"Still Fighting It" / Ben Folds
Over the holidays, when so many of us troop home to visit our old stomping grounds, the entire Rockin' the Suburbs album by Ben Folds hits home for me. As he declares in pseudo hip-hop style in the title track, "Let me tell y'all what it's like / Being male, middle-class, and white / It's a bitch; if you don't believe / Listen up to my new CD." We have to laugh at his "white-boy pain," but to tell the truth, that's what most of us know best, and Folds mines the territory with sympathy, insight, and not a trace of condescension.
"Still Fighting It" begins tenderly, just Folds singing a swooping melody breathily over his soft piano part, and I see it as an early-morning scene, with the dew still beaded on windshields and mailboxes: "Good morning son, I am a bird / Wearing a brown polyester shirt." With that polyester detail, I'm immediately sucked into the scenario, which appears to take place at a fast-food drive-in window: "You want a Coke, maybe some fries? / The roast-beef combo's only $9.95." Here we are, at the heart of the suburban cultural experience, and these two guys are having a stilted sort of conversation, just like fathers and sons have been doing for time immemorial.
Drums, guitar, backing vocals, strings -- the works -- are laid on for the chorus: "Everybody knows, it sucks to grow up / And everybody does . . . so weird to be back here / And let me tell you what: The years go on and / We're still fighting it." That "we're still fighting it" line is the heart of the song, and it repeats several times, building up to anthem level with big crashing Elton John-like chords. After all, that fight is the universal story, that inevitable clash between generations -- maybe 20 years from now they'll be able to laugh about it over a beer, but right now there's a lot of pain.
Has anybody out there ever watched a father and son tear each other apart? -- let me see a show of hands. Somehow it seems that getting together for the holidays always brings it to a head. The young guy is only doing what a young guy has to do; the dad is only reacting as he must. But what gets me is how Ben Folds -- who was probably 35 when he wrote this song -- sees both sides, and makes both guys sympathetic. It even more amazing when you learn that Ben wrote this to celebrate the birth of his own son; he's imagining their future together, with all the ying-yangs of emotion ahead of them. He has only been in the shoes of the father for about, let's say, three days, and already he GETS IT.
There's a break-free moment toward the end, referring back to that "bird" in the first line: "You'll try and try / And one day you'll fly away . . . from me." (That line completely chokes me up. ) Then it hushes down at the end again, as he sings simply, in a rather lost-sounding voice, "You're so much like me -- / I'm sorry . . . " Does that come from the dad or the son? Does it matter by this point? It's understated, awkward, completely schmaltz-free -- and so heart-wrenching I can hardly stand it. You have nailed this thing, Ben -- way to go.
www.benfolds.com
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
The White Album, Side 2 / The Beatles
I've been thinking a lot about the white album lately. Christmastime will always make me long for this record, ever since Christmas 1968 when I found it under the tree, tore off the cellophane wrapper, and promptly disappeared into my girlhood bedroom for a week. I gazed at those four enclosed color head shots of John, Paul, George, and Ringo and pored over the lyrics booklet and committed the entire LP to memory as I have never before, or since, absorbed any record album. I consider it such a complete, coherent work of art that I can't even hear these songs out of order -- the instant "Bungalow Bill" is over, I MUST hear "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," and nothing else will do. Et cetera, et cetera.
I saw the superb Beatles tribute band The Fab Faux perform the white album in its entirety two nights ago; I was in heaven, standing amidst a thicket of other vintage-1968 music fans who likewise knew every word, every drumbeat, every syncopation and stutter and odd sound effect. Luckily, the Fab Faux are obsessive Beatle geeks too and reproduced the whole thing exactly -- except that they stopped to change guitars between songs, totally disconcerting those of us who needed the sweet acoustic downbeat of "Mother Nature's Son" to fall immediately, a split second and no more, after the crashing last electric chord of "Yer Blues."
My favorite side was always Side 2 (I still think of it in vinyl terms, you see). My favorite song? "I Will," because Paul McCartney wrote it for me -- we hadn't yet met (still haven't, I'll admit), but somehow he knew I was out there and was waiting for me (still is, I'm sure).
But to get there, I absolutely had to go through the rest of the side in order: first the catchy music-hall tune "Martha, My Dear" (remember the photo of Paul with his sheepdog Martha in the album booklet?), then the deliciously draggy "I'm So Tired", which is in a dead heat with the Beatles' "I'm Only Sleeping" and the Kinks' "Tired of Waiting" for the most perfect expressions of exhaustion ever; you've gotta love that line "And curse Sir Walter Raleigh, he was such a stupid get," the inevitable rhyme for "cigarette". (By the way, I lied a couple weeks ago when I said Paul Simon's "America" was the song that started me smoking; this song had every bit as much to do with it.)
Then the stunning Paul acoustic number "Blackbird," then George's snotty satire "Piggies" (that killer last line: "clutching forks and knives to eat the bacon" -- forget his gauzy Eastern spirituality, in my opinion George Harrison should have let his sharp, snide wit show more often). And then comes Paul's Bob Dylan parody "Rocky Raccoon", which -- come on, admit it -- is better than ninety percent of all Bob Dylan songs. Admit it. I'll never check into a hotel room without looking for the Gideon's Bible in the bedside table and thinking of this song.
It's followed by the obligatory Ringo track, "Don't Pass Me By," a country-twangin' number wonderfully suited to Ringo's limited vocal skills; that whole "you were in a car crash and you lost your hair" verse was, of course, central to the whole "Paul is dead" hoax. (Apologies to those who are too young to know about this...so go look it up; I'm on a roll and can't stop to explain.)
Then came "Why Don't We Do It In The Road?", which faintly discomfited the adolescent me, already getting antsy to hear "I Will" by this point. But god, how it's grown on me over the years. Sure, it's ludicrous and was meant as a joke, and yet . . . man, how awesome is it to hear McCartney ripping into this number. That slightly discordant electric piano banging away, just a touch of sneaky slide guitar, and a thumping drum way forward in the mix; it's down-and-nasty, just to prove that there's a darker edge to Paul, balancing the sweetness of "Martha" and "Blackbird" and "I Will." At age 15 I didn't want to know that other side existed; but oh, now I do.
And then comes "Julia." Because Paul isn't the only sensitive, aching soul around here, and John's poignant acoustic ode to his dead mother brings down the house. So you're getting the full range of Paul, and the full range of John, and Ringo at his best, and George at his sharpest -- what more could you ask for? The best side on the best album by the best band that ever lived. Admit it.
I've been thinking a lot about the white album lately. Christmastime will always make me long for this record, ever since Christmas 1968 when I found it under the tree, tore off the cellophane wrapper, and promptly disappeared into my girlhood bedroom for a week. I gazed at those four enclosed color head shots of John, Paul, George, and Ringo and pored over the lyrics booklet and committed the entire LP to memory as I have never before, or since, absorbed any record album. I consider it such a complete, coherent work of art that I can't even hear these songs out of order -- the instant "Bungalow Bill" is over, I MUST hear "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," and nothing else will do. Et cetera, et cetera.
I saw the superb Beatles tribute band The Fab Faux perform the white album in its entirety two nights ago; I was in heaven, standing amidst a thicket of other vintage-1968 music fans who likewise knew every word, every drumbeat, every syncopation and stutter and odd sound effect. Luckily, the Fab Faux are obsessive Beatle geeks too and reproduced the whole thing exactly -- except that they stopped to change guitars between songs, totally disconcerting those of us who needed the sweet acoustic downbeat of "Mother Nature's Son" to fall immediately, a split second and no more, after the crashing last electric chord of "Yer Blues."
My favorite side was always Side 2 (I still think of it in vinyl terms, you see). My favorite song? "I Will," because Paul McCartney wrote it for me -- we hadn't yet met (still haven't, I'll admit), but somehow he knew I was out there and was waiting for me (still is, I'm sure).
But to get there, I absolutely had to go through the rest of the side in order: first the catchy music-hall tune "Martha, My Dear" (remember the photo of Paul with his sheepdog Martha in the album booklet?), then the deliciously draggy "I'm So Tired", which is in a dead heat with the Beatles' "I'm Only Sleeping" and the Kinks' "Tired of Waiting" for the most perfect expressions of exhaustion ever; you've gotta love that line "And curse Sir Walter Raleigh, he was such a stupid get," the inevitable rhyme for "cigarette". (By the way, I lied a couple weeks ago when I said Paul Simon's "America" was the song that started me smoking; this song had every bit as much to do with it.)
Then the stunning Paul acoustic number "Blackbird," then George's snotty satire "Piggies" (that killer last line: "clutching forks and knives to eat the bacon" -- forget his gauzy Eastern spirituality, in my opinion George Harrison should have let his sharp, snide wit show more often). And then comes Paul's Bob Dylan parody "Rocky Raccoon", which -- come on, admit it -- is better than ninety percent of all Bob Dylan songs. Admit it. I'll never check into a hotel room without looking for the Gideon's Bible in the bedside table and thinking of this song.
It's followed by the obligatory Ringo track, "Don't Pass Me By," a country-twangin' number wonderfully suited to Ringo's limited vocal skills; that whole "you were in a car crash and you lost your hair" verse was, of course, central to the whole "Paul is dead" hoax. (Apologies to those who are too young to know about this...so go look it up; I'm on a roll and can't stop to explain.)
Then came "Why Don't We Do It In The Road?", which faintly discomfited the adolescent me, already getting antsy to hear "I Will" by this point. But god, how it's grown on me over the years. Sure, it's ludicrous and was meant as a joke, and yet . . . man, how awesome is it to hear McCartney ripping into this number. That slightly discordant electric piano banging away, just a touch of sneaky slide guitar, and a thumping drum way forward in the mix; it's down-and-nasty, just to prove that there's a darker edge to Paul, balancing the sweetness of "Martha" and "Blackbird" and "I Will." At age 15 I didn't want to know that other side existed; but oh, now I do.
And then comes "Julia." Because Paul isn't the only sensitive, aching soul around here, and John's poignant acoustic ode to his dead mother brings down the house. So you're getting the full range of Paul, and the full range of John, and Ringo at his best, and George at his sharpest -- what more could you ask for? The best side on the best album by the best band that ever lived. Admit it.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
"Mardy Bum" / Arctic MonkeysUsually when a guy in a song complains about his girlfriend I see it from her side -- of course he's been a jerk. But in this track by the Arctic Monkeys -- 2006's hot new band out of England, with an astonishingly successful first album -- I do sympathize with him for a change. After all, some women are nagging harpies, we all know that. Forget the war of the sexes: This song reminds me of every relationship where I've had to do all the heavy lifting, and what it feels like in the middle of the hard slog. Eric Burdon (see yesterday's rant) complained how misunderstood he was, but this guy really is.
I give this couple six months, max.
The guys in this band are all incredibly young, 20 or 21 or so, and they make it work for them; Alex Turner's lead vocals sound raw and unpolished, and the lyrics have a certain inarticulate quality that's totally believable. All the more reason for me to buy his version of events.
Leading off with a dogged-yet-hopeful clanging guitar riff, the singer draws a deep breath and faces his wrathful girlfriend: "Well now then Mardy Bum / I've seen your frown and it's like looking down the barrel of a gun /And it goes off and out come all these words." He dreads what's going to happen next, but he knows the scenario by now, "when you're so all argumentative" and "pulling that silent disappointment face." He may be young but he's shrewd enough not to fire back; with native canniness, he lets her rant on. For a while, at least.
The mood changes for the chorus -- suddenly there's melody, and syncopation, and much lighter, almost folky guitarwork -- and now he paints the other side of her, the side that still makes hanging around worth it -- "Remember cuddles in the kitchen / Yeah, to get things off the ground / And it was up, up and away." It's a wistful little snapshot, and his voice goes playful and husky, recalling those good times; that thick Sheffield accent comes out at the right moment, making him sound extra-sincere. Calling her a "mardy bum" (northern slang for a feisty, sulky girl) may be a put-down, but the dialect somehow makes it endearing, too.
As the guitar gets harsher in the bridge, he rolls out the excuses: "And yeah I'm sorry I was late but I missed the train / And then the traffic was a state," but she's clearly not buying it; you can feel his exasperation as he defends himself: "Oh when you say I don't care but of course I do, yeah I clearly do!" I don't necessarily want to take this guy on, myself, but I sure want to give her a good shake -- doesn't she know what a good thing she's got?
I wonder if the Arctic Monkeys have staying power; they can only sell the raw provincial youth image for so long. But if this song is any indication of their ability to nail down how real people really feel, then they just may have what it takes. And if not...well, we'll always have "Mardy Bum," and I'll think twice the next time I feel myself getting my silent disappointment face on.
www.arcticmonkeys.com
I give this couple six months, max.
The guys in this band are all incredibly young, 20 or 21 or so, and they make it work for them; Alex Turner's lead vocals sound raw and unpolished, and the lyrics have a certain inarticulate quality that's totally believable. All the more reason for me to buy his version of events.
Leading off with a dogged-yet-hopeful clanging guitar riff, the singer draws a deep breath and faces his wrathful girlfriend: "Well now then Mardy Bum / I've seen your frown and it's like looking down the barrel of a gun /And it goes off and out come all these words." He dreads what's going to happen next, but he knows the scenario by now, "when you're so all argumentative" and "pulling that silent disappointment face." He may be young but he's shrewd enough not to fire back; with native canniness, he lets her rant on. For a while, at least.
The mood changes for the chorus -- suddenly there's melody, and syncopation, and much lighter, almost folky guitarwork -- and now he paints the other side of her, the side that still makes hanging around worth it -- "Remember cuddles in the kitchen / Yeah, to get things off the ground / And it was up, up and away." It's a wistful little snapshot, and his voice goes playful and husky, recalling those good times; that thick Sheffield accent comes out at the right moment, making him sound extra-sincere. Calling her a "mardy bum" (northern slang for a feisty, sulky girl) may be a put-down, but the dialect somehow makes it endearing, too.
As the guitar gets harsher in the bridge, he rolls out the excuses: "And yeah I'm sorry I was late but I missed the train / And then the traffic was a state," but she's clearly not buying it; you can feel his exasperation as he defends himself: "Oh when you say I don't care but of course I do, yeah I clearly do!" I don't necessarily want to take this guy on, myself, but I sure want to give her a good shake -- doesn't she know what a good thing she's got?
I wonder if the Arctic Monkeys have staying power; they can only sell the raw provincial youth image for so long. But if this song is any indication of their ability to nail down how real people really feel, then they just may have what it takes. And if not...well, we'll always have "Mardy Bum," and I'll think twice the next time I feel myself getting my silent disappointment face on.
www.arcticmonkeys.com
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
"Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood" / The Animals
When I first heard this Animals track in 1965 I had no idea who Nina Simone was, or where the Animals had found this tune. Not that it would've mattered; I was too young, and too white, to figure out why Nina Simone was so woeful and angry. I didn't really know what the Animals were singing about, either, despite all the uneasy chord shifts and the ominous nagging sigh of that organ -- I figured it was just a boy telling his girlfriend she didn't understand him. But it became so familiar to me that when I finally heard Nina's version, it seemed too torchy and histrionic. It's a perfect example of a cover version completely stealing the original's thunder -- something the Animals did on a regular basis.
Of course, the darkness of the Animals' version completely escaped me, until I started listening to their music again in college -- at which point the threatening edge to Eric Burdon's street-tough voice registered loud and clear.
"Baby, do you understand me now?" he starts off, as if shaking a warning finger under her nose (or more likely a fist). When Nina sings "Sometimes I feel a little mad," you feel sorry for her; when Eric sings it you get ready to run for cover, because it's clear he's a ticking time bomb. "Don't you know that no one alive can always be an angel?" he declares, with a sarcastic trill on the "always." I would NOT want to be that woman who's accusing him of misbehaving.
When Eric (with his mates right behind him, backing him up) declares in the chorus, "I'm just a soul whose intentions are good," notice how he flings his voice nastily into the final "good." "Oh lord!" -- a single hard drum slap slams the exclamation point in place -- "please don't let me be misunderstood," Eric protests, biting off his syllables, his voice shivering with self-pity and barely suppressed rage. And yeah, that rage may have less to do with his girlfriend than with living in a slum and working at the docks (I always think here of that raw desperation of another Animals track, "We Gotta Get Get Out Of This Place"), but it's real rage all the same.
He goes on, "If I seem edgy, I want you to know / That I never mean to take it out on you," and my heart sinks, realizing he probably slaps this girl around. But then his voice turns hoarse and earnest, cracking a little as he tells her he loves her, and he's only human; I can't help it, I begin to forgive him as he pouts and pleads, "Sometimes I find myself alone regretting / Some foolish things, some little sinful thing I've done." Awww, gee -- until just in time I notice how he rushes over that word "sinful." He has been cheating on her, hasn't he? He may blame it on everything else -- the stresses of his life, the inherent weakness of human nature -- but he's admitted it.
Now it's up to her to forgive him, though he's a Geordie and too proud to beg; instead he'll gruffly accuse her of not understanding him. And the weird thing is, I already know she's going to forgive him. Just because the timbre of Eric Burdon's voice is so rich and rough and goddam sexy -- he's going to get away with it. I feel my own knees buckle as I listen to him. Okay, Eric, just this one more time. Only...don't hit me, please?
Here's a video link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QY7ZBhLXoQg&mode=related&search== Don't be fooled by the suits.
When I first heard this Animals track in 1965 I had no idea who Nina Simone was, or where the Animals had found this tune. Not that it would've mattered; I was too young, and too white, to figure out why Nina Simone was so woeful and angry. I didn't really know what the Animals were singing about, either, despite all the uneasy chord shifts and the ominous nagging sigh of that organ -- I figured it was just a boy telling his girlfriend she didn't understand him. But it became so familiar to me that when I finally heard Nina's version, it seemed too torchy and histrionic. It's a perfect example of a cover version completely stealing the original's thunder -- something the Animals did on a regular basis.
Of course, the darkness of the Animals' version completely escaped me, until I started listening to their music again in college -- at which point the threatening edge to Eric Burdon's street-tough voice registered loud and clear.
"Baby, do you understand me now?" he starts off, as if shaking a warning finger under her nose (or more likely a fist). When Nina sings "Sometimes I feel a little mad," you feel sorry for her; when Eric sings it you get ready to run for cover, because it's clear he's a ticking time bomb. "Don't you know that no one alive can always be an angel?" he declares, with a sarcastic trill on the "always." I would NOT want to be that woman who's accusing him of misbehaving.
When Eric (with his mates right behind him, backing him up) declares in the chorus, "I'm just a soul whose intentions are good," notice how he flings his voice nastily into the final "good." "Oh lord!" -- a single hard drum slap slams the exclamation point in place -- "please don't let me be misunderstood," Eric protests, biting off his syllables, his voice shivering with self-pity and barely suppressed rage. And yeah, that rage may have less to do with his girlfriend than with living in a slum and working at the docks (I always think here of that raw desperation of another Animals track, "We Gotta Get Get Out Of This Place"), but it's real rage all the same.
He goes on, "If I seem edgy, I want you to know / That I never mean to take it out on you," and my heart sinks, realizing he probably slaps this girl around. But then his voice turns hoarse and earnest, cracking a little as he tells her he loves her, and he's only human; I can't help it, I begin to forgive him as he pouts and pleads, "Sometimes I find myself alone regretting / Some foolish things, some little sinful thing I've done." Awww, gee -- until just in time I notice how he rushes over that word "sinful." He has been cheating on her, hasn't he? He may blame it on everything else -- the stresses of his life, the inherent weakness of human nature -- but he's admitted it.
Now it's up to her to forgive him, though he's a Geordie and too proud to beg; instead he'll gruffly accuse her of not understanding him. And the weird thing is, I already know she's going to forgive him. Just because the timbre of Eric Burdon's voice is so rich and rough and goddam sexy -- he's going to get away with it. I feel my own knees buckle as I listen to him. Okay, Eric, just this one more time. Only...don't hit me, please?
Here's a video link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QY7ZBhLXoQg&mode=related&search== Don't be fooled by the suits.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
"Father Christmas" / The Kinks
The Kinks have never been big on sugary sentiment, so of course if they were going to do a Christmas song it would have to be something with a thrashing beat and a scathing shot of social commentary. Their one Yuletide song, "Father Christmas" -- a 1977 single that's now included as a bonus track on the reissue of their 1978 album Misfits -- has all that, but it also features a characteristic Ray Davies sorrow for a world's that gone downhill.
The basic scenario: The narrator wistfully remembers childhood Christmases when he believed in Santa Claus, even though he knew it was his dad behind it all; but now, a grownup, he's working as a department store Santa and geting mugged by a cynical pack of street urchins. That's the chorus, the sneering Cockney chant of those little punks: "Father Christmas, give us some money / Don't mess around with those silly toys / We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over / We want your bread so don't make us annoyed / Give all the toys to the rich little boys."
Just for good measure, Ray throws in a note of class conflict, too. And while he's at it, he'll take a swipe at the crass marketing of childhood: "Don't give my brother a Steve Austin outfit / Don't give my sister a cuddly toy / Don't want no jigsaw or monopoly money / All we want is the real McCoy." The kids go on to explain to Father Christmas what they really want -- a job for their dads . . . and maybe a machine gun so they can terrorize their neighborhoods. Sure, Ray sympathizes with their tight economic fix, but he's also repelled by the street violence poverty breeds. Talk about Dickensian Christmases -- this is the real spirit of Charles Dickens.
It could be a downer, but it's such an exuberant rocker you can't help but sing along, and pound your fist while you're at it. I heard this over the PA in a crowded Urban Outfitters store a few days ago, and besides my delight (and astonishment) at hearing a relatively obscure Kinks song broadcast, I felt immediately zapped by the goofy energy of it. The sweet angel-chime tinkling of a glockenspiel is swept aside by Dave Davies's shrewdly snarling guitar riffs, slicing aggressively through the mix; there's a great snappy drumbeat, and Ray's voice punches out that chorus with gusto.
When he gets to the last verse, his God-bless-us-every-one send-off is surprisingly heartfelt: "Have yourself a merry merry Christmas / Have yourself a good time / But remember the kids who got nothin' / While you're drinking down your wine." Not exactly a feel-good ending. But who expected that from the Kinks?
The Kinks have never been big on sugary sentiment, so of course if they were going to do a Christmas song it would have to be something with a thrashing beat and a scathing shot of social commentary. Their one Yuletide song, "Father Christmas" -- a 1977 single that's now included as a bonus track on the reissue of their 1978 album Misfits -- has all that, but it also features a characteristic Ray Davies sorrow for a world's that gone downhill.
The basic scenario: The narrator wistfully remembers childhood Christmases when he believed in Santa Claus, even though he knew it was his dad behind it all; but now, a grownup, he's working as a department store Santa and geting mugged by a cynical pack of street urchins. That's the chorus, the sneering Cockney chant of those little punks: "Father Christmas, give us some money / Don't mess around with those silly toys / We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over / We want your bread so don't make us annoyed / Give all the toys to the rich little boys."
Just for good measure, Ray throws in a note of class conflict, too. And while he's at it, he'll take a swipe at the crass marketing of childhood: "Don't give my brother a Steve Austin outfit / Don't give my sister a cuddly toy / Don't want no jigsaw or monopoly money / All we want is the real McCoy." The kids go on to explain to Father Christmas what they really want -- a job for their dads . . . and maybe a machine gun so they can terrorize their neighborhoods. Sure, Ray sympathizes with their tight economic fix, but he's also repelled by the street violence poverty breeds. Talk about Dickensian Christmases -- this is the real spirit of Charles Dickens.
It could be a downer, but it's such an exuberant rocker you can't help but sing along, and pound your fist while you're at it. I heard this over the PA in a crowded Urban Outfitters store a few days ago, and besides my delight (and astonishment) at hearing a relatively obscure Kinks song broadcast, I felt immediately zapped by the goofy energy of it. The sweet angel-chime tinkling of a glockenspiel is swept aside by Dave Davies's shrewdly snarling guitar riffs, slicing aggressively through the mix; there's a great snappy drumbeat, and Ray's voice punches out that chorus with gusto.
When he gets to the last verse, his God-bless-us-every-one send-off is surprisingly heartfelt: "Have yourself a merry merry Christmas / Have yourself a good time / But remember the kids who got nothin' / While you're drinking down your wine." Not exactly a feel-good ending. But who expected that from the Kinks?
Saturday, December 23, 2006
"Get Behind Me, Santa" / Sufjan Stevens
Considering that every Christmas album on the market seems to involve tired rehashes of the same old standards, I must say I've warmed up to Sufjan Stevens's new Christmas album. It's packed with 42 songs, a collection of six EPs that Stevens released privately every Christmas for the past few years; now he's whacked them together in a box set. Many of the tracks are relatively faithful renditions of standard carols, which Sufjan delivers with simple acoustic arrangements and without irony -- now there's a startling concept -- and the earnest breathiness of his voice makes this go down surprisingly well.
I don't know exactly what to make of Sufjan Stevens. His music seems unclassifiable to me -- it sure isn't rock 'n' roll, or jazz, or blues of any kind; just call it alternative, I guess, and hope that folks'll be open-minded enough to appreciate the odd soundtrack-lush instrumentation and the quirky slice-of-life lyrics. But what really interests me about Sufjan's take on Christmas songs is that he seems to know he's swimming against the current, that our skeptical world prefers "bummer" Christmas songs and politically correct generic "holiday" music. And something about that bothers Sufjan.
"Get Behind Me, Santa" is a bouncy, ska-flavored number that skips around the culture clash Christmas has become. It's almost like a typo for "Get Behind Me Satan", so right away you know Santa is not coming down anybody's chimney unchallenged. He starts off with a jaundiced description of a trumped-up version of Santa Claus -- "I know what you're doing to me, boy / You move so fast, like a psychopathic color TV / With your Christmas bag and your jolly face/ And the reindeer stomping all over the place" -- but a second voice, a wobbly but sincere voice, pops up to protest "You make it sound like Christmas is a four-letter word." The first voice scoffs at the idea that Christmas is all about family or shopping or carols, but the other voice protests, "You've got it wrong because I'm just another regular guy / Simply 'cos I've affection for the Yuletide."
The song gets tangled up in its own arrangement, which builds up to backing vocals spelling out the word C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S; Sufjan's not going to peach to us about the meaning of Christmas. We've got to figure out for ourselves which side we want to come down on. But the light-heartedness of this track, that catchy horn section, the goofy organ vibrating through the bridge, makes me want to come down on the side of just being happy.
This is a fun song and you can dance to it; it isn't dripping with fake sentimentality or hipster scorn. The main thing is that Santa Claus is coming to town, and hey, it's the holiday season -- let's cut each other some slack, for once.
Considering that every Christmas album on the market seems to involve tired rehashes of the same old standards, I must say I've warmed up to Sufjan Stevens's new Christmas album. It's packed with 42 songs, a collection of six EPs that Stevens released privately every Christmas for the past few years; now he's whacked them together in a box set. Many of the tracks are relatively faithful renditions of standard carols, which Sufjan delivers with simple acoustic arrangements and without irony -- now there's a startling concept -- and the earnest breathiness of his voice makes this go down surprisingly well.
I don't know exactly what to make of Sufjan Stevens. His music seems unclassifiable to me -- it sure isn't rock 'n' roll, or jazz, or blues of any kind; just call it alternative, I guess, and hope that folks'll be open-minded enough to appreciate the odd soundtrack-lush instrumentation and the quirky slice-of-life lyrics. But what really interests me about Sufjan's take on Christmas songs is that he seems to know he's swimming against the current, that our skeptical world prefers "bummer" Christmas songs and politically correct generic "holiday" music. And something about that bothers Sufjan.
"Get Behind Me, Santa" is a bouncy, ska-flavored number that skips around the culture clash Christmas has become. It's almost like a typo for "Get Behind Me Satan", so right away you know Santa is not coming down anybody's chimney unchallenged. He starts off with a jaundiced description of a trumped-up version of Santa Claus -- "I know what you're doing to me, boy / You move so fast, like a psychopathic color TV / With your Christmas bag and your jolly face/ And the reindeer stomping all over the place" -- but a second voice, a wobbly but sincere voice, pops up to protest "You make it sound like Christmas is a four-letter word." The first voice scoffs at the idea that Christmas is all about family or shopping or carols, but the other voice protests, "You've got it wrong because I'm just another regular guy / Simply 'cos I've affection for the Yuletide."
The song gets tangled up in its own arrangement, which builds up to backing vocals spelling out the word C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S; Sufjan's not going to peach to us about the meaning of Christmas. We've got to figure out for ourselves which side we want to come down on. But the light-heartedness of this track, that catchy horn section, the goofy organ vibrating through the bridge, makes me want to come down on the side of just being happy.
This is a fun song and you can dance to it; it isn't dripping with fake sentimentality or hipster scorn. The main thing is that Santa Claus is coming to town, and hey, it's the holiday season -- let's cut each other some slack, for once.
Friday, December 22, 2006
"Television" / Dave Edmunds
I promised myself when I started this blog that I wouldn't write about Nick Lowe all the time. This post has absolutely nothing to do with Nick Lowe...except that he, uh, wrote this song for his mate Dave Edmunds [see correction in comments below], and played bass on it (on the 1978 album Tracks on Wax 4), along with the rest of the touring band known as Rockpile. (For contractual reasons, Rockpile only released one LP, 1980's Seconds of Pleasure, but every Dave Edmunds and Nick Lowe album for a few years there was really a Rockpile record.) And also, I first fell in love with this song from Marshall Crenshaw's delicious cover on a 2001 Nick Lowe tribute album, Labour of Love. But really, this entry is not about Nick Lowe. At all.
Dave E, of course, gives this song more of a rockabilly twang than Marshall did -- that is, after all, Dave's special thing (how a singer from Cardiff, Wales, ever ended up sounding like he was from Texarkana confounds me). That trailer-park inflection works very well for a song that just may be the earliest recorded anthem for a couch potato. The singer's hurrying home from work to see his best friend -- his TV set -- and it's all upbeat and catchy; Dave's mellow, warm voice practically quivers with excitement about being able to "crack out a can of something" and tune out in front of the tube: "I don't care what's on, if it's happy or sad / I don't even care if it's good or bad / Just as long as it's on I'm glad."
In the boppy chorus, the lead singer trades off a series of phrases with the cheery back-up vocalists -- "I'm plugging in my...television!...switching on...television!...tuning in...television.." (I do hear Nick's voice in there, don't I?).
But of course there's a subtext. The guy just happens to mention that this TV addiction
has been his feeble way of coping since his girl left him. Aha! There's the Nick Lowe touch; I'm thinking now of Nick tunes like the comically woeful "I'm A Mess" and the brilliant "Lately I've Let Things Slide," which are also about jilted men falling apart. (I also have to mention one of my favorite John Hiatt songs, "I Don't Even Try," from his 1983 album Riding With the King...which was partly produced by Nick Lowe, as it happens.) I get such a clear mental picture from this, of a lost-looking slob in a stained T-shirt, a half-eaten burrito on a paper plate and a can of Bud on the arm of his La-Z-Boy recliner; the house is lit only by the flickering light from the set, and he's got the remote clutched in his hand, though he isn't even clicking the buttons much anymore. "My best friend is living in / Ever since you've been gone / All I've got to do is activate that tube / And I don't have to miss you no more," he declares, and it's so endearingly pathetic.
This is so much more affecting to me than all those angry you-left-me songs, and self-pitying you-left-me songs. This is how real guys face being dumped by their girlfriends, and I'm delighted that Nick Lowe -- I mean, Dave Edmunds -- understands this. No doubt the woman who just left had every reason in the world for being fed up with him, but he's so darn sweet and lonely -- it seems to me that a little consolation is called for. Maybe I'll drop by and watch that television with him.
[check out this performance on YouTube: http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPn9honfExw ]
I promised myself when I started this blog that I wouldn't write about Nick Lowe all the time. This post has absolutely nothing to do with Nick Lowe...except that he, uh, wrote this song for his mate Dave Edmunds [see correction in comments below], and played bass on it (on the 1978 album Tracks on Wax 4), along with the rest of the touring band known as Rockpile. (For contractual reasons, Rockpile only released one LP, 1980's Seconds of Pleasure, but every Dave Edmunds and Nick Lowe album for a few years there was really a Rockpile record.) And also, I first fell in love with this song from Marshall Crenshaw's delicious cover on a 2001 Nick Lowe tribute album, Labour of Love. But really, this entry is not about Nick Lowe. At all.
Dave E, of course, gives this song more of a rockabilly twang than Marshall did -- that is, after all, Dave's special thing (how a singer from Cardiff, Wales, ever ended up sounding like he was from Texarkana confounds me). That trailer-park inflection works very well for a song that just may be the earliest recorded anthem for a couch potato. The singer's hurrying home from work to see his best friend -- his TV set -- and it's all upbeat and catchy; Dave's mellow, warm voice practically quivers with excitement about being able to "crack out a can of something" and tune out in front of the tube: "I don't care what's on, if it's happy or sad / I don't even care if it's good or bad / Just as long as it's on I'm glad."
In the boppy chorus, the lead singer trades off a series of phrases with the cheery back-up vocalists -- "I'm plugging in my...television!...switching on...television!...tuning in...television.." (I do hear Nick's voice in there, don't I?).
But of course there's a subtext. The guy just happens to mention that this TV addiction
has been his feeble way of coping since his girl left him. Aha! There's the Nick Lowe touch; I'm thinking now of Nick tunes like the comically woeful "I'm A Mess" and the brilliant "Lately I've Let Things Slide," which are also about jilted men falling apart. (I also have to mention one of my favorite John Hiatt songs, "I Don't Even Try," from his 1983 album Riding With the King...which was partly produced by Nick Lowe, as it happens.) I get such a clear mental picture from this, of a lost-looking slob in a stained T-shirt, a half-eaten burrito on a paper plate and a can of Bud on the arm of his La-Z-Boy recliner; the house is lit only by the flickering light from the set, and he's got the remote clutched in his hand, though he isn't even clicking the buttons much anymore. "My best friend is living in / Ever since you've been gone / All I've got to do is activate that tube / And I don't have to miss you no more," he declares, and it's so endearingly pathetic.
This is so much more affecting to me than all those angry you-left-me songs, and self-pitying you-left-me songs. This is how real guys face being dumped by their girlfriends, and I'm delighted that Nick Lowe -- I mean, Dave Edmunds -- understands this. No doubt the woman who just left had every reason in the world for being fed up with him, but he's so darn sweet and lonely -- it seems to me that a little consolation is called for. Maybe I'll drop by and watch that television with him.
[check out this performance on YouTube: http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPn9honfExw ]
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