Songs With Which to View the Solar Eclipse

"Moondance" / Van Morrison

When I left Indianapolis to go to college in New England in 1971, I'd never heard of Van Morrison. Sure, there was that song "Brown-Eyed Girl" by the Irish band Them, but I had no idea who their lead singer was. But in the early 70s Van Morrrison, now a solo act, was huge in the Boston area, and everybody from the Northeast seemed to know the title cut from his 1970 LP Moondance.  It was played endlessly in the dorms, almost as much as Carole King's Tapestry (and if you were around back then, you'll know that's saying something).

In that album-oriented age, it didn't matter that it had never been released as a single -- that wouldn't happen until November 1977, when the record company, stymied by Van's three-year writer's block, finally packaged "Moondance" as a single.

I had just moved back to the States after two years in England, and hearing this song on the radio was welcome indeed, especially since the airwaves were otherwise infested with Fleetwood Mac and Billy Joel, not to mention the Bee Gees, Barry Manilow, and (shudder!) the Eagles. In that context, no wonder Van's eight-year-old record sounded timelessly great, its Celtic soul sound distilled with laidback cool jazz.

Listen to that saxophone part -- it's like honey (Van, a saxophonist himself, composed the melody first, working it out on a sax). Even better is that nimble Jeff Labes piano solo in the middle eight. And best of all is the sinuous prowl of Van's singing -- leaping for the high notes, snuggling with the lows, flirting outrageously with the syncopated beat. Towards the end, Van just gives up and becomes a saxophone.

Okay, so it's not about a solar eclipse -- this is definitely a nighttime song.  "A fantabulous night to make romance," indeed. Still, that dance of the moon is cataclysmic in its own way. "And every tiiime I touch you, you just / Tremble inside / And I know how much you want me,  / That you can't hide  . . . " Unh-HUNH.       

"Moonshadow" / Cat Stevens

Sure, the titles are similar -- but this 1971 track from Teaser and the Firecat is something very different from "Moondance." Forget the sexy soul and jazz; Cat Stevens' stock in trade was folky charm, all wrapped up in faux hippie wisdom. It's very much a song of its era, but a splendid one nonetheless.

Stevens has said in interviews that this song was inspired by a visit to Spain, where one night he stood by the sea under moonshine so strong that he could see his own shadow. All right, not technically an eclipse, but since the whole thing about the solar eclipse is the moon's shadow blotting out the sun . . .

Like a nursery rhyme, it begins with its chorus: "I'm being followed by a moonshadow, / Moonshadow, moonshadow, / Leaping and hopping on a moonshadow, / Moonshadow, moonshadow." All that repetition is almost like an incantation. Then come the verses, which follow a neat pattern -- "If I ever lose my hands [eyes /legs /mouth] . . . I won't have to work [cry /walk /talk] no more." It's an old folk song device; the fun lies in predicting how the singer will complete the pattern each time.

Sure, there's an undertone of melancholy -- all those physical losses, teetering on the edge of tragedy (it's just a whisper away from the Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, taunting his adversary while his limbs are hacked off one by one. ["Come back here and I'll bite your legs off!"]). But verse after verse, he somehow finds a way to blithely sidestep despair. The song is suffused with a glorious optimism -- the lighthearted skipping rhythm, the dancing melody, that nimble, delicate acoustic guitar.

Ever since Cat Stevens turned into Yusuf Islam, listeners have been looking for coded religious messages in his songs. There is something cryptic about that bridge: "Did it take long to find me? I asked the faithful light. / Did it take long to find me? and are you gonna stay the night?" But get over it, folks -- this is the sort of anthropomorphic stuff you'll find in hundreds of children's picture books, and Stevens didn't convert to Islam until 1977, long after he wrote "Moonshadow."

 Nearly 50 years later, this song's fey charm survives intact. And if this is the song that pops into my head while watching the sun disappear on Monday, I'll be cool with that.  

It's Been Too Long....

Far be it from me to blame Donald Trump's presidency for everything . . . but I have to say, I haven't felt in the mood for writing about pop songs lately. However, I'll take a page from New York City's post-9/11 scrappiness, and make a stand here:  No vainglorious pettifogging bully is going to stop me from writing about the music I love.

Although it just might take a little time for me to get back into the groove. So here's my solution:  I'll just set the iTunes shuffle on, and write about the first song that comes up. Cross your fingers!

"Girl Talk" / Georgie Fame

Oh, my. Every since "Yeh Yeh" hit the airwaves in 1964, I've been a fan of this Brit charmer. So just imagine my delight when, in my most intense fangirl mode for Alan Price, I discovered that he and Georgie Fame had teamed up for a British TV series (and a couple of diggable albums). Not only that, Georgie had recorded an album with the Count Basie orchestra, fulfilling his ultimate goal of becoming a jazz musician. Wikipedia doesn't even show it, but I own that LP. It introduced me to the music of Mose Allison and a whole lot more. (Here's a crib sheet for that whole complicated music heritage...)

And so when in the year 2000, Georgie Fame wanted to go full-on jazz, Go Jazz Records made it happen . . .

Born Clive Powell, he was molded into a pop star by Larry Parnes, who forced him to change his name and to sing the sorts of tunes that had worked for Parnes' other clients like Billy Fury and Marty Wilde. But Clive/Georgie really just wanted to be a jazz pianist -- and so when the pop frenzy died down, Clive -- who'd already established himself with a sizzling residency at the London's Flamingo club -- drifted jazzward. He secured career stability by becoming Van Morrison's go-to keyboard player, and then took his free time to do what he wanted to.

Gotta love that.

The title of this 2000 album has some ambitious literary connections, to Dylan Thomas and Federico Garcia Lorca. Well, jazz has always tied itself to serious poetry. But there's nothing stuffy about the relaxed groove of this track. First off, there's the sexy syncopation of the musical phrasing. Then there's the flirtatious lyrics ("She bats her eye / You wanna fly / She sighs her sigh / You wanna cry / Hands on her hip / You wanna flip....") Wowza. And then there's that copasetic sax line, winding around, like a beckoning finger. Come here, big boy...

So while Larry Parnes' other "stars" have faded, Georgie Fame survives. Canny career moves have something to do with that, but I like to think it's also just about talent. This guy had the chops to impress Alan Price, and Van Morrison, and those savvy Flamingo audiences.  He gets a groove that transcends pop and jazz classifications. And when the day is done? I'm pretty darn happy just sitting here listening to the groove . . .

A St. Patrick's Shuffle

A day late. Ah, well, the Irish will forgive me. Click on the links to go to videos.

1. "Be Good Or Be Gone" / Fionn Regan
From End of History (2006)
Cool indie-folk acoustic. This young guy from Bray is quite a poet, with an especially winsome, tentative tenor. This debut album is still one of my faves. "I have become an aerial view / Of a coastal town / That you once knew."  Well, now that you put it that way...

2. "Ireland" / Greg Trooper
From Everywhere (1992)
It's not about the country, it's about a woman, a woman he loves. And yeah, so what, Greg Trooper isn't Irish (he's from New Jersey, via Nashville) and this song has his usual folk-country twang--but it's extra jiggy, with a delicious fiddle. "When I'm with you it feels so right, / My wallet's full on Friday night / My ship has docked, my kingdom's come / And my heart's on fire and over-run...."  Love this song.

3.  "Better Not Wake the Baby" / The Decemberists 
From What a Terrible World, What a Wonderful World (2015)
Another of my "honorary" Irish tunes. Lead singer and songwriter Colin Meloy must have suckled on some Celtic teat in his Montana childhood, because most everything his band does has a half-demented tragi-folk quality, like as not loaded up with fiddle and squeezebox. This song is a tasty brew, half Brecht and half The Honeymooners, as a warring couple square off at each other. Another of the great Irish themes. 

4. "The Lowlands of Holland" / Natalie Merchant and the Chieftains
From Tears of Stone (1999)
Yes, that Natalie Merchant, from 10,000 Maniacs, but she sure sounds Irish, right down to the yelpy flutter in her voice, when backed by the Chieftains, the most Irishest band of all. It's one of those traditional songs that everyone's given a spin, but a poignant one, as a young solider's widow grieves his death fighting another country's war far away.  (Love, loss, and homesickness -- they say this song was originally British, but how could the Irish not have appropriated it?). Penny whistle and concertina and all,

5. "Mo Ghile Mear" / Sting and the Chieftains
From The Wide World Over (2002)
Sting sure does get all emotional about Celtic folk stuff -- he's even singing Gaelic in the chorus. ("My Gallant Darling" -- it's meant to be the goddess Eire grieving for Bonnie Prince Charlie.) It's easy to make fun of Sting, he takes himself so seriously, but I have to admit this is a pretty fine vocal. And of course the bodhrans help.

6. "Star of the County Down" / Van Morrison 
From Irish Heartbeat (1988)
Well, here's the real deal -- Sir Van Morrison of Belfast. It's another of those songs that everyone sings, but really, who ever could sing it better than Van the Man? The chorus to this runs through my head whenever I look at a map of Ireland: "From Bantry Bay up to Derry quay / And from Galway to Dublin town, /  Not a lass I've seen like a brown colleen that I met in the County Down."

7. "Living in America" / Black 47
From Fire of Freedom (1992)
Ah, Larry Kirwan -- the great transplanted Celtic rocker and bard of the pre-Celtic Tiger Irish immigrant experience.  The life he describes in this thrashing anthem (still with fiddles and penny whistles!) is just what I've heard from all the nannies and construction guys I know here in New York. "In the cold daylight, I feel like shite / And I can't remember last night's fun / Then the foreman says, "Come on now boys, / Stick your fingers down your throats and get to work" . . .  Oh mammy dear, we're all mad over here / Living in America."

8. "Erin Gra Mo Chroi" / Cherish the Ladies
From The Girls Won't Leave Boys Behind (2001)
That yelpy flutter Natalie Merchant had? This is what she was aiming for. Deidre Connally is the lead singer here, but all the women of Cherish the Ladies go for the most authentic Irish sound they can get (even though they're mostly Irish-Americans). And this is one of the homesickest songs you'll ever hear. "When St. Patrick's Day has come / My thoughts will carry me home / To that dear little isle so far away" -- well, it may sound mawkish, but that fiddle is irresistible. Go see the movie Brooklyn already.

9. "We Are Everywhere" / Pugwash
From Play This Intimately (As If Among Friends) (2015)
One of my great discoveries of this past year, this lovely power-pop band from Dublin. Here they get their psychedelic "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" thing on, all woozily melodic with shape-shifting chords. FYI: Recorded at the Kinks' Konk.

10. "Sayonara" / The Pogues
From Hell's Ditch (1990)
Dig Shane MacGowan's slurred vocals, perfect for this Celtic punk drunkard's lament, whether faked or real. (This was his last album with the band.) I think it's set in Asia, but those pennywhistles give it away -- that and the mournful sitting in a bar, looking across the sea, feeling sorry for himself.  One more Irish rover....

I Love This Song!

5 Favorite Opening Riffs -- Jazzing It Up

Next installment of 5 in my 25 Favorite Opening Riffs. The parameters: 1. One riff per band. 2. No vocals. 3. Must occur right at the beginning of the record. This is all totally subjective, folks, and they're in no particular order. Enjoy!

So far we've been talking rock riffs, mostly, but here are a few that venture into jazz territory -- and announce those intentions right off the bat.

Moondance / Van Morrison

Two backbeat piano chords, repeated. A few light brushes on the drums. And then That Voice, slipping in like butter. "Oh, it's a marvelous night for a moon dance...."  Talk about Less Is More.  Eventually we'll get a divine jazz solo, plus Van's jazz-freak vocal swoops and scats (it's as if he becomes the saxophone himself); pianist Jeff Labes really gets to fly with his piano improv in the middle eight. But it's those first chords -- cool, laidback, effortlessly syncopated -- that set the whole swinging thing in motion. Sometimes you only need two measures....

Undun / The Guess Who




What? No Canadians so far?  I'm sure that violates broadcasting protocols north of the border, so let's slip in this 1969 gem. It's like "Moondance"'s minor-key cousin, with a little more Latino beat.  Guitarist Randy Bachman, later of Bachman-Turner Overdrive (a best riff runner-up for "Taking Care of Business") has said he based this song around some new jazz guitar chords he'd just learned; it sure doesn't sound like any other Guess Who song. That opener is quick and crafty: Three guitar chords, syncopated, with a few smacks of offbeat drums, and a percussive vocal choo-pah! on the backbeat. (We'll soon see where they got THAT idea...)

Build Me Up Buttercup / The Foundations

Stairstep guitar strums, underlaid with tambourine -- and yes, bongos! -- it's so simple, and it's all about the syncopation. (Do you sense a theme here?)  Soon enough we get the second motif, layered on in counterpoint by a percussive electric piano; it's upbeat, happy pop, and just jazzy enough to make you snap your fingers and bounce in your chair. Oh, give in to it; just get up and dance, folks; you know you want to. And the singer hasn't even started yet!

Time of the Season / The Zombies

Start to finish, this is one magnificent song (read here my full take).

But today, let's focus on that brilliantly crafted intro. Like the opening of "Under Pressure," it's pure percussion, but put together like a Swiss cuckoo clock. As I dissect it, it's two beats on a tom-tom, one thump on the bass drum, then a hand clap, then a block, then a vocal gasp. All in rapid succession, intricately syncopated; it takes a downbeat plus two beats, no time at all. Repeat three more times, and it's what, eight seconds? But by the time Colin Blunstone starts singing, we're already spooked out. Brilliant.


House of the Rising Sun / The Animals

Hilton Valentine's unspooling guitar lick, hung on stairstep notes from Chas Chandler's bass, sets the whole song up, as if he's casting a fishing line and deftly reeling us in. Minor-key glissandos, rising ominously upwards, will soon be handed over to Alan Price's prophesying organ. (Which will eventually blow things into another stratosphere in the middle eight.)  I suppose this isn't technically jazz: It's more like mission revival meets the blues. But oh, is it dark, and OH is it compelling.  Still sends shivers up my spine, every time.

WEDNESDAY SHUFFLE 
OMG, is it Wednesday again ALREADY?

1. "Veronica" / Elvis Costello
From Spike (1989)
As I recall, this was the album that made me "go off" Elvis -- despite this perky pop single co-written with Paul McCartney (that's him on the old Hofner bass, though I think EC dubbed his own backing vocals). It ticks along too briskly, the lyrics nearly unintelligible, as if Elvis was trying to disguise the fact that this is no love song, but a fretful rehash of "Eleanor Rigby."  That soaring, swinging melody though -- it's hard to resist.

2. "Eros' Entropic Tundra" / Of Montreal
From Satanic Panic in the Attic (2004)
Absurd song title aside (all Of Montreal's titles are overwrought like this), it's a winsome bit of indie pop, with a definitely Kinky flavor.  As Kevin Barnes miserably moans, "All I ever get / Is sa-a-ad love . . ."

3. "A Question of Temperature" / Balloon Farm
1967
Hazy, hectic, with an insistent beat -- this psychedelic classic, with a definite garage-y vibe, emanated from a New Jersey band that barely outlasted this one single's blip of underground success.  Thanks to my pal Blamo for introducing me to it on his famous Blast-o-palooza mix-tape CD; you can also find it on the first Nuggets set.

4. "You Want It" / The Village Green
From When the Creepers Creep In (EP, 2006)
Another rarity -- an impulse download from a quirky Seattle band with an uncanny predilection for neo-British Beat pop.  Most of this EP ended up on their later album, but "You Want It" mysteriously fell by the wayside. Too bad -- it glowers and lurks very nicely.

5. "Gospel Night" / Dave Alvin
From Blue Blvd (1991)
I love how Dave Alvin's slightly gruff voice narrates the unglamorous lives and loves of ordinary  people, the stuff of California trailer parks and roadside diners, served up with a whomping beat, honkytonk piano, and spanking guitar licks.

6. "League of Failures" / Jill Sobule
From California Years (2009)
Loveable losers -- does anybody get them better than Jill Sobule?

7. "Take Me With U" / Marshall Crenshaw
From What's in the Bag? (2003)
Marshall covering a Prince song?  Well, why not -- that foxy syncopation, those sneaky guitar riffs -- a perfect MC vehicle, it turns out.

8. "Love Like a Glove" / Nick Lowe and His Cowboy Outfit
From Nick Lowe And His Cowboy Outfit (1984)
Another cover -- as it happens, Nick singing his then-wife Carlene Carter's song.  Rather an undistinguished cut, I have to say.  And I'm not jealous of Carlene Carter at all.

9. "Say It Isn't True" / Alan Price
From Liberty (1989)
And yet another cover, this one of a Jackson Browne track from Lawyers in Love.  Alan must have loved this bittersweet song, because after making it the last cut on this rather obscure 1989 album, he threw an even longer version onto 1995's A Gigster's Life for Me. Alan's take is much more dramatic than Jackson's -- if only it didn't drift into bombastic overkill.

10. "One Irish Rover" / Van Morrison
From No Guru, No Method, No Teacher (1986)
Gotta love this Van classic, a tenderly lurching waltz with just a whiff of lonely self-pity.  Self-mythologizing, yes, but Van wears that soulful troubadour mask so convincingly.  A lovely song to [yawn] go to sleep on . . . .

WEDNESDAY SHUFFLE

Even though I'm off in New Orleans for the week -- bring on the po' boys and jambalaya! -- I'm still listening to my iPod. Here's a little Shuffle to tide us all over...

1. "I Gotta Go Now" / The Kinks
From The Kinks (1964)
A slight, obscure, and absolutely delicious early Kinks track. Most of the lyrics consist of "I gotta go now" over and over, with a few "whatcha gonna do about it nows" and "hey little girls" thrown in. A strange and wonderful concoction of blues lingo, jazz syncopation, and folk harmonies, served up with effervescent pop charm.

2. "Warming Up to the Ice Age" / John Hiatt
From Warming Up to the Ice Age (1985)
And now some early Hiatt, prowling through relationship angst with stuttering tempos, lashing drums, and a barrage of pun-larded lyrics. Amazingly, this was the album whose failure killed Hiatt's contract with Geffen Records, but the seeds are here -- next he would make Bring the Family for A&M, and the rest is history. All told, I think I like grown-up happy John Hiatt better than young angry John Hiatt, but man, he was already gooooood.

3. "Boring Enormous" / Paul Westerberg
From Stereo (2002)
Post-Replacements Paul Westerberg, strumming his guitar in his basement and singing about his contented home life. I can see why Replacements fans must have been baffled by this development. I came late to the party, though; this is the Westerberg I first knew and adored. Hey, Bob Dylan was from Minnesota, too -- why shouldn't Paul Westerberg find his inner folkie?

4. "Who Can I Turn To?" / Van Morrison and Georgie Fame
From How Long Has This Been Going On? (1995)
Van Morrison in full jazz crooner mode, scatting along to the keyboard stylings of Mr. Clive Powell, a.k.a. Georgie Fame, who lends a layer of honeyed elegance to Morrison's whiskey-and-soda vocals. An entire album of songbook standards, big-band arrangements and all -- and I'd pit Van against Tony Bennett or Frank Sinatra any day.

5. "Queen of Sheba" / Nick Lowe
From Nick the Knife (1982)
The romantic philosophy of Nick Lowe -- she's not Queen of Sheba, or Mona Lisa, but he still adores her, and there's a place that they can go where that thing will grow. The bass line's springy as a rubber band, and Nick cheekily lounges his way through this generic love song with considerable aplomb. (Always wanted to use that word in a review...)

6. "Jungle Song" / Chilli Willi and the Red Peppers
From Bongos Over Balham (1974)
A congenial little soul jam, with some killer harmonica, by these talented pub rockers, erstwhile colleagues of Mr. Lowe in his plaid-shirt days. A notable incubator of New Wave talent -- bassist Paul Riley went on to play in the Rumour behind Graham Parker, and drummer Pete Thomas ended up in Elvis Costello's Attractions.

7. "Dead End Street" / The Kinks
From Face to Face (1966)
Any shuffle that has two Kinks songs is a good shuffle. And this endearing soft-shoe is one of my favorites -- a perfect song for these recessionary times, about a middle-class couple just scraping by. "What are we living for? / Two rooms apartment on the second floor / No money coming in / The rent collector's knock is trying to get in." Even better: "We both want to work so hard / And we can't get the chance." I love that dramatic French horn fanfare; even better is the boozy Dixieland trombone in the fade-out...

8. "I Must Be the Devil" / The Box Tops
From Best of the Box Tops: Soul Deep (compilation)
Throw the irony out the window -- Alex Chilton groans and moans his way through a pitch-perfect blues number, complete with slouchy guitar. "I can't stop, I can't stop, I ca-a-a-n't stop!" Who knows what he's apologizing for -- "I can't bear to see my face, / Wrongs done I can't erase, / It's all wrong, it's all wrong, it's aa-ll-ll wrong!" But I bet you anything she forgives him.

9. "Youth Culture Killed My Dog" / They Might Be Giants
From They Might Be Giants (1986)
Oops, irony's back! A bit of sublime silliness from the Johns, our leading purveyors of comic catchiness. Don't let that Peter-Gunn-like bass riff deceive you -- it's really about his dog committing suicide because of trashy modern music. Or something like that. "But the hip hop / And the white funk / Drove away my puppy's mind." Who else could deliver such goofiness with so much zest?

10. "Try Not To Cry" / Greg Trooper & the Flatliners
From Everywhere (1992)
Back to earnestness -- a passionate alt-country anthem, injected with an R&B howl, about the sorrow that lies deep down things (or lachrymae rerum, for you Latin scholars). This is what the world looks like from the other shore of heartbreak -- pair this with "Don't Think About Her When You're Trying to Drive" and we'd have the whole territory covered. Of course, you HAVE to cry when you hear this song. This guy is just so damn good...

The 100 Best Singles In My Head
Nos. 46-50

For some bizarre reason, today's five songs -- all from the late 70s and early 80s, on the threshold of rock music's downward 80s spiral -- are mostly songs I haven't written about before. I can't figure out why. I mean, jeez, look at them! Oh, sure, I've written about the Kinks, Marshall Crenshaw, and Van Morrison before; it's just that these particular songs somehow escaped blogging heretofore. Time to remedy that directly.

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

46. "Moondance" / Van Morrison (1977)
Going off to college nowadays, kids can expect to share a common set of cultural references with their new classmates -- they all grew up with the same Happy Meal toys, the same Playstation games, the same Nickelodeon cartoons, the same websites. But when I went off to college, American culture was still regional; a Midwestern girl like me often had no clue what the New England kids were talking about. In Indianapolis, we'd just barely heard "Brown-Eyed Girl" by a British band called Them; the name of their Irish lead singer, Van Morrison, wasn't on my radar. But in the early 70s Van, now a solo act, was huge in the Boston area, particularly his 1970s album Moondance and 1971's Tupelo Honey. Everybody from the Northeast seemed to know the title cut from Moondance, and played it endlessly in the dorms; in that album-oriented age, it didn't matter that it had never been released as a single. Fast-forward now to November 1977, when the record company, stymied by Van's three-year writer's block, finally packaged "Moondance" as a single. I had just moved back to the States after two years in England, and hearing this song on the radio reassured me that I hadn't missed much while I was away. Which was of course not true -- the radio was otherwise infested with Fleetwood Mac and Billy Joel, not to mention the Bee Gees, Barry Manilow, and (shudder!) the Eagles. In that context, no wonder Van's eight-year-old record sounded timelessly great, its Celtic soul sound distilled with laidback cool jazz. The saxophone part on this was like honey (Van, a saxophonist himself, composed the melody first, working it out on a sax); even better is that nimble Jeff Labes piano solo in the middle eight. And best of all is the sinuous prowl of Van's singing -- leaping for the high notes, snuggling with the lows, flirting outrageously with the syncopated beat. Towards the end, Van just gives up and becomes a saxophone. "A fantabulous night to make romance," indeed. "And every tiiime I touch you, you just tremble inside / And I know how much you want me, that you can't hide" -- jeeeeSUS.

47. "Jack and Diane" / John Mellencamp (1982)
By 1982, I was living in New York, having abandoning my Midwestern roots -- except when I heard John Cougar Mellencamp's song on the radio, transporting me in an instant back to my Indiana home.

48. "Someday, Someway" / Marshall Crenshaw (1982)
Amid all the New Wavers, punks, and hair bands of 1982, the crisp retro power-pop of Marshall Crenshaw was like an effervescent jolt of sanity. I'll credit my work buddy Amy McKinley with first bringing Marshall's debut LP into the Scholastic magazine offices, but it was an easy sell -- we all went nuts over it. "Someday, Someway" was the official single off of Marshall Crenshaw, but honestly, every track on that record could have hit radio gold. ("Cynical Girl," anybody? "The Usual Thing"? "Rocking Around in NYC"?) It's perfect car music, perfect drive-in music, perfect dance music, perfect sing-along-at-the-bar music. The jangly guitar, the rockabilly beat, the handclaps, the background ooohs, and Marshall's reverbed sweet tenor -- divine. There's a glorious adolescent urgency to it, as he puzzles over how to please his girlfriend -- in the first chorus, he sighs, "Someday, someway, / Maybe I'll understand you," but by the second chorus, he's shaking his head, lamenting, "Someday, someway, / Maybe you'll understand me". But, god bless him, he's in it to win it, as he declares in the bridge and third verse:

You've taken everything from me,
I've taken everything from you
I'll love you for my whole life throo-ough, oooh --
Now after all you've done for me
All I really want to do
Is take the love you brought my way
And give it all right back to you.

It may seem simple, but it's really genius songcraft-- has anybody ever done more with interchangeable pronouns? Years later, I'm still nuts over Marshall Crenshaw's music, as he's grown and deepened as an artist -- he's one of my lifetime top ten. (Click here for a recent vid of MC singing this classic.) Unfortunately, this was the peak of his singles success, but hey, I had to get him on this list someday, someway.

49. "Sultans of Swing" / Dire Straits (1978)
I'd like to say I was an early Dire Straits fan, but to be honest, the only album of theirs I ever bought was -- like everybody else in America -- 1985's Brothers in Arms, with its MTV-primed hits "Money For Nothing" and "Walk Of Life." But those songs now seem dated to me, while the tender nostalgia of "Sultans Of Swing" is fresh as yesterday. Dire Straits' debut hit -- in fact, the demo track that won them their first record contract -- "Sultans of Swing" is a lovely little observational song, set in a pub in south London (probably around Greenwich) where the resident jazz band is performing to a crowd of maybe half a dozen unappreciative drunks. And there's Knopfler, in the back of the room, mesmerized by their musicianship -- "the band is blowing Dixie / double four time" -- focusing in turn on each band member (Guitar George, Harry) and their pure devotion to the music, whether anybody's listening or not. Now, admit it -- when you're in a cocktail lounge, don't you feel sad for the pianist when nobody applauds his songs? I know I do. Yet the band soldiers on, proudly announcing at the end of the night -- as the barkeeps wipe the last pint glasses and the drunks reel for the door -- "We are the Sultans of Swing!" (Apparently this was the name of Alan Freed's band in the 1950s, before he became a famous payola DJ.) The song itself isn't done in jazz style -- after all, Knopfler had to craft a track that would show off his own guitar-playing chops, that long continuous line and those diving swift-fingered riffs -- but already he'd figured out his trademark storytelling style, with husky half-spoken vocals. It works so well here, drawing us into the intimate circle of the pub, spotlighting the musicians, getting into their heads. Here Knopfler was, at the start of his music career, and already wistful about it. I loved hearing this song on the radio, especially late at night. But I never bought the record -- like those drunks in the pub, I didn't appreciate the band enough. Maybe that's why I bought Brothers in Arms, as payback for the song I really loved.

50. "Come Dancing" / The Kinks (1983)
And speaking of tender nostalgia -- here's Ray Davies' brilliant evocation of post-war Britain, through the eyes of young Raymond watching his older sister head out on a date to the local dance palais. Don't worry, there'll be other Kinks songs on this list -- much as I love "Come Dancing," in the universe of Kinks songs it's not my peak. But it deserves a spot on this singles roster because, as their first major radio hit since "Lola," it sparked a mini-Kinks renaissance in my heart. I'd felt estranged from My Kinks during those arena rock years, as if they had betrayed me -- but the themes and sound of "Come Dancing" proved to me that Ray hadn't really abandoned his North London roots. The wistful longing for the past, distress at urban redevelopment, those were vintage Kinks elements. Ray's delivery is pure music-hall patter, and the arrangement feels vintage too, though it's a pastiche of sounds -- the steel-band riff for the neighborhood's newer immigrants, echoed by the big band horns of the 40s, with rock-and-roll guitars sneaking in the occasional 60s power chords. It's like time-lapse phonography, the musical equivalent of the changing real estate: "They put a parking lot on a piece of land / When the supermarket used to stand. / Before that they put up a bowling alley / On the site that used to be the local palais." Of course, since this is Ray Davies, there are a plethora of wonderful lines like "He'd end up blowing all his wages for the week / All for a cuddle and a peck on the cheek" or "My sister's married and she lives on an estate. / Her daughters go out, now it's her turn to wait." But c'mon, the best part of all is that spoken-word interval, where Ray recalls crouching at the top of the stairs, spying on his sister's goodnight kiss. Ah, Ray, always the voyeur.

"Cleaning Windows" / Van Morrison

Still reading that book about 1960s British pop, and the author mentioned a song by George Formby called "When I'm Cleaning Windows" as a typical example of British songwriting before the Beatles. Now, I know hardly anything about George Formby except that he played the ukelele and sang corny music-hall-style comedy numbers in the 1930s and 1940s; he was apparently a real national icon, though. The only song of his I recognize is "Leaning On the Lamppost," which later became a sort of novelty hit for Herman's Hermits in the US (in the UK, they'd never have gone for it). But as soon as I read that song title "When I'm Cleaning Windows," I thought of this copasetic track from Van Morrison. I'll bet anything Van knew that Formby song, but what he did with it is worlds away from a plinking ukelele and yuk-yuk comedy.

Infuriating as Van Morrison can be, I'm still willing to forgive him everything when he swings like this. This is from his 1982 album Beautiful Vision (though I'll admit I only know it from a greatest hits collection -- I'm no Van completist). It lands squarely in his "I'm just an ordinary guy" line of songs, which are completely contradicted by his Celtic mystic songs, but so be it. The recurring line that seems to be the heart of this song is in the chorus, a swiftly rapped-out bit of Formby-esque patter: "I'm a working man in my prime / Cleaning windows."

But the only thing Van's song shares with Formby's, really, is the subject and a certain sort of chirpy upbeat tempo. I'm guessing that Van really did work as a window cleaner at some point in his life; whereas Formby was all about the window cleaner leering through the glass for naughty glimpses of people's lives, Van's has the ring of experience in the jaunty way he describes carrying ladders past wrought-iron railings, or cleaning a lady's fanlight. More than anything, though, it's a testament to a slacker lifestyle. Sure, he's got this menial job, but in his spare time he's having a damn good time. "I went home and listened to Jimmie Rodgers / In my lunch-break / Bought five Woodbines at the shop on the corner / And went straight back to work....We went for lemonade and Paris buns / At the shop and broke for tea ... I was blowing saxophone on the weekend / In that down joint." He doesn't even bother to make things rhyme; this is more like a diary than a crafted song. He cheerfully insists that he's happy cleaning windows -- but it's not all that he's about.

We've all had periods like this in our lives, haven't we? Golden times when we were content to live in the moment. I'm thinking back to a summer in Indianapolis when I worked the cash register at Lobraico's Rexall pharmacy and wrote at nights for my friends' start-up magazine, InCity; I didn't know at the time how rare that carefree little interlude in my life would be.

In the second verse, Van lays out chapter two of his musical autobiography in a nutshell: "I heard Leadbelly and Blind Lemon / On the street where I was born / Sonny Terry, Brownie McGee, Muddy Waters singing 'I'm a rolling stone' / I went home and read my Christmas Humphrey's book on Zen / Curiosity Killed the Cat / Kerouac's Dharma Bums and On the Road." It's like he turned to his turntable and nightable and just transcribed what was sitting there. It's poignant to think of this kid in Belfast greedily sucking in American blues and beat lit, as if real life was gonna happen somewhere else. But there's no mistaking how deeply he absorbed that stuff; this song has such an irresistible R&B groove, with delirious flourishes from a tight horn section, and Van's voice is a rare and beautiful thing, the way it shades from growl to croon to bark to flutter to howl.

"What's my life?" he triumphantly announces; "I'm a-happy cleaning windows / Take my time / I'll see you when my love grows ." You can just hear the grown-up rock star yearning back to that innocent, uncomplicated time; hell, he's making me nostalgic for it, and I've never set foot in Belfast. This is wonderful stuff indeed -- who needs George Formby?

PS: I'm assuming there's some major Van Morrison career retrospective box set going to come out soon, because so many of the early albums and even the earlier "best of" compilations seem to be discontinued on Amazon. Listen to the sample on iTunes, though, if you're so enabled -- it's a blast.

"Celtic New Year" / Van Morrison

Though I haven't a drop of Irish blood in me, I love St. Patricks' Day -- so long as it doesn't degenerate into a beer-and-brawl fest that takes over the streets. (Which is, sad to say, usually the case in New York and Chicago and Boston.) In honor of our Irish brethren, I started out listening to the Pogues and Claddagh today, but like every year, soon I found myself sidetracked by the magnificent old Belfast bard Van Morrison. And once I get deep into Van, it's pretty much impossible to move on.

If we're going to get technical, the Celtic New Year is at Halloween, but this song (from his 2005 album Magic Time) could be sung any time of year -- it's a classic Long-Distance Love Song, with the singer repeatedly begging an absent loved one "Won't you come back in the Celtic New Year?" But this isn't an I'm-missing-you-like-crazy song; it's more like an old Irish blessing, a shout-out across the miles. (Maybe "May the road rise to meet you," although I'm afraid that one always makes me picture a drunk falling down in the street.) This is Van Morrison Mellow, and personally I love its laidback groove, with stream-of-consciousness lyrics that are just an excuse for some emotive vocals. The copasetic strolling tempo lets Van scat and syncopate at will; Foggy Lyttle's deft guitar winds like a river through a meadow of lush strings (the Irish Film Orchestra, no less), and there's even a plaintive bit of tin whistle at the end, played by the Chieftans' very own Paddy Maloney. Nothing like a tin whistle to make me misty-eyed.

The words/story really don't make much sense, but I don't mind, not the way Van croons and belts this number. The first verse plays around with that slippery verb "see" -- "If I don't see you through the week / See you through the window / See you next time that we're talking on the telephone / If I don't see you in that Indian summer / Then I want to see you further on up the road." It's all missed connections, fleeting glimpses, ships passing in the night . . . modern life, for better or worse.

Verse two takes us to New Orleans, for some reason, where Van seems to be a riverboat gambler; verse three moves to a Druid wood (Van slips easily into his Irish mystic mode), with ghostly bonfires burning and the pale moon waning. I'm still working on that line, "If I don't see you when we're singing that Gloriana tune" -- Gloriana as in Elizabeth I? you've got me stumped, Van, but maybe it's some private thing between you and whomever you wrote this song for.

I do get the feeling this was written for someone particular. No wonder they have trouble getting together -- he's in his wild Irish rover mode, never staying in one place for long. But I don't hear any anguish at being apart (and we know Van can do anguish if he wants). No, I get the feeling they trust time to eventually reunite them. Clearly they go way back; real affection shimmers through every remembered scene, helped along by those melting violins and Van's caressing vocals.

Isn't there a traditional Irish toast, "To absent friends"? Well, if not, there should be. Love you all.

http://www.mp3.ua/album.aspx?id=29056

"Jackie Wilson Said" / Van Morrison

Van Morrison is a law unto himself; some days you're getting a wild-eyed Irish mystic, some days you're getting a jazz-flavored folksinger; but on his best days, I think, you're getting one of the great R&B singers of all time. I'm not talking about the gritty, mournful blues that channeled through his British contemporaries like the two Erics, Burdon and Clapton; I'm talking that irrepressible offshoot called rhythm & blues, as sung by Ray Charles or Sam Cooke . . . or Jackie Wilson. How a doughy-faced redhead from Northern Ireland came out with this voice is a marvel indeed; I think it proves the existence of God.

Here Van pays homage to the underrated Jackie Wilson (the song's on his 1972 album St. Dominic's Preview), with 2:58 minutes of pure fun from start to finish. It's not about Jackie Wilson, but it's the essence of Jackie Wilson, distilled in one finger-snapping, upbeat love song. Van scats his way through half this number with nonsense syllables, right from the opening "Doo-doo-dih-dihs" and the goofy "ding-a-ling-a-lings"; when you get to the refrain it isn't a whole lot deeper -- "I'm in hea-EH-von when you smile," he repeats over and over.

It's a sunny, syncopated exclamation from the heart of a guy who, well, just adores his girlfriend. The way she walks, the way she smiles, turns him on, and that's all there is to it: "The kind of love you got knocks me off my feet," he declares, and he urges her again and again to "let it all hang out." Love has got him high, but in a good way -- "You know, I'm so wired up / Don't need no coffee in my cup," he says gleefully. Yeah, love can do that sometimes, and my heart is completely won over by his effervescent joy.

I dig the tight horn section on this, something that Van, as a saxophonist himself, instinctively understood how to use; as I listen to this track, it strikes me that his horn playing probably also taught him a lot about how to sing. The way he punches the syncopated beats ("you make my heart go boom boom boom") or shimmers with a deft trill on the word "smile," the giddy little wails he throws in from time to time -- his vocal instrument is pretty damn close to a sax in terms of supple power and tunefulness.

I saw Van once in concert and he was so weirded out that he left the stage after a few numbers, never to return. I could have been pissed off -- except that I've always factored a little strangeness into the Van equation. Like I said, a law unto himself. But remember how he came onstage for a guest spot in The Last Waltz, The Band's farewell concert, and completely blew everybody away with his performance on "Caravan"? It made me just sit back and grin. Van the Man. When he's on he is on.