“The Magazine,” by Rickie Lee Jones

Rickie Lee Jones was the talk of the town when her debut album exploded onto the scene in 1979, and deservedly so. Her 1981 follow-up album, Pirates, was equally strong and much heralded upon its initial release, even boasting a “Chuck E.’s In Love” caliber single, "Woody and Dutch on the Slow Train to Peking," which was criminally-ignored by top 40 radio (that, apparently, much preferred the featherweight rubbish of “I Love A Rainy Night” and “9 to 5” to Jones’ smart pop masterworks), and sadly, the exceptional album, while reaching number 5 on the album charts and achieving “gold” status solely on the momentum of Jones’ popular debut, faded quickly into obscurity after just a few months. It remains a long-forgotten pop gem.

And Jones spent the remainder of 1981 and most of 1982 touring to promote Pirates while struggling with drug and alcohol addiction. By 1983, after a lack of “hit” singles from Pirates and fearing the fickle, record-buying public might forget about Jones altogether, Warner Brothers put out a “mini-album,” Girl At Her Volcano, in 1983, which featured covers of pop standards as well as a few live tracks and leftover outtakes from earlier album sessions. And to be honest, the scrapped-together album was actually quite good, still holding up 30 years later: a testament to Jones’ remarkable gifts. Moving to France for the remainder of that year, Jones kicked her addictions and got back to writing new songs for the next album, 1984’s sublime and regrettably overlooked, The Magazine.

Co-written and co-produced with James Newton Howard, who had previously worked on Elton John’s late 1970’s/early 1980’s albums and who would go on to broad acclaim composing film scores (e.g., The Prince Of Tides, The Sixth Sense, The Hunger Games, etc.), the sweeping concept of this album, at times, sounds like a movie score: a movie score to a quirky, personal, joyful, and sometimes painful movie - kind of like how life is. This stands to reason, as Jones has said that each album she records is like the soundtrack of her life during the time she’s making it. And while the lyrics may be a bit opaque at times, and the whimsical narratives may lead to a few dead ends, the catchy songs (“Gravity,” “Juke Box Fury,” “It Must Be Love,” and the single, “The Real End,” which landed on the lower end of the Hot 100 charts) and the pretty musical interludes (“Prelude To Gravity,” and the mysterious, moody “Rorschachs”) hang together well, shifting moods throughout and keeping the project wholly engaging.

This great album, too, was lost on pop radio that summer and fall, losing ground to the synthesized blips and beeps of horrid earworms, like the squeaky, “Break My Stride,” or the song that was popular solely because Michael Jackson sang on it and anything he touched that year was going to sell a million copies, “Somebody’s Watching Me,” and possibly the worst pop song ever, particularly because it hailed from one of pop music’s former geniuses, “I Just Called To Say I Love You.” And while the album was certainly of a piece with film scores of the day, pop fans that year were far more interested in throwaway blockbuster movie themes, like the cheesy, fight-for-your-right-to-dance-and-have-teenage-sex call to arms, “Footloose,” and the just plain stupid, “Ghostbusters.” But all of this is to say that overlooking Rickie Lee Jones in 1984 was a mistake, plain and simple, as so many missed out on this sumptuous, imaginative, playful, and tender album.

And bonus points for The Magazine for cajoling me into a making a brave leap early in my career. As a new professional in the mid-1990s, I suddenly found myself in the middle of an organization that I no longer recognized. A number of us were disoriented and discouraged, reeling from new leadership. I no longer felt welcome in a workplace that suddenly seemed unfriendly and unfamiliar. To stay would have been a discouraging chain of professional disappointments, but the thought of leaving was paralyzing. While practically intolerable, it felt safer, somehow, to just hang out, albeit unhappily. But the last refrain of Jones’, “Runaround,” haunted and seduced me that year: “Take a deep breath and break the chain, uh-oh, ooh-oh; take a deep breath and break the chain, uh-oh, ooh-oh; take a deep breath and break the chain…” And so I did, and I’ve never looked back. And that, my gentle readers, is the life changing power of music.

10 Songs About The Power of Music, Part 2

It's been a busy spring, but fans are waiting and have been asking for the second installment of "10 Songs About The Power Of Music." And since I try to accommodate, let's begin again...

“Dance To The Music,” by Sly & The Family Stone. Is it wrong that I first heard this song performed live by a certain, unnamed teen pop star in the summer of 1989? Sigh…probably wrong, but I don’t care. This 1968 single by Sly & The Family Stone was their first big hit, reaching #8 on Billboard and kick-starting a string of classic hit singles, including: “Everyday People,” “Hot Fun In The Summertime,” and “Family Affair,” among others. The song breaks down the elements of a rock song, starting with the drummer, adding guitar, then bass, then organ and horns, telling “all the squares” to go home. While that directive clearly included me, I never went home. I stayed. And I’ve never stopped returning to this classic track.

“Old Time Rock-and-Roll,” by Bob Seger. This iconic rock song about the power of music was co-opted by an 80’s teen movie in an (admittedly) iconic socks-sliding scene, which is, sadly, what it took to make this song a rock classic. Originally just cracking the top-40 in 1979, its inclusion in the 1983 teen flick, Risky Business, solidified the Bob Seger track as a radio staple, with its punchy opening piano riff and dirty guitar and drums, the tune perfectly expresses the sheer joy of “old time rock and roll.” That said, I never understood the lyric, “…in ten minutes I’ll be late for the door.” Seger doesn’t seem the type to make appointments…

“Sir Duke,” by Stevie Wonder. As the title suggests, this song about the power of music is a tribute by Wonder to his musical hero, jazz pianist, Duke Ellington, who had died a few years before Wonder wrote this transcendent song. Taken from his legendary 1976 album, Songs In The Key Of Life (if you don’t own this album, you’re just missing out), the single, released in the summer of 1977, topped the U.S. Billboard charts for two weeks and still sounds fresh today, due largely to Wonder’s other-worldly arrangement and playful horn section. It doesn’t matter the context: when this song is played, everybody starts moving.

 “Late In The Evening,” by Paul Simon. Taken from the obscure, semi-autobiographic 1980 movie, One-Trick Pony, this #6 Billboard hit is a rock classic. Andy Greene from Rolling Stone magazine recently noted, “Whenever (Paul) Simon sings the line, ‘I stepped outside and smoked myself a J,’ from "Late in the Evening," at a regular concert, the crowd goes absolutely insane.” And it’s true. I witnessed it firsthand when I saw Simon play live in June 2001. I guess folks like to have their fun. But I cheered at the next line about the rapturous joy of live music: “…I turned my amp up loud and I began to play, it was late in the evening, and I blew that room away!” Well said, Mr. Simon, well said.

 “Groove Is In The Heart,” by Deee-Lite. One-hit wonders get a bad rap. I argue that on one level, they do fans justice by delivering a careers-worth of music in one, all-encompassing song, sparing fans from enduring career highs and lows and inevitable “experimental” phases. Deee-Lite is such a one-hit wonder, arguably existing for the sole purpose of bringing “Groove Is In The Heart” to the world. The song features a Herbie Hancock sample (from “Bring Down The Birds”) as well as a sample from Vernon Burch's "Get Up" and rapping by Q-Tip, from “A Tribe Called Quest.” Additionally, the song features bass and backing vocals from Bootsy Collins. How could it not have become quintessential? Its message is universal. Music stems from the heart, and it’s impossible not to move to this remarkable dance tune. It was popular when I was in college and was THE song the women in my dorm listened to when they were getting ready to go out. In fact, every time I hear the song, I can still smell the Aquanet lingering in the air, mingled with the smell of beer, perfume, and the anticipation of another dumb night. 

"Baja Sessions," by Chris Isaak

Best known for his 1991 hit, “Wicked Game,” used in the creepy David Lynch film, “Wild At Heart,” Chris Isaak makes living through sad and tormented personal relationships sexy and hip. Don’t believe me? Check out his second best-known sort-of hit, “Baby Did A Bad, Bad Thing,” used in the trailer of another creepy film, Stanley Kubrick’s, “Eyes Wide Shut.” See what I mean? In Isaak’s Elvis Presley-fueled, early-rock world, heartbreak is a strangely familiar presence…and it’s also just kind of strange: always lurking in grim shadows down dark, murky motel hallways. Isaak’s mournful croon echoes Orbison perfectly, as his grumble is as simpatico as his falsetto.

But as cool as he is, picking any one Chris Isaak album to highlight for a “Must Hear” blog is a difficult and somewhat arbitrary task. I mean, while universally hailed by critics, Isaak’s albums are sometimes described as being interchangeable, with no one album standing out as a “new direction” or finding Isaak taking a on different approach or style. And that’s what I love about this rockabilly acolyte. With Isaak, there will likely never be an experimental period; there will never be a “Justin record;” there will only be straight-ahead, but suffering and romanticized rock-and-roll music. Even Isaak’s 2004 holiday offering, Christmas, doesn’t veer from this well-honed approach.

But it’s the ongoing artist – audience dilemma, isn’t it? The artist wants to grow and evolve, not getting mucked into routine or repeating themselves, and the audience wants to hear what they like, what’s familiar. And either perspective is completely defensible. Case in point for the artist’s side: Radiohead constantly evolves and reinvents its sound, pushing into new and uncharted sonic territory with each new release: and they do so exquisitely. Case in point for the fan’s side: Sade puts out essentially the same album every four to five years, adding a few sonic embellishments du jour, and the fans scramble back for more. Some artists adapt well with change (i.e., Paul Simon, Green Day, and Madonna, who has famously predicted the “next big thing” with startling accuracy), but some attempts to adapt with the changing musical tides quickly fall apart (e.g., Carpenters, Chicago, and the once great Stevie Wonder, who spiraled into synthesizer hell with early-80’s drivel like “Part-Time Lover” and “I Just Called To Say I Love You”).

But if Chris Isaak has one album that stands out among the excellent bunch, it’s his fresh and uncluttered Baja Sessions. Inspired by time in the beautiful, breezy, Baja, Mexico, the album highlights Isaak’s lighter musical side. What stands out about Baja Sessions is the laid-back approach that permeates this alluring effort. It’s as if he and the band are lounging in their beach chairs and hammocks, bare feet dangling over the side, playing their favorite bummed-out love songs, and somebody accidently pressed “record” on the reel-to-reel. In fact, Baja Sessions is one of the most relaxed albums I’ve ever heard, covering songs from his beloved pre-rock era and some of Isaac’s own songs, perfectly co-opted from previous albums.

The album’s opener, “Pretty Girls Don’t Cry,” is a whispered Orbison sound-alike, and sets the breezy pre-rock pace of the album. Two outstanding covers follow shortly after, Roy Orbison’s classic, “Only The Lonely,” and Gene Autry’s 1939 hit, “South Of The Border (Down Mexico Way),” which sounds like it was written with Isaak in mind. Baja Sessions also returns to stunning originals from Isaak’s previous albums, most notably, “Wrong To Love You,” from Heart Shaped World, and the lovely, “Two Hearts,” from San Francisco Days. The Baja versions are stripped down and chilled, and the fresh take on these familiar tunes offers a significantly original vision without watering down the songs’ vitality. Hearing Isaak cover his own material reminds me why he is such a resilient artist: he doesn’t rely on hits to deliver his work; he never has. Isaak focuses solely on creating enduring, classic pre-rock and roll that transcends trends and top 40 radio.