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.

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

I’ll Take Anything (1990) – Blake Babies

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

Ennui and inertia are on the day’s agenda for Juliana Hatfield as she surveys the stagnation that has become her lifestyle. Disheveled and down to the last dollar her parents sent earlier in the month, she thinks a lot about getting up off her duff to look for a job, but soap operas, sulking and sleep are currently much more inviting. While she professes a growing desperation, she still practices slothfulness. Those days not long ago when she had ambition were days she knew she was destined for greater things than her friends and family could even imagine. But now she hides her head under the covers of John Strohm’s blankets of ringing guitar, springing an array of buoyant full-toned notes that reveal Hatfield’s underrated sensibilities as a bassist. Freda Love’s pounding floor toms are a throbbing hangover headache; her tumbling drum fills, an inelegant stumble out of bed. Eventually, Strohm attempts to perk up the pity party with a solo of the variety that inspires an afternoon drive to clear one’s head. Together, the trio concoct just enough of a palliative to stave off the doldrums for another day.

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Just Because It’s Dying (2002) – Jenny Toomey with Franklin Bruno

(Part Two of the From Matrimony To Alimony trilogy)

Along with Stephen Merritt, Franklin Bruno is one of the modern-day American songwriters who excels in vivid metaphors and clever wordplay that appease the intellect. His colleague and occasional collaborator, Jenny Toomey (of Tsunami/Grenadine/Liquorice/Simple Machines/Slack/Geek/solo fame), undertook to record renditions of twelve old and new Bruno compositions. One of the highlights of this association, “Just Because It’s Dying” (from Bruno’s 2000 release Kiss Without Makeup) offers encouragement to those who have lost the passion in their relationship and are on the fence as to whether it’s time to cut ties.

When the heat of July just gets you more sweaty than steamy, it’s time to rediscover the sparks that once flew: “When you see the fireworks fizzle / hit the lake, and start to sizzle / don’t you wish for one last missile / to illuminate the sky? / So do I.” Depicting love as tangible, Bruno appeals to the rational side of the debate that promotes salvaging over scrapping, knowing that rash decisions grounded in emotion are more likely to be erroneous ones. Toomey sings with empathetic compassion, backed by Bruno himself, former-Tsunami member Amy Domingues, and members of Calexico, who lay down a blanket of sauntering acoustic chamber pop. Aside from their lyrical wit, Bruno’s songs cast memorable melodic hooks as well: Toomey’s swooning inflection (“do you?” and “to you”) bait the heart, while tender moments of gently nudged melody in the transitional refrain reel it in. Once landed, Bruno’s not inclined to throw it back just yet.

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John Riley and the Housewives Who Love Him (2003) – Baskervilles

(Part Three of the From Matrimony To Alimony trilogy)

In “John Riley and the Housewives Who Love Him,” Baskervilles don their Belle & Sebastian cap, as singer/guitarist Rob Keith pouts sardonically to the strains of haunting chamber pop. Notably, Craig Van Orsdale’s sweetly sibilant hi-hats and richly pinging ride cymbal sparkle in exceptionally recorded brilliance. Anti-climactic one-two jabs of guitar and tom-tom punctuation following the refrain reflect the songs theme of unmet expectations. Keith depicts John Riley as a Hugh Grant-type that women daydream about and men resent, waiting for him to slip up so that the tabloids can humiliate him. Keith reduces Riley’s accomplishments to how many gossip rags he moves at the checkout stand. But, Riley’s true appeal lies in providing a daily diversion for women who live vicariously through his publicized affairs as they sleepwalk through stale marriages. Keyboardist/violinist/vocalist Stephanie Finucane chimes in to explain women’s idolization of John: “Reading about him beats the doldrums that set in / Glad we’re not alone even though romance has gone,” to which Keith retorts sarcastically on behalf of their husbands: “That’s right. I mean, why work hard / when it’s ‘til death do we part? / Our love life can’t compare to John’s.” Although men may teem with cynicism and sarcasm, the irony is that, quite possibly, they covet as much as they contemn.

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Bag Lady (2000) – Erykah Badu

With deadpan metaphorical quips, Erykah Badu chides women who haul so much emotional baggage around that they are doomed to perpetuate a vicious cycle of overbearing co-dependency that drives men away. Badu uses hobo imagery and street dialect to signify the morass of an emotional ghetto that traps in self-defeating insecurity, bereft of hope for personal advancement unless a woman first gets things right within herself. Highlighted by the classic signature of Fender Rhodes panning suitcase vibrato, the arrangement is primarily bolstered by brawny 5-string bass, sinuous blaxploitation guitar, syncopated bongos taps, and military snare rudiments. Although she acknowledges that the root of the problem lies in past betrayals, Badu encourages her sisters to ditch the bags, abandon the shopping cart, and escape the housing projects of the heart.

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Someplace (But Not This Place) (Window Gardens Remix) (2001) – Brittle Stars

(Part Three of the Gorgeousness and Gloom tetralogy)

Despite her hints that she’s close to calling off the relationship, she’s still not taken seriously. So vocalist Estelle sighs wearily about being patronized: “But you said ‘Sleep on this’ / That’s what my dad would say.” She knows the nagging discomfiture portends unhappiness. While the original version lulls in its simply stated sedateness, the Window Gardens Remix restores the lush elegance implicit in the original by adding astral synthesized strings and chiming guitar, pushing the band further back in the mix, and increasing the reverb while clarifying the vocals—treatments that enhance the disconsolate beauty of an inevitable adieu.

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Looking For The Perfect Beat (1983) – Afrika Bambaataa & The Soul Sonic Force

In 1982-83, Afrika Bambaataa, The Soul Sonic Force, Arthur Baker and John Robie stood near the pinnacle of artistic achievement. If “Planet Rock” was the paradigm by which they had set the standard for the future of hip-hop, “Looking For The Perfect Beat” was their masterpiece—a paragon built upon the desideratum of beat innovation. Its taut kick drum raps patterns in rolling succession, introducing distinct passages throughout with different permutations of the perfect beat theorem, as well as alterations in the variables of timbre, tension, tone, reverb, stereo placement and stuttering panning. Whereas The Soul Sonic Force emceed “Planet Rock” to acclaim with their party-inciting persiflage, “Perfect Beat” dazzles due to its intricate yet propulsive beats, galvanic programming and dynamic arrangement. Here, The Force promote the concoction like traveling medicine show charlatans peddling their aural elixir: “It’s working!” Unlike with most sales puffery, however, believe the ballyhoo.

To substantiate the bold claims, a dizzying spiral of concatenated plinking skitters upward in carbonated effervescence on rungs of programmed handclaps; snares resound in explosive thwacks, and then tight, crisp cracks; synthesizers stab with succulent pink noise warmth, spring in nimble staccato dabs, drop burrowing clusters of bass; ersatz scratching zips about in synthetic sterility; cyborgian syllabic gurgles orbit in the sonicsphere; clinking metallic hi-hats pitter, programmed percussion patters, electro-rototoms fulminate. In the nucleus of this synergy, The Force issues a “BEAT THIS!” drumline challenge before Baker and Robie throw down their neoteric marching cadence that continues to resonate in the Bonus Beats II and Instrumental version, which are more than mere appendages: rather than rehash the track sans vocals, they recast the quest, bringing into focus the nuances of this crusade. The former features the skeletal percussive elements upon which the proposition was developed (including a brief nod to “Planet Rock”), while the latter celebrates the achievement by reconfiguring its components, culminating in a panoply of recognizable world anthems that collapse to the sounds of nuclear warfare (about which Bambaataa would later rant alongside John “Johnny Rotten” Lydon in 1984’s “World Destruction”). Shortly, the coalition will reconvene to reinvent the elusive ideal that drives them to “keep looking, searching, seeking, finding. . . .” As “Perfect Beat” attests, the reward is in the going.

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See also "Planet Rock" (1982) – Afrika Bambaataa & The Soul Sonic Force.

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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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.

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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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.

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

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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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.

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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The Metro (1982) – Berlin

“The Metro” showcases an arresting arrangement of synthesizers which cast an austere backdrop to Terri Nunn’s recollection of an erstwhile dissolution of a Parisian romance. Dual synthesizer lines simultaneously pulsate in a nimble sequence that pogos atop seven unique notes per measure, continually propelling the song’s momentum, yet maintaining a sense of apprehension. A tight drum machine, synthetic handclaps, and metallic hi-hats denote the hurried pace of rail transit. While the tale of a woman scorned in London is not remarkable in and of itself, the array of vivid and varied tones leaves a distinct impression of wartime and police sirens; time elapses in cascades and droplets of synthesizer. Nunn’s vocals are frigid in the verse, acrimonious in the chorus. Although the break-up occurred long ago, she remains emotionally imbued with pain. Her recital of very specific details of that episode discloses her preoccupation still: white clothing, dour weather, walks along the Seine River, hollow words. She imbibes to numb the bitterness, and ends up shattering her glass in indignation. A piercing sawtooth-wave synth washes in like the tide encircling Mont Saint Michel, as a slow filter sweeps across to add slight dynamics to the solo with shades of the Soviet Bloc. As the song comes to a close, a siren—complete with Doppler Effect—pans across the listening field. Perhaps a vial emptied of its sleeping pills lies next to the shards of broken glass.

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War Pigs (1971) – Black Sabbath

As with Leonard Nimoy’s “Amphibious Assault,” “War Pigs” is an anti-Vietnam War statement that translates well to the present-day war in Iraq. A blues vamp finds a soldier staggering across a battlefield strewn with fresh corpses, wartime sirens blaring. Suddenly, power chords, bass, and drums detonate intermittently. Ozzy Osbourne, his youthful voice infused with condemnation, likens generals to witches and military leaders to sorcerers, who invoke black magic to unleash death and destruction. Guitar and bass chug out a lumbering rhythm, as if armies forge ahead toward their mutual annihilation. Bill Ward’s drum fills scatter in a volley of gunfire and flying shrapnel. Ozzy reprehends the heads of government, and he could just as well be speaking of the Bush administration (in a gripe vehemently spewed 34 years later in System of A Down’s “BYOB”), accusing them of sending the poor to die in senseless wars. Finally, the Apocalypse is nigh, Satan has his day, and the world leaders responsible for the global bloodshed face unfavorable Judgment.

While Christian fundamentalists would denounce Black Sabbath as satanic, it takes only a cursory read to realize that “War Pigs” is anti-war, warning of doom and reprobation, criticizing government for casually tossing away the lives of soldiers. Ironic, then, that the Religious Right would endorse the re-election of a hawkish George W.

Version not available from iTunes Music Store.

If (1971) – Bread

In the same year that Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” was released, “If” also managed an end-of-the-world reference. Atop gentle arpeggios emanating from an acoustic guitar, the watery signature of a tremolo-wah radiates like ripples in the space-time continuum: probes launched to scout uncharted regions. In this pensive declaration of love, David Gates eschews frivolous notions of birds chirping, head-in-the-clouds giddiness, and hearts all aflutter. Instead, he wistfully conjures seemingly inapposite allusions to depression, astral projection, and the Universe’s demise. By the time the bass and strings emerge, the listener is left weightless in the gravity of such devotion.

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Planet Rock (1982) – Afrika Bambaataa & The Soul Sonic Force

The festivities begin with Afrika Bambaataa inciting the party from what sounds like the inside of a metal garbage can. (Reverb turned to about ½?) He then abdicates the mic to the Soul. Sonic. Force . . . who assume their M.C. duties in a waggish powwow. Most impressive about this jam is that—despite its sparse arrangement of Roland TR-808 and bass synth, with an occasional cyborg voice, orchestral synth or space effect sprinkled in—it is the most influential composition in hip-hop, melding electronic programming, recognizable synth hooks and zingy rapping with the stark atmospheric vacuum of space. Perhaps its simplicity rouses the primal urge to get loose. Much of its appeal can be attributed to the fact that it sounds like music emanating from a nightclub on the rings of Saturn, but equal credit goes to producer Arthur Baker and musician John Robie for devising this cosmic opus. The Bonus Beats and Instrumental version are just as essential, showcasing the beat in its minimalism, closing out the event with robotic “shout-outs” to various cities.

This, THE seminal electro-funk jam, owes an unpayable debt to Kraftwerk. While it has been well-documented that “Planet Rock” features the synth refrain from Kraftwerk’s “Trans Europe Express,” less attention has been paid to the fact that it utilized the exact same beat from Kraftwerk’s “Numbers”—including a variation of the stuttering triplet hi-hat pattern that clasps and releases—as well as finding inspiration for the “ichi, ni, san, shi” call-and-response. Said beat was copied so much in ‘80s electro-funk/hip-hop via “Planet Rock” that Kraftwerk should have made a fortune on publishing.

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See also "Looking For The Perfect Beat" (1983) – Afrika Bambaataa & The Soul Sonic Force