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.

"Between The Lines," by Janis Ian

Janis Ian stumbled onto the scene in 1965 as a fourteen year-old wunderkind, writing and performing “Society’s Child,” a then scandalous song about a white schoolgirl falling in love with a black schoolboy. The song reached number 14 on the pop charts in spite of being banned by most radio stations across the country, with one radio station reportedly being burned down after a DJ dared play it. Janis Ian, who has had songs rendered by musicians as varied as Bette Midler, Amy Grant, and John Mellencamp, may be more known today from pop culture references than from her gorgeous, meticulous, and often controversial poetry songs. In 2004, a character in the teen comedy, Mean Girls, was named after Ian: an outcast, “Goth,” high school girl. I wondered if the kids even knew how hip was that name-check...

In fact, Ian’s number 3 hit from 1975 and the quintessential teen-angst song, “At Seventeen,” is from the album, Between The Lines, one of most heartbreaking and beautiful albums of that wacked-out and wonderful decade. And in the 1970’s when America was reeling from Vietnam, Watergate, and the disillusionment of the hippie generation, that’s saying a lot. In truth, the album feels like 1975, with its faded yellow-brown cover and somber tones that saunter into your ears and linger forever. But despite being a perfect reflection of that moment in time, the album still sounds fresh today, like it might have been recorded last winter.

Borrowing elements from folk, pop, rock, classical, and even Broadway, Between The Lines paints a diverse musical landscape filled with sketches of isolation, fury, and redemption (sorry kids, joy sold separately). The album boomerangs between world-weary wisdom and youthful naïveté, at times asserting a voice of independence and strength and at other moments quiet desperation. Ian opens the album with the quintessential pick-up line from the “Me Decade:” “Would you like to learn to sing?” the singer asks, “Would you like to sing my song? Would you like to learn to love me best of all?” Not asking much, right?

The album features one sorrowful rumination after another on lost love (“In The Winter”), failed dreams (“Bright Lights And Promises”), and heartbreaking regret (“Water Colors”). Yet, in Ian’s tortured world, heartbreak never sounded so engaging. Ian draws you in. In fact, as a listener, one feels compelled to participate and to even enjoy the misery; the songs are that amazing. In fact, Ian’s brilliant writing on this album reveals a knack for breathing life into tear-stained journal entries - turning them into pop music poetry. In fact, with the success of Between The Lines, Ian essentially handed-out careers to decades of artists after her (you’re welcome, Tori and Alanis).

But I’ve always wondered why Ian chose the title, Between The Lines. “Between the lines” usually refers to subtle word messages, dancing around the topic when you’re afraid to come right out and say what you mean. But there’s nothing passive about these lyrics; they grab you by the lapels, look you in the eye, and demand your rapt attention. In fact, Ian’s beautiful melodies and imaginative, sometimes startlingly honest songs illustrate how truly sublime pop music can be.

"A Song for You," by The Carpenters

Being a Carpenters fan in high school in 1985 was a lonely road. On the positive side, it felt cool, somehow...punk even, to be into this virtually unknown, very un-cool brother / sister act from over a decade before: Karen and Richard Carpenter. Nobody, and I mean nobody else in my school (maybe a few teachers...) knew about Carpenters. Conversely, it was impossible to really be a fan, because there was nobody who understood how very good they consistently were. Consistently good, at least, until 1974, when they stopped eating, lost their musical focus, and started chasing after pop culture trends du jour. In the late 1970’s, this meant silly TV specials with "guest stars," like Suzanne Somers, Captain & Tennille chasing, and even Star Wars “outer space” experiments – ridiculous. Gone were the brother and sister duo that made stunningly beautiful music at a time when the country most needed it (e.g., Vietnam, Kent State shooting, Altamont, etc.). Besides the Christmas album in 1978, Carpenters last grasp at relevance came with their 1975 album, Horizon. But critics never held Carpenters in high esteem, even when they were very good. In fact, in the seventies it was practically a requirement for rock journalists to publicly berate their music.

Time changes perspective, however, and Carpenters have received significant critical reassessment over the past decade. And the reason, put simply, is the music. In a 2008 Rolling Stone magazine list of “Greatest 100 Singers of All Time,” Elton John called Karen Carpenter "one of the greatest voices of our lifetime," and Madonna has said she is "completely influenced by her harmonic sensibility," whatever that means. The Rolling Stone entry continued, “Impossibly lush and almost shockingly intimate, Carpenter's performances were a new kind of torch singing, built on understatement and tiny details of inflection that made even the sappiest songs sound like she was staring directly into your eyes.” Carpenters’ influence extends to many, including Sonic Youth, The Cranberries, Belle & Sebastian, Sheryl Crow, French electronica maestros, AIR, and, yes, even Daft Punk, to name a few.

And between 1969 and 1973, the Carpenters released an album a year with virtually no missteps. Nestled in the middle of this creative peak was A Song For You in 1972. That album alone contained six of the duo’s 25 hit singles (e.g., “Top Of The World,” “Hurting Each Other,” It’s Going To Take Some Time,” etc.), including the Oscar-nominated, "Bless The Beasts And The Children," but the singles were only half the fun. A Song For You also holds some of the best musical moments the duo ever created. Specifically, the album kicks off on a high point with the oft-covered Leon Russell title track. Originally intended as a concept album of sorts, the Russell song is reprised to bookend the album, thats lyric, in hindsight, is simply heartbreaking. Another standout track, “Road Ode,” is a stark mediation on celebrity and life on the road (written on tour a year earlier by Carpenters band members after a concert at Southern Illinois University). The song hinted at the siblings’ disappointing personal lives and foreshadowed the tragedy ahead. The solitary throwaway track was the one lead vocal by Richard, “Piano Picker,” a cheerful ditty about being nerdy and learning to play the piano; it’s not terrible, just unnecessary.

But the crowning moment of this record for me is the single, “I Won’t Last A Day Without You.” In just under four minutes, it delivers the quintessential elements of a classic Carpenters record. Opening on a somber note, with a solitary piano and Karen’s milk chocolate voice, at once wistful and joyful, the song ends with the group’s trademark multi-layered vocal harmonies. So great the song, in fact, that it rose all the way to number 11 on the pop charts a full two years after the album’s release and after three subsequent single releases from the next album the following year (Now and Then). The album, and Carpenters, seemed unstoppable that year, and the American public just kept returning to this essential album for more. Some of us still do.