Who's Next/Achtung Baby — Going Bigger

Two legendary bands, at seemingly the height of their respective greatness, 20 years apart. Yet neither were satisfied with the enormity of their success and wanted to go bigger, newer and yes, even better.

And somehow they did.

The bands were The Who and U2. The years were 1971 and 1991—two absolutely monstrous years in music. And they each put out an album that signaled far and wide that the bands that the masses once new had changed. And a different era was underway.

Who’s Next. Achtung Baby. Absolute 100% bona fide game-changers. Any list of the greatest and most important albums in rock-n-roll history has these two albums on it. And if it doesn’t, the list is incomplete, almost stupidly so.

And here’s one more beautiful thing The Who and U2 had in common with these albums. The bands knew they were entering untouched territory, and they knew they had to let the listeners know that from the very start. 

So from the first seconds of opening tracks of those two albums, “Baba O’Riley” and “Zoo Station”—both amazing tunes, to be sure—our speakers and our ears were flooded from the get-go with sounds we had never heard from either band before. And holy cow did it get our attention. And still does today, to anyone listening.

Think about it. 

The epic synth drone which lifts “Baba O’Riley” up to some space-age plain the second the needle drops on Who’s Next was a brand new frontier for The Who. They had done some fine albums and all those great and taut Maximum R&B singles and then in 1969, with Tommy,  they invented the rock opera and created an album that seemed to almost swallow their identity…mostly in a good way. But they needed to move on and looked even bolder, brasher. Even bolder and more brash than Tommy had been two years earlier; after all, The Who had dabbled splendidly in longer-form narrative before Tommy (“A Quick One While He’s Away” in 1966, “Rael” a year later). But they had never, EVER tried anything like this before. 

And those sounds that open “Baba O’Riley,” that hypnotic and circular Lowery organ pattern which seems to have been dreamed up as much by Arthur C. Clarke or Stanley Kubrick as by Pete Townshend, damned if it didn’t work and take the listeners on an uncharted journey. No one could have expected it, but within seconds we couldn’t imagine music without it.

Fast forward 20 years. Now how about the volcanic industrial sound that drops into our laps about three seconds into “Zoo Station,” a sound so thunderous and forboding it almost sounds like the musical version of The Big Bang. This was not "traditional U2", awash in reverb and shimmering delay and spiritual and political forthrightness we had come to know and deeply love, played majestically from Boy through The Joshua Tree. This was cataclysmic sonic mayhem, all metal and stone and echoes and shadows and distortion. U2 had conquered all worlds by 1991, even trotting out the highly subversive and (according to at least this writer) highly underrated multi-media experiment of Rattle and Hum in 1988. But now, much like The Who in 1971, they needed more, and they got more. 

And much like “Baba O’Riley,” it all sounded like world-building, because it was. For “Baba” it was a gateway into the aimless, miasmic plasma of the 1970s and out of the (fictitious) Age of Aquarius. For “Zoo” it was a guillotine to the Reagan-Thatcher years of despotic, plastic self-virtue (laid in musical form by years of empty-headed Aqua Net-pasted glam metal) and an invitation to blaze new trails across previously neglected human wastelands. In every sense of the word this was music of change.

And neither exactly occurred in a vacuum—both came out at momentous times in rock-n-roll history amidst staggering competition, and still were able to not just stand on their own, but stand victorious and proud amongst the very very best musical offerings of their respective years. Or most any years.

I mean, 1971. Look. LOOK at the kind of the music their counterparts were offering:

• Marvin Gaye – What’s Going On
• Led Zeppelin – Led Zeppelin IV
• Joni Mitchell – Blue
• Rolling Stones – Sticky Fingers
• John Lennon – Imagine
• Sly and the Family Stone – There’s a Riot Goin’ On
• David Bowie – Hunky Dory
• Funkadelic – Maggot Brain
• Carole King – Tapestry
• Allman Brothers –At Fillmore East

I mean. I mean!

Not to be outdone, 1991? Well…again, just look:

• Nirvana – Nevermind
• Metallica – Metallica
• R.E.M. – Out of Time
• Matthew Sweet – Girlfriend
• Michael Jackson – Dangerous
• Public Enemy – Apocalypse 91: The Enemy Strikes Back
• Dinosaur Jr. – Green Mind
• Pearl Jam – Ten
• A Tribe Called Quest – The Low End Theory
• P.M.Dawn: Of the Heart, of the Soul and of the Cross: The Utopian Experience

Those are a couple of Murderer’s Rows of musical years, and sure, maybe some of those albums were as good as Who’s Next and Achtung Baby, but none of them—NONE of them—were better. 

Both offered a promise of a new day, a new musical awakening, with those opening tracks, and both delivered. Because of course it didn't stop there. In addition to the epochal starters each album contained arguably the respective bands’ greatest songs (“Won’t Get Fooled Again” and “One”), some statement of purpose masterpieces (“Behind Blue Eyes,” “Song Is Over” for the Who, “Mysterious Ways,” “Until the End of the World” for U2”) and, yes, some familiar musical territory done with as much muscle and gritty agency as ever (“Bargain” on Who’s Next, “Even Better Than the Real Thing” on Achtung Baby).

They were gutsy moves. Two of the greatest bands ever, each having reached pinnacles they couldn’t have imagined when they were starting out years earlier. Each wanting more. And each getting it.

It’s unfair to offer that they never would be that good again, because how do you top sheer once-in-a-lifetime masterpieces? Hell, if they didn’t equal those efforts they came pretty close—All That You Can’t Leave Behind, Quadrophenia, The Who By Numbers, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb—and that’s saying more than something. But those efforts they churned out in 1971 and 1991 remain sui generis works of art. And if there’s one thing that art does, it lives. Does it ever.

The Who and U2 live forever in those opening generational strains of “Baba O’Riley” and “Zoo Station.” The music explains why, as it always has.

Georgia On My Mind

 This'll do. This'll do just fine.

The Last

"The next one's always gonna last for always."

The first ballad Paul Westerberg ever wrote as the front man for the Replacements (or at least the first one we're aware of) centered around drinking. "If Only You Were Lonely" has come up many times during this All Shook Down look back, because while it was just a B-side few people heard to a single no one ever bought in 1981, it remains huge in the band's legacy. 

"If Only You Were Lonely" was a soaked and sullen country shuffle that was about exactly what the title said it was, and it shined a spotlight on the lethal mix of drinking and loneliness and what it would and could do the then-young singer and his bandmates. The song began Paul Westerberg's career as a peerless balladeer and would signal many monumental moments to come for him and the band. Because sadly and fittingly, drinking and coping with the causes and effects of it would define so much of what the Replacements were about over the course of 10 years, eight albums and so much fractured beauty and weary pain. 

So it's only fitting that nine years later, he ended his career with the Replacements with one more ballad. And this one too was about drinking. But this time, it was about giving it up. That's "The Last."

But before we get to it, let's recap for a moment.

As has been said, All Shook Down is what will always pass for the Replacements' goodbye album, the last thing they would ever offer "together" before shuffling off into solo careers. And "together" is a loose term because there is so little of it on the album. By the most reliable math, Paul and Tommy Stinson play together on about three-quarters of the tracks, Slim Dunlap plays on maybe a little fewer than half and Chris Mars, unceremoniously (and unnecessarily) sacked from the band in these final days, plays on only a couple. And three of the 13 tracks are pretty much Paul by himself, save for the occasional guest appearance. That is hardly the stuff of the "all for one and one for all" ethos that most bands usually practice. But then the Replacements were never like most bands.

They were, at various times depending on where and when you caught them, unconscionably good, insanely reckless, abhorrently sloppy, maddeningly nihilistic, uproariously funny and dizzyingly inconsistent. They had one of the finest songwriters who ever lived in Paul Westerberg. In those early years they had the man who just may have created grunge guitar (in a very very good way) in Bob Stinson. They had a bass player in Tommy Stinson who would be a very high draft choice if anyone were to draft the all-time garage band. And they had (in the opinion of this humble writer and my blogging partner, anyway, and I am sure there are more who agree) a great intuitive drummer who kept it all together in Chris Mars. Later they had Slim Dunlap instead of Bob, who could play a fair bit but was widely credited with being a steadying presence the band always needed. They had a lot working in their favor, is what I mean to say. And it still was never enough for them to hit it big.

Why? Two words. The Replacements.

While not as outwardly destructive as the Sex Pistols or Guns-n-Roses, and not as tragically cut short as Nirvana, Elliot Smith or the Jimi Hendrix Experience were, the Mats will always be one of the most needlessly destructive bands that ever lived. They never ever could get out of their own way. Big break coming with a record label? Blow it up with a drunken, shambolic performance. Huge gig coming where the right people are watching? Blow it up with a drunken, shambolic performance. Hell, a national TV appearance on Saturday Night Live??? (Everybody now) Blow it up with a drunken, shambolic performance. It seems at every damn turn, they were there to pull the pin from the grenade and then slip it back into their pocket.

Dammit.

So perhaps this decade-long road with the Replacements, a period defined by letter-perfect gutter poetry and so much systemic substance abuse, was destined to come to an abrupt stop. Like a drunk driver trying to get his car out of the parking lot but instead crashing it into the wall, stalling and falling asleep until sober.  Perhaps the sudden ending was inevitable, as so many of the tracks that layer All Shook Down ("Someone Take the Wheel," "When It Began," "Attitude") hinted. And within that inevitably we come to their very last and most aptly titled song they would ever write. "The Last."

 

As stated earlier, "The Last" is without question, on the surface, a song about giving up drinking, and perhaps other vices as well. Famously drunken and strung out for most of their career as a band, 1990 saw the Mats beginning to come to grips with addiction and turn things around. Published reports indicate this is the year Paul gave up drinking, and the others may very well have followed suit. Original member Bob Stinson would die five years later at 35 years old not of any particular drug overdose, but basically after a life and body worn down by abuse. That is such a tragic end to such a visionary guitar player, but it's sadly an understandable one. Paul and Tommy today remain productive solo and (in Tommy's case) session musicians, and Chris Mars has switched careers and turned into one hell of a fine artist. (Unfortunately Slim, who replaced Bob, suffered a terribly debilitating stroke a few years back and continues to suffer its effects). But the remaining band members are alive and kicking, and that was nowhere a surefire bet when they were blazing trails and raising hell in the 1980s.

That's why "The Last" serves well as the band's epitaph. It's not the most inventive song they would ever do. Or the most melodic. But it's probably the way things had to end. With a now sober Paul looking back, pondering all those gonzo twists and turns, and wondering what comes next in newfound sobriety.

Does it hurt to fall in love so easy?
Does it hurt to fall in love so fast
Does it hurt you to find out 32nd hand?

Is it such a big task?
Are you too proud to ask?
Remember last one was your last.

It's too early to run to momma,
It's too late to run like hell.
I guess I would tell ya ‘cause it don’t work to ask,
That this one be your last.

And this one, child, is killing you.
This one's your last chance
To make this last one really the last.

Oh are you too proud to ask?
Is it such a big task?
Remember last one was your last.

The next one's always
Gonna last for always.
The next one's always on me..

Would it hurt to fall in love a little slower?
I know it hurts at any speed.
So you have another drink,
And get down on your knees,
You been swearing to God
Now maybe if you'd ask?

That this one be your last?
'Cause this one, child, is killing you.
And this one's your last chance,
To make this last one really the last.

Gonna last for always...
It's gotta last for always...

Paul is filled with questions on "The Last." About love. About what people are saying. About whether or not this time the quitting is for real. And he lays it out there. The lyrics, as tight and thoughtful as ever, sound like something taken from a group therapy session. The questions, the hard advice ("This one, child, is killing you," "You been swearing to God...now maybe if you'd ask?) seem to be offered not by some sage all-knowing advisor, but by someone who is in the trenches and suffering with you. And while the song lopes along at a very deliberate pace and doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get there, there is desperation in the words. This is the last chance. The last has to be the last this time if you want to live. 

And that makes it downright haunting. This is crunch time. Listen to Paul at the bridge and in the outro, barely above a whisper, uttering those words that no drunk ever wants to hear: "The next one's always gonna last for always...gotta last for always...") Paul plays both the role of angel and devil on the shoulder on this song, offering words that are equal parts foreboding and tempting without being overly reassuring. Something I am guessing anyone who has ever battled dependency knows about all too well.

(As a side note, this rings very true to me on a personal level. I have a dear, dear friend who nearly died from alcohol abuse a bit more than a decade ago, and he was no told in no uncertain terms by this doctor that, because of the damage this caused his body, it's not that drinking again may kill him, but it will. Period. And as a very happy side note to this side note, that friend is now more than a decade sober and living a wonderful life.)

So yes, "The Last" is clearly a song about giving up drinking, just as "If Only You Were Lonely" was a song that centered around a drinking life. But is it more? Knowing Paul's writing the way I think I do, I would have to say yes. It's an acknowledgment, with certitude this time, that it's over. What's over? The band, without question. His drinking days too. Maybe his first marriage. His youth? The band's friendship? His run as underground rock God? His days of rebellion? Maybe all of the above? Any and all are on the table. Paul makes the urgency clear, and offers words as definitive and NOT open to interpretation as anything he ever wrote. "This one's your last chance to make the last one really be the last."

The Replacements could have ended All Shook Down with a delightfully poppish goodbye from the band with "When it Began." They could have ended with the quirky shuffle that supposedly is the only track they all played on in "Attitude." And hell, they could have ended with the balls-out rocker that was the previous track, "My Little Problem," as a final "Fuck off" to anyone still listening. All likely would have worked as the closer. Instead they chose, for once, perhaps the obvious course.

"The Last" is a lilting little exercise in restraint, a word that didn't always seem to go hand-in-hand with the Mats in the day. The piano is (I think) all Paul and is a tasteful bit of cocktail lounge melancholy, a few chords and arpeggios played over and over that in some ways evoke "Androgynous" from many years earlier. Either Paul or Slim offers some nifty acoustic picking that propels the song as it rolls along. Tommy sounds like he's playing the upright bass (not sure if he is, but it sounds like it) and keeping it perfectly aligned with Michael Blair's subtle brush work as the guest drummer. The music is sweet and understated, and it allows Paul's lyrics to take center stage. Could this have played better as a full band mid-tempo number? Or as the country ballad that started it all in "If Only You Were Lonely?" Perhaps. Should it have? I don't think so. I think the band had to depart the darkened stage this way.

Because it's the lyrics that need to come through first and foremost, that need to get your undivided attention more than all. In the best of their best work of earlier years the lyrics always came through, sure, but not as much as the gorgeous 12-string opening of "Unsatisfied." Or the anthemic revelry of "Left of the Dial." Or the limitless swinging splendor of "Can't Hardly Wait." "The Last" has none of that, because what Paul Westerberg really needed, just one last time, was to have his words be heard. He and the band had been through too much for them not to be. Which is why "The Last" works so well, I think, as the band's sad but inevitable coda.

Paul said it himself. This was his last chance. And he made it count.

Torture

It's been said before here during this fun little All Shook Down exercise, and it bears repeating—as the Replacements wound down their career as a band on this one final record, we essentially heard songs that fell into three categories:

1) Genuinely terrific Replacements tunes that they were able to churn out as if nothing was about to end. "Merry Go Round," Nobody" and "When It Began" being the primary three.

2) Efforts by Paul and some form of the band to recapture the old sound that, while all having fine moments, didn't quite get to where they/he wanted. "One Wink At a Time," "Someone Take the Wheel" and "Attitude" are prime suspects.

3) Songs that pointed to a clear path forward to Paul Westerberg as a solo artist. We'd heard the Paul-centric efforts before ("Here Comes a Regular," "Skyway," "Androgynous" and more), but we'd never heard quite so many on one album. "Sadly Beautiful" and "All Shook Down" are prime examples of Paul forecasting what was to come. Two others will follow on All Shook Down.

The first of those efforts shows up today. The 11th track on the album and the shortest Replacements song since back in the Twin-Tone days: "Torture."

To me and maybe only me, this song is the one that truly feels like a Paul Westerberg solo effort, a song that prolly would have done just fine on 14 Songs, which would be out in three years. "Sadly Beautiful" by itself is no different that "Skyway" was, right? A Paul effort done in the clear spirit of the Mats. Even the title track, for all its dusty somnambulance, had that subversive Replacements zig-when-you-think-I'm-about-to-zag quality to it.

But not here. There are songs on All Shook Down that sound like the Replacements, and there are songs on All Shook Down that sound like the Replacements trying to sound like the Replacements. And there is just one song that sounds like Paul isn't just moving on, but has moved on. For good. That's "Torture."

A million baby kisses from a kissing booth on wheels
This sign is pretty poison on the envelope she seals
Your love is by the way who knows exactly how she feels
Whose torture
Without you, it's torture
What new

You climb into your rocket ship and count from ten to one

There's no television coverage for that loser on the run

You hide yourself in darkness but we're heading for the sun

Whose torture

Without you, yeah torture

What to do, it's torture

Tighter and tighter and tighter soon

Yeah torture

And 809 is rockin' with a party full of lies

And on the tenth floor smokin' til the sun's about to rise

There's trouble in 302, can't you see it in my eyes

Whose torture

Without you yeah torture

What to do, it's torture

Ooo torture

 

Look. I don't really know what the hell Paul is singing about here. But he sure ain't happy. "Torture" is the final ever example of that wonderful Mats trick of taking some seriously troubled and downbeat lyrics and matching them up with a catchy as hell tune. "Little Mascara" did it. So did "I.O.U." and "Valentine" and "Asking Me Lies." So did "When It Began" a few tracks earlier on All Shook Down. And so does "Torture."

It's so odd. The song almost plays and feels like a demo, yet it may in fact be the most polished track on the album. Paul offers this lovely stemwinding arpeggio that is as melodic as anything he has ever done, and it spins the track upwards into the atmosphere. His lyrics are clear, cool and precise, filled with lithe little witticisms and turns of phrase that made Paul famous(ish). ("You hide yourself in darkness but we're heading for the sun" is particularly awesome). It's downright pretty! And how often do we say that about Replacements tunes? Pretty and supple and catchy...and it makes it 100% clear that the Replacements are a spent force and we will never hear from them again.

Fun, huh?

In many ways "Torture" doesn't really belong on the album because it so clearly is not a band track, not even a smidge. Again, I think it could have worked pretty fine alongside poignant songs like "Things" and the magnificently incomplete "Black Eyed Susan" on 14 Songs. But then again maybe we did need to hear this. Maybe we did need to hear what was left behind and, just as important, what was soon to come.

Paul Westerberg would embark on a solo career two years later with the wonderfully goofy "Dyslexic Heart," and soon enough he would begin cranking out solo albums that would take him all over the map. Some were great, some were okay, all were interesting. And I think "Torture" can hold its place with some of the best solo ballads he ever did. As a Replacements track? It's lost and meandering and struggling to fit in. On All Shook Down or anywhere else.

But then again, lost and meandering and struggling to fit in sounds an awful lot like a certain Minneapolis-based quartet we've been writing about these past few weeks, dunnit? So perhaps it has its perfect place on this farewell album after all.

The truth is Paul Westerberg has never really fit in, nor have the Replacements. And I for one cannot picture a world in which they did. And honestly, would we want them to? Because when you think about the Replacements even trying to belong, to be part of the crowd, you know what Paul, Tommy, Chris and Slim just might have considered that?

Torture.

Merry Go Round

“Anyone seen my trouble doll?” Paul Westerberg asked the crowd. It was the final tour of the Replacements' life (until 2014 anyway) and All Shook Down’s lead song and first single was “Merry Go Round.” I saw them play live on that tour twice, once as the lead act in Springfield’s (MA) Paramount Theatre (which remains one of my greatest ever concert experiences), and once to a half-filled amphitheater in Mansfield (also MA) as the opening act for Elvis Costello. And both times Paul announced “Merry Go Round” with that query—“Anyone seen my trouble doll?”

I wished I knew what that really meant, because I wanted to know what everything Paul uttered meant. But I didn’t. And I still don’t. I kind of know what a trouble doll, or worry doll, is—some sort of talisman meant to ward off sorrow, I think. But Paul uses the term twice in “Merry Go Round,” and while it could be one of those colorful little trinkets the protagonist wears, it sounds like it’s more than that. In sounds like the trouble doll becomes the main character in “Merry Go Round,” someone who—surprise, surprise, it’s a Mats song!—doesn’t seem to know what she wants or how to come close to getting it. And therefore kinda tunes out the rest of the world and just turns everything pretty much inward. Someone who sounds kinda like…Paul Westerberg? And hell, kinda like the Replacements?

 

Why am I spending so much time talking about trouble dolls? Because the imagery and the melancholy attached to it shows us that for one last time, one last set of songs, we would be hearing the Mats (at least on occasion) do what they do best—sing about fear and loneliness and uncertainty while, at the same time, sounding supremely confident in how fucked up things always seemed to get. From the get go, you know this is a Replacements record when “Merry Go Round” fires up, and that should have been enough to make the fans smile. It sure as hell was for me.

This is how the final offering from the Mats kicked off in late 1990. When eager Mats fans tore open their cassettes or obnoxiously big and clunky CD boxes (what was the damn deal with those, anyway?) and hit play, “Merry Go Round” is what they heard first on All Shook Down. It’s a stop-start funky corker of a song that seems to begin mid-beat and then spend the next 3 ½ minutes playing catch up. Slim and Paul play descending power chords with these little offbeat string bends that give the song a powerful postpunk twang with a jagged edge. Tommy brings his usual jaunty bass romp, and fill-in drummer Charley Drayton (that’s apparently him playing, although it sounds like Chris Mars and Chris appears in the above video behind the drumkit) keeps it churning in 4-4 time. It’s another attempt at the Replacements to do pop. Albeit their brand of pop. And naturally, people outside of their hardcore fan base barely paid attention.

But this song, despite the strife surrounding the band and the fact that it wasn’t even the band’s customary lineup, is a Replacements song to the core. Pop success or no.

"Merry Go Round" revisits that glossy funk that reimagined mid-70s Rolling Stones or even Led Zeppelin, and evoked that hard-but-melodic pattern that traipsed through earlier Mats songs like “Asking Me Lies” (from Don’t Tell a Soul) and a bit on “Alex Chilton” and “I Don’t Know” (from Pleased to Meet Me). It works because it moves and gives the band the room to both slop it up and find the groove at the same time, something the Mats (either intentionally or not) always did as well as anyone. There are little flares here and there that give the song its ample bone structure—the squawky guitar blurts Slim throws on the breakdown of each line in the chorus, the grumbly fill Tommy offers at the end of each verse, the gorgeous breakdown at the bridge and that acidic guitar solo that sounds like a cocktail of hormones and hesitance. And they provide the solid foundation on which Paul can lay his as-typical fascinating lyrics.

“You wake to another day and find
The wind’s blowin' out of key with your sky
Only you can see
And the rain dancin’ in the night
Everybody stands around in delight…
…Hush is the only word you know
And I stopped listening long ago
They ignored me with a smile, you as a child
But the trouble doll hear's your heart pound
And your feet they say goodbye to the ground
Merry go round in dreams
Writes them down, it seems
That when she sleeps, she’s free
Merry go round, in dreams
Merry go round, in me”

This is full-tilt Paul Westerberg gutter poetry wordplay, and it kicks ass. Do I really know what he’s talking about, about wind being out of key with the sky and the song’s main character seeming to take flight at the end? Or what that damn trouble doll has to do with it at all? Nope. But we get the gist, don’t we? It’s about being cut off or, at least, feeling cut off. Life goes on around you, people smile and laugh, even the rain is dancing in his world. Yet to Paul it’s all illusory. His character remains, as always, alone in the crowd.

And this is obviously well-trod ground for Mr. Westerberg. “Achin’ To Be, “Can’t Hardly Wait,” “Unsatisfied,” “Sixteen Blue,” “Swingin’ Party,” “Valentine,” ‘Color Me Impressed”…the list goes on and on all the way back “If Only You Were Lonely,” perhaps the first time Paul bore his soul and showed how life as we know it just doesn’t seem to work for him. For whatever reason it always tends to go sideways, or in the case of this song, just round and round without getting anywhere.

You may notice that I write this assuming Paul is talking about himself. And I am. I just think it so. He wryly hints at it right at the end when “Merry go around in dreams” flips to “Merry go round in me.” The same way the stunning “Achin’ to Be” (perhaps the most indirectly confessional song he ever wrote) ends with “…just like me,” after telling this beautiful story of the mystery girl no one understands. We don’t understand what he’s really saying because I don’t think he does either. But Paul has never been one to come out and say, “I’m so confused and lonely.”

He’d rather wrap it in the puzzle he always sees himself encased in. When he sang “I’ll be home when I’m sleeping” on “Can’t Hardly Wait” he probably came as close to letting us in as he ever has, showing us exactly where it his he feels most at peace.

And when he sings, “When she sleeps, she’s free” it sure sounds like he’s saying the same thing. Paul becomes his own trouble doll, I suppose—something tangible where he can unload all of his worries and escape into—even if that doll doesn’t so much bring relief as it does cement his decision to detach.

“Merry Go Round” is a fascinating way to kick off All Shook Down, an album borne in fracture and disillusionment. To be sure, it shows the distance, the loneliness, the isolation. But it also shows a heart that keeps beating, a mind that keeps trying to decipher what this is all about. And the churning and pumped up music behind it showcases a trump card the Replacements always had, right until the bitter end. Lyrics that could make you laugh, shake your head and sometimes even cry, but music that made you nod your head, somehow understand, and then scowl your way through. All the while moving forward, even if it meant doing so alone. Quite a way to start the final chapter.

All Shook Down: A 30th Anniversary Retrospective

When the Replacements limped off into the sunset—following one last ramshackle live performance of a couple dozen of their songs in Chicago on July 4, 1991—they left behind a curious legacy.

Seven albums and an EP, that was all they gave us, ranging in quality from rough and loose protopunk comedia del art to outright rock-n-roll classics. Yet their audience never really increased the way so many of us expected (read: hoped) it would. Critically beloved until the end, commercially they were largely confined to the dustbin. And much of that was self inflcited, due to the band’s uncanny propensity to keep fucking up at the absolute worst time.

By 1991 they were in some ways a shell of themselves, but in another way finally seeming to be on the right track. Only two of the original members remained at the end—Paul Westerberg and Tommy Stinson, with Slim Dunlop replacing a sacked Bob Stinson on guitar in 1987, and Steve Foley randomly taking the drumming reins on the final 1991 tour when Chris Mars finally quit. But the legendarily drunken quartet had pretty much sobered up at that point, and their shows (I saw two of them and I believe Scott saw one or two) were much sharper than ever before. And when they landed a gig opening up for Elvis Costello that spring and early summer—just a magnificent pairing of master songwriters and iconoclastic revelry—the future seemed okay. It appeared maybe—MAYBE?—this newest incarnation of the Mats could make a go and keep it moving into a decent future?

Yeah, no. They broke up. And stayed broken up for more than 20 years. Alas.

Their final gasp as a band was All Shook Down, an album released in late 1990 and which therefore celebrates its 30th anniversary this year. Reviews of the album were actually pretty good, from the critics’ standpoint, while some of the hardcore fans continued to shake their heads at the band’s journey in an unambiguously tamer direction. But looking back 30 years later there is no denying the quality of many of the tracks on All Shook Down.

What was less certain is exactly who we were listening to when we played All Shook Down. The band’s name appears on the record exactly one time, on the cover above the two dogs looking off in opposite directions. There are no band photos, only one slight double-exposed shot of Paul snuck in on the inside. And there’s no mention of any "band" at all, just a list of about a dozen or so difference players who, in the chilly words of presumably Paul in the liner notes, “played on this recorded thing.” When you listened it sure as hell sounded like the Mats, albeit Late Model Mats...but was it really them? Hard to say.

What we know is 1990 was supposed to be the time for Paul’s first solo endeavor, but he shifted gears (perhaps at his manager’s urging or the record label's insistence) and brought the band back in. He also brought in recognizable faces like John Cale, Benmont Tench, Johnette Napolitano and Steve Berlin, and produced a final 13-song set that would serve as the Replacements’ swan song. And that is the story of them, at least until Paul and Tommy pulled it back together for a reunion tour a few years ago.

So now we arrive at the 30th anniversary of The Replacements’ final endeavor. And as two obsessed fans of the Mats (is there any other kind of Replacements fan?), Scott and I thought it fitting that we take a deep dive into All Shook Down, a track by track look back at the final “recorded thing” our lovable band of Minneapolis ne’er do wells left behind. So for the next couple weeks in this space, that is exactly what you’ll be seeing, one song at a time (and I suppose one wink at a time…see what I did there?).

The merry go round starts Wednesday. Hop on and enjoy the Mats final ride with us, will ya?

got LIVE if you want it!

So. We have clearly established on this blog, like here and here and plenty of other places, our thoughts on the Rolling Stones as a live outfit. We're fairly consistent. They suck. As Scott is wont to say, they suck suck suckety SUCK live.

But guess what? They didn't always!

I know. Crazy, right?

Recently for the first time in at least 25 years and maybe longer, I listened to their first live album, got LIVE if you want it! from 1966. And my eyes got opened pretty wide.

Charlie and Bill play like what they always sounded like on the albums, a rhythm section with an intricate knowledge of each other and clear view from each other as to where they go next. Brian Jones rhythm lines are crisp and delightful, while Keith actually seems into playing the guitar, something he obviously could do quite well when he felt like it. The way he and the notoriously quirky Brian play off each other on a lot of these tracks, such as "19th Nervous Breakdown," is awesome. The musicians bring it throughout all 10 songs (there are 12, but apparently two of them are not actually live. Pretty sneaky sis!).

But more than anything...Mick.

Mick Jagger is rock-n-roll incarnate. For 55 years or so he has strutted the strut like few ever have, ever inch of him oozing "rock-n-roll star." It's who he is and it's now embedded in his DNA. And he made the name for himself not just by dripping sexuality and outlaw intrigue, but by having some serious fucking chops as both a singer and songwriter.

The Rolling Stones began their long, long LONG journey as the most badass white boy blues outfit the world had ever seen (although Led Zeppelin would then show up and take that title from them just as the Stones hit their peak and began a long, long LONG descent into something that can only be described as "not peak"). They were raunchy and dangerous, they had soulful swagger and such a deep love of the American blues they even borrowed their band name from a Muddy Waters song. Their early records, the ones leading up to got LIVE, were explorations of that American Blues Songbook, some well-known and some obscure. And damn did they play it well.

At the center of it was Mick Jagger's voice, one of the truly unique voices in modern music history. It wasn't as pretty as, say, Paul McCartney's or as powerful as Roger Daltrey's. He couldn't screech and howl like Robert Plant and he didn't have the crispness of, say, Chuck Berry or even one of the Beach Boys. But what he had was a perfect voice to sing sexy, sassy blue-eyed soul more convincingly than anyone since the British Invasion made its way ashore. It's funny to think of a lead singer as being a band's secret weapon, but in some ways that's kinda what Mick was.

And if you listen to his live output from the last 45 years or so, maybe a little longer, you hear basically none of that. Instead you hear a toneless drawl, like he's just trying to spit out the syllables and get to his next hip shake. That's really what the Stones have sounded like, by and large, since the early 70s. It's not all Mick's fault. Keef detaches more easily than a boxer's retina, and while Charlie usually seems up to the task, Ronnie Wood...well...he tends to get distracted by bright shiny objects and just go along with what his lead-playing sidekick is doing. And again, that sucks. Because they had the talent to do so much more in front of a live audience.

But on got LIVE, Mick is unfathomably good. His voice is strong and strident, and everything we love about it on the studio recordings--the pout, the confidence, the ability to go from gentle to acid in about three seconds--it's all there. From the opening strains of "Under My Thumb" and into a purely joyous "Get Off My Cloud" which follows (the happiest celebration of curmudgeonism ever written), Mick is just SO on. He nails it through and through. And the strength and power of his voice holds up all the way through the end on "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction." I have to tell you I was ferschimmeled. I've seen the Stones live and heard them play live countless times and have never been impressed. THIS impressed me.

Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out! seems to get all the love from the critics and fans alike as the definitive representation of the Stones at their live best. And in fact was where the "Greatest Rock-n-Roll Band in the World" thingee really took off. But to this I say, "Feh."

got LIVE has it over the latter live set in every way. Sure, I know two of the songs were recorded in a studio and then had crowd noise piped in. Cheesy, sure. But the other 10 songs on the album give you an up close, grimy and emotional look at a then-young band on their way up, up and up. A band with an almost pathological connection to its audience in those days, something that seemed to be shared in the bloodstream with them. It's a live look-in on what it took to get them on the path to superstardom, and what made them so intoxicating in the first place. As live albums got from young bands on the journey skyward, only The Who's Live at Leeds can match it. Yes, I said that. (Actually I wrote it. Hee!)

Apparently the band later scoffed at got LIVE and basically disowned it, due to the overdubs and who knows what else. But what do they know, right? On 10 of these 12 tracks we hear live music as visceral, tight and passionate as any band is capable of putting together. Their greatest studio years were about to arrive, but they were never this good live again. Probably because they figured they didn't have to be.

And that's a damn shame. Because got Live shows just what happened when the Rolling Stones struck a match to their particular kind of gasoline. And it's staggering.

Come Sail Away

This is just all kinds of groovy.

One of the many, many MANY things this COVID-19 pandemic has taught us is, fortunately, we live in an era where we can stay in touch with each other easier than has ever been possible. Zoom, WebEx, GoTo Meeting, Google Chat, Skype and I am sure things I am unaware of to date have given us mechanisms to remain connected and to even see each other while we all socially distance ourselves for the foreseeable future.

And that goes for creativity too. A global health crisis doesn’t stop the flow of art, it only hinders it a bit. People are still writing, still drawing and still singing and playing, whether alone or with friends via one of those platforms mentioned above. And thank JVJH for that—creation is something we all desperately need right now, innit?

Which brings me to this. This is just supercool.

OK, first I need to offer a confession. I love this song. Yes, I know it is goofy and precious and silly as prog can get. It’s overwrought and overwritten. (“We’ll search for tomorrow on every shore.” Wow). But I love it still. Love the water droplet piano opening. Love the odd verse-verse-chorus-chorus structure. Love the power chords when the songs shifts into overdrive. And I do love the way Dennis DeYoung sings it; dude was a Grade A Goofball, sure, but he had a set of pipes on him that most would kill for. Or at least maim for. The notes he hits twice on “To CARRY on” are pretty remarkable.

So I love the song, OK? I just do.

But these four kids…my goodness. Look how young they are! And they nail every INCH of it. They’re apparently called Leave Those Kids Alone (clever!) and are from Canada, and the youngest seems to be nine years old. You can check out their Facebook page for this and a ton of other terrific takes on classic rock songs. This sure as hell brightened my day and just may do the same for yours.

Play on, players!

Crossroads, and How I Learned to Love Rush Again

The death of Neil Peart and the amazing outpouring of affection that followed sent me onto something of a Rush listening/watching jag over the past few days.

My thoughts on the band were fairly simple. I was a big fan until I was about 14 and then my attention turned elsewhere. From that moment on I always appreciated/admired their talent and connection to the fans, and I continued to like those songs with which I was familiar (you know, six or seven really well-known tunes). I had just decided the music wasn't exactly for me.

Funny. Even at age 51 and set in our ways, we're able to learn new things. And change our lines.

Because after a few days of listening to Moving Pictures, then Permanent Waves, then 2112, then Signals, then Hemispheres and then, most recently A Farewell to Kings, I have to say, this is music for me. Without question. The mindbending precision. The chops all three have. The songwriting. The integrity. I spent nearly 40 years not really appreciating it, but damn, I do now. It took a re-listening to the Side 1 suite of 2112 for the first time since the Reagan Administration. And Alex Lifeson's advanced mathematics on "La Villa Strangiato." And the joyous musical wonderland explored in "Xanadu," led by vocals from Geddy Lee that remind you just what kind of singer he truly is. And the brilliant, signature-bending ride (not to mention the songwriting) that is "Spirit of Radio." And yes, "Limelight" and "YYZ" and "Tom Sawyer." There is so damn much good here; unfortunately I spent all these years not paying much attention. But I am paying attention now.

And it hasn't just been listening. I watched Beyond the Lighted Stage the other day and, I have to say, I have never seen a better rock doc. Their openness (even the legendarily shy and reclusive Neil) is staggering, and the material is so comprehensive that you get exactly why these three worked as a band for 40+ years. And you walk away with the sense that Neil is one of the smartest people to ever play rock-n-roll, and Geddy and Alex are just two of the most decent people in rock-n-roll history.

I've watched a few concert snippets online as well and reached the same conclusion. Terrific stuff. And I watched their induction to the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame in 2013 and thought it was amazing. Dave Grohl and Taylor Hawkins couldn't have given them a better or more reverent intro. And Neil, Geddy and Alex knocked it out of the park with their speeches. And yes, to me, Alex's ballsy  "blah blah blah" speech kept getting funnier and funnier.


But it was the end of that night in 2013 that is the impetus for this post. It's long been one of my favorite rock-n-roll moments, and very possibly is my favorite jam session I have ever seen. The sheer talent onstage is staggering. Watch, and a few observations will follow.



I love this clip, and this version of a truly legendary piece of music, so much it is difficult to say.

• Not sure how this is possible, but on a stage that had all three members of Rush, the Wilson sisters. Dave and Taylor, John Fogerty, Chris Cornell, Tom Morello, Darryl McDaniels and Chuck Freaking D, Gary Clark Jr. still manages to emerge as the coolest person on the stage. Damn does he have charisma!
• To that end, following Chuck and Darryl's awesome intro, I love how they gave it to Gary to take the first verse and get them out of the gate. THAT'S respect.
• I also love how it doesn't take Geddy long to pick up the hip-hop beat on the bass and start to flesh it out.
• Dave and Taylor still have their old school Rush kimonos on for the song. Bless their hearts.
• Taylor + Neil = about what you'd expect. Which is to say, yes please.
• So cool to occasionally see Chuck and Darryl running around the stage in the background. Adds to the level of fun they are all having.
• Good GOD can Annie Wilson sing!
• Around the 1:48 mark, as Ann sings, Tom and Gary exchange a look which seems to speak to how much they love this.
• Ah, Chris Cornell. Hard to believe's not with us anymore. But it felt good to see him belt it out. And the extended shots towards the end of him and Tom together are very cool.
• There are quite a few times where you see Geddy in the back just grooving along quietly on the bass. And that struck me. This is a guy who spent 40+ years as a front man, so it might've seemed a little weird being "behind the scenes" for a little while, if you will. But Geddy seems to be enjoying himself.
• Little random moments. Darryl watching Tom play and looking kind of amazed. Chuck holding his mic up to Geddy's bass. Geddy laughing with Chuck at the 3:00 mark.
• Alex's solo. SWEET JESUS is that man a monster player.
• While Alex is playing, his oldest and probably closest friend in the world gives Tom Morello a look and reaction at the 4:27 mark that likely explains exactly what Geddy thinks of Alex.
• Two different solos for Mr. Morello. Both done in his thoroughly unique way. And no one seems to be complaining.
• And Geddy is given the final verse. And naturally, he nails it. You can't spend a career as a master prog player without having an advanced understanding of the rock-n-roll basics. Geddy proves it there. And his high five with Fogerty at the end is a little silly and a lot sweet.

It's a damn shame, once again, that it takes a death to spur my listening to some great musics. But I am glad this brought me back to Rush. Very few bands possess this advanced level of talent. None of them have a greater connection to or appreciation of their fans.

THAT is one hell of a legacy. One that deserves plenty of attention be paid to it.

2+2=?

Thanks to Scott's brilliant recent post about the possible end to Bob Seger's career, he's had me in a Bob Seger sorta mood lately. Which is a pretty darn good mood to be in, I'll tell you what.




And it got me thinking about those early, early years of his, years I didn't even know existed until maybe a decade ago. I had no idea before then he was an active recording artist in the late 1960s, prolly because I just so easily associated him with the 1970s and early 80s, when he dominated the rock-n-roll landscape with his Mt. Olympus voice and irresistible tunefulness like few artists of the era did.

Hell, I figured "Ramblin' Gamblin' Man," a song that would have been a career-topping triumph for just about anyone, came out around the same time as "Turn the Page."

Wrong. Bob recorded that song in 1969, on an album of the same title, in a band called the Bob Seger System. And it's a pretty damn good album, one I was wholly unaware for so long. It's a portrait of an artist in his infancy, just starting to feel his way through a space he would one day dominate. Not unlike Elvis Presley at Sun Studios in 1953. Or the Beatles in Hamburg in 1961-62. You can hear it forming and know something unreal is soon to be here.

Never is this more apparent than on the finest song (minus the title tack) on the record, an anti-Vietnam War scorcher called "2+2=?" Which, no lie, is great enough to stand alongside any, and I mean ANY, anti-war song of the era and hold it's head way up high. It just never received the airplay or fame so many of its contemporary songs did. Which is a shame.

The anti-war song is as essential to the American Songbook as Tin Pan Alley or the Brill Building or anything that came out of Sun or Stax or Chess or Motown. Some of them held gospel roots ("I Aint Gonna Study War No More"), some were imported from across the sea ("Mrs. McGrath," "A Nation Once Again") and some were staples of the folk movement ("Bring 'Em Home," "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?") And they stay with us generations on.

But the Vietnam era, during which I was born but was never old enough to fully understand, had so many anti-war and protest songs that they seemingly have helped to define the era. Whether you were for or against that war a half-century ago, one thing many could agree on—and I have heard this from people who favored and opposed the war, from people who fought in it and protested against it—was the music. From the sublime to the screaming, from the nightmarishly forboding to the largely ridiculous, the music of the Vietnam Era remains an essential part of it. Maybe you weren't alive for it, or like me barely alive for it, but you can still get the feeling of those years when you hear John Fogerty scream "I ain't no senator's son" as "Fortunate Son" starts to burn, or hear Merry Clayton's primal and unforgettable howl at the apex of "Gimme Shelter." Like the best in music and art, it can transport you. And it does.

"2+2=?" is like that every step of the way. Listen.




It starts off a little off-kilter, with a distant five-note bassline that seems to take a second to establish a rhythm. And then Bob Seger, the possessor a voice so overpoweringly potent that he has in fact nicknamed it "The Mountain," begins to sing. Somewhat hushed.

Yes it's true I am a young man
But I'm old enough to kill
I don't wanna kill nobody
But I must if you so will

Damn. THAT is how you start a song, and THAT is how you get people's attention. His voice builds, filled with what sounds like a genuine mix of fear, dread and anger. Those early lines have a cornered animal trait to them, seething and waiting for a chance to attack.

And then that chance arrives within the first half-minute, when Bob introduces a guitar that seems to channel the very best of Jeff Beck-era Yardbirds. The six-note run remains through the rest of the song, snaking through it like razorwire and offering such a discordant, chaotic tone the song truly becomes a nightmare ride. And it all serves as the backdrop to one young man's plea, one small but monstrous voice who makes it clear he is so much smarter than the warmongers give him credit for, and he sees through everything they are doing. As sure as 2+2 equals 4, he sees it. And he hates it.

Yes it's true I am a young man
But I'm old enough to kill
I don't wanna kill nobody
But I must if you so will

And if I raise my hand in question
You just say that I'm a fool
Cause I got the gall to ask you
Can you maybe change the rules

Can you stand and call me upstart
Ask what answer can I find
I ain't sayin' I'm a genius
2+2 is on my mind
2+2 is on my mind

Well I knew a guy in high school
Just an average friendly guy
And he had himself a girlfriend
And you made them say goodbye

Now he's buried in the mud
Over foreign jungle land
And his girl just sits and cries
She just doesn't understand

So you say he died for freedom
Well if he died to save your lies
Go ahead and call me yellow
2+2 is on my mind
2+2 is on my mind

All I know is that I'm young
And your rules they are old
If I've got to kill to live
Then there's something left untold

I'm no statesman I'm no general
I'm no kid I'll never be
It's the rules not the soldier
That I find the real enemy

I'm no prophet I'm no rebel
I'm just asking you why
I just want a simple answer
Why it is I've got to die
I'm a simple minded guy
2+2 is on my mind
2+2 is on my mind
2+2 is on my mind

Right towards the end comes perhaps the perfect capper to the song, where Bob stops the music cold in its tracks and stays silent, as if a sniper has felled him, for a full five seconds. Like a lone voice of dissent silenced by forces far larger and far deadlier than he ever could image. But no. He emerges once more to be heard, singing absent any music for a moment—"2+2 is on my mind!"—before the music once more resumes its harrowing breakneck pace and rides this masterpiece to its rightful conclusion.

Scott has very rightly talked about Bob Seger's crazily underrated prowess as a songwriter, and "2+2=?" is case in point. Because I have a hard time thinking anyone, and I mean ANYONE—be it Woody Guthrie or Pete Seeger or Bob Dylan—could ever top a set of lyrics as heartbreakingly poetic as:

I'm no statesman I'm no general
I'm no kid I'll never be
It's the rules not the soldier
That I find the real enemy

I'm no prophet I'm no rebel
I'm just asking you why
I just want a simple answer
Why it is I've got to die

Bob Seger does not offer a stand on class or race in this song. Like most great songs of its kind from the era, it never mentions Vietnam or, for that matter, any country. It uses no proper names or offers anything all that specific about the narrator or his background. It doesn't need to.

Instead he bleeds anger, frustration and pathos in a little under three minutes. The man singing this song is young but smart. He is bold enough to stand up to forces he know can crush him, but he still has his voice and he is going to use it. He is just one man. Singing for everyone. In a voice for everyone.

Bravo.

Election Day Bob Dylan Listenings

Well I'm just average, common too
I'm just like him, the same as you
I'm everybody's brother 'n son
I ain't different from anyone

- Bob Dylan, "I Shall Be Free No. 10"

You all know what to do. Go vote...and even listen to a little of Mr. Zimmerman—that uniquely American voice which pretty much drills down to the marrow of who we are every time it sounds—to give you a little additional motivation. I know it always helps me.

(And a question. Does Bob Dylan ever get true credit for being as funny as he is? Seriously, if there has been a funnier songwriter over the last half-century or so, I'm really not sure who he is. This song is a pretty solid example of that).

Emmylou

I don't know, exactly, what determines if a song works to its full desired effect. It's a highly subjective thing, right? One person gets choked up hearing Bruce Springsteen's "Backstreets," another can be moved to outward emotion by Kansas' "Dust in the Wind." Two wildly divergent forms of music, but each capable of triggering something in the individual listener.

So I don't know the exact formula; it's likely that no one does. But I will say this. When two young sisters write a song honoring a musical legend, and then perform that song in front of that musical legend, and that musical legend is moved to tears by that performance? Yeah, I think that is a good definition of success. Of a song that has reached its desired effect.

Case in point. Here is what I am talking about.

I'll be honest, I had never heard of this sister duo, called First Aid Kit and born, like them, in Sweden. Not until it was suggested I watch this video. But Lord am I glad I checked this out. The Soderberg sisters—Johanna is the older one, she's on the left singing harmony and taking lead on the bridge, and her younger sister Klara is on the right, playing guitar and singing lead—are each in their early 20s during this (I think) 2015 performance, and they are admittedly singing in front of one of their idols. Yet they show the poise of hard-boiled musical veterans, flawlessly delivering a song that is just unceasingly tender and lovely.

Much like the Everly Brothers of a different era, or the Carter family or the Jacksons or even the Osmonds, there is something about siblings singing together that, when done right, reaches an ethereal level that is nearly impossible to top. It's organic, embedded in marrow and plasma and intertwined in the DNA, and Johanna and Klara just put it on full display here. Johanna introduces the very meaning of the song with crystal perfection, and offers a bit of meta commentary on First Aid Kit while she does it, "We were so inspired (by the music of Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons) that we wrote this song, which is about the joy and the magic of singing with someone you love."

Beautiful.

As for the magnificent Emmylou? Well, her reaction pretty much says it all. From the warm double kiss she blows to them at the outset, to the tiny wistful smile we see on her face as she focuses so intently on the song, to the tears she wipes from her eyes when the song inevitably overtakes her, that reaction is just priceless.

Oh, and the guy sitting next to her seems to appreciate it too. And he's only the freaking King of Sweden. But no pressure, ladies.

I'll be your Emmylou 
And I'll be your June 
You'll be my Gram 
And Johnny too
And I'm not asking that much of you
Just sing, little darling, sing with me

Graduation Day 1990 (Here Comes The Sun)

It was 29 years ago today that I “woke up” (not that I’d slept much at all) around 5 am after what would be my last college all-nighter. It was a pretty wild party held in my soon-to-be ex-college apartment, and the reason for it was fairly obvious—today (Sunday, May 20, 1990) was Graduation Day at the University of Connecticut.

Sleep just wasn’t happening for me; for the dozen or so bodies strewn around the apartment it seemed to come fine and easy, but my body wasn’t having any of it. So fully dressed, I grabbed my car keys and quietly headed out.

It was such a surreal feeling to wander outside into the light morning rain, unsure of where to go for the next few hours, knowing that so much of my life had led to this day and this brand new chapter was about to commence.

So I hopped into my ’79 Oldsmobile and just drove, out through those small, bucolic rural towns that dot eastern Connecticut, hoping to maybe outrun the rain and find a sunrise on this last day of my college life. I eventually drove to the top of a hill on an empty road in one of those little towns and, after driving for a half-hour or so, pulled over and got out of my car. I was heading east and I looked out and there it was—just a faint hint of the sun coming up.

I sat on the hood of my car and watched the faint pink and orange sky, thinking about what came next and admitting to myself I didn’t have a damn clue. I sat there for 10-15 minutes, lost in the stillness of it all, alone and feeling so very far away not only from home, but from everything and everyone I knew.

I thought about what came next, both literally and figuratively. I had a cap and gown to iron, I had friends to meet for breakfast one last time, I had parents to meet and other friends to gather with as we made our way to venerable old Memorial Stadium for the ceremony. I had hours ahead of me waiting for my name to be called with thousands of other graduates. I had lunch with the family and then the slog of moving out of my apartment over the next day or two and heading back home to live, at least for a little while.

And beyond that, I had a career to think about. I had an interview at a newspaper for a free-lance reporting position two days later, and thus would begin what I hoped would be a successful career in journalism. It was all in front of me, just as that tiny glint of sunrise was.

The sheer silence of that moment ended abruptly when a raindrop hit the hood of my car, then another and then within seconds a steady rain was falling and the sunrise up ahead was fading. It was time to go. I hopped back in the driver’s seat, turned around and drove off.

Soon I would be surrounded by people I loved and whose company I enjoyed, so this alone time was welcome. Still, I’d had enough of the quiet and had such little sleep I needed something to keep my brain occupied and my eyes open, so I turned on the car stereo to the rock-n-roll station it was already tuned to.

Amazingly, this song came on. One of my favorite songs delivered by perhaps my all-time favorite band. I nodded along to the music and I headed back, back through that long, grey rain, back to campus, back to reality, away from the sunrise and straight into what—beyond this long-awaited day—would be a great unknown of a future.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Well this is just magical.



And now I am amazed I never ever heard this before today. This version, that is.

It's very, very difficult to imagine two voices going more perfectly together. When Cass comes in for the first harmony, that may be what it sounds like to hear music for the first time. No, I do not overstate.

Magical.

(And how cool to see they were doing their own version of Rock the Vote back there in those Nixon days of 1972?)

Goodbye To You

We've done a lot of writing on this blog about the 1980s, that whirring blur of pastel, excess and rationalization. We talked a lot about the good, not too much about the bad and quite a bit about the cheesy. And you know what? Just as the 1970s weren't all about shag carpeting, bell bottoms, leisure suits and whatever the hell this is, the 1980s were so much more than just a sockless Don Johnson or a feckless Oliver North. Or cocaine.

For God's sake both decades had some music...tons of music, really...that ranks as some of the greatest ever made. The 70s has all of those legendary Stevie Wonder records, the very best of the Who and maybe even the Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen's two greatest records, Bob Dylan's second greatest, plus this. And this. And this!!!

Meanwhile, the 80s has not just Prince and Michael Jackson (and BTW also...PRINCE AND MICHAEL JACKSON!!!), but how about Madonna? And U2 and R.E.M? And the Replacements and the Pixies and Dinosaur Jr. and Living Colour and, come to think about it, the very very best of the Police? Yeah, the 1980s had it going on with its musics.

Which brings me to this one-hit...er...I guess two-hit wonder that most anyone who existed as a sentient human being over the age of 12 in 1983 became pretty familiar with. This song. The video of which, yes, has all that goofy and grandiose 1980s plastic mayhem and kitsch for which so many of us still remember the decade:



There's so much to love here. Let's start with the song. This is a terrific song that Scandal and Patty Smyth have created. Scott and I have spent much time in this space praising the glory of the well-executed pop song, and all of those elements that go into good pop. The catchiness, first and foremost. The hooks that make you say, "Yes!" Striking just the right balance of being not too heavy yet memorable and lasting enough to remain fresh after multiple listenings. I think those are the key ingredients, right? Catchiness, the right hooks and staying power? Isn't that what separated something like this from something like (ugh!) this?

Anyway, "Goodbye To You" has that pop essence, and it has the chops to leave behind a pop song that while it might sound a little dated 37 years later, it still makes a great listen. That classic 4/4 drum/bass beat that opens it (not unlike plenty of other terrific pop tunes, like "We Got The Beat" or "Dancing in the Dark.") A melody that never waivers and delivers both memorable verses and then one whallop of a chorus. And then, when we're not even expecting it, we get another indelible hook on the bridge ("And my heart...and my heart...and my heart...and my heart can't stand the strain.") "Goodbye To You" never dives too deep, but it also never lets up from start to finish. And I love that.

And then there is Patty Smyth, who kinda bounces into the frame a few seconds in (and seriously, I love how it takes her 15 seconds to show up. For whatever reason) and then just takes ahold of your collar and really doesn't let go. Her voice is not exactly classic female pop. Very little vibrato and no tricks at all, rather she has a touch of gravel and growl as she belts it out with all she's got. She lends just the right amount of emotion and fire where she needs to (the way she spits out the word "YOU!" on each chorus, the sweet, vulnerable retreat she makes at the start of the bridge). But her voice is one of control and steadiness, and she lends an edge to an otherwise very simple (if listenable and engaging) beat.

And in the video, I think it's pretty safe to say you literally can't take your eyes off of her. While her bandmates are decked out in menswear that seems to have been purchased from a catalog called, Man, Didn't the 80s Rock?, Patty is in her own world here. She is a bright red blur, bopping her little Long Island heart out in her red dress and heels, hardly ever cracking a smile but throwing us a gaze that goes right through the camera. The video is at times hilarious, with its sudden stop-action freezes in all sorts of weird times, but again, Patty doesn't care. She trades diva for dervish, and exists to sing the song with all she's got, and that's just what she does, dammit. She's not quite the Manic Pixie Dreamgirl. She's more the Manic Pixie Dreamgirl's older sister who you can't take your eyes off of and you don't dare screw with her. Bless her for that.

Just one little morsel of what the 1980s offered us. But such a good one. It really is.

Shallow

I'm not a big Oscar guy. Haven't been for awhile.

I mean, I love movies. Even though I don't see nearly enough of them these days. I have a wheelhouse of knowledge that is far exceeded by others but still puts me in the game when discussions arise on, say, movies that came out between 1960 and 2005 or so. I love great films, I love guilty pleasure films, I love those comedies that are still funny after 15 viewings, I love thrillers that sometimes keep you guessing and sometimes don't, I even love good horror films. And of course, I love this!

And I love music. I mean hell, despite my noticeable absence from this space in recent weeks...okay, in recent months...Scott and I created this little blog to showcase our love of great musics, good musics, so-so musics, silly musics and even, sometimes, stuff we can't stand.

But the Academy Awards show itself, despite often spotlighting not only the best in film but also some damn fine and lasting music too, just doesn't tend to do it for me. I guess awards shows in general don't. Maybe it's the self-congratulatory nature of it all. Maybe it's that for way too long it's been, um, a little less than diverse? Or maybe it's just that the show is so, so long.

So I tend not to watch. But last night, just as I finished watching a DVR'd program, I flipped by to see where in the show the Oscars were. And I got there just in time, literally, to see this:



And I really do have to say, it was one of those moments that left me breathless. And so damn grateful that I saw it happen in real time.

For starters, this is a great freaking song. Emotionally churning and bleeding with the pathos and grandeur that all pop songs long to have yet so few are able to obtain. The muted beginning. Cooper's ragged but perfectly tuned voice. Gaga's vibrato-free performance that runs from soft and almost lilting to overpoweringly glorious. The wordless climax that so flawlessly brings us to one last, gorgeous chorus before a shockingly quick ending. "Shallow" has it all in just around three minutes. That is great pop.

Then there is the performance. Look how humble and quiet Cooper seems as he starts. Check out the stare he gives to Gaga, and the one she returns to him. Unbreakable. When she takes to the piano and begins to devour the song like a praying mantis (and I mean that in a very, very good way), the stage and the world belong to her. But when we next see Cooper again he has this unworldly smile on his face, like he can't believe his good fortune to be watching what he is watching, let alone be a part of this. And when he makes his way over to the piano to sit with her for the finale, watch the look they give each other after a mike-share that is so close they almost become the same person. They are smiling and draw and worn and content, and that final look shows us how much this moment just meant to them.

And then there is the camera work. So many times the direction of these shows is overblown and over-complicated and you just want to smack the director and yell, "Would you please just relax?!"

But not here. From the moment the guitar starts and the camera moves from backstage to  front, it is all one single tracking shot for the next four minutes or so. Think about that. It's all one shot.

The choice to show Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga rising from their front row seats and walking hand in hand to the stage, the audience in full view behind them, is such a beautiful one that it's hard to get my arms fully around it. And just the idea of doing it all with one single camera, uninterrupted, moving tastefully back and forth between two of the biggest stars and talents in the world? I don't know how someone thought to do this or, quite frankly, how it was pulled off with such precision that it seemed effortless. But it was spectacular.

So I'm still not really an "Oscars" guy. But you give me more moments like this? We'll talk.

One Man's Journey Through the Peaks and Valleys of Human Relationship: My Theory on Tunnel of Love

I've made so secret, ever, of my love for Bruce Springsteen's 8th album, 1987's Tunnel of Love.

Many times on this blog, like here and here, I have stated my belief (and Scott largely has stated he agrees with me) that the album is a true masterwork, the most challenging record of his career after Born to Run, (BtR being the desperate act of a man in danger of being dropped by his label). But Tunnel of Love was an almost equally difficult in that it unenviably followed the album that made him a global superstar, Born in the U.S.A. And many wondered what he would ever be able to do to follow it up, let alone top it. But with Tunnel of Love, Bruce Springsteen amazingly did both.

The album is a letter-perfect encapsulation of what it means to be part of an adult relationship (or relationships, if you will), and as my brilliant co-blogger put it, "It was an album written by an adult for adults." The wistful romanticism of the first few albums, the defiant insouciance of the late 1970s, even the bitter political scars of the early 80s, they were all gone now. And what was left was a bare, plaintive examination of the darkest chambers of the hearts and the minds of men and women who were all grown up, yet filled with the traps and perils that came with it. Very few rock-n-roll albums in history have given us a picture of the adult coming to terms with being an adult. Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks did it in 1975. So did Tunnel of Love a dozen years later. Bravo.

And now, after the umpteenth listening I've given to it in the past couple of years, I have a theory. A new theory, if you will, on why Tunnel of Love is the album it is. So please. Indulge.

Here are the 12 songs.

1. Ain't Got You
2. Tougher Than the Rest
3. All That Heaven Will Allow
4. Spare Parts
5. Cautious Man
6. Walk Like a Man
7. Tunnel of Love
8. Two Faces
9. Brilliant Disguise
10. One Step Up
11. When You're Alone
12. Valentine's Day

OK. So we have 12 songs that all have a very similar theme running through them. All are about love, in some form or another. Unrequited love, obsessive love, joyful love, fractured love, lost love.  That is the contextual thread that runs throughout Tunnel of Love, and it's fairly obvious, right? I mean, the L-O-V-E word is right there in the title.

But recently, I saw more, and I heard more. I heard each of these songs as 12 chapters in the same book, and written/recorded in exact order. So in effect Tunnel of Love becomes one person's story, from the opening Bo Diddley-strain of "Ain't Got You" to the weary, winsome waltz of "Valentine's Day." Bruce has effectively written a book here, tracing one person's rather dark journey through the beginning, middle and end of a relationship.

Does that sound too far-fetched?

Let's examine.  Here's how I hear the story play out.

At the center we have a narrator who wants, needs to love and be loved. The narrator is a successful man, maybe absurdly successful, but he is missing something he never had. A true love. And he wants it. This is where our story begins.

Our narrator has everything he could ever want,  but is sad and alone, and therefore his life feels empty (“Ain’t Got You”).

But I'm still the biggest fool, honey, any man ever knew,
'Cause the only thing I ain't go? Baby, I ain't got you.

But then, just as he had hoped,  he falls head over heels in love with a woman, and even though he barely knows her, it feels like what he's always wanted. And he's ready to face all of love's challenges with her (“Tougher Than the Rest”).

Well the road is dark, but it's a thin thin line,
And I want you to know I'll walk it for you anytime.
Maybe your other boyfriends couldn't pass the test,
But if you're rough and ready for love, honey I'm tougher than the rest.

After this, life is sweet when this new love blooms, and (although this is not written, but certainly implied) the plans for marriage arise (“All That Heaven Will Allow”).

Rain, sun and dark skies, now they don't mean a thing,
If you got a girl who loves you and wants to wear your ring.

Not long before he’s to be married, the narrator begins to have traumatic dreams, rooted in this seemingly irreversible step he is about to take. One of these dreams is of a man who runs off and leaves his pregnant bride-to-be at the altar, unable to bear the responsibility of marriage and parenthood ("Spare Parts").

Now Janie walked that baby 'cross the floor night after night,
But she was a young girl and she missed the party lights.
Meanwhile in south Texas in a dirty oil patch,
Bobby heard about his son being born and swore he wasn't ever going back.

The other dream is about a troubled man who stays with his wife, despite so many demons that haunt him, difficulties and all (“Cautious Man”).

Billy was an honest man who wanted to do what was right.
He worked hard to fill their lives with happy days and loving nights.
Alone on his knees in the darkness for steadiness he's pray,
For he know in a restless heart the seed of betrayal lay.

The dreams pass and his wedding day arrives. He is proud and terrified; proud to be getting married but terrified of what's to come. ("Walk Like a Man").

Would they ever look so happy again, the handsome groom and his bride,
As they stepped into that long, black limousine for their mystery ride?

As the marriage begins both the narrator and his wife learn that with the joys come the hardships, and they both realize how hard this can be (“Tunnel of Love”).

When the lights go out it's just the three of us,
You, me and all that stuff we're so scared of.

Before too long apathy and coldness sets in, and distance begins to separate the narrator from his wife (“Two Faces”).

I met a girl and we ran away, I swore I'd make her happy every day.
But how I made her cry.

Apathy and coldness gives way to pure mistrust and resentment as the marriage now takes a darker turn  (“Brilliant Disguise”).

Now you play the loving woman, I play the faithful man,
But just don't look too close into the palm of my hand.
We stood at the altar, the gypsy swore our future was bright,
But come the wee wee hours, maybe, baby the gypsy lied?

And inevitably, this gives way to betrayal and infidelity, as the narrator (and perhaps the wife too) goes exploring for something else ("One Step Up").

There's a girl across the bar, I get the message she's sending.
She ain't looking too married, and me, honey, I'm pretending.

Ultimately the marriage ends and they wish each other well, but it is no doubt final in his eyes. He even rebuffs a chance at reconciliation (“When You’re Alone”).

Now I knew someday your running would be through and you'd think back on me and you,
And your love would be strong.
You'd forget all of the bad and think only of the laughs that we had, and you'd want to come home.
Now it ain't hard feelings or nothing, sugar - that ain't what's got me singing this song.
It's just nobody knows, honey, where love goes, but when it goes, it's gone, gone.

But then one night, Valentine’s Day night, to be exact, he thinks of her again and decides it's time to give it another try. Leaving our story with an uncertain but perhaps hopeful ending (“Valentine’s Day”).

So hold me close and say you're forever mine,
And tell me that you'll be my lonely valentine.

Makes a little sense?

There is, of course, a different ending that could be just as possible, one that tracks much closer to Bruce's life at the time, when he and his wife Julianne Phillips split up thanks to his carrying on with eventual (and still) wife Patti Scialfa. That ending reads, of course, that the narrator doesn't go back to his wife in "Valentine's Day," but instead to the woman he cheated with in "One Step Up." And considering Patti's ominous appearance 2/3 of the way through the latter song...it is indeed possible.

Either way it ends, I still hear the form holding true. One man, one story filled with the hopes, doubts, joy and pain that comes with being an adult in an adult relationship.

All told through one masterpiece of a rock-n-roll album, Tunnel of Love.