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.

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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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.

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Born With It (1996) – Steve Azar and Brett Favre (Steve Azar/McNeel, K./Kim Venable)

Yes, that Brett Favre. This ain’t no Super Bowl Shuffle, though. Recorded before he won his Super Bowl ring, the bluesy country-rock of “Born With It” would be equally effective in a commercial endorsing Chevy Trucks, Coors Light, Musk Fragrance or Herbal Essence Shampoo. This is kick off your boots, fling your Stetson, grab your girl and jump on the sin wagon music. The Mississippi born and bred Favre is a natural fit for the genre. He carries a tune just fine with a southern twang and country whine, and is not asked to do too much here. An up-and-coming artist at the time, Steve Azar handles the slight majority of the vocals on this ode to a beguiling gal who possess that inherent je ne sais quoi which inspires truckers, construction workers and cowboys to get up off the couch, forgo the game, and take up ballroom dancing, soak in an art show, partake of fine French cuisine, or attend the theatre. Or, maybe she’s just a glorified tramp who enjoys making ‘em horny.

More than simply just a novelty recording, “Born With It” celebrates a time when a one-off such as this was Favre’s fanfare, the NFL’s only three-time league MVP reveling in the height of his popularity, rather than the croaking swan song of an also-ran athlete.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Father To Son (1985) – The Alarm

(Part One of the Damned If You Work and Damned If You Don’t hexology)

Mike Peters portrays the angst of a teenager whose father expects him to find a sensible job, perhaps in the steel mill that paid the family’s living wage for so many years. The boy refuses to accept the same dead-end routine that eviscerated his father’s spirit. Instead, with dreams of making a name for himself, he plans to move to the big city. However, his family expects him to provide financial support, especially in light of his father’s impending retirement and the dire state of the economy. Impetuously, the boy leaves town against his father’s wishes for the auspicious embrace of metropolis. Once there, he finds his opportunities meager; his future, less than stellar. So, he heads elsewhere. This soon becomes a pattern of pavement-pounding futility and itinerate frustration. Realizing that his aspirations of fame and fortune were overambitious, he’s now desperate to find anything that would approximate even the modest standard of living to which he was accustomed back home. With Dave Sharp’s restless guitar protesting in the right channel, and a piano/bass-heavy march that would do Madness proud, “Father To Son” soberly cautions risk-takers that the old adage, “You can do anything if you put your mind to it,” sometimes proves to be the stuff of old wives’ tales.

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Chemicals React (2006) – Aly and AJ

One might be quick to dismiss any musical offering by Disney-songstress sisters Aly and AJ Michalka as teeny-bopper fluff. However, one would be careless in doing so. “Chemicals React” is the song that has been hinted at for quite some time now by the likes of Kelly Clarkson and Avril Lavigne. But this blows away anything Clarkson or Lavigne has offered in terms of emotional impact. “Chemicals” is superior in terms of lyrics, musicality and structure: the guitars here ring sweeter and buzz heavier, the hook kicks harder and the melody resonates deeper, the words speak poetically and more convincingly, and the dynamic arrangement impels to the verge of wooziness this burst of energy that savors the disorienting thrill of a new romance. Consequently, the apparent pitch-correction slathered on their voices can be forgiven. And if you can admit you like “Since U Been Gone,” then why discriminate against these Cow Belles?

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Thank You For The Music (1978) – ABBA

In the tradition of Barry Manilow’s “I Write The Songs” and Yes’ “Our Song,” “Thank You For The Music” relishes the performer’s perspective, celebrating the power of music to transform the entertainer and enhance one’s joie de vivre. Although Agnetha Fältskogat’s sentiments are at times silly and self-absorbed, “Thank You For The Music” regales as it builds from a reflective stroll across a stage to a vaudevillian chorus line. Playful figures of upright piano meander and gallivant throughout like marionettes, while mandolin trills and vivid keyboards grace a chorus built around a chord progression composed equally of melancholy and gratitude, mirroring the realization that music is the sine qua non of life, such that to be without it is truly an impoverished existence.

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See also "Dancing Queen" (1978) – ABBA.

Sister Ann (1993) – Aztec Camera

1983’s High Land, Hard Rain is regarded as Aztec Camera’s best album; unfortunately for singer/songwriter Roddy Frame, each successive Aztec Camera release has failed to meet the standard set by that debut. However, while 1993’s Dreamland certainly can be criticized for its lush production, it is actually a virtue. For, with the aid of studio enhancements, Frame’s voice comforts as it resonates richly within a pristinely-recorded diorama of deliberate guitar, round bass, mollifying female vocal supplements, willowy keyboards, Hammond organ, pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, blue diamonds, green clovers and crisp drums.

“Sister Ann” portrays the thoughts of an adult survivor of child abuse who still struggles to overcome the scars that remain. He is learning how to heal the psychological wounds inflicted upon him as a child, and ameliorate the pain, through forgiveness, which allows him to see through the hostility he once feared in an abusive parent. However, he still shies away from intimacy, still feels unworthy of being loved. He finds encouragement in the words of a sagacious friend, Sister Ann, who advises him to heal at his own pace so that his recovery is absolute. [According to Killermontstreet.com, Sister Ann Adams, a friend of Frame’s, wrote a book to help those who were abused as children.]

Frame’s honeyed voice soars in a sonorous blend of blue-eyed soulfulness and compassionate grace, winging inspired notes over anodyne chord transitions that soothe the psyche, purging shame from consciousness as a spirit once shattered is restored to a state of wholeness.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Lovecats (2005) - Paul Anka (Robert Smith)

There’s no dearth of pshaws, smirks and sniggers when mention is made of Rock Swings, Mr. Anka’s cover album of ‘80s and ‘90s hits. And, on paper, it seems as though said album is primed to outright embarrass this old-timer into self-inflicted irrelevance save for standards re-treads (something Rod Stewart has recognized and seen fit to exploit to generous commercial advantage). Yet, Anka’s renditions are surprisingly credible. Sure, there are moments when one realizes the ludicrous incongruity of listening to someone who had hits with such sensitive-guy fluff as “Put Your Head On My Shoulder” and “Puppy Love” belting out “Smells Like Teen Spirit” or “Eye of the Tiger” to a big band swing. Yet, those moments rarely surface and never stultify. Indeed, this tin-pan alley frolic by The Cure is unapologetically frivolous to begin with. In choosing to cover this song, Anka was either daft or cunning and, in either case, intrepid. Arranger Randy Kerber’s adaptation from the jazz-boogie shuffle of the original to balmy dinner-music sashay is unimpeachable, transcending the original’s campiness to radiate a dignified elegance. Anka isn’t self-conscious about the silly lyrics, either. Instead, he wears them like a mink coat, displaying them with a suave croon that exudes seduction. There hasn’t been a convergence of aged and alternative this chic since Tom Jones and The Art Of Noise teamed up in 1988 to cover Prince’s “Kiss” to similar effect.

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Picasso Visita El Planeta De Los Simios (1981) – Adam and The Ants

A successful entertainer may live a privileged life, but perhaps also a compromised one. Armed with an agenda of animadversion, Adam Ant née Stuart Goddard bemoans the epidemic of high art capitulating to crass commercialism—the artist who sells out in order to achieve fame and fortune at the expense of integrity. Although he disparages Pablo Picasso, the renowned Spanish painter, Adam targets the perils of the lucrative music industry in which he views the goal of popularity as a vacuous pursuit, and obscurity as a virtue. Adam spews invective toward parasitic executives who deal in exploitation, and the artist who compromises his vision to sell his product, a blanched commodity. Scruples have become obsolete, and society has lost the capacity to discern the divine from the dross—the angels recline in idle stagnation for want of being called upon, or perhaps they have been derelict in their duties as guardians of all that is good and right. Adam likens the moral decay inherent in pandering to an unsophisticated audience to be as vulgar as “watch[ing] Picasso visit The Planet of The Apes”—a civilization where primitive humans are incapable of appreciating Picasso’s genius, such that it is effectively rendered null.

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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.

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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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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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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Dancing Queen (1976) – ABBA

It’s difficult to comprehend how a disco song with such trivial lyrics can be so splendid. The key lies in its dynamic melodies, chord progressions and vocal harmonies, which are artfully symphonized to create mood changes that parallel the lyrics. The verse is a carefree jaunt in search of a discotheque, momentarily sober in need of a dance fix, swelling into a chorus of liberation where mirrored discoballs cast light upon a teen habitué dancing, jiving, time of her life(ing). The dulcet voices of Agnetha Fältskog and Anni-Frid “Frida” Lyngstad are two of the purest pop music has ever known. The uncanny similarity in timbre infuses their vocals with the spacious warmth of dual-tracking when they sing in unison, and their slightly discernable Swedish accents enhance the appeal. Their command of harmonic interplay is showcased as their voices diverge into ascending and descending melodies in the chorus, which—by the way—contains the most gratifying “ooh ooooooh” in pop history. Seriously. That melismatic“ooh ooooooh” is pop music at its best—indulging visceral desires without regard for cerebral deficiencies.

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See also "Thank You For The Music" (1978) – ABBA