Friday, April 30, 2010

999,806: Billy Squier — Rock Me Tonite

Well enough has already been written about how bad the video is for this song, how five minutes sashaying around a bedroom in a pink tank top (pink! a color never ever worn by rock musicians in the 1980's!) destroyed Squier's high-flying career in an instant. Plenty of pixels already display numerous denunciations of "Rock Me Tonite" all over the internet, mocking Squier's prancing, finger-popping, bed-rolling, waist-bending, marching, pointing, leg-kicking performance in what is a canonical entry in the so-bad-it's-good category of pop entertainment. Other than its ridiculousness, what persists is the disbelief it arouses. How could Billy Squier, a hook-writing rocker—the poor man's Robert Plant with a guitar—have made such a blatantly false move, a worse career choice than John Bonham's death binge? What was he thinking?

What was he thinking? It's a fair question. The man who helmed the video was Kenny Ortega, the choreographer who would later do Madonna's "Material Girl", "Dirty Dancing" and the "High School Musical" movies, and he does not seem an obvious choice for Squier, unless you figure Billy was sitting around watching "Xanadu" and said, "Get me the guy who did that", which film historians agree is basically an impossible thing for anyone to have said. More likely was that Squier wanted someone who knew how to make an interesting music video, since the ones Squier made for his "Don't Say No" album were all shot on what looks like a nondescript club stage without an audience. They were boring. From the vantage of the MTV landscape in 1984, they flat-out sucked.

Furthermore, it's not as though Squier's output was churning along at a consistently high level. His late-breaking career peaked with "Don't Say No", an album he cut at 31, after which his music regressed to the mean. He was still writing hits, but his records were padded with more and more filler. And of course music was changing. A Zeppelin-esque act like Squier's, a relic of 1970's stadium rock, was less and less relevant during a time when Van Halen was hard rock's leading edge, pushing toward a hair metal future.

In a situation where Squier was probably desperate to get noticed amid MTV's increasingly hip fare, on came Ortega. And "Rock Me Tonite" fits right into his oeuvre. Ortega was just doing exactly what you'd expect him to do: coreograph a music video. It wasn't his fault that Squier came packaged with what were quite possibly the gawkiest, most awkward repertoire of stage moves in rock history. In his natural element—that is to say, while playing a guitar—Squier does alright (here's "In the Dark"
for reference). But take away the axe, and Squier had no clue what to do with his lanky, angular body. As evidenced by the video for "The Stroke", Squier was prancing, pointing, and engaging in embarrassing leg kicks well before Ortega thought to put him in a bedroom equipped with a stripper pole. And about that pink shirt and the finger popping? Nobody seemed to have as much beef with it when 1982's "Everybody Wants You" debuted.

Ortega's crime (report to bad music video jail, Kenny Ortega) was that his directorial style took what were already Squier's least artful attributes and amplified them. Like a grotesque caricature, the Billy Squier in "Rock Me Tonite" did exactly what Billy Squier always did, only moreso. So go ahead and cite Ortega for Failure to Adapt in the Face of Certain Doom, but don't blame him for wrecking Squier's career. Rather, "Don't Say No" was the perfect explanation for why Squier was on the way out. Squier's musical schtick was stale, his moves were lame, he was damn near 35, he still had Brian May's 1977 haircut, and that shit was not going to fly in the mid-'80s. At least he and Ortega left us with a lasting artifact that's enjoyable for two different reasons. The first reason is obvious. The second reason is, don't look at it and listen: it's a sweet fucking song for Christ's sake. Makes me wish someone would write a review about it.

Monday, April 26, 2010

999,807: Annie - I Don't Like Your Band

It's all fun and games talking to that hot musician guy at the party until he asks you to check out his band's myspace. Things can get real weird, real fast after that. There are two ways this can go. The music sucks or it is god awful. He was RATHER cute though, with his shaggy hair, blue sweater and strong arms. Blessedly, he isn't around to see the pained expression on your face when you get around to checking it out online. Even so, at the end of the day, who are YOU to judge some guy's music? You write for Rolling Stone? Probably not.

Annie isn't the kind of girl to silently judge someone behind their back. She's a Norwegian pop star who is actually really cool with street cred and all that jazz. I guess everything is just better in Scandinavia. They have great health care, a high standard of living, an entertainingly scary black metal scene, and Alexander Skarsgard (aka Sheriff Eric from True Blood). Scandinavia's crowning achievement (in my mind) is the alt-pop* music. Annie is a prime example. She's got those ever-so-danceable hooks and pounding rhythms. You can almost smell the sweat flicking off the gyrating bodies in the club. At the same time, the music is intricate and requires many listens to fully unpack. Plus, it's kind of awesome that Annie is calling out the end of the era for old school "bands". Has a drums-bass-guitar act really made its mark in the past 5 years? So, Rock Dude, take note, and buy yourself a motherlovin' sequencer!


*I love the expression alt-pop because it doesn't make any sense whatsoever. It's an abbreviation for "alternative popular." Hmnmmmmm, if something's popular, it's not the alternative. And if something's the alternative, then it wouldn't also be popular. "Alternative" as a way to describe music is pretty wishy-washy as well. Things to think about people.

Friday, April 23, 2010

999,808: Della Reese — It Was a Very Good Year

As nostalgia trips go, Frank Sinatra's version of "It Was a Very Good Year" is utter male shallowness masked by the singer's insouciant delivery and its sophisticated, lustrous string arrangement. "What a grand old life I've led," says this song, "let me tell you about the three years when I managed to get laid a bunch." In "the autumn of my years", the singer looks back wistfully and remembers that he hasn't gotten any since he was 35. Obviously the song is magnificent.

Maybe "get laid" is a strong term, though, depending on the version. If we're talking about the original recording by The Kingston Trio's Bob Shane, whose uptight phrasing suggests little more than chaste closed-mouth kissing and hand-holding, comparing it to sex is like asking for the jelly at the Polaner All Fruit tea party. Perish the thought! We are discussing romance.

With Sinatra, as always, we are discussing romance while winking and firing a hand up her skirt. With Della Reese's cover, however, debuted at Chicago's Playboy Club, we are talking about straight-up, make-no-mistake fucking. It's not just the deep funk arrangement, which is frankly a bit of a mess. The horn chart, aping Gordon Jenkins' strings on Sinatra's version, doesn't quite work, bending notes to an almost clownish degree. It takes Della Reese's powerful vocal, sort of an Eartha Kitt purr tied to a rocket-fueled jump-kick machine, to make the song.



And it's not simply a matter of switching the lyrics around so all the females are males, or Reese calling herself "sexy at 21". Sure, in '67 a woman *gasp!* talking about sex (a woman! enjoying sex!) was still a thumb in the societal eye, but Reese went further. Della positions herself as not just the pursued—she's one of the big city girls who has an apartment upstairs from Sinatra (and maybe even Bob Shane, who'd visit a girl a couple doors down and give her a peck on the cheek goodnight in the hallway)—but as a self-aware object of male lust who's running her own game back on him. By thirty-five, grey-templed men would "ride" her in limousines...oh, she was much wiser at thirty-five.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

999,809: Britney Spears - Phonography

There's not much more to say about Britney Spears y'all. It's ALL been said before. However, the algorithm burped out this ditty after we musicologists spilled some of the new designer MIT drugs we're always doing in the T1M bunker (jokes!). Latter-day Britney Spears doesn't even pretend to have a voice. The song-makers simply use name. But the music. The music! Ah Hark! Such a blooming sensation of joy doth rise within my soul. "Phonography" (no, NOT pornography- stop being dirty, reader!) has the hooky production touch only Swedish pop-masters Bloodyshy and Avant know how to create. They graced us with their heavenly presence before with the hipster-loved "Toxic." This track didn't quite make the mainstream. In fact, it didn't make the album and was a pre-order itunes bonus track. The record label clearly doesn't know gold when they hear it.

The subject matter regards the quite common (or so i hear from the kids these days) practice of phone sex. The beats drops low and builds into a dangerous-sounding minor chord progression and starts: "We're not so different you and me/ Cause we both share our share of obscenities." Okay, so the lyrics aren't dazzling, but that machine synth drum fill sure is! Oh, readers, this next part might be too x-rated for you, but:

I like my bluetooth buttons comin loose,
I need my hands free,
Then I let my mind roam,
Playing with my ringtone

How exactly does one play with ones ringtone? By changing it? I usually change my ringtone once every three months, but some of my coworkers have taunted me with the same ringtone for over a year. Anyhow, the music for this jam is downright HAUNTING in the most Victorian gothic kind of way, but TRANCE, you know? If they hadn't written such time-specific lyrics, I think this song might have had a chance in making it into the modern pop canon.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

999,810: Jimi Hendrix & Jim Morrison - Fuck Her In the Ass

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Sunday, April 18, 2010

999,812: Dionne Warwick - Wives and Lovers; 999,811: Ciara - Like a Boy

Though some have enjoyed it, being a girl ain't always easy. Women have to deal with those philandering men folk! Men are like these wild animals you have to subdue with jangling keys and cooing noises. Sure, there was that whole feminist movement, but at the end of the day, women are singing songs about being stuck in the same old gender roles. The algorithm spit out "Wives and Lovers" followed by "Like a Boy" right after the other, as if to suggest the same sentiment remains. The only thing separating 1963 from 2007 (other than 45 years), is anger. 1963's Dionne Warwick (through Burt Bacharach's lyrics) pleads

"Day after day
There are girls at the office
And men will always be men
Don't send him off with your hair still in curlers
You may not see him again"

There it is: "men will always be men"! Girl, I'm sorry, but you've got to push that cleavage up and get your hair in order so he'll stay interested. That's your feminine role! So now we fast-forward to goodies-hoarding Ciara in "Like a Boy". You think she's got something new to say? No, but as opposed to apologizing, she's pissed about the double standards in relationships. Ciara co-wrote this jam, and claimed it to be a "female-empowerment record." I beg to disagree. The song is set in the conditional tense as she cries "wish we could switch up the roles... sometimes I wish I could act like a boy." Um, why can't you? Who is stopping you? It's 2007, NOT 1963! Then she has the audacity to say "girl go head and be just like 'em...sleep like 'em, creep like 'em." WHAT?! So the remedy is to imitate their fuckery? I can't say that's a societal improvement or advancement. So thanks, algorithm, for reminding me of how backwards we're remaining in this world! Oh, except for Ciara's choreography and dancing. That shit is some serious groovin' evolution.



Sunday, April 11, 2010

999, 813: Jimi Hendrix -Valleys of Neptune

The late Jimi Hendrix has proven to be far more prolific than the living Jimi Hendrix. Every few years, a new album of "amazing unreleased tracks" comes out. And with each release of these amazing unreleased tracks, I start to wonder, was Jimi Hendrix just a dude who took a whole bunch of drugs and dicked around on his guitar? In fact, I'm starting to wonder if these amazing unreleased tracks weren't actually performed by a musical parodist who was trying to make fun of Jimi Hendrix. To my ears, "Valleys of Neptune," the title track from the "new" Jimi Hendrix album, sounds like it might be the work of Jammee Handrax, the "Ruttles" to Jimi's "Beatles," if that makes any sense.

"Valleys of Neptune" contains a bunch of drugged out lyrics about space and colors, and a good amount of psychedelic guitar noodling. Hendrix is sort of singing out of tune, which I guess is harder to notice on some of his classic songs, which I think contain more background vocals and catchy melodies that you sing along with, so maybe you can't tell that what he's doing is suggesting a melody more than singing one. The band sloppily grooves behind him and the last third of the song is just him playing some spacey suspended chords and going "rise on baby riiiiiiise on baby," which is exactly what someone doing a Jimi Hendrix parody would sing, over and over, in exactly the same manner the real one does here.

The weirdest part about this new song is that the chord changes and tempo during the verse sounded strangely familiar to me. I kept hearing something else other than "blue green space fly water baby baby" or whatever it is Jimi is singing. Then it hit me: what I really wanted to hear was "Little Miss Can't Be Wrong" by the Spin Doctors. For some reason the outtakes of "the greatest rock and roller of all time" sound like demo tracks for a mildly entertaining early 90's jam band. So congratulations, Estate of Jimi Hendrix. You've dug so deep into your breadwinner's catalog that you managed to do something the Spin Doctors never managed to do over the course of their entire career: release a song that makes the Spin Doctors sound totally awesome.



Friday, April 9, 2010

999,814: The Shaggs — Who Are Parents?

A group like The Shaggs is not what typically comes to mind when somebody says, "all-girl rock band." Leaving cheap shots about their physical appearance (and tangents discussing what is, in our post-Austin Powers environment, a very unfortunate choice of name) aside, most writing about The Shaggs falls into two basic categories: 1) "this music is horrible" and 2) "or IS it?" Upon first hearing The Shaggs, most would probably agree with the former argument, after they are done laughing. On a second listen, however, they'd laugh a little harder and maybe pee their pants.

That said, once everything that's funny about The Shaggs—remember, this includes name, sound, physical appearance, and lyrics—has been thoroughly exhausted, it might occur that their music is actually pretty challenging. It's challenging in the way that paintings made by schizophrenics are challenging, but nonetheless, if you and two musically-inclined friends sat down and tried to reproduce a Shaggs song you'd have a pretty rough time of it. What initially sounds like crude indifference to such niceties as meter, melody, and other basic musical building blocks is actually a consistent (if arguably unlistenable) approach to song-craft. Which is what led an experimental icon like Frank Zappa to champion The Shaggs as paragons of outsider art rather than merely an ill-conceived vanity project by The Shaggs' dad, Austin Wiggin, Jr.

So "Who Are Parents?" Well, for the Wiggin sisters, parents are the ones who forced them to take music lessons and form a band because of a palm reading performed by their grandma. Parents are the ones who made them write and practice songs, then play gigs at the town hall, as kind of a live-action precursor to the Chipettes. Parents are the ones who ushered them into a recording studio to create an album that will, the adulation of certain artists notwithstanding, guarantee The Shaggs a long half-life of indefinite ridicule. Or as they put it in a lyric that hints at a sinister untertone, "Parents are the ones who are always there".

Monday, April 5, 2010

999,815: The Magnetic Fields - Absolutely Cuckoo

As much as I am loathe to admit this, there are certain uncomfortable romantic truths. One of these truths is that most people go ape-shit-googly-eyes in love with CRAZY at least once in their life. The Crazy (could be male or female) will present themselves from the get-go as crazy. You are told UP FRONT that Crazy is damaged goods who will most certainly hurt you. Now, would you go into a store and buy a half-broken stereo or computer? No, but more than half my friends (and myself in my youth) have gotten themselves involved in such deadly affairs of the heart, fully aware of the awfulness to come! It doesn't matter what Crazy does because Crazy is a person, so they cannot be returned to Best Buy for cash back or even a credit. Crazy, unlike a computer, can smooth talk its way back into repeating a vicious circle of emotional destruction.

Magnetic Fields' "Absolutely Cuckoo" is the ultimate disclaimer: buyer (or rather lover) beware! Crazy has a really really really really good chance of destroying your life! The song is short and consists of just one run-on sentence. Repeated twice for good measure. However, the music sounds totally upbeat. Singer/songwriter Stephin Merritt seems to be suggesting "Oh hey, I'm letting you know I'm crazy, but I'm also distracting you with the soothing jingle-jangle of ukulele." Crazy is bleating that he's going to threaten you with suicide at some point, but it's hard to not be captivated by that swingin' orchestration and foot tappin' beat. Wait, what is he warning me about again?

Friday, April 2, 2010

999,816: Catatonia — Road Rage

Since it was first coined in the late 1980's, the term "road rage" has (apparently) proved inspirational for countless musicians across a whole spectrum of genres, from bluegrass to hip-hop to ska; in fact, you could go to your favorite online listening site right now and load up a playlist of over forty different songs called "Road Rage", which I would aggressively recommend if you're in the mood to listen to a shitload of really bad techno.

Picking a "Road Rage" at random, you have a better than even chance of selecting an instrumental (you're in good shape if you land a bluegrass number). Of those "Road Rage"s with lyrics, about three quarters are metal songs—it's a good rule of thumb to flee any track that starts off with beeping car horns—and damn near all of them are about "gripping the wheel" and getting stuck at red lights and so forth. You'd think the lead singers of unheralded thrash bands would have lots of interesting experiences, but no, they are pretty much always getting trapped behind some bad driver on the freeway and thinking that anyone in the world gives a crap.

It's not much of a surprise that the most listenable "Road Rage" has, thank GOD, nothing to do with people in pickup trucks failing to yield. Welsh alt-rockers Catatonia scored a UK hit in '98 while attempting to re-purpose the term to mean, I guess, something like "the state of being irked by a dude", an idea which didn't really catch on despite a super-hooky chorus. Of course, Catatonia seemed to have a problem knowing what words meant; they initially thought the name of their band was another way to say "a pleasurable sleep", and in "Road Rage", singer Cerys Matthews throws around the term "space age" like a random vocal tic, so, food for thought.

Whatever Catatonia thought their song was about, they do a lot of good things with the music part of it. Upward key changes at the beginning of the second and third verses help show off Matthews' range. Her voice has an impish, Bjork-ish quality to it, slightly husky, alternately bold and quavering, and her native accent gives the 'r' in 'rage' a bit of a trill. The chorus—"It's all over the front page/You give me road rage"—is so catchy it's hard to care that it makes no damn sense. Anyway, how much Welsh do YOU know? That's what I thought.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

999,817: Slade — Coz I Luv You

The band Slade is hard rockin' to the core. They don't know how to NOT rock. It's part of their soul. When their manager said "do a goddamn ballad guys. the chicks dig it," Noddy, Dave, Jim and Don simply heaved a collective sigh, whipped on their glittering go-go boots, applied just a touch of fresh eyeshadow, and set about writing a sweetzie-cola love jam in the only way they knew how: the hard rockin' way. Released in 1971, this song was in the first wave of hard-rock-goes-lovey-dovey. However, there isn't a stitch of the namby-pamby flim-flam bullshit found in the saccharine "hard rock" love ballads of the later 70s and all through the 80s.

The opening line sung over a terse guitar stroke is: "I won't laugh at you, when you boo-hoo-hoo, coz I love you." Under normal circumstances, that would be about as easy-listening-Neil-Sedaka-y as it gets, but when ol' Noddy sings it, it's hardcore man! It doesn't matter that the musical breakdown for this song is a violin solo because it's a rockin' James Lea electric violin solo. When you hear hand claps in this song, they sound like mother-lovin' whips cracking!

And because Slade didn't want you getting any wrong ideas in that pretty little head of yours, they changed the initial title spelling from "Cause I Love You" to the more street smart "Coz I Luv you." Correct spelling is for squares! Often (and by often I mean NEVER), I get asked what song I'd like to be played for my first dance at my imaginary wedding. I've bandied about a few different titles, but I always come back to "Coz I love you." It has the sweet sensibility of a Billy Joel number in its lyrics ("I just like the things you do/ don't you change the things you do") but the vocal/instrumental intensity of Alice Cooper (wild screaming at the end/roaring power chords). I'd like to begin my marriage with a BANG, and this song is the musical equivalent of a Reese's Peanut Butter cup: salty, sweet, and totally satisfying!