Green Day On Broadway: Punker Than Punk

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Green Day recently made their theater debut with American Idiot, a Broadway show based on their last two albums. This angered a friend of mine. "It's a joke," he said. "They pose as a new-age Clash, and they take the show to Broadway? What's punk about jazz hands?"

If 1991 was "the year punk broke," then Kurt Cobain was the man who broke it. Cobain once defined punk with one word: freedom. By my friend's definition, there's nothing "Punk" about jazz hands. And he's right. But by Cobain's definition, there's everything punk about jazz hands. Punk is the freedom to take your music anywhere you want.

I prefer Cobain's definition for two reasons:
1) It's inclusive. It looks for reasons to like something rather than reasons to dislike it.
2) It acknowledges a truth that purists of any genre (punk, metal, jazz, etc.) willfully ignore: successful artists actually have more freedom.

Take James Cameron. After Titanic shattered every box office record in history, was he beholden to Hollywood for future films? Was he consumed by the enormous pressure of a follow-up? Was he financially obligated to make a certain type of movie within a certain time frame?

Nope. In fact, the opposite occurred. Titanic's unprecedented success gave him unprecedented creative freedom--it bought him the leverage to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. As many have written, Avatar might be the first truly independent film in American history--the product of one man's singular and unrestricted vision, a project where money and time were no object and outside pressure had no influence. For better or worse, Avatar was Jim Cameron's movie. He was free to make anything, and that's what he made.

That's punk.

Radiohead self-releasing In Rainbows and letting fans pay what they want for the album? Punk.

In Rainbows debuting at #1, selling 3 million copies worldwide, and opening the door for a new music business model? Uberpunk.

U2 skipping the southeast for tours (how many folks in Little Rock can afford those tickets?) but playing halftime for the Saints' first televised game since Katrina? Not punk.

Music, at its best, can reach anyone at anytime. It can transcend its medium. It can support new audiences. It connects regardless of age, or background, or aesthetic prejudice. I think punk's big enough to support this kind of music. I know Green Day's great enough to make it.

What Green Day, Nirvana, Radiohead, and even U2 understand (and what so many purists of some nebulous punk credo don't) is simple: to win the game, you have to play the game. To operate with true impunity--to really Damn the Man--you have to buy your independence. You have to earn leverage. You have to play the game to win it.

And the best way to play that game is to bring people in, to use a pop song to subvert a pop audience. Punk isn't a rigid rulebook, a purist philosophy, a dress-code, or an angry diatribe sung to four people who already agree. It's Outkast getting dance-happy sorority girls to sing along with "y'all don't wanna hear me, you just wanna dance." It's Dylan getting every generation--both the establishment and the youth--to sing "your old road is rapidly aging." It's Green Day getting a Bible-Belt arena to sing along with "East Jesus Nowhere." It's It's Green Day getting a theater-full of academics and patricians to enjoy music they typically wouldn't listen to.

If punk is freedom, then punk is Green Day on Broadway. And if punk isn't freedom, then it's serving a lifetime sentence.

And I'm happy on the outside, clapping from the mezzanine.

The Monthly Mailbag Returns!

Longtime readers of The Blog remember a running feature entitled the Monthly Mailbag. The premise is exactly what you'd expect:

I get emails about music/being a musician/pop culture at large. At the end of every month, I take several of my favorite questions and answer them in rapid-fire fashion.

Because of the recording process and subsequent move, I missed a few months. But do not fear, Friend and Reader: your vitriolic emails were received, noted, and greatly appreciated. In summation:

1) You're right, I should be ashamed.
2) How dare I, indeed!
3) I will not do that to myself, but appreciate the suggestion. And creativity.
4) I don't sleep well at night.
5) I was raised better.
6) 6'1, why?

In the spirit of redemption and renewed hope, I give you the new, improved, resurgent, and wholly nutritious...

Monthly Mailbag, Part 1 (Part 2 Thursday)!

(***As always, these are actual emails from actual readers. If you'd like to be in a future Mailbag, just drop me a line! I promise every email is read, and I always enjoy them.)

You call your Mailbag "Monthly," but it's been a while. I'm kind of annoyed, and very litigious. I want to sue you for false advertising. Change it to BiMonthly Mailbag, or else. --Mark, Chicago
If I had to write one slogan that best describes me, it would be: "Chris Milam: Proudly Un-Sued Since the Eighties." Let's leave the lawyers out of this.

I thought about the Mailbag, and I thought about the demarcation of time, and I considered the "Bimonthly Mailbag." Unfortunately, I've never known if "bimonthly" means "twice a month" or "once every two months." So I looked it up. According to Merriam-Webster:

"Bimonthly:
1) Occurring twice a month
2) Every two months"

So, neither Merriam nor Webster nor I have any clue. The English language strikes again. On one hand, this could mean that I avoid a lawsuit, so long as I post a Mailbag with any frequency at all. On the other hand, I'm a sucker for precision and downright Germanic in my organizational skills. Let's not cop out.

The Mailbag is now and forever will be a Monthly Mailbag. I will post it near the end of each month, just as the Monthly Playlist comes at the beginning, and Fan of the Month comes in the middle.

Count on it, Mark. Then, send me your mail!

Some friends and I were talking about the "Voice of a Generation" title, and wondering who might be this generation's voice. Who are the front-runners? In terms of impact, could you make a case for Jack White? --Michael, Buffalo
Great question, and it raises some interesting points. Three critical issues here:
1) Which generation are we talking about?
2) How do we define a Voice of a Generation/can there be only one?
3) Given pop culture's fragmentation, might this be the first generation without one unifying Voice?
4) How do we define Voice of a Generation?

I'll take the last part first. I'm not here to debate the merits of any artist mentioned below, or whether they deserve their title. I'm only here to list the artists that most casual pop music fans would identify as quintessential artists from their respective generation. That is, whether it's right or wrong, this is what most people would say. The list looks something like:
--Baby Boomers: Bob Dylan and/or John Lennon
--Gen X: Kurt Cobain
--There are also some in-between stand-outs: those coming of age during punk (The Ramones), 70's singer/songwriters (Bruce, Tom Petty), those during glam/new-wave (David Bowie), and the 80's pop revival (Michael Jackson) combined with the college alt-rock scene (Michael Stipe). Coming off the Breakfast Club, the Smiths would've certainly received a lot of votes.

Now, if you were born in the 80's, you're roughly categorized as Generation Y, or a Millennium, or Some-Other-Moniker-Time-Published-This Month. This includes 1) me and 2) most people reading this Blog. This generation has roughly "come of age" (i.e. late teens or twenties) in the 2000's, so one guide could be a list of the biggest pop musical voices to emerge this decade. That list could roughly look something like:
--Jack White/The White Stripes
--Outkast (debatable, since Stankonia came out in 1999)
--Eminem (again, on the cusp)
--Ryan Adams (again, Heartbreaker debuted in 1999, so this is debatable)
--Chris Martin/Coldplay
--Justin Timberlake (solo career started this decade)
--Britney Spears (ridiculous, but also unavoidable)
--Conor Oberst/Bright Eyes
--Pete Wentz/Fall Out Boy
--Jim James/My Morning Jacket

That list is by no means comprehensive. It is, however, a decent snapshot of the types of voices who emerged since 2000:

Jack White's the Retro Rock Hero. Justin Timberlake is Pop's Prince; or King, depending on how dead you believe Michael Jackson is (very), how loyal to his legacy you remain (not very), and how you feel about other contenders (indifferent). Outkast and Eminem are likely Hip Hop's Flag-Bearers (remember, Jay-Z was already huge by 1999). Pete Wentz and Fall Out Boy are as good a choice as any for emo's quasi-movement, and the brave new world of internet marketing. Ryan Adams and, to a degree, Conor Oberst represent the latest in a line of Singer Songwriters Who Speak to Their Times. Jim James's MMJ is probably the Biggest Rock Band to do things the New Way (post-Napster grassroots marketing, touring, reasonable record deals, slow-moving career arc, doing it "outside the industry," etc.). Chris Martin is the songwriter for arguably the biggest pop band to emerge in the Oughts. There's really only one thing missing from this list:

Voices from our generation. A few of the artists (Oberst, Wentz) are on the cusp of the age-range, and Timberlake qualifies. In other words, the defining "voices" of this decade aren't of our generation. They're older.

So, isn't this just a semantic argument? Who's to draw that line in the chronological sand and determine importance?

I am. Why not?

Of the millennium's pop superstars, Timberlake's had the most commercial success. Outkast has likely made the greatest album. To my ear, nobody's had a better, more definitive run than Jack White. In a span of a few years, The White Stripes emerged as the best of the rock-revivalist movement, releasing White Blood Cells, Elephant, and Get Behind Me Satan all by 2005. His production of Loretta Lynn's Van Lear Rose revitalized her career and gave yet another definition to "alt-country." His work on Cold Mountain helped reintroduce "roots music" and "traditional country" for a new generation of pop fans. And, if his songwriting talents weren't already above reproach, the b-material for his other band, The Raconteurs, remains some of the best pop-rock of the decade.

In terms of overall impact, commercial success, and residual "importance," I'm not sure anyone trumps Jack White. The problem, again, is that he isn't from the generation in question. He's of the weird, transitional generation that exists between Gen X and Gen Y.

These folks are somewhere in their thirties right now. Depending on their early-middle-late thirties designation, each might make a case for Gen X or Y membership. There's a lot of gray area.

For example, my brother is literally of my generation, but technically of a different generation. He was born in 1979, and I was born in 1983. He's too late to be Gen X, but is technically too early to be a "Millennium" kid. This makes no sense at all, but it makes total sense. When I think of the technological advances that shaped my peers after 7th grade (instant messenger, file sharing/piracy, personal cell phones for teenagers, video chatting/Skype, etc.), all came just after they would've become paradigmatic for his age group. IM's hit high schools hard just after he finished high school. Napster's spin-offs reached their tipping point long after he had started college. In terms of the social mores that shaped our development past middle school, we couldn't have been more different. We're from the same generation, but we're not of the same generation.

Meanwhile, many project that Generation Y will be the first without a definitive voice in pop music. The dissolution of the recording industry has localized music--more and more artists are finding sustainable ways to operate on a micro level. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. As I've written, I think there are more good bands than ever; but there less great bands, too.

To be the Voice of a Generation, you need to be popular on a macro level. You need to matter to everyone, even the people who don't like you. In 2009, this still demands major label support. You can't matter to everyone without the help of a giant promotional machine behind you (not to mention, ehem, great music). While it's wonderful that artists in our generation are finding sustainable ways to do-it-themselves, we'll have fewer candidates for "Voice of a Generation," if any.

I have a feeling that some great, transcendent talents will emerge from Gen Y and buck the norm--maybe even a singular "Voice of a Generation." But I also have a feeling that it will take a long time for that person to emerge. They'll likely find success after years of working independently and building a grassroots audience. By the time our generation has its voice, it might be thirty-five.

What would Kurt Cobain say?

When you posted the track list for Up, it got me thinking: why does it seem like my favorite song on every record is #5? I like "If You Don't Love Me By Now," which is track 5. What's the deal? --Sarah, Nashville
Great call. Here are just a few noteworthy Track 5's from my very limited iTunes catalog:
"Black" - Pearl Jam, Ten
"Nothingman" - Pearl Jam, Vitalogy
"Lithium" - Nirvana, Nevermind
"The Difference" - Wallflowers, Bringing Down the Horse
"And I Love Her" - Beatles, Hard Day's Night
"Here, There, and Everywhere" - Beatles, Revolver
"Ballad of a Thin Man," - Bob Dylan, Highway 61 Revisited
"Anna Begins" - Counting Crows, August and Everything After
"Welcome to Paradise" - Green Day, Dookie
"Dancing Days" - Led Zeppelin, Houses of the Holy
"Heartbreaker" - Led Zeppelin, II
"Lightning Crashes" - Live, Throwing Copper
"One Big Holiday" - My Morning Jacket, It Still Moves
"So Fresh, So Clean" - Outkast, Stankonia
"Shiny Happy People" - REM, Out of Time
"Tumbling Dice" - Rolling Stones, Exile on Main Street
"Runnin Down a Dream" - Tom Petty, Full Moon Fever
"It's Good to Be King" - Tom Petty, Wildflowers
"Undone" - Weezer, Weezer/Blue Album

And a few personal favorites:
"Here Is No Why" - Smashing Pumpkins Mellon Collie...
"Still Remains" - Stone Temple Pilots Purple

I'm sure there are thousands more. Given that I've listed but a fraction of noteworthy track 5's from my admittedly scant iTunes collection, I've only scratched the surface. Also, every track number has its list of classics. But two things stick out to me:

1) The 90's loved some Track 5.
I have basically no evidence (other than the short list above) to support this, but I swear there was a period in the mid 90's where every "rockin" single either track 2 or track 5. I have distinct memories of browsing through the CD, playing #1, anticipating #2, skipping to #5, and finding some likable power-ballad on the back half, usually #7 or #8. Of course, the closer always warranted attention.

Did record execs in the 90's do market research? Was there a sales strategy behind these song sequences? Is it just coincidence? Or am I just crazy?

I'd guess that it's some combination of design and coincidence, a byproduct of savvy mix-making by the bands themselves. Sequencing a record is the genesis of making a mix, and conventional wisdom is the same:

Track #1 needs to make a strong first impression, but needs to save room for Track #2 to really kick the doors down. Tracks #3-4 can coast a bit, to set up another rocking tidal wave at #5. A few mid-tempo songs can then set up a gut-wrenching power ballad that takes it down a notch (around Track #7, 8, or 9). Now we're ready for a home stretch with another likable rockers and an emotional finale.

It's possible that we had so many Track 5 "hits" in the 90's because that was the first generation of artists who had already mastered the art of mix-making.

2) This leads me to a bigger question: You're back on that desert island. I know, I know, you thought you escaped after the last Mailbag. You didn't. You're back for exactly one year. This time, you can bring every CD you own (or digital equivalent), but only one track. In other words, you will have every Track 5 from your musical catalog, or every Track 1, or Track 7, etc. No more, no less. For the purposes of this argument, we can group "Closers" together, since song totals vary by album. Which all-inclusive track do you bring?

My initial reaction is to take Track #1 and never look back. Album openers are openers for a reason: they're strong first impressions and, especially on older records, usually that album's biggest hit. Track #1 has the highest percentage of all-time favorites ("Like a Rolling Stone," "Hard Day's Night," "Help," "Whole Lotta Love," "Smells Like Teen Spirit," etc.), likable singles, classic anthems, and epic mood-setters. Track #1 is a solid, safe choice.

The problem is that I know all of those songs already. They're my favorites. And as hard as it might be to go 365 days without hearing "Like a Rolling Stone," the song itself--and my relationship with it--isn't going anywhere. The song's with me, island or not.

My next thought is to pick the all-encompassing "Closer" track, since those are often stand-outs and personal favorites ("Desolation Row," "Release," etc.). Upon further inspection, a playlist of only album closers would be insufferable. Maybe it's my catalog, maybe it's my interpretation of the songs, but this is a sordid, sick, sad, terminally depressed group of closers. I wouldn't last a month on the island. I'd start to build a coconut radio, "Something In the Way" would start in the background, and I'd end up lying on the sand next to dozens of branches that spell out "WHAT'S THE USE?" No, thanks.

The trick is finding the track that has the highest percentage of:
1) Personal favorites
2) Essential hits
3) Emotional range/depth/variance (everything from uplifting rockers to sad, acoustic ballads)
4) Songs I can't do without
5) Songs I might not be that familiar with/can revisit and hear something new

Of course, there are a million options, and every Track has its standouts. Tracks 4 & 5 especially make a strong case. Among oldies, Track #3 was excellent.

In the end, I'm picking Track #2. Most of my favorite music--or at least what tops the list in terms of "desert island accompaniment"--is older. By "older," I mean pre-1972. Track 2 is a little weaker with contemporary stuff, and is hit-or-miss through the nineties, but it brings heat with the oldies. In the end, you gotta serve somebody.

Here's just a slice of my Island's Yearlong Playlist, Track #2:

Beatles: "Something," "I Should Have Known Better," "The Night Before," "Dig a Pony," "Eleanor Rigby," "Norwegian Wood," "With a Little Help From My Friends"

Better Than Ezra: "Good"

Big Star: "The Ballad of el Goodo"

Outkast: "Ghetto Musick," "Gasoline Dreams"

Black Crowes: "Jealous Again"

The Band: "Up On Cripple Creek" (Last Waltz)

Bob Dylan: "Black Crow Blues," "Pledging My Time," "You're a Big Girl Now," "She Belongs to Me," "Girl From the North Country," "Tombstone Blues," "Mississippi," "Ballad of Hollis Brown"

Bruce Springsteen: "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out," "Thunder Road" (Greatest Hits)

The Byrds: "Mr. Tambourine Man"

Chuck Berry: "Roll Over Beethoven"

Cory Branan: "Crush"

Counting Crows: "Omaha," "Angels of the Silences," "Mrs. Potter's Lullabye," "American Girls"

Smokey Robinson & the Miracles: "Shop Around" (Off Hitsville)

Temptations: "I'm Losing You" (Off Hitsville)

Gin Blossoms: "Hey Jealousy"

Green Day: "Jesus of Suburbia," "21st Century Breakdown"

Hank Williams: "Lovesick Blues"

The Hold Steady: "Sequestered In Memphis"

Joni Mitchell: "Help Me"

Josh Ritter: "Wolves," "Mind's Eye"

The Killers: "Mr. Brightside," "Human"

Led Zeppelin: "What Is And What Never Should Be," "Rock And Roll"

Live: "Lakini's Juice," "Throwing Copper"

Lucero: "My Best Girl," "Anjalee," "I Don't Wanna Be the One," "Slow Dancing," "Mine Tonight," "What Are You Willing to Lose"

MGMT: "Weekend Wars"

My Morning Jacket: "Lowdown," "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream," "Dancefloors," "It Beats 4 U," "They Ran"

Nirvana: "Scentless Apprentice," "In Bloom," "Sliver"

Otis Redding: "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" (Best of Otis Redding)

Simon & Garfunkel/Paul Simon: "Leaves That Are Green," "Graceland"

Pearl Jam: "Got Some," "Even Flow," "Animal," "Spin the Black Circle," "Hail, Hail," "God's Dice," "World Wide Suicide," "Save You," "Faithful"

Phantom Planet: "Always On My Mind"

Queens of the Stone Age: "I'm Gonna Leave You"

REM: "Try Not to Breathe," "The Great Beyond" (Greatest Hits), "Crush With Eyeliner,"

Radiohead: "Amnesiac/Morning Bell," "The Bends," "Sit Down, Stand Up," "Bodysnatchers," "Kid A," "Paranoid Android"

Rage Against the Machine: "Bulls on Parade"

Robert Johnson: "Kindhearted Woman Blues (Alt. Take)," "If I Had Possession Over Judgment Day"

Rolling Stones: "Rip This Joint," "Love In Vain"

Ryan Adams: "Two," "Firecracker," "My Winding Wheel"

Smashing Pumpkins: "Tonight, Tonight"

Stevie Wonder: "I Just Called to Say I Love You," "Ebony and Ivory" (both off Greatest Hits)

STP: "Sex Type Thing," "Vasoline"

Tom Petty: "I Won't Back Down," "You Don't Know How It Feels"

Tom Waits: "I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You"

Tupac Shakur: "2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted," "Brenda's Got a Baby"

Uncle Tupelo: "Screen Door" (Anthology)

Van Morrison: "Moondance"

Wallflowers: "6th Avenue Heartache"

Weezer: "No One Else"

White Stripes: "Black Math," "The Nurse," "You Don't Know What Love Is"

Not bad, eh?

-------------------------------------------

What's your nominee for Voice of a Generation? Which track would you bring to the desert island? Hit up the comments and join the fray.

Part 2 of the Mailbag comes Friday...

Until then!
CM

Songs for September

September.

It's the month I've been waiting for. It's the month I really want when I need warm weather in March. It's summer's kept promise, it's the payoff for August, it's the end of the dog days and the beginning of fall. It's the month so good, I ranked it #1. Here's what I said at the time:

"If March is the worst of both worlds, September's the best: it begins with the lingering heat of summer, it ends with the slowly-falling temperatures of fall. It has all the remaining energy of summer but the renewed exuberance of a new school year, a new football season, a new everything. September's the time when things start to happen, the payoff from the overlong waiting game of summer, the beginning of the end of the year. I swear (in Nashville anyway), you can feel the energy pick up September 1st. And while it's got all the perks of fall (weather, football, girls looking their best, amped-up music releases, etc.), it's got the bonus of being first. As it's happening, you can still look forward to the next months and all implied greatness therein. There is no downside to September.

Unless you're a UT fan. In which case your season's probably over by Week 3."

I wrote that in April, when fall seemed as far away as the Olympics. Now I'm writing from Hillsboro Village, on August 26, and the sun's going down, and it's the end of a cloudless day, but it feels like dawn.

Now, thirty songs about possibility, promise, expectant energy, fire, vitriol, fervor, and the last great payoff. Thirty songs about new storylines, new loves, heightened senses, a fresh, better, more memorable season. Thirty songs about the months you'll want to revisit next winter, and five winters from now, the songs you've been waiting for.

Thirty Songs for September!

(Plus the one iTunes Random Pick.)

Sacred Harp Singers, "Idumea"
Like this song, there's something intangible about the eve of fall--it swells up, and bowls you over.

Paul Simon, "Boy in the Bubble"
It sets the stage as well as any.

Josh Ritter, "To the Dogs or Whoever"
And we're off. September is so all-encompassing and jam-packed it's in constant danger of derailing. Then a familiar refrain takes shape, renews its structure, and it races on.


The Hold Steady, "Stuck Between Stations"
I'm a pop music fan. I need a melody. I need a singer. But sometimes, the Hold Steady are so good, so undeniably powerful, I don't need the melody. The band says it all.

Cory Branan, "Miss Ferguson"
From the band who says it all to the man who does. Arguably Branan's most famous song, "Miss Ferguson" is Episode 1 of a new old story. It's the opening chapter of a season-long relationship. Like the two people involved, the song is incapable of holding back.

Counting Crows, "Angels of the Silences"
Remember when the Counting Crows could do this?

Gin Blossoms, "Lost Horizons"
The first of many Gin Blossoms appearances this fall. Maybe I'm crazy, or maybe this is entirely related to my own history with the Gin Blossoms, but no other band from the 90's feels more entrenched in the fall. Their entire catalog feels like the offspring of Zeus and a gold leaf.

Scott Miller, "Goddamn the Sun"
A jaw-droppingly tight vignette from another fall favorite. The song borrows equally from REM and John Donne, is beautiful, and forceful, and inspired. "My window creeps across my wall" alone merits inclusion.

North MS All-Stars, "Drinking Muddy Water"
The third song you want to hear on Gameday.

Wilco, "Kingpin"
Usually, if Jeff Tweedy allows himself a moment of pride or confidence, it's undermined by irony, sadness, or general pessimism. "Kingpin" is a noteworthy exception, and better for it.

Band of Horses, "The General Specific"
Find a quiet road, find a cool breeze, roll down the windows, hit play.

Ryan Adams, "Firecracker"
Something about the harmonica has always felt autumnal to me, so "Firecracker" gets bonus points. But really, it's the song's tone that does it: even when it's desirous, it's at ease. It's comfortable. It's happy. It can take or leave her. It convincingly saves the angst for later.

Teenage Fanclub, "Ain't That Enough"
My introduction to Teenage Fanclub was hearing this song in my brother's car one September. I never stood a chance.

Old 97's, "Question"
Very specific, very goofy memory attached to this one. Still, it sounds like fall.

Ole Miss Marching Band, "Dixie"
The first song you want to hear on Gameday.

Billy Bragg & Wilco, "Airline to Heaven"
Arguably the best cut from the Mermaid Avenue sessions, this song takes a Guthrie song to an even higher place. It's soaring and infectious and sounds like gold.

Tom Petty, "Free Fallin"
Speaking of soaring and infectious and sounds like gold... Some things are cliche for a good reason.

REM, "Radio Song"
If for no other reason than the sheer exuberance during the opening line. For someone so obsessed with the "end of the world," why does Michael Stipe make it sound so good? The song, like the season, is undeterred.

The Wallflowers, "The Difference"
A band entrenched in late fall, "The Difference" is their deceptively sunny exception. It invites complication and races right past it.

Magpies, "Picture Me In a Love Song"
Yes, it's a beautiful song, and yes, its jangly guitars and doo-wop rhythms fit the month. But it's the brilliant piano-work during the outtro that strikes the right, ambivalent chord. A bittersweet song that's much more sweet than bitter.

Lemonheads, "Into Your Arms"
A different version of the story told in "Kingpin," but here the sweet-sounding blues is replaced by suspended chords and sunny melodies.

Nirvana, "Son of a Gun"
Heady memories attached to this one. Moving on!

Pearl Jam, "I Am Mine"
I first heard this song in late September, 2001. Pearl Jam had played a benefit shortly after 9/11, and debuted this new song written in its wake. The bootleg quickly made the internet rounds. Even though the song didn't appear on record until the next spring, I'll always associate it with September.

Green Day, "Wake Me Up When September Ends"
Layup!

Kings of Leon, "Slow Night, So Long"
Once the days start getting shorter, and the air gets cooler, this is the sound of the beginning of your night.


Lucero, "What Else Would You Have Me Be"
A song with so much anthemic energy, every second has a thousand possibilities. The song not only enacts that feeling, but celebrates it.

Rolling Stones, "Loving Cup"
Only "Like a Rolling Stone" features better key-work to start a song. Something about the melody--and the performance of the harmonies--feels like fall. It doesn't sound like home; it sounds like coming home.

Pawtuckets, "She's Gone"
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Pawtuckets' Dogsbody Factotum is the best alt-country record you've never heard. My life was forever improved by my introduction to it one August. "She's Gone" was on constant rotation by September. It is, exactly, the sound of lost love at the beginning of the year's end.

Big Star, "September Gurls"
Layup!

My Morning Jacket, "Anytime"
September doesn't ease into any conclusion. It doesn't stop to consider itself in a moment of sober melancholy. It doesn't take a breath. It turns up the volume and dares October to follow.

And the iTunes Random Pick:
White Stripes, "I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself." Hmmm. Aesthetically off, thematically perfect. Touche, Machine. Touche.

What about you? What are your Songs for September? Hit up the comments!

Words only got in the way,
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

When I Sing Along with Foo (Volume 14)

Whenever the NFL draft comes around, I find myself playing Living Room GM, telling everyone who will listen what the Redskins' problems are, what the solution is, and who they should draft.  "They're weak on the offensive line," I say, "get a solid 10-year starter and call it a day."  It's not the flashy pick, but it's the safe, smart call.  Then, once they're on the clock, I start thinking about some headcase receiver or combine-hero cornerback, some hotshot quarterback project or freakshow athlete.  I suddenly want anything but what I know is a solid, safe choice.  Like so many of us, I'm tempted by the Great Unknown.  

----------------------------------------------------------------------

If Dave Grohl's career had ended in 1994, he still would've been a Hall of Famer.  As Nirvana's third (or, depending on your biographer, fourth) and final drummer, he was responsible for everything post-Bleach.  His perfect timing, hard-hitting, ear for "catchy" drum parts (e.g. the fills in "In Bloom"), and gift for background vocals took the band from indie sensation to pop juggernaut.  In the studio, he was a selfless song-servant and crucial component of the band's chemistry (light-hearted, funny, inexhaustible).  Live, he transformed their sound; suddenly they were big enough to fill an arena.  With Grohl behind them, poppy punk songs became anthems.  You could argue--and Kurt Cobain did--that the addition of Dave Grohl was as crucial to Nirvana's success as anything.  That success sparked a pop cultural revolution, changed the landscape of 90's rock, and the format of one particular rock radio station, 95.7FM The Modern Rock Alternative...also known as 96X.

Of course, Grohl was always a talented songwriter, guitarist, and singer.  He offered song ideas throughout the In Utero sessions that went largely ignored ("Scentless Apprentice" being the lone exception), and his harmonies helped carry Unplugged.  Following Cobain's death, Grohl formed a new band, became its chief guitarist, singer, and songwriter, named it the Foo Fighters, and--fourteen years and tons of great music later--the rest is history.

Although the Foo's first round of singles ("I'll Stick Around," "Big Me," etc.) earned steady rotation on 96X, I didn't become an unrelenting fan-boy until 1997's The Colour and the Shape.  If the first record proved that Grohl was a songwriting talent in his own right, the second proved he was one of our best.  "My Hero" and "Monkey Wrench" formed a graceful transition from post-grunge to power-pop, smart and beautifully-crafted.  But it was "Everlong" that cemented their status as one of Rock's Elite, and gave me a new favorite song.  

(Click here to watch the insane/hilarious/awesome music video of "Everlong."  Audio included.)

By 2000, I was so wrapped up in the Foo that when a classmate asked me if I'd rather have the Foo Fighters or take a chance on what Nirvana could've been, I had honestly forgotten that Nirvana begat Foo.  This isn't to imply that I wasn't a Nirvana fan, because my fandom had long-since spilled over into obsession.  I just forgot that Cobain's death catalyzed a series of events, which led to (then) five years of unadulterated greatness by the Foo Fighters.  And I never really considered what would've happened to any of that if Cobain had lived and Nirvana persisted.

To be clear, my classmate's question isn't "who's the better band?"  While I'm a staunch advocate and lifelong fan of all things Grohl, and firm believer that the Foo remain one of our best groups, they'll never reach Nirvana's status.  As good as the Foo Fighters are, they're not changing the game.  They're just great at it.  Nirvana did change the game, and that's the difference between Great and Legendary.  Nirvana's the better band.  The question is whether you'd give up the entire existence of the Foo Fighters to see what might've been with Nirvana, accepting all achievements or disappointments therein.  It's the Solid Choice vs. the Great Unknown.

A few non-facts, just to clutter up the debate: 

At the time of Cobain's death, rumors persisted about Nirvana's imminent breakup.  Internal conflict had reached a breaking point.  Cobain wanted no more of the limelight.  Substance abuse rendered all future plans impossible.  Novoselic and Grohl were increasingly interested in other projects.  Courtney Love had become Yoko.  Etc.  So, it's possible (if not probable) that Nirvana was finished anyway.  

Of course, rumors also swarmed about their next record.  At one point, R.E.M.'s Michael Stipe even discussed it publicly, revealing that Cobain wanted to take the band further in the direction of the Unplugged material.  The new record would have acoustic guitars and string arrangements.  It would be intimate and ground-breaking.  It would once again reinvent the band, blow away all preconceptions, and further cement their legendary status.  So, it's also possible they could've continued doing what they had done exclusively to that point: make classic, era-defining pop music.  

While smart money's on the breakup, it's impossible to know what would've become of Nirvana.  Buoyed by the popular theory (the thesis of a Klosterman book, no less) that the greatest career move is early death, Nirvana historians claim that Cobain finished on the highest possible note.  Nothing after April 5, 1994 would've been better than what came before it.  We got the best of Nirvana and, to boot, a perennially great band rose from their ashes.  Sure, Nirvana's great unknown is tempting, but would you really sacrifice the entire Foo catalogue to find out?  And, if nothing else, isn't "Everlong"--surely one of the decade's best rock songs--enough to end the debate?

Yes, sure, absolutely.  This is me, in the armchair, general managing, knowing that the Foo Fighters are the wiser choice.  But then I remember 2003's release of the the long-lost Nirvana single ("You Know You're Right") like an NFL scout remembers gaudy combine numbers.  Wasn't that song legitimately, undoubtedly, ruthlessly great, or did I just want it to be***?  Wasn't Cobain ultimately too competitive, too ambitious, and too aware of his own legacy to give up or get lost in experimentation?  And then I remember that 100 great bands still can't replace one legendary band.  I remember that, for all the 96X joy the Foo brought me, 96X wouldn't have existed without Nirvana.  I remember most of all my answer to my classmate in 2000, almost without hesitation, "I'd roll the dice with Nirvana."

But this is 2009, the music industry is impotent and without vision, A&R is a fairytale, popular rock is so undependable even the Counting Crows can't paint by their own numbers, and the Fleet Foxes are on SNL.  So I take the Foo, listen to "Everlong" and forget about Legends.  

We need all the Greats we can get.

Gotta promise not to stop,

CM

***I think it was.  The greatest artists create with such facility, such effortless brilliance, that each next hit (no matter how complex, important, or pressured) sounds easy, even obvious.  It's the ultimate "you're in good hands" listening moment.  The Beatles had it more than anyone.  Jimmy Page had it.  I think Outkast has it.  And Nirvana still had it, long after they finished and everyone assumed they didn't.  "You Know You're Right" kills me to hear now.  Arrrggggg.

P.S. IMPORTANTE!  Please note that the Blog's url has returned to the blogspot format.  If you have it bookmarked, you might need to change the url to the new address.  Thanks!

http://chrismilam.blogspot.com

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

I Love the Nineties, Part II

Picking up where yesterday left off, here is the second installment of my Top 10 Rock Albums of the 1990's. Read yesterday's post for my criteria and evaluation process. It was very complicated and even involved trigonometry, so don't test me.

5) Nirvana's In Utero:
Cobain shucked Butch Vig's production in favor of a grainier, more punk sound for the real follow-up to Nevermind (Incesticide was more a collection of B-sides and extra material). Like Vitalogy, In Utero tests the listener's patience, showing a remarkable leap forward in songwriting ("Heart-Shaped Box," "Dumb," "All Apologies"), an uncanny knack for punk/pop melody ("Rape Me," Pennyroyal Tea"), and a persisting affinity for all things abrasive, challenging, and weird ("Milk It," "Tourette's"). Like Pearl Jam, Nirvana decided to make their next "big statement" on their own terms, growing musically while still writing good hooks (for what it's worth, I think this was more an inevitability than an exercise in pop songwriting--Cobain couldn't not write a catchy melody if he wanted to). Still, the album, unlike Nevermind, is not instantly engaging or enjoyable; most songs take at least a handful of listens before their brilliance starts to shine through ("Serve the Servants," "Frances Farmer..."). Still, with a closer like "All Apologies," and the forthcoming, "You Know You're Right," as an indication of what would've come, In Utero still reveals a band with as much genius as inner turmoil.

4) R.E.M.'s Automatic for the People:
This was one of the first two albums I really latched onto while my taste in music was at its most formative years. I have no clue how this tape ended up in my house, to whom it was a gift, and by whom it was given, but I owe them a few hundred thank-you notes. With the possible exception of Pearl Jam's Yield and The Bends, I can't think of any other albums as musical as this--meaning that every part of every song is loaded with subtle melodies, brilliant background performances, perfect arrangement, etc. At a time when alternative music was becoming mainstream, R.E.M. emerged with a 60-minute reminder of why they were the Godfathers of the scene, only this time the message was optimism instead of cynicism, hope rather than despair ("Everybody Hurts," "Nightswimming"). This album gives you the impression that, at this point in their career, R.E.M. was churning out 10 great songs a day--everything is so seemlessly brilliant that it's frustrating to listen to now, from a songwriter's standpoint. And while Out of Time had the greatest song ("Losing My Religion") and Monster sold the most, Automatic remains the strongest testament to the songwriting genius of one of America's absolutely best bands.

3) Radiohead's OK Computer:
After the success of The Bends, Thom Yorke was likely asking his band his own question, "Where do we go from here?" Oxford's finest reconvened to produce a truly classic album, and possibly the most sophisticated pop album of the decade. While The Bends captures Radiohead in all their postmodern pop-rock perfection and Kid A will reveal them as true musical visionaries, OK Computer occupies the crucial point of transition: all of The Bends' accessibility with all of Kid A's imagination. And, if most of Radiohead's lyrics have seemed repetitive in the last few years, it's likely because Yorke's simply reworking the themes he established and executed best in OK Computer. When asked what, if anything, the band would change about the album, Colin Greenwood (the bassist) replied that they had "overdone 'Climbing Up the Walls,'" which seems now complete lunacy. This album has everything: the recognizable hits ("Karma Police," "Paranoid Android"), engaging experimentation ("Climbing Up the Walls," "Exit Music"), perfect sequencing ("No Surprises" between "Climbing Up the Walls" and "Lucky"), and all the highest high points and highest low points you'd expect from a great band in their prime. For all its seeming complexity, maybe its message is as simple as the final refrain: slow down.

2) Pearl Jam's Ten:
Here's the other album that, alongside Automatic for the People, got more play than Wilt Chamberlain. Absolutely every note of this album screams relevance, urgency, and almost necessity; when Stone Gossard's guitar announces the beginning of "Once," it's every bit as refreshing and immediately gripping as the opening progression of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." Not only did this album give the world another timeless anthem ("Alive"), a new brand of socially-conscious rock ("Even Flow," "Why Go," "Jeremy"), and the arrival of the decade's most gifted singer, it teamed up with a handful of other albums in 1991-1992 to usher in the rock's most important era in twenty years. Every second of this album is sharp, tight, and memorable--even now, Pearl Jam concert-goers sing along to Vedder's vocal trills at the beginning of "Black" because even those are catchy and irreplacable. I'm biased, because Ten could be the best album of my favorite band, but they're my favorite band partly because of this album. It's every bit as relevant and enjoyable today as when it arrived fourteen years ago.

1) Nirvana's Nevermind:
A surprise to nobody, I'm sure, but I need to preface this pick. I actually believe there are a handful of albums that are actually stronger, more consistent, and more mature than Nirvana's breakthrough LP. However, even that is a very short list, and no other album from the decade can come close to matching Nevermind for its cultural significance. Hair metal had all but killed contemporary rock and, at the time of Nevermind's release, powerpop ballads dominated the charts as many critics were pronouncing the "death of rock." But with four chords and some scratchy vocals, Kurt Cobain catapulted his band from relatively unknown to instantly great in a matter of weeks when Nevermind came out in December of 1991. Just a few points to illustrate its importance at the time:
1) Nevermind hit #1 by knocking off Michael Jackson's Dangerous in the first week of 1992. Many think the bizarre sales numbers were due in large part to kids returning the copy of Dangerous they got for Christmas for Nevermind.
2) Ten sat on shelves unnoticed for nearly 9 months before the success of Nevermind brought mainstream attention to other Seattle bands. TEN sat unnoticed. Jesus.
Of course, pop music was redefined from January of 1992 on, but it's important not to overlook the strength of these songs. With Nevermind, Cobain kept the promise that he made with "About a Girl"--that he was the rare songwriting talent that could pull a pop song out of even the most unlikely of genres. Every song comes through with speed, immediacy, and power: four minutes of furious perfection, then quickly finished, only to pick back up again in two or three seconds. Nevermind isn't merely the product of twelve great songs or good lyrics or outstanding production or smart marketing; it's what happens when, once in a generation, the right artist makes the right album at the right time, and everything that follows is nothing short of transcendent.

Also considered (a few of them....there were many):
Pearl Jam's Vs.: The hardest omission. This really should've been on the list, but I happen to prefer the aesthetics of Vitalogy better.
Weezer's Blue Album: The progenitor to everything good about geek rock but, unfortunately, everything bad about emo. If Weezer had combined Pinkerton's maturity with the Blue Album's hooks, they would've really had something.
Counting Crows' Recovering the Satellites: The Crows at their rocking, balladeering, most vibrant best. "Long December" alone would give any album consideration.
Stone Temple Pilots' Purple: A better, broader, take on their grungy, Core beginnings. This album has some "quintessential 90's" songs, and a hilarious secret track.

Of course, you're more than welcome to disagree with me. In fact, bring it. I want you to.

Go Hokies,
Chris