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.

Listen to "Crisis King" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

See also "FBLA" (1990) – Helmet

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.

I Never Said Goodbye (1972) – Engelbert Humperdinck

Death, despondency and regret seem to be a recurring theme here at Sonic Lager, perhaps because such pain illuminates what is important in life. Engelbert Humperdinck further heightens that awareness in this sorrowful tale. He and his wife had fought the day before, she fled upset, crashed her car, and died before he could reach her hospital bedside. Now he is haunted by phantoms and the vestiges she left behind (perfume, shoes, unmade bed, shopping list, apron)—traces that serve as reminders of how inconsequential their quarrel was in the grand scheme of things. He rues the opportunity he squandered, a chance to say what would become a final farewell to her when, instead, they parted in anger. Now, the remorse will torment him until, perchance, he is finally given an opportunity to reconcile with her in death.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

I Believe I Can Fly (2004) – William Hung

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

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

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

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

Listen to "I Believe I Can Fly" and purchase from iTunes Music Store.

My Sister (1993) – The Juliana Hatfield Three

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

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

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

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

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

FBLA (1990) – Helmet

Helmet was one of the first bands to understand how to fuse a dropped-D tuning with syncopated beats in a caustic onslaught, resulting in their mind-blowing debut Strap It On. In this regard, “FBLA” assaults the ears and churns the bowels with a virulent vengeance. John Stanier assails his snare and pummels his kick drum with what sounds like a sledgehammer and a club, throwing down beats that alternately push and drag the tempo. Page Hamilton’s antagonistic growl is a perfectly affected snarl of aggression, an omen that his head is about to explode in a cathartic discharge. Hamilton’s and Peter Mengede’s guitar tone so predominantly occupy the midrange frequencies, that it sounds like the audio equivalent of crackers—dry, crunchy and brittle. Although the predominant riff is simple—your standard “great white shark-approaches-unsuspecting-victim” cue—the accomplishment is how powerful it sounds when two guitars and a bass play it in unison, utilizing abrupt rests to build tension, then jolting the detritus out of the lacuna. Guitars screech and flutter intermittently like taloned birds of prey in attack mode. Hamilton’s punctuated barks culminate in a sonic thrashing on the pavement, exorcising a pertinacious demon. The instrumental bridge is a weltering behemoth steamrolling its way to a predator’s feast—the churn and turmoil of abrasive guitars scything a path through the jungles of Lost. A strident guitar “solo” slices through the din with a caterwaul like a Chimera heralding Armageddon, convulsing until violent riffing repeatedly throws uppercuts and right hooks to finish it off.

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

See also "Crisis King" (1997) – Helmet