wedged in, though, that’s pure Bee Gees, full of glorious, intense harmonies. “Dogs” is also one of the group’s last great story-songs, describing the relationship between a son and his derelict, alcoholic father. As songwriters, they’re great that that kind of thing, turning out expressive lines like, “You now he’s lived a thousand years from day to day.”

The award for best tune on Mr. Natural goes to “I Can’t Let you Go.” The minor key melody is like a vortex, especially on the chorus, which kind of swirls around for a bit then builds to a crescendo, before circling back around like it could start all over again, and that would be just fine. It’s the song on this album that I’m most likely to wake up with in my head in the middle of the night. There’s a nice horn arrangement and some rather good guitar playing as well.

Mr. Natural contains plenty of other great tracks: the delicate love balladry of “Charade,” the folky “Voices,” the slight twang of “Lost in Your Love,” and Robin’s gorgeous high harmonies on “Give a Hand, Take a Hand.” The variety of approaches and influences makes the record work as a whole — it’s never too same-y and there’s always something to look forward too. It’s also remarkably consistent in quality. There’s only one bum note on the whole thing, and that’s “Heavy Breathing,” an attempt at the kind of R&B-influenced sound they would embrace more successfully on Main Course. You can tell it’s a bit of a clunker just from the title, and the group is probably better off sticking to singing about the chaste virgin queens of “I Can’t Let You Go” than this panting mess. I will note that I never skip it, though.

Taken as a whole, Mr. Natural is an album that is in some ways is inseparable from Main Course and in some ways its opposite. Both albums represent a group at the peak of its vocal and compositional prowess, and both were flawlessly produced by Arif Mardin. One leans more classic pop with a touch of R&B, and the other swaps the proportions, both to great success. But what makes Mr. Natural unique for me is a  freewheeling pop eclecticism that no other Bee Gees record really has. I’d have to say it’s my favorite.

Past loves (part 2)

Posted on by kristen

A couple weeks ago, I began writing about the bands I’ve previously had intense infatuations with. Here’s the promised part two of that article.

The Format/fun.

Height of infatuation: 2011-2012 (ages 28-29)

Then: I’ve combined these two bands because my infatuation was mainly for two albums that shared certain people and elements. The Format’s final album, Dog Problems, and fun.’s first, Aim + Ignite, both combined the talents of singer Nate Ruess, producer Steven Shane MacDonald, and arranger Roger Joseph Manning, Jr. And both albums amalgamated a wide range of pop influences usually too square for the 2000s: the melodicism of Harry Nilsson, the bombast of Queen, the baroque arrangements of ELO.

These bands also marked a reentry into music fandom for me. The years between the end of college and this period found me stagnating a bit, mostly listening to favorites or new-to-mes like XTC. But 2010 also marked the start of a streaming music service called Rdio that made me care about music again. It came out a bit before Spotify in the US, and it’s social features were still the best I’ve seen in this type of service. I managed to make a bunch of internet friends who shared playlists and chatted about music. I heard fun.’s song “Light a Roman Candle With Me” on one of these playlists and suddenly felt like new music had something to offer me again.

fun. pintrest meme" So just take my hand, you know that I will never leave your side."
fun. writes the kind of songs that people make into Pintrest memes.

Special soulmate: I’m a borderline Millennial, and Nate Ruess is very close to my age. He’s probably the first Millennial songwriter I’ve loved and the first who has a sensibility and set of experiences that felt more like real life than a fantasy. Nate is almost uncool in the way he sings about things like loving his parents (“Snails” and “The Gambler”) and a kind of earnest need for self discovery (“But between MTV and Mr. O’Reilly/I’ve come to find, that I cant be defined”). Unlike many pop stars, he seems less interested in rebellion or provocation than in being a good person and doing the right thing.

Now: fun.’s Some Nights album was a big change in direction. It was produced by Jeff Bhasker, who has produced for people like Beyonce and Kanye West. As such, it had a much trendier sound, full of autotune and hip-hop influences. Some Nights was still a pretty good album and continued many of Nate Ruess’s favorite lyrical themes, but it definitely marked the end of the old pop sound. It hasn’t helped that fun. have not released anything since. Still, I consider Aim + Ignite and Dog Problems to be two off my all-time favorite albums, and I continue to listen to them regularly. I also haven’t stopped dreaming of a reunion of either band with their production/arranging dream team.

Oasis

Height of infatuation: 2013-2016 (ages 30-33)

Then: Oasis is a strange one, because my infatuation with them developed after nearly two decades of passing acquaintanceship. I bought (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? back in 1995 during the height of Oasis’s U.S. popularity. I saw them as being a bit like the Beatles — a melodic British rock band out the conquer the states. My middle school interest didn’t last long, but I have a crystal clear memory of putting on Morning Glory near the end of high school and being blindsided by the mix of familiarity and freshness upon hearing it again — my first brush with nostalgia. It was such a strong sensation that I immediately bought Definitely Maybe and rekindled a casual interest in the band.

Fastforward to 2013. My husband rented us a copy of a documentary called Live Forever. It’s not about Oasis per se, but about the Britpop phenomenon more generally. It featured extensive interviews with the major players, and it was love at first sight for me and Noel (or at least me). I hadn’t realized that he was so funny and insightful. I started listening to Definitely Maybe and Morning Glory again and expanding into the rest of the Oasis catalog. The next thing I knew, I was buying old CD singles so I could have all their b-sides and reading cheesy-looking (but actually good) books about the Gallaghers’ childhoods.

Cover of the book Brothers: From Childhood to Oasis, by Paul Gallagher
My husband bought me this Oasis book as a joke. I loved it.

Special soulmate: Noel Gallagher is one of the best ever melodic songwriters, and his compositions radiate a kind of pure emotion that makes me feel understood in a non-verbal way. Noel is also a compelling figure to me because of the contrast between his rude, curmudgeonly exterior and the sensitive, wistful nature of his music (and occasionally his comments when he stops being snarky). Oasis as a band is cut from the same pattern. They’re known for being big, dumb, and loud, but actually I think most people who love them do so because of the way Noel lets that soft underbelly peek out.

Now: I’d say my Oasis infatuation ended shortly after I saw Noel Gallagher live in July 2016. I kind of knew it would happen. The infatuation had been too strong for too long to really hold for much longer, and the live show provided a capstone to the whole experience. I still love the band and listen to them a lot more moderately. There’s obviously still a spark there, since the release of Noel’s new single has got me excited for his new album and U.S. tour.

It’s funny that there are certain people in my life (real people who’ve made an impression on me, not just pop idols) who I still dream about, despite not having seen them for years. I think when you have that true connection, it never really leaves you. Silly as it may sound, I seem to have that connection, one-sided though it may be, with Noel Gallagher. (Like seriously, I just had a dream that I told Noel about my favorite restaurant in Raleigh. He seemed really interested and said he’d check it out.)

The Bee Gees

Height of infatuation: 2017-Present (ages 34-?)

Then/Now: The Bee Gees have been my current obsession, and they’re a good one. They have a lot of albums, and they’ve worked in a wide range of styles, so there’s plenty to delve into. I began getting into The Bee Gees mainly because of Noel Gallagher’s endorsement of their early work. Then, I read the excellent Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! by Bob Stanely, which contains an entire chapter that’s basically a paean to the band. That really set me off, and I’ve been getting to know their catalog over the past year.

The Bee Gees synthesize a lot of what I love about the other bands listed here: the melodicism of the Beatles, the uncoolness of fun., the obtuse yet emotional lyrics (and brotherly dynamics) of Oasis, and occasionally even the country-pop hybrid of the Old 97’s. There’s a passage in Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! where Stanley contemplates his favorite bands. He lists the The Bee Gees as a contender, but ultimately concludes, “Too much to explain.” I actually kind of like how hard it is to explain the disconnect between the band’s popular image as avatars of disco excess and the real wealth of diversity that actually marks their catalog. Like my initial discovery of The Beatles, I feel once again that I’ve discovered a treasure trove that only the privileged few appreciate.

Barry Gibb at a Grammy Salute to The Bee Gees
Barry is moved by his recent Grammy salute.

Special soulmate: As much as I’d like it to be Robin, who I think is well under appreciated, Barry is the Bee Gee I think about most. It’s a little hard to say that he’s The Bee Gee’s best song writer, as Maurice and especially Robin were such essential contributors to the band’s compositions. It’s more a collection of compelling things about him. He’s certainly got a swagger, as evidenced in the Stayin’ Alive video, as well as a sense of humor. (Read  almost any Wikipedia entry for a Bee Gees song for some great Barry quotes). It makes me happy that he’s been married for 47 years and has a zillion kids and grandkids. He’s also a bit of a tragic figure at this point. I watched a recent Grammy Salute to The Bee Gees, and it was super sad to see Barry stand up and talk about how all three of his brothers are gone, leaving him to accept the honor on his own. But he also seemed genuinely touched at the celebration of his music, and it really made me like him.

Final thoughts

I’ve read that infatuation is a useful tool because it gets you to fall in love with someone and (theoretically) reproduce. But you can’t stay at that level of obsession forever, because you’d never get anything done. Either the relationship ends or it settles into a much more manageable level of enjoyment and commitment — often known as love. Looking over these bands I’ve been infatuated with, I’m pleased to see that most of have settled down into that mature love state.

I remember once a teacher in high school telling our class that a long term relationship has its ebbs and flows. Sometimes things between her and her husband were fine, and other times they felt like teenagers again. That reflection stuck with me. I see these waves reflected in my relationships to my favorite bands as well. Once the initial infatuation has passed, I’ll experience periods of stability and of renewed interest.

That said, I do still enjoy the fact that new infatuations come along from time to time. It’s exciting to get to relive the feeling of falling in love with a band. And as long as it keeps happening to me, I continue to feel alive and young as a music fan. I hope that I always will.

Past loves (part 1)

Posted on by kristen

Relationships with bands can be a lot like relationships with people. Some are pleasant acquaintances who you like, but only seem to run into once in a while. Beck, for example, is someone I want to get to know better, but I just don’t meet him often enough. Others are more like friends in particular circumstances. Like co-worker who’s always up for a coffee break, Real Estate is a band I only listen to when I need something to make my work day a little more bearable, without completely derailing productivity. And then there are the steady, lifelong friends — the ones I can always reconnect with, no matter how long it’s been since we last hung out. Belle and Sebastian, Fountains of Wayne, John Wesley Harding, The Zombies — they have been some of my constant musical companions.

But I can also fall in love with a band, the way I’d fall in love with a person. These relationships are true infatuations. I start neglecting my other musical interests to listen to the beloved band all the time. I find myself thinking about them during work meetings or before falling asleep at night. I develop a conviction that I would connect with a certain songwriter on a deep, personal level, should we ever meet.

These infatuations usually last a couple years, and they always end at some point. Recently I was chatting with an friend about The Old 97’s, a band that we both loved in college, but who I never listen to anymore. It got me thinking about some of these past loves and the way my relationships with them have evolved over time. While the height of infatuation can never last, the experience of being in love with a band leaves its mark, just as it does with people.

The Beatles

Height of infatuation: 1995-circa 1997 (ages 12-14)

Super '60s John
Super ’60s John

Then: I’ve already covered my Beatles obsession quite extensively in a previous post, so I’ll be brief here. The Beatles Anthology television show, which aired in 1995, kicked off my first real music infatuation, which lasted for at least the rest of my middle school years.

Special soulmate: At the time, I suppose it was John. He was the leader, the clever one, the symbol. And he was dead, which somehow made him seem more romantic. My connection to him was vague and immature, but I remember it had something to do with an idealized vision of the 1960s, a time period I became obsessed with after discovering The Beatles. It was a fantasy world of peace and meditation, Agent 99 dresses, and the best music being the most popular. I liked to imagine I had been born in the wrong time, and this perhaps tied into my general feeling of not always fitting in at school. John let me believe I was different in a good way, and that gave me comfort.

Now: While I still love the Beatles, I only listen to them occasionally. I’ve heard their songs so many times that it’s almost like I can’t hear them anymore. But once in a while, I still catch a particular album just right and enjoy it in a fresh way. And I still think about them. I adopted Paul as my true favorite Beatle a while ago, and recently, for the first time ever, I decided on a favorite Beatles song — “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window.” It so perfectly encapsulates Paul’s melodicism, coupled with nonsense lyrics that nonetheless seem to convey wistful depths on lines like “She could steal, but she could not rob.” Most certainly an influence on Oasis and my future love for Oasis.

The Old 97’s

Height of infatuation: 2001-2005 (ages 18-22)

Then: The first Old 97’s song I heard was “What We Talk About” from 1999’s Fight Songs album. DJ Vin Scelsa played it on his Idiot’s Delight radio program, one of my early gateways into non-mainstream pop. I liked the song, but didn’t get fully into The Old 97’s until their next album, Satellite Rides, came out in 2001, a few months before I graduated high school.

In contrast to my previous obsession with the Beatles and the ’60s, I now loved a band whose creative peak matched the peak of my infatuation. Between 2002 and 2005, I saw The Old 97’s or Rhett Miller about a dozen times, always accompanied by my friend Tom. I remember he told me that I smiled in a different way during these shows, a way that he didn’t really see during my everyday activities. I take this as an indicator that I was enjoying the band in an unselfconscious way that only true love could inspire.

My signed copy of Rhett's first solo album
My signed copy of Rhett’s first solo album

Special soulmate: It didn’t hurt that the Old 97’s lead singer, Rhett Miller, was exactly the kind of frontman that I could without hesitation or embarrassment describe as a dreamboat. (Which I once did, memorably, at a meeting of my college newspaper staff. I think people were surprised, because I’m not usually emotionally demonstrative.) Rhett looked like a model, but and his music was a perfect melding of pop melodies, sex, and literary references. “Rollerskate Skinny” is probably the apotheosis of this combination, from the title allusion to the line “Let’s knock nine down and leave on in the hole.”

Now: The end of college, along with a couple less than perfect albums, spelled the end of my romance with the Old 97’s. I sill love Fight Songs and Satellite Rides, as well as much of their early catalog, but they haven’t had an album I’ve really gotten into since then. On the whole, I’d have to say that The Old 97’s are the past love that I engage with least these days. That’s a little sad to contemplate, but it doesn’t undo the great times I had with the band and what they gave me. They helped me understand the value of country music, discover the transcendence that can be found in a live show, and begin listening to a greater variety of music.

XTC

Height of infatuation: 2008-2010 (Ages 25-27)

Then: XTC was a band who I never got, until I did. As I began to define my music taste more deliberately, I found that I could identify bands I might like using terms like “power pop” or “melodic pop.” XTC always came up as something I should like. I bought a couple of their albums at some point — I think Oranges & Lemons and Wasp Star — but I never really got into them. They sat on the shelf for quite a while.

My interest in XTC was renewed by two events that would prove to be pretty influential in my life. First, I moved in with my then-boyfriend, now-husband Josh, who owned and liked the album Skylarking. Second, we started DVRing 120 Minutes on VH1 Classic. The second item might seem trivial, but Josh and I still watch these music videos together today, and they have been the source for countless music discoveries over the past decade. I think it was “Mayor of Simpleton” — a shimmering, gleeful romp — that resuscitated my interest in the band. From there, I got really into the albums from the second half of their career: Skylarking through Wasp Star.

Andy Partridge — silly and serious

Special soulmate: I think I needed to be a little bit older to appreciate Andy Partridge’s songwriting style. While he’s certainly capable of crafting the pure pop of “Mayor of Simpleton” or “Stupidly Happy,” he also comes closer to writing intelligently about the meaning of life than any other songwriter I can think of. “The Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead” looks at the power of heroes, but also acknowledges that nobility potentially lies within all people. “Harvest Festival” beautifully conveys the sharpness of first love and the nostalgia of its contemplation. “The Wheel and the Maypole” captures the ever changing nature of existence and the futility of resisting this change. I couldn’t appreciate these sentiments until I had a little more life experience — and it may be a bit laughable to assume I’ve full appreciated them even still. The upside is that there will also be more meaning to find and contemplate in Andy’s songs.

Now: There was no one event that ended my XTC period, it just kind of faded out. The depth and emotional clarity of their songs still resonates for me, and I’d say I now listen to them a normal amount compared with other bands I like. In some ways, they are like an ex-boyfriend who actually manages to become a friend.

Note: This article got very long, so I’m breaking it up into two parts. Part two should be along soon.