lcrelyea
rebeccapatrick
ce.
Tommy Wilson
stephenkillion
amsettineri
Peter Cavanaugh
AndrewFiled under: Inspirational Anthems,Songs for Contemplation,Sunny Dispositions | Tags: Stevie Wonder, Joe Walsh, John Ruskin, Unto this Last, Songs in the Key of Life, But Seriously Folks
It’s bad enough that rap music has chosen to evolve from a minority’s angry shout for equality and recognition into an amoral celebration of substance-less materialism, but now we’ve got a sing-along, genre-less (because it tries to be pop and hip hop and maybe even fucking calypso, who knows) top ten radio hit by a guy named either Travie McCoy or Travis McCoy (the internet knows not) that triumphs a hyperbolic avarice until now relatively unknown. The song, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, is called “I Wanna Be a Billionaire.” It is unoriginal, shallow, ridiculous, and available for listen every six to ten minutes on the What’s-Hot-Now! radio stations that plague our country.
It is true that we are raising a nation of wimps; that the pursuit of wealth with a minimum of exertion has become the norm. That the sweat of one’s brow has decreased in value while the depth of one’s pockets has become the standard measure of stature and worth. Aside from the very noble profession of engineering, the top college majors of 2010 were those whose sole raison d’être are the making of money: namely, Business. As Rebecca Mead so eloquently put it in her New Yorker article “Learning by Degrees”:
“… one needn’t necessarily be a liberal-arts graduate to regard as distinctly and speciously utilitarian the idea that higher education is, above all, a route to economic advancement. Unaddressed in that calculus is any question of what else an education might be for: to nurture critical thought; to expose individuals to the signal accomplishments of humankind; to develop in them an ability not just to listen actively but to respond intelligently.”
When economic advancement is the sole motive behind a person’s life decisions (go to college, become a shitty musician, etc.) the quality of an individual’s actions decreases. We get businessmen who throw their clients under the bus in the name of profits; people in the music business (can they really be called musicians? half these people don’t even know an instrument beyond the beat machine and AutoTune) distill away any sense of musical identity so that they may appeal to the lowest common denominator and get their songs on the radio. They glorify sex and violence and money as ends in and of themselves, and not means toward something higher.
What bothers me the most is not the presence of this kind of music; there has always been terrible, shallow music. But the extreme popularity of it today is soul-crushing.
John Ruskin, the revered British art and social critic, wrote a series of essays on political economy which, when compiled, were entitled Unto this Last. The essays, written in 1860, deplore the prevailing economic mindset of the time, which calculated human beings as only another variable in the calculus of the means of production. What Ruskin argued was that by forgetting the human element–love, compassion, need, appreciation for beauty, honesty, integrity–our economics were doomed to create an unfeeling population whose chief interest was in obtaining their neighbor’s purse and not promoting their well-being. He foresaw a world in which altruism was extinct and man’s pleasure came from wealth alone. Yet there was hope left in his predictions. As has been the belief of my family for generations, our salvation lay in honest and dedicated work. In the fourth and final essay, “Ad Valorem” he writes:
“What is chiefly needed…is to show the quantity of pleasure that may be obtained by a consistent, well-administered competence, modest, confessed, and laborious. We need examples of people who, leaving Heaven to decide whether they are to rise in the world, decide for themselves that they will be happy in it, and have resolved to seek–not greater wealth, but simpler pleasure; not higher fortune, but deeper felicity; making the first of possessions, self-possession; and honouring themselves in the harmless pride and calm pursuits of peace.”
One of the musical champions of simpler pleasure, one who has pursued peace throughout his career, is Stevie Wonder. I thought of him immediately when I was unfortunate enough to hear “I Wanna Be a Billionaire” yet again on the radio at work. Especially on his 1976 masterpiece Songs in the Key of Life, Stevie celebrates the joy and worth of family and love; the “harmless pride” of one’s heritage; the pursuit of peace through acknowledgement of the obstacles toward it; and the simpler pleasures that make life joyous.
To prove that a massively popular song can still be filled with such ideals, look no further than “I Wish.” It’s a rollicking song, and Stevie glorifies his youth, despite the poverty, and the brief and harmless departures the young sometimes take from their parents’ wishes.
I feel that I must clarify my point of view: wealth is not necessarily an evil; only the worship of it, and the glorification of the base activities wealth, at its simplest, allows. One of the great songs about money is Joe Walsh’s “Life’s Been Good,” from his 1978 album But Seriously, Folks. The song is sarcastic and insightful, with Walsh listing all the things his money has bought him, and how truly worthless they are. The one important thing, and the one thing that will last when all his money has come and gone, is his appreciation that “Life’s been good to me so far.” It is the rock star version of one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings: every day, count your blessings; you will see that you want for very little, and need even less.
Filed under: Inspirational Anthems,Night Drive Tunes,Rainy Day Songs,Songs for Contemplation,Songs of Triumph | Tags: Jimmy Cliff, Reggae, The Harder They Come, Many Rivers to Cross
At some point during, I believe, the funeral scene in High Fidelity, John Cusack addresses the camera to list the songs he hopes will be played at his funeral. He requests “Angel” by Aretha Franklin, “You’re the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me” by Gladys Knight, and “Many Rivers to Cross” by Jimmy Cliff.
I’ve known of the existence and relative cultural significance of the soundtrack to the movie The Harder They Come, and of the three tracks by the film’s star, Jimmy Cliff, since probably that first Greatest All Time issue that Rolling Stone put out in November 2003 (the album is ranked 119 in the greatest 500 of all time). Yet I’d never listened to the album until just last week, when I spotted it in the soundtrack section of my local library’s CD collection. I had recently heard Willie Nelson’s version of the title track off his album Countryman and loved it, so I was anxious to hear how Jimmy Cliff performed it.
I must admit that, like probably most of us out there, my only exposure to reggae has been Bob Marley. He’s good, though I wouldn’t say he’s as good as all the stoners and black people think he is. Either way, listening to him never convinced me that I had to explore reggae music more. It just wasn’t my thing.
What surprised me about Jimmy Cliff, when I got in my car and put in the disc, was his voice. He has a very smooth and clean voice, the kind of pipes that wouldn’t be out of place on a polished Motown record. And once I’d gotten through the title track, which was good and reggae and pleasant, I remembered the quote from High Fidelity and flipped to “Many Rivers to Cross.”
More gospel than reggae, the song is incredibly beautiful. It is an anthem of self-reliance, self-awareness, and acceptance of the difficult roads which we walk from the beginning of this life to the next.
I’ve been playing it constantly; with each listen I appreciate something new. It’s not a layered kind of song with intricate lyrics or remarkable musical moments, but it is deeply sincere, and Cliff sings with complete conviction.
The use of the organ anchors the song in melancholy, while the lyrics pull the song just above the surface of sadness. While Cliff sings of being lost and lonely, with no idea of where to go next, he has kept his pride and thus his will to survive. The harmonized support of his back up singers is like the support of those who have seen the narrator’s many struggles and few triumphs but continue to sing his praises. The drumming is spare but deep, and emphasizes the narrator’s ability to rise up and continue on.
It’s the kind of song that would be a wonderful crutch during a personal crisis, yet it needs no crisis to convey its message. Play it in the sunshiney day, with the windows down and the wind in your hair, or play it at night, lying in bed afraid and awake. It will move you no matter what.
Filed under: songs that make you feel cool in uncool moments | Tags: Ricky Nelson, Dean Martin, John Wayne, Rio Bravo, Cool Hair, Walter Brennan
There was a summer many years ago when my cousin Boss decided that Ricky Nelson was the epitome of cool. He loved the guy’s hair, especially. 
And of course most of the family felt inclined to agree with Boss despite, at least for the younger cousins, our only exposure to Nelson being the film Rio Bravo.
Our whole family are John Wayne fans. Many days and nights at the lake were spent watching John Wayne movies. Favorites include Big Jake, McClintock!, and, naturally, Rio Bravo. Co-starring in the film were legendary crooner Dean Martin, as the drunk Dude, and Ricky Nelson as the young yet wise Colorado.
Our favorite scene from the movie is when John Wayne, the local Marshall, is holed up in the jail with his deputies, Dude, Colorado, and the wily gimp Stumpy, played by Walter Brennan. To pass the time waiting for backup to transport their prisoner, the guys decide to sing. Dean opens with the slow, smooth “My Rifle, Pony, and Me.” And then the Kid of Cool, Ricky Nelson, strikes a heavy chord on the guitar and launches into one of my favorite songs, “Get Along Home, Cindy, Cindy.” I sing it at work whenever Cindy, the deli manager, ends her shift.
Filed under: sing like no one is listening
Whenever I sing “My Way” to myself–which happens more often than I can account for–I always sing Elvis’ version from his 1973 Aloha From Hawaii via Satellite album, and not Frank Sinatra’s more famous version. Not that their versions are all that different; I just put a little more of that Tupelo accent and ’70s glitz into my voice than most of Sinatra’s fans would. It works, I suppose. The other night at dinner with my parents, my mother’s friend Libby knew right away just whom I was honoring.
I’ve listened to Elvis for as long as I’ve listened to Willie Nelson. But while my enthusiasm for Willie is an extension of my mother’s love for him, my passion for Elvis comes from my Uncle Pete.
My favorite childhood memories are from summers at my uncle’s cottage on a small lake in Michigan; we’d hang around the pit in the driveway where Uncle Pete cooked the corn roast over a wood fire, Budweiser in hand, the radio tuned to the local Oldies station. Often times, depending on the nearest holidays (or the days around August 16th), the station’s weekend theme would be an All-Elvis Tribute. Uncle Pete would sing along, or tell us fun Elvis facts, or make us run and grab the Billboard Top 40 book we had to see how many weeks this song or that had spent on the charts.
My first year in the gift exchange I drew my Uncle Pete. Mom said he was always the hardest to buy for, but I knew just what to get: a box set that had just come out called Today, Tomorrow, and Forever, a set of demos, outtakes, and live recordings released on the 25th anniversary of Elvis’ death. The recordings are the result of Elvis’ perfectionism: he never dubbed a sound on his songs, believing that, since he and his band would eventually perform them live, they must be recorded live and without error in the studio.
One of my uncle’s favorite Elvis moments is from a 1969 concert in Las Vegas. He finally got the recording for Christmas this past year; it’s rare, and only available by import. It’s a version of “Are You Lonesome Tonight” in which Elvis substitutes some humorous lines in the song, and then, after singing them, takes notice of the outrageous background vocals from one of his backup singers. He starts laughing, and can barely get the rest of the lyrics out.
Filed under: Songs to listen to with the windows down,sing like no one is listening | Tags: Linda Rondstadt, Aaron Neville, When Something is Wrong with My Baby, Cry Like a Rainstorm Howl Like the Wind
Two days ago, while shuffling through the detritus inside that little storage bin between the front seats of my car, I found a cassette tape I had loved as a child: Linda Rondstadt’s Cry Like a Rainstorm – Howl Like the Wind, featuring Aaron Neville. Naturally, it can be currently found pushed into the tape deck.
I was on my way to the Fashion Mall today when, the tape rolling, a classic song which I’d forgotten came from the speakers: the Isaac Hayes/David Porter ballad “When Something is Wrong with My Baby.” Maybe watching “Glee” lately has influenced me, or maybe this song is just so good I would have done it anyway, but I drew stares from the guy in the blue Volvo in the turn lane next to mine while, finger wagging, hand over my heart, leaning forward to try to get as much sound out of my throat as possible, I belted along with the tape, volume at full blast.
Filed under: Rainy Day Songs,Songs of Triumph,Songs to listen to with the windows down,Time to Party Tunes | Tags: Lost Highway Records, Ryan Adams, Songbird, The Cardinals, Willie Nelson
William Hugh Nelson–native Texan, child cotton-picker, guitar plucker–should be stuffed and placed in the Smithsonian when he dies. Though if they plan to put copies of all his albums in there with him, they should start construction on a new wing now. He’ll need the space.
I imagine that, if Willie continues to record at the breakneck pace he has all his life, following his eventual death at age 112 or so, so many posthumous albums will make their way to us over the years that he’ll make Johnny Cash look like a studio sloth. He’s already put out 93 albums in his career. And that doesn’t even begin to count the compilations, box sets, greatest hits, etc., a list of which took up all my eyeball space trying to look at it online. I scrolled for a full minute.
But rather than try to talk about Willie Nelson’s oeuvre as a whole, I will simply talk about the album which I most recently picked up, his 2006 collaboration with Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, Songbird.
Willie has recorded for many record labels, most notably Columbia during his seventies hey-dey, when he put out genre-busting albums like Red Headed Stranger, and Stardust. He went to Island in 1996, with whom he put out such modern-day classics as Spirit, Teatro, and Milk Cow Blues. Now, though, he is on a record label so in tune with what country music should sound like that they have an artist list so selective, it literally looks like a Country Hall of Fame highlight reel. They’ve got Lucinda Williams, Ryan Adams, Whiskeytown, and Ryan Bingham to cover that modern sound, and then Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Ray Price, Lyle Lovett, even Van Morrison, and, of course, Willie Nelson, here to tell us country’s history. Altogether, the label has 203 releases, 23 which came from Willie, including the late-day masterpiece, Songbird.
Ryan Adams took care of production, and his band the Cardinals took care of the music, though of course Willie played Guitar and brought Mickey Raphael on Harmonica and Glenn Patscha on Hammond B-3 from his own lineup. Only four of the songs are Nelson originals, and two were written by Adams; the rest of the album is a tasteful selection of covers, including the title track, and a stunning re-interpretation of “Amazing Grace” that will make you shiver. The minor chord mood combined with Willie’s vocals finally put meaning to the line “It was Grace that taught my heart to fear.”
Adams’s production is signature and distinctive, especially in the opening to “Songbird,” but he never imposes upon Willie’s presence. The slow-tempo songs like “Blue Hotel” and “Hallelujah” (yes, the Leonard Cohen song) are accentuated by a fine backing choir, and Adams’s pointed lead guitar. Yet the anchor in both those songs, and throughout the album, are Willie’s vocals, which are at the forefront of the mix. You can feel all the experience of his 73 years in the words, but with an energy and intensity, I would dare even to say a faith, that is ageless.
On the kickers, Adams brings to Willie’s sound a crunch and a weight that are sometimes missing in the easy shuffle-style Country music that Willie perfected in the beginning of his career. Here, the guitars are electric and loud, and the drumming is heavy and fast. Willie has always been capable of rocking (see Willie and Family Live), but he’s never rocked this way before; songs like “$1000 Wedding” and “We Don’t Run” are exercises in controlled recklessness.
As is usual for Willie two of his four originals are well known from the early days of his career. “Rainy Day Blues” was originally penned and recorded in 1959, the B-side to his classic song “Nite Life.” “Sad Songs and Waltzes” was the third track off his 1973 Atlantic records debut Shotgun Willie (his Atlantic career was rather short–only two albums, both brilliant but misunderstood at the time; Atlantic kicked him out after 1974′s concept album Phases and Stages). While the latter is solid and little tinkered with, “Rainy Day Blues” has a swagger to it that was absent from the ’59 recording, a swagger that, I might emphasize, is distinct in that it has been earned. As many of Willie’s self-covers do, this version of the song shows not only how Nelson as an artist has been able to grow within the framework of his iconic outlaw style, but also how country music has changed over the years. In 1950s Country, humility and heartbreak dominated the songwriting; these days, in the commercial, radio-ready Country, patriotism and pomposity are the major themes. Country musicians now sing with Arrogance. Willie always has, and always will, sing with Confidence. It’s why he can put out any kind of album he wants, whether it be reggae (Countryman), jazz (Two Men With the Blues), or the rock and roll of Songbird. It’s why he can cover his own material a thousand times and still make each recording distinct and essential. He is the Countryman, the Red Headed Stranger of outlaw music. The man has earned his stripes.
Filed under: sing like no one is listening
If I could go back and do it all over again, I’d marry Sheryl Crow.
At the Friends of the Library book sale last Saturday, I found a quality copy of her third album, The Globe Sessions, which I immediately bought for nothing more than her cover of Dylan’s “Mississippi.” I figured the rest of the album would be decent, though, because the woman is hot, and hot women generally make good music.
The “Mississippi” cover is good, but what’s even better is that Sheryl Crow decided it would be a good idea to write an even better song and put it just one track later, a song called “Members Only,” like the jacket, a song which is so good my eardrums turned into flowers.
And so then I decided to listen to Sheryl Crow’s eponymous second album, which we’ve had for quite some time, but which I’d never listened to, probably because of my defiance of radio hits, with which this album is filled with. “Every Day is a Winding Road,” “A Change Would Do You Good,” “If It Makes You Happy.” But then, but Yay! I found out that that album has “Redemption Day,” which I’d first heard round abouts February when it showed up on the late J. Cash’s American VI: Ain’t No Grave. It’s an Apocalyptic song serving up both hope AND despair, and it fits right in with the rest of The Man in Black’s ouevre. Imagine my shock while scanning Ain’t No Grave’s liner notes that it turned out to have been penned fourteen years ago by the world’s hottest MILF (Musician with whom I’d Love to Frolic with). This time my eardrums turned into hummingbirds.
Filed under: Inspirational Anthems,Night Drive Tunes,Rainy Day Songs,Songs for Contemplation,Songs of Triumph,Songs to listen to with the windows down | Tags: (Breach), Bringing Down the Horse, Jakob Dylan, Rebel Sweetheart, Red Letter Days, The Wallflowers
I happen to be a member of an elite and essentially secret society. These two adjectives qualify because there are so few of us out there. I am a Diehard Fan of The Wallflowers.
Bringing Down the Horse was among the first records I ever owned, back before I knew anything about what it meant to really love music. I picked up Red Letter Days and Rebel, Sweetheart when they came out, their fourth and fifth albums, respectively, but didn’t get their third album, the classic (Breach) until just a few days ago (though naturally, I’d been listening to a burned copy for years). And within two weeks I will finally complete my collection with their all but forgotten first album, 1992′s Virgin Records release (all the others are on Interscope) The Wallflowers.
Allmusic.com has given all but their debut album at least four (out of five) stars (the debut got three). What I admire about The Wallflowers is best summed up by Stephen Thomas Erlewine in his review of the band’s last album Rebel, Sweetheart: ”[T]hey’re a straight-ahead rock band in a time that doesn’t value straight-ahead rock bands.” The Wallflowers set a tone on their first record that they have followed ever since; and this consistency is in no way a sign of artistic stagnation. As Erlewine goes on to say, this “makes them different from other rock bands of their time in yet another way: they’re reliable.”
In my opinion, the highlight of their catalogue is their third album as a band, their second album for Interscope, (Breach), produced by Andrew Slater and Michael Penn (the only other place I’ve heard of them was when Michael Penn did The Beatles’ “Two of Us” with Aimee Mann for the I Am Sam soundtrack). It’s a gritty album, the most straight-ahead rock album they’ve made, essentially ignoring the alt- tendencies of Bringing Down the Horse, and not yet aware of the beat machine possibilities that Tobias Miller brought to his production of Red Letter Days. The music aside, this set of songs is the most lyrically compelling Jakob Dylan has set before us, at least in the context of this band (his 2008 solo effort Seeing Things might be able to compare in strength of songwriting). Highlights include the Is-he-talking-about-Bob? song “Hand Me Down,” the stunning acoustic “Mourning Train” (with a moody, booming bass drum), and the rollicking, somehow wonderfully off-setting “Sleepwalker,” with its killer line: “It’s where I’m from that let’s them think I’m a whore / I’m an educated virgin.”
But the songs on the album that truly make the case for J. Dylan’s genius are “I’ve Been Delivered,” and “Up From Under.” With music incredibly matched to the mood of the songs (the whorling organ on the former, the string-backed acoustic guitar of the latter), these songs evoke a Mood at once apocalyptic and hopeful. “I’ve Been Delivered” pairs images of burning fields and beaches with cold Decembers and the ominous bells of curfew, which may ring before the narrator is through. Its imagery is evocative, not quite surrealist, but in no way literal. The key verse, especially its final lines, thrills me every time I hear it:
“now I’m ten miles / in the deep / and the mighty blue sea / looking back towards a long white beach / burning up into yellow flames / and I just wave back / like a little boy up on pony / in a show / ’cause I can’t fix / something this complex / anymore than I can build a rose”
Those last two lines have helped me keep my perspective during personal shitstorms.
Why is “Up From Under” so good? Find it and listen to it. I’ll just say, to use a line from the song, that those days before I heard it “were like ice cream falling down / on the shoes of my world.”
The Wallflowers are also rather adept at making faithful, killer covers: “The Weight” (Band) which I downloaded a live version of many years ago, “Heroes” (Bowie) from Godzilla, “Into the Mystic” (V. Morrison) from American Wedding, “I Started a Joke” (Bee Gees) from Zoolander, and “I’m Looking Through You” (Beatles) from I Am Sam. I think they’d do a great version of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” (CSN) but I haven’t written them yet to say so.
They’re just a band that is simple, honest, and loves straight-ahead rock. What’s not to be enamored with?
Filed under: Night Drive Tunes,Songs for Contemplation,Songs of Triumph,Songs to listen to with the windows down | Tags: Bruce Springsteen, The Boss, The Wild the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle
In 1973, Bruce Springsteen decided that, not only was he going to release one of the most acclaimed debut albums of the era–an album which drew lyrical comparisons to Bob Dylan; which was catapulted along by Vincent Lopez’s inspired drumming and Harold Wheeler’s light-fingered, barroom-joyous piano playing–but that he would also, eight months later, release his sophomore effort, The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle. Arguably The Boss’s best album, and by far one of the best albums in Rock n’ Roll, it continues along the same track as Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J. while upping the ante with flawless incorporations of jazz, and even classical, piano.
Vini Lopez is still around, though he would leave the band in 1974, and replacing Wheeler on keys was David Sancious, who actually lived on E Street. The highlight of the album is its three-song (of seven total) second side, where “Incident on 57th Street,” “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight),” and “New York City Serenade,” blend seamlessly to form one of the most incredible suites of music ever recorded.
“Incident” is a story song like “Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts” is a story song, but with a big difference: whereas Dylan sings like he could have come from anywhere, and indeed did all he could to cultivate that image, Springsteen’s song is colored with Jersey-tinted sunglasses. The moment Spanish Johnny drives in from the underworld, the listener is keenly aware of a Setting, evinced equally by the lyrics as by the music. Sancious’s piano is eternally compelling, and Lopez’s drumming seems just barely reined in from the wilds of the swamps of Jersey (to which it will be re-released as soon as we get to “Rosalita”).
After seven minutes of traveling with Spanish Johnny while he tries selling his heart to the heart girls over on Easy Street, the song closes out with Sancious playing what I, a non-music reading person, assume to be descending scales (?); we are then launched, with no chance for tie-straightening, into a manic, wide-grinned recount from Bruce to Rosie about just how much damn fun they’re gonna have if she would only come out tonight. After all, says The Boss, “I just want to be your lover, ain’t no liar / Rosalita, you’re my stone desire.” It’s a character driven song even more so than “Incident,” populated by the likes of Little Dynamite and Little Gun, Jack the Rabbit and Weak Knees Willie, Sloppy Sue and Big Bones Billie. My favorite part is Bruce’s acknowledgement of Rosalita’s parents’ distaste for this young rock n’ roller she seems to love:
Now I know your mama she don’t like me ’cause I play in a rock and roll band
And I know your daddy he don’t dig me but he never did understand
Your papa lowered the boom he locked you in your room
I’m comin’ to lend a hand
I’m comin’ to liberate you, confiscate you, I want to be your man
Someday we’ll look back on this and it will all seem funny
Bruce here is on top vocal form. He backs off a little on the vocal velocity to basically shout a whispered plea, but when the tempo kicks back in with the opening of the next verse (“Tell him this is his last chance to get his daughter in a fine romance / because the record company, Rosie, just gave me a big advance”) he just lets it loose. I always felt like scream-rock bands could have taken notes from The Boss. When his vocals get loud and scratchy, it’s with pure emotion; it never feels like an affectation.
Eventually, though, the reckless energy of the early night must end. What follows is a solo walk through empty streets, “New York City Serenade,” the kind of song to which you need to devote ten minutes of every night drive you take. It’s almost indescribable. Both inspirational and haunting, it claims my complete attention every time I listen to it. It is epic, a concrete example of the maxim Bruce sings early on in the song; indeed, the entire album is: “Walk tall, or, baby, don’t walk at all.” He’s singing, he’s singing.
Filed under: sing like no one is listening
The title of this little post is a bit hyperbolic (I foresee certain WTF-style groans from readers when I finally reveal my choice), because I’d be hard pressed to pick a Greatest Song in any category; especially since such an exercise requires first defining the category. I mean, truly, what is Rock n’ Roll? Is it loud guitars, fast drums, and very long, teased hair? Then Guns N’ Roses is the greatest band of all time. Or is it thrilling, theatrical piano rolls with sexually suggestive lyrics and rhythms leading to sexually suggestive dancing? Then all hail Little Richard.
Nonetheless, I would say (emphasis on the personal nature of these reflections) that good ol’ Rock n’ Roll has certain inalienable features:
- Guitars, preferably electric
- Energy, usually sexual- or youth-related; see: cocksureness
- Head-Bob factor: do you purse your lips and close your eyes and even, yes, start to raise that old hand above that old, now-swaying head?
- Drums; I mean, Fucking Drums
- The Obviously These Guys Are Really Enjoying Themselves factor
There are many songs I know that satisfy these criteria well; most Faces songs do, actually, and surely every Beatles song. But my personal number one? Don’t laugh, now: ”Queen Bitch” by David Bowie. From Hunky Dory, 1971. When I played this song for my siblings the other day, I intro’d it by saying, “We will now listen to the definition of Rock n’ Roll.” And I thought that was a pretty good way of putting it. But listen for yourselves.
Now, I’m hoping, like Barry’s Monday morning mix tape from High Fidelity, that this post will be “like, a fucking conversation starter!” So what’s your nominee for TGRnRSE?
