Songs for October

Last spring, I ranked September #1 because it's both the thing itself and the anticipation of something greater; it's a consequence-free environment. You anticipate leaves changing. You track the cooler mornings. You wait for earlier nights. You settle in, meet up, and start the sprint. September's a furious opening act.

But October's the show. The leaves change, the nights come quickly, sweaters come out, mornings get brisk, Octoberfest lines the beer shelves. Every storyline from September's mad dash now has consequences. The plot thickens, the air thins.

If you love fall (and I do), then you live for October (and I d0).

Here now are 31 songs about change, songs written from the thick of it, songs golden then black, bright then fading, songs that sound like a skyline sunset and a world on fire. Here now:

31 Songs for October!

***Now with Clickable Playlist. Thanks Michael!

(Plus, iTunes' random pick.)
(Don't forget to comment and tell me your Songs for October.)

Green Day, "21st Century Breakdown"
The title track to the record because it sounds like the beginning and the end.

Band of Horses, "Islands on the Coast"
I'll be honest: I don't think Band of Horses are spectacular. I'm not sure they're great. But they do this very, very well.

Dropkick Murphys, "I'm Shipping Up to Boston"
What I imagine playoff season in New England sounds like...especially if Boston loses.

The Strokes, "Last Nite"
Consequences.

Teenage Fanclub, "About You"
Sometimes a band writes from a place nearing self-parody. Kings of Leon's anticipated single being "Sex on Fire." Bono singing about Jesus complexes. And Teenage Fanclub saying, "screw it, let's start every song with a ton of jangly guitars and layered harmonies and figure it out from there." Sometimes, you gotta double down.

Simon & Garfunkel, "Cecilia"
Consequences.

REM, "Me in Honey"
One of Stipes' strongest vocals, and one of his most honest lyrics. That's saying something.

Lucero, "San Francisco"
I pick this one with a caveat: their new record comes out October 6. It's possible 1372 Overton Park becomes my actual October Playlist.

Death Cab for Cutie, "No Sunlight"
Bright melody about fading innocence, complete with sunset imagery. It's a shoe-in.

The New Pornographers, "All the Old Showstoppers"
It sounds like October, and I have no clue why.

Belle & Sebastian, "If She Wants Me"
Consequences. Bonus points: rage has never been sung so sweetly.

Fountains of Wayne, "No Better Place"
Somehow, Fountains of Wayne have gone from "forgettable one-hit wonder" to "goofy popsters" to "sleeper favorite band" in a matter of months. They didn't change; I did.

My Morning Jacket, "Lay Low"
The song's beginning sounds like the start of a good night; its remarkable outtro sounds like the end of a bad night.

Daniel Johnston, "Devil Town"
I'd love to tell you I'm cool enough to know Daniel Johnston's entire catalog. I actually heard Bright Eyes' cover on Friday Night Lights. So, um, yeah.

Bob Dylan, "When the Ship Comes In"
He's singing about a day in the future, but he knows it's already come.

The Byrds, "Turn! Turn! Turn!"
If someone asked me what the quintessential sound of October is, I would say "jangly guitars, sun-kissed vocals, some cascading guitar melody, flat-wound bass, light percussion, and thick harmony, and lyrics about change." I would then point them to three songs. This is the first.

Bruce Springsteen, "The Rising"
Bruce is almost always good, and smart, and earnest, and goofy. Here, he's just good, and smart, and earnest.

Tom Petty, "Waiting Is the Hardest Part"
Ah, more great songs by aging goofball legends! If you said I could only take artist's catalog for the entire fall, I would take Petty without thinking. He's got a monopoly.

Led Zeppelin, "Ramble On"
Layup!

Bright Eyes, "Four Winds"
It's the fiddle. Something about fiddle feels autumnal to me. Savor the flavor, Bright Eyes fans.

Son Volt, "Drown"
Serious consequences can still sound cheery.

Pearl Jam, "Breath"
Specific memories here--let's move on!

Kings of Leon, "Notion"
This is #2 on the aforementioned list (The Byrds' "Turn!" being #1). It might not be an amazing song, but it's an amazing sound. Grandeur, excitement, sadness, joy--it's all there.

David Gray, "Babylon"
Very much in the spirit of the season.

Counting Crows, "Butterfly in Reverse"
Specific memories attached to this one, and the whole production of Hard Candy feels autumnal to me. I always thought this song could've been written for a Disney flick, played in the background while wolfcubs frolicked. Cinematic and light-hearted.

Ryan Adams, "Cannonball Days"
Eight years later: where did this lyric come from? Jiminy. Without fall imagery, its story feels like October, helped by the acoustic-plus-organ arrangement.

Bumpercrop, "Burn Everything"
At some point, you have to slow down.

Wilco, "What Light"
If Sky Blue Sky sounds like a very sad fall, this is the hopeful exception to the rule.

Pawtuckets, "Old Fashioned Way"
It sounds like the last sunset of the year.

Gin Blossoms, "Til I Hear It From You"
And here's #3. Two songs inspired me to start Milam's Monthly Playlist:
1) REM's "Nightswimming" (August) and
2) Gin Blossoms' "Til I Hear It From You" (October)

This isn't my favorite song of all-time, although I love it. It's not the best song of all-time, though it's remarkable. It's not the prettiest song in history, though it has to be close. But this song, more than any other, puts me back in a specific time and place so easily, so powerfully, so consistently, it's almost hard to hear.

They say music, at its best, communicates something intangible, that some combination of sounds can transcend their parts and speak the language of our soul. It's a language we don't speak but instinctively understand. It can take you somewhere, and you don't know why, and you don't know how. You're in one place and your heart is immediately transported. It's why I love music, and it's why I love this song.

Alison Krauss & Gillian Welch, "I'll Fly Away"
Maybe it's memories of going home for Thanksgiving or traveling for fall break. Maybe it's the drives on football weekends through the mountains in East Tennessee. But something about subdued Americana has always felt like late fall to me. This song caps off one stage of fall and introduces the next. We're always moving.

And the iTunes Randomized Bonus Pick is...

Bruce Springsteen, "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out"
Ah, Goofy Bruce--we meet again!

What are your Songs for October? Hit up the comments and let me know!

Take advice from fools,
CM

Songs for June

Several months back, I described February as "the coldest, bleakest, grayest, quietest, ugliest, most depressing month of the year." Some months, for better or worse, are easily characterized. Some, like June, are not.

June isn't the in-between chapter of May, and it isn't the mid-summer constancy of July. It's summer, but not definitively. It's somewhere between the last season and your future plans. Late spring ushers in energy, anticipation, restlessness. By July, you've settle into a routine (maybe in a new place, maybe in a summer destination, maybe some makeshift vacation, etc.). But June is the summer's pliant middleground. It is, simply, whatever the hell you want it to be.

If you're like me, it can (and will be) nearly anything, so long as it doesn't let up.

Here now are thirty songs of heat and wind, downshifting and sidewinding wherever they want, going--fast--without any particular destination in mind. Here, now, are:

30 Songs for June!

(Note: I'm actually doing 31 songs. I'm trying a new trick where I let my iTunes randomly pick a song from my entire musical library and see if I can't make its case. The iTunes Pick will come at the end.)

(Note #2: No iMeem playlist this month, because iMeem's changed what can and can't be added to a playlist. I'll have a playlist handy when I find a new platform, or when The Man is finally defeated. Whichever comes first. Meantime, just search on Songza.)

(Note #3: Don't forget to comment below and give me your Songs for June!)

Jack White, "Great High Mountain"
Because every trip's gotta start somewhere. This song sounds like a lazy river that refuses to pick up speed.

Green Day, "Holiday"
And, just like that, we've kicked it into fourth gear.
(Side note: After I get several listens, I'll post a review of the new Green Day record. For now, I'll say that if it had come out before my March Madness series, Green Day might've gone even further.)

The Hold Steady, "Constructive Summer"
It's interesting to me that the Hold Steady see summer as a time of productivity and self-improvement. For me, that's fall. Either way, the song's so chock-full of energy and earnest optimism, I'm sold.


The Who, "Can't Explain"
Long before the rockoperas and doublealbumepics, The Who proved that simple can be great, too.

Bob Dylan & The Band, "Apple Suckling Tree"
June, done right, is a gorgeous mess. "Apple Suckling Tree" is one of the finest, messy, basement jams in American music--still true to its foundation, but made better by its deviations.

The Beatles, "And Your Bird Can Sing"
The middle-Beatles statement: yes, we still harmonize better than the Byrds; yes, we still roll better than the Stones; and yes, we still like Buddy Holly better than the rest of you chumps. The sound alone matches the month, but I love it for John's biting-but-never-malicious lyric.

Lucero, "She's Just That Kind of Girl"
Here's hoping that the new Lucero has plenty more of wherever this came from.

White Stripes, "Forever For Her (Is Over For Me)"
Mr. White makes his second appearance with something of an autobiographical pick. This record came out in the summer and I have inescapable June-related memories attached to this tune. It'll always remind me of the summer after graduation, after moving back to Memphis, before moving back to Nashville, driving for hours in the steamroom air, stuck to the driver's seat, always at a red-light, not quite in the past, never near the future.

MGMT, "Electric Feel"
The lone "summer-song" on a record full of bizarre, coldweather music. Through all the swirling, multi-track, instrumental confusion, it's a glorified dance record. And a good one, at that.

Wilco, "Say You Miss Me Too"
Because it's too early to admit it, but you're already missing whatever you said goodbye to in May.

Cory Branan, "Tame"
Something about that dry, warm guitar tone sounds lonely, bemused, and a little evil to me. Like most of Branan's best songs.

Led Zeppelin, "Going to California"
Because at some point, you need a destination. Also, bonus points for the vocal delivery of "telling myself it's not as hard as it seems." If Plant ever had a finer moment, I haven't heard it.

Smokey Robinson, "Ohh Baby Baby"
To be honest, I have no idea. I can't stop listening to this song.


Beta Band, "Dry the Rain"
"I will now sell five copies of The Three EPs by The Beta Band."
"Go for it."

Rolling Stones, "I Just Wanna See His Face"
One of rock's finest interludes, it stumbles and plods along surreptitiously, like it's repositioning itself for a counterattack and doesn't want you to notice. A perfect song for the middle of the month, when you're road-weary and sunburnt and dehydrated and time-blurred.

Lyle Lovett, "LA County"
The checklist for a great Lyle Lovett song:
--Perfect for driving? Check.
--Simple and immediately likable? Check.
--Weirder and scarier the more closely you listen? Check.

The Thrills, "Big Sur"
As with May, songs about California are a motif. Not necessarily for the destination itself, but for the idea of a place at the end of the road, a place that might provide some respite. Or, with any luck, a place that won't.

Paul Simon, "Gumboots"
I appropriately rediscovered Graceland recently when I raided the Brother's record collection. I say "appropriately" because I can't hear this album outside the summer. I'm pretty sure it's illegal. Anyway, a classic Paul Simon song that makes little-to-no sense, makes you resent him for pulling it off by being "quirky" and "suggestive," and makes you like it because its one cohesive moment ("You don't feel you could love me...") somehow delivers. Sometimes the melody's all that matters.

Tinted Windows, "Nothing To Me"
You're damn right I put Taylor Hanson on the playlist. Seriously, listen to this song, then chalk up yet another contemporary band referencing Big Star to great affect.


Phantom Planet, "Hey Now Girl"
Speaking of Big Star disciples...

Son Volt, "Drown"
Alt-country's biggest hit in the mid-90's, and the only Son Volt song that I always want to hear. Bonus points for being one of the greatest Mix Transition Songs of all-time (i.e., no matter where you put this song on a mix, it will make for a great transition.)

Ryan Adams, "So Alive"
Bypass the monotonous verses and the occasional falsetto: it's the hook that matters, and the energy of the season. Windows down, speed up. Watch it go.

Kings of Leon, "Ragoo"
Because maybe somewhere in the meandering and philandering month you met a girl that caught you off-guard. And maybe that's all KOL write about.

Wilco & Billy Bragg, "Secrets of the Sea"
Some of Mermaid Avenue's (the double album of Woody Guthrie songs Wilco and Billy Bragg adapted) best takes are the ones that don't stay true to Guthrie at all. A great song's a great song, and Woody doesn't have to sound like Woody for his songs to be great.

Buddy Holly, "Not Fade Away"
One of the best bootlegs I've ever heard is from a Bob Dylan concert several years ago. He and the band close the show with a breathtaking, retooled, fully orchestrated version of "Not Fade Away." But for June, I prefer Holly's original: raw, vulnerable, bouncy, and streamlined. He says what he says, and he's gone as quick as he came.
***Bonus points for one of the best opening lines in rock history: "I'm gonna tell you how it's gonna be/you're gonna give your love to me."


Beach Boys, "Don't Worry Baby"
You knew it was coming.

Pearl Jam, "Parachutes"
Exhibit Q in the ongoing Case for Stone Gossard; I can't think of a guitarist/songwriter who can do more things well, and make all of them look effortless. Also, some autobiographical June-heavy connections to this song.

Jimmy Cliff, "The Harder They Come"
Because the rest of the year you very, very slowly forget how great he is. Because it's warm-weather music. Because when June comes around you dust him off and hit play. Because he never fails, in that moment, to completely knock you out.

Tom Petty, "Mind With a Heart of Its Own"
I don't know who wrote this song first: Tom Petty, or U2 when they called it "Desire." Frankly, I don't care. Always moving, occasionally without direction, it's quintessential June music.

My Morning Jacket, "Phone Went West"
It's a song that tells a story and foreshadows its own bittersweet conclusion. We can't see the end yet, but we know where it's going. By the end of June, I usually do, too.

And now....the Bonus Pick! I'm going to let iTunes randomly select a Song for June. Let's see what the machine thinks.

Drumroll....

Johnnie Taylor, "Somebody's Sleeping In My Bed"
You've gotta be kidding me. I've been doing this for four months. I just spent the last two hours compiling a list of Songs for June. Songs about leaving something/someone behind. Songs about the journey and an unknown destination. Songs that sound like urgency, like movement, like fierce, misguided energy.

I do all of that, and iTunes picks THE PERFECT SONG about what's happening back home, what's going on while you're away. It picked the one song that tells the other half of the story.

I quit. Til next month.

But...WHAT ARE YOUR SONGS FOR JUNE?

That's a bad thing to say but it's the truth,
CM

Somebody Scream

Sometimes it's too much. Sometimes it's too frustrating, too exhilarating, too much to contain. Sometimes words won't do, and it bubbles up from your chest and explodes from your lungs, then out your mouth like a cannonball. Sometimes it's wordless. Sometimes it's the guttural, purist form of one right word.

Sometimes you gotta scream, Blogworld.

Here now, in an alternative to YouTube Wednesday, is a list of Rock's Greatest Screams.

This list is by no means comprehensive, just several of my favorite screams in the history of pop/rock. Join in and let me know your favorites, and what I'm missing out on!

Rock's Greatest Screams!

The Beatles, "Long Tall Sally" (0:32)
In later years, Paul's rockabilly remixes were a sincerely schlocky form of flattery, but the Beatles' early covers are some of the best we have, and some of Paul's sharpest vocals. Little Richard's original is controlled chaos, wonderful and exuberant and unpredictable; the Beatles' cover is a glorified riot, pushing the song as high and as fast as it can go. Paul's up to the challenge. It's his scream leading into the first solo that marks the song's first departure from the original: Paul simply can't help himself. He's having too much fun. What follows is a sound of pure, unbridled joy. Late "rocker" vocals by Paul would be endearing self-parodies. But in this scream you can hear what made the Beatles THE BEATLES: before the hits, the American invasion, the hoopla, and the superstardom, they were four consummate musicians who loved playing rock music.

Radiohead, "Stop Whispering" (4:38)
I can't find the original Pablo Honey version in its entirety, so please enjoy the edited YouTube clip and iTune the song. Even without its climactic scream (at 4:38 on the actual record), "Stop Whispering" would still be one of Thom Yorke's hallmark vocal performances. His strength and control at the top of his vocal register would inspire hundreds of imitators in the next decade, most of them doomed to falsetto-laden antiheroics. At each refrain, Yorke sings "stop whispering/start shouting" at a delicate volume; as a listener you realize that, for the song to fulfill its promise, Yorke himself must shout at some point. The scream comes in the last refrain, but what makes it special is that it starts normally. Throughout the sustained note of "shoooout," Yorke gradually turns the normal note into a scream. You can actually hear--second by second--his vocal chords tearing themselves loose. It's a remarkable moment, and I've never heard anything else quite like it.

Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" (2:43)
The scream in "Whole Lotta Love" is really a duet: in the song's unabashedly sexual breakdown, Plant and Page play off each other, calling and responding to each other's squeals, yelps, yells, and screams. There's no single legendary, sustained, primal call here--just a thrilling, spontaneous duet between the guitarist and singer, each pushing each other toward climax.

(Side note: I'm not an unconditional lover of Robert Plant. Zeppelin, at their best, were amazing blues improvisors and inventors. Unfortunately--and understandably--what we get on record wasn't always their best. Plant's work on Zeppelin I and Houses of the Holy are sometimes hard for me to hear, often bringing moments of masturbatory histrionics without anything truly new, or exciting, or memorable--like the breakdown in "Whole Lotta Love." To me, Robert Plant was a talent; Jimmy Page was The Talent.)

Pearl Jam, "Blood" (1:03)
In one of the most vulnerable vocals of the 90's, Vedder is audibly desperate, pained, and clawing his way out of it. The entire song features a screaming refrain ("It's my blooooood"), but at 1:03 the band drops out and let's Eddie's single, sustained scream do all the talking for them. In terms of sheer supernatural power, length, and violence, it's possibly rock's greatest scream. After eleven seconds of blood-curdling magic, perhaps the greatest (and most impressive) vocal moment is what comes next: a couplet sung in a pure, gentle, nearly-whispered style--a smooth, wholly unaffected vocal tone. No human should be able to follow that scream with that sound.

Nirvana, "Tourette's" (All)
The whole thing is such a blatant kiss-off, you can practically hear Cobain daring the mall-queens to like this. A moment of fearless punk on an album of iconic pop/rock.

The Who, "Won't Get Fooled Again" (7:44)
There's a reason this is an easy answer: it really is that great. Within the context of the song--an epic rock saga almost symphonic its phases--Daltrey's scream at the 7:44 mark means everything. It means more than the instrumental section it ends, more than the verses and choruses and bridges it succeeds, more than the outtro it catalyzes. Depending on the time of day or season or year, it could sound like the end of times, or a new beginning, a triumph or a downfall, victory or defeat. If rock at its best and purest is a wordless expression of freedom, then let Roger Daltrey's scream at 7:44 be one of rock's landmark moments. It is, above all else, free.

***And a Special Bonus! Rock's Worst Scream:
Switchfoot, "Meant to Live" (2:37)
There is a difference between singing and screaming, and there is a difference between yelling and screaming, and this is somehow none of the three. He clearly got to the mic and didn't have a clue which of the three he wanted to do. He should've yelled, because he can't sing there, and the song lacks the anger or believable joy to merit a legitimate scream. What we get instead is one of rock's biggest vocal abortions. This is what it sounds like when a man can't get it up. This is the sound of Man, Failing.

(Side note: I actually enjoy the song as a guilty pleasure. But this scream is unspeakably bad.)

What are your favorite screams? What am I missing? Hit up the comments and yell at me!

I tip my hat,
CM

Rainy Day Music, #1 Through 15

Which is worse, going to a bad party you expected to be bad, or going to a miserable party you expected to be good? Say:

1) An office crawfish boil in a parking lot, in August, in Houston. The heat's insane, the conversation's stuffier than the air, everyone's sweating like stuck pigs and looking like hell. But, you know, it's only an hour, and crawfish are tasty.

OR

2) A friend's holiday party, where he promises a bounty of gold, myrrh, unattached women, delicious adult beverages, presents, cheer, merriment, probably a guest appearance by Blitzen, and snuggly fireside chats with aforementioned women and beverages. In reality, the only single woman is his in-law, the gifts exchanged are those of "awkward silences" and "passive aggression" and the adult beverage is, you know, spritzer-inspired.

So, guess which one is the weather in February and which one is March.

Last Friday I basked in the glory of sunshine and daffodils, Bradford pears and joy. Girls in Sundresses were on parade past my house. I played badminton in a meadow with bears and bees alike. I rented a convertible for a day so I could put the top down, drive around the neighborhood, and wash other peoples' cars in slow motion to the tune of Joe Satriani's "Summer Song."

Today, I write you from what can only be described as a "cave of ice and despair," wearing a beige parka and golashes and a frown, wind and freezing rain pelting my iglooroof, a constant rapping that sounds like death itself knocking on my door, thinking only "this must be what Russia feels like," and "pass the gruel," and "do polar bears play badmin--ahh, what's the use?"

In the words of Denny Green..."March, you are what we thought you were!"

All this to say, it's raining water and sadness, so how about a few musical recommendations to suit the horrific weather? Here now, a few of my favorite...

Songs About Rain!

(***NOTE: You can hear the "Songs About Rain" playlist on the right sidebar..enjoy!)

"Stormy Weather," Etta James/Reigning Sound
"Stormy Weather" is something of a standard, covered by everyone from Miss James to cult punk heroes the Reigning Sound. It's a terrificly versatile song, equally convincing as a crooner or as a rocker.

"I Can't Stand the Rain," Albert King
Another oft-covered tune (most famously sampled by Missy Elliot for "Supafly"), Albert King's version is penned-up and punchy, full of frustrated energy and a terrific vocal.

"Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," Burt Bacharach
If for no other reason than its involvement with Butch Cassidy.

"Red Rain," White Stripes
One of White's most Zeppelin-derivative songs, from the major-minor interplay to the slide guitar to the screeching-t0-a-breaking-point vocal. After "My Doorbell," this might is my favorite track from Get Behind Me Satan. I've included a live performance on the iMeem playlist, since iMeem inexplicably didn't have the album version handy.

"I Wish It Would Rain," Temptations
Not much to say here I haven't said before. Some of the smartest and most effective background vocals I've ever heard.

"Rain," John Lennon
Not the best song John ever wrote, but it sounds like the best song Teenage Fanclub never wrote. Plus sitar. Good enough for me.

"Buckets of Rain," Bob Dylan
"Rainy Day Women" and "Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" are less about rain and more about, well, everything else, but "Buckets" is in our wheelhouse. Proof that Dylan does "simple and lovely" as well as he ever did "epic and complex."

"Sit and Listen to the Rain," Whiskeytown
There is a time and a place for a 4-minute song that sounds like a monotonous rainfall. That time is now, that place is here.

"Rainy Day, Dream Away," Jimi Hendrix
Hendrix often tried to approximate the sound of water/rain, most successfully on "May This Be Love?" Here, he goes in the opposite direction with a song that's neither water-logged or dream-like. The result is one of his best.

"Who'll Stop the Rain," Creedence Clearwater Revival
John Fogerty wrote three melodies in his life. This was one of them. It's my favorite.

"Fool in the Rain," Led Zeppelin
Like Hendrix, Zeppelin liked to juxtapose a sad lyric with an upbeat song. "Fool in the Rain" is one of their tightest, most listenable compositions. It feels perfect from its first second to its last. Naturally, it's not listed on iMeem, so the playlist has Zeppelin's "Rain Song" instead.

"Tell It to the Rain," Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons
For all their sentimentality and superficial sheen, some of the goofier oldies sound as real to me as anything. There's a lot of truth beneath the gloss.


"Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain," Willie Nelson
A classic song, but an even better vocal. It's astonishing.

"Raining in Baltimore," Counting Crows
No way, no how was Adam "The Rain King" Duritz not making this list. Since "Rain King" itself already made the Songs for March, the naked gloom and beauty of "Raining in Baltimore" gets the nod.
(Side note: When Augustana's "Boston" came out, I thought, "Hmm, that's pretty much the same song as 'Raining in Baltimore.' It's good, but, uh, it's clearly their rewrite of 'Raining in Baltimore.'" Three months later, "Boston" hit, they were opening for the Counting Crows off Adam Duritz's personal recommendation, and order was restored to the universe.)

"No Rain," Blind Melon
Because at least one song--one song--on this list has to be about the absence of rain, storms, dread, fear, death, and despair.

And, a special bonus....

Wait for it....

"November Rain," by Guns N' Roses
Sans irony.

What are your favorite Songs About Rain?

Ain't no monkey but I know what I like,
CM

Second Time Around

Here, on a random Thursday, I'd like to present the most recent addition to a time-honored-Milam-tradition of listmaking:

Eight Covers That Are Better Than The Original!

First, some groundrules:
1) We're only troubling ourselves with great songs. I'm not interested in whether or not Kid Rock has a bitchin' take on "Every Rose Has Its Thorn." Bad song = bad cover.
2) The transcendent cover is pop's greatest rarity. That is, this is a very, very short list. Most great songwriters are great studio artists for the same reason: painstaking attention to detail. By the time a song is finished, successful songwriters know just the right arrangement, sound, and execution of the song. So, for someone else to take it in a new direction and somehow tap more directly into a song's emotional core is a rare occurrence.
3) This is not comprehensive. Please add suggestions, as I'm positive I've neglected some worthy covers. But here tis, nonetheless.

Aretha Franklin's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" (originally by Otis Redding):
So, this one's a layup, but for good reason: Franklin takes an average song (by Redding's standards) and transforms it into a revved-up classic, packed with immediacy and (given its womens' rights subtext) cultural relevance. The opening antecedent/consequent phrase of the R&B guitar is one of pop's most recognizable licks, and Aretha's vocal delivery is as close to perfect as she ever gets--right down to the brilliantly sung opening "ooooh," prefacing every lyric with audible frustration. In Franklin's hands, the song is no longer a plea for compassion--it's a demand for equality.

Beatles' "Twist and Shout" (originally the Isley Brothers):
Allegedly, this was the last song cut for Please Please Me, and they recorded it at the very end of the day. Because of the song's vocal acrobatics, producer George Martin knew Lennon could only give him one take--after, his voice would be gone for the day. Good thing the early Beatles cut their teeth playing cover-band bar gigs, revving up American rock standards to the delight of crowds in Liverpool and Hamburg. Before they were rock's greatest band, they were England's greatest cover band.

First, they execute the song's memorable opening riff to its completion--the Isley's only let it wander into the verse. John's vocal stamp is immediately felt, squeezing five "come ons" into the space where the Isley's neatly counted out one. If the song is one of rock's most enduring rollicking good times, the Beatles' rolick is technically and aesthetically favorable. Not only is the four part harmony ("ahhhhh") better executed in their version, but the climax is more tangibly felt--these four couldn't be having more fun playing. And we couldn't have more fun listening.

Led Zeppelin's "When the Levee Breaks" (originally by Kansas City Jo and Memphis Minnie):
Zeppelin made a durable and provocative career out of reinventing the blues. Their revision of "When the Levee Breaks," originally a stripped-down tune by a married blues duo, sonically enacts the of anxiety, excitement, and danger of the lyric. Bonham's steady, ominous drumbeat is quickly accompanied by expert harmonica and slide guitar-playing. After hammering away a fully-instrumental verse and refrain, the band pauses to let Plant's icy delivery take over. His disarmingly vulnerable delivery ("If it keeps on raining/levee's gonna break") is simultaneously matter-of-fact, full of trepidation, and tinged with excitement. The song is about change--good or bad--but Zeppelin's revision of an old blues standard makes this change for the better.

Counting Crows' "Friend of the Devil" (originally by the Grateful Dead):
Although I can't REALLY justify this pick beyond its overhwelming aesthetic achievement, I think that's enough. The problem here is a recurrent problem with the Dead: strong songwriting, spotty musicianship. The original shuffles slowly through its verses without variation, which belies the lyric's narrative. The Counting Crows, on the other hand, create a landscape that matches that of the lyric: nuanced, wistful, sleepy, varied and gorgeous. The most outstanding aspect, of course, is Charlie's ("aw, Charlie!") pitch-perfect work on the keys, which (when compared to the Dead's clunky execution) puts the musicianship of the original to shame.

White Stripes' "I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself" (originally by Burt freaking Bacharach):
Leave it to Jack and Meg to take a tired American standard by BurtfreakingBacharach and turn it into the sleeper rockhit of 2002. What's so brilliant about their rendition is its devotion to its predecessor, right up to the point that it blows it out of the water. The start is soft and inviting: Jack plays the opening chords and sings in a plaintive falsetto, not unlike Bacharach's original. Until the dual, thundering hits following the opening line. Then the prechorus creeps in with rising distortion, building to something it's not quite to. The song doesn't break out until the first chorus ("Like a summer rose..."), fully developing the desperation and resentment that Jack White has clearly related to in the original lyric.

By the time the final chorus comes around, there's no turning back, no hitting the "clean pedal," no quieting the band: Jack doesn't know what to do with himself, and he's lost complete control. The song's memorable linking riff (the three-note melody that comes after "I just don't know...") jumps up an octave, screeching its own feedback. The result is an emotionally varied rock song that sets up a foundation, only to tear it down in a fit of perfectly-executed chaos.

Nirvana's "Where Did You Sleep Last Night," (originally by Huddy Ledbelly):
The only live performance on the list, its inclusion is based solely off Kurt's "Unplugged" cover of Huddy Ledbelly's country/blues anomaly. While I admit that the cover's arrangement is not dissimilar from the original, it's the overwhelming context of Cobain's performance that forces its mention: this was the last piece of live video we have of Nirvana's frontman before he died two months later. So, the personal implications of "where did you sleep last night/in the pines, in the pines/where the sun don't ever shine," are hard to miss: Kurt is, in one definitive and eerily prescient performance, forecasting his own death.

When the final refrain picks up and Cobain's vocals rise an entire octave, he is literally screaming the final lyrics with breathless precision, sustaining "shiver" until he's completely out of breath, stopping for one moment to take a pained gasp and open his eyes for the first time, knowing it's over and he's nailed his definitive performance, and milks the ending phrase ("the whole...night through"), and lets the band play the outtro. Sure, the cover itself is a fairly faithful recreation, but Cobain's performance became so memorable, so culturally significant, that it transcended its predecessor and created a legend.

Jeff Buckley's "Halleluja" (originally by Leonard Cohen):
Jeff Buckley was one of rock's biggest--and most elusive--talents. Although his most acclaimed album, Grace, was full of virtuousic guitar-playing and influential vocals, he rarely embraced accessibility. Artist, sure, but nobody's entertainer. That's why his cover of Leonard Cohen's lyrical masterpiece "Halleluja" is his most enduring legacy, and has become the definitive version of the song: it's one instance where Buckley focused all his considerable energy and talent into making Cohen's song vocally accessible, and aestheticially beautiful.

Every moment of his cover--from the opening cadences, which then vary tellingly during his solo, which are then revisited at the song's conclusion--is packed with nuanced precision, a combination of faithful dedication to Cohen's amazing lyric and effortlessly gorgeous expansion. Nothing shows off, but nothing holds back, right down to the concluding falsetto "halleluja" which is sustained for an unbelievable length of time. Cohen's songs were always ripe for the cover-picking because of his sparse instrumentation and monotone delivery; it took Buckley's greatest six minutes to make this cover an absolute classic.

Jimi Hendrix's "All Along the Watchtower" (originally by Bob Dylan):
If the story is true, then Hendrix heard Dylan's "Watchtower" the night of its release and immediately drove to the studio to cover it. This story is believable, not just because of Jimi's tendency to behave spontaneously, but because his cover is so obviously the work of immediate (and perhaps divine) inspiration.

I've often heard people say that they enjoy Dylan...when someone else is doing him. I always thought this was weak criticism, because Dylan (for all his vocal oddities and studio peculiarities) was so keenly aware of each song's emotional core, and knew better than others how to find it, illustrate it, and fully develop it. The Byrds' most famous covers ("Tambourine Man," "All I Really Want to Do," etc.) are prettier, but not as interesting--lacking Dylan's essential narrative persona and complex vocal delivery.

But Hendrix's cover of "Watchtower" is the standard. How could he have understood, after a few listens in the middle of the night, the song'soddly labrynthine narrative? Its anxieties and concerns? Well, he did, and the result is four-minutes of masterful revision. In Dylan's original, the song's tone is steady but wary, anxious yet aware. Hendrix's arrangement expands on this: the emphatic drumming gives the song a new immediacy, and the opening cadence perfectly aligns the song's contradictions; it's fighting against itself to assert some kind of control (or at least perspective) on this ominous scene. Hendrix's vocals are both measured and unrestrained, emoting clearly the narrator's confusion despite his omniscient eye. And by the time the narrative recycles itself ("two riders were approaching/and the wind began to howl") in one of pop's most forboding lines, Hendrix knows better than anyone how to howl. So he does, the result being one of rock's most famous guitar solos. By the song's end, everything is perfectly coordinated yet feels scattered, and the fade-out is appropriate given the lyric's lack of resolution.

Ultimately, this cover established Hendrix as not only a virtuousic talent but a truly gifted and thoughtful composer--and rearranger--of other people's music. Perhaps the greatest compliment came from Dylan himself, who said in hindsight of Hendrix's cover, "I think I wrote it for Jimi." And there's nothing else to say.

Working for the weekend,
Chris