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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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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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.”

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Synchronicity II (1983) – The Police

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

Beginning with the interminable racket he endures every morning at the breakfast table before trudging off to the job he loathes, Daddy is teetering on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He’s grown numb to the nerve-racking discord that permeates his day—at home, during his commute, at the office. Nowadays, even the comely secretaries no longer stimulate his prurient interest, his desires having long ago been squashed by the periodic degradation he suffers at the whim of his domineering boss.

In this tale of foreboding, Sting’s impassioned vocals peal over his solid no-frills bass fortification; Andy Summers campaigns the consciousness with economical guitar phrases; Stewart Copeland cracks his snare and beats his kick drum with authoritative aggression, his crispy hi-hats and pinging ride cymbals punctuating the air like efficient stenographers.

Having reached his breaking point, Daddy returns home with a migraine and a surly disposition. Meanwhile, the Loch Ness Monster (hey, Sting’s idea, not mine), which has slowly been surfacing from its lake in Scotland, emerges upon the shore, about to reveal itself to the world, symbolic of the major paradigm shift that is about to transpire in synchronicity. Beginning tonight, Daddy’s dominion and Nessie’s existence will no longer be subject to debate.

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(Marie’s The Name) His Latest Flame (1961) – Elvis Presley (Doc Pomus/Mort Shuman)

“His Latest Flame” finds Elvis burned by the bane of every small town’s quasi-incestuous circle of acquaintances who recycle partners amongst themselves. (And, as evidenced on The Smiths’ Rank, it segues quite seamlessly into “Rusholme Ruffians.”) The bustling beat, the catchy melody, the words of congratulation—all belie his envious heartache as he attempts to keep a brave face despite learning that a former love has recently hooked up with an old friend. There’s a palpable sense of loss and resignation in his voice; he remembers the goodness of what once was his to enjoy.

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Tonight You Belong To Me (1956) – Patience and Prudence

Immortalized by the ukulele-toting Steve Martin and cornet-wielding Bernadette Peters in The Jerk, “Tonight You Belong To Me” was a #4 hit for Patience and Prudence McIntyre. They were only 10 and 13 when they recorded this jaunty promenade about a romance that exists only in one’s dreams, making it as creepy as it is endearing, especially given that it sounds like the Lolitaesque siren song of a pair of Talking Tinas. Yet, endearing it is, with its irresistibly precious ambulatory two-part vocal harmonies that, like The Jackson 5’s “I’ll Be There,” make you forget the singers are probably without the benefit of life experience to inform their melodic musings.

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Out Walking (2003) – Britta Phillips and Dean Wareham

(Part Four of the Gorgeousness and Gloom tetralogy)

Yes, she provided the singing voice of Jem, served as singer for Belltower, co-starred with Julia Roberts and Justine Bateman in Satisfaction, and became Luna’s foxiest bassist. But, whatever Britta Phillips did up until the day she recorded “Out Walking” pales in comparison. For, on that day, she approached ne plus ultra.

Phillips’ sensual, aching purr drifts in a narcotic aura of disorienting beauty, wafting in slow oscillatory gradations between melodic zeniths and nadirs with the cigarette-distressed beguilement of a femme fatale. She describes a couple’s weary apathy—his rote, her remove. On occasion, however, their romance sporadically awakens in sparks of rejuvenation, as when an old song brings those feelings flooding back.

Spectral reverb and toasty compression envelope Phillips’ breathy emissions that wash over a substratum of Mellotron string drones, roundwound bass string heft (both courtesy of famed David Bowie producer Toni Visconti), and pendulating drum lethargy. Fellow Luna bandmate/leader Dean Wareham loiters off to the side, sparingly dispensing subtle thrums of guitar. Gliding on a draft of Mellotron flute, tintinnabulating sleighbells, and morsels of vibraphone, the instrumental break captures the enchanting otherworldliness of a winter evening in Reykjavík. Britta winds up by recalling her quondam life as the person she was referring to, at one point finessing the word “from” with such absolutely gorgeous expressiveness that it triggers shivers of synaptic bliss, suffusing the being with holistic euphoria.

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We’re On Drugs (2005) – Pitty Sing

As a polished production with cinematic scope and gestures of grandeur, “We’re On Drugs” arrives fashionably late as the track that was left off of 1986’s Pretty In Pink soundtrack. Instead of merely emulating a genre from the past, however, Pitty Sing transcend the recent eighties post-punk/alternawave revival by eschewing superficial similarities and blatant derivative references. Instead, they channel the essence and sensibilities of that era—the earnest expressions of adoration—unashamed to gush sentimental. Singer Paul Holmes’ vocal similarity to Jim Kerr, the synchronous Yamaha DX7 keyboard tings/“da da da da da da da da”s, and the sweeping string arrangements recall Simple Minds’ “Alive and Kicking.” Andrew Puricelli’s fluctuating bassline refuses to sit still, wandering around the chord in the ambulant style of The Smiths’ Andy Rourke. Whether it’s the bold obstruent and sonorant respirations Holmes suspires, or the narcotic drawl with which he oozes his brand of romanticism, “Drugs” sedates as it misleads. So as to be distinguished from mere ‘80s re-treads, what began as fond enchantment digresses with a demented twist: “And then it comes / when it feels like we’re in love / and they’ve covered us in blood / just remember we’re on drugs.”

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The Holy River (1996) – Prince

Prince’s body of work has always reflected a constant struggle between prurience and piety. “The Holy River” attempts to resolve his Madonna-whore complex, deploring a void in life, self-loathing, and promiscuity, before a moment of religious revelation. Despite the second person narrative, Prince eventually reveals that this is a testimonial: a renunciation of a former life, culminating in matrimonial commitment. Inspired by his spiritual awakening and cleansing, he rips into a jubilant guitar solo that celebrates his redemption, a baptism in the Holy River.

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Far From An Answer (2000) – Papas Fritas

Attired in the easy lollop of ‘70s soft rock and early ‘80s FM-lite, yet infused with introspection, “Far From An Answer” roams the realm between Fleetwood Mac and The Alan Parsons Project with aching weariness. In issuing a caveat, Shivika Asthana’s unaffected voice distills a guileless sincerity that aims to disenchant the object of her flirtations, who is only setting himself up for utter disappointment. She is emotionally unavailable, unable to offer a commitment of any substance, making a full disclosure in the interests of disclaiming accountability. Yet, like a grifter falling for her mark, she finds herself strangely losing control of her ability to separate pastime from passion. She realizes that the tables have turned—it’s he who will move on, she who will feel a sense of loss.

Subtly abetted by hints of Fender Rhodes electric piano, feint stabs of organ and traces of dreamy wah-pedal guitar, Asthana’s pleasingly opiate vocals wend over a chord progression evocative of a late-night radio station wind-down, nursing a bottle of cognac beneath dimmed lights, unveiling different layers of emotion with each sip. Bongo drums softly lope off to the side, sprucing up a quasi-disco shuffle anchored by dollops of bass on the downbeat that morph into slippery bobbing and an R&B stomp. An understated guitar solo bides some time on loan from Bread. Shivika “la la la la la”s in nonchalance, accompanying herself in a call-and-response of warnings heretofore dispensed to others that are now hers to heed. What began as diversion has devolved into desire. Her newfound quandary leaves her stranded, with an answer anything but clear.

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It’s One Of Those Nights (Yes Love) (1971) – David Cassidy/The Partridge Family (Tony Romeo)

Saccharine, sappy, schmaltzy—“It’s One Of Those Nights” is thus fairly described. Yet, to deny its callow charm is to deny that the pangs of adolescent longing ever meant anything. Fresh off the cover of Tiger Beat magazine, ‘70s teen idol David Cassidy languishes away another lonely evening in the solitude of his room, pining. A glee club coos background vocals as he flounders in reveries that pack an emotional wallop, cause him to nod in wishful thinking and embolden his stalker tendencies. Entertaining silly soliloquies, Cassidy vacillates in droll and wacky self-deliberation. In tender sighs, Cassidy typifies the obsessive yearnings of a sympathetic hobbledehoy—pathetic enough to deserve pity, yet painfully familiar so as to elicit a wince of recognition.

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Welcome To The Terrordome (1990) – Public Enemy

The cornerstone of 1990’s Fear Of A Black Planet, “Welcome To The Terrordome” is a barrage of confrontation interspersed with an assortment of samples, creating a state of constant agitation. Chuck D’s voice is authoritative in its delivery, urgent in its protests, defiant in its denouncements. His vocal flow employs subtle shifts in meter to manipulate verses across measures in a stream-of-consciousness purge.

In the wake of his group’s controversial dismissal of, and ambiguous dissociation from, Professor Griff following his homophobic and anti-Semitic remarks, “Terrordome” is Chuck D’s forum to vent. He is brazen in his thinly veiled rebuke of Judaism, and chastises those who failed to back him during the Griff controversy, resorting to the hyperbole of race betrayal. To vindicate his aggression, he invokes the (then recent) 1989 racially-infused slaying in Bensonhurst and 1989 riot at Greekfest in Virginia Beach. To his credit, he promotes intellectual counterstrikes instead of physical retribution in the “intellectual Vietnam.”

Chuck D has a few bones to pick. Whether one agrees with his rhetoric or not, the listener is compelled to lend him an ear.

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