TOP 43 DURAN DURAN SONGS

(This list was originally compiled in 2014)

            Last year (2013), while at Disney California Adventure Park, a cashier in his twenties complimented my Rio shirt. His co-worker asked, “What’s that?” “Duran Duran’s the bomb. They had that song in Big Fat Liar,” was the cashier’s reply. While I can’t fault either of those lads for being born after the band’s height of success, it underscored the fact that I feel fortunate to have been an adolescent during the days of Duran²mania. Granted, you can write this off as mid-life rationalization, but it is unlikely that a band will once again meld such fashionable mien with a similar scope of musical accomplishment. 

In my early teens, I idolized the band. I had pictures of them all over my bedroom wall. Not only did I love their songs and videos, they also were the fashion ideal I aspired to. I had a man crush on them before man crushes were recognized as a thing. I’ll admit that, after high school—and with the release of Big Thing—I lost interest in the band as I got further into indie/college radio. It wasn’t until much later (when the original five reunited for Astronaut) that I came to realize the lifelong impact they had on me.

             As of October 17, 2015, here are my top 43 Duran Duran songs over the span of their career.  (Previously, this was a Top 40 list compiled in 2014, but the 2015 release of Paper Gods necessitated an amendment.)

43. “Drive By” from the album Thank You (1995): In a bit of revisionist history, to be sure, it turns out that “The Chauffeur” actually takes place in . . . Hollywood?

42. “Out Of My Mind” from the album Medazzaland (1997): In my opinion, Medazzaland is a disaster, but this track is worth salvaging from the wreckage as a case study in being stalked by a cognitive apparition. The Eastern-influenced arrangement would have fit right in with The Cure’s Wild Mood Swings released the year before. Part one of what I dub the “Spectre Chronicles.”

41. “My Antarctica” from the album Liberty (1990): Here, Simon displays his ability to guide fluid mood changes through melody, as well as vestiges of an artistry in devising poetically abstruse riddles which he perplexingly abandoned after Notorious.

40. “Notorious (Latin Rascals Mix)” from the 12” single “Notorious” (EMI 12 DDX 45)(1986): I recall listening to this remix while driving on a Friday night as a teenager, the frenetic mayhem of groundbreaking edits ricocheting like a circus of dementia as I sped down Hawthorne Boulevard en route to Tower Records.

39. “Someone Else Not Me” from the album Pop Trash (2000): It is true that my younger self would have hated the unambitious lob of this pop ballad. But eventually, life pummels you enough to enable appreciation of one of Simon’s most straightforward, heartfelt lyrical offerings. Part two of what I dub the “Spectre Chronicles.”

38. “Serious” from the album Liberty (1990): I’m sorry to say, but I consider Liberty to be another dog of an album—and this song deserves stronger lyrics—but I consider the arpeggiated riff that rings out unexpected key changes to be Warren Cuccurullo’s most impactful moment with the band.

37. “You Kill Me With Silence” from the album Paper Gods (2015): Despite an arsenal of clichés, the lyrics impart to the cold shoulder treatment a value-added point of view.

36. “Do You Believe In Shame?” from the album Big Thing (1988): Whether mourning the literal or figurative death of a friend, the lyrics speak a truth that stands out on this career-transitioning album. Part three of what I dub the “Spectre Chronicles.”

35. “Planet Earth” from the album Duran Duran (1981): While the Night Mix and Night Version have value as re-recorded alternative takes, they lack the punch of the album version’s lolloping rhythm section, the astral keyboard twinkle, and the middle-eight bass break—all of which I’ve decided I can’t live without.

34. “(I’m Looking For) Cracks In The Pavement” from the album Seven and the Ragged Tiger (1983): I always viewed this as a playground for Nick’s impish frolic, but eventually came to celebrate this song’s overall off-kilter tonality. And, amusingly amidst the crowning wackiness of lyrics like, “Don’t want to be in public / My head is full of chopstick,” lies juxtaposed the subtle genius of “. . . the shadows on the cinema wall / should be mine but I’m not that tall,” only to be followed by the ludicrousness of “I’m saying this in private / If I had a car I’d drive it / insane.”

33. “New Religion (live)” from the album Live at Hammersmith ’82! (2009): Although I grew up listening to the more balanced but sterile mix from Arena, this version stands out for one reason: Mr. Taylor. (Andy, that is.) His guitar predominates (unfortunately at Nick’s expense), driving the song with an energy other recorded versions lack. To top it off, he sings the countervailing “Don’t know why this evil bothers me. . . .” backing vocal.

32. “Late Bar”  from the single “Planet Earth” (1981): A B-side worthy of album real estate, “Late Bar” depicts the logical second scene following arrival upon Planet Earth. Nick’s sashaying synth during the verse and Andy’s alien guitar caterwaul during the chorus make this music for New Romantics to pick up gynoids by.

31. “Too Bad You’re So Beautiful” from the album All You Need Is Now (2011 physical release): Tempered by the fact that Simon’s lyricism long ago lost the art of nuance (at least, perhaps, until Paper Gods was released), this is one of the band’s strongest dance tunes which made it worth purchasing the physical release of this album despite the abridged digital release three months earlier.

30. “Want You More!” from the album Astronaut (2004): More musically engaging due to its layered arrangement and production, this equally danceable track complements the lyrical overture of “Too Bad You’re So Beautiful.”

29. “Nice” from the album Astronaut (2004): Rounding out what I deem to be a trio of dance confessionals—along with “Too Bad You’re So Beautiful” and “Want You More!”—“Nice” seduces with John’s slinky bass line that resembles a more mature version of its “My Own Way” counterpart.

28. “Skin Trade (Parisian Mix)” from the “All She Wants Is” 3” CD Single (1988) (and Master Mixes Promo 12”)(1987): The crisp DDD recording of Notorious properly captured Steve Ferrone’s solid drum work, highlighted even more in this remix which also throws in splicing edits, keyboard dollops and panning echoes tastefully enough to have aged well. 

27. “What Happens Tomorrow” from the album Astronaut (2004): To me, the chorus recaptured an emotional uplift missing since the band’s heyday. It represents the moment I realized that these five still had the magic in them. 

26. “Girls On Film (Extended Night Version)” from the 12” single “Girls On Film” (EMI 062-2007176 limited edition Greek release)(1981): The fact that the band made entirely new recordings for their Night Versions is an admirable precedent that unfortunately did not become a predominant trend among their contemporaries. Roger’s drums are particularly tight and crisp throughout. Overall, this version is sonically cleaner, more spacious, allowing the band’s arrangement to respire, mostly attributable to Andy’s use of a clean guitar tone (pushed back into the mix) instead of the slightly overdriven tone that energizes the album version. Eventually, though, he gets a new moment during the “shooting a star” outro. 

25. “My Own Way (Night Version)” from the 12” single “My Own Way” (1981): Nick’s synthesizers careen about the carnival, as John blatantly tries to stir up a commotion with his bass. Meanwhile, Andy keeps the crowd tame with his ridiculously precise rhythm guitar. Although anachronistic even in 1981, the disco strings are a boon to this song which played in my juvenile head as I scavenged swap meets and thrift shops to find a brooch and a blazer with which to emulate my heroes’ style. 

24. “Only In Dreams” from the album Paper Gods (2015): Since “[t]here’s a vampire/in the limousine,” I guess that makes this part of an ongoing Chauffeur vignette, adorned with the most attention-grabbing slivers of guitar rationed out (by Nile Rodgers) on Paper Gods.

23. “The Man Who Stole A Leopard” from the album All You Need Is Now (2010): As the de facto eventuality of ”The Chauffeur,” “The Man Who Stole A Leopard” preys upon the feral abandonment of others in an entanglement of intrigue while the disco strings from “My Own Way” make an encore. 

22. “Mediterranea” from the album All You Need Is Now (2011 physical release): I’m happy to report that one of the band’s best songs comes from one of their more recent (as of 2014) albums, giving hope that contributions to this list will continue to accrue with future releases. (Indeed, this came to fruition with 2015’s Paper Gods.) The lyrics’ escapism traverses the song’s variegated chord structure that rises and falls in ombré, like painted sands.

21. “Friends Of Mine” from the album Duran Duran (1981): A slightly sinister feel in the verse gives way to the optimistic Georgie Davis/Rocky Picture chorus, all to the irresistible torque of the fashion plate rhythm section that is John and Roger.

20. “Hold Back The Rain (CD mix)” from the album Rio (1982): Normally, the fact that many available elements were truncated from this version would detract. However, the production on this version gets it right: punchy, driving, concise, immediate. The various remixes, in turn, suffer from mix imbalances and/or editing decisions that leave them a degree removed from the dictates of the cerebellum.

19. “Point Of No Return” from the album Astronaut (2004): Emanating from the ruins of September 11th, this song becomes an introspective challenge to effectuate a broader metamorphosis. Simon’s dual-tracked vocal harmonies in the chorus truly recall the Fab Five’s glory days.

18. “We Need You” from the single “Skin Trade” (1987): Although supposedly written as an entreat to Andy, over the faux tango of this B-side, Simon was nevertheless posing “tender” sentiments that were partially relevant to my sundry high school histrionics.

17. “I Believe/All I Need To Know” from the single “All She Wants Is” (1988): This suave avowal couples a mysterious melody with the appeal of a smug conceit that “I believe you’ll follow me / It’s all I need to know (to walk away),” sly smirk intact.

16. “Secret Oktober” from the single “Union Of The Snake” (1983): I learned the value of a quality B-side waiting for this song to play on KIQQ 100.3 FM (Los Angeles) in the evenings. Shrouded in artful opacity, its infused melancholy also inspires in its nebulousness. With Nick’s exotic textures, Roger’s (?) mesmeric percussion, and some of Simon’s most arcane lyrics ever, this is pretty much an Arcadia track (although reportedly this is all Simon and Nick). 

15. “The Chauffeur” from the album Rio (1982): Nick’s creeping synthesizer lays a narcotic milieu acting in stealthy concert with sprinkles of sequenced percussion as accomplices to Simon’s immersing narrative and haunting ocarina passage that lingers with the most eerie impression this side of El Condor Pasa.

14. “Anyone Out There” from the album Duran Duran (1981): Simon’s lyrics champion the errant despondence of misfit club kids while the band prances about at their discotheque finest.

13. “Sound Of Thunder” from the album Duran Duran (1981): John’s bass line deserves top billing here, with Nick’s descending keyboard that weeps like a distraught banshee alighting to hover like Numan-esque UFOs rounding out the double feature. 

12. “What Are The Chances?” from the album Paper Gods (2015): The second verse may be the most poignant take on the concept of serendipity to grace this decade, while John Frusciante's restrained guitar solo and outro tinged with sentiment recalls Andy Taylor’s most poignant solo three decades earlier on “The Seventh Stranger.” 

11. “Ordinary World” from the album Duran Duran (The Wedding Album) (1993): Although it lacks the flair of yesteryear, this is probably Simon’s best set of lyrics, wallowing in measured self-absorption, yet maintaining credible perspective by acknowledging that one’s pain is relative. Speaking many truths throughout, the “pride’s gone out the window / cross the rooftops / run away” line resonates. The panning “gone away” murmur is one of those moments where emotion and production synergize. Part four of what I dub the “Spectre Chronicles.”

10. “Careless Memories” from the album Duran Duran (1981): I much prefer Simon’s restrained vocal delivery and the tautness of the band’s instrumentation on the studio version—which I feel is more consistent with the detachment that belies the underlying angst—than the cavernous bellows of concert renditions. Also, Andy’s ping-ponging guitars are lost in live translation. My (male) friend would always do the “Hungry Like The Wolf” giggle when Simon would sing “I think I’d laugh at you.”

9. “Rio” from the album Rio (1982): The band’s iconic song pools together John’s front-and-center syncopated bass, Nick’s ebullient sequencer, Andy’s alternating razor sharp bursts and fluid streams of guitar, and Roger’s consistently crisp hi-hats and commendable kick drum work. Consummated by Simon’s playful and celebratory lyrical ode to a muse and Andy Hamilton’s quintessential 80s sax solo, these elements embody what made Duran Duran—and the eighties zeitgeist—a deluge of pop delightfulness.

8. “Of Crime And Passion” from the album Seven and the Ragged Tiger (1983): Lyrically, “Of Crime and Passion” finds Simon at his vindictive best. But, with the various textures Andy employs—check out the serpentine kazoo emulation during the chorus—this is his shining moment.

7. “A Matter Of Feeling” from the album Notorious (1986): In my mind, the musical architecture and lines such as “love’s already history to you” fashion this as the sequel to “Save A Prayer,” years down the road. Truly one of the band’s most beautiful songs.

6. “Save A Prayer” from the album Rio (1982): I took up the bass guitar because of John Taylor, and “Save A Prayer” was the first bass part I memorized in its entirety. The synthesizer refrain rolling in like waves to greet the forlorn siren song of the faux pan pipes . . . the driftwood-weary timbered rim shots . . . the pervading desolation in Simon’s lyrics and poignant melody . . . always conjure up pensive reveries.  

5. “The Seventh Stranger” from the album Seven and the Ragged Tiger (1983): Cryptic lyrics, cascading percussion, atmospheric and pattering synths, and viscous portamenti of fretless bass permeate my adopted personal anthem of self-imposed alienation, with solace from my favorite Andy Taylor guitar solo that weeps in understated sorrow “for rumours in the wake of such a lonely crowd.” 

4. “The Reflex (Dance Mix)” from the 12” single “The Reflex” (1984): This particular cut’s greatness is attributable to Nile Rodgers’ brilliant vision in re-inventing this song. I consider this to be one of the top five true (i.e., transformative, not merely extended) remixes in the history of recorded music. (New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle (Shep Pettibone Extended Dance Mix),” Kirsty MacColl’s “A New England (12” Mix),” Big Country’s “The Teacher (Mystery Mix),” and Pet Shop Boys’ “Suburbia (The Full Horror)” are also on that list.)

3. “New Moon On Monday” from the album Seven and the Ragged Tiger (1983): Crafted from whimsical lyrics woven with the verse’s melodic undulations over sprightly keyboard plinks, culminating with a chiming guitar heralding the revolution-rousing chorus, “New Moon On Monday” coruscates triumphant as the band’s best pop song.

2. “Last Chance On The Stairway” from the album Rio (1982): In this evolved version of “Rio,” John’s bass line picks up where it left off, and Simon masterly waxes romantic, highlighted by an interlude featuring Roger’s percussive escort into the rainforest where Nick’s tropical marimba solo enchants before yielding to Andy’s winging guitar lead, solidifying this as my favorite Duran album track.

1. “A View To A Kill”  from the single A View to A Kill (1985): Ironically, my favorite Duran Duran song was the last true moment of grandeur by Le Bon/Rhodes/Taylor/Taylor/Taylor (although John Barry’s contributions might be the sine qua non), and is actually an amalgam of Arcadia’s moody panache and the dynamism of The Power Station’s rhythmic groove, as if the five members convened in a final conciliatory rendezvous before putting their halcyon days to rest. 

Your Smile Has Stopped The Hands Of Time (2002) – Roddy Frame

There was a time when innocence was intact. Girls were classmates playing in schoolyards. Boys would watch with wonder under the spells cast by the pre-pubescent princesses cavorting before them. And then, there was the lonely girl who deemed herself unfit for such frolic. She was the one whose lonesome introspection enabled her to cultivate the alluring qualities that blossomed as she matured. Aztec Camera mastermind Roddy Frame recalls this girl from his youth, whom he recognized was so much more special than even she knew. He vividly remembers her smile from all those years back, anchoring them in that time, and he is a boy admiring her reclusiveness from afar.

Even now, he wants to invite her in from the peripheries of the playground.

* * * July 19, 2019 Update * * *

In retrospect, this could simply be a father singing to his daughter.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Stormbringer (1974) – Deep Purple

Deep Purple come riding in on an insistent, bare bones head-banging riff, as David Coverdale heralds the destruction that Stormbringer—a mythological representation of a tornado’s fury depicted on the album cover as a runaway white stallion in the sky—will wreak upon anything unfortunate enough to be in its path.

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Hard Rain (2007) – Shout Out Louds

He thought it about time to confess to her what should have been fairly obvious. But if it was, she had never let on. So he composed a dramatic proclamation of devotion and placed on her car a written potpourri of laconic prose and excerpted Smiths lyrics which invited her to step outside her door at 11:00 p.m. that evening. He would be waiting to elucidate the jumbled mess of passion and stoicism that had so awkwardly come together on paper. The minutes crept slowly toward the designated moment of rendezvous. Finally, he heard footsteps from inside her house descending the stairs. . . .

Piecing together the tragic remnants of a phantom romance, the likes of which was quintessentially glorified in eighties pop culture, “Hard Rain” hits with full force in succinct phrases of profoundness: Adam Olenius mumbles with enough pithiness to qualify as Morrissey’s heir apparent for the aughts. Sharing the same musical sensibilities as The Killers—although closer in spirit to The Cure than the former—and with the anachronistic air of authenticity that informed the music of My Favorite, Shout Out Louds successfully evoke the era of ill-conceived letters scribbled from behind the emboldening uniform of black trenchcoats and Walkmen™, hairspray and eyeliner.

The song’s lively arrangement misrepresents its rueful essence. Olenius culls together tempestuous similes and concrete sensorial impressions to capsulize the pathos of the pivotal moment when an infatuation is professed and consequently rejected with silence. Spectral voices rain down in pelting sheets of remorse as the world begins to collapse around him. Bebban Stenborg interjects with deadpan detachment, perhaps as the rational voice of his psyche, perhaps as the girl vexed by his faux pas. At high volume, the typhoon of guitars that begins to build at 4:28 culminates in one of this decade’s more impressive recorded moments, a maelstrom of inner tumult ensuing from the lapse of judgment, intensifying until it disintegrates into particles of abject failure.

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Give It Up (1980) – The Jacksons

The penultimate track on the Jacksons’ masterpiece Triumph crafts something wonderfully fresh out of the familiar. The lyrics reflect the most basic of pop song sentiments: a giddy optimism of romantic reciprocation and capitulation. The musical arrangement, on the other hand, represents an innovative vision in composition circa 1980. One’s sense of curiosity is piqued and then escorted by a jaunty piano tramp through an entryway where harp glissandos dart by, as discoballs begin to twirl to a post-disco groove on the dancefloor. The two distinct musical motifs intertwine throughout, as the mood alternates between guardedness and delectation. Marlon lends co-lead vocals which, along with Michael’s fragile falsetto, emit enough goodwill to fill a VW van on the way to a Little Miss Sunshine competition. The boogie segues into a color guard of cellos leading a military snare march toward the dawning of a new day with globules of crystalline synth dripping from above. As the smoke from the fog machines clears, there is little use in anything other than falling in line.

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I Just Really Miss You (2007) – Miranda Lambert

They typically signify gloom: dark clouds, sad songs, the hard wind. Yet Nashville Star Season 1 finalist Miranda Lambert extracts from such clichéd metaphors a moving despondency that overwhelms the listener with empathy. As a Target™ exclusive track, “I Just Really Miss You” proves that not all such addendums are throwaways—the occasional ace in the hole awaits discovery. Lambert has secreted this surprise through limited availability; perhaps she is unsure whether she wants to expose such nakedness to a lowest common denominator, instead rewarding devoted fans who make the extra effort to obtain it. Or, maybe she just succumbed to a cheap marketing ploy designed to sell more copies. Regardless, the song stuns with its simplicity, both lyrically and musically, Lambert hanging her vulnerabilities bare like laundry on a clothesline, letting the rain and wind have their cathartic way so that she can begin anew once the inclemency subsides. The vestiges of a relationship that could not survive still clutter her head and burden her heart, as she reconciles the infeasibilities that compelled them to part. A couple of soul-steering chord changes underscore the perverted celebration inherent in misery, an appreciation of the piquancy of life’s pain.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Witchcraft Tips (2002) – Dame Darcy

Perhaps in a secret cove nestled somewhere between Disneyland’s New Orleans Square and Frontierland is an attraction which finds Dame Darcy propagating her predilection for gothic neo-Victorian aesthetics in the guise of a witch. “Witchcraft Tips” could be a lo-fi field recording of Darcy preparing the soundtrack for said attraction, spontaneously culling together audio snippets in the nature of an impromptu performance art piece. Tossed into her cauldron: suspenseful dissonance straight out of Elvira’s Movie Macabre; blustery wind effects followed by Gold Rush Era gaiety one might hear in the Haunted Mansion and on Mark Twain’s Riverboat, respectively; simulated pseudo-echoes (you know, like when you pretended you were a baseball announcer as a kid); patent cassette tape manipulation qua crude sampler; tortured banshee wailing; the chorus from Donovan’s “Season Of The Witch”; the whir of a spacecraft preparing to lift off. Her manner of phrasing deliberately affected, Darcy touts her soothsaying powers and comprehensive sorcery courtesy of the E.Z. Bake Coven (which, in cyberspace, is Darcy’s informal association of like-minded artisans of the female persuasion). With the inventiveness of imaginative role-playing in which children engage, this intriguing concoction casts a spell both droll and . . . wait for it . . . bewitching.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

See also "Grieve America" (2002).

Crop Circles (2006) – Visionaries

When I was a junior high student in the ‘80s, there were two eminent trendsetters who were: (a) taller than the rest of us; (b) better-looking than most of us; and (c) breakdancers—a combination that netted them überpopularity. One of them was John Baker, of whom I have written about elsewhere; the other was Kikuo Nishi. While John went on to play bass in indie rock bands, Kikuo focused his efforts on hip-hop.

Now known as KeyKool, Nishi is currently a member of Visionaries, a multi-cultural rap collective. While lyrically “Crop Circles” is not mind-blowing or soul-stirring, it is bounce-inducing, boasting a pretty persuasive beat and dexterous scratching courtesy of Rhettmatic. Overall, it’s one of the more amusingly entertaining jointz I’ve heard—especially because their earnest tone is a bit inapposite to the lyrical upshot. From 2Mex’s nearly unintelligible babble to the refrain that proposes the ridiculously awesome concept of leaving crop circles on the dance floor, the net effect is one of comedic ingenuity, leaving its imprint ingrained in the crop fields of your consciousness.

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A Little Kiss Is A Kiss Is A Kiss (1960) – Connie Stevens

“A Little Kiss Is A Kiss Is A Kiss” is Connie Stevens exulting in the physiological manifestations and inexplicable flightiness of a teenage crush. Her voice lilts with a perky flirtatiousness that rivals Shelley Fabares and Ann-Margret in their unsullied juvenescence. The chirpy vocal vivacity; the pollyannaish orchestration; the giddy la la las that ring out in a realm of copious reverb—it all amounts to the vintage prototype for modern-day twee pop.

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June 18, 1976 (2000) – Pedro The Lion

Had Lux Lisbon of Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Virgin Suicides not ended her own life with her sisters, it’s almost inevitable she would have done so eventually. Promiscuous beauty that she was, though, she would likely have gotten pregnant first. Given that The Virgin Suicides was set in the mid-1970s, “June 18, 1976” could conceivably be about Lux and the moments preceding her death, as David Bazan breaks the news in bard-like fashion to Lux’s child.

In an egregious case of post-partum depression, a girl who just gave birth bids a final farewell to her newborn before leaping from the top of the hospital rooftop. While her suicide could be viewed as an allegory for young women who sacrifice the suppleness of their nubile bodies for the sake of bearing children, the narrative’s crux is reflected in the impact upon the bystanders who discern the calm gracefulness of her plunge, conveying her belief that she is plummeting toward peace, which enables them to reconcile the violent fate of one so lovely and yet so inextricably sad. In this regard, the song channels the essence of American Beauty, as where Wes Bentley’s character, Ricky, takes in the horrific poignancy reflected in Kevin Spacey’s expression as the blood oozes from his skull, as if Ricky understands Spacey’s character is, at that moment, reliving the most beautiful moments of his life as his soul passes to its state of permanence.

Sometimes tragedy and beauty are necessary counterparts.

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Biggest Part of Me (1980) – Ambrosia

Lead singer David Pack includes enough variety in his vocal tones, and the Doobie Brothersesque multi-part harmonies add enough warmth, to make this otherwise saccharine avowal of adoration appealing. But Joe Puerta makes this song exceptional with perhaps the most meaningful bass line to be found in soft-rock, reminiscent of Verdine White’s masterpiece on “That’s The Way Of The World.”

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Crisis King (1997) – Helmet

After the inconsistency of the at-times mundane offerings on 1994’s Betty, Helmet’s 1997 release, Aftertaste, was a desirable return, at least in part, to the menacing disembowelment of dentigerous dropped-D riffs and Page Hamilton’s raspy gnarl that raged rampant on 1990’s Strap It On. Befitting the lyrical personification of tribulation as a fiendish despot who overwhelms with sadistic tyranny, Hamilton’s guitars alternate between metal riffs, slight dissonance and ominous chromatic scales, all emanating with Mesa/Boogie crunch in double-tracked amplitude over John Stanier’s moshable drum gallop to render album-closer “Crisis King” a brouhaha between sovereign and subject. The abrupt metric sleight of hand that tweaks the momentum at 1:34 sends the band careening roughshod through the kingdom with reckless disregard for the welfare of bystanders, who recoil from the anathema of crisis come calling.

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See also "FBLA" (1990) – Helmet

Nothin’ Like The Summer (2007) – Carmen Rasmusen

Carmen Rasmusen is the only American Idol contestant I have ever voted for. (That is, until Season 7 when Kristy Lee Cook and Kady Malloy made the Top 24.) My selectiveness proved to be well-founded: not only will “Nothin’ Like The Summer” stand as a timeless summer song, but also as the best single by an Idol contestant to date.

“Nothin’” finds Carmen’s fresh-faced persona smack dab in the dog days of small-town America, idle and innocent. Romance is on the agenda, as she ruminates over the hallmarks of the season where recreation and pastime are preludes to canoodling at the county fair. The song doesn’t rely on a catchy hook so much as it does an umbrella of well-crafted lyrics, an easy-going melody, and a relaxed pace. What impresses even more is that Rasmusen co-wrote this song, whereas other Idol contestants have launched songs assembled by producers from a team of songwriters.

A budding artistry is evident in her lyrics. While the “flip-flops”/”tic-toc” rhyme could have been corny, in context it smartly evokes the seasonal laze where the golden rules hammered into the brain during school are stashed away in favor of life’s leisurely pursuits and love’s geometry. Contemporary country music too often abuses descriptive literal narratives without regard for the listener’s ability to interpolate a lyric’s meaning. While Rasmusen constructs her estival ode with picturesque descriptions, she affords the listener sufficient leeway to import their own experience: the enterprise of the lemonade stand; the dizzying swoon of flirtation on the Ferris wheel; the dusk-‘till-dawn adventures by the lake; the stardust lounge of the backyard barbeque.

Perhaps the four-year layover between the height of her Idol fame and eventual album release allowed Rasmusen to address the vocal tendencies which so many had criticized while she was a contestant; they are barely discernable now, if at all. Carmen’s vocals unfurl with controlled dynamics and expressive warmth, a picnic blanket on which to recline as she basks in the festival of her senses. And, as evidenced here and elsewhere on her debut album, Rasmusen’s voice charms most endearingly when it sails into its falsetto.

As far as the most celebrated Idol alumnae go, Kelly Clarkson’s biggest hits were moderately catchy, but largely a product of pre-packaged songwriting that never rose above the One Tree Hill demographic at which they were aimed. Carrie Underwood, with her pop-tinged voice, is miscast as a country artist, which makes her success in that industry mind-boggling. Carmen Rasmusen will probably never reach the commercial milestones Clarkson and Underwood have enjoyed, but her success lies in making a memorable splash long after the ship of Season 2 Idol hoopla left the harbor. With the strength of “Nothin’ Like The Summer” as her lead-off single, if “Stranded” and “Keep Me Forever Falling” are released as follow-ups, she may yet score a ride on a luxury liner.

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Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse (2007) – Of Montreal

Before boarding the loopy carnival ride of medication, Kevin Barnes exhorts his chemical imbalance to achieve equilibrium without the crutch of antidepressants. Atop a blithe synthpop arrangement at odds with the helplessness he feels, Barnes’ quirky vocals rue the psychological morass that has time and again sapped him of creativity, incapacitated him, and strained his marriage. Hopefully, the inevitable infusion he administers to his cerebral synapses will benignly effectuate a synthetic synergism upon his reservoir of neurotransmitters—a pharmacological panacea, the Heracles to his Promethean punishment.

Listen to "Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

Channel One Suite (1997) – Buddy Rich and the Buddy Rich Big Band (produced by Neil Peart)

Although one could focus on the technical wizardry evident in the legendary Buddy Rich’s actual drumming incorporated into this re-working of Rich’s “Channel 1 Suite,” what proves to be just as entertaining is the parade of euphemisms the string of big band singers concoct in the second movement to acknowledge that Buddy Rich was a grade-A asshole. The sincerity with which they pay tribute while simultaneously maligning him is artful.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Da Mystery Of Chessboxin’ (1993) – Wu Tang Clan

Under the auspices of Wu-Tang, RZA enters the combat chamber, throwing down kung-fu cinema snippets and his trademark dynamically flat rudimentary beats, as guttural grunts plod in the background. Armed with raspy voice and audacity, U-God calls out the pretenders in unadorned fashion. Citing ghetto origins as the foundation for his incorrigibility, Inspectah Deck ups the ante with a more accomplished flow, a more captivating voice. Momentarily altering the lyrical rhythm, Raekwon takes the verbal baton to wax philosophical about the virtues of middle-tier materialism via street economics, denigrating chumps caught up in conspicuous consumption. Method Man dishes the call-out hook, inciting support from the spectator degenerates. Exiled from his precinct, Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s inebriated bluster is overheard from a neighboring village before his 25½ bars proper arrive, whereupon he stumbles in to bewilder with his beloved buffoonery. Wielding the formidable dual weapons of hyperactive rhyme and overbearing whine, Ghostface Killah slices through the rice paper walls with erumpent energy to recount his vanquishment of lesser foes before exiting to victorious Wu-Tang chants. Masta Killa wraps up the tourney by detailing the insidious demise unsuccessful challengers will suffer at his hands.

Step off, bow out, and go cry to your McDojo, son.

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Tomorrow (2004) – Emma Bunton

Beneath the pigtails and babydoll dresses, Emma Bunton was the most comely member of the Spice Girls, innocently cloaking the group’s inherent raunchiness with her Baby Spice persona. But it would behoove many to regulate as a controlled substance the pleasurable seduction in her delicate, coquettish wisp of a voice in order to curtail mania by audio intoxication. With “Tomorrow,” Bunton tries on for size the role as long-overdue heiress to Olivia Newton-John’s throne and, at least for this moment in time, she is sitting pretty. Her breathy vocal quality imparts a gossamer sheen unto a lilting melody that evokes ‘60s mod sensibilities to puffs of horns à la Bacharach, elongated plumes of strings on loan from Percy Faith’s orchestra, and a lazy bossa nova worthy of Jobim’s blessings. Bunton’s tale of guiding her man through bouts of self-doubt and depression with the panacea of amorous affection even recalls the gender roles of a different era—more “Stand By Your Man” than “Independent Women, Part I”—and a far cry from Girl Power.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Life Is Like A Star (1983) – Sandie Shaw (Ilona Kish/Phil Sawyer/Sandie Shaw)

“Life Is Like A Star” is the one song that would have been more appropriate than “Magic” playing in the background while Olivia Newton-John glided across the floor of what would eventually become Xanadu. Like an errant vestige of the bygone era of rollerskating pinball wizards, it skirts along the cusp of memories that are actually figments, perforating apertures of familiarity in that which is foreign. Sprightly echoes of staccato Rhodes piano radiate into psychotropic chord transitions that probably violate some theory of juxtaposition, frolicking to a nifty 15/8 time signature before settling into an easy disco sashay. In lyrically conjuring images of streaking celestial bodies sparking the colors of the universe and meshing to create “a richly woven symmetry of illusion,” the song betrays its likely genesis in the heavy use of hallucinogens, a de facto endorsement of under-the-influence creativity.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Xanadu (1980) – Electric Light Orchestra featuring Olivia Newton-John

As part of the closing montage for the 1980 box office bomb, it channels the inspiration of a muse, creating a synergy of renewal between dreams gone by and dreams on the wane, fusing to breathe new life into a deserted building. The ultimate ode to a glorified rollerskating rink, “Xanadu” exploits Olivia Newton-John’s gift for altering sensorial perception through melody. From the opening synthesizer glissando, ELO’s conspicuous chord changes lay down the steps upon which Olivia’s voice perambulates, unlocking the realms of fantasy to the groove of the bassline’s gyrations. Electric piano, strings and Jeff Lynne’s trademark multi-part vocals purfle a kaleidoscopic arrangement as luminescent as the neon lights—and as celebratory as the protagonists’ triumphs—of which its lyrics speak.

As payoff for enduring a dog of a movie and a tedious choreographed scene to commemorate the grand opening of Xanadu, Olivia emerges onto the screen to perform the title song in her final bow as a muse, having never looked more radiant in threatening to turn the viewer into a pillar of salt. Unforgivably, there’s a dearth of shots focusing on her, director Robert Greenwald’s shortsighted blunder preserved on film: you just don’t squander the opportunity to showcase such a natural beauty.

Listen to "Xanadu" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

See also "Magic" (1980) – Olivia Newton-John

Dumb Job (1993) – Oiler

About 14 years ago, I was stopped at a red light in my hometown. A former classmate, John Baker, pulled up beside me and we exchanged salutations. He told me to come and see his band, Oiler, play. (Regrettably, I never did.) A few days later, I went to my favorite independent record shop for a weekly replenishment and saw an Oiler/Rig split 7”. I purchased it and went home, eager to listen. Oiler’s contribution to the single, “Asphalt Field,” fit right in with the Amphetamine Reptile brand of noisecore I was immersed in at the time—more Helios Creed than Helmet, but enjoyably raucous nonetheless.

Let me back up a little, for my musical proclivities owe a great debt to said Mr. Baker.

I was a lonely loser in seventh grade. I was the guy who had signs taped on his back by cruel pranksters. I had one friend, and he was privy to the “in” crowd, so I had always hoped that, being one step removed, I could eventually qualify for inclusion in their exclusivity. In eighth grade, John, a member of the “in” crowd, was kind enough to at least acknowledge my existence and associate with me on a friendly level. I felt as though he took me under his wing, if not out of pity, then perhaps out of human decency.

He was always one step ahead of the crowd, extremely bright, handsome, popular, and, quite frankly, I don’t think he even gave a fuck. I suppose that’s why he extended a hand of friendship to me: he saw a pathetic figure who needed someone to show the way when others wouldn’t. From there, I idolized John’s stylistic sense, and took a cue from his musical outlook and academic pursuits. We would pound out the urban beats of “Planet Rock” and “Looking For The Perfect Beat” on our desks, yet he wasn’t ashamed to admit that the glamorous Duran Duran was rad. When I wanted to take Japanese or French, he coaxed me into taking Latin (which believe it or not, came to have its benefits). We were both going to be brain surgeons, you see. And I say that without the least bit of sarcasm. Well, at least HE was smart enough to become a brain surgeon.

He was a fan of what were at the time relatively cutting-edge bands like The Cure, Echo and The Bunnymen and Dead Kennedys, while I proclaimed on my Pee-Chee All-Season Portfolio an allegiance to radio-friendly new wave like Berlin, A Flock of Seagulls, Missing Persons and Billy Idol. He sported extreme and colorful skull-adornment choices before I ever dared to gallivant with my approximations of Robert Smith or Ian McCulloch gravity-defying hairstyles.

My high school years proved to be rich with drama, each fanciful misstep enhanced and exacerbated by the backdrop of what was then known as “alternative” music. But, I may never have ventured out of the mainstream were it not for John’s waywardness by example. I aspired to his exhibitionism in calling attention to oneself through flagrance, and his inscrutableness in caring fuck-all about what people thought. He influenced me both in terms of cultural tastes and self-esteem.

Although we drifted apart in high school—he went full-on hardcore punk, while I sank into the depths of quasi-gothdom—he opened my mind to music that eschewed the popular conventions that were polluting my classmates’ minds. And, I was reminded of his excellence when he wandered down the auditorium aisle all zombified, cutting a Sid Vicious-like figure covered in stage-blood in the senior class’s humanities production of Dante’s The Divine Comedy. This dude was awesome.

At one point during junior high, John and I had briefly traded basses—I have to believe he did this out of benevolence, as I had a crappy Rowland (not misspelled) bass, and he had, if I recall correctly, a candy-red Fender P-bass. It’s not surprising that he eventually came to play bass for Oiler.

On “Dumb Job,” my favorite Oiler track, John doesn’t threaten to eclipse Geddy Lee’s virtuosity by any means, instead adopting the modus operandi of indie musicians: hawk attitude as an aesthetic over ostentation. Here, the bass plays a standard part, anchoring the low-end in workmanlike fashion, laboring beneath a constant slab of guitar fuzz and clanging sheet-metal percussion. Female vocals, courtesy of “Beth,” air the grievances of a proletariat with singer potential, alternating between antagonistic Wicked Witch of the West growls and Moon Unit Zappa valley girl jadedness. Clocking in at a shade under two minutes, it fits the bill as a smoke break anthem for misfits with a mall job.

After briefly speaking with John in the early nineties at a rehearsal studio, at a record store, and then at the traffic intersection, I saw him on the cover of a local ‘zine as a member of Charles Brown Superstar (with Benett). Then, I lost track of him. Someone had spotted him at a computer convention, and a couple of years ago, my father briefly spoke with his mother at a community event. But I suppose the fact that I haven’t seen him in 14 years perpetuates his status as cult hero in my mind.

John, if for some reason you ever come across this, I would like to thank you for planting the seeds of enlightenment in a hobbledehoy who longed to ditch pariahdom. You really made a difference in my life.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Come Back Margaret (2006) – Camera Obscura

Flourishing a swooning string section befitting a Romanian gymnastics floor exercise routine, “Come Back Margaret” provides a maudlin accompaniment for Tracyanne Campbell as her heart goes through its tumbling routine (metaphorical abuse acknowledged). Drums echo in a chamber of Psychocandy-era Bobby Gillespie floor tom/snare minimalism, sonar signals to calculate the emptiness that haunts Campbell’s heart. The lusterless production quality that pervades Camera Obscura’s brilliant 2006 release, Let’s Get Out Of This Country, suitably emulates the raw resourcefulness of someone capturing an inspired moment on a hand-held tape recorder off a Summer Olympics television broadcast. And, it’s the parturient idleness of summer that inspires Campbell to confess her bi-curious attraction towards an itinerant girl. She obscures her fantasies behind the facade of a distasteful heterosexual relationship and a winsome melody, all the while longing to woo Margaret into staying with the pining in her voice. Ultimately, though, Campbell’s tears are merely incidental to the compulsories of competition, as the world and its romance vie for Margaret’s affections as well. Perhaps Tracyanne will finally win her over before the next sojourn’s end.

Listen to "Come Back Margaret" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

200 Songs and Runnin'

Sugarland’s “Settlin’” marks the 200^th song posting. Sonic Lager For Lucid Minds has been a rewarding outlet when I find the inspiration to write. Thanks for reading.

Settlin’ (2006) – Sugarland

As it incorporated elements of rock and pop, country music came to fill the role that Top 40 radio once played in the ‘80s: an accessible, family friendly, song-oriented means of commemorating the week. While country music continues to be sidestepped and written off by a large contingent of music fans, it should occur to them that this is about as mindlessly fun as it gets nowadays. With indie music having become a function of blog repute and torrent traffic, sometimes it’s nice to blissfully ignore indie cred, let go of pretensions, and appreciate music that’s meant to get in your face with uncouth shamelessness. Head on down to your local Wal★Mart and Sugarland’s Enjoy The Ride awaits you in abundance. The album’s second #1 single, “Settlin’,” features Jennifer Nettles’ voice in exemplary form, its flat, pronounced twang inelegant enough to immediately chafe listeners as it grates into the consciousness like a bleating sheep, yet unassuming in its down-home congeniality, at times exhibiting a soulful warmth that incites the inner hombre into firing the six-shooter skyward in celebration. Nettles’ resolution to aspire to nothing less than excellence in love and life culminates in a chorus that is apt to hijack the hippocampus in boardroom meetings, finding an ally in economical guitar riffs that stab with adamance as if Rick Springfield showed up at the session to hitch a ride to the top of the charts. Indeed, there’s room for everyone on this country bandwagon, if only for want of willing passengers.

Listen to "Settlin'" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

Mr. N**** (1999) – Mos Def featuring Q-Tip

Given the recently revived debate on removing certain words from the vocabulary of entertainment, is banning the use of the “N-word” an efficacious step in reshaping race relations? As Michael Richards’ Laugh Factory diatribe suggests, it’s not his use of the word per se that was deplorable, it was his underlying premise of supremacy in denigrating the African-American audience members who had dared to heckle a white man, drawing upon U.S. historical transgressions in reminding them that they were “privileged” to be allowed to speak freely in today’s society, whereas once they would have been lynched for doing so. Sure, he was speaking primarily out of frustration, but he obviously had a preconceived notion of racial status in this country, and the humiliation of being disrespected on stage caused the ugliness to surface.

So would it make a difference if this particular racial slur/term of endearment is banished from the lexicon?

According to Mos Def, it probably wouldn’t. He lets us know that, even having found success as a rap artist and Hollywood actor, despite the luxuries he can confer upon his loved ones, at the end of the day he’ll still be Mr. N****. In his guest appearance, Q-Tip brings along a variation of the concise refrain from A Tribe Called Quest’s “Sucka N****,” which itself explored the use of the word.

Mos brings it back down to the clichéd, but epidemic, common denominators that plague young black men: to the officer, you’re a criminal, guilty of DWB; to the flight attendant, you errantly stumbled into first class; to the landlord, you are the tenant whom nobody wants as a neighbor; to fellow Rodeo Drive shoppers, you couldn’t possibly be anything other than an employee; to airport security worldwide, you are a drug smuggler. His attempt to analogize Woody Allen’s seduction of Soon-Yi Previn to Michael Jackson’s alleged pedophilia and O.J. Simpson’s exonerated double homicide misses the mark, but his frustration with society’s apparent ostracization double standard is duly noted.

In the end, even those who think they are liberal might be surprised when their actions reveal latent prejudices. Despite lip-service to equality and civil rights, it doesn’t matter to Mos if you use the word, or merely think it, if your actions ultimately reflect it.

Perhaps at times there’s an obnoxious defiance in the conspicuous consumption of young black athletes or entertainers who hit a financial goldmine. But they’re just celebrating and asserting themselves in ways their forefathers couldn’t—in ways that probably piss off Michael Richards.

Listen to "Mr. N****" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

Anywhere The Wind Blows (1999) – Melora Hardin (Lauren Christy)

Currently best known as Jan Levinson on NBC’s The Office, Melora Hardin in fact possesses a lovely singing voice (and has recorded two albums). She was able to display this talent in the 1999 film Seven Girlfriends in a scene where she casually plays an abbreviated version of “Anywhere The Wind Blows” on a piano (alongside Tim Daly’s character, Jesse, who displays an uncanny knack for impromptu harmonies upon hearing the chorus once). Melora’s mellifluous voice emits with bare delicateness as she confesses a craving for a little precariousness in otherwise stale surroundings, willing to surrender as a tabula rasa to the caprice of life’s quirks. While the full version sung by songwriter Lauren Christy over the end credits comes properly with polished arrangement, it’s Hardin’s unadorned performance that embodies the song’s capitulatory gist. Most will read the foregoing and sneer with disdain, but those yearning to be uprooted from their daily grind may find “Anywhere” to be an inspirational impetus.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

No. 13 Baby (1989) – Pixies

The number 13, especially when it coincides with Friday, has unlucky connotations in many cultures. The girl who so entices Charles Thompson IV (a.k.a. Black Francis a.k.a. Frank Black) scoffs at such superstitions, flashing a “tatooed tit” which bears the maligned integer. In turn, Thompson is inspired to renounce blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty for the carnal feistiness of the brown-eyed chola who has caught his attention, guitars spitting out ferocious flares to fortify Black Francis’ shrill squeals of wantonness. “Viva! . . . La loma,” he exclaims as he eyes her offerings.

Although of lecherous distinction, “No. 13 Baby” comes off as an other-side-of-the-tracks awakening of sorts wherein the social boundaries of race, class and culture melt into meaninglessness in the heat of desire. Guitarist Joey Santiago tastefully lays down intervals and arpeggios as the rest of the band escorts the instrumental latter half of the song into the tequila sunset. Presumably, the temptress is gallivanting off to fresh territory, fully expecting to attract scores of new admirers to worship her. Triskaidekaphobics need not apply.

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Attends Ou Va-T‘En (1965) – France Gall (Serge Gainsbourg)

The best pop music is constructed of elements with universal appeal. Even for those of us who don’t understand the French language, France Gall’s brand of yé-yé girl pop exemplified in “Attends Ou Va-T‘En” conveys a familiar air of apprehension. One recognizes the melodica’s latent distress imparted with doleful notes, Gall’s anxiety seeping through the opacity of a troubled melody, set to a locomotive canter that traverses the countryside en route to a hook that portends the dénouement.

As the muse and model for April March decades later, Gall lent a voice apropos to the songwriting brilliance of Serge Gainsbourg that transcended the barriers of language. (Unfortunately, her career also suffered as a result of being artistically exploited by Gainsbourg.) With a title that translates as “Wait for me, or get lost,” it’s any English-only listener’s guess as to what presently concerns the song’s protagonist, but the pathos of a fait accompli is easily absorbed.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

It Changes (from Snoopy, Come Home) (1972) – Guy Pohlman as Charlie Brown (Robert Sherman/Richard Sherman)

Forlorn sentiment encumbers Charlie Brown as he mopes amid orchestral flourishes and a pendulous melody that dwells in minor key somberness, underscoring the abandonment he feels as he laments his beloved pet’s decision to return to live with a prior owner, Lila. But the bigger picture is that he has experienced such disruptions in his life before when others leave; he has deemed it a recurring pattern and has resigned himself to the vicissitudes that always upend his sense of stability. In particular, Charlie Brown would empathize with Morrissey in brooding: “My Is A Succession of People Saying Goodbye.”

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

My Life Is A Succession Of People Saying Goodbye (2004) – Morrissey

Morrissey’s gripe about the revolving door through which acquaintances pass with regularity is symptomatic of his broader complaint—being left behind with nothing of real substance to validate the opportunities he has squandered. Even superficial materialism which might temporarily console him in hedonistic gratification is unattainable. In soporific anesthetization, a hypnotic sequence of harp arpeggios disorients as it draws us further into the morass of Morrissey’s struggle to cope with life’s passing parade. He and Charlie Brown, both.

Listen to "My Life Is A Succession Of People Saying Goodbye" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

Scorpio (1982) – Grand Master Flash & The Furious Five

Sharing its title with the moniker of one of the Furious Five, “Scorpio” is a minacious creature: spasmodic synth-prickles palpitate as a portly bassline writhes like a wounded scorpion impaled over spikes of electro-percussion; Melle Mel issues directives to infuse the funk in the always-cool camouflage of a vocoder; sporadic bursts of lasers discharge with futuristic import. The effect is one of a galactic ceremony at which an alien arachnid despot commands its subjects to get down before being exterminated.

In the early ‘80s, there was hardly a more compelling jam to be heard blaring from ghetto blasters, instantly inciting the robotic seizures of poppers, lockers and breakers who were helpless to resist the command to “show no shame.”

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I Remember You (1993) – Björk (Johnny Mercer/Victor Schertzinger)

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – An Anachronistic Remembrance)

How often does a modern day artist render inferior the vintage performances of a classic song? Presumably, only once in a blue moon. In that case, then, cerulean lunar luminescence bathed Björk when she recorded “I Remember You,” accompanied simply by a sole harpist, an angel at her shoulder. Despite the wistfulness in her voice—at times fragile and soothing, at times powerful and anguished—the song is actually about a nascent romance forged “a few kisses ago.” She is looking ahead to the afterlife, writing her history in advance, certain that when she is allowed to reflect back, the one thing that she will recall as the most precious gift was the thrill of the moment when she fell in love. It is a poignant testament to the infatuation in which she is immersed, and a glowing endorsement of the optimism her future holds.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

See also "New World" (2000) - Björk

He Stopped Loving Her Today (1980) – George Jones (Bobby Braddock/Curly Putman)

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – A Tragic Obsession)

Take undying devotion to its logical extreme and it becomes a tale of lifelong fixation that ceases only upon death. Add in the country drawl of George Jones and the deliberate pace of a funeral procession, and you have the pathetic irony of “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” Although she left him all those years ago, this gentleman was unable to get over the love of his life, clinging to mementos that prolonged his hope that she’d return. He had vowed to love her till he died. On the day that she finally came to see him one last time, that vow can no longer be broken.

Listen to "He Stopped Loving Her Today" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

Try Again (1983) – Champaign (Michael Day/Rocky Maffitt/Dana Walden)

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – A Second Chance)

“Try Again” voices the regret of a man who took his woman for granted. Instead of expressing his appreciation through romantic gestures and tender moments, he told her he needed space. But her absence has exposed his foolish neglect; now he understands the intimacy for which she yearned, and he intends to apply his lesson learned. Fortunately for him, the momentary key change at the second “try” in the chorus causes the heart to swoon, increasing the chances that his overtures will be met with little resistance tonight.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

The Heart Remains A Child (1996) – Everything But The Girl

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – Stuck In Love’s Sandbox)

Tracy Thorn explores the psyche of a woman who still dreams of her ex from time to time. Although she is occasionally tempted to try and contact him, she isn’t sure that she wants to hear that he has since moved on. Instead, a part of her hopes that he is fairly miserable and misses her. Despite this selfishness, she hints that she is disappointed at how begrudgingly she accepts the idea that he might be happy, that her ego prevents her from wishing him the best. Ben Watt’s cadenced loop-based arrangement evokes a metropolitan walk among the skyscrapers downtown, where Thorn, her alto warm and soothing, can sort through her conflicted feelings. But, like a child who pouts when things don’t go her way, her heart is unable to overcome her feelings of inadequacy and rejection, her unfulfilled need to feel loved, and the likelihood that he is better off without her.

Listen to "The Heart Remains A Child" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

Kim (2000) – Eminem

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – Caught In The Grip Of A Jealous Rage a.k.a. The O.J. Syndrome)

If one gets past the bloodcurdling misogynistic violence depicted in “Kim” (which is really of the variety one would expect to see in a Wes Craven movie), what emerges is Marshall Mathers’ songwriting talent. His conversational delivery flows naturally like movie script dialogue written in rhyme, blending the distinction between rapping and speaking (well, in this case, screaming) by infusing histrionics into well-crafted meter. After cooing over his toddler daughter, Eminem resumes the abduction of his ex-wife. He murdered her new husband and his four-year old son, but is going to make it appear that she was responsible and committed suicide. All the while he rants like a lunatic, portraying both the raging assailant and his whimpering victim, avowing that if he can’t have her, he must kill her—which he ultimately does by slitting her throat. The venom with which Eminem expectorates his vituperation is enough to repulse the average listener, and even the most seasoned rap fan is apt to be a little uncomfortable. Yet, despite this graphic homicidal fantasy preserved for posterity, the rumor is that Kim and Marshall are engaged for a third time. Looks like they really want to give that “’till death do us part” vow one more shot.

Listen to "Kim" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

See also "Who Knew" (2000) - Eminem

Smile (2007) – Lily Allen

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – The Passive Vindictive)

To see an ex wallow in misery and then spurn his efforts to reconcile is probably the dream of every woman who has been cheated on. Lily Allen lives out this fantasy with the faux-reggae/ska rollick of “Smile,” her schadenfreude evident in the gleeful way her drawn out “cry-y-y,” “smi-i-ile” and “whi-i-le” plummet as if his belongings are being tossed out from a third-story window. Armed with the playfulness of Nelly Furtado, the melodic soprano of Corinne Bailey Rae, and the gumption of Gwen Stefani, Allen’s gloating comes off with enough charm to make us forget that her callousness was forged from heartache.

Listen to "Smile" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

I Confess (1982) – The English Beat

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – The Adulterer Who Knows No Contrition)

What otherwise seems like a breezy calypso on a sunny tropical island is really the account of a man who reveals his infidelity to his wife. However, rather than feeling contrition, he turns a bit vindictive. Dave Wakeling admits that this declaration of apathy is done “out of spite,” that he is indifferent to the fact that the marriage is over because it has been dead for a while. In fact, he wouldn’t even care about who he hurt with his indiscretions were it not for the fact that it will affect him (alimony, child support, loss of custody). The romanticist within him was always “searching for paradise” with new women, even though he risked ruining three lives: his, his wife’s, and, presumably, his child’s. Although he acknowledges that he was wrong for his philandering ways, he is numb to the aftermath. His confession, then, is threefold: he’s guilty of adultery, he feels no remorse, and he doesn’t care what happens next. In doing so, he neutralizes any emotional vengeance she might attempt to inflict upon him, selfish to the end.

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When You Live Life Alone (2002) – Sarah Shannon

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – The Unlikely Resignation To Table For One Reservations)

The sparse piano plinks, melodramatic strings and guileless vocals which adorn “When You Live Life Alone” brought criticism upon Sarah Shannon for exhibiting Barbra Streisand tendencies. Damn, that’s harsh. No, no. Instead, let’s entertain the notion that a woman of Sarah’s obvious charms could somehow find herself alone with no willing suitors. Once we suspend disbelief, we can indulge her tale of patiently waiting for a whirlwind romance that ends with an untimely parting and consequent somberness in solitude. Sure, the song plays like a musical adaptation of a Lifetime channel movie—I’m seeing Kelly Preston and Tim Daly, or if you want to go a little younger, maybe Chyler Leigh and Chad Michael Murray—but, so what? It’s a showcase for Shannon’s exceptional soprano, technically perfect and rich with feeling. She finds her notes and sustains them to fill the spaciousness of the uncluttered arrangement, instead of trying to abuse the opportunity with recklessly ostentatious vocal runs.

It was daring of Shannon to record a song pregnant with such pathos, having come from indie noise pop darlings Velocity Girl. And, while she may have alienated those who became detractors, others appreciate the risk she took in her willingness to expose a more sensitive Sarah in pursuit of new musical directions that stir the empathies of the tragic romantic within.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Once I Smiled (1968) – Leonard Nimoy (Charles R. Grean/Leonard Nimoy)

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – Wistfulness On Other Worlds)

A heavenly backdrop of pastoral orchestration wafts in to lay down the lilting ambiance for Spock to get sentimental. As if hearing Nimoy reminisce in his wavering baritone about a childhood romance with a golden-haired lass wasn’t rewarding enough, the fact that he co-wrote this song makes it that much more appealing. When, in describing the giddiness of love, he recalls days he “swung from trees like a monkey pup,” there’s a burst of innate joy that accompanies the reflexive guffaw. And the concise Spock narrative/croon about his resolve to never love again makes it official: all the elements of “awesome” are present and accounted for.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

See also "Amphibious Assault" (1968) - Leonard Nimoy.

It’s Too Late (1971) – Carole King

(The Cupid Chronicles: Complexions of Love – The Disillusioned And The Discarded)

Set to a gentle saunter befitting coffeehouse bohemianism, “It’s Too Late” offers a rational assessment of the realities that spell the imminent dissolution of a deflated relationship. The listlessness that hangs heavily throughout the day precedes the emptiness of night. Knowing that attempts to resurrect the romance would be futile—or at least not worth the effort—Carole King decides to call it a day with a chorus that strikes a chord of resignation. She confirms that there’s no animosity, no acrimonious parting, only a nod of gratitude as she chalks this one up to experience and moves on.

Listen to "It's Too Late" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.