Greatest Songs At This Moment–The Hives’ “Fall Is Just Something Grownups Invented”

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included The Rolling Stones’ “Honky Tonk Women,” The White Stripes’ “We’re Going To Be Friends,” and Rufus Wainwright’s “Foolish Love.”

I guess I’m a little off in my timing, listening to a song about the beginning of school during the time of year when school is letting out. Like listening to Christmas songs in August, my obsession has more to do with my fixation on the Hives themselves and their weird logical leaps than with actual calendar-backed facts. Even though I am married to a teacher, have retired teachers for parents and I hang around schools many times during the year (not like that), I still find that this point in time most perfectly suits “Fall Is Just Something Grownups Invented.” Even though the message of the song is — on the surface — anger at returning to school, the mood of the song is joyful, and what’s more joyful than the beginning of summer? Paradox? Sure, but it works.

I have no excuse for loving the Hives as much as I do, and I therefore offer little apology. They are like a hybrid of my two favorite bands, wedding the Ramones’ style and humor to a Mick Jagger-like front man. I never stood a chance at resisting, but I doubt I would have fallen as hard in love with the band if not for the strange underlying insanity that is the Hives’ artistic voice. This voice could be simply chalked up to their mishandling of the English language (”The Hives are law! You are crime!”) along with their reckless abandon with which they use their second language. But as I’ve dug deeper and deeper into their catalog — yes, there’s room to dig — I’ve become more convinced that they’re either so smart they’re dumb or so dumb they’re smart and then dumb again. If you followed that, you have my pity. Your world will soon be consumed by another paradox of Hives logic, heretofore known as “logic,” with sarcastic quotation marks in tact.

“Fall” was written for Cartoon Network, presumably as a kids’ song for their commercial tags. Outside of just making a cool song for a cool commercial, I’m not sure what the marketing scheme was behind this decision. Was Cartoon Network selling Fall? It’s not unheard of, as Fall is the time for traditional premieres of new shows. But the sentiment of the song implies that we should be upset it’s Fall (or, in the present, will be some day). Unless you’re MTV, you have a hard time selling something while telling people they should hate it. Fortunately, MTV and Cartoon Network are owned under the same company, so maybe this works. However, it raises the very core idea that makes the song problematic and charming: the idea of fighting an idea.

It makes “Fall” a perfect kind of kids’ song, dealing with abstract ideas which are crystal clear, yet fall apart under the slightest scrutiny. Of course the idea of inventing a season is as ludicrous as launching a war against the feeling of terror, but it’s a fun idea. In a way, the Hives have provided children with a safe kind of conspiracy. Normally the Swedes sing about how giant corporations are programming us into consumer robots who don’t think for themselves. To a kid, the biggest corporation around is adults, so to vilify them is not only easy, but essential.

The fun part of the song comes in the fact that singing along removes yourself from the titular group, even if you’re a 33-year-old grownup father-to-be 15 years out of high-school. With this song, you (who are we kidding here–I) can still be pissed at the adults who made up time period of every year I most hated. I hated school. I loved college, but something about the organization of education always rubbed me the wrong way. I think I was scared of teachers because my parents were teachers (I had my own mother for not just one but TWO English classes throughout my high school career). I knew what my parents were capable of, and I assumed the same powers upon other teachers no matter how incapable they were. We had some pretty ridiculous teachers at my high school; some were as oblivious to mischief as Elmer Fudd during Duck Season. Yet I never misbehaved. It would come back and bite me in the ass eventually. I couldn’t fight City Hall. My problems wouldn’t be solved by messing with this one teacher. I needed an entire system to change.

Obviously, I’ve hung onto these feelings for quite a while. It’s a strange brand of nostalgia where you allow pissy feelings to linger so much that you’re happy you have a way to let them go two decades after the fact. That’s probably just the power of music in a nutshell; I haven’t thought about these feelings for years, but once I’ve been allowed to feel this way again by way of a song I love, here they are again, not only resurfacing but being spit on. This justifies loving a “kids” song containing the phrase “Halloween is the ass” and not getting upset. While the content may not be 100% kid friendly, the spirit feels kid inspired.

Even though it’s a technique they’ve used more and more as of late, I love the way “Fall” starts with the slow lamenting tune about how we’ll all be returning to school again. “We?” asks the older fan, feeling threatened. As an answer by way of changing the subject, the song picks up the pace while Pelle Almquist “teaches us” about the truth of the matter while borrowing from the most rock ‘n’ roll line ever: “So I better do it now before I grow old.” The rest of the band kicks in for the first half of the chorus, then drops off for the punchline, and I use that term specifically. This is a joke in execution, not just material. It’s not enough to simply say that Fall was invented by devilish, fun-hating grownups; The Hives make it a full on kid-sized conspiracy. And that, to me, is even funnier. Children don’t enjoy many conspiracies of their own, so to not only deliver one but deliver one on par with a fake moon landing feels huge enough to reach comic proportions.

This is what the Hives do better than any other band. They aim high and then reach even higher and pretend they want to go even higher than that. Any reasonable person will tell you that a rock band, no matter how powerful, cannot change the world, yet we like to believe it’s possible. The Hives play on that mentality. They act like they’re enormous stars even though most people don’t take them seriously or know they exist. They take that B-List status and carry themselves like the Dukes of Music. THEN they act like they — the royalty of rock — will survive nuclear explosions and impending global catastrophes by way of their ability to play really loud. They get more ridiculous, and then more serious, and then more serious, which becomes even more ridiculous. They are then free to make wild declarations like “Fall Is Just Something Grownups Invented.”

THE POINT OF ALL THAT IS… the title and chorus are a punchline. When we hear it, the music and “Oh’s!” hit us in full glorious effect. Out of the silence comes the tidal wave of punk rock with a snicker behind it. That riff feels like a crowd laughing with an insult comic. They just told a line on someone’s mom, and the crowd responds. I respond. By the end, I chant along with their chorus chants, wishing that I had something to rebel against for real but not really.

Written By Phillip Mottaz

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included Ike & Tina Turner’s “River Deep, Mountain High,” Johnny Cash’s “(Ghost) Riders In The Sky,” and Matthew Sweet’s “Girlfriend.”

Some artists are so monumentally great that they become as common as your garbage disposal. It isn’t until you’re apart for a passage of time that their innovation is appreciated. Somehow, somewhere, the situation presents itself and you’re left to realize, “Hey! I don’t have to scrape food into the garbage!” I experienced a similar moment during Watchmen where the not-so-inspired cue of “All Along The Watchtower”* reminded me with the immediacy of a lightning bolt — “Holy crap! I have Jimi Hendrix music at home!”

During my rediscovery period I traveled through the misty works of the Jimi Hendrix Experience, but it seems only natural that “Bold As Love” would surface to the repeatable top, as it has done so in the past. Maybe five years ago I went through a similar period and I can distinctly remember doing household chores in our speaker-less bedroom while listening to this song over and over again. I had either turned the volume up so high that it resonated throughout the apartment (which might not have been that difficult), or I set up a CD player in the bedroom with our portable speakers (which might have been a little more difficult and awkward). I’m leaning toward the latter for the reason that it would have given me quicker access to the rewind button, because a simple “repeat” program for “Bold As Love” isn’t good enough; as much as I love the song, I do not like the coda.

Hippie lyrics are normally and rightfully called out as pretentious, and while that’s true in “Bold”, it doesn’t mean they don’t work. I’ve always felt Hendrix’s guitar virtuosity overshadowed one of the coolest lyricists (along with best song writers) of the era. “Sci-fi Blues” was his style, where mountains were chopped down with edge of his hand and skies were easily kissed. Even under these high-concept phrases a writer’s true emotions can still reveal themselves, and I can think of no more honest lyrical moment from any Hendrix song than the final line of the final verse of “Bold”. After establishing the color motif from the very beginning, he plays it off by listing his own colors, demonstrating his own fears before delivering the emotional peak of, “And all of these emotions of mine keep holding me from giving my life to a rainbow like you.”

This line may explain the post-chorus chills I shudder during the final guitar solo, which I know sounds like hyperbole, but that’s the kind of person I am: I get chills listening to acid rock solos and then tell people about it. Now that the truth has been exposed — he’s afraid, but he’s in love — the language of Jimi’s solo becomes clearer than ever before. It’s a love letter written on the strings of a Stratocaster. Hendrix often played solos you could sing, but there’s no more moanable solo than the one closing “Bold As Love”. The song builds and crescendos, finding the kind of perfect natural finishing point every songwriter should dream to achieve.

And then it keeps going. The final minute-twenty-five sort of gives every Hendrix fan what they want (more guitar magic), but the song is over. Finished. Finito. This choice may have inspired Peter Jackson with his final Lord of the Rings film: the curtain dropped and we’re out the door, but instead those pesky Hobbits are still finding new ways to drag out the ending. But the benefit of fanship grants the power of rationalization, and while I cannot say I love the coda, I have made my peace with it by rationalizing it to be the end of the album, and less the end of the song itself. I believe this argument holds because the album Axis: Bold As Love — partly sharing the title — begins with a sort of throw-away intro (the alien intro “EXP”). In any case, its inclusion perpetuates my repeat-ad-nauseum approach to the song, because when those final “Dun-dun-dun-duns” call the finale, I’m always in button watching mode. Before those drums kick in once more, I have a decision between skipping ahead or jumping back to “Anger!” again. For this entire week, I chose to jump back.

The Jimi Hendrix Experience – “Bold As Love”

*Seriously, the use of this song demonstrates the core problems of Watchmen. You’ve got a movie pushing closer and closer to the three hour point, and then you have the scene where Rorschack and Night Owl are flying to the fortress in Antarctica. Cue “All Along The Watchtower”, which in the opening strains got me excited. “Okay — here comes the final showdown!” We know they’re gonna make it, and this song is telling us exciting things are to follow… but Snyder gives us a 3 minute scene of the ship almost not making it, and then Night Owl talking about recharging the ship and on and on…all, I believe, to time the on-screen action with the line “Two riders were approaching, and the wind began to howl.” This was a direct quote from the graphic novel, but is by no means 100% necessary, and it’s waaaaaay too cutesy. And what’s more: the “two riders” line comes very late in the song, but the editors moved it up to fit the on-screen image; so if they’re already messing with the timing of the song to fit the images, why not mess with the images (re: TRIM THEM!) to make a better movie overall? I’m still not done with you, movie. You think you’ve got it all figured out, but I’ll never tire before I expose all your stupidity.

Next week we’ll get back to exploring new obsessions, but this week is a look back. So join me, won’t you, on a trip into the self-infatuated past as I put my body and brain to a weird and unnecessary test: I will review all 48 G.S.A.T.M.’s of the past year in a strange, ill-advised contest to determine which one is the “Best” and, consequently, “Wins.”

I’m excited to re-experience “Smell Yo’ Dick”. A vast majority of the songs covered by this column over the past year were either part of my collection for a while or held some sort of vested interest (genre, artist, cool sounding name, etc.). This majority did not include “Smell Yo’ Dick”, a fun diversion I defended as a legitimate song nearly nine months ago, and now I again face the task of legitimizing the song once more in this self-created contest format. Many other songs and artists have been off my playlist since they first gained “Greatest at this Moment” status, so I’ve been jonezing to experience them again and see how they hold up, if at all. Looking down the line-up, I thought I could handicap the winners pretty easily, but I’d forgotten that each one of these songs owned a full week of my 2008. Most people listen to music they enjoy pretty much all of the time, but this re-hearing is something beyond mere fanship. It’s as though I’ve fasted for months and now I’m being served my 45+ favorite dishes, one after another. I often use the “This Song Can’t Possibly Be Topped” criteria to choose my subject, but this week has been something entirely different. How could I pick a winner when my shuffle goes from “Dracula’s Wedding” to “(Ghost) Riders In the Sky” to “Summer Nights?” Now I’m charged with deciding if “Smell Yo Dick” could really exist in my everyday playlist, or if it was just a one-time thing in my life, like smoking or wearing sweat pants every day in junior high.

Initially I just loaded my iPod with only the songs I’d covered, but this was way too daunting. Though it did make for interesting song-to-song transitions (”Optimistic” to “If I Could Turn Back Time”), I couldn’t wrap my brain around anything long enough to compare them objectively. I started making notes of the first song to give me chills (”C’mon Everybody”), the first song to get repeated plays (”Mama Kin”) and the first song to get skipped (”Ramble Tamble,” but mostly because it’s so long). And while it may be worth noting that “Summer Nights” was the first song to surprise me at how well it held up, I couldn’t find a direction to take.

I decided to get organized. In the spirit of the NCAA Basketball Tournament, I arranged the songs into a handful of categories. Organization being a keystone of my success, I assumed putting like with like would help me better compare the songs. Like the powers in charge of that crazy mollybang* of excitement and competition known as the Final Four, I found I had to make a few concessions. Sometimes Maryland just has to end up in the West bracket, you know?

And so, in a strange mix between American Bandstand and March Madness, I arrived at the following categories, all in an effort to make art competitive.

Soundtracks and Cinema
“Age of Consent”
“The Beginning Is The End Is The Beginning”
“Drug-Stabbing Time”
“If I Could Turn Back Time”
“Paper Planes”
“Shadowboxer”
“Spectacular Spider-Man Theme,”
“Starman”
“Summer Nights”

Covers, Live Covers and Concert Influence
“C’mon Everybody”
“We’re Going to Be Friends”
“Mama Kin”
“Indian Giver”
“Listen To Her Heart”
“Timebomb”
“Optimistic”
“You Dress Up For Armageddon”
“(Ghost) Riders In The Sky”

Kinetics
“Black Mirror”
“Girlfriend”
“GTO”
“It’s Tricky”
“Length of Love”
“Me In Honey”
“No Fun”
“Pathetique”
“Truckdrivin’ Neighbors”
“Untitled”
“12:51″

Loud Dancing
“Blow Up The Outside World”
“Guns On the Roof”
“Improper Dancing”
“Negasonic Teenage Warhead”
“Rock ‘n’ Roll Damnation”
“Dracula’s Wedding”
“Evil Urges”
“Ramble Tamble”
“Voices Carry”
“2000 Man”

Dick Smelling
“Smell Yo’ Dick”

This was something my inner Dick Vitale could handle. Looking down the line I could foresee great things for “Drug-Stabbing Time” in the Cinematic Category, with a good showing from “Paper Planes”. I could also see that the Live Covers and Concert Influence bracket would be the toughest, not only in song quality, but in legacy. These were some of my favorite artists doing some of my favorite songs. In the Kinetics category — a group of songs built around momentum and tension — I could see the fundamentals getting played up. I was tempted to disqualify the late-arriving “Black Mirror” in favor of a joygasm like “Girlfriend”, but that’s why these things get played on the court/my ears, and not on paper. Uh… yes. The Loud Dancing category seemed like a catch all, but its leanings to the heavy could either smother the more jamming tunes (”River Deep”, “Honky Tonk Women”) or make them stand out better. The tribute to great Bridges seems like it would lend itself to the direction of “Rollercoaster”, but “Voices Carry” could surprise me.

At least I was sure “Smell Yo Dick” would be tops in its bracket.

I started my experiment within an experiment and found I’d made my life more difficult. I was protective of certain songs, and then tried to be too cool with others. I’d start listening to “12:51″, and realized it felt like the Big Ten entry to this particular tournament: I’m inclined to say everyone underrates it, yet deep in my heart I know it’s probably going to loose to some Big East powerhouse. And it did. At the very least, I could admit that some songs truly were grown out of a particular time in my life when planets aligned, stars alighted and everything gained harmony. And for this, I am thankful. Songs like “Shadowboxer”, “We Are Going To Be Friends” and “Single Ladies” were just the right songs at the right time, and that’s what it’s all about. I may never play “The Beginning is the End is the Beginning” again, but I’m happy and thankful for that pre-release moment when it made the “Watchmen” movie seem greater than it would eventually prove to be.

This being my own competition, I decided to do the right thing and apply a little more of “The Bachelor” and/or “Flavor of “Love” to this equation, sans hot tubs: I would go with my heart and see what came out. After much hair pulling and semi-sleepless nights and even more repeat plays of “Starman” this Bachelorization gave us the Final Six. Now we were getting somewhere. What was formally 3 hours is now just over twenty-two minutes. I could work with this crew, trim it down to the best 4.5 minutes of the pack. I activated the shorter playlist and drifted into audio heaven. This was my personal Grammys and I wasn’t going to award some old dude who teamed up with a younger artist just because the old dude was once a cool young dude. This was mine. Here now, in reverse order, are the Greatest Songs of this Moment At This Moment.

“River Deep, Mountain High”
Already, I’m qualifying things, but isn’t this just a 6-way-tie for first? I mean listen to this song. These are the kinds of songs that baffle me because I don’t hear them everywhere. I want to meet the person who wouldn’t shake their hips to this monster.

“Voices Carry”
Perfect. Aimee Mann’s heart-pouring at the end gets to me every single time. It’s blatant 80s-ness production proves that people who qualify songs as “timeless” don’t get it. It’s perfectly in touch with its time, thereby giving it the power to pull us all into its own time.

“Me In Honey”
The biggest surprise — as far as word count of the original article goes. I think it was one of my shortest articles, but maybe that’s helped it in this competition. And maybe I was wiser than I thought, because the song is so simply and obviously beautiful that there’s not much to say about it that it can’t say for itself, and much more elegantly. But it really surprised me here because it not only beat out some songs I would’ve considered “better” or more my favorites, but it handily. It’s just the same two chords over and over again, but it’s the right two chords over and over. Combined with one of my musical Kryptonites (female backing vocals — and apparently lead vocals, as evidenced by these finalists), and we have a dark-horse we can believe in.

“Smell Yo Dick”
The moment of truth, and it’s great. Don’t take yourself so seriously, America. I can’t say it’s a fantastic song, or better than some of the other songs not in the finals, but when I think back on the 2008 GSATM Season — and I will — “Smell Yo Dick” rises as a weird highlight. Also weird, I remember more of the words than I’d care to admit. And even though it had an easy bracket to get through to reach this point, I would still argue the sing-ability of this chorus is as catchy and fun as any of the final six.

“Drug-Stabbing Time”
For someone who claims to not be much of a Clash fan, I sure do love the Clash. And with good reason. Give this song one listen while you’re driving on the highway, and you’ll see what I mean. It’s like a cousin of our top song, only losing out because I believe I can dance better with the other one. This one makes me run. And at the risk of repeating myself, the near-outro section of this song sets a gold standard for what rock songs should be all the time.

But of all this hullabaloo and self-examination and self-awareness, I hereby award the First Annual Greatest “Greatest Song At This Moment” At This Moment to “Timebomb”, the jam of jams. From the shouted intro, it’s the best collection of noises I obsessed over the entire year. It’s a throw-away single, which are usually the best kind anyway. No consequences, no rules, just do it. And it’s done. For me, this song arrived in the summer thanks to a Beck concert, and I consumed the song so hard that even after giving it a full examination, I still played it the following week, even though I was supposed to be “obsessed” with whatever song I was supposed to be obsessed with (”You Dress Up For Armageddon”). Beck may have many, many… many signature songs, but for a classic example of his something-from-virtually-nothing style, nothing quite reaches “Timebomb’s” levels. Pattern = music. “Timebomb” fits the Best of the Pack criteria in two very important categories. The first being “The Repeat Instinct,” alluding to my finger’s reflex toward the repeat button every time this song winds down. The second criteria being that to me, “Timebomb” makes such sweet love to my brain that I can see no faults with it. I sometimes say I feel bad for people who don’t like this song or that song, but at this point in my life I can’t imagine anyone not enjoying “Timebomb”.

*This is my PG-13 version of “clusterfuck.” But once you become friends with someone named Molly, it gets really awkward.

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included The Groovie Ghoulies’ “I’m Doin’ Fine,” Electric Six’s “Improper Dancing,” and Tender Box’s “Spectacular Spider-Man Theme.”

I don’t buy music every week, so when I go shopping I often pick up more than one album at a time. This is great and stupid, because while the one-stop shopping is an economic use of my time, I end up unfairly comparing two unrelated, dissimilar albums. If I’d purchased The Velvet Underground’s first album on its own without the accompanying purchase of Van Halen II, I have a higher opinion of it today. When I bought the pair — for whatever reason — I couldn’t get into the trippy stylings of the Velvets because I was head over kicked heels for VH II. Since then I have grown and adapted from my initial impression, realizing it was unfair: Not only is Velvet decidedly overrated and more than a little dated, but the run of the final three songs of VH II (”D.O.A.,” “Women in Love” and “Beautiful Girls”) are better than anything Lou Reed could pretend to care about writing. Velvet Underground can’t touch VH II’s ass-less chaps.

This comparison trend of mine was tested again when I received the dual gift of the Arcade Fire’s Neon Bible along with The Faces‘ A Nod Is As Good as a Wink… To a Blind Horse, and if I’d been placing bets, I would have put it all down on the boozy bar rock of Rod Stewart and Ron Wood. Chuck Berry covers, dirty riffs, sexism… Wink is like a Stones cover album and should have swept me off my feet. I promised myself I’d listen to both albums all the way through once before allowing myself the privilege (or the handicap) of repeated listens. Wink won the first listen of the pair (which was chosen at random — I try to do these things fair since I understand my own psychosis better anyone).

But then I moved on to Neon Bible, which started with “Black Mirror”, and I forgot all about rooster hair cuts.

“Black Mirror” — in fact much of Neon Bible — is a fantastic musical creation forged from the qualities I find annoying in bands I don’t usually enjoy. The overt sincerity of U2, the airy musicality of the Talking Heads, the sing-it-to-Saturn of Bruce Springsteen, the symphonic back-up of Coldplay. Maybe it’s a ratio thing: I can’t get past these annoying bits with these bands because their music seems to offer little else. If things were more evened out, maybe I could actually manage to get through Achtung Baby. But somehow when these qualities join together in this Arcade Fire configuration, it sounds like the kind of noise that could consume the world.

At the risk of outing myself as a hack, “Black Mirror” is a classic example of an album launcher. Some Track One’s start an album only to get out of the way, and others announce the album’s presence and tell everyone to get on board fast. “Black Mirror” possesses an unrelenting drive, feeling at once out of control — like a stagecoach headed by rocket elephants — yet fully aware of where it’s heading. It may be aiming for a cliff, but it knew that from the start. The Arcade Fire have a major Bowie thing happening with most of their work, and that would be a hindrance if they didn’t wear it so well. One review of “Black Mirror” compared it to a reworking of the “Suffragette City” riff, but that misses the point. The song may cosmetically sound a little like “Suffragette”, but the culmination of all those textures brings intensity, depth, darkness and hope along with them. If anything, it feels like “Heroes”. Bittersweet, heartsick and romantic.

On the rare occasion I don’t repeat “Black Mirror” and actually allow another song the daunting task of following up, I half expect to hear Radiohead’s “The National Anthem”. This would theoretically fit the mood, but where Kid A is an experiment in anti-music, “Black Mirror” is about music-music. It’s as pro-music as you can get. Kid A is clinical and shattered, Neon Bible is lush and voluptuous. Radiohead tends to write music to comment on music itself, but there’s no barrier separating you from the emotions and excitement of The Arcade Fire. Neon Bible gives a million of these kinds of emotional payoffs, but “Black Mirror” demonstrates them in the kind of way that tells you everything you’d ever want to know about the band, or hope to find.

Tension runs through the entire song, and it’s never released, only eased. The singing, instruments and song entirely build up to a cliff before “falling” into the chorus once again. Each verse is a remount back up that hill. The best example of this comes right in the middle. We build and build with the lyrics, and that familiar piano lick trickles in late enough to remind us it’s there and to keep us climbing. Then the lyric doesn’t lead directly into the chorus, but takes us to the “That curse is never broken” section, and it doesn’t get broken for many measures after. Win Butler suddenly breaks into a French version of the titular chorus, deftly giving the song a plateau but still no free-fall into the dark waters beneath. The backing vocals rise to the forefront after the full orchestra takes us through the chorus once again. “The kiss is never broken,” and neither is this rhythm. Butler talks to his mirror as everything seems to crescendo until we finally hit the water and gasp for air.

Individually as pieces, the music isn’t complicated at all. It’s a simple rhythm guitar lick, straight-forward drums, bass line, piano lick. That’s where the true power of the song originates: it’s not inventing new wheels to play with. It’s using all the wheels we already knew were available in a way we could only hope to achieve. The placement of these elements shows mastery. “Black Mirror” is one of those songs that is so good and so consuming and so powerful and so magnificent that you can’t imagine a single person in the free world who wouldn’t enjoy it. This is the curse of music loving — of course there’s someone out there who won’t like it, and even worse there are some who will simply dismiss it as, “Yeah… that’s alright.” I can understand not liking something completely, but when a song like this demands the kind of respect and attention it so obviously does, a mere dismissal like that would result in glove-to-face slaps in a more gentile era.

“Black Mirror” marks a year’s worth of Greatest Song at This Moment articles, and I’m thrilled beyond words that I can continue to enjoy this song without having to uphold my self-imposed moratorium on each artist I consume. If anyone wonders about the thesis of this project (i.e. “Trying to answer WHY these songs are so great at these moments”), I have no better answer concerning “Black Mirror” than I would for Van Halen II. The answer is: They’re the best.

Watch the “Black Mirror” video.

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included AC/DC’s “Rock ‘n’ Roll Damnation,” Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” and Outkast’s “Dracula’s Wedding.”

I want to start this one off by correcting myself twice. First off, for all his work and help on the column, I should have pimped out my friend’s entertaining and insightful blog FilmChris.com. That’s just politeness that I didn’t do. And I’m doing all this because I’m going to riff (read “steal”) on his idea again for this week. The notion that a song can marry a moment, and the two become one (now stealing from the Spice Girls) is the magic of music and that’s what makes me love it.

This week focuses more on the actual moment that found the song, tempting me to change the title to “The Greatest MOMENT For a Song.” I love “Shadowboxer” on its own, but the moment I’m describing was so weirdly perfect for the song to soundtrack that I can’t treat the song with my usual repeat-ad-nauseum approach.

March 4, 2009. 8:19 AM. Raining. I’ve been up for almost two hours, which is typical but not exactly in this manner. I always get up with my wife, who is a high school art teacher in Pacoima, CA. She’s even less of a morning person than I am, and since our schedules do not often line up, the early morning is a good time for some daily connection. I help her with breakfast, make her lunch and normally send her out the door alone while I stay home to check email, write columns people don’t respond to and generally keep my hands warm.

This particular morning I was driving her to school because I needed the car later in the day (yes, we’re trying to make a single-car family work in the most car-crazy city in the world). Mind you I was happy to do it, but not happy if you understand my meaning. I’ll do it because I love my wife, and I’m happy to help her set up her classroom for the 35 minutes prior to school starting after we get there… but it’s still early. Nobody’s thrilled about being up early, but I did it, and I made it through and I’m a heroic husband for all of it.

After doing the short 20-minute drive there and back, I’m headed home and it’s raining. This should be no kind of big event, but I live in Southern California where “Partly Cloudy” counts as a seasonal change. Traffic responds with appropriate panic and slowness, some of which is merited; after months and months of desert-dry driving, the highways seep in tons of oil and gunk that the rain sets loose, making driving conditions hazardous. So I’m tired, cold and in slight danger of being slowed down to death. The wipers are working, but nothing’s right. I’m tired and getting grumpy and I’m prepping for my interview that I know I’m unqualified to nail.

I decide to go the “long” way, which means I’m going to stay on the highway longer rather than bailing at the Magnolia exit and taking side streets. It’s not a landmark of a decision, but it’s the the kind of decision that could result between sitting in more traffic in hopes of the slight chance at a great payoff in lesser driving ultimately, or fighting some lights. This does not, however, pan out. The rain has infested every driver’s brain with a lead break pedal. As I barely manage to find my proper exit, the opening strains of “Shadowboxer” begin to play from my stereo.

As you can plainly see, this is not a story of monumental importance. It’s not even really a story at all. It’s average life crap that we all have to do that only helps to fill out the anecdotal portions of our psyches. But how many of these pointless non-adventures gain particular resonance when accompanied with the proper song at the proper time? That’s a rhetorical question. I already know the answer: a billion of them. It’s only sad that we don’t pause to recognize them more often, because if we did, we’d probably all feel better about ourselves and would drive more productively because of it.

The funny things about my “Shadowboxer” experience are these:

1) I didn’t know that song was the perfect song for that moment — or vice versa — until about three-quarters of the way through, as I was pulling into my garage.

And 2) Somehow I knew — despite historically loving the song and being the kind of repeat-listener that I am — that I shouldn’t treat this song the same way I do other G.S.A.T.M. candidates. It was less about the song and more about the big picture I had found myself in at that instant. It’s a complete cliche — yet, I find most cliches of this sort are cliches because they’re true — but the world seemed to suddenly drift into a sleepy choreography as my car ran its rehearsed route into the parking spot. I became a player in a movie starring only me, and this was the perfectly chosen song for my slice-of-life scene as we see a semi-hard-working husband struggling to get home to prepare for that big interview at a temp agency, not knowing the simple tragedy of a cancellation that awaits him on the answering machine.

Like the song says, I keep swinging and missing. It was even more perfect than I realized. Even listening to it again as I check the video to attach, it sounds great, but my world isn’t changing. Maybe that makes it even more special.

Fiona Apple – “Shadowboxer”

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included The Cure’s “Untitled,” Radiohead’s “Optimistic,” and M.I.A’s “Paper Planes.”

After the White Stripes‘ beautiful performance on the final episode of Late Night With Conan O’Brien, I had an email discussion with fan of Tripwire and my good friend Chris Vander Wal. It all started with his email giving me a link to the video, summing everything up with “I assume you don’t take requests, but as songs that are Great At This Moment go, this one’s pretty damn sweet.”

Rather than get into a whole messy editing process where I trim out my lame parts while making his insights look like my own, I’ve decided to print the discussion in its (near) entirety. Footnotes have been added for clarification and dramatic effect.

And now… our emails….

PM: I’ve been okay with that song, historically, and when this started, I was a little discombobulated at its variation. But then when they both sing together in that big wail, it hit me that they’re the best band of the last 10 years. So great.

Five minutes later…

PM Again: Okay, I’m playing it again.

This song feels like those Joe Cocker versions of Beatles songs, where it’s like “You enjoy the original song? Good. Here’s an even harder rocking version.”

The big thing this version does is that — due to the limitations of having only 2 band members — you get many of the pluses of doing a “classic rawk” version of the song, while retaining the intimacy.

That song felt like sitting in on a White Stripes pre-concert warm up.

Did you ever see them when they were the “exclusive” band for Conan a few years back? It was when Elephant came out.

I haven’t played that album enough lately.

A Little Later…

PM: If it actually does turn out to be an article, you can probably expect to see a lot of this stuff we’re talking about get re-worked and ripped off.

CVW” Well, so far you’re the one talking, so you’re ripping yourself off, I guess?

I read somewhere that the arrangement of that version is from a “lullaby” that was on Conan’s show. Sort of a nice goodbye present for him, I guess. I like his heartfelt appreciation to them at the end, too.

I have nothing to add to the smart comments you’ve already made. Curiously, I found myself thinking of the WS show we went to in Chicago, and the 4 minute man-crush I had on Jack White during “Black Math”. This is obviously a much different type of performance, but I totally got reminded that he is a capital ‘R’ Rock Star. He’s just got it. And I love the quirkiness that Meg has, how it contrasts and complements his vibe. Together, and in particular on this song, there’s a great sweetness and sadness that comes through their pairing. That song could’ve come off us annoyingly earnest and trite, but it’s not- there’s legitimate power and magnetism there.

I interject here…

PM: Yeah. That part near the end, when he gets real quiet almost gave me chills. Not literally, but I leaned in close because I thought I could feel the tension in the audience.

CVW: Also, and this is totally obvious, this performance is great precisely because everybody knows they really can rock hard. The choice to play it kinda low key (the intimacy you talked about) but not do an acoustic performance is, like you said, so great.

In an e-mail the next night, Chris continues…

CVW: Y’know what I love about that performance (you can later edit out the fact that I’m HAMMERED on all the red wine brought to our home tonight for the Oscars)… it’s mournful. It’s all the great rock star stuff you’ve mentioned — the emotion, worked out by the physical push to the mic, the willingness to really shout out when it’s necessary — but with the feeling of a dirge, like Jack and Meg are kinda mourning the passing of an era. It’s a song about becoming friends, so nicely and notably used in Napoleon Dynamite, but from that eighth grade perspective: we were friends, and I hope to God we stay friends, but maybe that’s changing now. And if it does, I want you to know how much I love you. What you are might be diminished, but not stolen. And if it is diminished, then I still know how great you are, and I’ll remember.

Like you said, only Conan’s (temporary) house band could do that song — beloved by him — that way. Take the familiar, and not simply mine it,but find something new within it. I’ve seen some negative talk on the performance, primarily at the AV Club comment thread, and even that is a sign of something great — the audience does not get what they expect. Cliched love is about taking the form that is expected; true love is love by whatever honest means necessary. Do Anything to make it work. Jack and Meg made it heartfelt for Conan, and who cares what any one else thinks, even on national television.

Now I should drink some water. I sincerely hope [you] find something usable in there, ’cause I did try.

PM: There is much useful there.

I’ve been curious to find more negative reactions, because the only other person* I’ve spoken to who has seen it commented on Meg’s guitar playing. “Stick to barely playing the drums” was the lasting thought.

And I think that’s bullshit because if the White Stripes have proved anything in their work, it’s that skill and proficiency are overrated as well as secondary to the song itself.

That version of “We Are Gonna…” doesn’t need a super-skilled guitar player. It needs those “chuck-a” sounds, so it only requires someone to provide those “chuck-a” sounds. To keep the beat. The guitar is a rhythm instrument, and Meg’s the rhythm expert of the band. It makes sense. If you got Joe Satriani (who I pick on a lot, by the way) to play that part, it would be a waste of his abilities and annoying. He’d have to look down on the song, and he would lower himself to play it.

Meg, on the other hand, must raise herself up to the level of playing a new instrument (assuming she’s never played before, which I doubt) for the purposes of the song. I once wrote a song with Mike and he had just bought an accordion, so we thought it would be cool to throw in an accordion solo. He wasn’t great, but it added something. It was really just four notes, but they were the right four notes.

Limitations like these allow for more honest expressions of feelings and emotions; things that skill and proficency work to conceal.

I hate making Beatles references, but I must: I always laugh when people scoff at Ringo’s abilities. While he wasn’t the greatest drummer in the world, if he wasn’t there, then they wouldn’t be the Beatles. Everything would sound different. That’s the way that band’s chemistry worked to create art greater than the sum of the contributing parts. “Greater than the sum of their parts” is what the White Stripes are all about.

From here we went on debating whether Sean Penn won his Best Actor Oscar outright or with the backlash of Prop 8 power behind him, though we never got to deep into whether Heath Ledger “deserved” his Oscar — or whether his performance in The Dark Knight would have as much power — if he hadn’t died. Eventually we got back on track…

CVW: I agree with you on this, even if it took me many teeenage years to understand it: imperfect technique to create the right feeling is always better than perfect technique to create an adequate feeling. “Greater than the sum of their parts,” indeed. People whining about Meg’s guitar or Jack’s anguished singing are missing the point. A perfect performance (and I am a Joe Satriani fan) might have nothing to do with stimulating the right emotion. Tell me that Meg and Jack weren’t playing their hearts out that night, that there wasn’t something arcing that night; structure and technique is appropriate, but heart and honesty is transcendent. Some viewers may not honor Meg and Jack, but they’ll remember what happened. Even in criticism, the naysayers will keep that welding spark alive.

Also, isn’t that the beauty of a “Greatest Song At This Moment?” Sure, maybe we might criticize Meg’s playing, but for this tiny second the song is perfect. Who cares? If someone needs to find a fault 24 hours after performance, then I’m sure they’re chastising a lover for mistakes or looking to hurt an external entity for what is lacking. Right now, there is beauty in front of you; don’t focus on the death of the flower, but that fleeting bloom right now while it lives. Such hating drives me a little nuts.

End of email conversation. And yes, we really do talk like this.

Three quick notes on the way out: I’m not simply reprinting the emails because I’m lazy, but because some parts are said so well that I’d either have to continually sight or quote my way into a bibliography, and that’s no fun. So I guess it’s a whole other level of lazy we’re talking about here.

Secondly, *The only other person I’d spoken to about the performance at the time of the writing is a musician friend of mine. He writes music and plays bass. I’ve been good friends with three great bass players and none of them liked the White Stripes, thereby fulfilling the truest point: bassists hate the White Stripes.

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included The Cure’s “Untitled,” Radiohead’s “Optimistic,” and M.I.A’s “Paper Planes.”

Creedence Clearwater Revival is the most underrated band of the 60s. Not held to the holy heights of the Beatles, not any kind of legends in decadence like the Stones or Zeppelin, and not even enjoying the kind of retroactive credibility the Kinks currently are, CCR has received no love from the 21st century. Despite having a slew of ambitious yet straight-forward hits in their time, the southern-rock quartet had the misfortune of a) having their biggest (and arguably best) song done better by someone else, b) aligning themselves so sturdily with country music as to not be cool at all, but c) doing this before it actually became cool, a la Wilco. They’re a perfect punch line to boost a character like The Dude, and despite setting some weird precedent for controlling band leaders like Rivers Cuomo and Billy Corgan, their influence has been small. This may be the biggest explanation for how a band so popular in their time could have their true greatness obscured: nobody’s ripping them off today.

Yet I always think of them fondly thanks to a random radio commercial I heard in high school. The premise — as described by the late Phil Hartman — was that this commercial was designed to catch you up on the events of the past 25 years if you had been in a coma all that time. Then he rapid fired a list of the major events that had happened since 1970(ish), naming incredible sports accomplishments and trips to space. Midway through, Hartman listed the major groups which had broken up and among them he named The Beatles, Led Zeppelin and CCR. Before that moment I had never heard Creedence held in this kind of regard. Somehow this feeling of respect for the band has stayed with me to this day and every time I uncover another unabashedly country-fied nugget of Fogerty, half of me legitimately enjoys it in the moment while the other half recalls “These guys were as big as Zeppelin!” A positive attitude helps you enjoy things more, and my attitude has allowed me to openly enjoy “Ramble Tamble”.

When “Ramble Tamble” took command of my life recently, I was excited because it’s morphing style made for some easy GSATM-type discussion. But subsequent listens unlocked yet another slight against CCR: this obviously cinematic and emotional song has never been used in a movie. It’s as epic and beautiful and sprawling as “Layla,” yet Scorsese’s never used it to underscore the downfall of a drug-dealing gangster, and at the risk of making sweeping generalizations, the lack of filmed “Ramble Tamble” is a mistake on the part of everyone involved in the moviemaking business. Can nobody else see it/hear it? If you, the young directors who read this column religiously, have a scene where a young starlett has just realized she’s sold her soul for money to get ahead in a cuthroat industry, and she’s contemplating throwing herself on the train tracks, play this song and you will be showered with praise and an Oscar 25 years after you should have.

I haven’t done much research into film-land’s lack of “Ramble”. Possibly Fogerty (or more likely, the label) won’t release the song for film use. If this were true, that would make “Ramble Tamble” the Southern Rock “Stairway”, wrestling away that title from “Freebird”. Perhaps the lack of filmed “Ramble Tamble” is a blessing; if it was as historically overplayed and hyped as “Layla” I might have to share it with others. We should count our blessings, enjoy this song as its own artistic entity and rest assured that we’ll always have “Fortunate Son” played in every Vietnam Film to keep us company.

Most of my ire toward this slight against “Ramble Tamble” comes from my love of the bridge in the middle. It makes up 78% of the song. I think and write about musical bridges a lot. I bet a list of my favorite musical bridges would ultimately lead me to a list of my favorite songs (give or take a few). The bridge gives a music lover like me the best dose of a great song: it’s the same, only different. If you enjoy the opening, then you’ll love this sequel, which is actually just an expanding of the opening before returning back to the opening.

Not only do I hold a torch for musical bridges, but I’ve also enjoyed my share of tripped-out-morphing 70s rock. “Ramble” rewards repeated listening like none of the other tripped-out-morphing 70s rocks for the simple reason that it repeats its opening riff. Tracks like “Layla” and “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” (released the same year as “Ramble Tamble”) depart from their opening bits to take long strange sonic journeys, never looking back. These songs are sonic versions of 2001: A Space Odyssey. We were apes, then we went to the moon, then who the hell knows what happened. “Ramble Tamble” starts where we’re all country apes, then we travel to swamp space, fly around, get real intense, then return to the country again, making it the sonic version of Cast Away. This benefits me, the repeating listener, because it makes a natural bookend for each play. But more importantly (and more high-falutently) the reprise benefits the song itself because we return to it wiser than before. The subject of the song is supposedly a soldier in dire straights (imagine that — from Creedence?), and to simply leave him in Vietnam would deny the full emotional impact of his return. It only makes sense to eventually return that soldier home, carrying all the baggage he’s gained through his hellish journey only to find things at home have not improved a bit.

The ability to pack that kind of emotional crunch proves that “Ramble Tamble” makes “Layla” look like horse shit. “Layla” is a love song (presumably to a girl named Layla and how she’s got the guy on his knees), and then the big musical detour at the end represents… I don’t know, them doing it maybe? And then it ends with birds chirping. So they do it and birds chirp. If I said you can’t simply do great music, then I’d make myself a hypocrite. Well, I am saying that, so I am a hypocrite, but I’m also right. “Layla” sounds great, but there’s ultimately “only” music there, and not a big idea. Comparing the two songs shows the strengths of the musicians. Clapton is a musician and a guitar player first, whereas Fogerty is a songwriter. Clapton deals (dealt? Does he still deal?) with moods and sounds and that kind of stuff and that’s all fine and good, but Fogerty dealt with ideas, and ideas trump mood every time because for mood to be effective, the ideas must be precise. Title to the contrary, “Ramble Tamble” does surprisingly little rambling and even less tambling. It’s all very specifically chosen musical rambling.

In the end, the song is one long remount. The character in the song, the music itself, the singing style, everything. Even from the opening verse, with Fogerty giving that kick-ass hold of “Down the ro-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ad… I Go!,” we get the feeling of “here we go again.” This theme, both uplifting and heartbreaking, gives us the truth of the song. You can never give up. You can’t. The world won’t let you. Even when things get bad, yet you can Never. Give. Up. And despite everything you try, every challenge you accept, you can’t seem to get any further with your life. Tell me that’s not cinematic.

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included ‘Til Tuesday’s “Voices Carry,” Johnny Cash’s “Ghost Riders In The Sky,” and Interpol’s “Length of Love.”

In 2002 I was involved in a comedy show where the style was quick hits, one right after the next. That show was partially inspired by the random acquisition of Short Songs For Short People, a punk compilation where 99+ artists gave 99+ songs, all of which ran under 30 seconds long. Like most punk rock, this challenge seems both simple and impossible. Simple: all you need to do is fill 30 seconds (or less), which is enough for a quick set up and a chorus. Impossible: you only have 30 seconds to work with, and if you make a song too great then the time limit will limit your potential. You have to make a song which is perfectly suited for this length without wearing out its welcome or asking to stay longer than it can. I thought it was impressive that so many bands could restrain themselves in this way, until I recently found a “full” version of Gwar’s “Fish Fuck,” causing me to doubt the legitimacy of all the artists.

That is until I rediscovered “I’m Doin’ Fine” by the Groovie Ghoulies.

It’s been years since I’ve heard the Short Songs CD in its entirety. I never actually owned it and I’ve only recently heard a handful of the songs thanks to a mix CD I found in a drawer. Many of the songs on that mix were the best of the lot, so that might sway my feelings, but “I’m Doin’ Fine” still somehow manages to reign supreme. It never made it as part of our show — due only to our technological limitations where we couldn’t edit off the spoken-word intro — and maybe that has helped it maintain its mystique. I never associated it directly with the show, or with the forgotten lines, dropped cues or other times. Any time I hear D.I.’s “Comin’ To Your Town”, I am return to another time period. “I’m Doin’ Fine” stood out way back then, but magically avoided any kind of labels.

I remember resolving to become a Groovie Ghoulies fan, a resolution which proved difficult and ultimately fruitless. I didn’t have an easy way to get to them, they weren’t that popular and — let’s be honest here — I just didn’t care that much. I don’t dislike them; I’ve only really heard these 30 seconds (29 seconds, technically). I never followed through on my pursuit until I heard this song again. I tossed it in my playlist and it has perked up my day every single time it decides I’m worthy of its greatness. Unlike past G.S.A.T.M.’s, you cannot play this song endlessly in a loop. I need a two minute minimum to let my brain settle down and exist in this mono-song world. However, “I’m Doin’ Fine’s” repeatability limitations do not directly relate to its awesomeness. It might not be a world creator, but it is the perfect mid-mix pick-up. “Doin’ Fine’s” power comes from its immediacy, its ability to perk up its surroundings and the anticipation of such a left-field jolt to arrive at any time.

I’m sure many people throw in odd ball bits hear and there to perk up a shuffle, and many times these perk-ups come from Eddie Cochran songs or weird TV themes. But before I had any kind of mp3 player, I would drop “I’m Doin’ Fine” into the middle of any mix CD. It was like I was afraid I’d lose it. It was so small and the Ghoulies weren’t that popular, so if I didn’t place this 30 second nugget on the end of 14 CDs (most of which were ripped albums from artists ranging from Oasis to The Hives to Outkast to The Mamas & The Papas), it would disappear. Now it exists as a series of code on my computer, ready to top any song it follows or precedes.

The song itself should be a TV series theme, and if I wasn’t positive the series would be horrible, I would mount a campaign to see this through. It actually reminds me of the old “Malcolm In The Middle” theme, especially for its ability to tie a catchy phrase to a relatable theme. In other words, I’m often doing fine and I would like to be left alone about it. Don’t keep pushing. You asked how I’m doing, I told you “Fine,” you should stop right there and don’t ask, “Just fine?” 1. It’s annoying, and 2. Yeah, ‘just fine.’ What’s wrong with that.

I was pleased to learn that the Ghoulies had a few videos up on YouTube and that would-be-fans with more energy than I have can find their work with ease. It is puzzling to me, however, that they seem to perform “I’m Doin’ Fine” live, and this takes me back to the whole mystery behind making short songs in the first place. Call me a traditionalist, but if a song is under one minute (even under two minutes, really), then it begins to lose its grip on legitimacy. Now you’re getting to joke-song territory. You have something to say, but it would get annoying/unfunny if it went too long, so you cut it short rather than pushing through to make it evolve into something fulfilling. Oddly enough, the “Fish Fuck” song I mentioned earlier does both the wrong way — it’s a joke song that’s full length — but Gwar begs for a different set of rules. The problem lies with me though. It’s my problem. I am needy. I hear good things, I need more of it. It’s my fault I can’t enjoy the song for what it is and leave it at that. Sustained by you, oh blessed readers who never leave comments, I have this habit of studying pop songs over and over and over like I’m testing them or subjecting them to experiments. I seem to be asking, “Can this song hold up to this scrutiny?” A better question would be “Should it have to?”

Attached is a video of the Ghoulies performing “I’m Doin’ Fine” live. Don’t get too excited by the one minute time span — that includes a fare share of banter. The best part is the dude standing front and center (the mic stand look like it’s coming out of his neck). His nickname at school is certainly “Lurch,” but when the song kicks in, the thumbs come out and he and I agree.

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included The Stooges’ “No Fun,” Tom Petty’s “Listen To Her Heart” and Monster Magnet’s “Negasonic Teenage Warhead.”

It’s a miracle when you find a song that you love so deeply and it’s in your vocal range. With “Girlfriend” I can do it all. Maybe this speaks more to Matthew Sweet’s vocal limits, but I prefer to take the positive and assume it was a gift from above. Doesn’t matter if it’s lead or backing vocals, it all seems like I can do them with ease. I can’t, but it seems like I can. Some may demand more difficulty from their art, but I am not one of these people. Most times I prefer to see difficult things done easily, especially in pop music where simplicity is king and can be so easily trampled.

Matthew Sweet sort of introduced the idea of celebrating a single song for an extended period of time, but not with this song and not to me. It was with “Sick of Myself” around 1996. I had fallen in love with the song in 1995, bought the album and enjoyed it just as much. When I later learned my college girlfriend (not to be confused with the title of the song being discussed in the article in general, just not this particular paragraph) loved “Sick of Myself” as well, I lent her the CD. After a week or two, I asked her how she liked tunes such as “Lost My Mind” and “We’re the Same”, she answered, “I don’t know, I haven’t gotten past ‘Sick of Myself.’” She was trapped, just as I’m trapped in another of Sweet’s pop anthems.

Debate has flowed through my house as my former-college-girlfriend-turned-wife and I interpret the lyrics. I believe Sweet’s saying “I’d sure love to call you my girlfriend,” and she thinks it’s “I shouldn’t have to call you my girlfriend.” The hope and optimism and sheer up-beatness of the song hung in the balance, and we were both delighted to discover I was correct. Simplicity got even more simple. If I had been wrong, then we’d have another interpretation of “And I swear that I don’t have a gun” as an invitation for “love” with air quotes. As it stands, “Girlfriend” remains sweet to the core, giving us one of the pop world’s greatest profession of sweetie-pie love since “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.”

I love angry, bitter and pissed off songs, too. But it can’t hurt the soul to spend a week singing (loudly) along with something top-to-bottom nice. And rockin’, but nice. It seems to me — especially in the wake of my “Girlfriend” listening marathon — that the attributes of “nice” and “rockin’” cannot co-exist. You wanna rock? Then you have to sing about how you’re messing with a sunofabitch. You wanna be nice? Then dial down those guitars and talk about sunshine and rainbows. This should not be, and it only proves how heroic Matthew Sweet truly is that he boldly smashed the two together. It’s no “Mississipi Queen” as far as rockin’ goes, but properly cranked “Girlfriend” effectively wipes away any traces of other music’s existence.

I’ve often written about the moment “Worthy of a Cranking (of the Volume)” as the point where a song declares itself as owner of all it surveys. When I remember the giddy joy of “Girlfriend,” I want to guess it has no less than 27 of these moments. (This marks the first time my iPod-to-car situation could be considered “lucky;” allows for multiple volume boosts. Getting those moments in a song like this is like being given a bottomless plate of your favorite cake. Even though you’re not going to run out, you want to devour as much of it as possible as quickly as possible.) In reality, it has 3.5 distinct, unquestionable cranking moments: the first verse (with the first use of the central chunk-a-chunk guitar riff), the first chorus (with those gorgeous backing vocals — more on that later), half a crank for the bridge freak-out section, and then another full cranking for the chorus again at 2:20. I don’t always do these crankings in order every single time, so they get all muddled up. Add to this my memory’s inability to remember one bad moment in the whole 3:40, and you arrive at what feels like 27 cranking moments. Like the best art, “Girlfriend”’s true greatness exists in the mind.

“Girlfriend” epitomizes the beautiful illusion of rock music. Some people would say — and I use that phrase in the strict Fox News context, which is to say ‘I’ve said this in the past and I don’t know if anyone else has, but I’m going with it,’ which is to say ‘I’m an ass hole; that this is a cheat.’ — that if the song has been manipulated in the studio and it can’t really be performed that way live, then it lessens the artist’s pure abilities. I truly am an ass hole, because A. that’s not true, and B. I don’t care. Yes, if I heard “Girlfriend” live and it didn’t sound exactly like this studio track I would be disappointed, but that neither lessons Sweet’s artistic abilities nor proves that this song is anything less than the best noise in the world. It actually proves the opposite. It shows that Sweet’s abilities in the studio are masterful, worthy of more praise than I’ve heard for the guy. And because you cannot fully recreate live the joyous illusion of greatness of the studio track, that only proves how great the studio track was to begin with. If DaVinci couldn’t re-paint the Mona Lisa again in front of our eyes, does that make the original painting any less of a masterpiece. Again, I’m talking to myself, and I answer with a resounding “no.”

“Girlfriend” unlocks the beautiful euphoria that is illusion and allows me to live in that world without distratction. In my mind, I can sing. Therefore, in my mind, I can sing every part of “Girlfriend” perfectly. It’s a temptress of a track. Besides the earlier-mentioned vocal range of Sweet himself, the song contains another personal favorite vocal choice: the semi-unnecessary harmonization. Logically speaking, I cannot understand one-man-bands like New Radicals and Nine Inch Nails or Matthew Sweet, because it seems like lonely, alienating, controlling work — the main reason for starting a band is to avoid work, at least in the conventional sense. Vocally speaking however, I can completely relate because I love suddenly harmonizing with myself. Sounds impossible, but you must realize that my mind works on a logical plain known as “logic” (with the quotes around it; this is the same kind of scientific logic as the Lost island) I could be singing along to anything, and I’ll imagine myself as the backing vocalist (usually the sideman with a guitar), and I lean in to the lead singer’s mic and we harmonize like the awesome buddies we are and isn’t this life great? But I want to sing lead as well, so in my imaginary band, I’m also the lead singer. Logic prohibits me from making my dreams come true, but “logic” encourages me.

THE POINT IS, to hear someone like Sweet doing what I always dream of doing by harmonizing with himself leads me to believe I’ve found a kinship in “logic.” We get each other. Listen to the “Need someone to love” portions of the last verse and you can hear him backing himself up with himself, slipping down and up in the same track while staying distinct from one another and you get it. It is at this point when all the prior crankings, acknowledgment of rockin’ and niceness that I’ve been drawing in reach the mountain top. All other songs in the great competition nobody knew we were having can turn in their applications to the nearest dumpster. This is the greatest feeling in the world from the greatest song in the world. If I feel optimistic that another will actually best “Girlfriend,” it is only due to the optimism I glommed off of “Girlfriend” itself. It has become Alpha and Omega. There ceases to be any wrong or right: there is only “Girlfriend.”

And with that, please enjoy the following video someone made mixing in weird sci-fi anime scenes with the official video for the song (it blows me away that they’d keep so much of Sweet himself, especially the creepy moment where he says “All right” into the camera).

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included The Stooges’ “No Fun,” Tom Petty’s “Listen To Her Heart” and Monster Magnet’s “Negasonic Teenage Warhead.”

The burden of wearing glasses is that people assume you are smart, even when you might not be. I’m not claiming people wearing glasses can’t be smart, but I’m tired of getting burdened with more intelligence than I carry. Maybe it’s my own issue and my confidence needs a boost. But right now, I’m not feeling smart at all. I’ve allowed my world to be dominated — completely and uninterrupted — by the most annoying song to which I’ve ever clapped along. What started out as a half joke transformed into 100% adoration and has now landed somewhere between “Unstoppable Dancing” and “How long is this song?” A smart person could have figured this sooner. A smart person would have put it together upon the first listen, shook off the “Crazy In Love” residue and moved on with his life. Glasses notwithstanding, I am not this smart person.

Maybe I allowed this to happen through my self-enforced ban of my favorite groups, all in an effort to diversify my listening field and therefore make this column more enjoyable. Maybe I’m just stupid. Either way, as I wallow in the delightful horribleness of “Single Ladies,” I often wonder if I’m listening to the least irritating song in the world, or the best annoying song? Or both? The answer is: It’s barely a song at all, but what’s annoying is its inescapable talons. In the span of three-and-a-quarter minutes, there are two and a half fits of what could be categorized as “musical.” Those are the beeps under the verses, the music bed under the “Put a ring on it” chorus, and the end of the bridge. But minimal musicianship doesn’t automatically make a song annoying or irritating or bad in anyway. Not to a casual listener, anyway. To someone who keeps playing it over and over and over again, the minimal musicianship turns the mind into a baked potato. I’m starving for more, but whenever I go looking for something to play, I quickly find myself right back in her arms. I even downloaded the iTunes Genius application, in an attempt to gradually ween myself off this tune with other like songs, but I get an error message telling me “Genius is unavailable for the song ‘Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It).’” Even an iTunes “Genius” is no match for this song’s irritating grip, so what hope do I have? I’m no genius. I just have his glasses.

Best as I can tell, the reason for the parenthetical in the title is because the chorus of “all the single ladies” sucks. It’s an awkward phrase to say, let alone sing. It sits weird in your mouth and it clanks like a tin can. On the other hand, “If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it” chimes like a silver bell. It’s so good, that since my first listen of the song weeks ago, it infiltrated my everyday speech. Someone could comment on how they like the jambalaya, or how great they think the Steelers’ chances are in the Superbowl, or how everyone was right about how easy it is to sell furniture on Craigslist, and it takes every ounce of will power I have to keep from responding “If you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it.” On the occasion that my will power does not hold firm, I keep going into the “Oh-oh-oh…” portion of the song… sometimes confined within my mind, sometimes much less so.

I normally believe we should not have “guilty pleasures.” When people shy away from telling me they loved Def Leppard when they were in high school, I try to pull them from the shadows. Let your Def flag fly, man. I love Kid Rock, and I’m an adult! You can’t help what you love and what your tastes are and — not to get too esoteric — if we hold personal taste as something you can be guilty of having, then we as a nation will never heal the prejudice tearing our country apart. Thank you.

However, my belief system may have met its match with “Single Ladies”. Not just for all the irritating features we’ve discussed earlier, but for the unmistakable and supposedly unrelatable facts at the center of the song. I am neither single nor a lady, so should I feel weird putting my hands up (up!)? A good victory of the song over my daily life comes when I play it on my walk, and I can’t stop walking to the beat and doing meek fist pumps. But as I tool around my neighborhood jamming out to Beyoncé’s retort to her ex, I cannot help but question my sanity along with my masculinity. This coming from an adult man who watched Clueless in the theater, can quote Romy & Michelle’s High School Reunion and has seen every episode of Gilmore Girls. I’m no stranger to liking the lady stuff, but this might be too much to admit.

In a panic, I try to get analytical. And since I can’t get too deep into the music of the song itself (outside of that ending bridge, that kind of reminds me of that Elvis song “Little Less Conversation,” but only because I half hope that song is going to appear, as though it was in disguise for two minutes as “Single Ladies”), I have to think about the video, the singer herself and all the world around them. I like Beyoncé, but does this song qualify her an official hag? Put yourself in the shoes of the other two members of Destiny’s Child. Beyoncé broke up the group to have a solo career, and no one can argue she made a “bad” career decision, but you’re probably not thrilled about it. Then this video comes along, and she’s flanked the entire time by two attractive back-up dancers, creating another trio… just like Destiny’s Child! It’s like Jimmy Page building another four-part blues-based rock band, gave them all weird mystical symbols for names and called themselves Metal Balloon.

On the plus side, Rowland and Williams have to be happy that the title of “Stop Playing That Damn Catchy Song!” has finally been stripped from “Bootylicious”, yet kept in the family, so to speak. There are unmistakably great portions of this song, and that must be how it has become such a big hit and has rooted in my consciousness. Like time to nostalgia, my memory has done an expert job of editing out the less awesome portions of this song, leaving me with cued excitement to hear the song. I love the idea of it, yet every time I hear it, it ultimately lets me down. Listen to that final chorus, with the best phrase, the keyboards underneath and the multiple vocals building to something that’s never achieved. Not in reality, anyway. It’s achieved in my imagination. I tie it to the success of “Crazy in Love” and assume “Single Ladies” is just as great. Like re-watching “Attack of the Clones,” I keep hoping to catch something I missed that will finally live up to my expectations. “Single Ladies” may the first song I can whistle better than the song itself.

Inevitable Video Note: I had many clips to choose from, but I decided to include the side-by-side comparison of the official video and a little girl doing the dance in her living room. The horse-whip part is the best.

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included The Smashing Pumpkins’ “The Beginning Is The End Is The Beginning”, The Clash’s “Guns On The Roof” and Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time.”

This week I received a CD of two Hawksley Workman albums and I’ve enjoyed the hell out of them. I must admit I haven’t heard much of Workman before now (which is a music writer’s way of admitting he’s never heard him, or heard of him, and probably wouldn’t have if someone he knew hadn’t given him the music for free), but I’ve been very much delighted by the romantic style and the rich textures of this crooner.

But I don’t wanna write about him. He’s great and I’m glad I have it now, but he doesn’t have me excited or running around the house or strutting down the street. “Rock ‘n’ Roll Damnation” has me excited. As I’ve walked, driven, typed and cleaned around this week, I’ve been fist pumping my way through my mild AC/DC collection, trying my best not to be embarrassed about enjoying their music as much as I have. As a responsible adult, my highly-trained human brain should be dissecting the delicate wonders of Workman’s music. But my brain has currently surrendered itself to the 14-year-old id living inside me, and that guy wants to drive.

A short while ago, I wrote an open apology letter to AC/DC. Throughout high school, they were a tool of ridicule because one very loud fan — a defensive lineman for our football team claimed to have listened to them before every game. We’ll call him “Robert,” and Robert broke the first rule of high school by admitting anything about himself to anyone ever. Robert was perceived as dumb for having done this, therefore his actions must have been dumb, and therefore his tools for enacting those actions must have been equally dumb. For years to come, I saw AC/DC as the epitome of stupid rawk, and I strove to separate myself from that label. See, I was smart. I listened to “good” music, to “smart” artists. It wasn’t until I got much older and only slightly less a-hole when I realized how pointless and destructive this thinking was. Rock music is, by definition, dumb, so it should not be held against a band for perfecting stupidity. So in my letter, I admitted to being a pretentious jerk who not only mocked one of my high school’s loudest fans for his devotion to the band, but took it out on the band for years to come. I carried this burden well into college, where I really thought I knew it all and it wasn’t until years into my adulthood where I got myself out of the mindset of perfection when I finally became wise to the Bon Scott era.

I was thinking about simply recycling the letter as my “G.S.A.T.M” for this week, but if I’d done that, it wouldn’t be fair to the experiment that is this column along with acting as yet another slight against a band which has created some of the best, dumbest, loudest rock ever blasted through a car stereo. It would be another slap in the face to a band that has — to its credit — never ever ever ever ever EVER thought, “Know what we need for this song? An orchestra!” I’m through disrespecting AC/DC, and “Rock ‘n’ Roll Damnation” has done much to free me from my conscious thought processes and listen to my gut. Much can be said for a band’s ability to create heart and convey the simple human truths that make Grammy voters wet themselves. But this kind of thinking is dangerous. It leads one to believe (as I did) that simple hard rocking comes easy. It doesn’t.

“Rock ‘n’ Roll Damnation” addresses these slights more directly than any song I can recall. Scott sings how “You say that you want respect. Honey, for what?” and “They say that you play too loud. Well, baby, that’s tough.” Through early listens, you could take the implied message as that strange mix of empowering and combative and “who cares?” and “let’s do it!” — all of which have marked the best AC/DC tracks. It sounds like another full-fledged endorsement of the misunderstood rock lifestyle, where people don’t respect what you do, but you don’t give a damn ’cause you’re getting drunk with your friends and their ladies. After all, Hell ain’t a bad place to be. But on closer examination, the lyrics are more bitter about the situation (I almost want to say they’re “realistic” since they reference living in the streets, but I think that’s just poetic license. Almost as a rule, nothing about AC/DC is “realistic” by choice, and I will honor that). No one has ever accused AC/DC of being complicated, but these lyrics could at least be considered a collection of mixed feelings. They’re rock stars, living that life, and they kinda love it… but they get no respect. Scott claims you should take your chance “while you still got the choice,” and you’d assume that means take the chance to get into the rock life, but maybe he means you should take your chance to get out. This life is a damnation, as he puts it, then again, you do get to “live on your own” and that sounds all right, but you’re always “chasing that pie in the sky.” They admit they shouldn’t want respect for mastering an art form dominated by stupidity, because you’ll lose it, but… then everyone’s confused. AC/DC has sung more songs about the mythical rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle to rival only Chuck Berry, but Berry never dealt with the crappy stuff that came with the good.

(A quick parenthetical paragraph about the other common tie between Chuck Berry and AC/DC–they both wrote two of the dumbest songs ever to be committed to wax, and possible committed against wax. Berry’s “Ding-A-Ling” and AC/DC’s “Big Balls” represent the lowest kind of “clever” humor that is neither clever nor that humorous. Perhaps it is another peril of a guitar-centric writing style that your thoughts center around the genitals.)

The nice part is that all these conflicted feelings about the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle don’t matter to someone in the mood for an AC/DC song. Lyric complications serve only to keep the singer interested. “Damnation” seems to be the kind of antagonistic-and-happy-about-it style song the band has perfected over its million-year existence. What matters most is the volume, the beat and the guitars. Casual swearing is a plus, and talk of “dark” subject matter (hell and damnation, to name a few) make matters considerably cooler. It’s like seeing someone smoke a big cigar on the street. Even though I don’t smoke, I can appreciate someone who does because they are handling a dangerous natural element with calm and ease.

The lyrics are, of course, secondary to another typically unstoppable Young Brothers riff. Many people — myself included — question the greatness of a band which lost its original and “better” lead singer, yet managed to make some of their best music after he died. This was was possible because the singer in a band like AC/DC has always been second to the guitars. As long as they had a guitar plugged into an amp, every other instrument could disappear off the planet. I can’t think of another rock band where the non-singing guitar player personifies the band. Eddie Van Halen had the band named after him, but he didn’t appear on the cover of every single album, video collection and t-shirt. The Youngs delivered a stellar rock out on “Damnation,” the kind that makes you wish more than usual that you were under twenty. Maybe my fixation on AC/DC and this song in particular comes from my ever-growing desire to relive high school. The more I play this song, the harder it becomes to not blare it out the windows. I wish I knew someone as into this music as I am so we could go cruising. The simple act of driving around enjoying music feels uniquely American and I miss it in my adulthood. Don’t misunderstand, I listen to music while I drive, but that’s not the same. What I want to do again soon is get some buddies in the car and take a long drive so we can soak in the music. We’re not headed anywhere. The point is to just exist in that moment. And when this happens, and I make my mix tape (CD), if I don’t have some form of Australian testicle rock, then I’m the worst case of arrested development in the world.

As far as successful repetition of the song goes, there’s no issue at all. Most of AC/DC’s songs are just the same song reworked anyway, so if you’ve ever listened to a full album of theirs in one sitting, you’re already accustomed to hearing a fair amount of redundancy. They love riffs. If you love riffs, then it’s good news for you! Don’t think about it. Just listen.

AC/DC “Rock ‘n’ Roll Damnation”

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included My Morning Jacket’s “Evil Urges”, Guns N’ Roses’ “Mama Kin” and Beethoven’s “Pathetique.”

Comedy is hard because everyone is an expert at what makes them laugh. If people laugh at something, then it’s funny and there’s no use arguing. Musical comedy is three times to the max hard because artists not only have to get people to laugh at the joke, but they also can’t annoy them with the song. “Not annoying” is the basic level one must achieve for musical comedy — write a song to hang your jokes on, and don’t let the music get in the way. Master this, and you only need 20 more minutes for your showcase at U.C.B. But even though I’m a champion of comedy, and think it should receive more respect and believe that the order of Best Comedy then Best Drama awards at the Golden Globes is elitist at best, music actually trumps comedy. Funny lyrics on a crappy song only result in a crappy song. Funny lyrics on a good song give you a good song. Funny lyrics on a great song give you a great song. And if you just happen to create a song that not only includes every element you love about loud rawk (fat guitars, disco beats, screams, etc), but you also do these comedic elements better than they’ve ever been done, then you’ve created “Improper Dancing,” one of the greatest “comedy” songs ever, which makes it one of the greatest songs ever conceived.

When the Onion’s A.V. Club made their list of the best music of 2003, they noted that Fire — the debut album from Electric Six — might not have been the best album of the year, but it was certainly the most awesome. Their distinction demonstrates importance in the fact that being a great rock ‘n’ roll band has almost nothing to do with quality work and nearly everything to do with attitude, and the affect that attitude had on me was monumental. Like Blazing Saddles before it, Fire rose below intellectualism, and as I’ve played and played “Improper Dancing” this week, I’ve discovered its power to cloud my brain rather than simply ensnare it.

Each week I usually write this column to the song, playing it in the background and letting it further define my world. “Improper Dancing” makes this technique an impossibility. I have to play it, rock out to it, stop it and then write. “Dancing” keeps distracting me, entrancing me and pulling me away from cognitive thought. My ears cannot get large enough for the sound. There’s so much to be excited about within this song that I can’t focus on one thing at a time. I debate with myself about what the best part of the song is, going back and forth between the “Stop… Continue!” bit at the end and the remounted-outro just before it (right now, I’m leaning toward the remounted-outro, almost solely based on the rule of threes: there are two choruses before it where the following bit is return of that brittle disco guitar. The third time we finish a chorus, we stay with the big fat sound of exploding guitars. This is the head-bangingest moment of the song). Greater than the sum of its parts as well as the parts of every style that influenced it, “Improper Dancing” is anti-intellectual in that it shuts down human brains to their lowest operative functions, leaving you with only smiling, dancing and shouting.

I wouldn’t be much of a critic if I didn’t note the humor of the song, but I’m not much of a critic. I’m suspicious and optimistic all at once. If I like something, I want to give it the benefit of the doubt. I love Electric Six, and I believe millions more people should as well, but I also believe that their comedic elements have cost them respect and popularity. On the surface, I suppose I can understand: The band replaced members with names like Disco and Rock and Roll Indian with other people named Frank Lloyd Bonaventure and 661453 Johnny Na$hinal, everything they sing about deals with sex and dancing and groping and yelling. But all of this “comedy” (or “stupidity” if you will) has been done so consistently that it must have been thought through to the letter. It seems impossible to take anything about Electric Six seriously, but that actually makes me take them completely seriously. They seem to care so little about being taken seriously that I have to take them seriously. When a band takes this many steps to consciously label themselves as the dumbest thing in rock today, you have to wonder if the opposite is true. But all this is just comedy stuff, which is still trumped by musical enjoyment. The good thing about the Six is that they do all of these dumb things better than anyone on the planet, and they know it.

The difference between Electric Six and other “serious” bands is sort of like the difference between the movies Iron Man and The Dark Knight. Intellectually, I can tell Dark Knight is the better movie. It possesses more moral complexity and the themes are stranger and show greater dexterity… but Iron Man just plain kicks ass through and through. Even though I got lots of great stuff from the darker, “better” film (with the characters I prefer, no less), Iron Man still ended up giving me more of what I wanted in a superhero movie, as opposed to giving me more of what I’m supposed to want.

Electric Six was founded on the Iron Man philosophy. I’m probably supposed to listen to bands with better lyrics and stranger instrumentation, and the themes should strive to deal with adult issues as opposed to out-dumbing early Van Halen and Kiss. But this is rockin’. If I want to learn something, I’ll read a book. And as far as the comedic elements go, “Dancing” embodies the “joke” through and through. Why should the fact that it’s funny make it any less great? Even though they’re making fun of heavy metal, does that mean Dethklok can’t play some of the best, hardest, shredding metal around? Just because Beck’s “Debra” is faux Prince, does that mean it can’t be the best Prince song Prince never recorded? Everything in these examples, just like in “Improper Dancing,” is done to comedic levels, including greatness.

Video note: Someone much smarter than me could tell me if this is an official Electric Six video or not. It seems like it would be up their alley. It also represents the best audio version of the song I could find, though there is a good live version out there with Valentine holding a pinata for the whole song. It still doesn’t include the “YES!” at the very end — why must you torment me, internet media creators?! — so when it gets there, you’ll just have to shout it yourself.

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included Tender Box’s “Spectacular Spider-Man Theme” Johnny Cash’s “Ghost Riders In The Sky” and Run-DMC’s “It’s Tricky.”

I get angry music. I understand it. You scream, you yell. You’re pissed and you wanna have something to get you even more angry. But depressing music doesn’t depress me. “Untitled” is a quintessential example of my misguided joy in a supposedly dreary song. My wife is the resisdent Cure expert of our house, and I was delighted to tell her how I was lost in the world of this closing track of “Disintegration”. But as we discussed the song, I let it slip that “Untitled” made me feel good, and she slammed the breaks. “You feel good listening to this? It’s a Cure song.”

“I know. It’s beautiful and delicate and precise. That weird ‘air organ’ at the beginning — that sounds like the one that was upstairs in my Grandma’s old house — it draws me in every time for the big crashing drums and the main part of the song. The whole song is lovely.”

“Yeah…” she stared at me over her iced tea. “But it’s a Cure song.”

Maybe I wasn’t paying attention, and that wouldn’t be the first time. I give lyrics some attention, but not my full attention unless it’s about a very simple story (like how girls from different regions of our nation are all unique, but they should be encouraged to move closer to the Pacific ocean). The first line in “Untitled” is “Hopelessly adrift in the eyes of a ghost again,” so how happy could the song really be? But I can’t deny how a song from the poster boys of gloom makes me feel, and it makes me feel good. My own feelings of happiness when playing “Untitled” are completely misplaced, but actually not at all. It’s all about what the listener brings to the game, and that’s why Roger Ebert is misguided.

Let me explain.

Of the many rules and beliefs Roger Ebert holds about movies, he has one which has never set with me. He believes that there is only joy to be found in good movies, and only bad movies are depressing. I suppose I know what he really means — that seeing a finely crafted piece dissect a depressing topic is more joyous than watching a horribly constructed hunk of garbage — but he’s going at the problem like a critic first and a human being second. By this rationale, one could find himself “enjoying” a viewing of United 93, which seems impossible. Depressing movies, by design, depress me and I’m certain I’m not alone. I distinctly remember watching the well crafted, acted, shot, etc. “Boys Don’t Cry,” and feeling midway through that:
A. This story was gonna end badly for Brandon Teena,
B. I had known it was going to end badly before I even bought my ticket, and C. why would I put myself through this pain?

Sure enough, the Oscar-worthy Swank got messed up in a messed up way, leaving me shaken and depressed. I was joylous and inconsolible.

Now I’m not arguing that “depressing” or “sad” movies are bad or should be avoided, but I am arguing that all movies — especially well made ones — are convincing. They snare your mind for two hours and convince you to connect with one or more of the characters, and this emotional connection can lead to eventual heartbreak just like in real life, only much more trivial. Movies have it all over music in this regard. Movies are emotional convincing machines.

Music, on the other hand, is less about convincing and more about supporting. Your mood can be “scored” by the right song, and then… well, you end up with a column like this dedicated to those moments of emotional harmony. And while Ebert’s rule does not apply to my movie watching, it works perfectly for my music listening. By nature, “good” music — despite any emotional resonance of happy, sad, angry, exciting, sexy, etc. — is built on harmony, and harmony equates with feeling good. It sounds good, so it feels good. What’s “good” depends on the circumstances of your life, but that’s why you have a music collection. For whatever reason, my life last week needed to be scored by this song and lyrics be damned, it made me feel great.

Many could argue that the Cure’s reputation is based on depression, but this is more of a comment on the baggage brought on by their fans than by the band itself. So much of pop music is based on style and flair and flash and image that people become as careless about paying attention to the content, just like how I don’t pay attention to lyrics. The Cure’s music does not depress people; depressed people listen to the Cure. Listening to their music doesn’t make people depressed, just as listening to The Smiths doesn’t make people gay or listening to the Rolling Stones doesn’t make people sexist and occasionally gay. The nice part is that depressed people seem to enjoy harmonious music just as much as non-depressed people, so a common ground can be reached.

I just realized that I’ve logically proven that I’m not a depressed person. I’m happy enough I’m going to play “Untitled” again.

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included Weezer’s “El Scorcho,” Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time,” and New Order’s “Age of Consent.”

Christmas in Southern California is strange. Perhaps it’s my Midwestern mindset throwing everything off, but snow-based decorations placed in a non-snow environment freak me out a little. Just knowing a plastic glowing snowman will never be covered with anything resembling winter depresses me. With busy schedules, rising airline fees and a desire to stay near my own bed, this year will mark our first Christmas away from our parents and actual winter, giving my childhood another crushing blow. And while we’re expecting family visitors and many merry presents and fun by all, the actual absence of a “traditional” Christmas has me in something similar to a melancholy mood, only more antagonistic. I’m in a Stooges mood, and I need their caveman-simple riffs to support me. This is all it takes to make a song “perfect” for this moment. It only needs to fit as the appropriate score for how I’m feeling. And I’m feeling like Christmas isn’t so great, so I need something that agrees with me on some level.

No matter how much you may “love it,” “No Fun” remains a tough song. It’s a steady rock song and sounds like what you want, which means you’ll wish to share it with others. But if you do this, they might read too much into it. Are you trying to imply that your friend is no fun? Or that you’re currently upset about nothing in particular? Do you want to be left alone, or do you want people to know you’re alone and that they should want to visit you but won’t actually visit you? And then there’s the practicality of the song itself: It’s five minutes of the same perfect droning riff with minor inflections and changes thrown in. By sharing this song, will people question your ability to be bored? Will they think you should be more into techno than you are? From it’s “Hello,-I-Love-You”-esque drum opening, it seems like it should be an excellent opener for a show or movie, but the tone of its simple title contains no gray areas.

Regular readers will know I pretend I can play guitar, and some may even know that I taught myself to play by strumming a 5-string acoustic along with Ramones songs. And while this worked fine, I would have had an even more solid foundation in rock fundamentals if I had started with the Stooges — one of the bands the Ramones originally strummed along with. Only problem is I might have gotten bored with the Stooges and guitar playing if I’d done this. “No Fun” is like basketball dribbling drills for guitar. You dribble with the left, then the right, then back again, and back again and again and again. Got it? Let’s do it for the length of practice. “Droning” doesn’t begin to describe the Stooges’ style. It takes a certain kind of idiot to do the same thing endlessly in a loop, and it takes another kind of idiot to record it and call it music. And while “No Fun” may be the least fun song to play along no matter how loud my amp, it continues to be a great song to hum to myself. Perhaps “endearing droning” might be a better description.

It may be trite and cute to sum it up this way, but “No Fun” is fun because it’s intellectually no fun. “Simpsons” creator Matt Groening once said he loved animation because it was an artform that existed only in motion, that you couldn’t look at a single drawing and see “animation.” Rock ‘n’ roll has a similar quality where reading the sheet music or guitar tabs does no justice to the music being created. On paper, “No Fun” is A-E-A-A-A-E-A-A-D-A-D-A-D-A-E-A at it’s busiest. That’s just the early parts. For the last 75% of the song, it’s just the A-D riff with the flair in the middle. It’s not even a complicated strumming technique. If you’ve ever held a pick, you’ve made this strum. That’s because it’s entirely natural. Nothing about the Stooges is intellectual. Choices are more instinctual responses.

The vocals aren’t much different in their perfect stupidity. In karaoke, I’d bet the lyrics get massacred because the singers would just sing the words as is. This is entirely wrong. Iggy doesn’t sing. He grunts. And he doesn’t just grunt the words as they are, he starts every line with the tiniest half-beat “uh” transforming “No fun, my baby, no fun” into “Uhno fun, uhma’ baby, uhno fun,” and exchanging lifeless, pointless, flat ideas into dumb, fugly rock. This style of music festers and breeds with itself until it vomits itself onto some sort of microphone.

“No Fun” is primal. I could romanticize the Stooges and tell myself they couldn’t read music, and they just came up with riffs and they made noise as close to elemental neanderthal sounds as an electric guitar can get… so I will. Their image begs for it more than any other band I can imagine. Only “Louie Louie” approaches the level of heightened, sincere idiocy in which the Stooges wallow. Played in a loop, “No Fun” develops a kind of sonic gravity. It’s a black hole of music from which nothing can escape and everything gets broken down to its basic elements. After an hour or two of continual “No Fun”, time becomes insignificant. It’s just like Southern California: you could be here 5 months or 5 years, but you can’t tell because it always feels like the same season save for a few random irregularities.

Got a weird way to celebrate, avoid or disavow the holidays via music?

Dedicated to those songs that I can’t stop playing, humming, or thinking about; the 4+ minutes you fall head-over-heels in love with. Past instances have included ‘Til Tuesday’s “Voices Carry,” The Hives’ “You Dress Up For Armageddon”, and Arctic Monkeys’ “From The Ritz to the Rubble.”

For the sake of G.S.A.T.M. diversity, I’ve made a major change in my iPod. I have enacted a new policy: One and Done. This has eradicated any band I’ve covered before, forcing me to search out new sounds to fill the space and leaving my Bands-Starting-With-’R'-Section a ghost town. In the weeks following this decision, I’ve uncovered some loves lost behind endless loops of Ramones songs, and the whole time has been mostly fun. Mostly. While it’s great to rediscover an old favorite like Electric Six’s “Fire”, I find myself realizing that I like what I like, and I shouldn’t punish myself for it. More to the point, my purge has removed a heavy dose of rocking my daily diet requires, one that “Venus as a Boy” just can’t seem to fulfill. This rock starvation may be the reason Sleater-Kinney bubbled to the top this week.

I discovered Sleater-Kinney the same way we all did: as a 29-year-old man living in Chicago, I received mix CD’s from one of his wife’s teenaged assistants at an art studio. Prior to 2002, I had dismissed Sleater-Kinney from my musical studies. I figured I had the Donnas to fulfill my hard-rocking women band fix and didn’t need another one. Maybe I was sexist. Maybe I still am. Either way I’m thankful this girl persisted in loaning me my first real dose of SK. They wrote songs which felt longer than they actually were. That’s a good thing. The songs felt (and still feel, I suppose) full. After catching up on my own, the band released The Woods in 2005 — the first and only album of theirs I would purchase upon release. Then they broke up, so The Woods represents the only evidence that I am just a latecomer and not a complete poseur.

I still remember my initial play of The Woods in my car on my way to an improv rehearsal. I was largely enjoying it, though I seem to recall some mixed feelings since none of the songs grabbed me the way “Little Babies” or “You’re No Rock ‘n’ Roll Fun” had from their earlier work. But then “Rollercoaster” came on, and my world spun upside down.

To be completely honest, it was less the entire song and more just the bridge. There’s a semi-longish pause after this mid-song rock out that’s just long enough that in my post rock-out confusion, I thought a new song had started instead of the return of the very memorable opening hook. I love that midsection so much I even toyed with the idea of calling this particular article “Sleater-Kinney’s Middle Section of ‘Rollercoaster,’” but that felt unfair. That would imply that I only listen to that middle section alone, when actually the awesome midsection needs the surrounding slightly-less awesome parts for it to reach maximum awesome. Nevertheless, I will primarily be discussing that section here, since it’s the one I think of first and foremost every time I remember the song. When trying to pass along the beauty to friends, and they seem initially unimpressed by the opening bits, I tell them the same thing you tell an audience at an improv show: “Wait… it gets better.”

“The Woods” was written during a kind of “Classic Rock Revival” period for the band. According to reports, Sleater-Kinney had been looking for a way to break away from their more alternative punk roots and found inspiration in their collection of Led Zeppelin and Blue Oyster Cult records. This gave lead singer Corin Tucker’s voice the chance to embrace its desire to sing like Heart, while allowing for the use of cowbell in this particular song. And while Sleater-Kinney didn’t exactly create the greatest Kiss song Kiss never wrote (that actually went to the Donnas with “On The Rocks”), they found a new way to bring their particular brand of rock through a different sounding instrument. It’s still all guitars and drums, but their attitude had altered just a bit.

Their catalog remains full of many great mid-song breakdowns, but nothing feels quite as volcanic the breakdown in “Rollercoaster.” Sometimes I’ll judge a song’s greatness by how many moments worthy of a volume cranking it possesses, but this is the first song where the cranking moment feels initiated by the band itself. After the second chorus at 1:45, the buzz-saw guitar kicks in, the drums thunder and everything gets dumped out of the punch bowl. We’ve all heard songs mixed with the needles in the red, but the needles for “Rollercoaster” go more red than Oklahoma during election season (Thankyouverymuch). Never underestimate the power of loud. Sometimes that’s all you need. And often times loud demands more loud.

During this fit of ass blast rock, we get the titular — line first from Tucker, then from the enchanting back-up vocals. By the end of this section, the only other parts of Tucker’s lyrics I ever pick out are the “You sit on me, I sit on you,” but I might only pick that out because I’m a man and she’s a woman and as a man I never miss women saying phrases like this. Even now I sense a female voice in my neighborhood has said something similar, and my ears are perked like a dog’s.

The rest of the central lyrics are incomprehensible, and that’s great. This allows the backing vocals to rise into prevalence, and the song to reach its potential. We can barely follow the actual lyrics, but we sure as hell can sing “Rock ‘n’ Rollercoastaaaaaaah” over and over, and that’s rock ‘n’ roll in a nutshell: repeating mindless catchy bits over and over, smiling more and more every time. These backing vocals are what I call “Cheerleader vocals,” and it’s where my rampant sexism finds new exciting outlets.

I first conceived of these “Cheerleader vocals” because they just sounded like cheerleaders saying “Rock ‘n’ Rollercoaster!” over and over, but I suppose it’s unfair of me to assume that all cheerleaders are women, and that the women in this particular song are cheerleaders. Put simply, they reminded me of cheerleaders because they were female voices. That’s all. Nevertheless, I think the title fits perfectly because they actually do lead us in some fashion of organized yelling, which is the whole point of cheerleading. These vocals beautiful in their femininity. Sleater-Kinney sets their B.O.C.-style song apart from “Don’t Fear the Reaper” simply by virtue of existing as women of rock.

So congratulations, Sleater-Kinney. You have just successfully rocked your way into a year-long retirement from my playlist. I’ll see you in a year.

Inevitable Video Note:I could only find a live version of the song, so that will have to do. In this particular version, Carrie Brownstein supplies the lyrics to the aforementioned bad-ass bridge instead of Tucker, but I’m convinced this was a decision made for live performances. I’m sure that’s not her on the studio track. However, I am 100% positive Janet Weiss chipped in either way.