Song of the Week: Beatles, "Golden Slumbers"

Throughout this series, I've varied my reasons for each Song of the Week choice.  Some songs I picked because of their influence on today's pop charts.  Some were just fun to hear and enjoy musically.  Some I've chosen for more academic reasons.  And some songs I chose because...well, you chose them for me. 

But for Abbey Road, I wanted to make it more personal.  As much as I love this album musically, I love it even more autobiographically; I've lived with it.  I wanted this week's song to be my strongest memory off an album full of them:

Song of the Week, The Beatles' "Golden Slumbers" (Abbey Road)

I've always been an insomniac.  Maybe it's different for others, but my bouts of insomnia come in waves.  In fourth and fifth grade, I had a very hard time sleeping.  One day, the problem disappeared.  It resurfaced sporadically throughout high school.  But it wasn't until college that I really made insomnia part of my lifestyle, a fact of life I worked around rather than tried to fix.

Picture me, first few months of college: a little dorm room all to myself, a schedule all to myself and, for the first time, my own computer with high-speed internet.  So, I did what all the guys on my hall did: downloaded a TON of music. 

(Wait--what were you thinking I'd say?)

I tried everything.  Hear about an artist but didn't want to buy a full album?  Download a song.  Those classic cult bands I'd always been curious about?  Download a song.  All the rarities and b-sides of my favorite artists?  Download a song.  For the first few months, it was a feeding frenzy.  I couldn't get enough.  In this span, I first heard (and fell in love with) everyone from The Smiths to Fugazi, from Phantom Planet to Whiskeytown.

Plus, I finally transferred all my old favorites onto my computer.  I consolidated my rapidly growing musical library.  I finally had all my Beatles and Motown and Pearl Jam and Dylan in one spot, right next to all my new favorites.

It was heaven.

Sometime during this musical maelstrom I found time to date a girl.  I liked her for many reasons, but one of them was this: she was a great sleeper.  She never had any problem sleeping, and she never had any problem staying asleep (by-product of a clear conscience, I suppose).  And--I've never seen anything quite like it--she smiled when she was asleep.  Her natural resting expression was a grin.  I always wondered what she was dreaming of.

So, I admired her gift for sleep.  She slept for the both of us.  And I'd stay up with headphones on and (kind of) do homework and (really) to the Smiths' "Shoplifters Of the World Unite."  Or, depending on how much coffee I'd had, Fugazi's "Epic Problem."  Or Temple of the Dog's "All Night Thing."  But at some point in every all-nighter, I listened to "Golden Slumbers."  It became a tradition: every late night, Paul sang a wasted lullaby into my headphones, making me wish I was sleepy, making me nostalgic for something I never really had.

Not long after, "Golden Slumbers" became the first lullaby I learned to play and sing myself.  It was the catalyst for what became an endless string of lullabies I'd attempt when I began writing my own songs.  To this day, it's my creative starting point, a home base I always return to.  Writers-blocked?  Up late?  Stressed about something?  Take a breath, listen to "Golden Slumbers" and write a lullaby.

And the magic isn't just that the song's as beautiful and impacting now as it was back then.  It's that every time I hear it, I can smell that dorm room.  I can smell the exact Glade Plug-In scent ("Rainshower").  I can see the soft light from my desk lamp.  I hear steady breath and remember that sleeping grin and wonder where those dreams took her.

Meanwhile, I'm wide awake.  I'm writing this post at 2AM and I'm listening to Abbey Road.  I don't want to go back to college.  I've never been one to look back.  But the right song means I don't have to: I can see it all from here.

Song of the Week: Beatles, "Dig a Pony"

Before I dig in to this week's song (pun intended), a bit of clarification for Beatles nerds and non-nerds alike.

Folks never really know what to do with the last two Beatles albums, Let It Be and Abbey Road.  Because Let It Be was recorded before but released after Abbey Road, labeling "the last Beatles album" becomes difficult.  And since I'm going through their discography "chronologically," I had a decision to make: which album would I tackle first for Song of the Week? 

I'm making Abbey Road "last" for two reasons:
1) It was made last, so in the actual chronology of the Beatles' work, this makes sense.
2) It's just a better, more fitting swan song than Let It Be.

So, for now, let's rock out to...

Song of the Week, The Beatles "Dig a Pony" (Let It Be):

I love "Dig a Pony" for several reasons, but I picked it for one: it's the best example of what 1) the Beatles wanted to do with this album 2) the Beatles did with this album and 3) John Lennon valued most in his music.


About #1 and #2:
The original title of Let It Be was Get Back.  The idea was to play simple, roots-based rock, live as a band, without studio frills or sonic experimentation.  In other words, Get Back was to be the opposite of Sgt. Pepper--a return to basics for the Beatles.  This was the Beatles coming full circle, right down to the inclusion of "One After 909," one of the first Lennon/McCartney songs written.  True to form, Let It Be is full of live performances and straightforward rhythm-n-blues: "Dig It," "Maggie Mae," "I've Got a Feeling," "One After 909," "For You Blue," and, to a degree, "Get Back." 

But "Dig a Pony" is my favorite of the bunch.  It juxtaposes two things that made the Beatles so special: 1) nobody played simple R&B better, and 2) the Beatles were too good to do something simply.  "Dig a Pony" can sound as predictable or as unexpected as you want it to sound.  The song's structure is easy enough, but the main riff is a rhythmic wonder.  The chorus is as simple as they come, but the way they earn that chorus (individual harmonies, George's escalating guitar fills) is layered and complex.

In other words, "Dig a Pony" sounds like what it is: a band returning to its roots, but with eight years of experience and maturation to aid them.  It's the best of both worlds: their early love for straight-ahead rock with their late-era maturity and craftsmanship. 

About #3:
A few weeks ago, I wrote affectionately about "It's Only Love," despite John Lennon's public disdain for it.  You're not going to believe this, but he claimed to hate "Dig a Pony" too.  He once called it "a piece of garbage."  And once again, he's wrong.

Lyrically, "Dig a Pony" is 96% nonsense--a barrage of non sequiturs and goofy wordplay biding time until the chorus.  That's perhaps what Lennon didn't like about the song (he was critical of "It's Only Love's" lyrics, too).  But that's also what I love about it.

In another song, the nonsense lyrics of the verse would be a detriment; here, they're accounted for.  Lennon--like anyone in love might--rambles through verses, makes jokes, beats around the bush, and inarticulately expresses everything but the one thing he's dying to say.  The breakthrough of the chorus echoes a moment in T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," where a frustrated, rambling narrator exclaims, "It is impossible to say just what I mean!"

Finally, John Lennon does say just what he means.  The chorus breaks through the confusion with a gorgeous, cathartic moment of clarity.  He screams the only thing he really wants to say: all I want is you.  That's it.  That's the whole song: all I want is YOU.  It's such a powerful--and well-earned--moment of catharsis that you can see it transform John's face as he's singing it (1:59) and immediately after (his relieved, overjoyed "ahhs!" with Paul's "woo!" at 2:12).



You can't NOT feel that. 

This is a classic "John song," right down to his public denial of it.  Although Lennon was probably the most "avant garde" Beatle, he was maybe the least cerebral.  Through all his experimentation--with spirituality, drugs, musical styles, production techniques, etc--he was looking for a new means of expression, not a new mode of thinking.  In "A Day In the Life"--perhaps the best example of Lennon/McCartney avant garde songwriting--Lennon's repeated line is "I'd love to turn you on."  That's not only the song's refrain; that's Lennon's mission statement.  First and foremost, he wants to make you feel.

It's what Chuck Berry, and Elvis, and Little Richard, and all of rock's pioneers wanted, too.  That feeling is what inspired the Beatles to pick up instruments.  And, after years of mind-bending albums, it's what the Beatles wanted to return to with Let It Be: pure, simple, exciting rock and roll.  Maybe more than any other song on the album, "Dig a Pony" achieves that goal.  For all its nonsense, it makes sense in the most fundamental way.  It speaks to the heart and soul instead of the head.

Dig a moondog,
CM

Song of the Week: Beatles, "Wild Honey Pie"

Four albums in one?

 (WARNING: This post contains the word "wank.")

I'll be honest: I don't know what to do this week.  I don't know what to do this week because (and I'm about to commit a cardinal sin here) I've never loved the White Album.  I've never loved the White Album because it's the opposite of most things I love about the Beatles:

1) As talented as each of them were, the Beatles were much greater as a whole than as individuals.  They made magic together that none of them could equal alone. 

The White Album is quite deliberately the work of four individuals.  Because those individuals are the Beatles, it's still a better album than most solo artists would ever make.  It can top just about anyone.  But it can't top the Beatles themselves, working together as a cohesive band.

2) The Beatles considered "the record" a sacred thing.  They approached their own studio work as something timeless, a blueprint for future generations.  They were perfectionists in the studio, meticulous in preparation, exhaustive in revision.  Every song was worked--and reworked--until it became best version of itself.  Precision was key.

Well, to put it tactfully, there's a lot of imprecision on the White Album.  To put it another way, there's a lot of wank on the White Album: abandoned takes, half-baked ideas, loose performances, and just plain goofiness.  And that's really why I picked "Wild Honey Pie" as this week's song.  I picked it for everything it isn't, rather than everything it is.

To be fair, it's easy to sit in 2011 and criticize the White Album as being (ehem) masturbatory.  But if you're a Beatle in 1967-1968, what else is there for you to do?  You've permanently changed pop culture as both the biggest band commercially and its most respected band artistically.  Everything you do is both 1) automatically a hit and 2) over-analyzed.  From Hard Day's Night through Sgt. Pepper, no band was bigger or more "important."  What else can you do but have a laugh?

And make no mistake: the White Album, for all of its merits and snippets of seriousness, is one great, big, audible laugh.  We've only had a few artists since the Beatles achieve the same level of commercial success and artistic importance--what's interesting is how many of those artists have put out their version of the White Album, essentially reclaiming their right to blow off some steam. Bob Dylan closed out the 60's with the (self-admitted) joke album Self-Portrait.  Pearl Jam--reluctant heirs to the "voice of Generation X" throne after Cobain's suicide--rattled off Vitalogy and No Code.  Both albums are 75% fantastic, 25% wank.  And you know what?  Good on them.  If the survival of the band meant them blowing off some steam, essentially saying, "we reserve the right not to be taken too seriously," then go for it.

There's a lot of "Wild Honey Pie" in "Bugs."  

By 1969, Dylan had certainly earned himself a laugh.  God knows Pearl Jam (and everyone else) needed a laugh in 1994.  And by 1967-68, "wank" was seemingly the only thing the Beatles hadn't done.

I celebrate it from a distance, but I rarely listen to it.

What do y'all think?  Any favorite tunes on the White Album?  Any of you rank the White Album among your favorite Beatles records?  If so, I'm sure you're right.  Let me hear it!

Beatles, "Wild Honey Pie"

Song of the Week: Beatles, "When I'm Sixty-Four"

The people have spoken. 

Thanks to everyone who voted here, on Twitter, and on Facebook for Song of the Week.  I'm a little surprised by the results, but also really excited to write about this one.  Without further delay, here's your pick (by nearly a 2-to-1 margin)!

Song of the Week: The Beatles, "When I'm Sixty-Four" (Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band)

Let's break this one down, random-category style!

Is that Magic Johnson in Row 3?

The Main Reason I Love This Song:
It combines two of Paul's greatest--and most unique--talents:
1) It's a great melody and
2) It's theatrical

It's no secret--or great revelation--that Paul McCartney's an incredible melodist.  As for #2: it's an under-discussed--and, to me, fascinating--subplot of pop history.  A handful of our best songwriters naturally lean towards the theatrical.

Think of some of Paul's best-known songs: they often involve fictional characters, a specific setting, and plenty of action.  The music itself typically contains dramatic flourishes.  He loves orchestral swells, big productions, and complex arrangements.  It's easy to picture so many McCartney songs scoring a Broadway show, performed onstage.  For example:
"Penny Lane"
"Eleanor Rigby"
"She's Leaving Home"
"Golden Slumbers" (and Abbey Road's surrounding tunes)
"The Long and Winding Road"
"Your Mother Should Know"
"Michelle"
And, of course, "When I'm Sixty-Four"
The list goes on...

As soon as "When I'm Sixty-Four" begins, you can immediately picture two spotlit actors, center-stage, doing the ole soft shoe, guy singing to his head-shaking, eye-rolling, charmed-despite-herself gal.  It's no great surprise that the first Beatles concept album was Paul's idea, and that his idea was essentially staging a play: a fictional concert by a fictional band.

A few other songwriters that venture into this realm:
--Adam Duritz ("Butterfly In Reverse" could be in a Pixar movie, and "Accidentally In Love" was)
--Elton John (a million Disney and Broadway connections)
--Pete Townshend (the original rock opera composer)
--Latter-day Billy Joe Armstrong (American Idiot has become a Broadway show, and 21st Century Breakdown could)

Who are some other songwriters you'd put in this category?

The Sleeper Reason I Love This Song:
It's a really underrated lyric.  As great as Sgt. Pepper is, I've always thought it was slightly overrated musically (Revolver has better songs, Abbey Road is more ambitious, and Help! is a more fun listen), but underrated lyrically.  In fact, I think it's the strongest album of lyrics that John or Paul ever wrote.  The language is rich, challenging, and beautiful; the images are fresh and vivid; the storytelling (especially in Paul's case) is pitch-perfect.  No words are wasted.  And, above all else, the ideas are new.  Track-to-track, you're hearing something you've never heard before in a pop song.

With "When I'm Sixty-Four" specifically, I've always admired it a great deal.  It can sometimes be much harder to write a song "in a style" (affectionate parody of an old-school ragtime, piano standard in this case) than with a blank slate.  Every song style has its own vocabulary, its own set of rules.  Language and space are limited.  Also, the song has to find the right emotional balance: it can't sound like a carbon copy of an old standard, but it can't sound like a distanced, snarky, ironic put-down.

Of course, Paul's affection for this type of music and his talent for making anything his own win the day.  The lyrics are humorously tongue-in-cheek (the name choices alone of "Vera, Chuck, and Dave" are marvelous), yet warm and respectful.  That balance is perhaps best shown, side-by-side, in the couplet "Indicate precisely what you mean to say/Yours sincerely, Wasting Away."  Genuine warmth vs. underlying black humor.  It's a love letter to his father's favorite music, written with great affection.

Random Fact About This Song:
From Wikipedia:
"The song was nearly released on a single as the B-side with either "Strawberry Fields Forever" or "Penny Lane" as the A-side. Instead, Martin decided on a double-A-sided-disc. The single did not make #1 in the United Kingdom Singles Chart, breaking a string of #1 singles going back to 1963.  If "When I'm Sixty-Four" had been issued as a B-side, it probably would not have appeared on Sgt. Pepper."

It looks like Paul's wearing Flavor Flav's clock necklace.

Random Awe-Inspiring Fact About This Song, As Revealed By John Lennon:
"Paul wrote it in the Cavern days...this was just one that was quite a hit with us."

As other biographical materials confirm, "When I'm Sixty-Four" was actually one of the first songs Paul McCartney ever wrote.  Just in case you need reminding that the guy's extra-terrestrial-talented.

Random Yet Revealing Other Thing John Once Said About This Song:
"I would never even dream of writing a song like that."

This is accurate, but not really the put-down it appears to be.  One cliche--but usually true--characterization of the Beatles is that John wrote about himself, and Paul wrote about everyone else.  John described feelings; Paul told stories.  This dichotomy is perhaps best shown in "A Day In the Life."  John's section is somber and meditative ("I read the news today, oh boy...").  Paul's is upbeat and action-driven ("Woke up, got out of bed...").  Of course, there are always exceptions: John's "Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite!" describes an outside world and fictional characters with stylized zeal as Paul so often did.

While John surely admired the song's cleverness and humor, he probably (if anything) criticized Paul's affection for anything old.  John was an ardent rock n' roller.  He valued youth, rebellion, and vitality too much to write lovingly about sextagenarians knitting by a fireside.  To John, that's not cute; it's boring.

Of course--as the Beatles show--it can be both.

What This Song Means Today:
I wrote above that Paul's "When I'm Sixty-Four" is a "love letter to his father's music."  I don't hear many soft-shoe vignettes in 2011, but I do hear plenty of artists singing love letters to their parents' music.  One recent, interesting, and massively popular example is Amy Winehouse's Back To Black album, which takes the music of her parents' youth (60's girl groups like the Shirelles and Ronettes) and makes it contemporary again.

Here's the Shirelles' "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow"...

(...wow...pausing to remember how great that song is...dear Lord...okay, we're back now...)

...and here's a cover by Winehouse.  That's the template for Back To Black, and her devotion to that older style dominates songs like "Me and Mr. Jones" and "Love Is a Losing Game." 

As an artist who not only writes pop songs but adores pop songs from every era, I hope there's always a place for artists who want to revisit--and revamp--history this way. 

Okay--I'd better stop typing now.  I could do this all day.  Thanks again for your votes--y'all picked a great Song of the Week, and I had a blast thinking about your choice.  Hit up the comments to let me know what you're thinking--it's your SOW, after all!

Til next week,
CM

Song of the Week: YOU Pick!

Here's the deal:

I can't decide which song to pick off Sgt. Pepper to write about this week.  It's too hard.  I need a little help from my friends.  Specifically, I need you to pick the Song of the Week for me. 

For the next 24 hours, consider this blog's comments, Twitter, and Facebook a voting booth.  Let me know which song gets your vote.  I'll tally them up, find the winner, blog it up, and post by tomorrow afternoon for your weekend enjoyment.  Sound good?  Great!

So, in case anyone needs a refresher, here's the tracklist for Sgt. Pepper, with YouTube links:

1) Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
2) With a Little Help From My Friends
3) Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds
4) Getting Better
5) Fixing A Hole
6) She's Leaving Home
7) Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite!
8) Within You Without You
9) When I'm Sixty-Four
10) Lovely Rita
11) Good Morning Good Morning
12) Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)
13) A Day In the Life

Alright--let me hear it!  See y'all tomorrow...
CM

Song of the Week: Beatles, "Tomorrow Never Knows"

Twenty years after my introduction to it, I still can't wrap my mind about Revolver.  It's a dense, complicated album, but two primary questions have always bugged me:

1) What, if anything, is Revolver's statement?  What is its theme?  Typically, the Beatles' best work was characterized by some unifying concept: the fake band/performance art of Sgt. Pepper; the four-parts-of-the-whole of the White Album; the back-to-basics of Let It Be; the mini-opera of Abbey Road's b-side.  So, what holds Revolver together?

2) The Beatles went from "Love Me Do" to "Eleanor Rigby" in less than three years.  How did that transformation take place?  How does one band make that many artistic leaps? 

Look closely and you'll see Gerald Ford.

While many Beatle-philes count Revolver as their best album (song for song), they agree it's not their most influential.  For all of its heavyweight tracks ("Eleanor Rigby," "Here, There, and Everywhere," "Got To Get You Into My Life," etc.), it lacks a pantheon-level smash like "Yesterday" or "Hey Jude." For all its deeply personal songwriting, it's somehow elusive, even aloof.  Every time you think you've found an overarching theme (loneliness and alienation in "Eleanor Rigby," et al), exceptions stand out (love and beauty in "Here, There, and Everywhere").

Track-to-track, Revolver swings wildly in songwriting style and production; it vehemently denies the listener "a groove."  Just as you're enjoying the jangly, uptempo rock of "And Your Bird Can Sing," it halts for the intimate ballad "For No One." Revolver contains a love song standard, folk rock, orchestral odes, a childrens' song, wannabe Motown, proto trip-hop, and seemingly everything in between.  Its songs don't pinpoint one stage of the Beatles' development; it showcases every facet of their artistry.  In other words, Revolver isn't about the Beatles achieving one grand "Something"; it's about them trying everything. 

At this stage, the Beatles were a proven commercial and artistic success, and that success granted them unprecedented artistic freedom.  More than any band before them, they could do whatever they wanted.  Later, that freedom would manifest itself as studio experimentation, "concept albums," etc.  But with Revolver, it meant that they could simply create the fourteen best songs possible, without the constraints of genre, trend-following, or limited studio resources.

So maybe that, really, is the point (and the power) of Revolver: fourteen incredible songs.

Song of the Week: The Beatles, "Tomorrow Never Knows"

As for question #2, listen to this.  Then, listen to this. 

The first song is "I Should've Known Better," off Hard Day's Night, released in 1964.  The second song is "Tomorrow Never Knows," off Revolver, released in 1966.  It's not only amazing that, in a mere two years, the Beatles had evolved from Point A to Point M.  It's amazing that, listening to their music from 1964-1966, you can actually hear that evolution.  As shocking and revelatory as "Tomorrow Never Knows" should be, by the end of Help!, Rubber Soul, and then Revolver, we're ready for it.  More to the point, we're ready for anything. 

I could wax poetic all day about the artistic leaps the Beatles made at nearly every stage of their career, about how sophisticated their songwriting had become, about how confident and fearless they were as recording artists by 1966, about how their developing stardom was showing itself brilliantly in the music, etc.  I could compare (as many have) the opening count-offs of "I Saw Her Standing There" and "Taxman" to illustrate that arc from innocence to disenchantment, live band to studio band.  It's all there to hear, love, dissect, and hear again, as so many already have.

What accounts for those leaps?  To be sure, the Beatles' evolution was largely possible because they were four of the most individually gifted artists in pop music.  But I wonder how much the Beatles' schedule facilitated--or demanded--accelerated development.  In the 60's, hit artists released one to two new albums per year (conventionally, one in the summer, one at Christmas).  The industry's focus was to maximize content while the hits were coming.  In other words, strike (as much as possible) while the iron's hot.  Because record and concert sales were big business, you could always find a new hit artists.  Find one, release a ton of material, rake in the bucks, then move on to the next.

Today, music isn't big business.  Massively popular artists are much harder to find.  If you somehow do discover a golden calf, you don't milk it all at once.  The biggest bands today (Coldplay, Green Day, U2, Kings of Leon, etc.) don't release one or two albums per year; they release one album every two to three years.  Singles are spaced 2-6 months apart.  It's a much slower game.

With less releases to count on, it's natural to take fewer risks.  For example, Kings of Leon recently followed-up their 2008 breakthrough, Only By the Night.  Guitarist Matthew Followill admitted in Spin that the band felt conflicted between exploring new types of songs and writing tunes in the mold of their last hit album.  In the end, Come Around Sundown (which I really enjoyed) mostly opted for the latter.  Similarly, Coldplay stuck to their script until Viva la Vida.  Faced with 2011's music business model, I think most artists would do the same.  

But, say you release a record every six months rather than every three years.  You can try new things.  Misfires are negligible.  "Flops" are quickly forgotten.  You can make Beatles For Sale, because Hard Day's Night is just around the corner.  You can try Magical Mystery Tour, then come back with the White Album. 

Revolver is the product of an amazing band at the peak of their creative powers, but it's also the byproduct of a breakneck recording pace.  To make those kinds of artistic leaps, it's not enough to be talented and hard-working--you have to have the commercial freedom to be prolific.  As amazing as the Beatles' evolution was from 1964-1966 (four albums in two years), it was perhaps more likely to occur over two years than over six. 

Or maybe--just maybe--they're that much better than everyone else. 

Next week: a song from Sgt. Pepper!  Til then...

Song of the Week: Beatles, "Wait"

(Quick note: I'm a bit sick this week, so I'm flipping the YouTube Concert and Song of the Week posts.  Trust me: you don't want to hear me sing right now, nobody wants to hear me sing right now.  So, SOW comes today, and look for the YTC--hopefully--on Friday.  Next week, they'll go back to the normal routine.  Thanks!)

Song of the Week: The Beatles, "Wait" (Rubber Soul)

If not for a great teacher, I might've overlooked this song.  The class was called "Beatles and Beethoven," and in it, we studied Beatles songs and Beethoven compositions (mostly his 5th symphony) and found relationships between the two.  The teacher pointed out that the rhythmic device that opens Beethoven's 5th is practically the same as the beginning of "Wait." 

So, I thought it was high time to give Ringo some love.  There are many reasons to like "Wait," but all of them depend on Ringo's solid rhythmic foundation for the song, and his ingenuity.  He uses a lot of percussion: tambourines, shakers, full drum kit, etc.  Different song sections have different drum parts.  Each verse, chorus, and bridge--all very different--needs to meld together.  And he has to make each part its own event while connecting it all seamlessly. 

Of course, he does it.  My favorite Ringo flourish of the song is the easy-to-miss drum roll he plays going into each chorus (0:12, 0:32, etc.).  Through all the technical precision of the song, he still manages to find spots to convey its emotion.  The anticipation and doubt John sings about in the verse just spill over into each chorus, and Ringo takes him there.  Ringo's brilliance isn't just that he serves this little complex song so well.  It's that he can do it without intruding; somehow, all of his great effort is still easy to miss.

I hear Ringo's drumming in a lot of bands today.  For example, the New Pornographers write multi-section, rhythmically-unusual songs with lots of different percussive parts.  It's often their drummer's job to blend it all together, to make the off-kilter sound solid.  There's a lot of "Wait" in songs like "Crash Years." 

I know there are more virtuosic drummers, but I'd rather have Ringo Starr in my band any day.

Til next week,
CM

Song of the Week: Beatles, "It's Only Love"

"I always thought it was a lousy song.  The lyrics were abysmal.  I always hated that song."  --John Lennon, Playboy, 1980.

The Beatles were unusually outspoken on their own work--which songs they were proud of, which songs they didn't feel aged well, what details they wish they could change, etc.  In a way, they were their harshest critics and their biggest fans.  But what's even more surprising is how accurate their assessments were.  A few examples:

"That's Paul's song and Paul's baby.  Well done.  Beautiful.  And I never wished I'd written it."  --John, on "Yesterday"

"I really dig myself as a bass player...I kind of fancy myself."  --Paul, on his somehow-underrated contribution to rock bass

"I'm okay; I'm not technically good, but I can make it fucking howl and move. I was rhythm guitarist. It's an important job. I can make a band drive."  --John, on his own guitar-playing.

"We weren't ashamed of the film [Help!], but close friends knew that the picture and 'Eight Days' weren't our best."  --John, on Help! vs. Hard Day's Night.

And on, and on.  However, the quote at the top of this post also comes from John, and it's a rare misstep in his self-criticism. 

Song of the Week: Beatles, "It's Only Love" (Help!)

Despite John Lennon's appraisal, I've always loved this song.  I remember, as a child, flipping my Help! tape over and only liking "It's Only Love" and "Yesterday" on the b-side.  John's vocal is hushed and confessional, then plaintive, then an outcry.  It immediately puts us in a very specific--but unexpected--emotional space.  It's a beautiful, earnest song that sneaks up on the listener.  And even if John claims (fifteen years later) not to take the lyrics seriously, he sings them with total conviction.

And what of those lyrics?  Sure, they rely on some cliched images and predictable rhymes.  Read line-by-line, they look a little silly.  But there are two reasons the song itself isn't silly:

1) The aforementioned vocal.  Lyrics aren't meant to be read line-by-line.  They're meant to be heard within the context of a song as it's sung.  And these words, as they're sung by John, sound fresh and revelatory.  He's not dutifully listing cliches; telling us a secret. 

2) The song's hook, it's overarching premise ("it's only love, and that is all/why should I feel the way I do?") is actually a fresh idea.  In 1965, love was the subject of seemingly every pop song.  No subject was thought to carry more weight or hold more relevance to a teenage audience.  It's therefore startling to hear pop's most famous singer dismiss it out-of-hand: it's only love. In other words, Lennon's known heartache, but this feeling is new.  Something else is wrong with him, he doesn't know what, and that beautiful, understated vocal expresses all of his confusion.

Around this time, John and many contemporaries (other Beatles, Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, etc.) began exploring other sources of pain, depression, alienation, confusion, etc.  In more and more songs, what used to be tantamount now was trivial.  The sentiment behind "It's Only Love" echoes the final line of Dylan's epic, "It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)," as he concludes, "it's life and life only." 

Today, love is still the most frequent topic for a pop song.  Perhaps nothing is more important, or universal, or relevant to a young audience.  Now, I hear "It's Only Love," and remember why I first loved it: the confessional tone of John's side-winding melody.  And then I remember why it still matters: some feelings are harder to explain.  If it's only love...then what else is the problem?

That's an important question for a song to ask in 1965, and in 2011.  With all due respect to the songwriter himself, we'll agree to disagree.

See y'all next week!

P.S. For the YouTube Concert series, I covered "It's Only Love."  Enjoy!

Song of the Week: Phantom Planet, "Something Is Wrong"

This week's post will match this week's song: they're both short.

Song of the Week: Phantom Planet, "Something Is Wrong"

The average pop song is three to four minutes. It has multiple verses and choruses, possibly a bridge, and sometimes an instrumental section (e.g., guitar solo). There's typically repetition--melodies, lyrics, and refrains repeated to create something memorable for the listener. So what happens when a pop band decides to stop after 90 seconds? Why didn't they write more verses? Why not repeat anything? Why leave us wanting more? What gives?

I love short songs ("songlets"?); I write them often, and one even made it to an album. They're an artform unto themselves: every word has to do more, every musical gesture carries more weight. Because they leave the audience expects (and wants) more, the trick is in the tease: whet the appetite, then leave. It's a wonderful dance between artist and listener, expectation and fulfillment, trust and anti-climax. When done right, the listener is sad the song's over, but still satisfied.



Songlets are also noteworthy because they're so clearly an artistic choice. Any pop songwriter on autopilot will add more verses, repeat choruses, and end on a high note after four minutes. When you hear a songlet, you hear an artist trying to tell you something; he's made a conscious choice to cut this song short.

Often, that choice is made in the context of an album. These songs usually operate as a vignette, aside, or even segue between the big, emotional acts of the album's fuller songs. They're little scenes nestled between the big chapters. They give us something else to think about, or transition us into new territory. "Something Is Wrong" curiously ends Phantom Planet's The Guest, and it makes us question every song that came before it. The album's scope, the "bigness" of its songs, its crowded scenes and emotional intensity are almost theatrical. And yet it ends with a single guitar, a single (nearly whispering) voice, and a suggestion that undermines the optimism of every preceding song. After all of that, something is still wrong. It's a nagging worry, the tiny doubt that the rest of the album has tried to escape. It's a confession, and something like a prayer. It's also, of course, beautiful. And then it's over, as quickly as it came. It's a simple yet brilliant coda to a superb album--two minutes that give all the others a new dimension.

If (as many suggest) LPs disappear over the next several years, will songlets die with them? Or will they continue without the albums they're often written to enhance?

And what are some of your favorite songlets? Here are a few more of mine--be sure to hit up the comments to add to the list!

The Beatles, "I'll Follow the Sun"
Lucero, "Joining the Army"
Foo Fighters, "Doll"
Green Day, "Song of the Century"
Counting Crows, "Walkaways"

(Final side note: I used to be endlessly frustrated by "Walkaways," which closes Recovering the Satellites. Because "A Long December" is such an incredible song, and felt like a natural ending for such an epic album, it puzzled me that they chose to follow it with this spare songlet that tells a very different story. It seemed like an anticlimactic finish, and (for me) and unwanted excursion. Now I can't picture Recovering... ending any other way--it's a perfect songlet and postscript for the album. The lesson, as always: I love being wrong.)

YouTube Thursday

Yep--YouTube Thursday. We gotta be flexible, BlogWorld, if we're going to make it through baseball season.

The Michael Jackson post got me thinking about other seminal television performances. MJ's Motown performance was iconic: it gave us the moonwalk, and cemented Jackson as not only an adult pop star, but the dominant pop icon of his generation. After that, everyone else was officially playing for second.

So, what are some other watershed television performances?

Some would definitely count Madonna's "Like a Virgin" VMA performance. I wouldn't fight them on it.

I would definitely include Nirvana's Unplugged. While it didn't make them stars, it reinvented their stardom and helped shape their legacy as much as any one performance. After it, Nirvana not only meant something else to an entire generation, they meant more to it.


And, then, the Big Two: Elvis on Ed Sullivan:


The Beatles on Ed Sullivan:


What are some others? Which are your personal favorites? Hit up the comments and let me know!

While I'm away,
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

Milam's Mailbag!

After weeks of Milam's March Madness and subsequent mania, my mailbag's a mess. Unmanageable, even. Time to do some spring cleaning and answer your questions!

As always, if you'd like to submit a question to Milam's Mailbag (or really just say anything at all) just email me with "Mailbag" in the subject. Thanks!

I read your bit on Louis CK/Facebook a little while back and this begs the question: What do you think of the new Facebook? I think it sucks, but everyone’s saying it’s like Twitter, and I have no idea what that means. I feel like this re-design makes it take more time for me to stalk people. Lend me your thoughts.
--Wicker Sangria, Grand Rapids MI

I actually like it. I liked the original Facebook format the best, and then they changed it about 18 months ago to some jumbled, over-stuffed mess. Now they've streamlined it and prioritized the status updates. The problem that some people have is that the new version chose to prioritize status updates, which was a conscious move to compete with Twitter. This made other features harder to find or less accessible, which made stalking more difficult. Since Facebook's original appeal was unprecedented internet stalking, the change caused a rift.

The most interesting thing to me is that Facebook has become a place without demographics, which is my fancy way of saying "older folks are on it." At its zenith, if you were over forty and on Myspace, you were:
1) A pedophile
2) A professional in the entertainment industry
3) All of the above

Now, of course, Myspace is a graveyard of club promoters, spam, and softcore pornography, and Facebook's the standard for every age group. I've wondered about why our parents' generation took to Facebook and not Myspace, and don't have an answer. I do know, however, that the handful of Baby Boomers who have signed up recently did so because one of their friends tried to show them pictures via Facebook. They were prompted to sign up to see the pictures, so they did. In other words, Facebook didn't catch on because of some paradigm shift in the way our older generations interact with technology; it probably caught on because none of them knew about Flickr. Good. Grief.

Finally, there's Twitter, which nobody seems to make any sense of. I like it in principle, and I have one (Twit me, yo), but its format is ideal for people who think in six words or less. The premise is rapid-fire communication, real-time-life-sharing-updates, but it's often counterproductive. I spend twice as long trying to figure out how to fit something in 160 characters and end up just posting a link. Instead of giving up-to-the-minute updates, I waste the better part of my afternoon thinking about how to sound off-the-cuff.

And what I'm trying to say is this: I just bought a cabin.

Greatest American rock band? Not just current, but greatest American rock band ever. Side question, why is America great at producing single artists but not bands? Is this question correct/true/fair?
--I'd Fight Gandhi, Memphis TN

Great question. When I started Milam's March Madness, I was alarmed at how many of our current top bands are from overseas. Then I remembered, "well, that's always been the case." While American artists have led in terms of pop cultural invention, the best rock bands have almost always hailed from somewhere else. In other words, for every Elvis (American solo artist), there's a Beatles (British rock band). For whatever reason, the best American music is often made by individuals, and the best British music is often made by groups.

What's more interesting is how consistently this has been the case. It's difficult to pick a year since, say, 1964, in which the best band on earth was American. While Americans made stellar rock in the 60's (Beach Boys, the San Fran-bands like Jefferson Airplane, The Byrds), it's hard to argue that the decade didn't belong to the Brits (The Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks, Cream, etc.).

For every Eagles and CCR in the 70's, there was a Fleetwood Mac (truthfully a mixed-bag in terms of origin, but at least half Brits). Besides, it was Zeppelin's house and everyone else was just playing in it.

The Ramones make the short list if only for their massive influence, but can you say definitively that influence was greater than their British contemporaries (The Clash, Sex Pistols, etc.)?

The hair metal bands of the 80's were mostly American, too, but if you really think Winger belongs in this discussion you're probably not reading this blog in the first place.

REM gets plenty of consideration for their work throughout the 80's and 90's. For every diehard who says they were actually the most important band of the 80's (like me), you'll find five who say it was U2. And you'll find Chuck Klosterman, who says it's Guns N Roses.

Perhaps the most American-dominated time of great, interesting rock was the grunge revolution of the early 90's, in which Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Soundgarden redefined the genre for a new generation and sent everyone--from California to Australia--scrambling to keep up. So, those bands are on the short list.

So, to sum up, here's the short list as I see it. In no order:
--The Beach Boys
--The Ramones
--REM
--Nirvana
--Pearl Jam
--Big Star (I include them here with a bullet. I have an upcoming post about Big Star, so hopefully that'll shed some light on their inclusion.)

Nice. Lots of great music in there. Now let's weigh that against the Brit's short list, just for fun:
--The Beatles
--The Rolling Stones
--The Who
--Led Zeppelin
--U2

Ouch. I don't care who you are, that's sobering. Brit-comparisons aside, the original question was Greatest American Rock Band of All-Time, right? The problem is that, for me, no one from the American group jumps out as an obvious pick. They're all interesting choices, and have had incredibly different careers. Gun to my head, I'd pick Nirvana, because I think they did as much in a 3-year span as any band has (American or British). I don't hold brevity against them, but I count the time they didn't have for them (i.e., some would give them credit for the "great albums they would've made").

I'm saying Nirvana, and I don't feel great about it. Who am I missing? What do y'all think?

Oh, and to the question about why America produces great solo artists more than bands, my first thought is the obvious one: "Americans are individualistic, have our own singular visions, idolize those who perform/struggle/achieve in isolation, etc." And that probably has something to do with it. I also think that, when it comes to rock specifically, distance can help.

For example, the Beatles learned to play rock by listening to records by American artists (Elvis, Chuck Berry, Arthur Alexander, etc.) and imitating them. At the same time, they were also learning and imitating a contemporary British trend, skiffle. They were also learning from Western European classical music, and the English piano-standards that Paul's dad loved. When American rock made it to them, they naturally synthesized it with all of their other influences (some non-American). So, by the time their version of rock came back to America, it was something new, and fresh, and vibrant, and limitless. That band couldn't have come from the same South that produced Elvis, and Berry, because their deep familiarity with that one musical heritage would've limited their influences, and the type of music they would make. They couldn't have made rock new, because they would've only been exposed to (or expected to play) the rock that had become old. Distance can set you free.

Led Zeppelin and the Stones are also classic examples of bands that felt free to take traditional blues in a new direction. Perhaps the best current example of this is the White Stripes, a band from Detroit who have made the blues new again. It's important, though, that these bands so frequently come from outside the South they're inspired by, because the South itself is very much interested in preserving its musical heritage. It's a wonderful and invaluable musical heritage, and one that should be preserved.  I only want to make the point that you're more likely to find actual Delta blues in Mississippi (or actual bluegrass in Kentucky, etc.) than a genre-bending, facelifted version of it. Even the North Mississippi All-Stars (who sonically have much in common with the Black Keys and White Stripes) are mostly covering blues standards rather than writing new songs. They came up in juke joints, and that's their heritage.

But, if you're Zeppelin, and you love the blues, and you play it for barrooms across England, you're liscenced for experimentation, because there's no regional identity to uphold, no stake in being a purist. At a safe distance from the old, you're free to try something new.

You said March was "probably the worst" month. Well, what's the best?
--Thomas, Richmond VA
You know what? While we're making concrete lists about abstract things and making the subjective into something objective, let's RANK ALL TWELVE MONTHS!

12) March
Winter's my least-favorite season, and spring is second-to-least-favorite. March is the horrible mutant bastard of both, 70% winter, 24% spring, 6% flu, 100% awful. Also, it's a pathological liar and ushers in "pre-spring-training" baseball segements on SportsCenter. The worst.

11) February
Winter's lame, and February's it.

10) January
The week after New Years is one of the worst on the calendar. Also, coldweather months are bottom-dwellers on my list, because I'm one of those people who doesn't think all weather was created equal. I would absolutely rather be hot than cold, always, every time. I've seen Texas in the summer and I grew up in the Roman bath-house that is Memphis in August; I know oppressive heat, and I'd take it anyday over whatever the hell I experienced in Chicago/Hoth one winter.

9) May
In NBA-talent-scout terms, May's the "tweener." Not really spring, not officially summer. As much as I love having 4 seasons (instead of the glorified two that Memphis gets), everything I enjoy about spring is at its best in April. May's the month where it's warm but people aren't tan yet. So you've got a lot of pale folks running around outside still carrying their "holiday weight." Eh.

8) June
The most non-descript summer month, and the one furthest away from fall. On this list, everything works toward the fall.

7) April
Welcome back, Sundresses.  I've missed you.

6) August
The hottest month, it also boasts a very important birthday/national holiday. The fact that it's the final, brutal, overlong home stretch before football is both its gift and its curse. August lasts forever, but (unlike March) it delivers at the end.

5) November
November should be the apex of everything fall-ish and great in the world, but it's usually just a rainy segue between October's autumnal greatness and the chilly holiday season. Still, there's football.

4) July
Summer at its height! If you've got jorts and a dusty Camaro, you've got a party. Just add a bucket of soap, this song, and watch the ladies come a'flockin.

3) October
Best weather of the year. Usually clear, sunny, warm during the day and brisk at night. Trees on fire. Football abounding. If a record comes out in October, I am automatically 24% more likely to enjoy it. You're welcome, Band of Horses.

2) December
If you think for a second that I don't walk the streets passing out ham and drinking eggnog out of a brown paper bag...that my middle name isn't Cinnamon...that I don't own a dancing Santa...that I don't call everything "snuggly"...that I don't refer to this month as "Girlfriend Season"...hi, I'm Chris, and we haven't met yet.

1) September
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.

Biding my time,
CM