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?

the greatest thing ever recorded

There are many, many beautiful songs.
There are none more beautiful than this.
And there is nothing, ever, more beautiful than this version of this song.

This is the reason life was created.

March March

Blurry in the USA

DJ Cummerbund is something of a mashup genius. But this may be my favorite yet, and considering how much I love much of his work, that's saying something.

I will say I'm not entirely sold on his editorial POV here, visually—it's all very powerful, but as a friend said, it's a bit, well, blurry. He seems to be maybe conflating a few things in a way I'm not sure are beneficial or accurate. But at the end of the day, the audio is stellar, and the visuals powerful. And, of course, it's got a good beat and you can headbang to it.

I Don't Like Monday / Jeremy

So Pearl Jam finally released their original cut of 1991's "Jeremy." The outstanding RockTownHall wondered which was better, the song "Jeremy" or its predecessor "I Don't Like Mondays" by the Boomtown Rats, and which video was superior.

I always loved "Mondays"—the song, that is—even (or maybe especially) the version from The Secret Policeman's Ball. And props to Bob Geldof for writing about something so harrowing while it was still so fresh and doing so in a way that's, to my ears, sensitive and doesn't go for the easy out in any way. (And for admitting how inherently problematic it is to have a successful single about something so tragic.)

I do wonder about the song's arrangement: there seems to be a bit of a piss-take about the original recording of "I Don't Like Mondays," which could be like the Rolling Stones adding the choir to the beginning of "You Can't Always Get What You Want" in that it deflates the artist themselves, or it could be an honest attempt at being Artsy, or it could be them backing off the emotional intensity a bit by throwing up an ironical shield. I like it...but I'm not sure it was the best way to go. Although, hey, it gave them their first and only hit, so what the hell do I know?

What's more, the video has a surprisingly lasting power to it, given its relative antiquity.

But I feel it loses the courage of its own convictions in the final third, perhaps due to record label restrictions—that's entirely speculation on my part—as it starts to verge on almost goofy (Geldof does a surprisingly good but entirely inapt Mick Jagger impersonation and the interpretive dance in the background is a resounding failure) where earlier it had felt significantly more earnest.

Meanwhile, being earnest has obviously never been an issue for heart-on-their-sleeves-no-matter-what Pearl Jam. And this finds them absolutely firing on all cylinders—the lyric is outstanding in the way it's simultaneously sparse and yet filled with snippets of details which tell so much. Musically, it's an unimpeachable slab of rock and roll, with its slow build giving a tiny hint of what's to come but not really preparing the listener for the relentless onslaught approaching. I'm unfortunately not a fan of vibrato, which means there's only so much I can love Eddie Vedder's vocals, but here they do nothing but work 100%. And of course, Stone Gossard and Mike McCready are one of the great guitar duos of all time—if they're never going to threaten Duane Allman and Dickie Betts, I'd certainly MUCH rather hear them play than Keef and Woody. (If perhaps not quite as much as Keef and Mick Taylor and not nearly as much as Paul Westerberg and Bob Stinson.) Most of all, Pearl Jam was kicked along by Dave Krusen, who just absolutely rips it up on this song. (Matt Cameron is an excellent drummer and Pearl Jam has said that without him joining they wouldn't have been able to keep going so I'm glad he's a member but to my ears he's by a huge margin their least good fit musically.)

And where the earlier video is surprisingly effective, the latter has the benefit of a decade of advancement in video technology and understanding of the medium and while it can perhaps seem a bit overly emo from this much later vantage point, that's not taking into account how devastating it was at the time. So I'd argue it's leagues better, especially since, unlike the Rats, PJ doesn't back down at the song's climax...and that's putting it mildly. Also, Eddie Vedder looks like an answer to the question no one ever asked: what if they Joker had pinkish skin and was possessed by the devil? Not sure if that's what ol' Ed was going for but, again, damn sam, is it effective. So I'd say the video is a decisive win for Pearl Jam, while the song is a draw.

I lived in San Diego for about a dozen years. And my last year there, I suddenly thought, hey, I wonder where the inspiration for "I Don't Like Mondays" happened. Surprisingly hard to find the exact address—not impossible, but five years ago, surprisingly difficult. And it turns out not only was it about a mile from where I lived, but the street was one I'd pass on at least a weekly basis on my way to the grocery store, meaning I'd driven by it hundreds of times. I haven't been there in three or four years now, I guess, and Google Maps seems to indicate they've finally torn it down and put up nice new houses. Life moves on.

"Baptized in these waters, and in each other's blood."

Required reading, if you ask me:

"You may well ask: "Why direct action? Why sit ins, marches and so forth? Isn't negotiation a better path?" You are quite right in calling for negotiation. Indeed, this is the very purpose of direct action. Nonviolent direct action seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks so to dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored. My citing the creation of tension as part of the work of the nonviolent resister may sound rather shocking. But I must confess that I am not afraid of the word "tension." I have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth. Just as Socrates felt that it was necessary to create a tension in the mind so that individuals could rise from the bondage of myths and half truths to the unfettered realm of creative analysis and objective appraisal, so must we see the need for nonviolent gadflies to create the kind of tension in society that will help men rise from the dark depths of prejudice and racism to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood. The purpose of our direct action program is to create a situation so crisis packed that it will inevitably open the door to negotiation." - The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., "Letter from a Birmingham Jail," 1963

And required listening, if you ask me:

41 shots
41 shots
41 shots

41 shots

41 shots, and we'll take that ride
'Cross the bloody river to the other side
41 shots, cut through the night
You're kneeling over his body in the vestibule
Praying for his life

Is it a gun, is it a knife
Is it a wallet, this is your life
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
No secret my friend
You can get killed just for living in your American skin

41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots

41 shots, Lena gets her son ready for school
She says, "On these streets, Charles
You've got to understand the rules
If an officer stops you, promise me you'll always be polite
And that you'll never ever run away
Promise Mama you'll keep your hands in sight"

Is it a gun (is it a gun), is it a knife (is it a knife)
Is it a wallet (is it a wallet), this is your life (this is your life)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
No secret my friend
You can get killed just for living in your American skin

41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots

Is it a gun (is it a gun), is it a knife (is it a knife)
Is it in your heart (is it in your heart), is it in your eyes (is it in your eyes)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)

41 shots, and we'll take that ride
'Cross this bloody river to the other side
41 shots, I got my boots caked with this mud
We're baptized in these waters (baptized in these waters)
And in each other's blood (and in each other's blood)

Is it a gun (is it a gun), is it a knife (is it a knife)
Is it a wallet (is it a wallet), this is your life (this is your life)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
No secret my friend
You can get killed just for living in
You can get killed just for living in
You can get killed just for living in your American skin

41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots


#blacklivesmatter #icantbreathe #nojusticenopeace #justiceforgeorgefloyd

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!

American Girl

Someone recently asked what the point of the halftime instrumental section towards the end of Tom Petty's "American Girl" is, and whether or not it was just an attempt for them to stretch the song out to be a full 3:30—long enough for a single.

While I think that's a perfectly valid reason to add a section, I doubt it's the reason here. I'd actually argue it's an interesting compositional experiment, using that halftime breakdown in the place where a guitar solo would normally go, and serving a similar function. But it also mirrors the opening section, which is just 18 long bars of D major, leaving no doubt as to what the song's home key is. (Although the bass plays different notes, supplying the harmonic interest in what could otherwise be an overly static section...but which really very much isn't. It's also a nice twist on the usual pedal point situation, which has the bass playing the same note for an extended period, while things change over the top.)

After two verses and two choruses, we get to the instrumental section in question. As mentioned, it shifts into halftime, with a sweet groove courtesy the outstanding Stan Lynch (whose hi-hat work on this song is exceptional, not only providing relentless and energetic forward motion worthy of Benny Benjamin, but choosing some really unusual and extremely tasty places to open his hats). But whereas the intro had just hammered on the tonic, here we move to the V chord. By sticking almost entirely to the dominant, it imbues the section with a slight uneasy feel: we know where the center of gravity is, the center of gravity has been firmly established, and it ain't here. The halftime should make things feel nice and easy, perhaps even a bit lethargic after the workout of the first half of the song. But because we're on the G instead of the D, we're on edge. We're pretty sure we're gonna get back home, but we're not entirely positive. So when we do leave the V and return to the I, and the regular tempo kicks back in, we feel a sense of relief and release, despite the speedy nature.

It's an interesting choice on Petty's part, but then there was a pretty fair amount of formal experimentation in those days. Even leaving aside the things like 20-minute prog epics (oh, "Supper's Ready," you are so silly and so magnificent. I love you madly, "Close to the Edge," and I always will, despite your existence giving birth to the likes of, well, the entire Tales from Topographic Oceans LP), and the interesting and fascinating examples of songs with unrelated musical codas ("Layla" and "Thunder Road" being perhaps the two most successful examples, both of which have more than a little to owe the daddy of 'em all, "Hey Jude"), there's the strange tinkly intro to the Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane," which seems entirely unrelated. Don't get me wrong, it's lovely, and I dig it...but it has nothing to do with the body of the tune.

(Then again, the "wine and roses" bridge is also strange, which may be why Lou Reed sometimes nixed it when playing live.)

There's the guitar solo section of "My Sharona," which is nothing like the Neanderthal nature of the rest of the tune but instead goes into a sort of if the band Boston played power pop reverie. It's a bizarre tangent down a completely unforeseen sideroad, and absolutely makes the tune, even if it's not one of the first half-dozen things you think of when hearing the song's title.

I've always found the brief "hey" sections after the choruses and before slipping back into the verses strange if effective in Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit," but those are short enough to not really count.

Most of all, of course, if you want to discuss unexpected and seemingly unreleased sections in pop songs, you should probably either start or end with the master: Brian Wilson's uses of a not-dissimilar contrasting section in "Wouldn't It Be Nice" not only also slows things down to a crawl for his sweet teenage pathos:

but the bizarre baroque section in "God Only Knows" comes out of nowhere, has little relation to the rest of the song, shouldn't even remotely work and, of course, is beyond genius.

Listen to that! No matter how many times you've heard it, it's always worth hearing again. Because it should not work. It's so out of nowhere, so out of place, and it somehow—despite coming crazy early in the song, even!—makes perfect sense in the moment. Impossible, and yet there 'tis.

So why did Tom Petty go into that halftime section? My guess: 'cuz it felt great and sounded better.

Bruce Springsteen's prog leanings

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you "Jungleland" — wherein Bruce Springsteen goes prog.

That’s right, I said it. Bruce Springsteen, blue-collar hero of meat and potatoes rock and roll, comes up with one of his most beloved songs, featuring multiple distinct sections, abrupt tempo shifts, long instrumental passages, unexpected modulations and an overtly melodramatic storyline. In other words, prog.

Oh, sure, it wouldn’t seem to have a lot in common with ELP or King Crimson, musically. And lyrically it’s got nothing in common with Yes since the lyrics are, you know, comprehensible. ("Mountains come out  of the sky and they stand there" — and that ain't cherrypicking, that's from their most popular song.)

But it’s not far off from what Genesis was doing its last few years with Peter Gabriel—in fact, given the radically different backgrounds of its creators, it really is like the American cousin of Selling England by the Pound’s “Battle of Epping Forest.”

Both take scenarios thoroughly steeped in their own local mythologies—Robin Hood’s old stomping grounds as a setting for a gang war versus the New Jersey Turnpike and a more mundane urban street scene—and craft a relatively straightforward narrative around them, both shot through with violence and ending in death. (SPOILERS!)

There are more than a few differences, of course: for one thing, Peter Gabriel’s lyrics play up the absurdity for comedic effect, and the variety of voices he utilizes only emphasizes that. Springsteen, in contrast, is aiming for high tragedy, complete with heartbreaking catharsis.

But even the names—the Magic Rat and the Maximum Lawman, Liquid Len and Bob the Nob—are of a piece. Both feature slower, softer instrumental intros which burst into uptempo rock and roll. (Well…something kind of approaching some sort of rock and rollian, rock and rollesque approximation, in the case of Genesis.) Both feature prominent keyboard parts as the dominant instrument overall, but “Jungleland” makes outstanding use of Clarence Clemons’ saxophone for its long, arduously composed and recorded solo, the most memorable part of the song—no small feat, given the gorgeous piano and violin intro, or the fine guitar solo, whereas ace Genesis guitarist Steve Hackett was, as all too often, relegated to textures (at which he was exceptional) and mixed too low.

And coincidence that the only time Springsteen released a song like this was in 1975, during the height of prog, when it was pretty much the most popular genre going at the time? And he wouldn’t do anything even remotely approaching it for 35 more years? Nay, I say—I say thee nay.

Which isn’t to say "Jungleland"'s not great, of course. ‘cuz it is, and I say that as someone who admits he’s got a fondness for prog. In fact, one of the big differences between the two songs is their relative quality: "Jungleland" succeeds in everything it tries to do, whereas "Epping Forest" is, as almost all the musicians involved admit, more than a bit of a mess: musically overly busy, even by prog standards, and massively overstuffed lyrically; comparing it to the same albums "Cinema Show" or "Dancing with the Moonlit Knight" make clear how powerful these ingredients can be when mixed in the proper proportions...which they aren't here.

“Jungleland” is epic and sprawling and gorgeous and ambitious and moving and sums up the entire Born to Run album perfectly. It’s the last gasp of a tenacious young kid willing, happy, desperate to try anything, to toss the kitchen sink and anything else he can find into the pot, hoping to discover the ideal medium for his message. He’d find it when recording his next album, and things would pretty much forever be far more stripped down and direct. So enjoy this last gasp of Bruce Springsteen figuring out who he is.  Once he figures that out for sure, things might get even better, maybe, but there’s nothing quite like the rush of a young artist exploding into full promise.

I've Got a Feeling

What else is there to say about the famous rooftop concert? Just this: every time you watch it, you pick up something new. And that something new usually can be summed up thusly: good GOD what a band.

Paul McCartney's critical reputation has been on the upswing since before this century started, so it's sometimes surprising to remember just how much the critics savaged him and his music in the 1970s. He was often lumped into with other saccharine popsters of the day, writing and singing empty confectionaries, just chasing chart success. And to be fair, that's not entirely inaccurate. Except you know which of his peers up there at #1 could sing balls to the wall rock and roll like he so casually does at about 0:29 there? None of them. (Well...Rod the Mod. But he doesn't count.)

John Lennon, of course, is at his coolest here—and when he was cool, there was absolutely no one cooler—obviously emotionally invested, and just gliding through the proceedings with that amazing voice, playing some sweet guitar, and occasionally (such as at 1:54) unleashing that zillion watt smile of his. Obviously, he was one of the great rock and roll screamers of all time, but here he goes the smooth route, gliding above everything casually, knowing that's the most musically effective way to provide counterpoint to Paul's grit.

Even the famously unhappy by this point George Harrison mainly looks pleased, and outright happy a bunch of places—usually but not always when smiling at Ringo, and who can really blame him?—all while playing that frankly weird-ass guitar part that no one else would have come up with and with fits absolutely perfectly.

Speaking of, notice the way Ringo Starr is pounding those toms. There's a very clear difference in timbre between drums hit hard and drums not hit hard, and Ringo is bashing those poor things, getting the best possible tones out of them. And check out that brief, tight and not terribly characteristic fill at 1:28, with its sweet syncopated hi-hat bark. But most of all, listen to the way he brings them back in after the breakdown, around 1:17, as George smiles and Paul hits that perfect high note. They're on a damn rooftop, having not played live in years, they're freezing--several of them wearing their wives' coats in an attempt to keep warm—and them come back in at precisely the right millisecond. If the top studio musicians in New York or Los Angeles stumbled upon these guys playing in some dingy club and heard that bit, they would have turned to each other in shock. "Did you just hear that?" "Of course I did. Good god, who are these guys?"

Easily the best band ever, that's who.

Just What I Needed

Sure, the band's name—Dwayne Gretzky—is what first caught my eye. But damn if this cover band doesn't do a fantastic job of reinterpreting unbelievably well-known songs without dipping into formula.

Country Radio

Always nice to hear from old friends, especially when they're still turning out songs as good as this.

California Stars

Having first heard this song very shortly before we moved to California, it's long been one of my favorite Wilco songs—I won't claim it's one of their very best, but it's definitely got a very special place in my heart.

But this live version from a few years ago, featuring the great Jason Isbell guesting on guitar, is really something else. While, sure, it could have been even better if Isbell had joined in on vocals, even without that, it's a lovely version of a lovely song.

Until the end. Isbell plays a nice if occasionally meandering solo. But then impossibly fantastic guitarist Nels Cline—who's already played a sweet solo earlier in the song—joins in, and the two guitarists engage in an absolutely perfect dialogue, reminiscent of the end of "Sultans of Swing," if that were a meditatively melancholy duet. Absolutely the only flaw is that it doesn't go on for another hour.

Manic Monday

In which we learn that punks can grow old gracefully. (With luck and if they so choose.)

RIP Adam Schlesinger

A sage once said, “There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours.” Well, there's always a shortage of perfect pop songs, and the writer of one of the most perfect of all time has died. It wouldn't be accurate to say I was exactly a fan of his, but looking over his catalog, I surely was a massive fan of at least a few of his songs, and am finding myself crushed that we'll never again get a chance to hear him write another perfect new song from the 60s or 80s or 70s or 90s.

A Demon Went Down to Georgia

Forty years after I first heard (and loved...and was perhaps a bit frightened by) this song, it suddenly occurred to me today, out of absolutely nowhere—I wasn't even listening to the song, or had just run across it somewhere or anything and the brain is a weird damn thing—that the line

The devil went down to Georgia he was lookin' for a soul to steal He was in a bind 'cause he was way behind And he was willing to make a deal

Wait...why was the devil behind? The devil's got quotas to meet? Does he have a boss he answers to? Meaning either God, or else it's not really the devil, is it? It's more like a demon. But I guess "A Demon Went Down to Georgia" isn't quite as catchy.

Also, even as a very superstitious child, I thought the devil kicked Johnny's ass from Valdosta to the Chattahoochee National Forest and back again. 

Waitin' on the End of the World

Here's hoping not so much...but just in case, a good soundtrack always helps.

For one deadly love like a disease I came to you crawlin' on my knees
Your eyes filled with rain I can feel poison runnin' through my veins
I'm waitin'
I'm waitin'
I'm waitin', waitin' on the end of the world

Maneater

Baggage—boy, we carry that weight a long time. Even when we're aware of it, it's often got its hook in us so deep we can't dislodge it.

So I always liked Hall & Oates, even as I thought they were lightweight piffle, and thought the notion that Daryl Hall had one of the great voices in rock, as he claimed in their mid-80s Rolling Stone cover story,  absurd. (He did, of course.)

I'm not sure there was any stage of my music obsession where I didn't like pop. I liked it before I discovered the likes of Led Zeppelin, I liked it when I was deepest in my Pink Floyd or David Bowie phases—I not only saw no problem in liking, say, Black Sabbath and Madonna, I reveled in it—I liked it when I was all about the Replacements and REM. So of course I liked Hall & Oates.

Except for this damn song. We played it in marching band, the one year I did marching band (staggeringly poorly) and man did those wounds go deep. Deeper than I know. So that whenever I hear this song, I recoil, even as I love "Sara Smile" and "She's Gone" and "Method of Modern Love."

So when I saw this bass-centric mix come up, I shuddered. And yet I clicked play. And sweet fancy moses, that bass line by Tom Wolk is deeper than the Marianas Trench, and it turns out there are lyrics to this song! Who knew? (They're...watching a wedding? That can't be right...) And I'm reminded that the fourth line of each verse, which has that incredibly groovy rhythmic displacement thang goin' on, is absolutely fabulous. ("Mind over MATTer.")

At the end of the day, it still might not quite be "Rich Girl" or "Out of Touch," and, sure, the lyrics might be more than a touch misogynistic, but my god that bass line.