"Another Day"/"Silly Love Songs"/"Goodnight Tonight" / Paul McCartney & Wings

 I was wrong about Paul McCartney.

Mind you, I've been in love with this man since February 1964. And I'll go to my grave insisting that McCartney was the true musical genius of the Beatles, with a melodic gift on the level of Cole Porter and Puccini and Mozart. (I'll grant that Lennon might have been the literary genius of the band.) I'd say more but I'm saving it for my masters thesis, when and if that ever happens.

I've never wavered from loving Paul's early solo albums (McCartney and Ram for sure, and I'll go deep on the often-undervalued Wild Life.) When Wings came along, I obsessed over Band on the Run (still one of my favorite albums of all time), and played all the other albums endlessly. For all of Paul's solo albums since then, it's never been hard to find gold. 

But Paul's pop singles -- especially in the 70s, when everyone was obsessively comparing the ex-Beatles' solo careers -- well, those were another matter altogether. Were they cheesy? Possibly they were cheesy -- I couldn't decide. And when other music fans I respected dissed those tracks, I backed off. (The fact that those songs sold like crazy was beside the point.) I became convinced that Macca had no one around him who'd tell him when something was not up to his best. If only I could become the one person Paul trusted (naturally, because he was in love with me -- oh, don't get me started), I could help him out by telling him that those tracks were crap. 

But were they?

I've spent the last 48 hours listening to these 3 tracks over and over, and I am gobsmacked.

Let's start with "Another Day," Paul's 1971 debut single as a solo artist. I'm sure I disliked it when it first came out because Paul wrote it with his new wife Linda, and I was sore that he'd married her. I was also disappointed that he seemed to be trying to write another "Eleanor Rigby," describing the sad routine of a lonely woman -- dressing in the morning, drinking coffee at the office, going to the post office. Yet the tune is so boppy and perky, it seemed like there was a disconnect. 

But I listen to it now, and I see how the perkiness is just the brave face the woman puts on, staving off the quiet despair that is so clear in the lyrics. And it's complemented by the other half of the song, which switches to a poignant minor key waltz ("Sad / so sad /sometimes she feels so sad") as she fantasizes about the man of her dreams, who in reality is a cad who leaves her. It's a heartbreaker, and I'm drawn in by its genuine sympathy for this nameless woman. That sort of observational social commentary was always Paul's thing in the Beatles era. If I hadn't been so jealous of Paul's marriage, I'd have gotten this years ago.

It was songs like this, I suppose, that John Lennon mocked Paul for. Paul defended himself by writing 1976's "Silly Love Songs." It's the song that Macca-haters bring up first when they're trying to prove that he's a lightweight, and therefore it was for years the song that made me most embarrassed to still be a Paul McCartney fangirl. But I am so over that now. If you actually listen to this song's melodic energy, it's hard to resist. 

Simple? It's anything but. Listen to how it builds and builds, interweaving various melodic themes (not so different from the Beach Boys' "Good Vibrations," which when you think about it is also pretty much just a silly love song). When the whole thing gets going, it's all contrapuntal and polyrhythmic; you could crawl inside it and get lost. My heart kicks over at that surprisingly insightful middle eight: "Love doesn't come in a minute / Sometimes it doesn't come at all / I only know when I'm in it / Love isn't silly, love isn't silly at all." (Rhyming "minute" and "in it" = genius.)  And yes, it helps that this song is a perfect vehicle for McCartney's voice. It's also one of the catchiest tunes he ever wrote, which I know isn't the point, but it is the point. Paul, I am so sorry for taking this song on face value. Can you ever forgive me?

And finally I started listening to "Goodnight Tonight," which came out in 1979. I don't think I EVER listened to this single back in the day. It seemed to me that Paul was selling out by going disco, and I was a New Wave girl who hated disco. But while I'm sure it played in dance clubs, this is so much more than a mindless disco track.

The rhythmic patterns of this track are insane. That Latin percussion, the saucy guitar licks, the flamenco guitar in the middle eight -- and let's not overlook the gorgeously melodic bass line (another topic for my masters thesis: how Paul McCartney transformed the role of the bass in rock music). Lyrics? Pretty much non-existent, just repeated "Don't say it / don't say it / don't say it / Don't say goodnight tonight," though the verse has a lovely leaping plea ("Don't say goodnight to love"). It's basically a seduction track, but it's so joyful and tender. Again, a track you can get lost in -- and now that I'm not fighting the disco wars, I am very happy to sink into its groove.

So after all these years, mea culpa, Paul. I doubted you and I was wrong. 

And now that we've cleared that up, any chance you'd still take me on as your most trusted crap tester (with benefits)? Because I'm totally available for the job...

 

 

"You're So Vain" / Carly Simon

Lately it seems every song I get hooked on turns out to be something I've written about before. So I'm thoroughly jazzed to discover that this earworm -- which has been haunting me since I put it on a solar eclipse playlist for April 8th ("you flew your LearJet to Nova Scotia / to see the total eclipse of the sun") -- is fresh territory.

Honestly?

I mean, when it hit the airwaves in November 1972, this song was everywhere. And I know you know it, so don't pretend you don't.

That fall I had just discovered a local "all hits all the time" radio station in Springfield, MA, that I played constantly (no Spotify back then, kids, no computers -- I actually played this on my clock radio, since I didn't even own a car at the time). This rolled up regularly, alongside the Doobie Brothers ("Listen to the Music"), America ("Ventura Highway"), and Dr. Hook & the Medicine Show ("Cover of Rolling Stone," which -- prepare to have your mind blown -- was actually written by Shel Silverstein). And yes, also Helen Reddy's "I Am Woman," so Carly wasn't the only chick putting out feminist manifestos at the time.

Simon had already been on my radar, with her moody, angsty "That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be," which came out a year and a half earlier, blowing my young mind by questioning the marriage/kids imperative. 

But this song? This was full-on female swagger and sass, with perfect pop instincts. Best of all: It's a riddle for the ages. Because who exactly WAS this egotistic ex she's skewering? Mick Jagger? David Bowie? Warren Beatty? David Cassidy? The one person she has definitively said it wasn't was James Taylor, whom she'd married just before the song came out. Damn -- way to play your cards, Carly.

But all that buzz obscures Carly's classic songwriting chops. She starts in verse one with a skewering real-time shot of the preening male diva -- "You walked into the party / Like you were walking onto a yacht / Your hair strategically dipped below one eye / Your scarf it was apricot." In verse two she widens the shot to Mr. X's jet-setting activities, at the Saratoga racetrack ("where your horse naturally won") and up in Nova Scotia viewing the aforementioned eclipse. How coolly she backs into her devastating remark, "You're where you should be all the time / And when you're not you're with / Some underground spy or the wife of a close friend..."

And then in verse three she makes it personal. "You had me several years ago / When I was quite naive." Has she moved on? Enigmatically, she comes back with "I had some dreams /They were clouds in my coffee / Clouds in my coffee..." Well there's a whole world there to explore.

Funny thing is -- fifty years on, I can still sing every word of this song. Hard-wired, I tell you.

Happy St. Paddy's from Dexys Midnight Runners

Yes, those Dexys Midnight Runners, and don't pretend you didn't love their big 1982 hit "Come On Eileen." Just in case you were on another planet when this single hit the airwaves, here's my previous post on that beloved hit. 

Dexys Midnight Runners generally get clocked as a one-hit band. But just listen to this track, the first single released from Dexys 1982 album Too-Rye-Ay (and the album's first track). What's sad is that I've never heard it before, and it's actually every bit as catchy and delightful as "Come On Eileen."

Everyone's having fun here, the scrappy vibe propels it forward (those spiky fiddles playing like a soul band's horn section), and there's a riff I can't get out of my head. 

We could be listening to the Dubliners and the Chieftans singing the auld tunes on St. Patrick's Day or we could be having a rare bit o' fun with Kevin Rowland (aka Dexy). I know which side of the soda bread I'm slathering my Kerrygold butter on.

"The Guy Who Doesn't Get It" / Jill Sobule

Okay, this song has been obsessively occupying my cerebral cortex for at least a week now. Maybe writing a blog post is the only way to exorcise it. Trouble is -- and this, dear readers, is at least two-thirds of why I so rarely post these days -- I've already written about this song. Back in 2007, in fact. Because the songs I love keep coming back to me, and this is one I really love.

Way early in my blogging days, back when iTunes still was a Wild West of user-posted playlists (like Spotify was just a few years ago), you could actually discover new artists from other music fans. Somehow I landed on someone's playlist of great girl singers, or something like that, which is where I first found this song. I instantly fell in love with Jill Sobule's music. I'm way down that road now; I've bought all her albums, seen her several times in concert, subscribed to her Patreon account. So writing about this song is more than deja vu all over again. It's a tribute to how satisfying it is when you see how right your first impressions were.  

Jill Sobule is like this great girlfriend you can sit up late with, drinking margaritas and eating Doritos and getting slaphappy. Her songs are so perky, her voice so kittenish, you don't realize at first how snarky her lyrics are; then suddenly you're in on the joke and you love it -- like in this brilliant song from her Pink Pearl album (2000).

The joke here is not that the girl singing the song is suicidally depressed -- although she is -- it's that her obtuse boyfriend hasn't got a clue. "Can't you see that I am dying inside?", she starts singing, in that sweet-and-innocent voice, even before the listless acoustic guitar and bored-sounding drums lurch in -- "Can't you hear my muffled cry?" On the second verse, a lazy slide guitar joins in as she wearily elaborates: "Don't you know my life's a quiet hell? / I'm a black hole, I'm an empty shell / Does it occur to you that I might need help?/ You're the guy who doesn't get it."

Okay, that's the premise; we've all known/dated/married men like this. But then, Jill being Jill, she pushes the scenario into Luis Bunuel territory: "Say I'm in the tub with a razor blade / You'd walk in and ask me "How was your day?" / Then you'd lather up and start to shave / As I bleed on the new tile floor..." The NEW tile floor; that's the detail that grabs me -- trust a woman to notice, even as she's slitting her wrists, that the blood's going to ruin her nice new floor.

She could say anything and he'd never notice. In the next verse, she compares him to Nazi collaborators; in the second bridge she hauls out one more melodramatic scenario: "Say the car exhaust engulfs my brain/ The Nembutol is racing through my veins / You come in and ask "Are you okay?"/ As I close my eyes forever." Pause and -- wait for it! But, erm...

A plunking piano ambles in, as if it's not even worth the effort to get the notes right. Jill tries the chorus one last time, asking wryly, "What's going on inside those vacant eyes?" And of course she has no answer -- none of us do. None of us ever do. But sometimes, the only thing that keeps you sane is knowing that at least your girlfriends know just what you're talking about.

"I Say a Little Prayer for You" -- A Bacharach Smackdown

When Burt Bacharach died in February, I started making a playlist -- as one does -- and found myself having to make a lot of choices. I mean, I couldn't have the Dionne Warwick version of every song. In some cases, it was a coin flip -- go with Dusty Springfield here, opt for Jackie DeShannon there, a little Sandie Shaw here, a little Karen Carpenter there. Throw in some Isaac Hayes and a touch of Herb Alpert, and you start to realize just what genius songwriting Burt Bacharach and Hal David were guilty of.

Now don't get me wrong: In the world of Bacharach, Dionne Warwick more than earned her stripes. She not only had the voice he needed -- the range, the clarity, the pitch, the emotional texture -- she also had the musical intelligence for a composer who liked changing keys and time signature so much, damn all the pop music conventions. A child of a gospel choir family, she'd also gone to a music conservatory; she knew her stuff. Bacharach himself called her his muse, and I'll fight you to the death for her versions of "Don't Make Me Over," "Do You Know the Way to San Jose," and "I'll Never Fall in Love Again." 

But then I ran smack into this conundrum. 

I grew upon Dionne's million-selling 1966 single "I Say a Little Prayer for You." It's a masterpiece, no doubt about it. It's got that brisk scat-like rhythm, the crisp muted horns, and an indefinable undertow of something I can only call Santa Monica surf. And there's Dionne's vocal, delicate and yet razor sharp, recounting all the ways in which she thinks of her man throughout her day. Hal David's lyrics deftly walk us through her day -- waking up, applying her make-up, riding the bus to work, taking a coffee break -- she's a career girl, she has it together, and she's happily in love. David apparently intended the song to be about a woman whose lover/husband is serving in Vietnam (1966, mind you), but there's nothing anxious about this track. She shouts her love to the rooftops (the chorus exults, "Forever, forever, we never will part, oh how I love you") and she's down on her knees thanking God for blessing her with such a love. It's sunny and delicious. As a pre-teen, this told me everything I wanted to believe about how wonderful it would be as a grown-up -- a competent modern female -- to love and be loved.

But now that I am a grown-up, why does Aretha Franklin's version pack such a punch? The edgy growl in Aretha's voice clues us in from the get-go: She's worried about this guy, and for good reason. With that gritty soul arrangement and the gospel choir of girlfriends doing the call and response, she's testifying to her anxieties. Whereas Dionne I imagine springing out of bed, Aretha seems to be hauling herself groggily out from under the covers; Dionne is patting her coiffure into place while Aretha yanks a comb through her hair, attacking those overnight tangles. She doesn't have a lot of down time, and when she does -- the bus ride, the coffee break -- it just opens the door for worrying. Whether he's in Nam and just a no-good lowlife, she's praying for him, asking for protection. Gratitude? Forget about it. She doesn't trust him, she's waiting for bad news. And all those details about her daily life read as the strength of a woman who keeps putting one foot in front of the other, getting up, going to her job, because she's learned she can't depend on anyone else -- and surely not on that man. Even the chorus reads differently: I zero in instead on the feisty lines "Together, forever, that's how it must be / To live without you / Would only mean heartbreak for me..." She can already taste the heartbreak, because she's tasted it before. This is a whole 'nother song.

Well, I put both in my playlist. How could I not? But I'd love to hear which one speaks most to you...

"Summer of My Wasted Youth" / Amy Rigby

October 3rd, the Loft at City Winery, and I'm finally committing myself to an indoor show in a small space where no one is masked. Do I freak out? Well, for a few minutes, but once I'm there, it's easy to forget what year this is. I'm with my longtime crew of Kinky/Jiggy friends, I'm at my old City Winery stomping grounds (well, um, they moved during the pandemic so it's actually a new place, but they've still got the City Cab on tap and great flatbread pizzas).

My friends are here for the opening act, Rogers & Butler, and they do a bang-up job. Really good band, and great songwriting, although since we are sitting at the edge of the stage we can only hear bass and drums and no lyrics. Erp. Because I am actually here for the headliner, one of my top Girl Songwriters of all time, Amy Rigby. I put her right up there with Jill Sobule, Aimee Mann, and Jenny Lewis in my pantheon of chicks who do the feminist thing with wit and irony and a whole lotta snark. And, being a Lyrics Girl, I really want to hear Amy Rigby's lyrics.

But then she pulls out this old acoustic number, from her 1998 album Middlescence (you can also find it on the excellent 18 Again: An Anthology), and I am a puddle of emotion. 

Most of us have had a time like this, where even if you did have a job (or, as Amy puts it, a "j-o-b," as if it were something dirty and unmentionable), it was a dead-end job you didn't care about. When everything seemed possible and nothing seemed urgent; when your pleasure-to-obligation ratio was WAY skewed to the pleasure end of the equation. 

It's a brilliant title, playing off on that old-fart trope ("ah, my wasted youth" or "youth is wasted on the young") with the truth of the matter, which is that they were also wasted most of the time, dropping acid, smoking pot all day, drinking cheap beers at the Polish bar. Still, was it wasted time?  I beg to differ. She buys a guitar, though she hasn't yet learned to play it; she floods her brain with country music. Whatever music she'll eventually make is in there, gestating. 

A sense of loss haunts every line, the realization that the freedom and fun of the summer of '83 has since vanished. Listening the other night, I was especially hit by that one line, almost a throwaway line: "the summer I believed in us" -- you know from the past tense that she's no longer with that guy, and only now can she see how much disillusion and heartbreak was lying in wait for her in the fall of '83. 

Still, though you can't go back again (and would you really want to?), sometimes you can reconnect with who you used to be. Maybe it's because over the pandemic I went to my high school reunion and stirred up all those old memories; maybe it's because I'm zeroing in on the Medicare years and have a heightened sense of time passing. But this song flushes up so many feelings about one summer in Indianapolis -- not '83, but not much earlier -- and I realize I kinda miss the girl I was then.

Thank you, Amy Rigby, for giving her back to me.

"Well I Done Got Over It" / Bobby Mitchell

Lord know where I chanced upon this beauty -- some show we were watching this summer. (I suspect it was the riveting Chris Rock season of Fargo.) But the minute I heard it, I knew it was going onto my permanent playlist. Have a listen:

Here's what little I know about Bobby Mitchell: Born in Algiers, Louisiana, he had a few local hits with high school friends the Toppers in 1953 when he was just 17; a year later the band broke up when several members got drafted. Bobby kept at the music thing, though,and while he never broke through to national fame, he was a fixture on the New Orleans R&B scene until he died in his 50s.

This particular song was originally recorded by Guitar Slim in 1953 as a slouchy blues number. It's since been covered by Buddy Guy, Muddy Waters, and I'm sure a host of others. But listen to how Bobby Mitchell transforms it. He leads off with a howl of frustration, a la the Isley Brothers' "Shout" (Mitchell recorded this in 1960, a year after "Shout"), then goes into a finger-snapping cha-cha beat, with a taunting sax and jittery splashes of roadhouse piano. His woman has done him wrong, and no matter how often he claims he's gotten over it, we know he's still riled up. 

Almost as if to punish himself, he keeps rehearsing the facts of the case ("I didn't want you to be no angel"; "Every time I turned my back / You was out with some other man"; "I remember the day I first met you / You seemed to be this sweet little thing..."). He still can't believe he let her fool him like that. And of course, this being a blues song, he has to repeat the title phrase over and over, but with Bobby, it's as if he's still trying to convince himself. Fact is, he is anything but over it.

This song just crackles with energy, with hurt, with drama. We're in the thick of it with him, and there's no telling how things will end up. Mitchell's vocal is supple, emotive, and oh so relatable. It's just a crazy wonderful song, and I can't believe it's as obscure as it seems to be. Which just tells you, there's so much good music out there we have yet to find...