Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. 1, by George Michael

Does “pop music” have a place on “must hear” album lists? As my gentle readers know, I often argue that it does, and George Michael’s work is a big part of the reason why rock critics today take pop music seriously, and his 1991 album, Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. 1, is "Exhibit A." While still teens in the UK, Michael and his musical partner, Andrew Ridgeley, formed the duo, “Wham!,” which helped set the template for early-80’s pop music, complete with the squeaky-clean, camera-ready smiles and neon-colored clothing that exuberantly exclaimed, “Choose Life!” Laugh-out-loud hilarious, it was, if unintentionally so, and nobody who wasn’t a teenage girl even admitted to liking these two dorks. I mean, seriously.

But, in fact, more than just teenaged girls picked up cassette copies of Wham!’s 1984, #1 album, Make It Big, which sold truck loads and contained now-classic pop nuggets like, “Everything She Wants,” (#1) “Careless Whisper,” (#1) “Freedom,” (# 3) and the #1 song that gave birth to the boy-bands that ruled radio in the late-80’s and 90’s, “Wake Me Up, Before You Go-Go.” What was unexpected about these supposedly light, “disposable,” pop songs, however, was the deft, skillful songwriting and the sheer weight of the sinister subject matter: it was cheating girlfriends, cheating boyfriends, divorcing couples, lies, and lying-liars who held court in Michael’s jaundiced, musical world. Kinda sordid for a pop musician who appealed to millions of screaming teens, idn’t it?

In fact, Michael has made a career of writing pop hits about lurid, kinky subject matter, to wit, look up the lyrics to any of the following, bubbly Wham/Michael songs: “Credit Card Baby,” “The Edge Of Heaven,” “I Want Your Sex,” “Monkey,” “Father Figure,” “Fastlove,” and “Freek!” to name but a few. But the synthesized, pop sheen of Michael’s songs always obscured the vile, underworld he so often described, going completely unnoticed by the public, the fans, and the critics alike, ensuring that Wham! and George Michael were categorized as merely trifle, routinely pummeled in critical circles at the time, with one Rolling Stone critic dismissing Michael’s R&B-style vocals as, “prissy.” And the young musician was taking notes. Michael decided that being the alpha pop male of the moment wasn’t quite enough for him; he wanted all that AND to be taken seriously as an artiste. What he didn’t realize is, critics would have eventually come around to his brand of snap, crackle, and pop ear candy. The proof is in the pudding, as Lady Gaga, Black Eyed Peas, and Kanye West reap the benefit of Michael’s party-pop, path finding. Note: yes, I said, Kanye West, who is much more of a piece with Michael than, say, Lil’ Wayne – admit it; you agree.

So, fast-forward to three years later; it’s 1987, and Michael, relinquishing all Wham-like, poster-friendly posing, grows a scruffy beard, puts on a leather jacket, buys a motor cycle (does he even drive it?), and releases the album that catapults him to 80’s, pop-god status, sharing rare air with the likes of Prince, Madonna, and Michael Jackson with the 20 million-selling album, Faith. With that album, Michael created the male, pop star blueprint still in place today (you’re welcome, Justins Timberlake and Beiber). And for most, Faith was Michael’s career zenith, but I disagree. While Faith was melodic, creative, oftentimes creepy, and overall, great fun, and while it certainly displayed an artist discovering the full potential of his voice and feet, his next album, Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. 1, finds him at the height of his powers, seamlessly blending musical ideas, styles, and motifs, while at times just showing off, and deservedly so.

The album opens with the first single, the plodding, over-wrought, pretty good, but worst-song-on-the-album, “Praying For Time.” The mundane video featured the song’s lyrics in bulky, white letters over a black screen. Oooh, he’s so solemn, singing about politics and stuff…ho-hum. While the single went to #1, largely due to fan excitement for a new George Michael song, album sales stalled, overall, selling a comparatively paltry 8 million, and Michael started to bicker with his record label, due to his refusing the proven advertising strategy of actually appearing in his videos.

A compromise was reached with the promotion clip for the second single from the album, the funky, feisty, “Freedom 90,” which featured a series of supermodels in steam-filled rooms, mouthing the words to Michael’s song, while paraphernalia from his poster boy-era burned in the background. While the video was a welcome relief from its abysmal predecessor and the single fared well (#8), it proved to be the only other single that made a significant dent on the pop charts: the only other that hit the upper half of the charts, “Waiting For That Day,” featured an inspired blending of the Rolling Stone’s classic, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” but barely reached the top 30 (#27).

And that’s too bad for pop fans, who, by skipping, Listen, Vol. 1, missed out on what stands as some of Michaels best musical moments, ever. “Something To Save,” one of the failed singles from the album, holds as one of Michael very best songs. Rare for a George Michael song, the themes of “Something To Save” revolve around open, honest communication and reciprocal love and compassion. Similarly, “Heal The Pain,” written in an up-tempo, slide-and-shuffle style, reminiscent of Paul McCarntney (and later re-recorded as a duet with him in 2008), imbues kindness and optimism into a three-minute pop song, again, unusual "light" for his dark genius. The slow-burning waltz, “Cowboys And Angels,” finds Michael back in familiar, sinister lyrical territory, and exquisitely so, while the should-have-been single, “Soul Free,” innovates with use of R&B, drum loop samples over a can’t-get-out-of-your-head chorus and some of Michael’s finest R&B crooning.

After Listen, Vol. 1 quietly and undeservedly faded into the sunset, an extended legal battle ensued between Michael and his record label, Sony/Epic, with the artist blaming the company for less-than-expected sales, claiming they failed to properly promote the album, and the company countering that poor sales were due to Michael’s own resistance to appear in his videos. The battle eventually killed the possibility of Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. 2, which was rumored to be more dance-oriented, un-socially conscious pop, and to have included his 1992 hit, “Too Funky,” (#10) as well as three other songs, which eventually appeared in conjunction with the AIDS benefit album, Red, Hot, & Dance, that same year, “Do You Really Want To Know,” “Happy,” and “Crazyman Dance,” the B-side to the aforementioned single.

And then six years of silence followed, a time period extended, no doubt, by the death of his longtime companion. Michael’s next studio album, the funereal, Older, was released in 1996 to a pop environment steeped in his brand of R&B-pop (i.e., Mariah Carey’s “Always Be My Baby,” R. Kelly’s, “Down Low,” etc.), priming the album to be the biggest seller of the year, but instead, it quietly tip-toed onto the scene in the spring of that year, reaching a disappointing #6 on the U.S. album charts and boasting only two top-ten hits, “Jesus To A Child,” (#7) and “Fastlove,” (#8). The only other subsequent studio album to date, the aptly-titled, Patience, came eight years later, and while it offered glimmers of his immense gifts with the single, “Amazing,” it proved to be, overall, a disappointing affair.

And speaking of “affairs,” after the disappointing performance of Listen, Vol. 1, Michael’s hit-streak primarily included a series of very public, very embarrassing incidents involving sex, drugs, binge drinking, etc. In fact, it seemed as if he embodied the lyrics to many of his depraved, disco hits from two decades before. Worst of all, his immense talent and expertly-crafted pop music, which he so aptly sang, “…is the one good thing that I’ve got,” took a back seat to these bad-boy antics, leaving himself and his fans confounded or having moved-on in the wake of his clichéd, celebrity excesses. But as demonstrated by another wayward pop genius, Brian Wilson, who released his masterful, long-awaited, magnum-opus album, Smile, in 2004, over 30 years after it was shelved, sometimes the end result can be well-worth the wait. And I’m guessing I’m not alone in thinking George Michael’s got another great album in him. Call it “blind,” but I’m still holding out faith (ugh, sorry) for another extraordinary George Michael album.

“New Amerykah Part Two (Return of the Ankh),” by Erykah Badu

I normally write about older albums for this blog. The concept for the blog, and my personal bias, is that an album needs to earn the status of a “must hear” kind of experience. It needs to gestate through time, news, history, afternoons in the hammock, and long drives home. And I have a theory about music and people: we’re interdependent. We need each other. Music, good and bad, provides the soundtrack for our lives, and in kind, our thoughts, our conversations, and our experiences provide music with deeper context, depth, and emotional substance. Ultimately, music couldn’t exist without us, and we couldn’t survive without music. It’s as important, I posit, as our need for water, calories, and human connection. Music is present at all important events in our lives, as well it should be; its power transcends time, circumstances, and ideas.

That said, Erykah Badu’s new album, New Amerykah Part Two (Return of the Ankh), has been providing the soundtrack to my life, non-stop, for the past few weeks since its release. I heard about the new album, because of the controversy surrounding the video to it’s lead single, the rapturous, “Window Seat,” which finds the artist moving through a Dallas sidewalk leading to Dealey Plaza, removing clothing, until she is finally naked and then gunned-down by an invisible assassin. The video was inspired by a similar concept from indie artists, “Matt and Kim,” and eventually led to Badu’s citation and $500.00 fine by the Dallas Police Department. Controversy for the accompanying video clip aside, I was so taken by “Window Seat,” I downloaded the album on the strength of that lead single.

The album shimmers with subdued energy, and on first listen, I was immediately enthralled. The album reminds me of the 70’s, especially the first half of that melodic, rockin’ decade and my favorite era in pop music. I think that’s why I instantly took to New Amerykah. Many grooves from this album, are reminiscent of songs that might have floated into AM radio airwaves during that glorious, faded denim era, and this album feels and sounds like Al Green, Marvin Gaye, and Sly & The Family Stone, at the same time, but not just a retread of these familiar and well-worn styles, but injected with something unexpected and fresh.

Sidebar: the 70’s provided us with the pop template that still serves as the foundation of what’s on the radio today: singer/songwriter (70's \ today), soul (70's \ today), power pop (70's \ today), rap (70's \ today), dance (70's \ today), and even pop theatrics (70's \ today). It all started in the 70’s, and we’ve yet to find anything “new,” just more variations on those wonderful themes.

New Amerykah’s mellow, savory textures explore love in its many configurations, leaving no emotion unturned: giddy, infatuation (“Gone Baby, Don’t Be Long”), recklessness (“You Loving Me”), and even love-for-profit, with the silly and rollicking, “Turn Me Away (Get Munny).” In “Window Seat,” the aforementioned lead single, Badu longs for escape and independence, but also for security and connectedness: her cake and a humongous fork. She perfectly describes the moments in life when one yearns for the next thing, yet genuinely feels indebted to what she has: with the same feeling and momentum on both fronts. And while the album offers varied moods and tempos throughout, New Amerykah delivers an overall chilled-out groove, and serves up the perfect flavor for the coming sunny, warm days ahead. It’s currently the only thing I’m listening to, and I don’t see an end to that anytime soon. It feels like summer has finally begun.

Rickie Lee Jones, by Rickie Lee Jones

In the words of the inimitable John Lennon, “the 70’s were a drag, man.” The decade began with the ongoing debacle that was the Vietnam War, student shootings at Kent State, the escalating “Cold War” between the U.S. and the Soviet Union, and “Watergate,” the first televised U.S. Presidential transgression (not counting this one). And the decade clumsily fumbled forward, not ending any better than it had begun, with a major U.S. economic recession, panicky lines at gas stations, a U.S. hostage situation in Iran, and, as a strategic move in the aforementioned “Cold War,” the Soviet Union invasion of Afghanistan.

In fact, much North American popular culture of the day reflected the overarching malaise that accompanied the close of that turbulent decade, from the maudlin theme music of popular television shows, like this one, to the bummed-out storylines for top films of the era. Even top 40 radio got up on the wrong side of the bed in the latter part of the decade with downer themes, like “Heart of Glass,” “I Will Survive,” and the deliciously-depressing, “Dust In The Wind.”

But suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, Rickie Lee Jones sauntered through the side door with a cool and inspired sorta jazz when she walked onto the Saturday Night Live music stage in the spring of 1979 and won America’s heart, singing her #4 pop hit, “Chuck E’s In Love.” That surprisingly spry, little hit record, nestled next to bleak pop songs and nervously edgy disco sounds that dominated the radio then, playfully hinted at a spirit of hope that inevitably accompanies the dawn of a new decade (Again, said John Lennon: “It can’t get no worse”).

And Rickie Lee Jones self-titled debut was the quintessential album for that moment in U.S. History, perfectly describing the sadness of the nation, mingled with childlike excitement for the new decade ahead. When music fans hit the stores to pick up the LP that spring and summer, they discovered an album that accurately reflected their frustration and disappointment, but that also gave them permission to smile again. Featuring an all-star cast of musicians, including Dr. John, Michael McDonald, Randy Newman, and Tom Scott, who provided the stupendous horns, vis-a’-vis Joni Mitchell’s sublime, Court and Spark five years earlier. Rickie Lee Jones debut is a jazzy, pop savvy, funky, little joint.

Jones seasoned her debut with sassy, swinging sucker-licks, like “Young Blood,” “Danny’s All-Star Joint,” and “Weasel and The White Boys Cool,” which provide perfect moments of levity, while, “Night Train,” the might-have-been hit single, paints an impressionist portrait of bohemian life, where eight balls, dark alleys, and riding the city train fills the days and nights of young turks, carving out recognizable niches for themselves in unfamiliar territory. The album, itself, is of a piece, perfectly describing the coming-of-age process in the big city, where the sidewalk ahead holds more doubts than opportunities, and the only thing to which the young musician can cling is to her memories and to her burgeoning talent.

While having its share of cheerful moments, the album remains, overall, a morose affair. The melancholy, “On Saturday Afternoons In 1963,” finds the twenty-something Jones waxing nostalgic about childhood spent laughing the afternoons away and reflecting on the treasure of old friends. The album closes with two somber songs: the aching melancholy of “Company,” a devastating breakup song, and the achingly lonely “After Hours (Twelve Bars Past Midnight),” where the singer sits alone at the piano, literally closing down the lonely bar, tiredly flipping down the light switch as she says “goodnight” to the ravaged decade and hails a cab home.

"Grace," by Jeff Buckley

Jeff Buckley’s 1994 debut and only studio album, Grace, is one of the most beautiful, rocking albums I’ve ever heard. Grace is also a heartbreaking album, and what proved tragic for Buckley, prophetic. Jeff Buckley died in 1997, three years after the album’s release. He drowned in the Mississippi River while a friend watched, unknowing, just a few, helpless feet away. Buckley was the son of folk-rock legend, Tim Buckley, who also died in his prime at the young age of 28, when Jeff was just 9 years old. The elder Buckley died of a horrifying drug overdose, also while friends watched and did nothing.

The overarching theme of Jeff Buckley’s, Grace, is this: despair over loss. Loss of love. Loss of hope. Loss of life. The opening line to the title track (and my favorite song on the album) brings home this message early in the song cycle:

Well it's my time coming, I'm not afraid to die
My fading voice sings of love,
But she cries to the clicking of time… of time

The title track, “Grace,” continues, forecasting Buckley’s sad fate:

The rain is falling and I believe
My time has come
It reminds me of the pain
I might leave… leave behind
And I feel them drown my name
So easy to know and forget with this kiss
I'm not afraid to go, but it goes so slow

And the final, haunting line of the album, on “Dream Brother,” where Buckley sings,

Dream brother, dream brother, dream, dream
dream asleep in the sand with the ocean washing over…

But the album is much more than uncanny future-casting of the artist’s ill fate, Grace contains some of rock-and-roll’s most stupefying and transcendent musical moments, recorded by an artist who communicated familiar emotions through his own innovative, and highly original lens. Buckley transcends standard rock clichés by infusing themes of heartache and loss with his own, unique lyrical vision. Buckley examines relationships from the inside out, leaving no relational stone unturned on this perfect, poetic album.

Grace also includes the 1995 hit single and song most closely associated with Buckley, “Last Goodbye.” The album further contains what most agree to be the definitive version of Leonard Cohen’s classic hymn to love, “Hallelujah,” which, incidentally, went on to become Buckley’s only number one song to date, shooting to the pole position of “Billboard” magazine’s “Hot Digital Songs” chart in the spring of 2008, the day after Buckley’s version was covered by a contestant on “American Idol.”

The instruments on Grace that frame Buckley’s celestial voice: the majestic strings, the blasting guitars, and the crashing drums, are staggering in themselves, sounding as fresh and relevant today as if they had been recorded last week. But Buckley’s most important gift to the world was that angelic, mournful, raw, and, at times, startling voice. Buckley’s voice could summon emotions from the depths of his lower register, and in one perfect instant, fling them into a high-octave, tortured howl. Buckley’s voice was versatile and explosive, able to convey acute heartache, yet also to rouse the most joyous sounds, seeming both otherworldly and even unvoice-like.

While its joys and potency loom large, making this classic album destined to be remembered forever, I only listen to Grace when I’m alone. It’s not exactly a record to play when entertaining guests or when doing dinner dishes. It’s the kind of beautiful, jarring musical journey that, like Buckley’s short life, is best experienced when you have time to feel your way through it.

"The Sound Inside," by Breaks Co-op

A few years ago, I was reading a magazine article written by the legendary Sir Elton John. He had been asked to host a series of guest editorials. Each month in his column, the pop icon would rant about the demise of the music industry, or he would rave about a new development or rising star in the beleaguered business. One week, he singled-out a New Zealand band, “Breaks Co-op.” In fact, the Rock-and-Roll Hall of Famer actually telephoned the band to tell them just how much he loved their funky, trip-hop influenced debut, The Sound Inside, calling it the best album he had heard that year. He also told Breaks vocalist, Andy Lovegrove, that he is one of his favorite singers. Not a bad endorsement. Well, what’s good enough for Sir Elton John is certainly good enough for me. I downloaded the album that afternoon, and it’s been spinning regularly on my iPod for three years now.

Simply put, The Sound Inside is extraordinary. Within the first few moments, the album grabs the listener by the shirt collar and demands attention – in the nicest possible way. The first thing that strikes the listener is the hypnotic, hopped-up drum loops on the lead-in, title track. The band’s inventive use of random, seemingly found audio clips and outer-space atmospherics draws you in. Beyond this, the album treats the listener to engaging and instantly memorable melodies. In fact, almost every song on this album would make a viable single, not that KISS FM would ever play them. But perhaps the best part of this album, and what I view to be the band's trump card, is the staggering, Crosby, Stills, & Nash-inspired vocal harmonies. Hamish Clark, Zane Lowe, and Andy Lovegrove blend their voices so flawlessly, so pristinely, that you’ll wonder if you’ve ever heard anything so perfect.

And vying for the best song on the album is the arresting, “A Place For You.” The song describes in flawless detail the rapture, uncertainty, and perpetual butterflies that come with negotiating a new relationship. “Should I place all my faith in you?” Lovegrove sings, “Should I open up and let you in?” The single acoustic guitar on the song is perfectly surrounded by lush strings and a surprisingly fitting bongo drum to provide pulse for the music. But what I most appreciate about this song (and this band) is the testicular fortitude to bravely reveal a startlingly tender male perspective, rarely heard in pop music (or anywhere else): “I have this place for you. I’ll make it safe for you. Don’t make me wait for you now; just come right next to me.”

Another contender for best song, and my personal favorite, is “LMA (little miss anonymous).” This bouncy, skip-along song is essentially a variation on the same theme of “A Place For You” and contains one of the most exquisite vocal harmonies I’ve ever heard. Ever. Especially when they sing in the second verse, “I don’t know if you think of me, but, I’m the one who wants to be there – close to you. If you were mine…” It’s a perfect pop moment.

But I’m just focusing on the love songs. The overarching theme of the entire album revolves around what feeds you - the inner world that guides how you live. The songs on The Sound Inside are about understanding and protecting your heart as it relates to the world around you: owning up to and challenging your own ideas and prejudices, expressing your love and your hate, taking care of your friends, your family, and yourself. This album perfectly explains the joy and stress of living each day and celebrates all of it. C.S. Lewis once said that love isn’t made complete until it’s expressed in some manner. This album does just that – expresses delight in the world around us, the jubilation and the agony, from the perspective and the capacities of the human heart. The Sound Inside is, therefore, a perfect soundtrack to life: completely engrossing, wonderfully validating, and wholly reassuring.

"Shooting Rubber Bands At The Stars," by Edie Brickell & The New Bohemians

I remember a pointed conversation with a classmate in high school about Edie Brickell & the New Bohemian’s debut, Shooting Rubber Bands At The Stars. My friend owned the cassette and let me borrow it. At the time, I was most familiar with the line from the band’s 1988 hit single, “What I Am,” ubiquitous on top 40 radio at the time: “Choke me in the shallow water, before I get too deep.” I suspected the rest of the album would be filled with similar light-hearted, boho charm, and I was right: Rubber Bands features quirky rock and playful, hippy-dippy lyrics – an utterly joyful rumination on the intoxicating mix of thrill and terror that comes from being young, unencumbered, and navigating life for the first time.

Texas-born, Brickell’s career has been, in fact, a study on how life seems to work: a combination of talent, hard work, and hoped-for strokes of good fortune. At a bar one Saturday night while attending art school, Brickell was reluctantly cheered onto the stage to join the house band for a few numbers. Suddenly, she found herself fronting the New Bohemians. It wasn’t long after that the group wound up in a recording studio making their 1988 debut album. The dreamy aforementioned lead-single reached the upper end of the pop charts, propelling this word-of-mouth album to multi-million sales by the following fall.

I rushed back to school the next day to expound upon the sheer joy of listening to this great record. After hearing my review, my friend blinked a few times, frowned, and said, “Well I hate it.” I was stunned. Humph! She clearly didn’t understand this album. Looking back, it makes sense. My friend was studious and practical: an album titled after the fruitless activity of projecting plastic objects into the atmosphere would be of little value to one so pragmatic. And I have to admit, my friend even made me wonder if Rubber Bands would be a silly, flash-in-the-pan for me, too.

It’s been over twenty years later, and I can definitively say that she was completely wrong about this remarkable album. Far from a silly flash, it has, indeed, warranted repeated listens over the years: first on my copied cassette, then on my own purchased vinyl, which I lost in my senior year of college, bringing me to replace it with a CD copy a few years later, and now, Rubber Bands comes to me on my trusty, well-worn iPod. The album has not only remained fresh for me all these years, but has continued to grow more endearing as the last two decades have quickly slipped by. Rubber Bands was the perfect, left-turn album for that cheesy moment in late-80’s pop music history, when top 40 radio was dominated by the likes of Paula Abdul’s mousy, made-for-MTV dance numbers and Milli Vanilli’s sterile, also made-for-MTV, fake-model posing. (Author’s note: Kids, MTV used to play music 24 hours a day. True story. Look it up). Brickell’s lilting, country-girl voice on Rubber Bands was a breath of fresh air, and in it’s own way, the album broke new pop territory.

The music on Rubber Bands is airy, malleable, and vibrant, like it’s suspended on air (or rubber bands?). It’s soft and relaxing throughout, yet crisp and punchy in the right places, taking the listener, in some moments, to the backyard dance, while in others revealing quirky observations of the world around us: charming and captivating, beguiling and mysterious. The themes on the album, written mostly by Brickell, run the gamut of what you would expect from a young, twentysomething idealist: friendship (“Circle”), love (“Love Like We Do,” “Nothing,” and “Now”), self-discovery (“What I Am,” “Beat The Time,” “She”), romance (“Air of December” and “Keep Coming Back”), and utopian mediations on how life works (“The Wheel”).

The album closes, not with a crescendo, but more quietly, with the sweet, whispered lullaby, “I Do.” This charming little album closer finds Brickell accompanied only by a solitary, acoustic guitar, singing to a new friend, one who clearly and completely understands her. “It’s not emotion that I feel for you,” she sings, “It’s not devotion that I want. I want someone to follow, who doesn’t lead the way. I want someone to listen, who won’t repeat what I say.” Finding such a friend is one of life’s rare and surprising gifts: just like this album.

"Hearts and Bones," by Paul Simon

Paul Simon is a marvel. He has written and performed legendary song after legendary song over the past 40-plus years, while putting out startlingly few actual solo albums in the process: only ten original albums in that timeframe, including two soundtrack albums. That’s approximately one album every four years…way too few for such an iconic and consistently significant musician. Paul Simon’s albums continue to be compelling and progressive, moving forward without getting lost in embarrassing fads and experimentalization.

From these precious few albums, many Simon songs have worked their way into the pantheon of rock and roll classics. First, there’s the unequalled output from his partnership with Art Garfunkel, and beyond that, there’s his remarkable run of hits from the 1970’s, including, “Mother And Child Reunion,” “Loves Me Like A Rock,” “Still Crazy After All These Years,” and the tongue-in-cheek break-up song, “50 Ways To Leave Your Lover.” And for those who were paying attention, there was Simon’s thrilling mid-80’s “comeback,” Graceland, which featured the top 40 hit, “You Can Call Me Al,” ubiquitous in the spring and summer of 1987, due in part, no doubt, to the silly Chevy Chase cameo in the video, followed by the amazing and almost as big, “Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes.” Sadly, though, few remember one of Simon’s very best albums, 1983’s riveting and poignant, Hearts and Bones. It’s overlooked partly, because it came after his 1970’s solo heyday and before his aforementioned mid-80’s world music resurgence. It was also ignored because it came out the year Thriller ruled the world and forever changed the tide of pop music, closing the coffin on too many 1970’s pop icons.

The overarching theme of Hearts and Bones is all love, all the time, and in the Simon tradition, the album approaches the topic from a melancholy perspective. For example, Simon’s heart is literally allergic to the women he loves in “Allergies,” the lead track and the only near top-40 hit from the album. Next, Simon mournfully ponders the past and future of love with his soon-to-be ex-wife, Carrie Fisher, in the heartsick title track, and later in the album, he thinks way too much about shaping perfect love in the companion songs, “Think Too Much (a) and (b),” where he sings, “But maybe I think too much, and I ought to just hold her, stop trying to mold her…” The former was released as a single in early 1984 and failed miserably in the wake of heinous radio hits from that year, like “Flashdance” (What A Feeling!), “Ghostbusters,” and “Islands In The Stream.”

In other places, Hearts and Bones looks into its crystal ball to forecast living and loving in the new millennium, like on “When Numbers Get Serious,” where Simon foretells the pending internet age of quick results, online dating, and web-based, virtual relationships with extraordinary accuracy. “Rene and Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After The War” is a beautiful tribute to both the abstract artist, Rene' Magritte, and Simon’s beloved vocal groups of the doo-wop era: The Penguins, The Moonglows, etc. My favorite song on this classic Simon album, however, is the haunting, “The Late-Great Johnny Ace,” which discusses the (then) recent and horrific death of John Lennon, juxtaposing the tragedy with the death of early rocker, Johnny Ace, by self-inflicted gun shot to the head. Simon introduced the song at the Central Park concert in 1981 and was nearly assaulted on stage near the end of the song, apparently by an angered/crazed Lennon fan, who was quickly pulled away from Simon just inches before the attack: a strange response to a song, where Simon’s genuine love for Lennon is palpably displayed. No good deed goes unpunished, as they say...

Originally, Paul Simon had other intentions for this magnificent album about love and loss. It was initially meant to repair an old friendship, reportedly to be the long-awaited Simon and Garfunkel reunion album (which is never going to actually happen, by the way; it's not, so stop hoping for it already...) to follow their highly acclaimed reunion concerts two years before. Early on, the album was also going to be titled, “Think To Much,” but after thinking too much, old conflicts resurfaced between the duo, and they parted ways once again. Simon erased Garfunkel’s vocals, turned further inward, and made a stunningly personal album which autopsied friendships, current events, the future, and love affairs that ultimately come to regretful ends, finally and fittingly naming this one Hearts and Bones.