Throwback Thursday – Impact 89FM | WDBM-FM: Recent Episodes
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Wow, Frank Ocean, remember him? One of the biggest R&B artists of the 2010s, it’s now been 10 years since he released his last album, Blonde.
It is not an understatement to say that Blonde is one of the most influential albums of the century. This is not a review of the album or a discussion of who it inspired, artists like SZA, Daniel Caesar and Brockhampton, to name a few; rather, this article will focus on one of the most popular tracks on the album — “Self Control.”
Peaking at 15 on the Hot 100, this four-minute and nine-second song is the seventh track on Frank Ocean’s sophomore studio album.
The title “Self Control” captures the crux of the song: how a relationship falls apart when one member is too immature and lacks “Self Control.”
The track starts with singing; there is no backing track, so all we are left with is Frank’s pitched-up vocals. Frank often used this throughout the album to reflect that this is a past version of him.
He sets the scene as a poolside convo, he’s asking about this person’s summer, but really he wants to know if they’ll get together before the summer ends.
“Poolside convo about your summer last night (Ooh, yeah) /
About your summer last night /
Ain’t give you no play, mm /
Could I make you shive last night? /
Could I make you shy on the last night? (Last night) /
Could we make it in? Do we have time?”
At the end of the intro, he panics as the vocals speed up and realizes that no, they won’t get together before summer ends.
Frank’s vocals are normal now; we are back in the present as he rues over his relationship.
“I’ll be the boyfriend in your wet dreams tonight.”
This is where we see the immaturity come to the forefront. Frank has lived his life; he is mature enough to handle a relationship, but his lover only knows a relationship in terms of sex.
“Wish I was there, wish we’d grown up on the same advice /
And our time was right”.
Franks finishes the first verse, lamenting how their upbringings led them to be such disparate people. If only they had grown up in similar fashions, maybe this would’ve worked out.
“Keep a place for me, for me /
I’ll sleep between y’all, it’s nothing /
It’s nothing, it’s nothing /
Keep a place for me, for me.”
Frank’s vocals are pitched up again in the chorus. Now, we are back in the past, his feelings are fresh, and we see a shift from lamenting the end of the relationship to bargaining for anything.
He wishes for his ex-lover to keep a place for him, in his bed and in his heart. He doesn’t want what they had to be forgotten, but truly, they weren’t right for each other, which he learns as he moves on and grows up.
“Now and then, you miss it, sounds make you cry /
Some nights, you dance with tears in your eyes.”
Back in the present day, Frank talks about how, when memories of his past love come up, he gets emotional. Their “song” comes on, and he is left dancing with tears in his eyes. Frank is not only speaking on something deeply personal to him but also on something deeply relatable to the audience.
“I came to visit, ’cause you see me like a UFO /
That’s like never, ’cause I made you use your self-control /
And you made me lose my self-control, my self-control.”
Frank sings about how he still goes to visit his ex, but he knows that his ex feels like he isn’t really there. This is because they are using their self-control. He uses the song title to drive home the point that their relationship can’t work and that they need to leave each other alone.
He then repeats the chorus, his voice still pitched up, while Austin Feinstein lends his voice to support it.
“Sometimes, you’ll miss it /
And the sound will make you cry /
And some nights, you’re dancing /
With tears in your eyes.”
Frank sings the bridge, reprising lyrics from the second verse. The memories of his past love are still tender, even after he has grown so much.
“I, I, I know you gotta leave, leave, leave /
Take down some summertime /
Give up, just tonight, ‘night, ‘night /
I, I, I know you got someone comin’ /
You’re spittin’ game, know you got it”.
Here comes the emotional outro. If you take the song as the stages of grief, then Frank has finally reached acceptance. He knows that his ex has to exit his life and that they have other people.
Frank repeats “I”, “leave” and “night.” It reads like he’s trying to convince his ex that he is over it, but when you hear him sing it, you realize that, truly, he is trying to convince himself.
Has Frank convinced himself that the relationship is truly over as he repeats the outro while fading out, leaving the audience with four seconds of the backing track to make their opinion.
As fans beg and plead for Frank to drop new music, “Self Control” keeps resurfacing. As they pine for this relationship with their favorite artist that feels like it’s crumbled, the question shifts from ‘Has Frank moved on?’ to ‘Have you?’
On this day in music history — as most of my Jams of the Day tend to be — is another anniversary, notably for the self-titled debut of Gorillaz, a project between Blur’s Damon Albarn and Tank Girl co-creator Jamie Hewlett. This project, a collaboration that has lasted 25 years to date, has made Albarn and Hewlett recognizable names worldwide, most notably in America, where Blur hadn’t made as big a splash as they did in their home country.
With their newest album The Mountain available for nearly a month, alongside a new animated short that pays homage and a terrible amount of reverence to mid-60s Disney xeroxing (of note, The Jungle Book as a particular inspiration), it feels like a better time now than ever to look back to the video for “Clint Eastwood,” which is what many fans and those unacquainted had first witnessed these characters through.
Of course, it wouldn’t be a retrospective of a 25-year-long endeavor without a rundown of the basics. The animated members of the group, serving as the traditional actors in each of the albums’ stories, are as follows:
- 2-D – Damon Albarn-voiced, representing the lead vocals that he himself provides. Not-all-there synth keyboard proprietor who became injured by two incidents involving bassist Murdoc, whom he now owes a debt to.
- Murdoc – rough-and-tumble bassist, symbolizing the evils of rock and roll under the guise of a perpetually-incarcerated Satanist swinger. Responsible for the group’s union.
- Russel – American drummer who, after surviving a drive-by, became host to spiritual possession that enabled his musical prowess.
- Noodle – Japanese guitarist who came to the band’s doorfront in a shipping crate at 7. Learned she was a sleeper agent of a disbanded secret project, and recovered her abilities to speak English as well as hunt demons.
These characters have been involved in a bevy of storylines and plots that have played out over the course of the project, involving islands made of trash in the middle of the ocean, a surprise crossover with The Powerpuff Girls for a while, and the aftermaths of the many, many arrests of Murdoc.
As for the video itself starring these wild four, Del, the featured artist in the song, is portrayed as one of the friends of Russel who were gunned down, emerging as a ghost to deliver the rap verses. This is the beginning of a tradition for the band, utilizing a format that, while not officially sanctioned, became a term to refer to the style: a “Flimsy Steve,” where the guest rap verses in a Gorillaz song are of much more metaphorical meat, so to speak in the context of talking about societal ills or internal conflicts, with the chorus, sung by Albarn, representing nothing in particular yet serving as the connecting tissue, for example, singing about a character named Flimsy Steve for whom he cannot find.
The visuals are astounding for a 2001 animated music video, the direction by Hewlett and Pete Candeland for Passion Pictures is of utmost clarity: zombies, ghosts, zombie gorillas, our cast fighting zombie gorillas: it’s a showcase of the themes to come from in terms of supernatural, speculative, and horror-inspired elements, with references to Peter Jackson’s Braindead, George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead, and a shout-out to the Resident Evil series with “T-Virus” on 2-D’s shirt. This is something new, but it’s paying homage to everything that inspired them before it.
Looking back to this formative era of Gorillaz is like looking into the past. 9/11 hadn’t yet occurred, Dubya was well into his first 100 Days and didn’t have any giant mistakes made yet (except, of course, for his tax cuts, religious focus, and schooling initiatives), and music that, while not quite as mainstream, was hitting the highs as well as the charts. Not to say it’s all been downhill from here, but we’ve been seeing an exact period of 1956-1974 happen in varying lengths since those years happened, with analogous events in that time, in that order. Gorillaz touched on this particular issue as well, with the plotline for the album Cracker Island focusing on an immortal cult of silent film stars conducting a sacrificial ritual every 25 years.
And yet, maybe that’s what life is all about, the sacrifice of the same thing over and over again, but with the refreshing taste of something new, like if Sisyphus could put stickers on his boulder. Gorillaz are the stickers on the boulder, in this analogy.
There are only a handful of songs that sound as fresh as they did when they first released. This song, released in 2006, is one of them.
There is something so poignant about this song, with lyrics that ache for a romance that has long since run its course. Yearning for connection feels like an incredibly Gen-Z-coded emotion, yet vocalist Yuki Chikudate manages to thread the needle between longing for the song’s subject and acceptance that what was once had is no more.
“In drops dew
I wished that I were you.”
Aided by the shoegazey instrumentation, this melancholic waltz cuts through like a warm knife through butter.
This then begs the question: why call this yearning song “Thursday?” To me, “Thursday” feels like a cyclical lament, trying to weave together what frail threads remain of this relationship, even as the lyrics wax poetically about the person being pined over. Much like Thursday during the week, the end is in sight, yet you still are left with so much more in the rearview mirror.
“The autumn wind feels as if it were you /
And swayed through the fields where I once held you“
Time is a cruel mistress, and “Thursday” captures this kind cruelty perfectly. It’s almost like a Groundhog Day of the soul, wishing to relive the past every day, and yet the march towards our collective demise continues onward, leaving us all in an eternal waltz while we reminisce on the gool ol’ days.
In the same way that our own memories live on in our minds and photographs, Asobi Seksu does so too. The band announced an indefinite hiatus in 2013, well before I had the chance to listen to them and form any sort of an emotional attachment to their music. It seems almost poetic that the last song they released was a cover of Boris’ “Farewell.”
With my final semester coming to a rapid close, “Thursday” has been the rock that I’ve turned to in order to keep me sane. These lyrics have given me so much advice through this tumultuous time, and I am left here, whistling through the window, acting the same way that everyone else does.
Tori Amos is a force. In addition to anticipating the release of her eighteenth studio album In Times of Dragons due this May, fans can celebrate the 25th anniversary edition of Strange Little Girls.
The album is just as innovative today as it was in the early aughts and has been rereleased with four bonus tracks. In 2001, Amos endeavored to get out of her label contract and thus Strange Little Girls was born: A collection of twelve cover songs, each one originally sung by men and reinterpreted with Amos’s unique creative flair.
Amos is known for her own obscure and eccentric lyrics as it’s one of many fields she flourishes in. When left with the words of another, she still finds ways to completely turn meaning on its head.
Perhaps most striking is her chilling rendition of “‘97 Bonnie and Clyde” by Eminem. The song bears similarities to the original in words and virtually nothing else. Amos turns the rap into a spoken word piece backed by anxiety-inducing piano. The lyrics, which read as excessive and violent at original publication in 1999 on The Slim Shady LP, are emphasized through Amos’s speech patterns. In Eminem’s version, the song follows a husband who has killed his wife and made his daughter an accomplice. The lyrics are genuinely haunting yet that atmosphere gets forgotten by his flow.
However, when Amos snaps: “Sit back in your chair honey, quit tryin’ to climb out,” listeners can physically see the way the smile would drop, how the eyes would narrow. The annoyance is perfectly communicated in her voice — the exasperation, the depravity, all of it comes across in mere speech.
Her voice maintains an almost flirtatious lilt; as she counts down to three, preparing the narrator’s kid to partake in the drowning of their own mother, things sound simply unnatural. Juxtaposing the assumed sexiness of the whisper with such visceral and graphic language while the piano forewarns danger makes for a truly one of a kind listening experience.
Amos doesn’t intend to sexualize the violent subject matter, rather her voice serves to remind and underscore the depravity of the original lyrics. Things like this shouldn’t be danced to, shouldn’t be sexualized — or, they can, but then they’re up for interpretation.
In Amos’ telling, the nameless victim of the original song recounts what she overhears from her family as she’s bleeding out. Amos confronts how the reality of domestic violence is glorified and justified in the rap. In September 2001, she told Next magazine of the song, “When she spoke to me — the woman dying in the back of the car — she took me by the hand and said, ‘You need to hear how I heard it.”
Amos gave the woman a voice and that is vital. The woman is dying and rendered powerless in Eminem’s version, until Amos commits and honors her experience within a song that becomes wholly her own. It begs listeners to not become desensitized when terrible words are sung rather than spoken. It reminds us songs like this aren’t always meant for the club, are instead like pieces of literature to be critically interpreted and considered in our wider cultural landscape.
The only time Amos sings, “Just the two of us” over and over, her voice cascades over the inherent awfulness of the subject matter and it elevates things further. The song is disturbing and doesn’t feel satisfying until its sharp end, after nearly six minutes. It sounds like a door slamming shut.
Really, what it sounds like is that Amos made history 25 years ago, and it remains revolutionary today. The conversations to be had on misogyny and violence in rap lyrics is exacerbated by Amos’ stark interpretation. An extended spoken word piece on any commercially released album remains novel, especially one asking listeners to truly think about music and its function beyond entertainment.
As a current college student, Tori Amos holds a special place in my heart. It took me eight years from initially feeling uncomfortable and unimpressed by her lyrics (that feels blasphemous to type) to truly love and connect with her work. There will never be another Tori Amos, and there doesn’t need to be. She’s still just as prolific as ever, and the 25th edition of Strange Little Girls is a welcomed reminder of her endless talents.
Presidents’ Day has come and gone, but one thing that stays forever, regardless of holiday, is the eclectic and occasionally funny work of The Presidents of the United States of America, an alternative rock group that had its biggest hits three decades prior to today. And today, exactly 30 years ago, The Presidents performed at Mount Rushmore in celebration of Presidents’ Day, broadcast live on MTV. Can’t say the same about the channel doing that nowadays, rather I’d imagine a non-stop marathon of Ridiculousness episodes like every other day…
The song being discussed today, however, is eight years this performance’s junior, on the 2004 album of the same name. As many Presidents fans can attest, much of their appeal comes from the outwardly grungy and powerful compositions of the songs, alongside somewhat down-to-earth yet sharply funny lyrics. Take “Lump” for instance, describing a girl who may or may not be a figment of imagination as well as a zombified bog body, mummified by mud, living (or, perhaps, unliving) a 20-something malaise. “Love Everybody’s” style takes much of what can be construed from “Lump”: the stream-of-consciousness storytelling, the character descriptions that paint a fine picture, and the picaresque sense of humor that the two previous traits seamlessly birth from their combination.
“Love Everybody,” first and foremost, is a song that contrasts the societal and economic struggles of the underprivileged world with those of the rich and powerful. The first story concerns the homeless Sally, who draws the attention of the wine-sipping limousine-riding Burt with a sign reading “love everybody” as a pathological appeal to her aide. Whether or not Burt decides to contribute to her, through money, shelter or necessities, is unknown, as the information bleeds into the chorus, taking us away from the reality of the world and into a repetitive chant to embody the frivolousness of a vague yet universal message of kindness and hope.
Our second story details beautiful socialite Bree, who encounters tattoo artist Harvey in a Luigi Mangione-style act of violence. “By the flash on the wall, she seemed twenty feet tall”, culminating in one last moment of metaphorical power before her killer inks the universal message on her fist, bleeding into the chorus. As it should become clear, the song has a “let’s cross the street here” mentality, becoming frightened with finishing the tales of class struggle, directing attention towards the catchy and singable chorus. It’s this sort of satire that groups like The Presidents do right: by drawing attention to disparaging situations between the haves and have nots, a ripe form of redirection is for the taking, to force the audience to ignore real problems, to focus on the superficial and less complex — a chorus that shouts a message of love antithetical to what the verses convey.
And in this day and age, a message like this, not just of the awareness of these issues, but also how they tend to be covered up with more palatable tastes, is needed now more than ever. Pay attention to the people around you and what they’re going through. Empathy is, unfortunately, a superpower. What separates it from laser eyes or Herculean strength is one thing: you can learn it.
With 2010 being over a decade ago, we can reminisce over the release of the iconic Isles and Glaciers “Cemetery Weather” from the hidden gem EP The Hearts of Lonely People. The post-hardcore supergroup band, formed in 2008, consists of Vic Fuentes and Mike Fuentes from Pierce the Veil, Jonny Craig (best known for his vocals from Dance Gavin Dance), Craig Owens and Matt Goddard from Chiodos, Nick Martin from Sleeping with Sirens and Brian Southall. It was a short-lived experiment that only lasted from 2008 to 2010. Most of the members had bigger commitments to their full-time bands, thus it was broken off, and we are left with 7 beautifully produced tracks.
“Cemetery Weather,” the closing track, stands out in particular. The three vocalists, Vic Fuentes, Jonny Craig and Craig Owens, take turns singing and blend their angelic voices to create a beautiful, catchy and melancholic melody. The emotionally dramatic tune touches on the feeling of a forever-lasting love, with commitment so strong that they end up growing old together, and when they pass, being buried next to each other with not even death separating them.
“I need somebody (somebody)
Somebody crazy enough to tell me /
‘I will love you until we..’ /
(I will love you until..) /
Until we are buried /
Our bodies (our bodies) /
Our bodies buried close together /
Cemetery weather /
In the cemetery weather.”
Eleven years ago, California pop-punk band The Story So Far released their sophomore, self-titled album. When it comes to The Story So Far, I like to think their records always flirt with perfection, but there’s usually one track that rises above the rest. On this album, that song is “Solo,” my personal standout. It’s a quintessential mid-2010s breakup anthem, the kind of song that begs to be played while drinking a Rip It energy drink you stole from your older brother instead of doing your AP Lang homework. As someone who was only in fifth grade when it came out, this is the life I imagine I would’ve been living had I been born just a few years earlier.
“Solo” walks us through the emotional stages of a relationship’s collapse, beginning with the isolation that comes with being left, truly solo. From there, the song shifts into bitterness and frustration, capturing the anger that surfaces during the process of moving on, even when you know that distance is necessary for personal growth. Lines like, “And I wish you’d just call / and we can hash it out / I can tell you what I’m so mad about,” reflect that lingering desire to be understood, especially when the person who hurt you tries to shift the blame. By the end, the song lands on a hard-earned realization: you’re ultimately better off without them.
Parker Cannon’s signature raw vocals, paired with softer guitar melodies and heavy, driving drums, perfectly convey the song’s emotional intensity and restrained rage. While some critics dismiss The Story So Far as a one-trick pony, I strongly disagree. This album marked a turning point in their sound, and “Solo” is proof of that evolution. Its guitar tone stands apart from anything they had done before, carrying a clear hardcore influence. Even a decade later, “Solo” proves that The Story So Far knew exactly how to turn heartbreak into something loud, lasting, and worth revisiting
Approximately 43 years ago today, Men at Work topped the charts in two places: the United States and, their blood-brother, the UK. Initially released in 1980 as a B-side to their independently-produced debut single “Keypunch Operator,” the now-beloved revised version of the song was released as a single in 1981 by their label CBS/Columbia, eventually coming to America as a standalone in 1982.
The song, while beloved here, in the lads’ home of Australia, the UK, and many other places in the world, was the subject of a legal dispute almost 20 years ago between the band and the rightsholders of the children’s song “Kookaburra,” published by Larrikin Music. The original writer of the song, Marion Sinclair, passed away in 1998, therefore the song remains in Australian copyright until 2038, where it will fall into the public domain. This, however, isn’t the case for the US, where we instead use a different system of determining whether media falls into the public domain by year of release rather than year of the original creator’s death. “Kookaburra” is free rein for us in two years.
The late Greg Ham, flautist of the group, is credited with the infringing melody, referred to by producer Peter McIan as a “musical joke.” With how Oz the latter song is, it should come as no surprise its inclusion, especially with how Oz today’s pick is as well.
Shocking to many Australians, the lads lost the case, as it was under general perception that “Kookaburra” was public domain to begin with, assuming its status as a “traditional” song (typically these songs are associated with a “national songbook,” where tunes that originate from a particular country are assumed into their national canon of musical development, i.e. The Great American Songbook) typically sung by children, as well as its wide significance would have made it the case.
Since the ruling in 2010, five percent of the royalties of “Down Under” go to Larrikin, eventually until “Kookaburra” is absorbed into the public domain on New Year’s Day 2034. When giving the song a listen, pay attention to Ham’s flute, and you’ll be able to hear the melody quite clearly.
Though the version that we’ll be linking to today isn’t the more well-known version from their debut album “Business as Usual”. Here, we’ve included the original version on the independent single from 1980, which I’m sure you’ve never heard before. Also included is the music video for the song, which is full of fun scenes between Hay, Ham, Strykert, Rees and Speiser in Ozztacular settings. Ham even sits in a gum tree as he plays the “Kookaburra” riff!
For this week’s Throw Back Thursday, lets throw it way way back, all the way back, to oldest known melody on earth, “Hurrian Hymn #6.” Found on a 3,400 year-old clay tablet from in Ugarit, Syria, “Hurrian Hymn No. 6” is a beautiful reminder that humans have always been drawn to music, and to hear something so far away and so close is odd, but touching. Obviously it is impossible to directly translate an ancient clay tablet to modern music, but a popular interpretation from Michael Levy on the lyre is such a good try, it’ll have you ruing the fact that Hurrian Hymns 1-5 are lost to time.
This lyre performance is slightly haunting, the notes are sorrowful and ringing. The instrument is left by itself, and the scales and patterns remind one quite a bit of different musical trends that have come and gone in the thousands of years between then and now. It was the only legible tablet found of the 29 it was with, I wonder if it was part of a larger piece, and what a joy to imagine that even then they were composing books of songs, or albums if we dare to dream.
“Hurrian Hymn No. 6” is genuinely good, and I’m not saying that to be nice. I’m saying that because I think those ancient Syrian people did a pretty damn good job carving their hymn into a clay tablet considering their lack of resources and immense amount of obstacles. This clay tablet proves the existence of musical notation, something I, and everyone at Impact, would be nothing without. Thank you “Hurrian Hymn No. 6” for being a trendsetter. I’ll think of you when my friends say music would be nothing without The Beatles or Nirvana. What about those ancient Syrians I will ask? What about “Hurrian Hymn No. 6?”
“One two three four five! /
Break down baby”
Those are the first vocal samples you hear when playing this song, and it fits the tone of the track real quick. Immediately after comes the loud and crashing drum sample and a groaning bass drone. This, my friend, is a perfect example of Plunderphonics
Now, what is plunderphonics, you might be thinking. Well, simply put, it means a song composed of ONLY sampling other musical works or various other media (plunder as in plundering other works to use as your own creation). It was first coined by musician John Oswald for his album titled Plunderphonics in 1985. Now that sounds like stealing, and yeah pretty much, BUT there is an art to it, and it’s not just ripping an entire song from something else and calling it your own
In September 1996, Californian turntablist Josh Davis, better known as DJ Shadow released his first studio album Endtroducing….. . The reason for the title is that this was the last piece he created for his label, using a sound towards the future even though the sound was present in his prior EPs and through the rest of the album. Hence the combination of “End” and “introducing.”
The third track, “The Number Song,” is the most upbeat out of all of Shadow’s tracks on the album, thanks to the main drum sample used being “Baby Don’t Cry” by The Third Guitar, and a bass drone coming straight from “Orion” by Metallica. A key feature in almost all Shadow’s songs is that he does not sample drums with a simple loop. From “Baby Don’t Cry,” he takes the drum sections in between the lyrics and chops it up into a pattern that he wants, and this goes for almost all his songs, where he will chop a drum loop into a unique pattern instead of just taking the drum break and looping it
“C’mon and get wit it! ONE TWO THREE FOUR HIT IT /
What is this?* This is — the number* — song — before I start, let’s have the countdown. One two three four-or-or-or”
Now, that lyric above shows why the song is titled the way it is. Using multiple vocal samples of counting throughout. Shadow also shows off his turntable skills, with various scratching samples and chopping skills using his MPC60 with a variety drum samples throughout the song.
About two minutes in, the song switches gears, and goes into a new distinct vibe, anchored by a sample that contains a vocal that says “won’t you please let me rock your mind,” yet sounds like they are saying “one two three” instead of “won’t you please.” A few seconds later, there is another switch up, with a new drum sample until it goes back into The Third Guitar’s drums and Metallica’s bass with a count back in. At 3:20, the entire rest of the song is a single, un-edited drum solo by the band HE-6 and their cover of “Get Ready,” ending off this phenomenal song. About 20 samples are currently known according to WhoSampled, though many vocal samples are still unknown.
This song is one of my favorite songs on this album, with its high energy and complex drum chopping and vocal splicing. This song, along with the rest of the album, helped cement Shadow as one of the greatest DJ’s and innovators in my lifetime.
I go through a lot of phases. No, not the typical teenage, angsty phases, but more so with my music. I’m definitely one of those all-over-the-place people. But there’s one band I come back to again and again, and I always wonder why I left them alone in the first place. There’s also a song — which happens to be the song that started it all for me.
I’ll quit being vague. The band is Pearl Jam, and the song is “Alive” — the song that brought us Pearl Jam.
Let me back up a bit. Imagine Seattle in 1990 — the golden era of the scene’s emergence. Mike McCready, Dave Krusen, Jeff Ament and Stone Gossard were making magic happen. They had everything they needed for their sound, but they had yet to unlock a key component — a legendary frontman.
Around Oct. 1990, the band members received Eddie Vedder’s legendary audition tape. A mutual friend, former Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Jack Irons, connected them and got the guys talking. Vedder, a guitarist and singer, sent a tape filled with his vocals over their various instrumental tracks. They were especially impressed with one song Vedder had penned — “Alive.”
So, they flew him out. Guitarist Mike McCready noted in an interview with Mojo, “When Ed came from San Diego, the first time we all got in a room, I was so excited.”
Spirits were high, but the pieces hadn’t all fallen together. Early outside perspectives were not supportive of Vedder. He was seen as an outsider by friends of the band, but with the help of Soundgarden’s Chris Cornell, Vedder began to fit.
Time went on, and Pearl Jam’s first album, Ten, started coming together. “Alive,”as I mentioned before, was the song that started it all. The track appeared on Ten and was written as a fictional tale that, in part, was influenced by Vedder’s personal life experience. The song is meant to be the first in a trilogy of songs that Vedder would later call a “mini-opera,” or the “Mamasan” trilogy, including “Alive,” “Once” and “Footsteps.”
“Alive” is actually a deeply emotional and dark piece. Vedder compiled years of built-up grief, using this track as his final outlet. In Vedder’s own words from VH1 Storytellers, “The original story being told in the song is of a young man being made aware of some shocking truths.” The full idea is that a young man is confronted with the harsh reality that his father is actually his stepfather, and his real father was, well, gone. “The guy was me, but I barely knew me then. To be honest I was barely there to be known. So he took this to be a curse, like fine you told me this secret, but I’ve gotta figure a way to deal with this. Fine, the dad’s dead, but I’m still alive, and I’ve gotta deal with this.”
The lyrics give us a sense of Vedder’s internal thoughts, paired with his unique vocals that every fan of Pearl Jam is familiar with. The sheer emotion that Vedder is capable of and can portray through his work is substantial. This is what makes him such a standout figure in the “league of legends” in musical history.
“Is something wrong?” she said, well of course there is /
“You’re still alive,” she said, oh, and do I deserve to be? /
Is that the question? /
And if so, if so who answers? Who answers? /
I, oh, I’m still alive /
Hey, I, hey, I’m still alive /
Hey, I, hey, I’m still alive /
Yeah, I, ooh, I’m still alive! /
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!”
It’s difficult to convey emotion through written lyrics, but you get the idea. I love this song so much that I can hear Vedder’s voice cutting through the back parts of my brain as I pore over the lyrics. That says something.
All in all, this really is the song that started it all. It brought Pearl Jam Eddie Vedder, who’s embraced the world with his unique styles and ideas for years. So, remember, listen to this song, and keep on keeping on. You’re still alive! Yeah, yeah, yeah yeah!
China Anne McClain’s Disney hit “Calling All the Monsters” became an iconic Halloween anthem for our generation. Many listeners — like me — would consider it our generation’s “Monster Mash.” As we close out Monstober, It’s a good time to reflect on how much of a revolutionary Halloween song Disney gifted us.
Released in 2011, “Calling All the Monsters” promoted an A.N.T. Farm Halloween episode “MutA.N.T. Farm,” in which McClain starred. The song’s popularity was undeniable, especially in my third-grade classroom, where it went triple platinum
From the electrifying buildup of the pre-chorus:
“Gonna get your body shakin’ /
Wishin’ you could just awaken (here we go)”
To the catchy, spirited chorus that makes you forget this is a Disney song and not a club classic.
“Tonight, all the monsters gonna dance /
We’re comin’ to get ya /
Tonight, all the monsters gonna dance /
We’re comin’ to get ya /
If you’re only dreamin’ /
Why I hear you screamin’ /
Tonight, all the monsters gonna dance /
We’re comin’ to get ya, we’re coming to get ya”
This song is the perfect blend of spooky and danceable, making it a Halloween staple that will be enjoyed for generations and forever hold a spot on any Halloween playlist.
To celebrate its 10th anniversary in 2021, McClain’s band Triii, alongside her sisters Lauryn and Sierra, released an updated version of the song serving a more modern and mature approach while keeping the classic lyrics. McClain’s younger brother Gabriel, also known as “Messenger,” was featured with a very spooky and ghoulish rap verse that was the perfect missing piece to the song.
We better see you monsters on the dance floor tonight and happy Halloween!
Released on Nov. 30, 1982, it’s a song everyone remembers wherever they were the first time they heard it. Who better to make such a smooth but creepy song besides Michael Jackson himself? In my opinion, nothing sums Halloween up better than “Thriller.”
So many different layers come together to create this chilling piece. The song kicks off with a load of samples, from creaky floors to howling wolves and ominous footsteps. From there, we’re snapped back into Michael’s reality — throwing us into it with a catchy horn that kicks off the funky groove you can’t escape.
But why would you want to? This groovy, creepy song encapsulates 1982 perfectly. Horror meets funk for the first time, and in the best possible way. There’s an ominous feel throughout the song, a mounting horror that builds and builds until horror actor Vincent Price swoops in with a chilling monologue.
“The foulest stench is in the air /
The funk of forty thousand years (Thriller night, thriller) /
And grisly ghouls from every tomb /
Are closing in to seal your doom /
And though you fight to stay alive /
Your body starts to shiver (I’m gonna thrill you tonight) /
For no mere mortal can resist /
The evil of the thriller /
(Maniacal laughter)”
Incorporating a Vincent Price monologue was an outside-of-the-box, fresh idea that truly brought the graveyards alive in 1982. It wasn’t something often done, but in the ’80s, anything went. It’s hard to imagine the song without it. The song was written by Rod Temperton who also wrote various songs for Michael, and had envisioned a section devoted to horror-like dialogue. Quincy Jones produced the song as well as the entire Thriller album.
Michael does his fair share of spookiness through the song. In the music video, he’s Michael until he becomes totally zombified. Somehow, this zombification ignites a sense of dance, and he leads his fellow zombies in a full dance routine through the alleys. Like I said before, this couldn’t be more ’80s and I live for it. His lyrics show us why we should be scared:
“It’s close to midnight /
And something evil’s lurking in the dark /
Under the moonlight /
You see a sight that almost stops your heart /
You try to scream /
But terror takes the sound before you make it /
You start to freeze /
As horror looks you right between the eyes /
You’re paralyzed”
In all, there’s no ignoring this Halloween classic. It’s the perfect blend of the spooky season we’re going through right now, and the grooviness of the ’80s. All I ask this Halloween is that you don’t forget about this masterpiece — and try your best not to turn into a zombie when you play it. No guarantees, though…
Happy Halloween!
It’s finally getting cold outside — the leaves are changing, the sun is setting earlier and your cozy bed seems more inviting than ever before that dreaded 8 a.m. class. It’s time to put the shorts away and the sweaters back into rotation because fall is officially here.
Etta James’ “A Sunday Kind of Love” is a song that welcomes you into the cold air and golden sunsets, with her soulful voice making you feel like you’re being wrapped in a warm sun blanket.
The song comes from her debut album, At Last!, which, like this track, is filled with many songs perfect for your fall playlist. The song was originally written in 1946 by Barbara Belle, Anita Leonard, Stan Rhodes and Louis Prima.
James’ version brings a unique richness that allows listeners to feel the deep emotion she brings to every note in a way in which the audience can connect to the heartfelt lyrics. Her moving voice expresses the heartfelt lyrics of wanting a love that will last more than just one night — a Saturday night love that lasts through Sunday and many days following.
“I want a Sunday kind of love, /
I love to last past Saturday night, /
And I’d like to know it more than love at first sight, /
I want a Sunday kind of love”
For me, this song represents a slow Sunday morning when you’re winding down from the weekend but mentally preparing yourself for the week ahead. Sundays have always been a day to spend time with loved ones, to appreciate the people that matter most — and to take a moment for yourself, too. James’ delivery, with its lyrical depth and timeless feel, has become a staple for jazz and blues music.
So, next time you’re indulging in a Sunday rest, I encourage you to not only listen to “A Sunday Kind of Love” but the entire 39 minutes of her At Last! album. Let in the fall air, savor the cozy atmosphere and take a little time to reflect on the love in your life — both for others and yourself.
Fleetwood Mac is known by pretty much everyone — from your sister to your grandma — and for good reason. As my life has gone on, I find myself throwing the band on more and more. I think this might be because they seem to have just the song for every mood I could possibly have. Something I love about Fleetwood Mac is the pure, raw emotion felt not only through the lyrics, but even in the instrumental nature of their works. They simply play their hearts out. However, if we’re talking about emotion, there is only one song in their vast catalog that takes the cake. “Silver Springs” is the one — Stevie Nicks’ ultimate masterpiece.
Released in 1976, this song is purely Stevie’s. In fact, she was so sure of it that she actually gave the song rights to her mom in anticipation of its success. Bandmate Mick Fleetwood did not exactly agree; first making the song the b-side to “Go Your Own Way,” and having it later appear on the deluxe version of Rumours. In a 1991 interview on BBC radio, Nicks said she “started to scream bloody murder and probably said every horribly mean thing that you could possibly say to another human being and walked back in the studio completely flipped out.” Hey, I agree with you, Stevie! The song features strong, emotional lyrics, with an almost haunting nature that are paired with incredible harmonies, instrumentation and dynamics. With all that said, there was a reason for this, and it wasn’t musical success.
“Silver Springs” was written by Nicks as a tribute to a very personal slice of her own life. It is actually a breakup song about her falling out with guitarist Lindsay Buckingham. The two had a difficult and turmoil-filled relationship spanning back to the formation of the band. Stevie had the song’s name come to her as she was passing through Silver Spring, Maryland, and felt that it was the perfect fit for the song. Nicks wrote the song with a dagger in her hand, though. She knew exactly what she was feeling and what she was going to make clear to Buckingham. It’s kind of epic, actually. Some of my favorite lyrics are:
“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me /
I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me /
I’ll follow you down til’ the sound of my voice can haunt you”
Man, I’d hate to be Buckingham. Having Stevie Nicks, the singer and face of your own band, write a song about how you broke her heart and left it unresolved must… really suck. Especially because everyone knows exactly what’s up.
This song contributed, in part, to the band’s breakup. It was only a small puzzle piece, as the band had experienced internal conflict from the start. In the famous 1997 reunion concert, The Dance, the song was performed, and Nicks’ powerful performance actually brought the song back into the spotlight. She could be seen staring straight into the eyes of Buckingham during the performance; again highlighting the impact of the song. In a world of heartbreak and melancholy, the ability to capture it perfectly in such a beautiful piece of art like “Silver Springs” is something that should be recognized. I think this song should be heard and recognized on the same caliber as “Go Your Own Way” or “Dreams,” just purely for the emotional impact it can truly have. Give it a listen, and don’t be an idiot like Lindsay Buckingham.
Trust me, I’m aware of the baggage I’m bringing to the table. If you’re fortunate enough not to know what I mean, opinions on Maroon 5 are as divided as American politics. To complicate matters, lead singer Adam Levine has attracted significant media attention in recent years. Ask any middle-aged woman about him, and you’ll likely hear an overwhelming amount of over-sexualized praise. But, if you ask Sumner Stroh, you might be shocked at the “game” a man over 40 can have. However, since it’s Throwback Thursday, let’s set aside Levine’s questionable taste in tattoos and take a trip back to a simpler time — the 2000s.
Maroon 5 is well-known for their numerous hits, particularly in the early 2010s. Tracks like “One More Night” (2012) and “Sugar” (2014) define an unforgettable era of Obama’s presidency and playing games on the Wii. These classics are embedded in pop culture, representing a sound that Maroon 5 would carry on for the rest of their career. While some criticized the repetitiveness and predictability of their later branding, as a Maroon 5 lover, I can attest that it wasn’t always this way.
After the lackluster release of their first album, the band, originally called Kara’s Flowers, disbanded in 2001 to focus on their studies. However, that same year, the addition of guitarist James Valentine revitalized the group, leading to the creation of their redemption project — “Songs About Jane,” under their new name, Maroon 5. Released in 2002, this debut album embraced a heavier, neo-soul funk-rock style that just sounds like the early 2000s. While some lighter songs from the album found their way onto the radio, many of the leftover tracks showcase a version of the band that has since faded away. One song that encapsulates this lost artistry is this Thursday’s highlighted track — “Through with You.”
“Heartache, heartache, I just have so much /A simple love with a complex touch /And there is nothing you can say or do /I called to let you know I’m through with you, oh.”
From the start, the layered guitar rhythms highlight the band’s unique musicality, setting a gritty tone for Levine to explore the theme of an emotionally absent ex-lover. One admirable aspect of their earlier work is its simplicity. Even if the song’s premise doesn’t resonate with you personally, many verses contain universally relatable themes, making it both musically and lyrically captivating. Although the song repeats its chorus with little variation, Levine’s vocal progression, paired with an increasingly dynamic guitar rhythm, keeps the energy passionate rather than monotonous. This builds into a stunning guitar-drum solo that will inspire you to take fashion tips from Diary of a Wimpy Kid’s, Rodrick Heffley.
“You ain’t ever coming back to me /And that’s not how things were supposed to be /You take my hand just to give it back /No other lover has ever done that.”
Whether or not I’ve changed your mind about the band, this week is more about commemorating what Maroon 5 once was. I’m not suggesting that they became incapable of making good music after leaving the funk-rock scene — they’ve certainly produced some catchy pop hits. However, their over-saturation in a competitive genre, along with a reluctance to return to their roots, has led to several forgettable projects and even a song with Cardi B. This would make anyone wonder: What could have been if they had revisited neo-soul?
And I know, considering Levine’s interesting past and rocky marriage, that there is PLENTY to sing about.
Every musician’s dream is to hit it off big and tour the world playing their music to all the loyal fans that support them and gaining some fans along the way. Not every band’s trajectory is linear though. In the case of Panchiko, the group dropped their dreams of being a popular band almost 20 years before they would eventually become relevant. The original members of Panchiko had gone their separate ways in 2001. Still, in 2016, the group’s first album released in 2000, “D>E>A>T>H>M>E>T>A>L,” would gain traction as it was passed around through online messaging boards after first being discovered by someone who found the CD at a thrift store. Today, the group has nearly 1 million listeners on Spotify and has been touring regularly. It is easy to see why people love the group. To me, after only one listen of the album years ago, nearly every track stood out, but my favorite might have to be “Sodium Chloride.”
“Sodium Chloride” is a showcase of the beautifully unique blend of sounds that Panchiko offers with every track. The group meshes elements of dream pop, indie rock, shoegaze and psychedelic rock that all create a hodgepodge sure to amaze listeners. The track starts softly, and a somber acoustic guitar strums as lead singer Owain Davies opens:
“Dry skin falling away /
How did green find the words to say?”
Listeners are left to fall deeper into space and the dreamy landscapes produced by the music. Shooting electronic backings fill the air as the guitar continues, and we are led into the chorus:
“Don’t let the tears build up the years /
Don’t let the tears build up the years.”
The empty and bleak background is soon filled following the chorus adding in some smooth drums only adding depth to the already multilayered and detailed composition. The emotion seems to only build as the band begins the second verse:
“Dry lips and tears in the rain /
No hips, you’re here to keep me safe /
Fall out and patches of blue sky /
No doubt we’re here to keep these lies.”
The chorus is repeated following a slim breather, but as emotions have already begun to build, they soon come crumbling down, all finally being unleashed in the outro. The singing is elevated in pitch and gives listeners the feeling of someone truly wearing their heart on their sleeve, feeling what all of us do at times with Owain releasing:
“‘Cause no one will notice you (When you’re gone) /
Notice you (When you’re gone) /
Notice you (When you’re gone) /
Will notice you (When you’re gone) /
Will notice you (When you’re gone) /
Will notice you (When you’re gone).”
The ending is far from happy, but it is nearly impossible not to be completely immersed in the diverse sounds provided by Panchiko throughout the track. Listeners can completely drift away before it is ultimately interrupted by the rampant emotions of the outro. The song stands out as something that doesn’t conform to just one thing instead blending the sounds of so many genres and influences to leave us listeners satisfied as we forget about the world for a moment and escape into a deep space that Panchiko takes us to.
Stereolab is arguably one of the most remarkable bands of all time. Throughout the ‘90s and early ‘00s, they constantly redefined the indie sphere, blending early post-rock with ‘70s motorik rhythms, ‘60s lounge instrumentation and ear-catching melodies. These aspects of their sound were wrapped up in a neat little bow in 1996’s “Cybele’s Reverie.”
Sung entirely in French, the song looks back on childhood through the lens of being in that mental age and slowly growing up. Lætitia Sadier laments the possibility of having done everything she set out to do in life:
“What to do when one has done everything /
Read everything, drunk everything, eaten everything?”
During childhood, I remember I had this idea that my life as I had known it would come to a halt once I graduated high school because I could not fathom what it would look like beyond that point. Everything felt more vibrant as a kid, and there was always this feeling of curiosity and glee that I know I will rarely experience again. The song reads like a eulogy for childlike wonder.
While the tune is quite bittersweet, the instrumentation is quite joyful, with its prominent string section and increasingly triumphant crescendos. Sadier’s vocals are also superb against the swift chamber pop backdrop. The song’s structure gives me the impression that it is spinning into itself with each crescendo, like the cyclone shape from the cover of Emperor Tomato Ketchup.
“Cybele’s Reverie” is easily one of my favorite Stereolab songs. Every sound is so precise, and it has one of the most affecting vocal performances I’ve had the pleasure of hearing. Stereolab continues to live on as an indie rock titan in part through their endless creativity on songs like this.
The Britpop explosion of the late 1990s brought about a wave of tongue-in-cheek jangle pop rock music created by, you guessed it, British people. Legendary bands like Blur, Oasis and Pulp would go on to create classic albums and have even classic-er beef. Sticking to a defining trend in rock music history, however, the Britpop subgenre was dominated by white men.
Echobelly was an outlier. Created in a pub by Sonya Madan and Glenn Johansson, Echobelly quickly gained popularity upon releasing their debut EP, Bellyache. Madan, the key songwriter and singer of the group, was born in Delhi, India and hadn’t attended a rock concert until college. Despite her late introduction to the genre, she somehow managed to burst out of the gate fully formed and ready to drop some of the catchiest rock music of the era.
“Great Things,” from the group’s 1995 debut album, On, serves as a mission statement directly from Madan to the rest of the world. Its chorus, “I want to do great things / I don’t want to compromise / I want to know what love is / I want to know everything,” establishes from the jump that Echobelly was hungry for success and everything that came with it. Its chord progression is simple and effective, allowing the lyrics’ typical Britpop cheekiness to shine through wonderfully.
Reaching No. 13 on the U.K. singles chart, this is Echobelly’s highest charting single, and it’s clear why upon listening to it. It absolutely rips.
Madan still performs in Echobelly today and has marked her place in history as one of the only women of color to front a band in the Britpop era.
Laurie Anderson is an often overlooked artist within the music canon, and it’s likely due to the exact qualities her music is praised for. Anderson has this unique ability to blend pop melodies with the avant-garde, typically with eclectic influences and instrumentation. Prior to pursuing her auspicious musical career, Anderson was a performance artist who engaged in many projects in New York throughout the 1970s.
This aspect of her career carried over into her music which is best evidenced by her 4-hour opus United States Live (1984). The album perfectly encapsulates her many talents, featuring many vignettes about crowded American life, delivered with Anderson’s dry sense of humor, interspersed with manipulated electronic production and grand art pop songs that are more conventional by comparison.
I mention this album because its major label release was absolutely a result of Anderson’s success from 1981’s “O Superman.” Additionally, both works utilize spoken word performance to comment on our post-industrial society, often in a political manner, and “O Superman” is no exception. The song begins with an answering machine message which is implied to be a manifestation of the United States’ motherland:
“Hello? This is your mother, are you there? /
Are you coming home? /
Hello? Is anybody home? /
Well, you don’t know me, but I know you /
And I’ve got a message to give to you /
Here come the planes.”
From the start, the voice feels ominous and in control. Anderson also voices the now confused person with the answering machine to which the “mother” repeatedly responds with, “This is the hand, the hand that takes,” a phrase which is very fitting to what Anderson thought about the United States’ military: an ever expanding industrial complex. The song ends with a haunting yet humorous image of the United States’ citizens relationship with the military:
“So hold me, Mom, in your long arms /
Your petrochemical arms, your military arms /
In your electronic arms.”
Anderson was inspired to write this song after hearing about the United States’ Operation Eagle Claw which resulted in the deaths of eight soldiers and a failure to rescue hostages in Iran. The event called the United States’ military power into question and disrupted Americans’ false sense of security under the military’s “protection” whilst its “long arm(ament)s” police the rest of the world.
Anderson’s writing is also quite intertextual. For instance, Anderson recites the United States Postal Service’s creed in a sarcastic response to if the planes are “smoking” or “non-smoking” in Operation Eagle Claw. The song’s bridge is also written similarly to chapter 38 of the Tao Te Ching, a primary Taoist work. Anderson’s literary references endlessly fascinate me, as they further strengthen her political messages whilst having an idiosyncratic sense of humor.
Lyrics aside, the song is simply captivating. Clocking in at just over 8 minutes, Anderson combines a classical minimalist backdrop of flute and saxophone with progressive electronic production and a looped “ha” vocalization which produces a sparse, futuristic sound that compliments her lyrical disdain towards the over reliance on technology. She also used a vocoder on her voice to sound like a Greek chorus, a recurring artistic choice throughout her career.
It is a miracle that this eccentric masterpiece became as popular as it did. The song peaked at #2 on the UK charts, in part by John Peel’s persistent promotion on BBC Radio 1. “O Superman” has since become Anderson’s crowning jewel, but it led to one of the most creative discographies in the music industry. There is truly nothing like “O Superman” or Laurie Anderson for that matter.
I first heard Santigold when I was about 10 years old. Those surrounding years feel like a blur now, as if they were filmed on the crappy video camera my parents bought in 2009. They glitch in between moments and memories, those of which I’m not quite sure happened when I was young or old or both.
They were, however, the foundation for my music taste today, with artists ranging from XTC to De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest to Datarock and Interpol — all of which had the pleasure of being played in my dad’s car in the 2010s.
My dad owned a green, beat-up van, and I felt it had existed for eternities beyond my own lifetime whenever I sprawled out on the back seat cushions that had faded and torn at the edges of the cracked leather. The sun warmed up the seats just right some days, and on others I would be burned by the touch of metal from the seatbelt onto my skin.
This van was the sole vehicle for my journey in discovering music — music that was loud and angry and perhaps showed sides of myself I never thought to admit or hadn’t yet discovered during my awkward and painful “tween” years.
The 1999 Chevy Astro had speakers that dominated every inch of space. My dad was, and remains, a firm believer that the louder the song is, the better it sounds. He had refused to listen to anything that could not be played at decibels most likely unhealthy for your ears. This was the start of my deep love for loud music — these songs played on full blast over the neighboring sounds of mariachi bands we drove by on our street in Alum Rock, or played over the honking of drivers whose cars were cut off on the agonizing 101 freeway on late weekday afternoons.
My dad would get frustrated and mutter curse words under his breath while my older brother sat slumped in the passenger seat, staring at his shiny, blue 3DS. All I could do was roll down my window and lean my head against it, swaying my feet to the rhythm of whatever was playing.
I guess my dad was right about this: There was no better way of listening to music than letting myself sit in a bed of noise, allowing it to swallow me whole like a thick blanket. There was no room for any thoughts to be had besides how great it is that I get to exist at the same time that great music like this is made.
This is exactly the sentiment I felt listening to “I’m A Lady” by Santigold, featuring Trouble Andrew, off her debut album released in 2008. I was immediately drawn to Santigold’s voice, which sings lines fast and unforgiving, yet articulate.
“Try to hold a light to me /
I’m a Lady /
Got my mind made up /
Got my mind made up.”
As a young girl so obsessed with being as forgiving and amicable in making others as happy as possible, this was a foreign concept to me. That you could be so unapologetically non-adhering to other’s needs if it meant you were acting for yourself. Santigold sings of the woman I am, and the woman I simultaneously want to be: independent and certain of what she wants, or at least what she doesn’t. She doesn’t concern herself with the ideas of what she is to others or is supposed to be.
I was reintroduced to this album a few years later upon entering high school, like I had rediscovered an old shirt I loved from the dusty back corners of my closet. It came at a time where I felt I was not ready to grow up and endure the pain of being old but felt cursed for feeling so young. Santigold’s music felt like looking at lyrics with small mentions of me, someone who was never quite sure of herself and her place in the world, as she never sticks to any particular genre.
Her self-titled debut album, Santigold, serves multiple conventions of post-punk, hip hop and new wave in a pop album. However, to simply call this just another pop album would surely have you mistaken. Prior to her solo career, she actively worked as a music producer and released music with her band Stiffed, which played a variety of ska-punk with electronic and indie rock sounds. Santigold’s defiance of genres not only broke boundaries of what black music should, or does, sound like, but also the types of music women of color made.
Throughout the song, the steady drums carry the urgent weight of my decisions, as well as the anxieties and self-doubt that come with making them, but with a quick tempo that makes me certain of the choice I am making, at least for now. It leaves you no other choice than to bop your head or tap your feet. The gentleness of Santigold’s tone in the song’s bridge echoes like a soft and loving mantra that maybe this endeavor won’t work out, but in the end I will.
“No one said no, no one said /
Make something with what’s in your head /
And the dream’s all gone.”
The dreams and things that I once prioritized had left my mind one day without my realizing it. I’m still me, breathing and existing as I always have, but I have led so many lives. The different versions of myself have not come from evolving, but in changing so gradually that it goes unnoticed, like the tiny pieces of lint left on my jeans or the addition of another freckle on my cheek, gifted from the sun.
This song instills in me a desire to appreciate the things of the past I once found important: the badly painted canvases and art I have sprung up all over my walls, my old and beloved Converse I wore in those videos from the crappy video camera or the messy and rushed semblance of words in my old journals I feared that people would discover, which may seem quite silly now.
I may not know the childhood friends I had quite as well now, and I may not remember what cartoon my brother and I fought over watching on Saturday mornings, but the memory of these things that were once the highlights of my days lives on. That memory is proof enough that I have existed as anything other than the person I am now. Saying goodbyes to those things, or the person I was at the time, is hard, but it’s harder when you realize that you didn’t even know you had left. “I’m A Lady” is an echo of the past, present and everything in between.
It feels good to love and be loved. With Valentine’s Day around the corner, love songs are going to root themselves in our hearts whether we are ready or not. The provocateur Prince of Motown’s prominent piece “Let’s Get It On” opens a discussion of love. Marvin Gaye offers some lyrics that stir up the meaning of love. Undoubtedly, his lyrics are fiery and explicit. If we push through the obvious, a deeper meaning can be admired.
“We’re all sensitive people with so much to give /
Understand me, sugar /
Since we got to be here, let’s live /
I love you.”
This song is about much more than lust. Love, in the real way, is not just a feeling. It is an emotion that runs deep within everyone. To turn away from tenderness is easy. It would be harder to be vulnerable, and some would say that such a vulnerability is taboo. Gaye highlights the real beauty of love.
“There’s nothing wrong with me loving you /
And giving yourself to me can never be wrong /
If the love is true, oh, baby.”
This unmistakable guitar riff brings on an immediate feeling of peace. The rhythm of the song is playful, and the wah-wah effect swoons the chords in a fitting manner. The full complement of saxophones flirts with the layered vocals. Without any reservation, the bass line provides one of the sexiest harmonies ever recorded. Overall, the instrumentals are stunning.
With love in our lives, we know passion and we keep faith. It frees us from our own shackles. To quote Bell Hooks, “True love does have the power to redeem but only if we are ready for redemption. Love saves us only if we want to be saved.” Of course, love can come from anywhere and is not exclusive to romance. Love lives in people. It grows and ensnares our hearts in vines. We want to tend this garden in us, though it can be worrisome to deal with alone. Friendly faces can be asked. Usually, just asking is all it takes to inspire love in one form or another. As long as there are souls to sing about it, love will endure.
It is when the snow finally settles like dust on an old dresser, when the slush paints your shoes brown, that the winter blues begin. It happens like clockwork every year just after the holiday season when the tinsel unravels itself from lampposts and when all the snowmen have been ambushed. All hopes for anything better seem to disappear, veiled by frost-covered windows and muffled by the slow tune “It Never Entered My Mind” by Miles Davis.
The song is not a hopeful tune. It is a song of monotony and loneliness. The trumpet cries out for a lover, and the piano murmurs about better times. The song starts with this murmur. The piano ascends, but there is no peak; there is no finality to the tune. It continues in the background of the song as the trumpet takes a hold of the chorus.
The original ‘40s showtune, written and composed by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart, tells the story of a love lost — unrequited and unfulfilled. It is a beautiful rendition, but Davis spins the song into something entirely his own. The trumpet is his voice; there is no need for lyrics, only the painful longing felt in every wailing note.
It is rare that a song is able to express an emotion such as longling so purely. Miles Davis’s performance captures it effortlessly. I remember listening to this song for the first time: I laid in a hammock in a warmer month. My eyes were closed, and I swung back and forth to the melody of the song. When Davis played his first note, I was consumed by it. He played as if the song lay dormant in his breath, grasping at the walls of his ribcage begging to be released. When it finally was, it was measured but still unbelievably raw.
The trumpet stands at the center of the song, but it is the accompaniment of piano, bass and soft drums that make the tune complete. The soft shivvers of the snare drum sound like the shuffle of passersby in the snow, and the bass plucks to the tempo of a slow beating heart. The quintet swirls around each other in perfect synchronicity and balance. “It Never Entered My Mind” is a true feat of jazz perfection.
“It Never Entered My Mind” is a song that pulls at your tears with pliers. It is a song to fall asleep to and a song to fall in love to. It transforms and changes shape in the ear of the beholder. For me, it’s a song to reminisce to. When the snow starts to pile on my windowsill and a shiver starts to creep up my spine, I know the blues have begun. All one can do is submit to it. For me, that means I crawl into my dangerously lofted bed, swaddle myself in my duvet, hug my stuffed animal close and listen to “It Never Entered My Mind” until I hear Miles Davis’s phantom trumpet singing in my dreams.
Quintessential to ‘80s pop culture and music, INXS changed the landscape of alternative music. Their sound is unrivaled and unique, never fitting into a single category. Their earlier work is filled with synth and similar to many pop artists’, yet there’s plenty filled with rock and new wave sounds all blended together to make INXS what they are known for today. A highlight of their earlier work comes off of their 1982 album, Shabooh Shoobah: a track titled “Don’t Change.”
Synth opens the track, slowly fading in, giving listeners a glimpse of what is to come and offering a feeling of hope. The tone is instantly uplifting. Soon, a guitar swoops in. Strummed with pace, the same note is held until the drums blast in with power, and the thick bassline is played underneath. Lead singer Michael Hutchence opens:
“I’m standing here on the ground /
The sky above won’t fall down /
See no evil in all directions /
Resolution of happiness /
Things have been dark for too long.”
Things quiet down as Hutchence sings the opening verse, building the catchy chorus as Hutchence simply says,
“Don’t change for you /
Don’t change a thing for me /
Don’t change for you /
Don’t change a thing for me”
INXS simply puts forth a feeling all of us feel: completeness. Change is a monster that follows us all, but even if it is for just a moment, sometimes we don’t want a thing in the world to change; things feel right. Sometimes, we get to a point where we feel content, and if we could just freeze time, we would feel that happiness forever. The picture is all laid out for us by the band: no evil in sight, just pure bliss. It is defiant for the band to say, “No, don’t change. Let’s stay like this forever.” Even if it is unrealistic, all of us think this in our best moments.
All in all, the song is powerful, trying to resonate with the audience. The music accompanying the message is nothing short of perfect either. It is almost angelic to listen to the progression of the song as instruments fade in and out, each one taking over at some point to be the focal point. The song was perfect for its time and still holds up today as one of the best alternative songs of all time, so please do yourself a favor and listen to the magic of Michael Hutchence and company as you are taken away on a journey into the human mind.
With December and the winter finally here it’s easy to fall victim to the gloomy days and let it consume us. For that reason, I would like to shine the spotlight on a fun and lighthearted song by one of the most influential British rock bands, The Police. The band is nothing short of legendary, being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2003 along with winning a multitude of awards for their contributions to music. The Police are unique due to their sound that blends jazz, rock and punk seamlessly. Released on Oct. 3, 1980, Zenyatta Mondetta includes classics such as “Don’t Stand So Close To Me” and “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da.” The standout for me off the album is the fourth track, “Canary In A Coalmine.”
Wasting no time, The Police open with a smooth guitar lick accompanied by a quick shout from lead singer Sting and some drums to help set the tone. Everything in the track has such a groove that listeners can’t help but be enthralled by the magic coming from The Police. After 14 seconds of jamming alongside a jumpy guitar, Sting opens:
“First to fall over when the atmosphere is less than perfect /
Your sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect /
You live your life like a canary in a coalmine /
You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line /
You say you want to spend the winter in Firenza /
You’re so afraid to catch a dose of influenza /
You live your life like a canary in a coalmine /
You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line.”
What does any of this mean? Well, after doing some research, the canary bird was often used in coal mines alongside workers to help detect carbon monoxide or any other dangerous toxins. The miners would find that if the canary died or began to fly out, it was time to follow, or they too would fall victim to the toxins. The Police are telling us a story of someone who is too afraid to just live their own life. The person described in this song is someone who is always the first person to leave and always afraid of disaster striking. I believe there is a lot to take away from that. How many times have you held yourself back from doing something because you were anxious something terrible would happen? How long was it until you finally said, “Screw it,” and just did it? Whenever we just dive straight in, we often find these are some of the most fulfilling experiences that we will ever have in life. Instead of being so afraid to do things, strive to do everything you can, and live your life to the fullest because you don’t want to look back and see you were a “Canary In A Coalmine.”
“Rumble” is the only instrumental track ever banned from U.S. radio. Officials feared that the track would incite riots, that it would bring about broken glass and drawn knives, that it would give the youth a flame with which to burn down cities.
Thankfully, things have changed, right? This isn’t 1958: Surely, our modern age wouldn’t be rife with calls to ban music, books, movies and other media — we are more enlightened now. We don’t blacklist people for giving their voice to the oppressed. We’ve learned from the Red Scare. We’ve learned from the aughts and their hysteric, xenophobic post-9/11 waves. How could we possibly make the same mistakes again?
Link Wray, the central mind behind “Rumble,” saw these mistakes pile up for his entire life. Wray, the son of a Shawnee mother, was forced to hide from the Ku Klux Klan in his younger years, and his family lived in a constant state of financial hardship. As Wray put it, “Elvis, he grew up white-man poor. I was growing up Shawnee poor.”
Wray lived with vocal and hearing issues, but his guitar spoke with greater fervor than most gifted orators ever could. It spoke to everyone who had ever taken a suckerpunch — whether literal, economic or social — and yanked them up from the bloodied ground. In each strum, there was a reason for the listener to jump back on their feet. In each distorted wobble, there was a reason to fight back.
Again, why was “Rumble” banned? The title alone was an instigator, claimed officials. But beyond the title, anyone could hear the rebellion in this instrumental. To the domineers of 1950s America, the sound of rebellion was a sound that needed to be silenced. And it seems that the sound of rebellion remains such a target today.
In 2023, Native American protestors are charged for protesting oil pipelines. Women are denied basic healthcare rights. LGBTQ+ books are stolen from libraries. Histories of the oppressed are barred from school curriculums. Employees lose their jobs after voicing support for Palestine.
Much has changed since the studio version of “Rumble” released in 1958, but still, much needs to change. Whirling between blood-soaked lines in the 21st century’s often-terrifying soundscape, the sounds of rebellion still hold a place. At times, they need to force their own place.
The oppressed spoke loudly in the 1950s, and only then could they find some semblance of peace. The oppressed speak just as loudly now, and they deserve that same peace. Open your ears and hear them — truly hear them. They speak through images, songs, films, essays. At times, they speak simply by staying alive.
In the spirit of “Rumble” and all it represents, hear them.
What I would consider to be the catchiest song ever written about crystal meth addiction came out 26 years ago as the first single of Third Eye Blind’s debut self-titled album. “Semi-Charmed Life” is absurdly catchy, opening with doo-doo-doo-doo’s in an almost One Direction-ish fashion. The upbeat pop-rock melody is juxtaposed with unexpectedly dark lyrics, telling the story of a relationship tainted by addiction.
“Semi-Charmed Life” was released in February 1997 and hit the Billboard Hot 100 in July of that year, debuting at 17. It peaked at number 4, spending a total of 43 weeks on the chart. The song had similar success on other charts, and it won a Billboard Music Award for Best Modern Rock Track. Notably, Dave Grohl of Nirvana and Foo-Fighters was once asked by Spin Magazine what ‘97 lyric he wished he had written, and he answered with the refrain of “Semi-Charmed Life.”
Despite the dark undertones, I firmly believe now is the time to listen to the alt-rock/power pop hits of the ‘90s and 2000s before summer is officially over. I’ll leave you with one of the few sweet lines in a song that is mostly a discussion of meth:
“I believe in the sand beneath my toes /
The beach gives a feeling, an earthy feeling /
I believe in the faith that grows.”
Whenever the sun manages to chase away the clouds and emerge from the gloom, I get the impulsive urge to beam. The rays lift my arms and legs like the strings of a puppet, and I skip and smile like nothing has ever hurt me. I’m a kid again, every color looks saturated, my music is turned up to full blast and I joyfully swing my arms, a little bound with every step. Michigan is dreary and dull for what seems like 80% of the year, and I live every gloomy day in anticipation for the next sunny one. I find that my music reflects this, most of my playlists longing and stupidly disheartening. But every once in a while I indulge myself in a gem like “Across the Universe” by Fiona Apple, like sweet strawberry sorbet dribbling down my chin to pair with my magnificently sunny days.
The song, originally written by John Lennon and performed by the Beatles for their final album, Let It Be, was covered by Fiona Apple in 1998 for the Plainville movie soundtrack. As a highly biased and unapologetic Fiona Apple devotee, I wholeheartedly believe that her version is better than the original. John Lennon himself said the song was not done justice; he was out of tune, and it was recorded hurriedly amidst the tensions within the band. It’s such a beautiful thing to take something that was unfinished and give it new light, and that’s exactly what Fiona Apple did nearly 30 years later.
The song starts with a jaunty guitar, which brings to memory warm days at summer camp, circled around a campfire while some counselor strums their guitar amidst the chatter of children. The tune and beat of the drum have this way about them, like if I played the song loud enough with the speakers tilted towards the heavens, that the clouds would part just so the sun could hear it. This song simultaneously depicts everything I am and the opposite of me. The lyrics describe these intense waves of feeling which I know all too well:
“Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind /
Possessing and caressing me.”
I get this feeling a lot of the time that my emotions are too big for my mind to hold. They linger in my brain like abandoned pools, and when the pools overflow, they tumble out like the all-consuming waves of a tsunami. But Fiona is like a friend, clasping my hands within hers, letting me rest my head on her shoulder and reminding me that:
“Nothing’s gonna change my world /
Jai guru deva.”
I remember listening to this song for the first time, and hearing that line, “Jai guru deva om.” I called my mom, and she reflected on her childhood, reminiscing on the times when the saying was repeated by her teachers and parents. It was used as a greeting, farewell, mantra and blessing. The literal translation from Sanskrit is “Glory to the shining remover of darkness.” There is lore surrounding the original lyric in the Beatles song, but within the context of the song I think it takes on a much purer meaning. The mantra repeats in reassurance that the world is big, and nothing really matters. But at the same time, every little thing has meaning and we should be hopeful and eternally grateful to everything that has made us who we are.
The song “Across the Universe” at its very core, is a song about the human experience. Each one of our little bodies are tasked with the eternal dilemmas that are our emotions, mortality and the concept of the ever-expanding universe we call home. It’s a terrifying concept at first, that nothing matters in the grand scheme of things, but our individual lives aren’t “grand schemes.” The years that each of us frolic on this earth, we are the center of our own universe. Our circles of friends and family orbit around us with love, and everything we do holds its own personal meaning. The universe is large but we still matter within it. The sun still shows her love 93.493 million miles away from me, by turning my shoulders pink in the summertime.
Every summer I end up returning to playlists compiled years ago that make me feel like I’m a part of a coming-of-age movie with terrible acting but a killer soundtrack that can never escape from my mind.
“Romance is Boring,” off of the Los Campesinos! album sharing the same name, was released in 2010 and describes a couple utterly unhappy with the relationship they have created for themselves.
The couple is in a standstill relationship because they did not know what they were getting into.
One character is upset because they were expecting more; they want romance, and they want to be excited.
The other character is the narrator who does not think romance is worth the effort, so they refuse to put in any work to make their partner happy.
This is even further described in the music video for this track. While time appears to be looping, the first character grows more distressed and begins to cry, while their partner is uninterested in and growing irritated at their cries.
“You’re pouting in your sleep, I’m waking, still yawning /
We’re proving to each other that romance is boring /
Sure, there are things I could do if I was half-prepared to /
Prove to each other that romance is boring.”
The dynamic of the characters in this song, although incredibly unhealthy, allows the singers of Los Campesinos! to throw lyrics back and forth at eachother like an argument to further the immersion into the storyline they have created.
The bridge goes on to reference “The Theologian’s Tale,” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to describe how their meeting was just by chance and how the two of them should never have started a relationship with very different goals in mind.
“We are two ships that pass in the night /
You and I, we are nothing alike /
I am a pleasure cruise, you are gone out to trawl /
Return nets empty, nothing at all.”
This throwback is the perfect song to blare in the car and shamelessly play both characters and figure out your stance on romance and if it truly is all that boring.
Last Tuesday, legendary composer and soundsmith Ryuichi Sakamoto passed away at the age of 71. While Sakamoto is known in his own right through his prolific work as a soloist, some of his most enduring works come as a result of his membership in seminal electro-pop group Yellow Magic Orchestra. This is for good reason.
Before the scores he wrote for Brian De Palma, Bernardo Bertolucci and Pedro Almodovar, before countless underrated reinventions of new wave, trip-hop and funk, before the avant-garde segues into minimalism and ambient music, before the original compositions for cellphones and Olympic ceremonies, before a career of electro-pop so spidery and precise that it couldn’t be confused for anyone else’s handiwork, there is “Firecracker”: a singular, perfect pop song. Yet one of the most fascinating histories of this song is one of the most elusive: It’s actually a cover!
Released in 1959, American composer Martin Denny’s “Firecracker” is a song so chintzy and orientalist that hearing it today conjures horrific flashbacks to Mickey Rooney’s yellowface visage in Breakfast At Tiffany’s two years later. Denny was a godfather of “exotica,” a subgenre of lounge and pop music fueled by mid-century America’s fetishization of the South Pacific, East Asia and elsewhere. Music scholar Shuhei Hosokawa classified it as “a fantasy of travel” designed to relax listeners as they drifted off into an imagined paradise.
The plucky percussion and swooning bass strings of the original “Firecracker” feel like the soundtrack to an Elvis Goes to Japan movie that was never released, or perhaps an ill-advised bachelor party hosted by Justin Trudeau. As a random Rate Your Music user writes in a comment box for Denny’s Quiet Village, “if you [didn’t] yet have colour tv i can see this being hot stuff.”
Yellow Magic Orchestra’s flip of Denny’s song into an instant classic is one of electronic music’s great miracles. Sakamoto notably took humor at the song’s absurdly fake, stereotypical image and decided to do it one better by giving it even more gloss. Assisted by bandmates Haruomi Hosono and Yukihiro Takahashi, “Firecracker” crackles to life by mixing live drums, synthetic chirps and funky keys into an unstoppable groove. The chord progression from Denny’s original is unmistakable once you’ve heard it, but the new version adds spooky bridges, luxurious piano solos and a barrage of vintage synth work to make it a creature unto its own.
While “Firecracker” is very much a record of its time, its influence is profound. The song found an audience everywhere from Soul Train to the pop charts, cracking Top 20 in the UK, although merely cracking the Top 100 in the US. Synth-pop acts from Duran Duran to Gary Numan have claimed YMO as an influence, and you can hear the “Firecracker” wiggle in everything from Pet Shop Boys to Madonna.
Both Michael Jackson and Eric Clapton would go on to cover the band’s 1979 classic “Behind The Mask.” This legacy makes Yellow Magic Orchestra’s contributions just as relevant to electronic music’s early development as Kraftwerk and Giorgio Moroder’s contributions around the same time. Much like how Filipino fast-food chain Jollibee recently opened its first location in Spain, Denny’s imperial aspirations bear a delicious irony now that YMO’s “Firecracker” has endured far beyond his creation.
Pop history is frequently defined by moments of artistic appropriation, sometimes even vandalism. A sample of a Rolling Stones rearrangement has the power to turn a Britpop song into a classic three decades later. Countless disco and pop classics have been flipped into even better rap songs. At its worst, this zone of exchange can produce sonic war crimes, such as David Guetta and Bebe Rexha’s recent defilement of an Italian techno classic. At its best, you have triumphs of pop creativity: moments that transcend time, place and genre. “Firecracker” is one such moment. Although this would be far from the last time Sakamoto would master his medium, it showcases a magic touch that bears a dual understanding of both the warm and the robotic, the tacky and the sublime. This instinct is part of what makes Sakamoto one of modern music’s great masters, and it ensures a legacy that will last far beyond his passing.
Some songs are so deeply relevant and incredibly apt that they can kill two birds with one stone and become anthems of March, not only as an ode to the gray skies and endless repetitive days, but also to Women’s History Month!
Le Tigre’s “Much Finer” — a longtime favorite of mine — seems to fit oh so perfectly as a throwback to immerse oneself in women’s rights, and their wrongs. It is also perfect for dwelling in seasonal depression for the final weeks of winter.
“Much Finer” was released on Oct. 16, 2001, as part of Le Tigre’s sophomore album, Feminist Sweepstakes. “Much Finer” is an upbeat, danceable window into frontwoman Kathleen Hanna’s struggles with depression and Lyme disease.
Hanna talk-sings the chorus:
“Do you want to stay in bed all day? (Yeah) /
Do you remember feeling any other way? (No).”
Hanna, throughout her career, has always had an uncanny ability to encapsulate the feelings of girlhood in their purest form, and with “Much Finer,” she’s also perfected my feelings as we enter April:
“I’ll make some coffee, put on some eyeliner /
I think I’ll find that things are fine /
And they’re gonna get much finer.”
The sun is out again.
During the stretch between early December and late January, I can’t say that I saw the sun for more than a minute at a time. But the clouds often looked crimson and Crown Royal purple when it would sneak below the horizon for an even greater darkness than we had before, and that held me over for a while. I also developed an appreciation for the nighttime’s oft-starless sky as a counter to the daytime: It seems that winter can somehow make light pollution comforting.
But now the sun is out again.
As the winds of springtime begin to cut deeper and deeper into 30 degree days, I’m glad to have some warmth on my skin. With this warmth comes a song that echoes from forgotten summer nights — those nights forgotten because, in essence, not much happened. But they were warm, and that was enough for me.
“Hello Stranger” by Michigan singer-songwriter Barbara Lewis happens to be the song reaching out from those nights, and it is working to restore those fragments lost, those dissipating faces and insignificant moments lost to the great Midwest winter. It is working to reinvigorate the connection between memory and love.
“Hello stranger /
It seems so good to see you back again.”
Whenever the sun returns from its cloud-covered hibernation, it is easy to think about the past. Resisting those thoughts can grow to be a greater weight than thought possible. But this year, I feel differently about the past. And I feel differently about memory itself, about warm skies, about love. “Hello Stranger” is with me in this, perhaps as a guide, perhaps as a backdrop for thoughts of summer. But regardless, Lewis’ gentle, longing croons and the almost-intoxicating comfort of an organ tip-toeing in the background leave me at peace.
When I listen to “Hello Stranger,” I think of a handheld radio that used to sit on a ping-pong table in my grandparents’ basement. I think of how I’d extend and retract its antenna over and over and over, how I’d randomly turn every knob on it to build a wall of noise anyone around me must have found unbearable, how I wish it were with me now and for the summer ahead.
I would like to hear “Hello Stranger” on that radio, hiding somewhere behind me so that I’d only hear it as a whisper, as a faint tingling on my skin along with a summer evening’s breeze.
I would think about love, then. And by association, memory. I’d think about love as a collection of old photos, as a pile of empty beer cans, as an old radio going unheard in a train’s blaring by. When I’ve thought about love recently, and how I hope to think about it when it’s 70 degrees outside, I’ve thought about it through memories — nothing but memories. Memories of 10 years ago, one year ago, one month ago, one week ago, one day ago. And I’ve only recently come to understand the true importance of taking and saving photographs. Mom and Dad, I’m sorry for complaining so much about photos in the past.
Perhaps this year, I’ll take more photographs than ever before. Of what, I’m not sure, but perhaps they’ll end up being nice to have. And perhaps I’ll stumble on a memory of this spring and summer somewhere down the line, memories sure to be laden with threads both somber and vibrant. I know what I’ll never forget from this year, but I’d also like to remember bright skies and verdant hills, a city’s worth of hugs, the sound of a river flowing calmly by and gentle laughter in the wind.
“How long has it been? /
Ooh, it seems like a mighty long time.”
“Swear to shake it up if you swear to listen,” writes Ryan Ross, formerly of Panic! at the Disco. In 2005, a young group of Las Vegas artists hit the music scene with their first album release — A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out. “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide Is Press Coverage” was the band’s first single. This underrated track is often overshadowed by the smash hit “I Write Sins Not Tragedies” off the same album.
The outrageously long title is a quote from Chuck Palahniuk’s novel Survivor. The band members were big fans of the Fight Club author, referencing Palahniuk’s work throughout the album. The song begins as the band beckons the audience not only to “snap your fingers for me,” but to “tap your toes to the beat,” underscoring the attention young artists want. The band is speaking directly to their audience throughout the entire song, introducing them not only to the sound of Panic! but to their public personas as well.
The band admits that the song is a rather pretentious introduction to the album because they had not accomplished anything yet. Blatantly revealing their need for recognition, Ross continues, “We’re still so young, desperate for attention.” The band members were only months out of high school by the time they were recording the album. They had been flung into the studio after lead guitarist Ryan Ross sent demos to Fall Out Boy’s Pete Wentz.
The most resonant lyric, “Swear to shake it up if you swear to listen,” is a cry out to the audience. Panic! really did “shake up” the music scene at this point. With A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out’s release, pop-punk became incredibly mainstream. They were pioneers of the early 2000s emo genre, even though they despised the title.
Just like the song alludes to, the press will say what they want to say and twist what they want to twist. Moreover, the band used influences that were rarely seen in the pop-punk scene at the time: The first half of the album has scattered electronic elements with use of synthesizers, while the second half includes baroque influences like organs. It was a creative and unique sound within the genre.
With Panic! at the Disco finally coming to an end this January, fans are left questioning if the band lived up to the promise they made with their first album. Panic! continued to shake up their sound, venturing into a Beatles-like sound for their sophomore album then progressing all the way to the pop-rock-Queen-cover-band sound of their newest album. Good or bad, the band definitely shook it up. Did you swear to listen?
What does a dream feel like? I don’t mean how does a dream make you feel after you’ve woken up: I mean how do you physically feel within your dream? How does it feel to touch something? Do you feel it at all?
I liken it to my leg falling asleep. I touch my leg with my finger. My finger feels my leg, but my leg doesn’t feel my finger. This is somewhat of a crude example, but it stands.
And now what if this was how you experienced life — this feeling washing over your body, mind and soul. The world touches you, but you don’t touch the world. You are awake and still dreaming.
“I wish I could get over this feeling of slipping under.”
Title Fight is in no way a stranger to depictions of sadness, loneliness and depression, yet there is something so salient about the lyricism of “Numb, But I Still Feel It.” Perhaps it is because the name of the track is so transparent about what the track will communicate: the contradictions inherent to the individual experience of sadness. On days that are hard to get through, I constantly struggle to reckon with what I know versus what I feel.
This internal dispute between knowledge and emotion is what perpetuates the dreamlike nature of existence that Title Fight is expressing here. I know that I exist in the world. I can affect my reality. I can make choices that affect my life. Where contradiction surfaces is in the acknowledgment of that reality while having the unshakeable, oppressive feeling that you exist at the whim of the world. Despite any efforts, you are a passive occupant in the universe incapable of living in it with agency. Things happen to you instead of you happening to them. The world touches you, but you don’t touch the world.
“I talk but no one listens /
Can’t make my own decisions.”
Talking with no one listening; decisions you make that aren’t your own; two directly opposing forces coexisting at once, in the same place, at the same time: Describing these feelings in words feels self-defeating. How can I sensibly convey a feeling which, by its very nature, is not sensible?
“Numb, but I still feel it crawling under my skin.”
If you’re numb, how do you feel? If you feel, how are you numb? Back and forth it goes forever, a cycle that keeps me in a syntactic stasis.
“I threw it all away /
But it still stays the same.”
Does this make sense to you? Does it even have to? After all, it doesn’t matter if a dream makes sense: It only matters how it feels.
“Every day I lie asleep /
Trying to wake up from this dream.”
When one thinks of music from the ‘90s, one of the first genres that come to mind is grunge. Nirvana had completely changed the cultural landscape with Nevermind, and made grunge a household name with “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The catchy, fast-paced nature of Nirvana’s hit album glossed over a subject that had proven, unfortunately, foundational for many of the bands at the time. That being substance abuse and addiction, specifically heroin. While Kurt Cobain was relatively open about his relationship with drugs, it was rarely the forefront of Nirvana’s music, instead appearing as just a personal vice of the band’s frontman. However, there must always be yin to yang. While Nirvana was trying to distance themselves from the topic of drug abuse in the public eye, Alice In Chains was fully embracing it and making it a core part of the band’s identity.
Alice In Chains was doing something very different by embracing the unspoken devil of the grunge movement. Instead of dancing around the subject, they were incorporating it into their lyrics and using it as a creative tool for writing their music. This led to the creation of some of the grittiest and visceral music of the era. Their album Facelift would catapult them into the mainstream, marking the scene’s hunger for a darker subject matter that sadly hit close to home for many of the listeners.
The band’s creative prowess and popularity wouldn’t peak until the release of Dirt, possibly one of the most influential rock albums of all time. Songs like “Rooster” and “Them Bones” crawled their way onto radio stations across the worlds, giving the public listeners a taste for blood that was only sated by the lyrical prowess and haunting voice of singer Layne Staley. One track on this album stood far and away as the magnum opus of the band, exemplifying both the talent and genius of all members of Alice In Chains, and solidifying them as one of the greatest grunge bands of all time. Originally written as a tribute to Mother Love Bones lead singer Andrew Wood, who had tragically died of a heroin overdose years prior, “Would?” brings every part of what made Alice In Chains so influential and puts it into one neat package.
Opening with quite possibly one of the most notable bass lines in rock history, the listener is immediately transported into a hellish landscape where all hope is gone. Guitarist Jerry Cantrell’s voice quickly enters the mix, with Staley’s ghastly vocals echoing over Cantrell’s opening lyrics that would foretell Staley’s own fall from grace.
“Know me broken /
by my master /
Teach thee on child /
Love hereafter.”
A panicked drum beat meets a rising guitar as Staley’s gnarled voice claws its way onto the scene, breaking the listener out of the hypnotic trance caused by the instrumentals. The band comes together into a cacophony of noise that can’t seem to overpower Staley’s anguished cries. Cantrell’s otherworldly guitar riff fades in and out while tribal beats slam over an inverted version of the opening bassline, creating a haunting vessel for the chorus to ride upon. The chorus itself tells a story of addiction, judgment and hopelessness, common themes in many of the band’s songs.
“Into the flood again /
Same old trip it was back then /
So I made a big mistake /
Try to see it once my way.”
After the chorus, we’re returned to the familiar soundscape of the pre-chorus. Cantrell’s soothing voice returns, creating a moment to recuperate before the inevitable return of Staley’s anguished cries. The lyrics this time around create an image of an addict who’s not quite ready to quit, instead thinking that their only function is to further feed their addiction.
“Drifting body /
Sole desertion /
Flying not yet /
Quite the notion.”
The instrumentals and chorus once again burst back into the fray, creating the feeling of a cycle that is impossible to break. A short guitar solo breaks out, a welcome break from the pounding repetition of the chorus and the overwhelming lyrics of Staley. The chorus comes back around one last time, more powerful than ever. Finally, we’re brought to the song’s peak, with Cantrell’s powerful guitar chugging and Sean Kinney’s mesmerizing drumbeats ride alongside Staley’s desperate shouts.
“Am I wrong? /
Have I run too far to get home? /
Have I gone? /
And left you here alone?”
The vocals once again become the forefront as all instrumentals stop their rhythm in order to strike alongside Staley’s final line, branding the searing pain of uncertainty into the listeners mind in the form of an open-ended question.
“If I would, could you?”
The rise of most new genres of music are usually spearheaded by a handful of bands who best represent the sound being established. This is especially true for the grunge movement. However, one thing that the grunge bands of Seattle had that not many new genres did was a linking friendship between almost all members of all major bands on the scene. Andrew Wood, lead singer of Mother Love Bone, is generally seen as one of the forefathers of grunge. Wood was close friends with members of Soundgarden, Alice In Chains, and the yet-to-be-founded Pearl Jam, so his death was especially impactful as the Seattle music scene had just begun to attract commercial attention.
Wood’s death would hit Soundgarden lead singer Chris Cornell especially hard, as the two had been roommates and good friends throughout the ‘80s. This led to the creation of Temple Of The Dog, a Seattle supergroup named after a line from the Mother Love Bone song “Man of Golden Words.” Composed of Chris Cornell and future members of Pearl Jam Mike McReady, Eddie Vedder, Matt Cameron, Jeff Ament and Stone Gossard, they would cement themselves as one of the greatest rock supergroups of all time through the many amazing songs found on the album. Among them was “Say Hello 2 Heaven,” which was written by Cornell shortly after Wood’s death while touring in Europe. The song is notable for being one of Cornell’s most pointed, abandoning his usual vague lyrical style in favor of a more direct tribute to Wood.
An ethereal guitar introduction opens the song, followed by the rhythm guitar and drums following up with a quick burst before being overtaken by Cornell’s voice. The opening lyrics are sung from both Wood’s and Cornell’s point of view, with Wood’s sections lamenting the pain of life and Cornell’s bouncing between frustration and the deep sadness he harbors towards his friend’s circumstances.
“The words never listen /
And teachers, oh, they never learn /
My warmth from the candle /
Though I feel too cold to burn /
He came from an island /
Then he died from the street /
And he hurt so bad like a soul breakin’ /
But he never said nothin’ to me, yeah.”
The chorus begins, with the loudness of the first section being brought down in line with Cornell’s relaxed voice, calmly echoing “say hello to heaven” before returning back to his feelings towards his good friend’s death. While the second verse lacks the interesting perspectives of the first, it’s used as a sort of warning for anyone on a similar path. The line “seems like too much love is never enough, yeah / you better seek out another road, cause this one is ending abrupt” encapsulates it perfectly, as even the purest of us can be destroyed by the addictions that plagued so many of the musicians in the ‘90s.
The third verse is by far the most impactful of the whole song, as Cornell’s frustration apparent in the rest of the song fades away to nothing but a longing to see his good friend one more time. The instruments echo this sentiment, preparing a slight return to the dream-like state found in the introduction of the song. The lyrics found here are perhaps some of the most grief laden in Cornell’s entire catalog, singing as if he was talking to Wood himself.
“I never wanted /
To write these words down for you /
With the pages of phrases /
Of all the things we’ll never do.”
The acceptance seems to beam through his lyrics, acknowledging his peace in the situation and his hope that wherever his friend is, it’s a better place than where he left. The imagery of Wood simply going to sleep seems to line up with the newfound peace of the situation; an elegant way for Cornell to finally say goodbye to his old friend.
“Hey, so I blow out the candle and I put you to bed /
Since you can’t say to me now /
How the dog broke your bone /
There’s just one thing left to be said.”
Finally, the chorus comes around for an explosive finish, as the instruments switch back from dreamy to a climax fit for the late grunge legend, all the while Cornell’s earth-shattering high notes finally come out as a final cry to his lost friend, piercing through the instrumentals and background vocals to bring his grief to the forefront once more before the songs end. The repetition in “say hello to heaven” almost takes on a different meaning this time around, seeming more like a command from Cornell for heaven to open the gates to Wood. Finally, as the dust settles the dreamy electric guitar from the very beginning of the song makes its way back as the outro, bringing a sense of somber peace where moments before there was frustration, melancholy and devastation.
After spending two years touring and recording an album in between tour stops, the Baltimorian duo of Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally, better known as Beach House, unveiled the lead single off of their fourth album, Bloom. This song, as well as the album, would solidify them as the best thing to come out of Baltimore since Old Bay. On March 7, 2012, the band unveiled “Myth” on their website. After the song’s release, dream pop would never be the same.
Prior to the release of their previous album, Teen Dream, dream pop and shoegaze were largely interchangeable. Acts like Slowdive, My Bloody Valentine and Lush were all described as dream pop artists at some point in their careers. Currently, the dream pop label has shifted away from the wall-of-noise and slightly abrasive style that dream pop artists from the ‘90s pioneered, to today’s style of soothing atmospheric sounds and reverb-drenched vocals, and we largely have Beach House to thank for this.
While the songs on Teen Dream have either a very fuzzy and soft bass or a reverb-drenched synthesizer driving the songs, “Myth” begins with a sandpaper-like shaker and cowbell that gives way to Scally’s reverb-laced guitar. The instrumental build up takes 46 seconds before Legrand rises above the beat, like a sailboat on the calm sea. Her voice still had the same husk to it, but somehow, there’s a level of hurt and heartbreak in her voice that didn’t peek out as much in Teen Dream. As a lead single to Bloom, “Myth” gave everything it needed to. While the song didn’t officially get released as the lead single until three weeks later, it helped to solidify them as a force in the world of dream pop.
Three days after the release of Bloom, on May 18, the duo performed the song on the Late Show with David Letterman. Their performance on the show helped the album find a wider audience. Letterman’s quip to Scally about him not wearing shoes during the performance of the song stuck with me ever since I found the clip of the performance on YouTube. In 2012, dream pop as a genre was still heavily tied to shoegaze. Teen Dream began to separate the two monikers, but it was Bloom and the duo’s follow up album, Depression Cherry, that firmly severed the two labels from each other. Much of what was considered dream pop at the time would nowadays be slotted into shoegaze. While I cannot confirm whether this is true or not, I speculate the shoeless performance was a nod to this, with him not wearing shoes being a symbolic rejection of the shoegaze label. Ultimately, I can only analyze this so much. The song helped to solidify them as a dream pop force.
“If you’d built yourself a myth, you’d know just what to give /
What comes after this momentary bliss /
The consequence of what you do to me.”
Beach House have always found a way to tie in mortality with their songs. “Myth” is just one of several examples. The song’s title could refer to any of the seemingly infinite number of myths that exist from religions and cultures around the world. There is no definite answer as to which myth it is.The fact that the myth could be anything from a tragic love story like Hero and Leander, or one with a happier ending like Iphis and Ianthe is one of a seemingly infinite number of reasons why the song has such a hold on so many people. Regardless of the reasons why, Beach House has touched so many lives, and with this one myth, the stories of our lives have been altered for the better.
There is a quote that’s been attributed to many greats in both comedy and music, but belongs to none that goes, “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” To attempt to describe the emotive effect of this song or even describe what it’s about would be futile. But to recognize its influence and staying power is necessary. This piece directly informed the western classical music canon for centuries, inspiring things in every genre from baroque pop to trap. Most artists would kill to have even one-tenth the staying power, and yet Bach has influenced millions for centuries with this piece he wrote to warm up on organ prior to his concertos.
For the curious, a toccata is a piece designed to highlight the performer’s virtuosity of keyboard style instruments. Toccatas often make use of large chords, rapid runs and high harmonies. And a fugue is a piece that introduces a melodic theme then is repeatedly integrated throughout, in this piece it’s the opening melody you may recognize from a certain vampire film.
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