The Hitter

I'm working on formatting an upcoming piece for this here site when this song comes on.

"Daddy," says my seven-year-old from the kitchen table, where she's been quietly coloring for an hour.

"Yes?" I reply distractedly.

"I love this song so much."

This gets my attention. "Really?"

"Yes," she replies matter-of-factly. "I've never heard it before. But now I love it because even though I don't know the words, listening to it you can just tell someone's sneaking up on him."

I start to laugh, but then I listen. And I realize she's absolutely right. It's just that it's either not a "someone" but a "something"...or if it is a "someone," that someone is the singer himself. And even if you don't know the lyrics, it's all right there in the music. 

Can You Take Me Back

If there were a seven hour version of this, I think I'd be happy to play it every day.

Favorite Song Friday: Here's Where the Story Ends

Somehow I missed it. I wasn't listening to a lot of new music in 1990, which is odd and disappointing, given that I was still a college student, the last time a lot of people are exposed to a lot of new music. But I was too busy with my first senior year and a new girlfriend and living in a house with four other guys and trying to score Bruce Springsteen bootlegs on CD and, what's more, I didn't have a TV, so no MTV for me.

All of which is to say that somehow this pop gem passed me right by. So when I heard it for the first time, just a few years ago, I was blown away and felt like I'd discovered a rare treasure. The song feels light as a feather, but without any of the negative connotations such a description would normally carry. Rather, the combination of David Gavurin's multi-tracked guitars and Harriet Wheeler's intoxicatingly sweet vocals, over a pristine, perfect Smiths-like rhythm section groove are like watching flower petals carried into the distance on a gentle spring breeze. 

Until you listen to the words.

People I know places I go
Make me feel tongue tied
I can see how people look down
They're on the inside

Sad. And all too relatable for many of us.

Here's where the story ends 

Intriguing. Nice phrase. Really nice.

People I see, weary of me
Showing my good side

Are they wearying of her showing her good side, or are they simply weary of her and she refuses to give up? It's unclear, but either works just fine.

I can see how people look down
I'm on the outside 

Hm. Is she a touch paranoid or is she really an outcast? Again, either is entirely possible.

Here's where the story ends
Ooh here's where the story ends

So far what we have is a perfect pop song: lovely music, engaging vocals and a compelling, recognizable lyric. 

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes my eyes feel sore 

A souvenir? Interesting. What could that be?

Oh I never should have said the books that you read
Were all I loved you for 

That does seem like the kind of thing that could cut a guy (admittedly, a pretty geeky guy) to the quick.

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes me wonder why 

Wonder why...what, exactly?

It's the memories of the shed that make me turn red
Surprise surprise surprise

Uh-oh. And suddenly things take a much darker turn. They'd already been gray, a bit cloudy, but suddenly there's a storm upon us before we even saw it coming. What...what happened in the shed? I mean, I think we know, more or less, what happened...but there's still more than a few variables, and the devil's in the details, as they say. The main thing, of course, is the question: how willing a participant was she? 

Crazy I know, places I go 

I don't think the narrator is meaning to say she's well acquainted with insanity—I suspect she's merely being colloquial...but it's impossible to say for sure.

Make me feel so tired
I can see how people look down
I'm on the outside

If we take her at her word, that would seem to indicate she hasn't been paranoid about any of this, and that whatever happened in the shed, the rough outline is a matter of more than a little gossip around town.

Oh here's where the story ends
Ooh here's where the story ends

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes my eyes feel sore
And whoever would've thought the books that you brought
Were all I loved
Oh the devil in me said go down to the shed 

And here she seems to be taking at least some responsibility for whatever happened in the shed. Which is to say, she's claiming she initiated the journey, with a pretty good idea of what was going to happen. Even here, however, she's distancing herself from the action, claiming it was the devil inside her, meaning she knows she shouldn't even as she's doing it...and yet doing it anyway.

I know where I belong 

On the other hand, this would seem to indicate a certain measure of self-loathing. Perhaps she was already an outcast before the events with the books and shed?

But the only thing I ever really wanted to say
Was wrong, was wrong, was wrong

More ambiguity. Is she saying that the only thing she ever wanted to say was incorrect? Or that all she wanted to do was tell him that what was happening was wrong, wrong, wrong?

It's that little souvenir of a colorful year
Which makes me smile inside 

And this is where, I think, we get a surprise turn away from the darkness and into an unexpected bright side. What could the souvenir possibly be? There are really only a few options that leap to mind: her permanently tarnished reputation, an STD...or a baby. And which of those three are most likely to make her smile, even if only on the inside?

So I cynically, cynically say the world is that way
Surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise

And here I picture her smiling down at her little bundle of joy, crooning this softly, just the two of them, alone, the only characters that matter. She's older, she's (sadly) wiser, perhaps a bit bitter but maybe not quite as much as she thinks because, after all, she's the one that came out of that terrible, albeit colorful, year with something of value—the most valuable prize of all, in fact.

Here's where the story ends

Why? Because her story is over and her child's is just beginning? Or because that's all in the past, a closed book, and from here on the two of them will be starting over, writing a new story: their own.

Ooh here's where the story ends

And that's all she wrote. 

Long Distance Runaround

It's easy to view Mark Kozelek's deconstructive covers as a clever schtick—take a poppy tune, slow it down to a dirge, maybe move it into a minor key—but one which quickly becomes predictable. And, really, I'm not sure I'd disagree. On the other hand, when the results sound like this, with Kozelek's mournful baritone managing to bring gravitas to lyrics as dippy as Jon Anderson's, I also don't care, because in addition to an interesting new—dare I say alternative?—take on a staple of classic rock radio, they kept the funky time signature and that's yeah.

Favorite Song Friday: Dyslexic Heart

OK, I know one of the cardinal rules of “Favorite Song Friday” that we laid out at the beginning was we weren’t going to constantly pick songs by our very very favorite artists, namely the Beatles, Bruce Springsteen, R.E.M, the Replacements and Bob Dylan.

But, well…the thing is we really haven’t. It’s been a half a year now of Favorite Song Friday and we haven’t picked one song by any of the above. One Paul McCartney song, sure, but that’s it.

And after today, we still will not have picked one of those five. Or, for that matter, a song by other favorites like David Bowie or Warren Zevon or Dinosaur Jr. or Peter Gabriel.

So we will now have one from Paul Westerberg. His very first solo song, in fact. Because it’s just too fun and playful not to choose it.

Favorite Song Friday – Paul Westerberg – “Dyslexic Heart”

The title kinda tells you you’re in for a treat, doesn’t it?

You keep swayin'

What are you sayin'?
Thinking 'bout stayin'?
Or are you just playing, making passes?
Well, my heart could use some glasses.

“My heart could use some glasses.” Awesome. Just awesome.

When Nirvana and Pearl Jam led the Seattle Invasion in 1991, a movement that would displace Michael Jackson from the top of the charts and signal the burial dirge for the late-80s scourge of “glam metal,” it was as significant a period of time in rock-n-roll history as anything we’d seen since the birth of punk. And it was only a matter of time before someone made a movie about it.

That someone, fortunately, was Cameron Crowe, and the movie was Singles. And the truth is it really didn’t succeed on all the right levels. Personally I think it came too early. Period pieces written about the period they are currently in can be tricky. Rock Around the Clock did it, as did Saturday Night Fever in its own magnificent way. But American Graffiti succeeded in part because it came out 10 years after the time it featured, allowing for ample amount of nostalgia to seep in. Same thing with Whit Stillman’s highly underrated The Last Days of Disco, which waited even longer to tell the story.

Regardless, Crowe made his movie and it had many enjoyable elements to it—Matt Dillon’s wondrous turn as a lame-brained but fairly well-meaning grunge rocker, the flighty charm of Kyra Sedgewick, and the music. All that great music—Nirvana didn’t make the soundtrack, but Pearl Jam and Soundgarden and Alice in Chains and Mother Love Bone and Screaming Trees and Mudhoney did. So did outsiders Smashing Pumpkins, who got their first big break from Singles. Crowe even threw in a touch of Jimi Hendrix—the original Seattle rock god—for good measure.

And scoring it all, as well as adding his first two ever solo songs, was Mr. Westerberg. The man who had been the idol to pretty much all of those above-mentioned artists during his 1980s run with The Replacements. As has been well documented with fair amounts of irony abounding everywhere, the Replacements broke up in 1991 and then watched as those sounds they so masterfully but recklessly created in the 80s became the foundation for the megahits of the early 90s. There wouldn’t have been a “Smells Like Teen Spirit” without “Bastards of Young.” A “Black” without “Unsatisfied.” And imagine the hit “Alex Chilton” could have been in 1993?

So Cameron Crowe, his finger so perfectly on the pulse of musical trends as always, made the right choice when he tabbed Paul Westerberg to score his movie. A more than appropriate nod to the postpunk god who became godfather to this magical new era.

And for someone who had never done it before, Westerberg handled the scoring job with an effortless grace. Watch the movie again and try and notice the delicate little transitional fills he throws in there as the story progresses. They are beautifully crafted and add some rich and worthy hues to the film’s outer edges.

“Dyslexic Heart” and “Waiting for Somebody” are the two songs from which all these little touches spring, and the former plays over the closing credits as the ideal wrap-up. What’s so glorious about it is how much fun Paul seems to have with the sly, goofy words, and how in his element he is once more as a wordsmith who can bounce from sardonic to sweet with each changing chord.

“Dyslexic Heart” becomes the perfect opening shot to what became a more than solid solo career. The joyously hopeful acoustic chords that open the song are the launching pads for the irresistible “na na na na na” vocals that take over. The Replacements never ever veered this close to pure pop. Paul does that here. And he nails it.

Just a quick sampling of some of the lyrics shows us clearly that Paul is fully in touch with his wordsy brilliance and poetic soul and he sings about a love that may or may not be unrequited. But it doesn’t matter.

Slip me a napkin, and now that's a start.

Is this your name, or a doctor's eye chart?

Thanks for the book, now my table is ready.

Is this a library or a bar?

Between the covers, I thought you were ready?

A half-angel half-tart.

I try and comprehend you but I’ve got a dyslexic heart.

Do I read you correctly?

You need me directly?

Help me with this part.

Do I date you

Do I hate you

Do I got a dyslexic heart?

The song bops and sways along like a joyride. It’s quirky and a little nutty and, yes, filled with a great big smiling beating heart at its center. Westerberg sees to that. On his first full solo album that would come out a year later he appropriately sang, “I used to wear my heart on my sleeve, I guess it still shows.”

It does. Even without the great Replacements, his heart was still very much on display. And that, as Martha would say, is indeed a good thing.

"My heart could use some glasses."

Awesome.

Brown Eyed Girl

As of a couple years ago, fewer than a dozen songs had been played at least 10,000,000 times on the radio. This, not entirely surprisingly, is one of them. And yet Van the Man says he's not crazy about it:

"It's not one of my best. I mean I've got about 300 songs that I think are better."

Which, you know, isn't entirely surprising. He was barely an adult when he wrote it, and compared to what he would record just the next year, never mind the next 45, it is awfully lightweight. But it also goes to show how often the artist misunderstands his own work.

As a composition, it's got a breezy insouciance that's been equalled by only a tiny handful of songs since. As a recording, it's pitch perfect in every way, from the instantly recognizable guitar opening to Morrison's unsurpassed scatting at the end and everything in between, including the breakdown which substitutes for a proper bridge. And all in just a hair over three minutes. Says its piece, says it perfectly, and takes its leave. Sublime.

Morrison also claims he's never received a penny in royalties from the song which, if true, would be more than enough explanation as to why he's not crazy about it. That'd be a hard pill to swallow, indeed.

And yet he's played it live not infrequently over the years, including this performance at Austin City Limits in 2008.



In his hat and serious demeanor—he doesn't open his eyes until the very last few measures and he never smiles once, in stark contrast to his band, who seem delighted, and the audience, who border on rapturous—it'd be easy to peg Morrison as one of the proto-hipsters. But the thing is, he does take this stuff serious, this music stuff. For all he can come across as dour and self-important, there's never been a popular (read: rock) musician who's gone deeper into the mystic than Morrison—in fact, the first one who comes to mind as a fellow traveler was John Coltrane. So when he plays "Brown Eyed Girl" here it feels at first like a gentle nod to his loyal audience. But when he begins to toy with the melody like a lion with a mouse, playing with the phrasing like Frank Sinatra and deploying melisma like Aretha Franklin if she were an ancient Gaelic bard, you get the feeling that, despite himself, he's still able to find new places to investigate in even this most well-worn of pop ditties. How's that possible? And yet. You could practically become overcome just thinking about it.

The Top 10 Bruce Springsteen Songs?

Such an interesting list of The Top 10 Bruce Springsteen Songs from the indefatigable Classic Rock site. Seriously flawed, but then, any list—including one made by us—is going to be. I think they pay alternately too much and too little attention to context. I mean, "Prove It All Night" is a wonderful song, but good Lord a-goshen, it's not even Top 50, much less Top 10, and their rationale for including it seems to be, at least in part, that it provides a moment of relative lightness on the Darkness on the Edge of Town LP—which it does...but that's not a good reason to include it on this list.

The same goes for "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out." Great, great, great song...but not that great. And nearly half of the entire Top 10 list is culled from just one of Springsteen's 17 studio albums? That would seem to indicate that the list's author was of a certain age when Born to Run came out and is consequently being weighted a bit more heavily than even such a masterpiece deserves.

Listen, none of this is meant to be a knock on either song, of course, both of which are amongst our all-time favorites from any artist ever, but rather a sign of just how incredible Springsteen's oeuvre is, that even songs as fantastic as those don't come close to cracking the Top 10. Not to mention how difficult making a list like this can be, if you take it seriously.

Which brings us to the perennial question of song v recording, and here I think they're conflating the two, to the mistaken inclusion of (the wonderful, spine-tinglingly gorgeous) "Jungleland."

But then they've got "Land of Hope and Dreams" and "Point Blank" on the list, proving that they know what they're talking about and aren't just going for the easy and obvious, even if they're, well, wrong about certain things. (He said completely objectively.) Such as the inclusion of "Point Blank," for instance.

Of course, when all's said and done, all this is subjective. Having said that, any list of Springsteen songs that doesn't including "Racking in the Street" is inherently invalid.

New Year's Resolution

Camera Obscura was barely even a name I recognized until a few months ago—I think whenever I heard/read the name I mentally transposed it to Aztec Camera and that was that. And then a pal mentioned that he often forgot just how much he loved Camera Obscura and I made a note to check them out.

And then I did. And wondered how I'd lived as long as I had without a voice this gorgeous singing a melody this perfect and lyrics this evocative.

What does this sound like? It's exactly like something I've heard hundreds of times and yet I cannot come close to placing it. It's as though they've taken all the pop from the 70s I love, mixed it in a blender and poured it over ice. Delicious and oh so smooth.

The thing is, as far as I can tell, the lyrics, as a whole, don't make any sense. And who cares? Did you hear the purity of that voice? Listen, the sooner you admit it, I will too.

Favorite Song Friday: I Still Believe

I can't quite do it. No matter how many times I listen, no how much I know that the first note isn't on the one, I can't quite hear it any other way. And then the rest of the band kicks in and for just half a beat I'm totally discombobulated before it all slides into place and all is right.

I first heard this song when I was working at a record store in the 1980s. Peter Gabriel, Bono and Jim Kerr were huge fans, all the promo material at the time said, so I gave it a try. And there was absolutley nothing on the album that did anything for me. Except this song. But boy howdy did it ever.

And yet. There's so much to dislike about this song, for me, anyway. The incredibly dated 1980s synths. The bombastic delivery. The biblical lyrics, something which (unless the singer is African-American, and yes, I'm aware of the double standard and am quite okay with it, thanks ever so) has always really grated on my nerves.

And none of that matters. Because just like I'm okay with U2's Bo Diddley impersonation, since it was good enough, I'm okay with the U2 impersonation going on here. Because the melody's righteous, the guitars, if mixed too low, are crunchy and, the drummer does a wonderful Mel Gaynor impression, and most of all, there's that bass, that bass, that bass.

Favorite Song Friday - Radiation Vibe

Sometimes, a fun song can just be a fun song. Right?

Sometimes good rock-n-roll is just something to be hummed along to, something to bop along with in the car when you think no one else is watching. No deep meanings to absorb, no unrequited love to break your heart, no plea for an S.O.S. (no, I still haven’t quite gotten over this). Sometimes a song is just a song. Something to be thoroughly enjoyed for the three minutes or so that it’s on before you move onto the next one.

And hey, I’m all for meaningful songs. We need “Blowin’ in the Wind” as much as we need “Good Vibrations.” We need Van the Man to make a genuine plea for hope like “Brand New Day” on the same record where he allows us to appreciate the simple joys of swimming and fishing with “And It Stoned Me.”

We need “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and “Sun City” and “Exhuming McCarthy” and “Peace Love and Understanding.” You can dance to all of ‘em, even as there’s plenty going on behind the groovy beats. I get that.

But for this Favorite Song Friday I’m writing about a song that I love just because it’s a fun and giddy and a relentlessly upbeat romp of a song. Try as I may, I can’t for the life of me find an ounce of hidden meaning. And as the immortal Sammy Johns once so prophetically crooned, “that’s all right with me.”

Favorite Song Friday – Fountains of Wayne – “Radiation Vibe”

This is another one of those “less is more” approaches, and boy howdy does it ever work. The very first single from the very first album from Fountains of Wayne, back when the band was really just a delightful duo of Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger. The band—or at this time just Adam and Chris—leaned heavily on simpler, clean pop sounds of the mid-to-late 80s. While plenty of American bands in the 90s took their cues from the darker side offered by the likes of The Pixies or Sonic Youth, Fountains of Wayne played kind of like an American version of Squeeze, with Collingwood/Schlesinger doing a more than capable Difford/Tillbrook impression (of sorts).

“Radiation Vibe” is pretty much 3 ½ minutes of bouncy, melodic fun. Guest bassist Danny Weinkauf lays down a nifty little waka waka bassline, and Chris and Adam drape some easy and sun-drenched crunchy guitar chords over them. The chord pattern is simple – there are no solos, just a little bit of reverb fuzz that pops up now and again. The lyrics in the two verses are a little silly and a little clever all at once.

Are you alone now?
Did you lose the monkey?
He gave you backaches,
And now you slouch.

He didn't mean it.
He's just a dumb ape.
Reading Playboy
On your couch.

I went to Pittsburgh

To join a pro team.
Talk about a bad dream.
I broke a knee.

But I can still croon,
And make the girls swoon.
Isn't that the way life's
Supposed to be?

Collingwood hangs back on the verses and sings in a largely subdued fashion, eschewing his estimable range and choosing to soft-peddle it, almost blending into the rhythm line. But it works gangbusters, and it tees things up perfectly for the glowing explosion of feedback and power-chords that comes at the chorus.

And now it's time to say
What I forgot to say:
Baby baby baby,
Come on, what's wrong?
It's a radiation vibe I'm groovin’ on.
Don't it make you want to get some sun
Shine on, shine on, shine on

Collingwood sings these gibberishly cool lines in full voice, and the songs careens and pogos through an irresistible chorus that represents the very best in bright, brilliant power-pop. His flip and seductive “Come on, what’s wrong?” The way he extends the vocal line out to the edges of the melody on the “groovin’ on” line. And the sheer joy in his voice, even as it starts to fray, as he sells the “Shine on, Shine on!” concluding lines for real. It all adds up to an exuberant and delicious piece of rock-n-roll that rattles through your skull, merrily, long after the final fuzzy chord plays out.

Shine on, indeed.

How Can You Mend a Broken Heart

I'd love to hear the good reverend record an album of nothing but covers of the likes of One Direction, Justin Bieber, the Backstreet Boys, and other popsters of today and yesteryear. Sure, it'd be a gimmick, but I can't help feeling he'd still hit homer after homer, and there'd be a certain thrill in just the spectacle of him taking light, fluffy pop—which, I hasten to add, I adore—and turn it into gem after gem.

Favorite Song Friday: SOS

Need more be said?

I think not.

"When you're gone, how can I even try to go on?" DT wonders but hasn't the courage to say aloud.

I hear you, pal. I hear you.

(DT OUTBURST DELETED)

The management would like to apologize for the vulgar and intemperate outburst this post triggered from DT's vulgar, intemperate lips. Such crudeness and, frankly, shocking misanthropy is not tolerated by the Reason to Believe editorial staff, and please be assured that DT has been exiled to a far away place where such vile ruminations are commonplace and decent man never ever bothers to tread. Also known as Sanford, Florida.

And now, to show you how sorry we are, here is the greatest Beatles cover ever made.

Favorite Song Friday: Handle With Care

“This is the greatest album of its kind ever made,” Rolling Stone crowed in 1988 about the release of the first Traveling Wilburys album. And then added, “It’s also the only album of its kind ever made.”

As my partner here at RTB would say: Yes. And yes.

It was such a delicious experiment. Look at the names—George Harrison, Bob Dylan, Roy Orbison, Tom Petty, (and Jeff Lynne…de-emphasis added). Three of the, what, 15 most important figures in rock-n-roll history up to that point, plus someone (Petty) destined to not quite reach that level, but become a rock-n-roll legend in his own right? That is a Murderer’s Row to end all Murderer’s Rows. Oh, and Jeff Lynne. Who yeah, knew how to produce (and over-produce) and had some weird success with ELO back in the 70s and made all the right friends. But even though he doesn’t approach the stratospheric levels of his four Wilbury counterparts, this was a collection of talent too good even for the term supergroup.

And it was an experiment the likes of which we will almost certainly never see again. Not just because two of the Wilburys—George Harrison and Roy Orbison—are no longer with us. I’m talking about ever happening again with any other artists, period. Because it’s just so damn unlikely to get such upper-echelon Hall of Fame-level talent not only in one room together, but in a studio for a complete album. And to have it work so well.

I mean, sure. I suppose, say, Stevie Wonder and Bruce Springsteen and Bono and Chuck Berry (and Jeff Lynne) could get together and call themselves “The Wandering Rizzos” or something like that, and release an album as delightful and (miraculously) ego-free as the Traveling Wilburys Vol. 1 was. And when that happens, call me and I’ll offer my apology for the blanket “this will never happen again” statement. But until then, my assertion stands.

So there.

Favorite Song Friday – “Handle With Care” – Traveling Wilburys

So let’s get onto the music. 

This album came out in the Fall of 1988, by junior year of college and, as I have mentioned many times before, at the nadir of a period of rock-n-roll defined and dominated by neo-glam rock. Even though R.E.M. and U2 and The Cure and The Pixies were at their creative peaks, that kind of music wasn't dominating the charts and the airwaves the way Poison, Motley Crue, Warrant, Winger, Cinderella and The Swinging Genitals were (I may have made one of those up, I’m not sure). And that sucked. Because there was great music being made. It was just being overshadowed on much of commercial radio and MTV by a cloud of Aqua Net, peroxide and penicillin.

Along came the Wilburys. No, they didn’t change rock-n-roll. I mean yes, they did, but they’d already done that—at least George, Roy and Bobby had. But instead they came in to have a little fun. Five singer-songwriter guitarists came in to turn back the clock a little bit and show us that the old guard was still capable of getting the job done. They rode into town wearing the white hats and while they didn't demolish this awful glammed up legacy (Nirvana and friends would do that a couple years later), they simply reminded us that there was still joy to be found.

For me the album, while not perfect, had a little bit of everything that I loved so much about these guys. Roy turned the tear ducts up to 11 with his glorious “Not Alone Anymore.” Bob practically poked his tongue through his cheek with a giddy and sinister “Dirty World” and with his, um, “tribute” to Springsteen, “Tweeter and the Monkey Man.” And Tom Petty, somewhat surprisingly (consider the comedic talent in the room with him, namely George and Bob), turned in the funniest song on the album, the Latin/country rumblefest that was “Last Night,” the story of groupie love that ends about as badly as it possibly could. Just great, first rate stuff from a few rock-n-roll legends. Nothing more.

But the album, in my occasionally humble opinion, really belonged to George Harrison. It was George who was out front on three songs worthy of him at his very best. “Heading For the Light” was a callback to his early solo days with a bouncing lead guitar and some perfect Beatle-esque harmonies, not to mention a nifty Ringo impression by drumming savant Jim Keltner. “End of the Line,” written by George but giving everyone a chance to step forward to the microphone, reminded us just how much he had to do with the birth and refinement of “country rock.”

And then there is this week’s pick for Favorite Song Friday, the track that led off the album and a song that I can’t help but smile like an idiot whenever I hear it, “Handle With Care.”

It’s true that all five of the Wilburys had a hand in all of the album’s songs. And the other four (particularly Roy) are given their chance to shine on this track. But this was George’s show, really. His chance to look back, now at 45, at all those years behind him and a legacy he left that literally only three other people on earth could ever understand. Not even a titan like Bob Dylan could have gotten, I don’t think, what it was like to be in the Beatles. To create what they created, the way they created it, over and over again.

“Handle With Care” doesn’t delve too deep; it’s more of a fond recollection, not unlike John Lennon had 23 years earlier with “In My Life.” It’s not confessional and it’s not the least bit blue or maudlin. It’s more a way of saying, “Geez, what a ride this was,” as he strolls down a generalized Memory Lane with his loved one.

Been beat up and battered around

Been sent up and I’ve been shut down

You’re the best thing that I ever found

Handle me with care

Reputations’s changeable

Situation’s tolerable

But baby you’re adorable

Handle me with care

I’m so tired of being lonely

I still have some love to give

Won’t you show me that you really care?

Everybody’s got somebody to lean on

Put your body next to mine and dream on

I’ve been fobbed off, and I’ve been fooled
I’ve been robbed and ridiculed
In day care centers and night schools
Handle me with care

Been stuck in airports, terrorized
Sent to meetings, hypnotized
Overexposed, commercialized
Handle me with care

I’ve been uptight and made a mess
But I'll clean it up myself, I guess
Oh, the sweet smell of success
Handle me with care

Having been caught (albeit willingly) in the Lennon-McCartney shadow for so long, George didn’t always have the chance to showcase himself as a first-rate lyricist. But he was indeed—“If I Needed Someone” and “I Want To Tell You” and “Here Comes the Sun” and, of course, “Something” proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. And “Handle With Care” is nothing more than a top-level songwriter totally at ease with himself. Having the confidence to toss off a line like “Baby you’re adorable” (my favorite line in the song, BTW) proves that, as does the absolute unobstructed sunshine in George’s voice as he sings.

What the song really seems to be, with its gentle caution to please, go easy on him, he’s been through a lot, is a grown-up version of another song John Lennon wrote (and George had a hand in making immortal) two decades earlier, “Help!” But whereas a young John was agreeing to “open up the door’ at asking for some assistance in doing so, George was simply asking, through all the mess and success he's created, to “handle me with care.” Similar sentiments, just separated by a generation of growth.

The song propels along with a simple folk-rock chord progression that is an exercise in sweet simplicity, with some great twangy fills that George always did so well and even a neat harmonica that Dylan throws in towards the end. And again, everyone joins in the fun—Roy’s aching plea on the “I’m so tired…” bridge soars above everything like a panoramic John Ford establishing shot. And the harmonies from Dylan, Petty and Lynne—strange as that idea seems—give rich, emphatic layers to the chorus.

Roy died not long after the album, song and video were released. So the Wilburys existence was a fleeting as it was memorable. But the album and the project had a nice reach nonetheless. After this Petty set himself on another creative roll that produced some of his best work over the next 8-10 years. Bob Dylan re-invigorated his career after a somewhat ambivalent 1980s and put out some truly great records. And George kept kicking around, even getting back with Paul and Ringo (and Jeff Lynne…hee!) on the Beatles Anthology project a few years later. From this one fun little project, it seemed, plenty of good things blossomed.

“Handle With Care” started an awful lot of that, it seems. First single, first track on the album, first video, first rate all around.

Baby, it was adorable. In the truest sense of the word.

Carry the Zero

So my 12-year-old started talking about Doug Martsch's guitar tone yesterday and I suddenly realized that she knew more about Built to Spill than she does about One Direction and that I have become That Dad.

Poor Poor Pitiful Me/Cadillac Ranch

Do I like the way he segues from one great song to another? I do. That one's an original and one's a cover? Yes. Do I love how he tweaks the melody ever so slightly to accomodate his own range? You betcha.

But most of all what I love is how damn happy he seems to be, how energetic, how much he seems to love just bashing this out.

One of the more interesting and talented writers ever? Sure. But for me that may pale in comparison to the joy he's showing right now.



(Also, if "Poor Poor Pitiful Me" really is about Jackson Browne, that just makes this pairing all the more delicious. As does the fact that he's doing this in Passaic.)

Attitude

The recent news of The Replacements upcoming reunion—or at least a version of them, with Paul Westerberg and Tommy Stinson (half of the original lineup)—delighted me to the gills. As has been well-documented on this blog, this is a band Scott and I have placed on a very high, very rarified pedestal.

It won’t be the full band—Slim Dunlap is sadly in no condition to do much of anything these days, and unfortunately drummer Chris Mars won’t be a part of it, though it’s very clear to see he has moved on to other things and he is experiencing impressive success. But having Paul and Tommy (and two others) play together is nothing to sneeze at. It’d be kind of akin to watching Michael Stipe and Mike Mills perform together again. Or maybe even Bono and The Edge, if U2 (perish the thought) ever decides to go away.

But all this ‘Mats news and the thought of maybe seeing them again (though so far dates are only scheduled for Toronto, Chicago and Denver, the cads) got me once more thinking about and listening to one of my favorite bands at their best. The shattering emotional release of Let It Be. The wrenching anthems and power-chord glory of Tim. The whirligig mayhem ride that was Pleased to Meet Me. The overproduced yet soaring pop glow of Don’t Tell a Soul. God, what a collection they have.

But what of All Shook Down, their final album (from 1990) and by all accounts the Replacements album that never was supposed to be? It was going to be Westerberg’s first solo effort, only while recording he had called the band members in for enough support (mostly Tommy—Chris was by all account the least used, and was officially out of the band by the time their final tour started in late 1990) that it just became a Replacements project, apparently at the record label's insistence. Though the bond was fleeting at best—there is no mention on the album (which Paul icily refers to in the liner notes as “this recorded thing”) of any kind of band assemblage, rather there is a simple listing of everyone (Replacements and non-Replacements alike) who kicked in. There’s a ghostly double-exposed image of Paul on the inner sleeve, but no other band likenesses appear. For a final album of one of the most important bands in rock-n-roll history, it offers as little fanfare as one can imagine.

But the music, man, it just works. There are at least three bona fide gems that belong in the Replacements pantheon—“Nobody,” “Sadly Beautiful” and “When It Began.” And nearly everything else on the record lives up to what they did best. There is rousing pop with “Merry Go Round,” there is Paul’s stilted poetry with “One Wink At a Time,” there are nihilistic burners in “Someone Take the Wheel” and “Bent Out of Shape,” there’s even a Stones-y shuffle in “Torture” and a startling piano-laden closer in “The Last,” a song where Paul bids farewell to both days of debauchery and, very possibly, the band itself. This is one hell of a Replacements record and stands as a remarkably underrated recording, even today. Their hearts may have no longer been in it as a band, but they sure were there with the music.

And then there’s the song "Attitude," which has to be considered one of the most important songs the Replacements ever did. If for no other reason it’s the last time—and the only time on this album—that Paul, Tommy, Slim and Chris would ever play together. And in that light it’s a stunning farewell. With lyrics—as had come to be expected from Paul at this point—that were indeed revealing.




When you open that bottle of wine
You open a can of worms every time
Now you don't stop, that ain't true
Never said a word I never had to
It was my attitude that you thought was rude

Old habits are hard to break
And I don't know how much I can take
What I think is on the tip of my tongue
Do I…let it slip?
It was my attitude that you thought was rude

Remember sitting back in school?
I held my tongue until it turned blue
They said I had an attitude

You just failed my test
'Cause I know you be the best
So wipe me off as you conclude
A P.O.V. is what I can't use
I got an attitude

This is a delicious little song and such a fitting way of closing the shop down once and for all. There’s a raucous giddiness here in the way the band plays off one another, something we probably hadn’t heard on a Replacements album since Pleased to Meet Me, but once had been so commonplace on Let It Be (with Bob Stinson, not Slim, on lead guitar back then). The song has an acoustic country shuffle and some terrifically playful drumming by Chris. Tommy’s jaunty bassline gives a bouncing punch to it, and Slim and Paul offer some lovely little cascading fills over the rhythm line.

The lyrics are rife with wordplay, contradictions and open-ended queries, the kind of head-fakes, winks and nods that Paul was so fond of using and so damn adept at. “It’s your fault! Nah, it’s not.” “You failed, and I know you’ll be awesome.” Things which never let you in on exactly what Paul and his mates are working through, but the one thing we know is it’s never, ever simple.

The contradictions are never more apparent than the last few lines, where it’s fascinating how Paul finishes with what seems to be a major kissoff to the band, making it clear he’s not interested in their point of view, yet then maybe takes ownership of the problems in the last thing he says (“I got an attitude”).

This is a man who once famously sang, “Everything I’ve ever wanted—tell me what’s wrong,” and a band plagued by a destructive, near-cripping fear throughout their existance that likely kept them from the commercial success they so deserved. That old friend seems back one last time to haunt both Paul and the band on "Attitude." They play with such fervor and with the ease of guys who have been doing this for so long that they know each other’s every move. Even as they perform a song replete with regret and frustration.

We’ve discussed before how startling it can be when a band on its last legs can offer up something so good. Think of The Band's performance in The Last Waltz. Or for the perfect studio example, The Beatles—barely able to be in the same room together anymore—yet still able to put together the perfection that was Side 2 of Abbey Road. Feelings grow hard, but talent and personal connection usually win out.

That’s the Replacements with “Attitude,” the real parting shot they offered their longtime fans. It’s pretty much the only way the ‘Mats could have ever said goodbye—having the time of their lives while singing about how unhappy they all are together.

Favorite Song Friday: Young and Innocent Days

Last night was class night for my son's 8th grade class. Kids got all dolled up and gathered on the town green for the traditional taking of pictures with family and friends, and then trekked down the road to the middle school (sans parents) for a dinner dance that invariably signaled the end of their middle school years and the beginning of high school. There's one final day today, sure, but middle school really ended for these kids last night, wrapped up in a bright and pretty bow that gives this latest final chapter a happy ending indeed.

I'm elated to see my kid grow up and grow up well. So the fact that I am practically in the fetal position right now wondering where these past 14 years went...well...that has nothing to do with anything. Why would you even say that?! Stop it! Shut up, OK? Just shut up!!!

(pause)

And we're back.

So. We all miss the past. At least some of the times. Don't we?

That summer at the beach? That girl in high school, the one we now know how we could said the right things to make it work? That college pal who made us feel so alive but who we sadly lost touch with? A few more moments with a Dad or a Mom, or grandfather or grandmother, or a husband or a wife who's no longer here?

Sometimes it's easy to miss the things we once had, the person we once were, the people we once knew. Even as we appreciate everything we now have, all these years later.

Lest this get too maudlin, let's get down to the music. After all, it's Friday! First day of summer! Time to rev up the wayback machine and take a journey on this newest installment of Favorite Song Friday!

Favorite Song Friday - The Kinks - "Young and Innocent Days"




Ray Davies got nostalgia, and all the good and bad it connotes, as well as any rocker ever did, I think. He got the fact that when you put on the rose-colored glasses, lovely as it makes things appear, the picture changes. And when the picture changes, you're not exactly looking at the thing you thought you were looking at.

Some of Ray and the Kinks' best songs examined the sweet and sour nature of looking back. Certainly "Waterloo Sunset" did. "Sunny Afternoon" and "Celluloid Heroes" too. Later in their career "Come Dancing" painted a lovely picture of a simpler time now tinged with sadness. And heck, the entire brilliant Muswell Hillbillies album examined the notion from every angle imaginable; looking back, longing for something simpler, afraid to  move too far ahead but just as afraid not to. The Kinks got it, no question.

1969's Arthur: Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire was arguably the high point in their string of brilliant records that began with Face to Face and ran through the aforementioned Muswell Hiillbillies. It employed a frequently light touch to deal with some very heavy issues; it was an anti-war record that took a very close look at the British Empire's legacy and wondered just what it was they were fighting for, striving for.

A songs like "Victoria" looked at it under the ironic guise of revved up celebration, whereas "Shangri-La" removed the veneer and faced the cold reality. "Yes Sir No Sir" and the wrenching "Some Mother's Son" are as strong a Vietnam-era statement of war fatigue as any of the time. The marvelous title track admited yep, you were right, we should have known better, but we didn't. And now, as John Lennon once remarked, it's all this.

Then there is today's choice. A lovely, lilting little harpsichord-driven ballad that is exactly what the title indicates: a lookback to those so-called young and innocent days. It's as deep a deep-track as it gets, maybe the least known song on this whole glorious album. But it's as beautiful as it is heartbreaking. It's the simplest song on Arthur, but Lord does it pack a wallop.

I look back on the way I used to look at life
Soft white dreams and sugarcoated outside
It was great, so great
Young and innocent days

I wish my eyes could only see
Everything exactly as it used to be
It's too late, so late
Young and innocent days

I see the lines across your face
Time has done and nothing ever can replace
Those great, so great
Young and innocent days
Young and innocent days

That's it. That's all of it. A gentle little bit of guitar picking to open it up, some unceasingly delicate lead vocals from Ray Davies and (in my opinion) the finest harmonies his brother Dave ever offered. All put in motion by that regal harpsichord that lends an air of high royalty to it all.

And the words. At first it's sweet, as in literally. Ray uses images of candy coating to look back on those great days or yore. "So great" he sings with enough emotion to tell you really means it.

But then...a little bit of reality. By the second verse he realizes he can't go back, no matter how much he wants to. Employing the same rhyme scheme the way great songwriters can, "So great" becomes "Too late." The candy is gone. A hard, real present is all that's here.

And finally, we're old. The dreams have given way to lines across the face, time has stolen away and left us with nothing but memories of, once again, those great young and innocent days. They still look great, "So great," but now they are decidedly of a time that is long, long gone.

Yet despite the simplicity, something in the writing lets us know that yes, Ray gets it. No, they weren't all young and innocent days. But it's nice to think for a moment that maybe they were. Just because the past wasn't as perfect as we'd like to think it was, there was still plenty to recall fondly. And can't that fondness be at the forefront, rather than regret or loss? As Hemingway famously once wrote, "Isn't it pretty to think so?"

It is indeed.

Favorite Song Friday: Papa Was a Rollin' Stone

The scene: a basement in northwestern Connecticut in the early-to-mid-1980s. A kid puts on a record his big brother's brought home from college.

Boomp boomp. 

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.

Boomp boomp boomp boomp. 

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.

Wacka-wacka-wacka-wacka-wacka-wacka-wacka-wacka. 

Miles Davis? That's not...is it? It sounds like him...

"It was third of the September...that day I'll always remember—yes, I will."

Sweet Jesu, what is this? This is Motown? This isn't Motown. The kid likes Motown, everyone likes Motown, who doesn't like Motown, Motown's great, but this...this is...man, this doesn't sound like "Stop! In the Name of Love"!

The kid sits, transfixed, until the song's over. The spell's broken when the next track begins, at which point the kid gets up and lifts the needle as fast as he can. He puts the first track on again. And again. And again. He's later surprised to realize the entire afternoon has gone by while he's doing this.

The kid doesn't really know what it was about this that spoke so immediately—I mean, from the first damn seconds—to his lily-white suburban 13-year-old soul more accustomed at the time to Led Zeppelin and the Who, but it did. Twelve minutes, one chord, one breath held the entire damn time.

Boomp boomp. 

Free Bird

How much more could I love an indie-rock band who clearly spent as much time listening to One More For From the Road as I did?

None more. That's how much.

Well...maybe if they gave me a nice foot rub. But that might just be creepy.

Favorite Song Friday: A Long Chain On

Here’s a song that admittedly is something of an oddball choice for Favorite Song Friday.

I remember hearing it as a kid playing in the house—I think the version I heard back then was by Peter, Paul and Mary. And then a few times during my formative years I would hear it…somewhere. Playing on a car ride. Maybe seen on a public television concert. Somewhere. But after that, for the last 25 or so years, I hadn’t heard it, not even once.

Until I recently found it online and began listening to it. And even learned how to play it on the guitar. Because while I hadn’t heard it in so long, I still thought about it. I still thought about its mournful feel, its strange allegories and its unforgettable and oft-repeated title line.

So sure. With all that in mind, yeah. This song is certainly something I would label as a “favorite.”

Favorite Song Friday – "A Long Chain On"

Haunting is the word that keeps coming back to me when I hear this. There are a number of versions of it available—the author Jimmy Driftwood has one that leans towards country, the Peter, Paul and Mary version I included above runs more the gamut of straight folk. Others are tinged with gospel.

Doesn’t matter. The song comes across as a lonely, muted dirge. Just two chords, both minor (lending to the sense of gloom) carry it all. The words rule the day, but even they aren't entirely clear what's going on, despite the straightforward narrative. There is nothing complex about the melody, although I find it to be lovely and tuneful. But what really tells the story is the feel created by it all—this is what puts a skin on a tale of sadness, burden and, yet, thankfulness.

One night as I lay on my pillow,
moonlight as bright as the dawn
I saw a man come a walking,
He had a long chain on.

I heard his chains a clankin',
they made a mournful sound,
Welded around his body,
Draggin' along the ground.

He had a long chain on
He had a long chain on
He had a long chain on

He stood beside my window,
he looked at me and he said
"I am so tired and hungry.
Give me a bite of your bread"

He didn't look like a robber,
he didn't look like a thief
His voice was as soft as the moonlight,
A face full of sorrow and grief.

He had a long chain on

I went into my kitchen,
fetched him a bowl full of meat
A drink and a pan of cold biscuits,
That's what I gave him to eat

Though he was tired and hungry
a bright light came over his face
He bowed his head in the moonlight,
He said a beautiful grace.

He had a long chain on

I got my hammer and chisel,
offered to set him free
He looked at me and said softly,
"I guess we had best let it be."

When he had finished his supper,
he thanked me again and again.
Though it's been years since I've seen him,
Still hear him draggin' his chain.

He had a long chain on

Is it deeply allegorical? Probably. What’s it about exactly? Who knows. Slavery? Bigotry? Oppression? Or mayhap a more general meditation on the long struggle? Again, it doesn’t matter. Because here, while the story moves along, it’s the feel that it creates that really paints the picture. And builds something to which we can all relate; carrying our own weight through our lives, moving along with it, despite how heavy it sometimes feels.

A couple of personal highlights for me.

• The outright trust the narrator shows the strange, chain-dragging visitor. Isn’t that interesting? He thinks about it briefly, about the danger, but concludes pretty quickly, “He didn’t look like a robber, he didn’t look like a thief.” Instead he sees sadness, grief. And he welcomes the man in. This is where the parable nature of the song is at its strongest, and it lends something timeless and much, much larger to the relatively simple chords and simple words.

• This verse:

Though he was tired and hungry
a bright light came over his face
He bowed his head in the moonlight,
He said a beautiful grace.

More than any, this is the part that just floors me. Through the loneliness and the constant rattling of the chain that has been with the man for who knows how long, he still takes time to give thanks. And when he does he seems to be temporarily transformed, freed even, from every earthly burden he may be bearing. Sometimes a single line or even word can take a song to a different level. “He said a beautiful grace” does exactly that to “A Long Chain On.”

We all have those things we carry with us, some for a short time and some for the long haul. And some of them can feel like chains, no doubt. They stay with us, and as they do, over time we not only get used to them, but we come to rely on them. To count on them being there. Because they are now a part of us. I don’t know exactly what Jimmy Driftwood had in mind when he wrote “A Long Chain On,” but I suspect it had something to do with the nature of personal struggle. And the way he’s written it, it works still, decades and decades later.

The minor chords drive the words, the words tell the story, and the story creates a feel. Presto! That is Music 101, for the most part. All of the parts—none difficult in the least—add up to a whole that presents a fulfilled vision. That’s how it’s done at the most simple level. And when it succeeds, as “A Long Chain On” does, it can stay with us for a long, long time.

That’s why nearly 35+ years later, I still remember this song and still think about it. And likely will keep on thinking about it for years to come. This, again, is the power of music. Something that can remain a part of who we are, as real and present as those chains we drag behind us.