A Is For . . .

Songs A to Z

My 26-day challenge to myself -- write about a different band every day, working from A to Z. And just to prove that I'm not gonna be all high-falutin' about it, my first choice is: 

ABBA / "The Winner Takes It All"

When ABBA's fourth album Arrival  came out in 1976, I was living in the UK. You could not avoid that LP at the time; it was HUGE. Every third song played at every party and disco we went to was “Dancing Queen”; I can still do the line-dance we invented for it. But it didn't stop there: "Money Money Money," "Fernando," "Knowing Me Knowing You" -- every song on that album is etched in my memory.

But in 1980, when ABBA released Super Trouper, I'd moved to New York City and was listening to cynical New Wavers like Elvis Costello, Graham Parker, and the Talking Heads. When this single came on the radio (yes, I still listened to the radio), I probably shrugged it off as sentimental schmaltz.

And yet, and yet -- that lump in my throat could not be denied.

I'll come clean now: it's my favorite ABBA song of all time.

Now, in 1980 I had no idea of this song's backstory. Only years later would I see a documentary about ABBA that explained to me the tangled love lives of the band's four members, Benny, Bjorn, Annafrid, and Agnetha. According to that film, Bjorn wrote this song to pour out his grief over his divorce from his wife Agnetha. But ABBA songs were almost always sung by the ladies -- and in this case, Agnetha was the one who had to sing it.  That means she had to sing a song about her ex-husband's feelings about being divorced from her.

Give the lady credit: she nailed the emotions in this song.

Wistful resignation runs through this song -- "I don't want to talk / About the things we've gone through / Though it's hurting me / Now it's history." Later on, Agnetha sings fatalistically, "The gods may throw the dice / Their minds as cold as ice." How Norse is that? But if the pain hasn't gone away yet, they've both accepted the reality of the end.

Movie-music arpeggios and yearning chord shifts step in to take the place of ABBA's usual bright pop reflexes. Looking back on the past, she feels blindsided: "I was in your arms / Thinking I belonged there / I figured it made sense / Building me a fence." And just for good measure -- a twist of the knife -- she carries this on in the next couplet, "Building me a home / Thinking I'd be strong there." (Bjorn clearly liked that image of walking through a house to symbolize divorce: he'd used it already in "Knowing Me Knowing You"). I trusted you, buddy, and look where it's left me.

In the third verse, the Other Woman enters the picture. (Ah, betrayal and jealousy rear their ugly heads.) "But tell me does she kiss / The way I used to kiss you? / Does it feel the same / When she calls your name?"  I love how Agnetha softens her voice for this verse, drops into that intimate register to summon a now-regretful memory of pillow talk.

Oh, she makes sure he knows how selfless she's being -- "I don't want to talk / If it makes you feel sad . . . I apologize / If it makes you feel bad." Wait -- he left you for another woman, and you are apologizing to him?  I've always been torn by this verse, wanting her to stand up for herself, and yet totally getting how wrecked she is -- "Seeing me so tense / No self-confidence." I love how Agnetha lags behind the beat, singing those lyrics almost woodenly, numbly.

The refrain reiterates that he's the winner, walking away with everything, and she's the loser. (Bjorn and Agnetha insist that neither of them was the loser in their divorce; this is just a song, people.) Still, I have to wonder. If Bjorn wrote this to express his own regrets, who was the winner who took it all?

Agnetha told a reporter in 2013: "There is so much in that song. It was a mixture of what I felt and what Bjorn felt, but also what Benny and Frida went through."

So how did Bjorn write a song with such insight into Agnetha's pain?  I can only imagine how it felt to hear her sing it over and over again, at concert after concert. So who's the winner in the end?

Wheels within wheels. And how can we not love this band?

"The Winner Takes It All" / ABBA

What -- she's gone for six weeks and then she comes back to write about ABBA?

But you see, while I was gone I went to Sweden, and what was the first thing I heard as I entered baggage claim at the Stockholm airport?  Agnetha's and Frida's voices, blending in their inimitable way, belting out "Take a Chance on Me." Was that perfect or what?

After all, ABBA is Sweden's greatest gift to the world, right up there with Volvo, Ikea, and Pippi Longstocking. So why not pipe it into the concourse just so you know you're really in Sweden?  Okay, so it was being played for a specific purpose: to promote the new ABBA Museum that just opened on Djurgarden. But hey, it worked -- I dragged my family to see the exhibit as soon as possible.

The museum was slick and entertaining, just like ABBA, and I suspect that my kids didn't come away as converts to the ABBA sound. They grew up in the post-punk indie era; how could they possibly hear how fresh ABBA's sound was when they first hit the scene? But it struck me anew, and seeing it in Stockholm really brought home what an achievement it was for a foursome from Sweden to take the world by storm back in 1974, winning the Eurovision Song Contest with their breakout hit "Waterloo."

Don't you dig those costumes?  In 1974, Eurovision contestants were still appearing in dirndls and lederhosen; the sequins and fringes and tight satin pants blew all that away. One of the coolest things about the ABBA museum was the room full of their stage costumes.  And it wasn't just the girls, either; Benny and Bjorn styled around in jumpsuits and capes that would put Liberace to shame. Frida in particular was hugely interested in how they looked on stage. They didn't dance much, and they didn't have the kind of pyrotechnics that today's headliners are expected to have. But for 1974, they were cutting-edge.

It's not like I haven't written about ABBA before -- you may remember my fondness for "Dancing Queen" and "Knowing Me Knowing You." Both of those tracks came from the only ABBA album I actually owned, Arrival, which also included the somewhat darker "Money Money Money" -- a song that was as close to social commentary as these Swedes ever went. (It also featured Frida's throaty contralto instead of Agnetha on lead vocal, if you're keeping score.)  Considering that Frida later married a German prince and is now living with a British viscount, I'd say she knows something about the topic of marrying money. 

But over the years, the ABBA song I keep coming back to is "The Winner Takes It All."  A later track, it appeared on 1980's Super Trouper, which was released after half of the group -- Bjorn Ulvaeus and Agnetha Faltskog -- had filed for divorce. (Anni-Frid Lyngstad and Benny Andersson were still hanging in there, but they would divorce in 1981.) Bjorn was the band's lyricist, and though he denies that this song was written about their divorce, I'm not buying it. The pain of splitting from a life partner runs through every bar of this song. And you can't tell me that Agnetha's delivery doesn't reflect some genuine heartbreak.

Wistful resignation runs through this song -- "I don't want to talk / About the things we've gone through / Though it's hurting me / Now it's history." Later on, she sings fatalistically, "The gods may throw the dice / Their minds as cold as ice." The pain hasn't gone away yet, but they've both accepted the reality of the end.

Or have they?  Gone are the bright bouncy syncopation, the cheerful pop hooks; this song swells with movie-music arpeggios and yearning chord shifts. Looking back on the past, she feels blindsided: "I was in your arms / Thinking I belonged there / I figured it made sense / Building me a fence." And just for good measure -- a twist of the knife -- she carries this on in the next couplet, "Building me a home / Thinking I'd be strong there." I trusted you, buddy, and look where it's left me.

In the third verse, the Other Woman enters the picture. (Ah, betrayal and jealousy rear their ugly heads.) "But tell me does she kiss / The way I used to kiss you? / Does it feel the same / When she calls your name?"  I love how Agnetha softens her voice for this verse, drops into that intimate register to summon a memory of pillow talk. That's got to evoke a twinge of regret.

And in the last verse, she makes sure he knows how selfless she's being -- "I don't want to talk / If it makes you feel sad . . . I apologize / If it makes you feel bad." Wait -- he left you for another woman, and you're apologizing to him?  I've always been torn by this verse, wanting her to stand up for herself, and yet totally getting how wrecked she is -- "Seeing me so tense / No self-confidence." I love how she lags behind the beat, singing those lyrics almost woodenly, numbly.

The refrain reiterates that the man is the winner, walking away with everything, and the woman is the loser. (Bjorn and Agnetha insist that neither of them was the loser in their divorce; this is just a song, people.) Still, I have to wonder. If Bjorn was the winner, how did he write a song with such insight into Agnetha's pain?  I can only imagine how it felt to hear her sing it over and over again, at concert after concert. So who's the winner in the end?

The 100 Best Singles In My Head
Nos. 16-20

This high on the list, we should have nothing but Major Artists, right? Wrong. Beatles, yes, Beach Boys yes, but those other three? Well, this is MY list, and I'm happy to tell you why those three belong so near the top. For one thing, notice their distinctive intros -- you could easily name that tune in four beats or less. That may not be the only mark of a great single, but it's a pretty persuasive start.

[Click on the highlighted links to read my earlier posts on those songs]

16. "Strawberry Fields Forever" / "Penny Lane" / The Beatles (1967)
Hard to imagine that the Beatles captured this much genius on one seven-inch disc of plastic. Shrewdly, they marketed this as a double-A single -- there was the John side and there was the Paul side, and they were as different as could be.

17. "Good Vibrations" / The Beach Boys (1966)
This record was released the week I turned thirteen. You remember what it feels like to be thirteen: Everything inside you and around you is changing; you don't know who or why or where you are. And suddenly here was this song that totally captured that shape-shifting state of mind -- not only that, it made it seem mysterious, exciting, and cool. "Good Vibrations" is a truly astonishing track, a perfect little "pocket symphony." It starts out with Carl's sweet anxious tenor, soon joined by Brian's falsetto, on the ballad-like verse. (Any time a song starts out with Carl Wilson singing, you know I'll love it.) Then we switch into a more traditional Beach Boys sound for the chorus, Mike Love booming in his low voice, "I'm picking up good vibrations / She's givin' me excitation," while the others chant "um bop bop good vibrations" in their trademark close harmonies. But what is that whiny space-age sound floating over their voices? I had never heard a theremin before, but it was a genius move to throw it into the mix, adding an other-worldly dimension to this song about finding your soul mate. And just when you think you've got the pattern -- verse, chorus, verse, chorus -- after the second chorus the song suddenly transmogrifies, each "good good GOOD" rising in pitch and volume, chords shifting upward until it achieves lift-off. There's a jangly little interlude, a meteor shower of overlapping vocals, and at last we hit cruise altitude in the bridge, with a mellow organ and creamy call-and-response vocals -- "got to keep those good vibrations a-happening with her" -- all soft rock, L.A. style. But wait! Just when you least expect it, we break on through to the other side, with that magnificent wall of sound: "AAHHHHHHH!" Then we go into warp drive, tempo faster, chords shifting, voices crossing, drums jingling -- and finally burst into a new galaxy entirely, with a shimmering cascade of vocals in counterpoint, a rock madrigal, with nothing but a tambourine for accompaniment. By the time the theremin whizzes in again, like a rocketship to bear us away for the fadeout -- WHEW! I suppose you're gonna tell me now that the song was meant to replicate a drug trip, or the act of intercourse (that orgasmic AAHHHHHH!!). But what did I know at the time? I was only thirteen. And YET it spoke to me, in an ecstatic musical language all its own. It certainly wasn't the words ("She goes with me to a blossom world"?) Mike Love lyrics never did the trick for me. But who cares?

18. "I'm a Believer" / The Monkees (1966)
One day one of my older brother's friends -- maybe it was Skip Keene -- told me that the Monkees were fakes. "They don't even play their own instruments!" he sneered. I knew he was only saying it because he knew how much I loved Davy Jones. But still, it made me cry because I loved the Monkees, and I'm not afraid to admit it. (Click here for my "Last Train to Clarksville" squeal of fangirl devotion.) Glued to that television set every week, I knew all their songs, but like everyone else I was swept up in the triumphant success of "I'm a Believer" -- their great #1 hit, and the US's top-selling record for 1967 (click on the 1967 label to the right to see what other amazing songs it beat out). Take THAT you scoffers! Though the Monkees had only released their first album in September 1966 -- timed to coincide with the debut of their TV series -- they were such an instant hit that a second album was rushed out in December 1966. Compared to their carefully assembled first album The Monkees (a surprisingly fine LP), More of the Monkees was, er, kinda spotty. The Monkees themselves were so busy filming, music director Don Kirshner only had them drop by the studio to record vocals; the compelling guitar hook here was played by the song's composer, none other than Neil Diamond, and other session musicians did the rest. (I'd love to know who contributed that distinctive calliope organ riff.) Still, there were some excellent tracks on the LP -- not only this but also its B-side, "I'm Not Your Steppin' Stone" -- and it wasn't just Monkeemania that made this single a hit. It fairly bursts with youthful high spirits, and that toe-tapping beat is irresistible. One of the Monkees' first acts of rebellion was to override Kirshner's choice of Davy Jones as the band's main lead vocalist; listening to this, even I have to admit that Mickey Dolenz was the right man for the job. There's something boyish and tentative about his voice at first, as he recounts, "I thought love was only true in fairy tales / Meant for someone else but not for me." But he gathers intensity in the chorus, declaring, "Then I saw her face / Now I'm a believer! / Not a trace / Of doubt in my mind." He's a convert, testifying and bearing witness for all he's worth, building to a groan of slaked lust: "I'm in love, Ummmmm! / I'm a believer, I couldn't leave her / If I tried." As the song spun off in its own orbit with the fadeout, Mickey scatting away, we legions of Monkee fans were like the children of Hamelin town -- ready to follow that pied piper anywhere.

19. "Dancing Queen" / ABBA (1976)
I defy ye, rock snobs! (Yes even you, Ray Davies, making fun of ABBA at your concert last Saturday night. . . what have you got against Sweden these days?) I refuse to apologize for loving ABBA. At the height of ABBA's fame, I was living in the UK, and although I had missed the 1974 Eurovision Song Contest, when "Waterloo" swept the top prize, most of my English friends were confirmed ABBA addicts, and I quickly caught the bug. In 1976 this hit single was an absolutely essential part of every night out at the disco. When I say disco, I don't mean Studio 54 -- I mean some drafty little community centre in a small town on the Kent coast, with watery drinks and a dodgy PA system and warps in the lino floor. But when "Dancing Queen" came on, a cry would go up, and the dance floor filled in an instant. You immediately know it's "Dancing Queen" from that long downward keyboard glissando, followed by a sheer wall of ahhh'ed vocals and synthesizers -- production values to the max -- punctuated with Liberace-style hammered piano chords. Then in swoop the girls, wasting no time; they START with that frantically emotive chorus: "Yooo-OU can dance, yooo-OU can ji-ive / Having the time of your life / See that girl, watch that scene / Digging the dancing queen." The mix of Agnetha and Frida's voices always sends a shiver up my spine, and recently I learned why: Their voices were recorded at slightly different speeds, then one was sped up, to create a whisper of dissonance when they were played together. That gives their doubled vocals a hard edge, and a melancholy that always seems to me to be peculiarly Scandinavian. Gently rocking verses set the nightclub scene (memorable phrases: "Friday night and the lights are low . . . Anybody could be that guy / Night is young and the music's [beat] hi-igh. . .") -- just a beguiling hint of scuzziness. Then it's back to the chorus to celebrate our heroine: "Dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen (ahh ooooh) / Dancing queen, feel the beat of the tambourine (yea-ahh)." (Do I hear an echo of the Beatles in that "only seventeen" line?) The whole thing dances on the cusp of moral ambiguity, innocence and depravity held in the balance. Is the "queen" a woman, a drag queen, or the female monarch of Sweden? IRRELEVANT, I tell you! It's all about that crisp, taut dance beat, and how it can take over your cerebral cortex for three minutes and 52 seconds. (Check out this link to the invaluable Songfacts site to sample critical opinion.) If you can sit in your chair while this thing's playing, I FEEL SORRY FOR YOU.

20. "96 Tears" / ? and the Mysterians (1966)
Now THIS is what I think of when I think of a radio hit classic -- 2:57 of swampy fun, with an organ riff you cannot get out of your head.

“Knowing Me, Knowing You” / ABBA

I suppose this fits in the category of Guilty Pleasures – except I refuse to apologize for loving ABBA. I am, however, willing to admit that my ABBA fondness owes a lot to the Time and Place Factor, right along with Carole King’s Tapestry and James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James. I was living in Europe, where ABBA was always bigger than in the States, and over the 1976 Christmas holidays, every third song played at every party and disco we went to was “Dancing Queen.” You know that keyboard glissando at the beginning? Everytime the crowd heard it, they let loose a matching hoot of delight. “Dancing Queen” is a fantastic dance hit, at least for the dances people danced in 1976 -- not too fast, full of whoo-oohs and shick-a-shick drums and string section twirls that let you peel off a disco flourish or two.

If pressed, though, I'm willing to concede that “Dancing Queen” is no masterpiece – it’s too much a rip-off of “I Saw Her Standing There.” But “Knowing Me Knowing You”? There’s a song with substance. Really. Bear with me.

Once on a flight to Europe, I saw a documentary about ABBA and I was positively riveted by its account of the tangled love lives of the band's four members, Benny, Bjorn, Frida, and Agnetha. I can’t keep straight who’s who, so don’t ask me which two were married and which ones had the affair, but you get the picture. It struck me as tragic, much more so than the similar affairs that busted up Fleetwood Mac and The Mamas and the Papas in their day. “The Winner Takes It All” is the most poignant song they ever recorded about this betrayal and break-up, but “Knowing Me Knowing You” comes close.

Yes, it’s a break-up song, despite its mid-tempo synthesized glitter. Hear that bitterness in the girls’ voices, especially when the men’s voices weave weakly in and out, ineffectually protesting. Those strident female vocals never worked better than in this song (well, this one and “Money, Money, Money”). Then there’s the tantalizing “a-ha’s” thrown in, not to mention the whispered echo of “memories…good days…bad days…”, like the devil on her other shoulder tempting her back into the relationship.

The lyrics casually drop details of this affair. Clearly it's been volatile – “this time we’re through” they keep saying, so you know they’ve broken up before. She’s “walking through an empty house / tears in my eyes,” so they’re been living together; “in these old familiar rooms / Children would play / Now there’s only emptiness / Nothing to say,” so there’s kids involved. I imagine a tough, independent woman (blond of course), pulling the plug on a marriage that’s put them both through the wringer -- hence the hardness of the music's electronic texture, the flat affect of the singing, the forced snappy rhythm. They're past fury, but not yet in acceptance mode; hear how the voices waver briefly on the line “Breaking up is never easy / I know / But I have to go,” with its plaintive echo of all those girl-group songs. It’s practically like a Bergman film in my opinion; those doubled vocals make me see Liv Ullman and Bibi Andersson in Persona.

Did you know that Frida and Agnetha’s vocals were recorded separately, at slightly different tempos? They were then adjusted for playback at the same tempo, which made one girl’s voice come out ever so slightly lower than the other. The result was a distinctive mix of dissonance and bottom, which invested those tracks with an anthemic grandeur. When I heard that (that airplane documentary again) it was like a bell going off – of course! It wasn’t just how great Frida and Agnetha’s voices were; this studio “sweetening” was a stroke of genius, especially given the disco-like shimmer of their wall of sound.

If this were a slow and mournful song, it wouldn’t work. It’s a hard and determined song. She is walking out, and calling on all the steel in her soul to do so. But she’s the level-headed one here, the one who knows her man and knows herself and knows there’s no hope. They’ve given it an honest shot, but it is TIME TO MOVE ON. Well, godspeed, sister. You go, girl.

Take a listen: http://www.amazon.com/gp/recsradio/radio/B00005CDNG/ref=pd_krex_dp_001_005/002-8741997-4930451?ie=UTF8&track=005&disc=001