Song #355 of 9999 Title: Mercy Street Artist: Peter Gabriel Year: 1986 Album: So
Trying to choose one song from the mammoth artistic event that is Peter Gabriel's So paralyzes me in the way I sometimes find myself in the aisles of grocery stores. There it's just a matter of making up my damn mind already, whereas here it's a question of real nutrition. It's all good and I want to share. But since I know you've probably had your fill of "Big Time" and "Sledgehammer" and you've probably at least sampled "Don't Give Up" and "In Your Eyes," I've decided to direct your palate to "Mercy Street," Gabriel's somber ode to the complicated confessional poet Anne Sexton. Her poem "45 Mercy Street" and other events from Sexton's life are chronicled in the song. Awash with synths and close vocal harmony on the surface, the song percolates underneath with Brazilian percussion and synth sequences. This is a common technique in Gabriel's music which always seems to have a sense of urgency even when moving at a crawl. I'm struck by how quiet and spare the song can be at times, perfectly mimicking the atmosphere of the late-night boat ride at the center of the story. Harmonically, Gabriel creates a feeling of stasis by avoiding any typical progressions toward the tonic. The chords of the verse change infrequently and subtly—each proceeding triad harboring two notes from its predecessor: C#m (c#-e-g#)—A (a-c#-e)—F#m (f#-a-c#). When the chorus arrives, Gabriel launches into a hymn with uneven harmonic rhythm: C#m__A__B_____ | C#m_____ A_____ | E_____A__B__ | C#m_____ (B______) :|| This asymmetry is interesting to me. Does it create a more organic environment for his melody? I don't know but I find it very moving. The harmony seems to swarm around the melody like a school of fish, changing direction only when necessary and only when prompted. There are more details worth mentioning—mostly lingering dissonances in the vocal and synth lines—but they're softened and muted by the delicate production. If songs were paintings, this one would be hanging in an Impressionist gallery with the Monet waterscapes. It's exquisite.
Song #354 of 9999 Title: Word on a Wing Artist: David Bowie Year: 1976 Album: Station to Station
Recently, I loaned (well, rented) my vocal talent to an Episcopal mass that was centered around the music of David Bowie. As Bowie has made a career of being noncommittal in just about every way—even his gender is frequently blurred—I was surprised to find so much (fairly specific) religious imagery in his music, especially prevalent on the album Station to Station. In fact, the "stations" of the title are not train or space stations, but the Stations of the Cross! Then I found out the whole album was written under extreme duress fueled by excessive cocaine use and it all made sense. Hey-O! Nevertheless, as Bowie himself said, "The passion of the song was genuine..." and this is not hard to believe when measuring the dramatic and moving vocal performance contained in "Word on a Wing." When Bowie croons "Sweet name, you're born once again for me," you can be forgiven for believing he means it and maybe even for believing it yourself. Like so much religious music, it's filled with a fervor that stirs believers and confounds bystanders. But also like so much religious music, the devil is in the details. (sorry, couldn't resist) The song is structured to tug at your heartstrings and direct you to the message. Take the melody of the opening verse, which starts on a low B (sinking as low as G#) and gradually wends its way to G# above, a rising melody that is uplifting both figuratively and literally. The chorus begins with a leap to D#, which is supported by angelic upper harmonies. In the particularly gorgeous third go-round, the lead vocal goes it alone and the choir is offset rhythmically before Bowie delivers the "just because I believe..." line. And then just when you think this melody can't ascend any further, it does, taking the harmony with it as the tonal center shifts upward by a step. This section plays as an all-out appeal to God, with Bowie offering his best Gethsemane moment, "kneel(ing) and offer(ing his) word on a wing." When the breathy (breathless?) falsetto finally arrives, the melody has traversed nearly two octaves while trying to reach the kingdom beyond the clouds. It's an exhausting and, in many ways, inspiring three minutes and we're not even halfway through. I don't mean any of this as criticism and I'm not as jaded as you think. This is the power of music and it's why it's such a central force in religious ceremonies. While retrospectively calling the song "a cry for help," I think David Bowie believed what he was singing and his skill as a vocalist allows the message to be heard more clearly. When I sang the song in a church, I sang it with the same passion despite being spiritually disconnected from the message. This is the job of any actor/singer/performer: deliver the song with conviction, period. Believing (or not) is for the listener.
Song #353 of 9999 Title: Space Intro/Fly Like an Eagle Artist: Steve Miller Band Year: 1976 Album: Fly Like an Eagle
When Steve Miller made his recorded debut in 1968, he was playing a mix of psychedelic rock and British blues that showcased his guitar talents but didn't really feature the kinds of hooks that were going to turn him into a radio star. 1969's "Space Cowboy" was clever enough, capitalizing on the recent Apollo 11 moon landing, but perhaps outdone by the even more clever and progressive "Space Oddity" by David Bowie. After languishing in relative obscurity for another few years, Miller finally hit with "The Joker," certainly a step in the right direction in terms of establishing himself as more than just a B-grade Eric Clapton. The self-referential song has hooks and even invented words ("pompatus" anyone?)! The record was a big success and Miller had finally found the sizable audience he had sought. What he did next is worth noting. I'm not old enough to know firsthand what the fan reaction was upon hearing the opening track(s) of Fly Like an Eagle but I like to imagine it was similar to that of Van Halen's 1984 almost ten years later. Where fans expected guitar rock (could the cover photo be any more deceiving?), they were greeted with washes of atmospheric synthesizers (Roland? Arp?—the debate rages) fed through an echoplex. Not to worry, these captivating tone colors eventually give way to one of Miller's trademark guitar riffs while the synths continue to swirl around and beneath. The combination of sounds really works, especially with the lyrics about "time" and the "future." Listening to it today, I can't help but wonder if Miller was influenced by Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, which came out the same year as The Joker and features a similar combination of sounds (bluesy guitar, organ, synths) and the theme of "time." It's almost as if he heard that album and then went away for a couple of years to figure out how he could work their sound into his brand of pop/rock without sounding derivative. And I think he did it. As great as it is, nothing on Dark Side of the Moon is as catchy as the singles from Miller's record. It's an excellent example of how a new musical setting can make the tried and true seem fresh and new.
I get a night off and you get the second installment in what I hope to make a weekly feature: the guest blogger. Tonight, one of my oldest friends makes me look silly with his incredibly insightful post about Tom Waits's 1976 classic and the turning point it represented in his path as an artist. George Barron is a lawyer by day, father by night, and a damn fine musician when he has time. You can hear his guitar work on my 2003 album Smile If You Absolutely Want To and also on my rumored-to-be-forthcoming new album, whenever that happens.
Title: Tom Traubert’s Blues (Four Sheets to the Wind in Copenhagen) Artist: Tom Waits Year: 1976 Album: Small Change
This
post will not include any discussion of music theory.I'm not a musician, I'm a guitar player.
In
the early 1970’s Tom Waits was not the growling carnival barker of despair and
doom that we know and love today.He was
a sincere, slightly goofy singer/songwriter/storyteller.1975's "Nighthawks at the Diner"
is a great example of this Tom Waits, a live album in which he is as much
comedian as singer – like Dean Martin after a three-day bender.On “Nighthawks,” Waits is funny and engaging
and even sort of cute.
1976’s
“Small Change” introduces us to a new Tom Waits.This Tom Waits is not funny, except in the
most acerbic way, as in his rant against commercialism, "Step Right
Up."The goofiness is gone, the
love songs are steeped in pain and there is nothing cute about this guy. The
songs are written for the most part in the first person, and Waits assumes the
role of one of the dysfunctional denizens of the urban underbelly that is his
canvas.This Tom Waits is a man in
danger, and possibly a dangerous man.
“Tom
Traubert’s Blues,” the first track on Small Change, is a big step forward for
Waits.It is a beautifully sad song that
sets the tone for the album and for the next stage of Waits’ career.The protagonist, Tom Waits Traubert, begins
with an expression of regret, acknowledging that he is to blame for his
suffering:
“Wasted and wounded, it
ain't what the moon did/Got what I paid for now”
It
only takes another verse for Tom to proclaim himself an “innocent victim.” So which is it?Tom isn’t able to say for sure, and that
confusion is the first hint that there are deeper problems afoot. The chorus of the song, sung over a soaring
string section is:
“Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll go
waltzing Matilda with me”
Now,
you’d be forgiven for thinking that this is a love song about a woman named
Matilda (particularly if you’d only heard Rod Stewart’s criminally bad 1993
cover).In fact, Waits once said that
this song is about a woman he met and waltzed with in Copenhagen.
Waits
was, as usual, pulling the interviewer’s chain. Here’s the first clue: “waltzing Matilda" is Australian slang, used
to refer to vagrants, bums – what we would call today homeless people.
So we
know that Tom is homeless. But it’s not that simple.In another proclamation of innocence, Tom makes
it clear that "Matilda" is not just the result of his suffering, “she”
is the cause:
“And you can ask any sailor and the keys from the
jailor/And the old men in wheelchairs know/That Matilda's the defendant, she
killed about a hundred/And she follows wherever you may go”
So
who or what is “Matilda”?Waits has said
that the inspiration for this song came when he spent an evening on skid row
with a bottle of rye in a paper bag, talking to the men there.By Waits’ account, all the men he spoke to
blamed a woman for their downfall. Maybe he was telling the truth, and “Matilda”
means women in general.
But I
think that Waits’ "Matilda" is something else.“Waltzing Matilda” is what Tom does to cope
as best he can with his demons – waltzing Matilda = dancing with the devil.Homeless, probably an alcoholic, possibly
mentally ill, Tom is fighting a battle to keep his sanity - and losing:
“I'm an innocent victim of a blinded alley
And I'm tired of all these soldiers here
No one speaks English, and everything's broken
And my Stacys are soaking wet”“I begged you to stab me
You tore my shirt open
And I'm down on my knees tonight
Old Bushmill's I staggered, you buried the dagger in
Your silhouette window light to go”
In
any event, Waits’ decision to use the “waltzing Matilda” line and leave it open
to interpretation is clever.It makes
his repeated, lilting invitation that the listener "go waltzing Matilda
with me" positively chilling.
“Tom
Traubert's Blues” is a defining moment in Waits’ career.It introduces the lyrical darkness that
becomes increasingly prominent on later records.It marks the beginning of Waits’ habit of
writing and singing in character, and in a sense, the beginning of Waits’
acting career.It is our introduction to
a new Tom Waits.He is no longer the goofy
guy who told waitress jokes in the early 1970s.He is not yet the man on fire who would proclaim that God is "away
on business" and that we will all ultimately be "just dirt in the
ground."The Tom Waits we meet for
the first time in “Tom Traubert’s Blues” is the key to understanding both what
he was and what he would become.
Title: Sir Duke Artist: Stevie Wonder Year: 1976 Album: Songs in the Key of Life
Simply put, Stevie Wonder's tribute to Duke Ellington is one of the most delicious slices of pop you'll ever taste. It is unquestionably my favorite Stevie Wonder song and features one of the coolest bass lines you'll ever hear (or suffer learning if you're a player). I mean, the lyrics are pure cheese but I didn't even know what they were until a minute ago when I looked them up. This song is not about the words; it's about the groove and the party that starts up inside you when you hear it.
Because I am a music theory blogger, I had to take a closer look (even though I mostly wanted to bop around the room) and there's some really cool chromatic stuff going on in the chord progression. Consider the verse (B-G#m-G-F#). What starts out as typical motion away from the tonic (I-vi) continues down chromatically to the dominant (bVI-V). The second time around, he proceeds even further to a bV (F) before embarking on the more obviously chromatic pre-chorus with all those dominant 9ths (E9-Eb9-D9-C#9-D9-Eb9-E9).
This all sets up the rhythmically looser singalong chorus which even has one chromatic surprise in store. It occurs between the second and third chords, set up cleverly by the tritone descent to a minor seventh chord built on the bV (B-Fm7-E). All of which leads to what I will call THE RIFF. It's probably too long to be called a "riff" and frankly, I don't care what you call it, but it may be my favorite riff of all time. I listen to that bass player laying it down with the horns and...well, I should probably go practice.
Title: Carry On Wayward Son Artist: Kansas Year: 1976 Album: Leftoverture
When I'm short on time, I go for the personal stories. Tonight is one of those nights.
When I auditioned to get into the music department at college, I was required to take a music theory test. I hadn't had any formal music training beyond my school saxophone lessons but I had taught myself the piano and bass guitar. The test had thirty-five questions and I got one wrong. I still remember the question because it was the only answer I was unsure of. Name this chord:
The choices were something like this:
a) D6; b) Bm6; c) F#m; d) Adim
I chose A because the chord was almost a D6 (D-F#-A-B) but the answer was B because it is a B Minor chord in first inversion, which is represented by the number 6. I understood the concept of inversions but I didn't know anything about figured bass symbols so....34/35 for me.
Afterward, the music theory professor commented that there must be quite a music theory program at my school. (pause for laughter from FHS graduates) I said no, there are no music theory classes at my school. He asked how I learned all of this stuff and I said "Well, I listen to a lot of progressive rock." He was surprised to say the least. And when he asked me how I learned about the early Greek modes, I countered his question with "Have you ever heard of Kansas?" (some events may be slightly dramatized)
I can't even begin to measure how much I learned in high school by transcribing songs by Rush, Yes, Kansas, Genesis—even Triumph—but a lot of those things can be counted in this full-length version of Kansas's biggest hit, "Carry On Wayward Son." Reproducing the opening a cappella harmonies by myself (with multiple tape recorders) and eventually with others was eye-opening. The bass line was an important etude in my technical development. The contrary motion of the piano arpeggios in the verse (l.h.=a-c-e-c; r.h. e-a-c-e) pushed me in the direction of true hand independence. And the lead vocal range taught me about vocal cord nodules. (Just kidding--if I had them, I certainly wasn't getting them fixed anytime soon.) Sadly, I did not learn great lyric-writing from Kansas, even though I thought I had at the time. And just learning all of this stuff without music sharpened my ears in a way that fully prepared me for a collegiate ear training regimen. Even though I've moved on from prog rock and tend to favor, shall we say, a slightly more subtle approach to songwriting, I'll always have a soft spot in my heart this style of music and particularly this song, which I still find enthralling in a completely genuine way.
Disclaimer: It's been a long day, I'm tired and I have baseball to watch. This is less about analyzing tonight than it is about sharing something interesting. No deep insights. Fifteen minutes of blog time, max.
In 1998, Gus Van Sant set out to make a shot-by-shot remake of Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho. It wasn't well-received and many people were somewhat confounded by Van Sant's exercise. Why remake a film in the exact way as the originator, with the same camera angles, same music, etc., essentially co-opting someone else's artistic vision?
I actually had no problem with the concept (although I didn't see the film) and have had similar thoughts of remaking a record such as The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, with a goal of making it sound as identical to the original recording as possible. The reasons are simple: you learn the songs and gain insight from them, you figure out how certain sounds are made and recorded, and you hone your mixing skills in an effort to match the sound of the original. It is all about learning a craft, or more succinctly, learning.
