Here's another meaningless look at a seemingly random collection of lines from my work-in-progress book The Greatest Record Ever Made! (Volume 1). I did this once before, enjoyed it, and figured I'd slap together a second edition with different lines. Each chapter in the book, including all of the individual song chapters and all of the supplemental material, is represented here by one line apiece. You can read about the book project itself at this convenient link. As always, an infinite number of songs can each be THE greatest record ever made, as long as they take turns.
Understand: the following makes no sense. It's a stream of consciousness, 128 sentences taken out of context, but still presented in the order in which they're planned to appear in the book. It is (as noted the last time I did this), the literary version of a sound collage, kinda like "Revolution 9" converted into a free-form essay. Number 9, number 9....
Please note that this includes four songs I've tentatively added since my previous Table of Contents update: "Take Five" by The Dave Brubeck Quartet, "I'll Be There" by The Jackson Five, "Do You Love Me" by The Contours, and "Pressure Drop" by Toots & the Maytals. The book's Table of Contents will continue to shift as whim dictates.
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| For dramatic purposes, today's post will be narrated by noted rock 'n' roll actress P. J. Soles (shown here with her entourage) |
With my short attention span, there's never any shortage of fantastic rockin' pop nuggets that can occupy the entirety of my consciousness for 3:10 or whatever, and there's never any shortage of equally fantastic plastic awaiting its duly-appointed turn. We don't fall in love because it makes sense to fall; we fall because we fall, and then we hope for the best.
Both of my parents worked. But the music transcends its origin, rises above the show-biz treachery and human frailty that claimed the group itself. Chuck Berry knew well the travails of the downtrodden. Pop songs do recognize that love's path may lead through temptation, betrayal, misery, to tests of faith and failures in spite of good initial intent, a path that might reach redemption or fall prey to the hazards that cause us to crash, broken and beaten, before we get to that magic place we so wanted to claim as home. Nonetheless, my own individual level of post-adolescent alienation ultimately made me receptive to the promise of no future, no future, no future for you.
The entire world was about to change in an instant.
Sometimes even a great record--the greatest record--is taken for granted. If they'd been just an a cappella group, their harmonies would have been incredible; add guitar, bass, drums, and the big beat, and they transcend even that. Its sense of uncertainty, its vulnerability, its contemplation of tonight's ramifications on tomorrow add a weight beyond easy dismissal or censorship. But it was faster, fuller, innately louder even at low volume.
I woke up. I wasn't alone in that feeling, but I was vastly, vastly outnumbered.
I woke up. I wasn't alone in that feeling, but I was vastly, vastly outnumbered.
But the story's a little bit complicated.
We are the weird. But right now, we cede the floor to a kid who was five years old in 1965. Anything could happen in 1965. Today, it would not be an exaggeration to refer to him as an icon, one of the most important artists of the last seven decades, a brilliant musician, a visionary creator and performer.
Most of us--boy or girl, gay or straight--have experienced love's turbulence at some point, and we've made our choices based on whatever mix of head and heart we think works best. Remembrance of things past can spin within the grooves of pop songs both consoling and cautionary, unfading pictures of a heart not quite gone, mourning tributes to a cherished someone no longer present. A tow truck ultimately came to whisk this luckless red Alfa Romeo to its final reward.
That is, at worst, a white lie. The lyrics convey the tongue-tied, inarticulate fumble of the infatuated, and that odd quartet detailed above comes together as one magic, irresistible force. Seeing it performed on TV asserted the song's hold on me, a hold that was already there, but which tightened its grip securely and permanently with this televised faux embrace of the latest musical trend. The shimmering, incandescent result embodies the Bomp! magazine power pop ideal: power pop means pop with power, not some whimpering simp in a Beatles haircut. Of the many worthy practitioners skinny-tied to that bandwagon, only The Knack really broke through, and even their hitmaking heyday was brief. The bass line and the melody bend you to their will, a virtual calliope teasing you, enticing you, owning you, propelling you, even as the lovelorn dreamer within you concedes that there is no goddamned hope.
The New York Dolls are still looking for that kiss.
That is, at worst, a white lie. The lyrics convey the tongue-tied, inarticulate fumble of the infatuated, and that odd quartet detailed above comes together as one magic, irresistible force. Seeing it performed on TV asserted the song's hold on me, a hold that was already there, but which tightened its grip securely and permanently with this televised faux embrace of the latest musical trend. The shimmering, incandescent result embodies the Bomp! magazine power pop ideal: power pop means pop with power, not some whimpering simp in a Beatles haircut. Of the many worthy practitioners skinny-tied to that bandwagon, only The Knack really broke through, and even their hitmaking heyday was brief. The bass line and the melody bend you to their will, a virtual calliope teasing you, enticing you, owning you, propelling you, even as the lovelorn dreamer within you concedes that there is no goddamned hope.
The New York Dolls are still looking for that kiss.
The working class gets its reward on Friday. The purity and majesty of the experience is incomparable. But there was more to the story. She was angel and hurricane, earthquake and blessing, saint and tornado. Those of us who dream of fame, who worship glittery idols from afar, can't even imagine how fame could be so fickle, so fleeting. Who were we mere human beings to presume arguing with that pronouncement? What could possibly go wrong?
And right now, in your head, I bet you're singing along with it, too.
We are generally suspicious of sequels, and rightly so. We may prefer to reflect, to consider the good and the bad that bent our path this way, and to live in hope of deliverance, to wish for better things to come our way. This fate is assured, and no feel-good sentiment can mitigate that fact. But slowly--and then more quickly--my indifference and dismissal began to yield to curiosity and burgeoning interest.
And then let's be something we can call our own. Dance.
It's not a joke; it's the spiritual descendant of The Dixie Cups' "Iko Iko"and The Shangri-Las' "Sophisticated Boom Boom," crossed with the do-it-yourself spunk of The Ramones, done up with guitars, bass, and beating drums. The name was irrelevant. It was easy to get caught up in Anglomania, and forget that for every Beatles there was a Byrds, for every Rolling Stones a Paul Revere and the Raiders, for every Led Zeppelin a Grand Funk Railroad. This soul was genuine, like love should be. It was celebratory, like the songs shared as one by revelers gathered around the fire as the moon lit the sand, and the promises of the stars above were reflected in the irresistible spark you could swear you saw in the eyes of someone you just might want to love for ever and ever.
I still can't understand why this wasn't a monster hit.
And right now, in your head, I bet you're singing along with it, too.
We are generally suspicious of sequels, and rightly so. We may prefer to reflect, to consider the good and the bad that bent our path this way, and to live in hope of deliverance, to wish for better things to come our way. This fate is assured, and no feel-good sentiment can mitigate that fact. But slowly--and then more quickly--my indifference and dismissal began to yield to curiosity and burgeoning interest.
And then let's be something we can call our own. Dance.
It's not a joke; it's the spiritual descendant of The Dixie Cups' "Iko Iko"and The Shangri-Las' "Sophisticated Boom Boom," crossed with the do-it-yourself spunk of The Ramones, done up with guitars, bass, and beating drums. The name was irrelevant. It was easy to get caught up in Anglomania, and forget that for every Beatles there was a Byrds, for every Rolling Stones a Paul Revere and the Raiders, for every Led Zeppelin a Grand Funk Railroad. This soul was genuine, like love should be. It was celebratory, like the songs shared as one by revelers gathered around the fire as the moon lit the sand, and the promises of the stars above were reflected in the irresistible spark you could swear you saw in the eyes of someone you just might want to love for ever and ever.
I still can't understand why this wasn't a monster hit.
They no longer sing as teenagers, but they do sing to the teen within us all, to the romantic who wants to fall in love, to the dreamer that wants love to last forever, and to the veteran lover who knows that love can be fleeting, even traumatic, but who still realizes that love's reward is worth its risk. That mournful, unforgettable guitar opening; that determination for the heart to speak its mind; those lyrics, hiding heartbreak behind hope, aching with the uncertainty of a love that may be almost, almost within our grasp, or may already be just beyond our reach, forever unattainable.
No matter what anyone tries to say otherwise, there is no overriding reason that a pop song has to be anything more than just a pop song; but there is also no reason it can't be more than that, if it wants to be. Listening to Johnny Nash didn't prepare me for this. In 1965, even as The Beatles solidified their hold on international pop culture, much of the adult establishment still viewed them as a silly novelty, a blight, an aberration that would pass none too soon, when the crazy kids would finally stop with all the swooning and the shaggy hair and the loud electrified nonsense, and embrace mainstream, dignified pop sounds like Perry Como or Mantovani.
The riff remains.
It is a uniquely ethereal feeling to drive through deserted, snow-covered suburban streets after midnight while listening to Dave Brubeck on the radio. Armageddon's like that. Nonetheless: there is joy in this music. It seethes with controlled bitterness, mortally wounded pride, the uncomprehending bewilderment of a desperate How could you do this to me...?!
As The Sex Pistols sang of no future and The Clash yearned for a riot of their own, some within this new wave of rock 'n' roll eagerly acknowledged and embraced the rockin' pop sounds of the past. One of the many lessons learned in the British Invasion was that rockin' pop fans in England sometimes appreciated American music more than Americans did. That devotion won't change, even as the singer bids farewell to a house he'd prefer to still call his home, to a heart he aches with a desire to still call his, to a present and a future he's desperate to believe could still be, though he knows with dull certainty that it can't.
Maturity has always eluded me. I hate that freakin' Bob Seger song. Maybe you never knew that Bob Seger made a punk record. The song draws upon the influence of spirituals to craft a gem of pop music both secular and heaven-sent.
Would pop journalists even know the word "jangly" if not for The Byrds?
So sad to watch good love go bad. I'm thinking a box of chocolates isn't gonna cut it this time. As I finally grew old enough to visit bars and guzzle beer and badger DJs for songs to play while I didn't dance with any of the pretty girls there, an oldies bar called The Tip-A-Few became a favored hangout, and "It Hurts To Be In Love" became a favored request. I don't have a Lou Reed story.
Was it all in good fun, a winking, amiable, self-aware update of Andy Hardy puttin' on a rockin' pop show? If you were an American kid of a certain age, the image remains indelible: a TV commercial for Radio Free Europe, showing an expatriate Hungarian DJ on his way to a radio studio on the right side of the Iron Curtain, settling into his shift to broadcast the Voice Of Freedom to oppressed souls on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain. The song itself is an extended boast. The guitars combust, the harmonies sail, the beat and the music surge, and the singer expresses his own giddy delight in the rat-a-tat sound of his chatty lover's extended soliloquy.
The DJ has just the right song for that situation.
Even before I was conscious of the evolution and transition of my opinion of disco music, there was a handful of disco tracks I liked, perhaps loved. Forget about love of the music; radio's a business, kid. But I knew enough to mourn, to feel that the pop world had suffered a loss even though so few seemed to realize it or understand it. Whether love or lust, I was smitten.
The DJ has just the right song for that situation.
Even before I was conscious of the evolution and transition of my opinion of disco music, there was a handful of disco tracks I liked, perhaps loved. Forget about love of the music; radio's a business, kid. But I knew enough to mourn, to feel that the pop world had suffered a loss even though so few seemed to realize it or understand it. Whether love or lust, I was smitten.
A family band. And didn't we all grow up faster than we wanted to? And it's okay if you believe in something that can't be proven. Motown's absolute zenith, with one of the greatest vocal groups of all time giving their all-time best performance on their best-ever song. But really, the immediate, primal appeal of this song can be attributed to one thing above all else: the singer's miraculous ability to transmit pheromones over the airwaves.
Hey, shades of The Rare Breed!
The song is unerringly optimistic, charming, confident, assured without pretense or bluster. Nonetheless, if you were willing to fight your way to the top, you were damned well willing to fight for your right to stay there. Part of the magic of pop music is its ability to transcend artificial origins and crass, even indifferent intent. Its giddy exuberance exploded from cheap speakers everywhere, demanding volume, delivering the irresistibly agreeable swoon of hooks and melody cranked to a deep-red, blissful saturation point.
Oh, and the others.
Belief makes us better. Here, we must make an important distinction. That's why we still need the radio. I remember when radio was everything.
He took country, blues, and pop, and when he sang, it all came out as soul. They were, for a brief, loud, harmonious moment, the one band that everybody liked...loved. It's a God-awful small affair. Put your hands together.
Where does the time go?
'70s punk grew in part out of a repudiation of the hippie ethos, yet the two opposing notions shared more than either faction would have admitted at the time. My last relationship had accelerated so quickly out of control that I had to grab a parachute and jump from that metaphorical plane before it completed its uncannily accurate tribute to the last farewell of Buddy Holly. But as we reach the calendar's final crumpled page, and we crawl from the rubble of the preceding twelve months' accumulated yin and yang, we still hope for something better beginning. The certainty renews each time I hear it again.
Before we pay our tab and let our designated drivers scoot us home, we have one more song to play us out of here. To my ears, that remains the best that's ever been done. If we weren't there at the time, we can't even imagine it.
Almost five and a half decades later, the music still means as much to me as it meant when I was five, and as when I was three, when I was twelve, eighteen, twenty-four, thirty-six, forty, fifty, and on down the dark and twisting path ahead of me. Windows down (or air conditioner up) in the summer, snow tires barreling forward in the winter, the music turned up LOUD.
We say there's an infinite number of songs taking individual turns as the greatest record ever made; if that's so, then there are still so, so many more fantastic tracks on roughly equal footing with the songs we've talked about today.
And that's our summary. Stay tuned for more rock 'n' roll. And here are four more lines from the book's closing section, offered here as a tag:
Our favorite records don't live in isolation. Each one has a story to tell. Those stories continue.
Infinitely.
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Fans of pop music will want to check out Waterloo Sunset--Benefit For This Is Rock 'n' Roll Radio, a new pop compilation benefiting SPARK! Syracuse, the home of This Is Rock 'n' Roll Radio with Dana & Carl. TIR'N'RR Allstars--Steve Stoeckel, Bruce Gordon, Joel Tinnel, Stacy Carson, Eytan Mirsky, Teresa Cowles, Dan Pavelich, Irene Peña, Keith Klingensmith, and Rich Firestone--offer a fantastic new version of The Kinks' classic "Waterloo Sunset." That's supplemented by eleven more tracks (plus a hidden bonus track), including previously-unreleased gems from The Click Beetles, Eytan Mirsky, Pop Co-Op, Irene Peña, Michael Slawter (covering The Posies), and The Anderson Council (covering XTC), a new remix of "Infinite Soul" by The Grip Weeds, and familiar TIRnRR Fave Raves by Vegas With Randolph, Gretchen's Wheel, The Armoires, and Pacific Soul Ltd. Oh, and that mystery bonus track? It's exquisite. You need this. You're buying the digital download from from Futureman, and/or the CD from Kool Kat Musik.
(And you can still get our 2017 compilation This Is Rock 'n' Roll Radio, Volume 4, on CD from Kool Kat Musik and as a download from Futureman Records.)
Get MORE Carl! Check out the fourth and latest issue of the mighty Big Stir magazine at bigstirrecords.com/magazine
(And you can still get our 2017 compilation This Is Rock 'n' Roll Radio, Volume 4, on CD from Kool Kat Musik and as a download from Futureman Records.)
Get MORE Carl! Check out the fourth and latest issue of the mighty Big Stir magazine at bigstirrecords.com/magazine
Hey, Carl's writin' a book! The Greatest Record Ever Made! (Volume 1) will contain 100 essays (and then some) about 100 tracks, plus two bonus instrumentals, each one of 'em THE greatest record ever made. An infinite number of records can each be the greatest record ever made, as long as they take turns. Updated initial information can be seen here: THE GREATEST RECORD EVER MADE! (Volume 1).
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