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.

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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.

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If I Had Only Known (1991) – Reba McEntire (Jana Stanfield/Craig Morris)

Consider a day when someone you love perishes suddenly: no prolonged illness or suffering, no death bed farewell, not even a coma or life support limbo—just snatched from your life. Then, imagine that you were given a chance to go back to the day before their passing to say goodbye. Reflect upon what you would share with this person, their qualities and traits you would remember as a lasting impression, the place you would want to spend your final moments together. Yes, it’s heart-rending to think about. Amazing then is the fact that, indulging this notion, Reba McEntire was able to record without a crack in her voice this ballad in memory of eight members of her musical family who died in a plane crash earlier that year. (Hey, Michael Jackson couldn’t even keep it together for “She’s Out Of My Life,” and, knowing what we know now, he probably wasn’t even all that sad about it.)

With her feelings of regret laid bare, Reba’s grace in bereavement reminds us that the opportunities to cherish those in our lives are too often opportunities squandered, chancing inevitable regret.

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A New England (Extended Version) (1984) – Kirsty MacColl (Billy Bragg)

In the ‘80s, the best remixes and extended versions transcended the original mixes not merely by prolonging their duration, but by stripping them down to their compositional rudiments, illuminating something that was previously buried beneath the mix, introducing adscititious elements that furthered the song’s spirit, recasting the components in an arrangement that emerged metamorphosed to reward the listener with a new musical perspective. New Order’s Extended Version of “The Perfect Kiss,” Walter Turbitt’s Mystery Mix of Big Country’s “The Teacher,” and Julian Mendelssohn’s The Full Horror mix of Pet Shop Boys’ “Suburbia” are but a few which exemplify this ideal. Arguably at the top of the list are Shep Pettibone’s Extended Dance Remix of New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle,” and Steve Lillywhite’s Extended Version of his late former wife Kirsty MacColl’s “A New England.” So richly does Lillywhite’s re-imagining reverberate in the sensibilities of astute reconfiguration, that it seems apropos to consider the evolution of the song from Billy Bragg composition to MacColl cover to Lillywhite remix in order to understand the value added.

Bragg’s words betray a crisis at the cusp of adulthood that finds him at once defensive about his stagnancy and pitiable in his disappointments. To cope with his loneliness, he tries to debase the girl least likely to love him by recasting her as the university harlot he graciously dismisses. He ambivalently mulls over the letters he occasionally receives from her, like paltry consolation prizes. Still, he wonders why, amidst his desperation to move forward, what little he desires continues to elude him: he’s not seeking sweeping social or political change, he just wants to find someone to take his mind off of her.

Whereas Bragg underscores his desolation with the accompaniment of a lone hollowbody electric guitar, MacColl proclaims her bitterness amid a full-fledged kinetic arrangement. Bragg penned additional lyrics specifically for MacColl, as caustic as they are clever. MacColl becomes Bragg’s counterpart—the girl who haunts him, yet who is unable to rid herself of the vestiges of their erstwhile relationship. One is free to choose the protagonist with whom to empathize in this bifurcated saga.

In turn, Lillywhite’s reworking salvages Bragg’s despair and MacColl’s resentment, restoring them to triumphant effect. The programmed drum patterns pound more resolutely, as if in defiance of the radio-friendly limits imposed by a 7” slab of vinyl. Generously lavished reverb carries the dilatant momentum of regal guitars and MacColl’s canorous multi-part vocals across the sonic expanse. The frenetic digital-delayed guitar riff camouflaged in the single mix now flutters briskly in the spotlight over stepping stones of gritty bass flouncing like henchmen with an agenda, eventually yielding to a ringing tapestry of meticulously-picked Marresque Rickenbacker jangle. Previously unused and latent vocal harmonies are given new life apart from the main vocal melody, pleasantly revealing untapped complexions. The expanded instrumental break evokes a springtime Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, complete with joyous puffs of panpipe. For all its inherent dissatisfaction and drama, the song becomes an affair more celebratory than sour.

Although lasting nearly 8 minutes, rather than overextending itself, Lillywhite’s treatment leaves the impression that the single version was in a hurry, anxious to find direction in a course of uncertainty. Given time to explore, “A New England” discovers in its protracted form where it means to go.

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Acoustic Guitar (1999) – The Magnetic Fields

Quite simply one of the most clever songs ever written, “Acoustic Guitar” personifies said instrument, imploring it to “bring me back my girl,” alternating between bribery, wheedling, and threats. In between, the song ascribes virtues to the guitar, while acknowledging personal shortcomings, and humorously recalling the ex’s idiosyncrasies.

To the uninitiated listener, the song is either a tender gender bender or lesbian lament due to Claudia Gonson’s reference to her girl. It’s even more endearing, however, when one realizes that a man wrote this song, as if he is hiding behind a female voice and a guitar to further distance himself from his inadequacies. Yet, in another twist, songwriter Stephen Merritt is gay. The genius, then, is that the song succeeds despite the fact that, in order to personally relate, most listeners will impute to it characteristics which it possesses neither in form, nor in substance—the perspective of a straight male.

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One (1988) – Metallica

As depicted in the music video which included clips from a 1971 film, Johnny Got His Gun, “One” voices the suffering of a life-form that barely exists as a casualty of war: blind, deaf, mute—a stump of flesh with no limbs who sports a Chinese take-out box-like device to cover his nonexistent face. His—its—sensorial reality is nothingness. There is a black void, an interminable solitude, a spiritual abyss until he dies, perhaps many years from now. Although he wishes to suffocate himself, even respiration is beyond his control as a life support machine and feeding tubes inflict their daily sentence of torture upon him. In this hell, nothing or no one on earth can ever matter to him again. Why did he survive the landmine explosion? Why didn’t they have mercy on him when they found him severely mutilated in the fields? And, in sustaining his life, why do they continue to torment this piece of meat that lies before them, which can serve no purpose other than to rot slowly into a willing corpse?

James Hetfield bewails and snarls anguished grievances. Pure electric and acoustic guitars interweave their lament for this wretched mass by commemorating his former vivacity in their animated articulations and classical trills. Lars Ulrich’s kick drum is mic’d to capture the distinct sound of the beater striking the head like an erratic heartbeat, while his snare snaps like shots ringing out over a battlefield. The periodic spates of Mesa-Boogie amp bombination soon rupture in a deluge of distortion, midrange scooped down to the Ninth Circle of Hell. Oddly, phase cancellation nullifies Jason Newsted’s bass, rendering it a phantom limb throbbing subliminal impulses. Hetfield’s and Kirk Hammett’s guitars gnash in crunching, chugging, searing rhythm. Ulrich’s double bass pedal rolls mimic the convulsive guitar riffing with machine gun rapidity. Hammett’s frenetic solo and volant fretboard runs careen frantically as the band thrashes toward an abrupt euthanasic termination.

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Love At First Sight (2001) – Kylie Minogue

Kylie Minogue’s voice may sound like she took a hit of helium, but it’s the listener who is left lightheaded in the gyroscopic swirl of “Love At First Sight” that flaunts frisky disco flamboyance and drastic EQ tweaking with unabashed verve like Studio 54 never closed its doors. Having discovered a musical cure for her malaise, Kylie is tingling with gratitude as she falls in love with the DJ who banished her doldrums with his savvy selections. All those weekends spent locked up in his room spinning vinyl are finally paying off.

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Oven (1989) – Melvins

In navigating lurches and lulls that defy symmetrical patterns, any band, especially its drummer, can have oodles of fun perfecting a tight rendition of this song. With its disregard of conventional song structure, “Oven” attempts to jumpstart the old pickup truck languishing in the front yard for a foray into town to engage in some tomfoolery. Like an ignition straining to turn over, Dale Crover’s drums detonate spasmodically—an engine stalling, then starting up again, only to die once more—fueled by oleaginous doom metal riffs that churn in combustion, courtesy of guitarist/vocalist Buzz Osborne and bassist Lori Black, as Osborne wails nonsensically in furtherance of the whimsical caper. Coming to an abrupt halt after a minute-and-a-half, the vehicle conks out, unable to extricate itself from the sonic sludge.

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17 Berlin (1999) – My Favorite

Amid a brash effluence of distortion, an advancing crowd marches in pandemonium to topple the Berlin wall. In a city with a history of disunion, every day is filled with toil; every evening, replete with possibilities. Songwriter extraordinaire Michael Grace bestowed upon “17 Berlin” perhaps the most economical stanza in musical history, pithily encompassing the zeitgeist of youth in three sentences: “My boyfriend’s in the stairwell. He looks just like James Dean. And nothing else matters when you’re seventeen.” Grace frames life through the perspective of a cineaste, ascribing epic drama to the mundane, infusing momentous overtones even in negative implications: “And the world won’t end tonight on a black highway lit by neon lights.” He champions the plight of privileged adolescents and blue-collar misfits alike—existences infused with ennui, all seeking deliverance from their situational torpor.

The rhythmic brunt of “17 Berlin” falls upon drummer Todbot, who sends the lot skipping along to skittering palpitations. Meanwhile, bassist Gilbert Abad sounds intervals in measured tolls to anchor the meter upon which guitarist/co-songwriter Darren Amadio lays blankets of ringing sustain in the verse and writhing constellations in the chorus that pay homage to The Sundays’ David Gavurin. Together, they fashion a sprawling panorama of pococurantism. Grace’s presence on his chef-d’oeuvre is modest; he sprinkles occasional drops of piano and background vocals, an artist-as-curator content to supervise his creation from afar, stepping in only to touch up and embellish. Vocalist Andrea Vaughn’s voice is nonpareil, radiating in empyrean resonance to pierce through the iron curtain of boredom and apathy. Grace’s aphorism is revisited once more en route to oblivion: “My boyfriend’s in the driver’s seat. He drives just like James Dean. And nothing else matters when you’re seventeen.” The blithe conceit of youth, summed up so succinctly.

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See also "You Belong With Us" (1999) – My Favorite

Buffalo Gals (1982) – Malcolm McLaren & World’s Famous Supreme Team

A quirky amalgam of square dance tradition and an emerging hip-hop movement, “Buffalo Gals” introduced scratching and sampling to the mainstream pop culture in 1982, receiving airplay alongside the likes of Hall and Oates and Foreigner (and a loose reference twenty years later in Eminem’s 2002 single “Without Me”). The fingerprints of Trevor Horn, Anne Dudley, J.J. Jeczalik and Gary Langan—future collaborators in The Art of Noise—are transparently laid throughout, while the introduction of the ironically-named World’s Famous Supreme Team—a pair of New Jersey radio DJs—bring milk crates of street cred to the shindig. Malcom McLaren, former manager of the Sex Pistols and Bow Wow Wow—and mastermind behind this enterprise—plays the part of square dance caller in a funky hoedown that intermingles country folkishness with urban edginess. A Fairlight CMI sampler spits out a throbbing gyroscopic beat, sizzling hi-hats and lumbering pachydermatous toms in a wicked brew fraught with curious soundbites and out-of-kilter keyboard bursts, flavored with malt, hops and fidgety turntables that whip, warble, flutter, scratch and stutter. The Supreme Team take a turn at the mic, spotlighted in an R&B break that hints at The Art of Noise’s later battles in the soundscape.

Finally, the world was given music for buffalo gals and hobos to promenade and do-si-do alongside B-boys bustin’ windmills, 1990’s, flares and headspins. Avant-garde in its eclecticism, “Buffalo Gals” coherently presents its patchwork in a 40 of sonic moonshine.

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

U.S. Drag (1982) – Missing Persons

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

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

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

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

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

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Ships (1979) – Barry Manilow (Ian Hunter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Stay Away From Robert Mitchum (1993) – April March

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

Not available from iTunes Music Store.

Ghosts of American Astronauts (1988) – The Mekons

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

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

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

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

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You Belong With Us (1999) – My Favorite

Andrea Vaughn was blessed with the voice of an angel; Michael Grace Jr., the pen of a sage. Together they spearheaded My Favorite, a relatively obscure yet absolutely essential band from Long Island, NY in the late ‘90s to mid ‘00s. Vaughn left My Favorite in 2005 for as yet undisclosed reasons, but it seemed almost appropriate in a tragic sense for the band to meet a precipitous demise rather than risk expiring in obsolescence. “You Belong With Us” soundtracks a pariah’s embrace of the throes of suburban alienation, where the kids are comfortably numb and the detectives have gone missing.

A gentle synthesizer arpeggio slowly drifts in the darkness alongside an erratic heartbeat of modulating filtered bleeps, as drums throb a funeral processional à la The Cure circa Pornography. A guitar softly fluctuates, holding watch in the background like lit torches flickering in the distance that obscure the faces of their bearers. A saxophone, equal parts MIDI and actual woodwind, prepares us for the ceremony. Delicate notes cascade from a piano—celestial objects capitulating to the gravitational pull of a collapsing star. Andrea beckons us, her exquisite siren song gently indicting, confessing and exhorting: “[B]ut you have only stolen your party dress / and us, our synthesizers / In these towns that despise us / tonight the stars disguise us, synchronize us . . . You belong with us. . . .” She knows nocturnal mysteries hold the power to transform and renew: “Everything old is new tonight / Everyone young is blue tonight.” Perhaps having been hoodwinked, we are persuaded to enter into the conspiracy, whatever folly may await. The distinct signature of a Zoom™ effects pedal abandons us at the rendezvous, where the syndicate proceeds to initiate us into their criminal world.

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See also "17 Berlin" (1999) – My Favorite