"#1 Record," by Big Star

Everyone from Tom Petty to REM to Teenage Fan Club to Matthew Sweet to Fleet Foxes and still others claim to have been influenced by Big Star’s brand of classic power pop, and their influence is certainly palpable via popular music that arrived in its wake, but paradoxically, their albums sold merely handfuls of copies upon release – literally. So unless the dozen or so fans who purchased their early-mid seventies albums went on to become the above-mentioned artists, someone’s fudging a bit on their hipper-than-thou claim on this legendary underground band.

But it’s a rock-n-roll cliché, isn’t it? Artists who should’ve been huge, but never quite make it past a cult following: musicians like Nick Drake, Josh Rouse, or bands like Love and Big Star are but a few. So why did Big Star not quite hit the big time? Insider sources cite lackluster promotion from their record company. Others indicate it was just bad timing. But apparently there were the few fringe, ultra-cool (or ultra-lucky) rock aficionados, who discovered the group and passed along bootleg LPs, 8-tracks, and cassettes to friends and family, keeping alive the music of this jingle-jangle, rocking band.

My first exposure to Big Star was actually in 1988, when I heard my first REM song, the top-ten hit, “Stand,” that bears the heavy aforementioned influence. REM’s “Stand” is a sunny pop song, with brimming, jingle-jangle guitar, and a vocal style taken straight from the Big Star playbook. “Stand” was an amiable, whimsical, nonsense song for a high school kid like me to sing (e.g., “If wishes were trees, the trees would be falling, listen to reason, reason is calling…”), and REM was my first rock concert (The “Green Tour,” with shout-outs, here, to my friend Rachel, who drove us to the University of Iowa for the show).

And even though I never heard Number One Record when it was recorded in the 1970s, I might as well have, because when I hear it today, it takes me back to that decade, or at least what I remember of it. Fresh out of their teens themselves, Big Star (named after a now-defunct supermarket chain) opted for songs that described overcoming familiar, tried-and-true, far-out teenage obstacles. Name the teen trepidation, and Big Star sings about it on Number One Record. You know, like the dumb adults “who tell you that they know…they'll zip you up and dress you down and stand you in a row.” Ugh! I hate when adults do that. My favorite angry, teen irritant moment on the album is the adolescent tirade, “Don’t Lie To Me.” A sentiment doesn’t get simpler than that. Or what about annoying dads, as described in the staggering, “Thirteen,” dads who need to be told to “get off my back” or need to be educated on “…what we said about 'Paint It Black’.”

Ah, the turmoil of teenage life. But there are plenty of songs for grown-ups, as well, including the joyous, “When My Baby’s Beside Me,” and the reflective, “My Life Is Right.” Songwriters, Chris Bell and Alex Chilton, wrote these songs at a time in rock music when it was en vogue for musicians to feature pseudo-religious lyrics in their songs and have hits with them. Artists as varied as The Doobie Brothers (“Jesus Is Just Alright”) and George Harrison (“My Sweet Lord”) were selling millions of copies of love songs to God, and in this same era, the soundtrack to the Broadway musical, Godspell, had a top 40 pop hit with, “Day By Day” (and remember, Jesus Christ, Superstar?”). Similarly on “Try Again,” Bell writes, “Lord I've been trying to be what I should, Lord I've been trying to do what I could, but each time it gets a little harder, I feel the pain, but I'll try again.” Religious or not, it’s “little engine that could” message resonates. The most brilliant, spiritual moment of the album, however, is the ethereal hymn of assurance, “Watch The Sunrise.” It’s understated and sincere guitar hook is met with hopeful lyrics and one of the most exquisite vocal harmonies in rock-and-roll.

And while I was not one of the groovy few who heard it on release, Number One Record resides on my current list of the “Ten Greatest Rock Albums Of All Time.” And thanks to That 70’s Show, almost everybody's familiar with the Cheap Trick version of Big Star’s “In The Street,” that served as the show’s theme for eight hilarious seasons. The producers of the show said that the song was, for them, the epitome of the sprawling, stressed-out, uninhibited spirit of the Seventies. And I have to admit, it’s hard not to look for my packed-away 1970's lava lamp to plug in when I listen to this enduring album.

"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.

"Stardust," by Willie Nelson

Willie Nelson spent the 1960’s writing hits for other country superstars, including two of his best known songs in the same year, 1961: “Hello Walls,” a number one hit for Faron Young, and “Crazy,” a top ten hit for Patsy Cline. Yet, solo success was elusive. But finally in 1975, derailed and tired of trying to fit the trends du jour, Willie Nelson decided to just be himself: he stopped cutting his hair, he exchanged his cowboy boots for running shoes, and he released the semi-autobiographic album, Red-Headed Stranger. The world’s love affair with everything Willie hasn’t stopped since. So many hits from so many albums followed: “Blue Eyes Cryin’ In The Rain,” “Good Hearted Woman,” “On The Road Again,” “Always On My Mind,” etc., but it’s 1978’s out-of-nowhere album, Stardust, that remains the perennial fan favorite.

Stardust is an album of pop-standards, and Nelson approached this concept well before doing so became a music business inevitability. Today, it’s practically a right-of-passage for middle-aged singers past their “sell by” date to record a series of albums covering “The Great American Songbook.” This proliferation of nostalgia has a long history: Carly Simon (1981’s Torch), Linda Rondstadt (1984’s What’s New?), and Sinead O’Connor (1992’s Am I Not Your Girl?). More recently, Rod Stewart and Barry Manilow have both made late careers of repackaging pop memories, and in spite of its greatness, Willie Nelson’s Stardust is, arguably, to blame.

But here’s how it happened: in the wake of his mid-70’s country crossover success, Nelson felt moved to pay tribute to the songs that inspired his own work. His record company understandably resisted the idea, as their star had finally found a commercially viable country niche, so why mess with a winning blueprint? But Nelson prevailed, choosing homage over formula, and Stardust went on to become one of the most successful country albums of all time, selling millions of copies and spending a decade on the charts.

And what’s so great about Stardust is its sheer testament to music as a shared language – his interpretations defy categorization. They’re not country, but they’re not pop, either. On Stardust, they’re simply Willie Nelson songs. In fact, when technology allowed musicians to easily “sample” other artist’s work in the early 90’s, it was controversial. But I never understood the contention. Musicians had been referencing the past from the beginning of recorded song. You can’t listen to a Simon and Garfunkel album, for example, without hearing echoes of the Everly Brothers, and what rock album released post 1969 doesn’t illustrate clear references to the Beatles? Hasn’t “new” music always been informed by what’s come before? Nelson’s Stardust illustrates this time-honored tradition of musicians inspiring musicians…and we listeners reap the benefits.

The Stardust album opens with a mystery: “Sometimes I wonder why I spend the lonely nights dreaming of a song.” And Nelson spends the rest of the album answering this question: for the love of the music. With Stardust, Nelson blends country, jazz, and pop into an unidentifiable new sound never heard before or since. Always just ahead or just behind the beat, Nelson’s vocal makes one thing clear, while the songs may be familiar, it’s Willie’s house we’re in. And the album sequencing is perfect; creating a patchwork mood for the album that never lingers on one emotion for long. Stardust bounces from the quiet contemplation of “September Song” to the giddy skip-and-step of “Sunny Side Of The Street” and then back again.

In space, stardust is a tiny granule of terrestrial matter that existed before the earth was formed: a dust grain that condensed from cooling gases of prehistoric stars. Essentially, stardust is an artifact of what came before, but is now gone. And the songs Nelson picked for this album seem to follow this motif, longing for what is no more: longing for home (“Georgia On My Mind,” “Moonlight In Vermont”), longing for connection (“All Of Me,”), or longing for lost love (“Unchained Melody,” “September Song,” and of course, the title track).

And the longing is what keeps me coming back to Stardust over thirty years later. In fact, this album regularly finds its way on my playlist during quiet weekend afternoons with my partner, when I’m feeling nostalgic about the farm, or when I’m thinking of those I’ve loved and lost along the way. The songs somehow bring everything and everyone back as if they'd never been gone, or as Nelson sings, “the melody haunts my reverie, and I am once again with you.”

"In Rainbows," by Radiohead

Having fulfilled their major label contract, Radiohead quietly released the revolutionary album, In Rainbows, through their website in October 2007, asking fans or the curious to simply pay whatever they felt the album was worth. While no exact figures have been released by the band, insiders indicate approximately 1,000,000 downloads of In Rainbows occurred in the next two and a half months, of which 1/3 of the customers paid nothing for the album. That said, band profits from sales of the online “pay what you will” approach reportedly surpassed those of the band’s last studio album, 2003’s Hail To The Thief. For established artists, that’s epoch-making. For the Music Industry, that’s reason to worry. In Rainbows was released to retailers in January of 2008 and debuted at #1 on the Billboard charts, going on to sell 3 million copies worldwide in CD format. But the story behind the album’s release isn’t even the best part.

The “music” on In Rainbows bubbles just below the jingle-jangle surface of rim shots, metallic clicks, computer blips and whirs, and scratches. The album is filled with jarring, strange, and unexpected noises that somehow work as music, and stunningly so. On “15 Step,” for example, a children’s chorus was brought in to clap along with the track, but it didn’t feel right, so the band opted instead to record the children shouting. Curiously, their triumphant “yay!” is my favorite part of the song. “How come I end up where I started? How come I end up where I went wrong?” Yorke asks on the opening track. “I won’t take my eyes off the ball again. First you reel me out, and then you cut the string.” Is it an angry confrontation? Self-motivation? Or is it both? Add to that Yorke’s vocal style, having been described by one reviewer as “one of the best singers in the music world who can’t actually sing.” At times jarring and at times gentle, Yorke’s singing seeps into your head and lingers.

Every time I listen to In Rainbows, my favorite song changes: the album opener, “15 Step,” is definitely my favorite song,” and then “Nude” begins, and I change my mind (again), and then “Weird Fishes” and then “All I Need” take their turns at the mantle, and I’m confounded to pick a favorite track. “Don’t get any big ideas…they’re not gonna happen,” Yorke sings on “Nude,” a song that warns the listener that the people, feelings, and objects that define our lives ultimately turn up missing: time, love, life, joy…all fleeting. Once you find it, once you feel it, it’s gone forever. Ultimately, what remains and what we share is human frailty and raw vulnerability, open and exposed. Kinda makes the Commandment to “love thy neighbor as thyself” much more feasible, no?

The songs on In Rainbows are staggering. The album will no doubt go down as one of the very best of the new Millennium. And while I’m not always sure what the lyrics mean (in fact, they imply different meanings depending on my mood), I find the album completely comforting, revelatory, and elevating, every time I hear it. It's as if Yorke has found the Rosetta Stone for human solace and has translated these ten songs to show us the way. After hearing In Rainbows, can world peace be all that far away?

"Matt's Mood," by Matt Bianco

“Matt Bianco” was a trio, formed in 1983 with Danny White, Mark Reilly, and prominent vocals from Polish chanteuse Basia Trzetrzelewska. The name of the group is fabricated; a fictional secret agent, which came from the group’s love of TV and film spy themes. Their music is European pop, strongly influenced by samba and jazz. The band’s debut, Whose Side Are You On? scored a significant hit throughout Europe, but it’s quirky synthesizers and splintered English prevented it from making a dent in the U.S. market, to wit: “The waiter crept away with…the micro dot.” Um...huh?

Fun fact: pulling an unprecedented hat trick for a brand new band, Matt Bianco’s debut featured saxophone work from the legendary Ronnie Ross (listen to Lou Reed’s “Walk On The Wild Side,” on which he played tenor saxophone, and you’ll understand the moniker).

The original Matt Bianco lineup parted ways in 1984, with Trzetrzelewska and White joining forces to begin work on their own music, of which Basia has said, “we didn’t even expect to get a record deal let alone a hit.” True to her suspicion, the pair’s first release (as “Basia”) was almost not released in the U.S.; their record company believed it “too European.” Unexpectedly, however, several American radio stations added the mid-tempo single, “Time and Tide,” to top-40 playlists, and the song and album became a rare jazz-pop crossover hit. In fact, Basia enjoyed significant success in America in the late 80’s, where both of the duo’s albums, Time and Tide and London, Warsaw, New York reached platinum sales.

Breakneck touring followed, which quickly took a toll on the duo, causing Basia and Danny to take a few years to regroup. The pair released their third album, The Sweetest Illusion, in 1994. But by that time, Nirvana and Seattle grunge ruled the airwaves, leaving little room for the duo’s jazzy pop stylings. The album failed to find an audience, unfairly disappearing within weeks of release. Around that same time, Basia suffered the end of a long personal relationship and the death of her mother, which kept her out of the limelight for the next decade. Of that period, the usually cheerful songstress has said, “I just didn’t feel like singing anymore.”

But in 2003, White and Reilly started writing together again and eventually coaxed Basia back into the studio for what became a comeback of the original Matt Bianco. The result was 2004’s dazzling, Matt’s Mood, which brought back the band’s familiar Latin, jazz, and samba influences, but with even more spark than before: not only a triumphant return to form, but vastly improved with time and experience. The album’s opening song, “Ordinary Day,” bows gratefully to any number of João Gilberto compositions, sporting a snappy, samba melody with a familiar sunny lyric from Basia expounding upon the virtues of mundane, day-to-day life when with the one you love.

Basia trades lead vocals throughout the album with Mark Reilly no more effectively, perhaps, then on “Say The Words.” Strongly referencing French folk music, the maudlin song describes the moment when two people realize their relationship is over, but neither has anywhere to go from there. The song “Ronnie’s Samba” is a tribute to their mentor, the aforementioned Ronnie Ross. White found clips of Ross’ playing from their early 80’s sessions and flawlessly incorporated them into three songs on the album, and Ross’ saxophone-from-beyond on “Ronnie’s Samba” truly enriches this exuberant tribute.

Reilly handles lead vocals on “Wrong Side of the Street,” and Basia contributes smooth and sensual “da-ba-da’s” as the chorus, moving into a sultry Polish end verse, which loosely translates: “Don’t be scared, try once more. You stumble; you’re unlucky again. Maybe you don’t stand a chance. Who knows, but remember that I am here for bad and good. You’re not alone.” Um…ok, but who cares what it means? It sounds real pretty when sung in Basia’s native language. Relevant side note: Basia is sometimes trounced for what some critics believe to be a penchant for trite and overly innocent, verging-on-naïve lyrics. One reviewer suspected that she composes in Polish and translates to English, resulting in the demure, “Oh my!” flavor sometimes found in her work. While I concede the point, it still doesn’t stop me from loving this extraordinary album.

Vying for best song on Matt’s Mood is “La Luna,” which juxtaposes cheerful Latin-flavored samba with what is arguably Basia’s most lugubrious lyric. “Move on. I try to, but I’m lost without you.” Basia sings of her mother’s passing. “All around the Universe, you’re looking down; I know you’re watching over me…is it a mild case of madness?” she asks, referencing centuries-old folklore and theory about the terrestrial effects of the moon (i.e. “the lunar effect,” which postulates a correlation between the Earth’s lunar cycle and mental illness, or “madness”). But to me, “La Luna” is heartbreaking - a song written by a grown daughter who just misses her Mom.

Will Matt’s Mood ever be included in any “Top 100 album” lists? Probably not. So why am I recommending this album? First and foremost, it’s an album that overflows joy, even in its quietest moments. There’s a lot to love about that. Secondly, I’ve never heard an album that accommodates almost any occasion like Matt’s Mood: pick an activity, and this album will supply the perfect background. In fact, I’ve used this album as the soundtrack for a summer lawn party, as background music for a reception, when making dinner with my wife, and as a driving companion on long road trips. I’ve never skipped a track, and you won’t either.

Post Script: This post comes out a few short weeks before Basia’s 2009 return with It's That Girl Again. Who knows, maybe a future entry…

"Subtítulo," by Josh Rouse

Josh Rouse is just one theme song in the right "date movie," or just one fluke hit record away from being the biggest pop star on the planet. He’s the music world’s best-kept secret, and it was only coincidental that I stumbled upon his music almost a decade ago. I first heard of Josh Rouse in a radio interview in 2000 to promote his (then) new album, Home. On the strength of the few songs they sampled during the interview, I picked up the CD and have been a Rouse fan ever since.

Rouse's songs sound like they were lifted from the smooth, mellow-gold, singer-songwriter era of the early 70’s. In fact, Rouse’s music has always struck me as au fait with some of the best “un-hip” artists from that era: America, Neil Diamond, Bread, Don McClean, etc., and this hunch was confirmed by his 2003 album, 1972, in which he paid tribute to both his birth-year and that era of popular music. Further validating my hunch was Rouse’s appearance in the 2004 Bread tribute CD, “Friends and Lovers,” in which he performed “It Don’t Matter To Me,” the band’s top ten hit from 1970.

Like 1972, Rouse’s albums are almost always thematic, mostly finding him toiling away at love from various angles, most of them melancholic: loss of love (Dressed Up Like Nebraska), anxiety from love (Home), loneliness in love (Under Cold Blue Stars), etc. Subtítulo (Spanish for “subtitle”), however, is a significant departure for Rouse. Recorded in Puerto de Santa Maria, Spain shortly after ending his marriage, the album places Rouse in a completely new geographic environment: a sun-dried, balmy, beachfront town in southern Europe. From halfway across the world and even further removed from his former life, Rouse had begun a new relationship and seemed to be viewing love from the benevolent side for the first time on record.

For the Rouse fan, it was almost jarring to hear him in this breezy new musical environment, juxtaposing images of his newly adopted hometown with the joys of new romance. This isn’t the Josh Rouse from the past decade. Think Nick Drake covering the Jackson 5’s “ABC:” joyous, bewildering, and completely unexpected. The album opens with “Quiet Town,” a sweet, hum-along that revels in the charms of small town life. Still, even on this upbeat track, Rouse’s dark side is never far from the shimmery surface as he sings, “Ooh, sometimes I miss the show, I loved a long time ago…” At his cheeriest, Rouse seems unable to completely immerse himself in newfound bliss.

“Summertime” is a faded summer vacation Polaroid from junior high, sitting by the pool, sipping iced-tea, and listening to Purple Rain without a care. But, as noted earlier, Rouse must be Rouse, and wistfulness can’t help but creep in: “And the feeling doesn’t last that long, before you know it it’s up and gone…the things we do.” The album also features sugar-sweet guest vocals from Paz Suay, Rouse’s girlfriend, on the call-and-response ditty, “The Man Who Doesn’t Know How To Smile.” Suay’s phrasing is reminiscent of Astrud Gilberto (“Girl From Ipanema”), and her voice serves a perfect counterpoint to Rouse’s. The quietest moment on the album, however, is the effortless, “Wonderful,” an intimate charmer that never quite rises above a whisper. Profound? Nah. Clumsy? Maybe. Truthful? Absolutely.

While a critic’s darling throughout his entire indie career, some reviewers took a left turn for this album, slamming Subtítulo as slight, pithy, and lighter than air, claiming that with his move to Spain Rouse had lost focus. But the subtlety of the album is precisely where Subtítulo gathers its strength, because sometimes in art, as with life, the most powerful sentiments are communicated with a whisper. And Subtítulo’s sentiment speaks to the sheer joy of falling in love. It’s about how when you’re in love, food tastes just a little better, colors shine just a little brighter, and life moves along just a little easier. So the guy who specialized in beautiful music about broken hearts found new romance and made an album of silly love songs…and what’s wrong with that?

"Astral Weeks," by Van Morrison

In April of 1993 I was finishing my senior year of college, and about that time I went for my once-a-semester haircut. While waiting my turn at the barbershop, I thumbed through the two year-old magazines stacked under each chair and found an interview with Tanita Tikiram, who had just released her third album…two years earlier. The album was, Everybody’s Angel, and I owned a copy, so I read more. The interviewer asked Tikiram about the Van Morrison influence on the album, and she replied by simply saying, “I’m haunted by Van Morrison.” Haunted by Van Morrison? Isn’t that the guy who sang ‘Brown Eyed Girl? Haunted by that guy?

And for the next few weeks Van Morrison kept popping up in my life. First, I stumbled upon a copy of Astral Weeks in the used CD bin at “Record Revolution,” DeKalb’s best record store. Next, I happened to see a magazine ad for the album’s 25^th anniversary. And more than I should have, I heard Van Morrison songs, “Brown Eyed Girl,” “Gloria,” and “Domino” on the radio that week. Maybe it was a sign, or maybe curiosity just got the best of me, but whatever the reason, I went back to “Record Revolution” and bought the used copy of the CD: a graduation present for myself.

Returning to my half-packed dorm room that day, I popped-in the CD and continued to pack for home. I filled cardboard boxes with four years of college: pictures, notes from friends, graded papers, textbooks I couldn't sell back, concert ticket stubs, etc. Senior year had been disappointing, and even though I was sad to say goodbye to friends and teachers, I was glad it was finally over. I was looking forward to the next phase of life. And Astral Weeks sounded exactly like I felt at that time. Melancholy, excited, searching, and completely hopeful. Astral Weeks is filled with mini meditations, starting with the title song. “To be born again, to be born again…” Ending a chapter and beginning a new one - I could relate.

A celestial mixture of folk, blues, jazz, and classical, Astral’s delicate, remote, and visionary meditations sing about life, love, and growing up. Astral Weeks is stunning. Van Morrison’s first solo effort, the album was recorded in about three days and much of it improvised, with the musicians being instructed to just “play what they felt.” Those musicians “felt” a lifetime over those three days, and Astral Weeks stands as the perfect example of the complete album as artistic statement. There were no hit singles on this album. Nothing stands out or is catchy like that, but it doesn’t matter, because every song is stronger when heard in context with the others.

It’s only been 15 years since I first heard Astral Weeks; I was 21 at the time. But strangely, I don’t remember a time without those songs. It’s as if the album has always been a part of my life. Hearing that music makes me feel nostalgic for childhood, which happened well before “Cypress Avenue” or “Beside You” were a part of my psyche. I guess you could say I’m, well, haunted by Van Morrison.