The Crossing (1984) – Big Country

Although relegated to one-hit wonder status in the States (“In A Big Country”), Big Country transcended the confines of Billboard chart position and America’s short attention span. While the band’s bagpipe guitar hooks may have come across as gimmicky, they were actually part of a panoply of innovative expression Big Country effectuated through accomplished musicianship. “The Crossing” (which, incidentally, does not appear on their debut The Crossing) bears this out in seven minutes of mini-epic splendor.

The dew of springtime finds a guitar bursting forth, bounding briskly across the hinterland, soon joined by skipping drums and loping bass in kindred sprightliness. Although Stuart Adamson sings with buoyancy, his words betray a burden—a yearning to free a damsel of her crippling constrictions, the bastille of her withdrawal. He dares her to live audaciously, that they might one day reach a confluence, “a beach where we can cross our hearts.” Throughout, drummer Mark Brzezicki imparts vivid tinctures: the metallic pings of a ride cymbal; a hi-hat’s sharp sibilance; liberal doses of china cymbal clang; the agile bustle of a kick drum, somersaulting octobans and tumbling toms; a snare’s pattering ghost notes and percussive slaps. Tony Butler impels his bass on a winged gallop of skimming strides and nimble triplets. The guitars of Adamson and Bruce Watson peal and skirl, bob and flutter, prance and whirl in distorted overtones that reflect off palisades in a canyon of copious delay and reverb. In periodic interludes, the band honors the stylistic signature of Scottish folk dances through variations in meter, rhythm and tempo, before resuming the spree.

Adamson envisions a day when he will traverse the emotional distance to join the reclusive lass as she basks in grandeur, lingers with insouciance. Until that time, however, he likens the quest to converge to a worldly wayfare.

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Hey, Little Star (1964) – Ann-Margret

Following her breakthrough role as star-struck Kim MacAfee in Bye Bye Birdie, and her turn as Elvis’ feisty love interest in Viva Las Vegas, Ann-Margret Olsson whipped up this confection of aural ambrosia, her vocals closer in timbre to the balmy lilt of Shelley Fabares, as opposed to the sultry piquancy she would later share with Nancy Sinatra. “Hey, Little Star” gallivants on a cloud of meringue, a dreamy arrangement that recalls Frankie Avalon’s “Venus,” with the same supplication for fulfillment of romantic longing. A percussive bassline and brushed drums tap out a tango, embellished by an ensemble of bell tree, glockenspiel and flute; swooning strings flourish and effloresce with episodic flair redolent of a ‘70s Japanese variety show, while sirenic falsetto cooing pipes in through elevator speakers. Ann-Margret revels radiantly in her fairytale ending and marvels at the efficacy with which Little Star rewarded her patience and faith by answering her wish for a boy with whom to share the starry night sky.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Sorry (1990) – Galaxie 500

“Sorry” is the reluctant sound of a joyless relationship deteriorating, epitomized by Dean Wareham strums his guitar in plaintive pensiveness, while the deliberate pace at which Damon ’s nasalized wails which wearily bemoan the routine bickering that finds him apologizing more often than not, even for matters over which he has no control. Krukowski’s drums trudge forward in drips and drags fosters an impatience that hastens the dégringolade. Naomi Yang’s bassline assumes the role of lyrical counterpoint as it climbs and cascades with the condolence of a sympathetic confidant, evincing her proclivity for the upper half of the bass neck. Although Wareham assumes that reconciliation is assured upon returning home, he knows that home is a placebo, not a panacea—just another place where they are lonely together; a place where the weather may suit them, but the climate is frigid: “Home is home / Where we love the weather.” Krukowski and producer/Shimmy-Disc proprietor Kramer furnish background vocals that melt in melancholic moans. A wah-filtered guitar offers to intercede, but to no avail. Wareham propounds unpalatable leading questions, the answers to which reverberate in grim futility: “Are you sorry that you love me? / Am I sorry I love you too? / Seems it doesn’t make a difference / That we’re sorry all the time.” At least they enjoyed the clement weather.

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Something Cool (1953) – June Christy (Billy Barnes)

June Christy has a few hours to kill during a flight layover in Chicago. At the airport lounge, a gentleman offers to buy her a drink. She accepts, and decides to let her hair down a little, lighting up a cigarette. Having loosened up, she proceeds to spill the details of her past glory in a stream of consciousness: her capacious mansion, her queue of suitors, her Parisian fling. Delivering her divagation on the rocks, equal parts smoky and sultry with a shot of soul, Christy rambles through her escapades as a former debutante (okay, so perhaps it’s the liquor embellishing the details), completely ignoring her drinking companion. By the time she snaps out of her reverie and realizes her faux pas, he is putting on his coat, paying the tab, and shaking her hand goodbye. Had he known she was so babblative and self-indulgent, he would have slipped away like the wisps of smoke wafting from the ashtray the moment she sat down next to him.

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No Love Lost (1978) – Joy Division

Peter Hook’s strummed bass chords peal like a clock striking four a.m. in a World War II concentration camp. A murky fog envelopes The House of Dolls—barracks described in a 1955 novel by Ka-tzentink 135633 in which young Jewish women were kept as sexual slaves in a “Joy Division” by Nazi soldiers. Bernard Albrecht (later Sumner)’s single note guitar riff brays like a donkey in alternation with Pete Townsendesque power chords heralding the break of dawn. The band that would one day become New Order in the wake of its lead singer’s suicide launches into lurching garage rock that exudes the same raw brazenness as The Kinks’ “All Day and All Of The Night,” with preamps pumping more overdrive into the aggression. It’s not until nearly two minutes have elapsed that Ian Curtis finally sneers with a mixture of contempt and pathos, his brash voice instilled with a youthful bite, as opposed to the atonal drone with which he would later lament.

As he awaits his duty on the battlefront, a soldier recognizes the objectification of the joy division captives, yet will not be denied his gratification: “I need it! I need it! I need it!” In a spoken passage, Curtis stoically describes a routine abortion in the infirmary, where a girl has been stripped of her humanity, divested of the fetus to which she has no emotional attachment. Stephen Morris’s tom-toms take a drunken tumble down a flight of stairs, culminating in a brief fusillade of snare like a splayed soldier’s rifle discharging. Perhaps the stray bullets mercifully end someone’s suffering.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

I Believe I Can Fly (2004) – William Hung

99.9% of the world thinks William Hung is a horrible singer. Well, yes—but that kind of misses the point. The other 0.1% knows that he is a horrible singer, but tries to find some redeeming qualities. One such quality often cited is that he is sincere and tries his best—such folderol is in fact regurgitated by the Hungster himself on spoken interludes interspersed throughout his debut album Inspiration. Utter misguided nonsense. The true redemptive trait is that he is a modern day jester. And—let’s face it—as far as singing ability goes, Pavement’s Steven Malkmus is a Chinese accent away from being William Hung. For that matter, William Hung is an indie rock band away from being an indie rock icon. Is his voice really any less grating than Clap Your Hands Say Yeah’s Alec Ounsworth’s? Wouldn’t he complement the quirkiness of Deerhoof’s Satomi Matsuzaki? Is his tortured wailing any less earnest than Xiu Xiu’s Jamie Stewart?

Throughout “I Believe I Can Fly,” Hung’s voice usually wavers within a semitone of the correct note; he attempts to impart undulations unto sustained notes, which end up sounding like his testicles are slowly being stretched in a mini torture rack. Subtle delay and double-tracking bestow an air of mock seriousness that belies this endeavor’s jocular motives. Okay, so it’s obvious the producers are making him the butt of a cruel joke, as is evidenced by the fact that a false start 2:52 into the song was not edited out. This is Mrs. Miller for the 00’s, even down to the probability that Hung was unaware of the irony in singing, “and life was nothing but an awful song.”

Actually, Willy handles the song’s key change with aplomb and there’s something absurdly artful about his attempts to randomly stumble upon the correct note. In fact, he sings the chorus in tune, so one has to believe he was instructed to sound clueless during the verses. The fact that he complied is evidence that he is willing to be a stooge for the sake of entertaining people. Unfortunately for Hung, I’ve personally observed patrons in Tower Records become so annoyed that they’ve demanded that the clerk turn off this song. Bravo, clerk. A song with this potent an impact is a song worth having in one’s arsenal to notify guests who have overstayed their welcome that it’s time to leave.

With reckless abandon, Hung reaches for the high notes without regard for the likelihood of actually hitting them. The true reward is revealed at 3:55 into the song where he unleashes his falsetto in shades of Peter Brady singing “Time To Change”: one pictures him with eyes closed, fists clenched with arms rigidly at his side, body in stiff paroxysms as he takes his voice on a rollercoaster ride—“I can flyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy uhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy.” Rather than soar on wings of eagles, however, Hung hangs stagnant in the air like a stale fart, a sitting duck for critics and detractors waiting to take potshots. She bang, indeed.

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Black Korea (1991) – Ice Cube

As depicted in Spike Lee’s 1989 film Do The Right Thing, Korean-owned liquor stores in African-American neighborhoods set the stage for confrontations born of racial tension and resentment. In March 1991, this strife culminated in the publicized Latasha Harlins slaying in Los Angeles by a Korean liquor store owner over the perceived shoplifting of a bottle of orange juice, in a climate of gang member death threats previously made against the owner’s son. For killing Harlins, Soon Ja Du received a voluntary manslaughter conviction, 5 years probation, 400 hours community service and a $500 fine, despite the jury’s recommendation of a 16-year jail sentence. The black community took this as justice’s measure of the worth of an African-American’s life: one could shoot a 15-year old girl in the back of the head and get off scot-free.

Seven months later, Ice Cube released Death Certificate—universally recognized as a manifesto of misogynistic, racist, hedonistic obloquy, invective and bravado. Fed up with being prejudged as a thief who draws the scrutiny of store owners, Cube counters racist treatment with racist statements in “Black Korea.” Well—upon closer inspection, they’re not so much racist statements, as they are indignant conniptions. In fact, all things considered, Cube refrains from outright slurs, opting instead for a flippant food stereotype peppered in with retaliatory economic threats.

In a mere 46 seconds, Cube voices a community’s grievances, epitomizes its ire, and demands respect as a condition precedent to a tolerable co-existence of cultures colliding for the sake of forty ounces.

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It’s One Of Those Nights (Yes Love) (1971) – David Cassidy/The Partridge Family (Tony Romeo)

Saccharine, sappy, schmaltzy—“It’s One Of Those Nights” is thus fairly described. Yet, to deny its callow charm is to deny that the pangs of adolescent longing ever meant anything. Fresh off the cover of Tiger Beat magazine, ‘70s teen idol David Cassidy languishes away another lonely evening in the solitude of his room, pining. A glee club coos background vocals as he flounders in reveries that pack an emotional wallop, cause him to nod in wishful thinking and embolden his stalker tendencies. Entertaining silly soliloquies, Cassidy vacillates in droll and wacky self-deliberation. In tender sighs, Cassidy typifies the obsessive yearnings of a sympathetic hobbledehoy—pathetic enough to deserve pity, yet painfully familiar so as to elicit a wince of recognition.

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Stigmata Martyr (1980) – Bauhaus

David J’s writhing bass menacingly makes a chromatic descent into dark catacombs of unrest; Kevin Haskins’ hi-hat scurries alongside a metronomic kick drum to fortify his brother’s sepulchral incursion; Daniel Ash’s guitar grates and abrades in an attempt to extricate itself from the bowels of angst. Later to reconvene in psychedelia as Love and Rockets, on this night the trio haunt the corridors of a mausoleum as Bauhaus, ushered by the ululations of one Peter Murphy. In the grip of religious fanaticism and an onerous penitence, a zealot interprets the biblical phrase “take up the cross” a bit too literally. Aided by his minions, he undertakes to recreate the Crucifixion, incurring stigmata in a spasm of “ecstasy, lying cross-chequed in agony”—an undertaking that denotes the ritualistic penance of Catholicism that would drive a guilt-ridden megalomaniac to perform such an act in an attempt to atone for his sins and, at the same time, achieve immortality in heaven and on earth, as he rapturously anticipates rewards in the afterlife. Murphy ominously recites the holy rosary in Latin, which simultaneously slithers in reverse. The incantation culminates in screams of anguished delirium as his life expires, whilst a corpse scrapes the door of a crypt—a spirit attempting to reincarnate. Perhaps it means to convey that his abject suffering to achieve martyrdom was futile, failing to inspire men to speak of him in reverent tones.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Through The Fire (1984) – Chaka Khan

“Through The Fire” epitomizes the nervous drama of Friday night community center dances; it is the centerpiece of junior high mixtapes echoing in headphones as one drifts off to dream of quixotic possibilities, a confession in a letter attempting to persuade a reluctant object of one’s pursuit into a stab at romance. Chaka Khan’s silvery vocals, a dynamic blend of expression and control, weave through marked key changes that grab the listener’s heart and pull it through the strata of infatuation—a lost art in modern day songwriting. Well, of course: David Foster, the master of 80’s pop balladry, co-wrote it, which accounts for the thrilling flair with which Khan avows her willingness to risk emotional devastation for a chance at a considerable payoff.

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Price of Gas (2005) – Bloc Party

A delay-tinged guitar twitches like a freshly-squashed spider mired in a web of spectral reverb. STOMP, STOMP, STOMP march U.S. troops to invade and occupy an oil-rich country so the Bush administration can regulate the supply of its natural petroleum resources in order to appease America. Particularly apropos today, “Price Of Gas” criticizes a perceived policy of invoking patriotism as a pretext for serving economic interests through campaigns of aggression on foreign soil—a throwback to the “NO BLOOD FOR OIL” mantra circa the elder Bush’s Gulf War agenda. Suffused with political hyperbole and specious judgment, “Price of Gas” does little to support Bloc Party’s SUV conspiracy theories. However, its sonic attributes are its saving grace: guitars fire in piston-like downstrokes, fueled by compressed drums with post-punk edginess, tempered by a viscous bassline. Haunting synthesizers materialize in suspenseful limbo like a Hardy Boys mystery begging to be solved. Unafraid to reach back in time to pilfer, Bloc Party do not shy away from ‘80s sensibilities, from the heavily accented wails and grunts straight out of the Adam and The Ants repertoire (think “Stand and Deliver”), to the driving new-romanticism of early Duran Duran (think “Careless Memories”). Bloc Party wears its badge of social consciousness like a Toyota Prius driver in the carpool lane bypassing all the self-absorbed gas guzzlers stuck in traffic who necessitate the bloodshed: “I’ve been driving, a mid-sized car / I never hurt anyone / IS THAT A FACT?”

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Beautiful (1972) – Gordon Lightfoot

A wonderfully unusual palette of pastoral major 7th and minor 7th chords winds its way through the woods—hues fluctuating in aurora borealis-like undulation—and sweeps over the surface of a Canadian lake, eventually finding the cabin from which Gordon Lightfoot’s rustic baritone emanates in throaty quavers. With fawning adoration for his lady, Lightfoot basks in the permanence of their devotion and marvels in his good fortune. Displaying the artistry of a minstrel in midsummer night’s serenade, Lightfoot massages gradations from exotic chord progressions to imbue the fundamental sentiment of love with shades of mystique and undertones of fascination.

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Genius Of Crack (1993) – Tsunami

Simple Machines founders Jenny Toomey and Kristin Thomson embodied the D.I.Y. ethic of the early nineties, not only running their own independent label out of their house in Arlington, Virginia, but also strapping on guitars to front the label’s flagship band, Tsunami. Although suffering from subpar production that deprived the instruments of their dynamic range, Tsunami’s debut album Deep End still stands as the apotheosis of agitated “punk la la rock” filtered through a sieve of melodic gumption.

“Genius of Crack” relates the self-reproach of a person who has failed to take advantage of her talents to reach her aspirations. The sandpaper grit of distorted guitars slowly unfurls in billows of dissonance as the tempo gradually gains momentum, as if to impose impetus upon the inertia. Adopting the persona of an underachieving slacker, Toomey confronts her failures and disappointments. Unable to achieve financial or social prestige, she will always be disposed to itinerant waywardness. She acknowledges that her unfulfilled potential stems from choices she has made in the past, and the inability to harness her experiences into animus. In the interest of cognitive dissonance, Toomey adheres to the notion that music worth making lacks commercial appeal. But, foundering in a morass of futility, she invokes her muse to inspire, her fortitude to spur. Cohort Thomson concurs with impassioned harmonies, deploring the repercussion of their debilitating fecklessness: “We’re so slack / We come off like geniuses on crack.” The strain of regret devolves into a maelstrom of discordant guitars and crashing drums, exploding in a cathartic detonation as Toomey’s sense of self-worth is obliterated, a musician manqué on the precipice of resignation, coming to terms with the demise of her dreams.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

The Days of Wine and Roses (1963) – Julie London (Henry Mancini/Johnny Mercer)

Retrieving mementos from the annals of her mind with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia and a torch singer’s wistfulness, Julie London reflects upon how unyieldingly time slips away, each moment irretrievably lost. Life dispatches its affairs with episodic brevity, later revisited in fleeting impressions that commemorate the pleasures and delights of yesteryear. London fondly recalls “the days of wine and roses” when romantic gestures were inspired rather than expected; days that embodied a vernal joie de vivre; days that frolic in brief sparks redolent of youthful innocence. Evenings find her companionless, yet comforted by the warm illumination of such fond memories.

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The Camera Eye (1981) - Rush

The appeal of Rush vocalist/bassist Geddy Lee’s shrill voice is obviously a divisive issue (as is drummer Neil Peart’s lyrics). However, if need be, one could overlook such individual vexations and regard Lee’s voice as an adjunct, aiding and abetting the song’s overall flow, rhythm and arrangement. At the very least, “The Camera Eye” is lyrically immersing—a fastidious perspective fostered through photographic pursuits—and vocally engaging—with Lee managing to diplomatically temper melody with harmonious restraint.

Against a background of car horns honking in the distance, a (now) démodé synthesizer patch sprouts to the germination of modulating gurgles. A snare breaks the gridlock with military rudiments, yielding to the warm purring of Alex Lifeson’s guitar. As the cityscape swirls with activity, the pace opens to a leisurely tour of its outskirts. In approaching the city limits, the tempo shifts into high gear, purposefully racing toward the bustling epicenter. Drummer/lyricist Neil Peart has learned to absorb every detail of his surroundings—lighting, angle, composition. Like the camera lens, he is able to capture the moment in his mind’s eye, and admire the minutiae that pedestrians hastening to their destinations fail to appreciate. In New York, in London—he is in tune with the life energy enveloping him, telling him its stories. Lifeson’s guitar occupies the soundscape with measured arpeggios, then sizzles in kinetic outbursts and axial riffs, buttressed by the signature growl of a Rickenbacker articulating Lee’s nimble bassline in rhythmic melodies. Peart plies his trade in an architecture of propulsion and scattershot fills of cracking snare and tumbling roto/rack/floor toms betwixt distinct ambulatory breaks. Lifeson’s solo glides into the coda, meting out notes with poise before collapsing onto the floor in a hissy-fit. As the 11-minute excursion abates, a straggling synthesizer trails off in errant pulses as Peart retires to his darkroom.

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U.S. Drag (1982) – Missing Persons

(Part Two of the Mine Ears Have Heard The Glory of the Banging of the Drum tetralogy)

Future Duran Duran guitarist Warren Cuccurullo picks out a fidgety pattern on guitar. Together with drummer Terry Bozzio’s perplexing rhythmic puzzles, they obfuscate the meter in which the band is playing. Singer Dale Bozzio’s strung-out meanderings about the tedium and angst of life on tour serve as reminder that “U.S. Drag” is, at heart, a rock song, albeit one decked out in a funk/new wave fusion that boasts an unconventional time-signature. (Perhaps Terry and Warren concocted such an unusual rhythm to keep themselves occupied on the tour bus.) Key in on the hi-hat accents that occur on very odd off-beats, coordinated with the interplay of snare and kick drum, and the beat only becomes more baffling. As such, one’s awe of Bozzio’s drumming adeptness grows exponentially. As the fade out approaches, Bozzio somehow (assuming not by overdubbing) adds ride cymbal pings to the equation to elucidate that the song’s herky-jerkiness is anchored in 6/4 time. Like Radiohead’s “Myxomatosis” (4/4 time), stripped of the sleight of hand, the meter proves to be relatively straightforward, but the effect is alchemic.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Dream Of Me (2001) – Kirsten Dunst (Marc Shaiman/Scott Wittman)

Best known for her portrayals in Spiderman, Bring It On, and Interview With The Vampire, Kirsten Dunst has also played an integral part in two Sonic Lager faves: The Virgin Suicides and Get Over It. While the former slowly suffocates in an anesthetic shroud of acedia, the latter is quintessential teen romantic comedy à la 10 Things I Hate About You, Can’t Hardly Wait, and She’s All That. What sets Get Over It apart from its peers, however, is Dunst’s performance of “Dream Of Me” in her school’s musical adaptation of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. One can easily imagine Kristen Bell qua Veronica Mars, having lost out to Dunst for the part of Helena, ditching her role as understudy to play the lead in Neptune High’s production of Fame, while likewise, Sarah Michelle Gellar’s Buffy opts to wax musical through the streets of Sunnydale in Once More, With Feeling. As the sole scene-stealer in town, Dunst flourishes in the spotlight. Against a backdrop of piano, her voice drapes the scene in gossamer layers of lyrical translucency, at times overly delicate, but never without winsome appeal. Helena’s idyllic musing of unavowed love stirs the soul, awakening desire. All the while, an unobtrusive supporting cast of oboe, strings, chimes and triangle hit their marks in balmy orchestration.

A school campus assumes a completely different character at night: students loiter in the shadows cast by moonlit buildings before soaking in the nascent energy of an auditorium buzzing with excitement on opening night, the audience a tableau vivant of anticipation. Tonight, an ingénue will build monuments, melt hearts, inspire epiphanies. As the curtain falls, she is wont to tally the scores who have fallen in love with her.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Machine Gun Etiquette (1979) - The Damned

Rat Scabies’ drums come crashing in on a runaway steam engine bound for gory, as bassist Algy Ward tosses coals into the furnace to feed the fury. Dave Vanian snarls petulantly to gloat about impending domination on the charts, with guitarist Captain Sensible barking a scrappy rejoinder: “SECOND TIME AROUND!” After claiming their place in history as the first British punk band to release an album (Damned Damned Damned), but failing to gain respect in the music community, The Damned were roundly panned for their sound-alike sophomore effort Music For Pleasure. Thus, on Machine Gun Etiquette, their third album, they waive their “second time around” in the faces of their critics: let us remind you how you slagged-off Music For Pleasure because we are going to kick your arses with this onslaught! Hence, the machine gun etiquette—indiscriminately gunning down the masses with their sonic salvo.

Facetiously predicting commercial success, Vanian cites their lead-off single, “Love Song,” which immediately precedes “Machine Gun Etiquette” as the album’s opening track. The Clash’s Paul Simenon and Joe Strummer barge in with handclaps as the band stomps to the top of the charts. In under two minutes, The Damned exact revenge by lambasting our brains, excising the will to resist in an auricular lobotomy that begets hebetude.

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My Sister (1993) – The Juliana Hatfield Three

Masquerading as a tribute to her sibling, “My Sister” finds Juliana Hatfield flanked by the ringing sustain of Gibson SG humbucking grit and a stout rhythm section that features the authoritative drumming of Todd Philips, his crisply recorded hi-hats, ringing ride cymbal, cutting snare and tumbling tom-toms. Juliana teases with perspicuous lyrics and a girlishly melodious voice, toting a fetching melody while dropping sly hints throughout that, in fact, she has no sister. Not unlike Hurley’s imaginary asylum pal on Lost, Hatfield’s sister is an idealized construct of her alter ego, an impetus for indecorous inclinations: callous, blasé and aloof. A concussive guitar break detonates in lieu of a chorus, thrusting the song into headbanging territory with drums flailing and bass grumbling. As reflected in such songs as “Everybody Loves Me But You” and “I Got No Idols,” in shaping her own persona Juliana has emulated the attributes of her fictional big sis. But as she began to accept accountability for her own foibles, her sister ceased to exist. Hatfield reveals that she was, in fact, precocious of her own accord. Still, she misses the panache with which her “sister” inspired.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Misty (1959) – Johnny Mathis (Erroll Garner/Johnny Burke)

A genteel progression of piano chords sashays across a courtyard, sprinkling clusters of stardust over clouds of metaphors and similes that drift on the zephyr of Johnny Mathis’ gentle croon. Elegant strains of violins swell on cue, then meander in the background to serve as chaperons until called upon. “Misty” embroiders disorientation on its topcoat as an emblem of bewitchment, decorated with tinctures of harp, ornaments of enchantment. A clarinet promenades complacently until Mathis’ falsetto descant alights from heavenly heights. The aftereffects of a dizzying fascination linger with moonlit lustre.

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Numbers/Computer World 2 (1981) – Kraftwerk

The electro-funk movement found its progenitor in Afrika Bambaataa & The Soul Sonic Forces’ “Planet Rock,” which in turn owed its foreboding space-synth hook to Kraftwerk’s “Trans Europe Express,” and its ubiquitous beat to Kraftwerk’s “Numbers.”

In the vacuum of a space station interrogation chamber, the listener is numerically debriefed in German by cyborgs before being jettisoned into an asteroid field of erratic tone modulations: satellites orbiting an austere synthetic beat that would find immortality as the foundation for “Planet Rock.” Soon, pulses of energy oscillate in belts of pattering palpitations across the sonic spectrum. An androidial master of ceremonies sputters granular German gurgles in a counting symposium of international robotics, inviting exchanges in Speak & Spell™ English, French, and Spanish. Periodically, a decomposing Cylon interjects in obfuscated Italian drawls. A Japanese duo of geisha automatons chime in, while a Russian numericist finally realizes that it takes simultaneous formant and carrier signals to activate a vocoder. The colloquium seamlessly transitions into “Computer World 2,” in which synthesizer découpage sparingly laminates “Numbers” before the dialogue disintegrates into garbled chatter.

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Listen to "Computer World 2" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

I’m Happy Just To Dance With You (1964) – The Beatles

While hipsters and rock critics seldom bestow accolades upon Beatles songs pre-Revolver or perhaps Rubber Soul, “Happy Just To Dance With You” represents the best of the Fab Four’s peppier output from the Ed Sullivan era. Written by John specifically to feature George on lead vocals, “Happy” opens the doors of minor chord apprehension to enter a dancehall of mirth as George spots a potential partner. Off to the side, John’s rhythm guitar waggles a watusi while Ringo drubs an Arabian bongo in the corner askew from his Ludwigs. Paul’s signature melodic bassline rises and falls on the peripheries in search of wallflowers to coax out of dormancy. George is in lively spirits as he confesses his benign romantic optimism. With a naiveté one would find credible only in the toddlerhood of rock ‘n roll, George dishes either a chivalrous brand of blandishment or a venerable notion of contentment reflected in the song’s title. If only we could believe this were true.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

The Purple Bottle (2005) – Animal Collective

Reminiscent of Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue,” resonant Taiko-esque drums throb out a ritualistic cadence, coupled with clattering rim-clicks that skitter across the expanse of Animal Collective’s habitat. Kaleidoscopic brushes of sonic watercolors pirouette about, suspended in an indistinct gestalt of guitars above an enchanted lake of piano echoes, coalescing into purple hues indicative of an intense adoration: Prince—he knows all about it. “The Purple Bottle” is a williwaw of nervous energy, all clickity-clack and yakitty-yak—the Beach Boys on amphetamine, quaffing a caffeinated cocktail of reverb and balderdash, Willy Wonkan wackiness and Bacchanalian abandon. A frenzied strain of erratic lyrics spit out in a loopy streams of consciousness celebrating the disorienting swirl of infatuation as the Purple Bottle is unceremoniously uncorked: a heart chock full o’ ecstasy gushing forth; wine pouring out in an elixir of dizzying intoxication; Barbara Eden coaxed out of her confines to grant her master’s wishes. Moments of repose settle in as the hullabaloo adjourns for a recess of subliminal mumbles, mews and murmurs before morphing into the playful clicks of one drumstick striking another being held out and thrown down into the snare amid a mélange of joyous whoops and exuberant exclamations, floor tom wallops, ripples of snare and a dash of cymbal. With the blithe zestfulness of a Milton Bradley™ jingle, “The Purple Bottle” waxes amorous, punch-drunk and slap-happy after being bludgeoned by the fierce charms of “a girl that likes to drink with horses,” “knows her Chinese ballet,” and “smell[s] like fruity nuts and good grains.” Veritable sonic lager on tap.

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Ships (1979) – Barry Manilow (Ian Hunter)

Pop music occasionally acknowledges the relationship between a father and son: Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s In The Cradle” and Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son” come to mind. These songs regretfully explore the inherent tension in a father and son’s inability to fully appreciate each other’s company or even to co-exist, whether it be due to lack of time or effort, or an emotional estrangement. Others, such as Luther Vandross’ “Dance With My Father,” and the Ian Hunter-penned “Ships,” take a more tender approach in recognizing the fondness a son might feel toward his father, even when he is unable to express these feelings. In “Ships,” a man reflects upon life’s impending deadline. He hasn’t shared an affectionate moment with his father in years—certainly not in physical terms. As an adult, he only communicates with his father through the impersonal salutation of a greeting card or comfortable separation of a long distance phone call. But in close proximity, neither truly understands how to relate to the other, so they prefer the brief encounters where small talk suffices but a true connection never ripens. He likens their lives to boats skimming along the horizon—objects heading toward their destinations, whose passengers happily wave to each other in a moment briefly shared before leaving each other behind. Through the foggy perils of Barry’s trademark melodramatic tendencies and American Idol/Dancing With The Stars promotional forays, “Ships” is a beacon reminding us to heed our emotional compass to navigate the unforgiving riptides of fleeting opportunities and familial strife to reach a safe harbor of communion.

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Real Summer (1997) – Future Bible Heroes

In a supernova of synthetic effervescence, songwriter Stephen Merritt and programmer Chris Ewen capture the essence of that summer of teenage epiphany—the step into adulthood where one’s realization of life’s promise is awakened through romantic episodes and leisurely pursuits. Unfortunately, that summer is in the past, and attempts to recreate it are failing miserably. Synthesizer sequences and programmed percussion pulsate, pan, and percolate in a vibrant confluence of energy that offsets lyrics toasting idle days and listless nights. As inertia settles into a lifestyle, each evening marks another wasted day closer to summer’s end. Claudia Gonson’s lulling alto underscores the disappointment when reality collapses beneath the weight of great expectations, languishing in the rubble of resentment. Even the weather refuses to cooperate: the sun only occasionally peeks through the clouds (“Octagons fall from the sun”), and it’s damn cold!: “And the Beach Boys? / Hell, they might as well play ‘Winter Wonderland’ / Summer, my ass.” As dwindling plans are discarded in a midsummer night’s bonfire, possibilities perish in a languid fizzle.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Downtown (1966) – Mrs. Miller (Tony Hatch)

In the same vein as William Hung, Elva Miller’s recording career was a product of dubious talent, a record label insidious enough to exploit her, and a public eager for a dupe to ridicule. She exuded a carefree obliviousness that endeared her to listeners who were simultaneously repulsed yet compelled out of horror and curiosity to listen to her cavort in her own lotus land. Operatic and robust like the nun in The Sound of Music singing “Climb Ev’ry Mountain,” Mrs. Miller’s shrill voice cracks and bludgeons with vibrato capable of shattering glass, and molests like the rotund aunt who pinched your cheeks and made you sit on her lap. In mangling Petula Clark’s signature song, Elva’s timing is more often off the beat than on; her tone and elocution smack of an etiquette instructor rather than a vocalist. She sings ahead of the beat, then waits for it to catch up to her, at some point realizing how lost she is. (She claims that she was conducted a beat ahead or behind while recording, and the orchestra would change tempo to confuse her—claims which don’t exactly pass scrutiny.) Aware of how ludicrous the whole affair has become, she laughs at one point in mid-verse. Despite her protestations that she wanted to be taken seriously as a singer, she lapses into whistling bird warbles—as if that would ever garner respect. Then, re-launching into the lyrics, she loses her place, forgets the words, and mumbles gibberish. Instead of stopping the take, she stumbles her way back into the lyric and continues about her romp. The song fades out to the strains of chirpy birdsong, but the listener escapes the whole fiasco with a peculiar sense of survivor’s guilt.

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New World (2000) – Björk

As an epilogue to Selmasongs, the soundtrack to Lars von Trier’s 2000 film Dancer In The Dark, “New World” is a swan song of sorts for Selma (portrayed by Björk), a factory worker who is going blind. Preparing to experience a new world through her remaining senses, she is saying farewell to sight, anxious about her future, yet taking delight in her heightened sense of hearing and taste and touch and smell. With soothing “ooOOooh”s that ameliorate the adversity, she heralds “a new world / a new day to see,” sustaining soaring notes that assuage the soul. It turns out that blindness has enlightened her to the beauty of life found in the details. In cinematic strokes, an august orchestral procession accentuates her growing sense of peace, each new revelation an anodyne for her impending loss. A lysergic beat parades in measured strides as Selma’s fate unfurls toward its denouement. As the vibrant colors of life fade from her vision, the world of sound is reverberating within her.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

See also "I Remember You" (1993) - Björk

It’s Oh So Quiet (Blow A Fuse) (1951) – Betty Hutton (Hans Lang/Bert Reisfeld)

While Björk’s rendition of “It’s Oh So Quiet” is beyond cavil, Betty Hutton’s version (recorded as “Blow A Fuse”) is remarkable in that, well . . . it was recorded in 1951. That’s 44 years before Björk released her version in 1995. And yet, Hutton’s version essentially survived intact when Ms. Guðmundsdóttir covered it. The song naturally suits Björk’s vocal dynamics, but amazingly Hutton was showcasing the same antipodal dynamics back in the forties: restrained breathy melodies giving way to gutsy hollers before screams erupt, a shade more manic than Björk’s. The big band arrangements are basically identical, even sharing the same key. So, while one marvels at the capriciousness of Björk’s take on this tribute to being blindsided by love, Björk herself recognizes that the original was avant-garde.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Straight Out Of Canton (2004) – The Notorious M.S.G.

With the opening, “Yeah, east side Chinatown, bitch! / You gonna die. . . .,” The Notorious M.S.G. throw down the gauntlet, daring you to venture into their ‘hood. Armed with chopsocky bravado, M.S.G. drag the listener through alleyways and slums to reveal the seedy Mahjong parlor at the back of the restaurant that is their world. Employing caricaturishly thick—yet credibly authentic—Chinese accents, M.S.G. celebrate their culture by parlaying it into a shtick that actually empowers them—a sort of pre-emptive slag off, if you will: we’re making you laugh with us, not at us. Instead of degrading themselves into objects of ridicule, they turn stereotypes, particularly involving food, into rallying cries or exploit puns and double entendres: “Wanna beef with us? / Get WOKKED! That’s right!”; “I like the ladies with the big wontons!” Sharply produced backing tracks, replete with liberal doses of scratching, spotlight the engaging swagger of Hong Kong Fever, the mosquito-like darts of Down-Lo Mein, and the incoherent mumblings of Funky Buddha. Rather than being a source of opprobrium, M.S.G.’s spicy brand of gangsta mirth instills a perverse sense of ethnic pride by having fun with notorious stereotypes.

[Despite reports that Funky Buddha was slain outside a Chinese restaurant while making a take-out delivery, there is some debate about whether that is a hoax. A clue that the “murder” is a hoax lies in the interview in a restaurant kitchen that M.S.G. gave regarding Funky Buddha’s demise. Hong Kong Fever never breaks character, even vowing “it’s time for revenge, you mutha bitch!” You decide whether they seem as if they are in mourning.]

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Escape (1981) - Journey

Journey’s anthem for malcontent youth celebrates nonconformity, whisking the listener off for a joyride. Metallic guitars defiantly chug power chords as Steve Perry salutes headstrong teenage rebellion and obstinance. Having worn out his welcome and exhausted every dead end in his hometown, the burgeoning delinquent leaves to seek out his lot. Countenanced by a punchy instrumental break that closely resembles a section in Rush’s “Red Barchetta,” (coincidentally released on Moving Pictures six months before Escape), he stops at a local head shop before hitting the open road in his Pontiac GTO. The guitar shifts into overdrive as he daydreams about his future kicked wide-open in full throttle. Sure, he had doubts about such a getaway, but, removed from past adversity, he is discovering a new outlook. Neal Schon’s invigorating guitar solo soars in liberation, as new aspirations take flight to a triumphant declaration of freedom. Wherever he ends up, he’s already in a better place.

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Oh England, My Lionheart (1978) – Kate Bush

A World War II British fighter pilot lays dying on the moor, having crashed in his Spitfire aircraft which sustained considerable damage from a German Messerschmitt Bf 109 in the Battle of Britain. The injuries he suffered are fatal, but he is allowed a few moments of waning life to bid farewell to his beloved country. He envisions peace in days to come, fondly recalling the tranquility of days gone by. But, ever the patriot, even in his final moments he reminds himself that his cause was noble and just, solemnizing this reflection upon one’s life—and the affirmation of one’s deeds—as a prelude to death.

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My Adidas (2000) – Versus

Richard Baluyut is a member of a copycat cult planning to emulate the Heaven’s Gate group suicide in 1997 that coincided with the appearance of the Hale-Bopp comet, whereby followers believed their souls would be transported to heaven via a rocketship hiding behind the comet. The 39 cult members committed suicide by ingesting a fatal solution; their bodies were discovered in bunk beds, covered with purple blankets and wearing identical pairs of Nike sneakers.

However, Baluyut’s cult, unable to score an endorsement deal with Nike, sports Adidas instead. Despite a song title that suggests a Run-DMC cover, “My Adidas” is more epitaph than parody. Baluyut steps into the shoes (pun intended, groans acknowledged) of an individual who believes that suicide will facilitate his entrance into heaven, tragically oblivious to the fact that he’s been hoodwinked. His anticipation of the journey is both naïve and jubilant. Amid guitar-drum starbursts and mellifluous background vocals by Fontaine Toups, Baluyut repeatedly announces the permanence of his decision, as if he hopes someone will stop him because he’s still unsure. To allay his doubts, he reassures himself that those left behind are the misguided ones. Unfortunately, he realizes too late his grievous mistake. As if to voice regret from beyond the grave, “My Adidas” finds empathy in the lives of those susceptible to being brainwashed—those in search of a deeper meaning to life, even if it’s to be found in death.

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Gomenasai (2005) – t.A.T.u.

There are many things wrong with Russian pseudo-lesbians, brought together by a former child psychologist/marketing executive-turned-record producer, whose voices are probably pitch-corrected, singing English words they might not understand, in a song which features the Japanese word for “I’m sorry” as the chorus’ refrain, the title of which incorrectly combines two words (“gomen nasai”) into one. Yet, paradoxically, what seems so wrong, is also so, so right. Throw in the fact that Richard Carpenter (yes, of The Carpenters) arranged the string section, and you have the perfect guilty pleasure. Emphasis on guilty. Emphasis on pleasure. “Gomensai” is an aural éclair to indulge in the privacy of secret parlors.

An elegiac melody wafts about on a breeze of piano and pathos in a performance that is quintessentially voice recital repertoire—emotionally immature but tenderly executed. Employing tropes and turns of metaphorical phrase, Julia Volkova and Lena Katina realize in hindsight that their misgivings about a forbidden relationship were amiss. The girls’ Russian accents further imbue the mea culpa with a sympathetic vulnerability, as if they are victims of cultural repression.

In its guilelessness, “Gomenasai” revisits that alcove in the heart discovered long ago in an auditorium on closing night at the high school musical. In fact, the whole production would be downright poignant were we convinced Julia and Lena meant it.

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Let Down (1997) - Radiohead

Sure, it’s nice to hear what the songwriters have to say, but let’s be honest: despite guitarist Johnny Greenwood and lead singer/multi-instrumentalist Thom Yorke’s insight, “Let Down” is the most beautiful tribute to alcoholism ever written.

Yorke acknowledges the void left by people constantly leaving or moving on to better lots in life. Stuck in a rut, those left behind must confront their failures; some do so by drinking, but soon the buzz offers no panacea. Their dreams and aspirations having all but been extinguished, they are left to wallow in inertia and waste away in futility, their spirits crushed. Hence, imbibing heavily presents the only means of escape. Eventually, a state of inebriation provides the only bearable reality.

Chiming guitars and keyboard skirt the rhythm section in counterrhythm, while Yorke’s double-tracked vocals engage a melody that slowly subsides into the mire of lethargy. A duet of bleeps and blips from ZX Spectrum computers momentarily kicks in, later reemerging in a redemptive coda—technology offering salvation in the form of a dot-com boom.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Too Much (1997) - Spice Girls

The musical virtues of the Spice Girls extolled . . . how often does one come across such an aberration? Ah, but here it is. Sporting a watery guitar that recalls Bread’s “If,” “Too Much” wanders the boulevard in search of amelioration, an antidote to the ennui. Satin sheets of warmly-compressed vocals billow in the evening calm, adorned with plucked acoustic guitar triplets. Illuminated by neon-lit theatres, the girls seek balance in their relationships, a medium between smothering and neglect. Luxuriant multi-tracked vocals navigate sirenic chord progressions. Robust sub-bass thumps in tandem with the kick drum in a convergence of urban ballad-meets-lite-FM-radio shuffle. Cascading string glissandos and pizzicatos lend a cinematic luster to the whole affair that ultimately finds no resolution due to a noncommittal apathy. Would a little more emotional investment be too much to ask, girls?

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Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect (2002) – The Decemberists

Colin Meloy’s thin voice lacks mainstream appeal, but his songwriting skills—exemplified in “Here I Dreamt”—should be apparent to even the most casual of listeners. To reconcile a bevy of failed relationships, Meloy casts himself in anachronistic vignettes that impose inherent limitations upon romance: a soldier in Nazi-occupied Germany who answers first and foremost to his military duty; an architect commissioned to design a palace in 15th-century Venice whose services will no longer be needed upon completion; a Renaissance-era royal puppeteer in Spain who moonlights as a lothario. Meloy is resigned to star-crossed love, acknowledging the tenuous nature of his current relationship, foreshadowing its demise. His nomadic nature ensures that a clean break is always tacit, and perhaps always imminent. Tarry not, Colin. A stint as an ancient Roman artisan awaits.

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Nights On Broadway (1975) – The Bee Gees

A stern piano bounds above a rock-oriented beat as a man struts through the streets of New York City en route to see the woman he loves, an elastic synth bass line underscoring his gumption. Except, in this case “see” literally means to “view,” not to rendezvous. She’s a Broadway singer whom he watches perform every weekend. As he publicly stalks her, it’s unclear if he ever actually had a relationship with her, or if it was wishful thinking. The true cunning of “Nights On Broadway” lies in the ambiguity of the chorus: where once they were a struggling young couple, her success in the big time led to a more upscale life that did not include him . . . or, perhaps he has only seen her on stage where he fell in love with her, but they’ve never even met. Does he blame the nights on Broadway for his loneliness—or for his pathological infatuation? He is either a sympathetic victim or pathetic erotomaniac. An instrument unto itself, Barry Gibbs’ falsetto, both ridiculous and ferocious, eventually swoops in, an insignia of romantic fervor. A subdued bridge settles in as a respite for him to declare lifelong devotion before releasing him into the night for continued brooding/plotting.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Machine Messiah (1980) – Yes

The new-look Yes’ 1980 release Drama featured vocalist Trevor Horn and his collaborator in The Buggles, keyboardist Geoff Downes, stepping in for the departed Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman, respectively—blasphemy in most circles, but to those with open minds, substitutions which were not as ill-conceived as they initially appeared at the time. On this, the opening track of the album, Horn’s voice is veneered with a sense of familiarity due to bassist Chris Squire’s ubiquitous vocal contributions, as if to mitigate the absence of the group’s long-time frontman by introducing a recognizable voice alongside a new one. Unable to rival Wakeman’s virtuosity, Downes opts for atmosphere over ostentation. As a result, the keyboards dictate the song’s direction rather than become ornamentation like Wakeman’s trills, runs and solos. In a sign of things to come, longtime guitarist Steve Howe and Downes play riffs and runs in unison, a motif they would later revisit in their subsequent stint together in Asia.

“Machine Messiah” is a medieval sonic smorgasbord-as-soundtrack to the exploits of jousting knights battling dragons in mystical forests, along with lyrics tracing the evolution of civilization through industry and conquest. Amid keyboard dives à la the opening of Van Halen’s “Runnin’ With The Devil,” a menacing metal riff gurgles and lumbers like a dragon prowling the forest in search of serfs and feudal lords to terrorize. Alan White’s drums catapult projectiles from inside a kingdom's fortress walls to avert the advancing threat. An acoustic guitar enters like an oblivious minstrel in a buoyant stroll through the kingdom over lilting keyboards. Squire’s gritty bass rears back like a knight’s steed gearing up to charge, then gallops past the citadels out from the kingdom. Chordal triplets spring over a 4/4 rock beat as the knight races into the forest. Meanwhile, jubilant guitar riffs soar above a carnival as a court jester frolics about to the interplay of Squire and Horn’s voices. Keyboard runs writhe above a bedrock of bass which, along with the guitar, follows the keyboard’s lead as knights joust in tournament. An anachronistic ragtime piano clatters down into a dragon’s lair as the metal motif returns. The knight finds himself in the calm depths of the forest for rejuvenation prior to engaging the winged serpent. The bard of the forest placidly strums his lute, invoking the Machine Messiah—the deus ex machina that allows the kingdom to prevail despite a seemingly insurmountable conflict. Emerging from the forest, the knight slays the dragon, whereupon his return the kingdom erupts in jubilation as the King’s subjects celebrate victory with a feast. Howe’s rapturous guitar fanfare elicits grimaces of utter ecstasy. Eventually the festivities wind down, and the knight returns to the forest to pay homage to the Machine Messiah. Unfortunately, a legion of dragons encircle him amid a gaggle of frothing guitars.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Internal Crash (2005) – Loquat

A piano serenely accompanies Kylee Swenson’s elegant voice as she weaves the somber ruminations of a stroke survivor’s relative. She rues how so much can be lost so quickly: “Internal crash took up seconds / and stole his years / which are hard to win back.” To reconcile this loss of vitality, Swenson dissociates bodily infirmity from the soul’s persistence. Throughout the song she refers to “you,” casting herself as a victim in the second person, as well as distancing herself from the selfish focus on how the stroke has become an imposition upon her. She finally admits that her self-centeredness stems from the extreme psychological toll the stroke has taken upon her, making her perspective as a victim more sympathetic. Indeed, the internal crash inflicted extensive collateral damage.

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The 15th (1979) – Wire

Apparently, the title of this song prosaically refers to the fact that it was the 15th song Colin Newman had written in a specific batch of songs. This would explain why the lyrics are so oblique that the “it” referred to throughout can mean anything the listener wishes. Conceivably, the “it” refers to the song itself—a cynical interpretation that comports with Newman’s aloof vocal styling. He mocks the haughtiness with which this song will be analyzed, reduced to a mere object, as if opinion were empirical evidence. Newman riddles that the song’s tenuous basis will be its critical undoing; in substance, the song is about itself, and thus about nothing.

“The 15th” is most remarkable in that it was released in 1979, yet it sounds like something Interpol aspires to. This is not to say that it fits some retro revival template to be mined every twenty years by the hipster kids; rather, it means that the gist of Wire’s ideas was so fundamentally cool, that it was always worthy of being emulated. From its rote downstroked guitars, nonchalant synthesizer, stilted drumming, and rudimentary guitar riff, to Newman’s ambiguous lyrics, the stolid “15th” was always relevant to those for whom emotional detachment was de rigueur.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

No One Needs To Know (1995) – Shania Twain

It’s generally considered bad form to confess a penchant for Shania Twain’s music. While Twain’s voice may be off-putting to some, more tolerant listeners may find something worthwhile in her catalog. To be fair to her detractors, Twain’s songs tend to be superficial exercises in the banal and the trivial (“That Don’t Impress Me Much,” “Man, I Feel Like A Woman,” “Party For Two”). However, there are times when her attempts at country music succeed, stumbling across substance in such superficiality. In “No One Needs To Know,” with country twang and boot-scoot in tow, Shania plays coy about a romantic endeavor, envisioning life with her future husband. She has everything planned to a T: the details of her wedding, the children they’ll have, the name of their dog. Awww, how sweet. The problem is . . . they don’t even have a relationship yet. For now, she has no intention of letting anyone know how she feels about him, so she can indulge her fantasies without running the risk of ruining them. In that regard, despite its happy-go-lucky do-si-do, “No One Needs To Know” betrays her own doubts about the prospects for her future happiness and the possibility that she’ll only live out this charmed life in her dreams, which is why she is reluctant to set reality in motion. Hence, we can only imagine that reality will utterly disappoint her when the fella turns out to be a moonshinin’, two-timin’, no good son-of-a-gun.

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See You In September (1959) – The Tempos (Sherman Edwards & Donald Meyer/Sid Wayne)

Recorded in the days before year-round schooling threatened the viability of teenage summer flings, “See You In September” could have been performed around a beach bonfire on the first weekend of summer vacation. The arrangement is resourceful: drums and bongos rumba and a double bass ambles in the left channel where barely audible trills of piano periodically appear; in the right channel a guitar pick rakes out percussive notes that resemble organ staccatos. Borderline operatic voices belt out an apprehensive melody portraying the insecurity of a high-school romance that will be tested by physical separation. One can imagine, though, that the relationship is doomed, and new names will adorn the declarations of devotion on their respective Pee-Chees this fall.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Tightly (2002) – Neko Case

In this celebration of nocturnal strolls that corrals the spirit of Patsy Cline’s “Walking After Midnight,” Neko Case delights in the freedom she enjoys under moonlit skies. Brimming with fondness for her leisurely vespertine pursuits, Case’s ardent voice cloaks the listener in luxurious reverb. Twang guitar, double bass, upright piano and brushed drums accompany her saunter along suburban streets, where she cherishes every moment of clarity in thought. Although there is an inherent danger in a woman walking alone at night, the stars, the darkness, the moon, the trees all accentuate her feelings, inspiring her to indulge her fancies. Still, even if she’s willing to entertain romantic midnight overtures, she is loath to sacrifice her latitude.

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There Is A Light That Never Goes Out (1986) – The Smiths

Reveling in the good fortune of sharing a drive with the object of his affection, Morrissey finds an opportunity to escape his world of insecurity. He dreads the alienation in his own life and craves the validation he receives in living vicariously. Andy Rourke’s peripatetic bassline meanders throughout the aimless drive past string flourishes and echoes of flute-like synth. In his apathy toward life, Morrissey declares his fatalistic devotion, romanticizing the honor of perishing together in a gory accident. However, epitomizing social ineptness, he squanders an opportune moment when his courage momentarily swells: A confession of love and solicitation of reciprocity, perhaps? An offer of a tawdry encounter? A double suicide proposal? Given his near faux pas, Morrissey must remain content to believe in the light that never goes out: the hope of a brighter future, the will to live, the desire to love—even when he sees nothing but a bleak existence to return home to.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Lost Summer Love (1964) – Shelley Fabares

Donna Reed’s television daughter and Coach’s wife had a fairly successful recording career in her early 20’s, including the No. 1 hit single “Johnny Angel” in 1962. The wistful “Lost Summer Love” recounts a familiar story of teenage romance that only lasts a summer, leaving in its wake broken promises, illusory dreams and distant memories. Time moves ahead to the march of a snare and bass guitar, as background girl group harmonies mingle with Fabares’ pleasant voice in melodic phrases that convey a reverie tinged with fondness and regret. Simple yet affecting, “Lost Summer Love” commemorates the youthful idealism of a bygone era when romance washed in and out of lives with the summer tide.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Darjeeling (1994) - Rodan

Appearing on the best 7” ever released (Simple Machines’ Inclined Plane), Rodan’s “Darjeeling” rounded out the all-star lineup of Tsunami (covering Flower’s “Beauty pt. II”), Superchunk (“Baxter”), and Unrest (“Winona Ryder”). Each of these songs arguably ranks near the top of each band’s oeuvre. Rodan’s contribution, with its erratic stop-start sequence, is quintessential math-rock—albeit incorporating principles of basic arithmetic, not calculus—calling the listener up to the blackboard to tally along with the ride cymbal in anticipation of each outburst as the band races out of the gates. Dual sizzling guitars, a growling bass, and walloping drums lurch, lunge and gallop in unison, easing into a lope through the countryside for a graze in the meadow, resuming into a sprint that briefly reprises the opening gait before plunging off a cliff in delirium.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Breaking Us In Two (2003) – Mandy Moore (J. J. Jackson)

It’s not often that a cover version arguably surpasses the original—rarer still if that version features a teen pop star who has also starred in movies. Mandy Moore’s rendition of Joe Jackson’s “Breaking Us In Two” is one such anomaly.

Moore’s vocals wash in on a bed of warm tube compression, imparting a soothing ambiance to Joe Jackson’s frank proposal to reevaluate a relationship by spending time apart. Whereas Jackson’s vocals are a bit whiny and slightly tenuous, Moore’s exude a balance of expression, smoothness and control, with a pout in her voice that heightens its appeal. Lingering in her lower register, she emphasizes melody over range and power, avoiding vocal gymnastics which detract from the experience, in the process revealing a subtle understanding of the lyrics that Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson lack, and a welcome restraint that Christina Aguilera does not possess. The production is much more “audible” in the cover arrangement, evocative of a nightclub atmosphere, while the original suggests coffeehouse due to the prominent congas and sparser arrangement. The cover eliminates the unfortunate toy piano from the original, and the tasteful vibe solo is a vast improvement over the original’s cheesy synth solo. Although the fuller arrangement overwhelms Moore’s vocals at times, overall it reinforces them, showcasing her maturation into an adult singer.

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Reckless (Club Mix) (1984) – Ice-T, Chris “The Glove” Taylor & Dave E. Storrs

In a genre whose songs tend to dull as they age, the Club Mix of “Reckless” continues to electrify, due largely to the programming skills of Dave Storrs. Building upon the solid foundation of the old standby “Planet Rock/Numbers” beat, a punchy kick drum, crisp tommy-gunning snare and skittering hi-hats propel the tempo. Auxiliary percussion bustles within the mix: clattering hand claps and a clacking wood block boomerang across channels, overlaying subtle percussive plinking. Ice-T’s vocal presentation is relatively restrained, avoiding histrionics or affectation that risk antiquation. As well, the lyrics have avoided becoming passé by shunning catchphrases and slang, instead extolling the trio in relatively benign, straightforward terms. The Glove implements his scratching in a musical manner with select turntable samples, judiciously laced with stereo delay (the “grunt” scratch about 2 minutes in is the ace up his sleeve). The Club Mix adds hints of reverse echo, and an unexpected panning stutter of Ice-T’s “reckless, reckless, reck, reck, reck, reckless!” Overall, the production is clean and creative, introducing sonic whooshes and surges at strategic moments.

The highlight, however, is the pulsating sequenced bassline that ricochets about during the second scratching break, augmented by a haunted house organ. Rhythmically complex, musical and percussive, it defines the song and ensures its continued relevance in the annals of electro-funk.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Broken Witch (2004) – Liars

A bell clanks in the darkness. Robed and hooded villagers gather around a bonfire for the Invocation. Meanwhile, with each electronic blip, Puritans approach the village with torches raised, intent on burning it down. As a dissonant guitar brays, the Necromancer begins a ritualistic chant, conjuring the spirits of Shapeshifters to inhabit the bodies of the villagers so that they may repel the advancing invaders. Amid off-kilter clicks and clatter that sound like 8-bit resolution drums recorded in a small hut, the incantation crescendos. The conventicle entreats the Soothsayer to foretell of victory. In the shadows cast by the flickering flames, their possessed bodies transmogrify into various incarnations: bears, horses, wolves, birds of prey. The litany rises to the foreboding sky: “We are the army you see through the red haze of BLOOD!” Screams erupt across the moonlit fields, now awash in crimson. The White Witch stands amidst the sanguineous carnage, exhorting the beasts to decimate those who dared to encroach upon her village.

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Tie A Yellow Ribbon ‘Round The Ole Oak Tree (1973) – Tony Orlando & Dawn

The sprightly prance of “Tie A Yellow Ribbon” finds an ex-convict returning home, anxiously anticipating the sign which will indicate whether his woman wants him back or not. Apparently, Tony Orlando enjoyed communicating with the aid of symbols and code: a yellow ribbon around an oak tree meant “Welcome Home!”; three knocks on the ceiling meant you wanted him, twice on the pipe meant forget about it (“Knock Three Times”). What was his signal for the response to a marriage proposal? Leave the hot water running for yes, cold for no? In any event, his inability to take an answer face-to-face like a man brought us some great pop songs. However, “Yellow Ribbon” asks the listener to believe that a man just released after three years in prison would be content to accept “no” for an answer and keep on riding past her house. You said what, Tony? Nah, I ain’t tryin’ to hear that. Dude’s gonna be stalking her until she relents. I don’t know . . . maybe things were different in the seventies. Still, you can’t help but be moved when he gets the O.K. a hundredfold. Maybe it’s the power of forgiveness and the spirit of redemption, but you have to feel happy for the guy.

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Forward To Death (1980) – Dead Kennedys

Sometimes the world sucks and one wishes to opt out of society. And sometimes one needs to indulge nihilistic bitterness and vent antagonistic vitriol in a psychological enema in order to avoid erupting in a violent paroxysm. For those times, “Forward To Death” fits the bill just fine. Jello Biafra expectorates in his signature quavering mosquito buzz that is as grating as it is confrontational. With such unmitigated sentiment as, “I don’t need your fucking world/This world brings me down / Gag with every breath . . . I’m looking forward to death,” there’s no buffer between thought and expression, no euphemisms to mollify the invective, no sugar-coating the bile. He just vomits it out, wipes his mouth on his t-shirt, and leaves the mess for someone else to come along and slip in. Sometimes, such loutishness is the best policy.

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The Sound of Music (1965) – Julie Andrews (Richard Rodgers/Oscar Hammerstein II)

The Sound of Music is a cultural cornerstone from which may spring a lifelong appreciation of music. Every child who watches the film experiences the power of music to bring joy, to melt stoic hearts, to foster burgeoning love, to inspire, to entertain, to escape (both figuratively and literally). The opening theme celebrates this essence as Julie Andrews basks in the ways that music touches her soul. As she lilts with musical ardor, it doesn’t matter what one’s musical preferences are—in their own way, anyone who has truly been moved by music knows what she means.

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Who Knew? (2000) – Eminem

Eminem’s craft lies in his lyrical vexations and mocking singsong hooks that pester until they lodge themselves in your brain (check out “Rain Man,” for instance, in which he plays the idiot savant to a tee): in other words, he’s a master of the annoyingly catchy rhyme. As good an example as any, “Who Knew” serves on a broader sociological level as a catalyst for discourse on the ultimate responsibility for teenagers’ behavior. It’s also highly entertaining, if only to hear Eminem blurt out words mocking those who are incited by his lyrics without regard for their context.

Skulking to slinky sequenced synthesizers and beats, Eminem feigns ignorance about the effect his lyrics could have on a teenager who might kill himself or strike a girl. Of course, he’s not that naïve, but he has a point: you can only blame music for so much. To the extent that teenagers act out violence upon self or others, Mr. Mathers shunts the blame to parents and to the teens themselves who idiotically take his lyrics to be literal behavioral cues.

While parents shouldn’t necessarily hand over a copy of The Marshall Mathers LP to their 10 year-old, Eminem gives us fair warning that we are better off teaching our children about the violence, profanity and misguided views (misogyny, homophobia) to which they will inevitably be exposed, so that they might develop a sense of right and wrong that will serve them well as adults. In that regard, it’ll be interesting to see how his daughter Hailie grows up. His love for her is well-documented, but one has to wonder what hearing songs your father wrote about killing your mother and dumping her in a lake (“Kim”; “’97 Bonnie and Clyde”) does to a young girl. Even Slim Shady himself admits in 2002’s “My Dad’s Gone Crazy” that he wouldn’t let her listen to his music.

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See also "Kim" (2000) - Eminem

Build A Castle (1986) - Undercover

Undercover, a Christian band formed in the early ‘80s, released their watershed album Branded in 1986. That album was a marked departure from earlier works Undercover, God Rules, and Boys and Girls Renounce The World on two fronts: first, new lead singer Sim Wilson’s resonant baritone infused a darker feel into the material than did Bill Walden’s cheery tone; second, the music had undergone a gradual transformation over the years from Oingo Boingo-esque new wave with naïve lyrics, to a darker, edgier approach. The introspection (Branded, Side 1) and despair (Branded, Side 2) reflected in the lyrics exemplify a practical, often somber, testament of faith.

In “Build A Castle,” Wilson muses that death claims even the wealthiest and most powerful of men. Life is ephemeral. Accordingly, Wilson assesses his life by asking a question which ambiguously could apply to a loved one, to God, or to both: ”Did I ever take the time to hold your hand? / To live before I die / and did I ever take the time / to look into your eyes?” Stirring synth strings and voice pads convey an acute sense of accountability. Guitarist Gym Nicholson punctuates throughout with squeals, trills and whinnies that agitate in urgency.

Instead of preaching to the choir, Undercover’s refreshing approach to evangelical music attests to their beliefs in a manner more pragmatic than dogmatic, asking rhetorical questions that actually require honest answers.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

One Hundred Years (1982) – The Cure

In a clamour of stygian proportions, a primitive drum machine rumbles ominously; a bass moans like a grieving wraith; a guitar caterwauls like an elephant being tortured. When the last glimmer of hope has all but vanished, “One Hundred Years” snuffs out the light completely. Robert Smith’s wailing evokes shades of doom, suicide, murder, slaughter, bereavement, decrepitude, strangulation, genocide, and the weariness of enduring what seems like a hundred year ordeal. He doesn’t obsess over the morbid details for their shock value; rather, he’s trying to place his own despair and self-loathing on the scale of human suffering in order to gain perspective. One can only conclude he’s quite a few standard deviations above the pain index average.

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Stay Away From Robert Mitchum (1993) – April March

Set to an upbeat, swinging 50’s-esque arrangement of acoustic guitar, double bass, keyboards, brushed drums, vibraphone, and girlishly winsome vocals, the enchanting April March’s slightly eccentric take on a movie star crush finds her warning all others not to mess with her man. She spends a lot of time with him, but occasionally other women vie for his affections. That’s okay. Ms. March is confident that he’ll rebuff their advances. You see, he’s Robert Mitchum—the film star who enjoyed his heyday in the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s. She knows him well because she’s “become a fixture at the Wax House.” That’s right . . . she’s sweet on a wax figure. The woman otherwise known as Elinore Blake is delusional enough to personify the ersatz Mitchum’s thoughts, yet also realizes that he’s a “candle that they called a man.” So, she’s not really crazy, she just projects her unrequited adoration for Robert Mitchum onto an inanimate object crafted in his likeness. That’s adorably kooky. And the delightful assortment of background vocals render us amenable to indulge her whimsy.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Storm The Legion (2001) - !!! (chk chk chk)

It’s not often that a groove-oriented song is anti-drug. Set to a Gang of Four-esque neo-disco beat, throbbing bass, percussive guitars, and occasional horns, “Storm The Legion” finds a recreational drug user taking an honest look at a vacuous and self-destructive past, confronting the reasons for getting high and the consequences of chemical dependency: the enlightenment justification; the effects on his friends who have crossed the line from use into abuse, who glorify the past because they have no future; questioning whether the joke wasn’t on him, given the brain damage he sustained.

Vocalist Nic Offer understands the allure of it all, but also recognizes the aftermath. In its nervous agitation, “Storm The Legion” seeks to assail the mindset of the multitude that stumble through the fog machine haze, although they may be too zonked to mind the affront.

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Without You (1982) – Asia

In “Without You,” fire, smoke and varying degrees of darkness and light symbolize the stages and outlook of John Wetton’s relationship. Keyboards sedately greet the morning’s first light as a new romance begins. But, a byproduct of the flames of passion is the haze of uncertainty about the future. As the sky further illuminates, it dawns upon Wetton that they must actively forge a future together, instead of becoming complacent in the present, or risk another failed relationship. Throughout, guitarist Steve Howe intersperses a cluster of trills. Wetton’s sonorous multi-layered vocal harmonies explore augmented chords in the transitionary “without you” refrain, caressing notes that may initially sound foreign to the chord (a distinctive Wetton signature).

However, the burning desire within soon dwindles. In the gloaming, the dimly lit vastness finds him unexpectedly alone. There is a glimmer of brightness in the interlude: Geoff Downes springs one of his trademark jaunty keyboard phrases in unison with Howe’s guitar. Wetton confesses a longing that is exacerbated by uncertainty, yet Howe’s expressive soloing conveys a sense of optimism while Carl Palmer frolics among the toms. However, the mood inevitably turns somber again as the guitar spirals back down to a forlorn reality.

A bell tolls in the twilight. On some evenings, Wetton dwells upon his heartache. Yet, his memories stave off the loneliness. A new dawn appears—and with it new horizons of hope—as the sound of snare paradiddles fades out.

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Stand Up Tall (2004) – Dizzee Rascal

“Stand Up Tall” employs an uncluttered yet irresistible arrangement: a frenetic 909 beat with handclaps, a simple sequenced line with occasional modulation, pseudo-pizzicato strings impishly peppering the refrain. However, it’s the rate at which Rascit expectorates the lyrics that stupefies (giving Busta Rhymes’ “Gimme Some More” a run for the money). To the uninitiated ear, Dizzee Rascal’s volubility coupled with his heavy cockney accent is another language. It purports to be English, at least colloquially. But even reading a lyric sheet, it’s hard to follow his flow, particularly because of his pronunciation. While this may be off-putting to some, the preferred etiquette is to sit back and marvel at his talent simply in relaying the words from his brain to his mouth in such a nimble manner. In the most discernible section, Dizzee wishes his cohorts fortune, but dismisses his critics: “To my Southside crew get paper / I tell da playa hater c u later. . . .” There’s wit and humor to be found here; the more formidable task is hearing it.

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Figure Eight (1973) – Blossom Dearie (Bob Dorough)

This Bob Dorough-penned song from the 1970s educational series Schoolhouse Rock: Multiplication Rock recounts the multiplication table as it pertains to the number eight. While it may seem silly to sing the praises of a song that is based on such an elementary concept, “Figure Eight” exceeds any expectations one might have. The most achingly melancholic notes cascade from an electric piano, nylon string guitar and cello, as if floating in space. Blossom Dearie’s frail voice suits the pensive mood. In the break, Dearie recites the multiples of eight from one through twelve to a playful jingle reminiscent of a ‘70s diaper commercial. The number closes with Dearie making the strangely poignant observation that a figure eight placed on its side is the symbol for infinity, as a vibraphone disappears into incalculable vastness.

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There’s Only One Thing Left To Say (1994) – Velocity Girl

Velocity Girl were close to being the perfect pop group, and this is nearly the perfect pop song. In “There’s Only One Thing Left To Say,” Velocity Girl look to ‘60s Motown for a framework, borrowing the rhythm section of The Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love,” then adding their own noise pop accoutrements: the jangle of guitars—slightly overdriven, vibrato’d and tremolo’d. In the effervescence, Sarah Shannon’s voice, lent also to harmonies and background vocals, is remarkably pretty (whereas in her later solo work, her voice is allowed the space to be enchantingly beautiful). Her lilting vocal melody works perfectly over the bouncy rhythm established by the bass, drums and tambourine.

A new romance has caused Shannon to lose her bearings; she’s practically dysfunctional now, so instead of being so uptight, she decides to bask in her giddiness. Having attempted to articulate her feelings in writing numerous times before only to discard them, she hopes that he instinctively understands how she feels about him: “Love notes littered on the landscape / translate everything I ever said / Read quick, you might catch that dizzy feeling.” She knows which words could seal the deal, but she’s tongue-tied: “There’s only one thing left to say / Why should I let it slip away?” This song should cinch it for ya, Sarah.

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Green, Green Grass of Home (1966) – Tom Jones (Curly Putman)

A man returns to his hometown where his loved ones eagerly await his arrival. A gospel choir commemorates the joyous occasion. His neighbors and old friends will be excited to see him again after all these years. He smiles at the thought of their welcoming embraces, and basks in the familiarity of the home where he was raised. He’ll take a walk with Mary later that day, maybe enjoy a picnic on the grass . . . or so he thinks. He awakens from his dream to the reality that is his death row prison cell. Although he has come to terms with his impending execution at dawn, he still feels a tinge of despair. Yet, he can face death bravely in the knowledge that he’ll be home soon, where he’ll rest in peace “‘neath the green, green grass of home.”

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Taste The Floor (1985) – The Jesus & Mary Chain

Amidst an unprecedented wall of solid-state distortion, Jim Reid’s vocals rose above the gimmick of multi-layered direct-injection overdrive to emerge utterly indifferent. That juxtaposition of bedlam and boredom was seminal to what eventually became the shoegazer movement, but none of its practitioners ever recreated such an obnoxious and overbearing din. During the instrumental “breaks,” guitarist William Reid adds additional layers of overwhelming white noise and feedback—boosted in the frequencies that are most irritating to human hearing—akin to a circular saw slicing through lumber. This is a good thing. One can only sadistically imagine the scores of innocent bystanders who have shielded their ears against this sonic assault blaring from the pop-disk before the droogies ookadeet for a bit of ultraviolence.

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Hot In Herre (2002) – Nelly

Keyboards puckishly escort the listener into Mephistopheles’ den of unadulterated debauchery, shameless depravity and downright lewdness. “Hot In Herre” is a reflection of present-day decadence sporting an infectious groove that’s near impossible to resist. Drums, guitar and keyboard offset each other on alternating beats, interlacing into a solid foundation which induces the head bobs; syncopated cowbell and programmed hi-hats spark the foot-taps; Nelly’s rhythmic hollering spurs the shimmy. Sure, it’s easy to decry the distinguished literary gems he spews out about bodacious ass, the oh, so subtle invitation to strip, or the eminently eloquent thrust grunts. Harder to resist, though, is sitting still while voicing such condemnation.

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Space Oddity (1969) – David Bowie

(Part One of The Moon In The Mind’s Eye tetralogy)

Initially released during the summer of 1969, (when Harriet Wheeler stayed up as a little girl to watch the first mission to the moon), “Space Oddity” explores the disconnect between public adoration and one’s sense of self-worth. Major Tom’s mission allegorically recounts society’s whimsical fascinations, the trivial details over which the media trifles, and the tenuous creation of celebrity status. However, when Major Tom actually steps out into space, he steps into a psychological vacuum, realizing that he is an insignificant object tethered to a piece of metal. The mission no longer defines him: alone in space, all his accolades on Earth are meaningless. He does not feel like the man he was—Major Tom, the renowned astronaut—so much so, that he has lost the desire to pilot the spacecraft for re-entry, allowing it to continue on its course without navigation. No longer an “astronaut,” Tom says farewell to his wife and his former identity, orbiting the Earth incommunicado in pursuit of his re-defined existence.

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Major Tom (1983) – Peter Schilling

(Part Two of The Moon In The Mind’s Eye tetralogy)

As “Space Oddity” redux, Peter Schilling audaciously invoked a David Bowie classic, setting himself up to fail. While “Major Tom” succeeds of its own accord, the fact that it does so despite its derivative theme is a testament to the appeal of Schilling’s adaptation.

Its pulsating synth, scraping guitar, stout bass and propulsive beat immediately distance “Major Tom” from the more deliberately paced “Space Oddity.” Schilling dwells on the details of the countdown, setting up a red herring that foreshadows a technical malfunction. As in “Space Oddity,” once in orbit, Major Tom questions the meaning of his mission. Likewise, he refuses to re-enter the Earth’s atmosphere, sending a farewell to his wife. To further clarify the fate of Bowie’s Major Tom, Schilling posits that he voluntarily marooned himself in orbit, perhaps suffering from dementia. What truly elevates Schilling’s version is its uplifting anthemic chorus that melodically parallels its lyrics—drifting, falling, floating. The chorus reveals a little more with each refrain, until its exultant coda is suspended in celestial background vocals, stirring the soul in a spine-tingling denouement.

English version not available from iTunes Music Store.

Ghosts of American Astronauts (1988) – The Mekons

(Part Three of The Moon In The Mind’s Eye tetralogy)

“Ghosts of American Astronauts” is an alluring, well-disguised commentary on the values by which America defines its heroes. The grandeur of the first landing on the moon allowed America a diversion from the ongoing Vietnam War. In 1969, America regarded astronauts in general as heroes and held them in high regard, so much so that, even in death, they would remain in the public’s collective memory. The Nixon administration received the glory for the mission’s success, despite its responsibility for the quagmire in Vietnam. On the other hand, U.S. soldiers fighting in Vietnam were vilified as baby killers for whom there was no heroes’ welcome upon their return.

For all we know, this cinematic event could have been filmed on a soundstage. [In its closing moments, My Favorite’s “Absolute Zero” alludes to this notion as well.] What good is landing on the moon if the freedoms of America are taken for granted or abused?: “A flag flying free in a vacuum.” Warning of the precarious missions into space to appease mankind’s brazenness, Sally Timms alludes to the inherent dangers of space travel, as if the fate of Icarus were inevitable. Indeed, two years earlier the Space Shuttle Challenger had disintegrated 73 seconds into its flight.

Timms’ ethereal lead and double-tracked background vocals sedately bathe in lush reverb. Generous compression imparts a dreamlike sheen to the entire mix. Occasionally, a phase shifter causes the heavens above to swirl. Beguiling and insidious, “Ghosts” lulls even as it criticizes a large contingent of its audience—or at least their parents’ generation.

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