A few days ago, a song called “Ariel” popped up on for me some randomized Spotify playlist. It was by an artist I wasn’t familiar with, Dean Friedman. Knowing nothing about this song, my initial assumption was that it was from the ’90s. It had a slightly camp vocal and the kind of specific, narrative humor that I’d associate with groups like Fountains of Wayne or even Nerf Herder. The album cover was no help either. Sure, this guy looks a bit like my dad in certain pictures from the ’70s, but he could just as easily be a hipster parody from anytime in the last 20 or so years. If there was one clue that this song was older, it was the lyrical reference to Channel 2 signing off the air.
It turns out that “Ariel” is from Friedman’s 1977 self-titled debut album. Having continued to enjoy the song after a few more listens, I decided to spin the whole thing. This is something I do a lot: hear a random good song, wonder if it’s just the tip of some amazing pop iceberg, listen to the full album, become very disappointed. But in this case, I wasn’t disappointed! I turns out that Dean Friedman is actually a really good album. Friedman is able to make the kind of direct, memorable connection with the listener that is the mark the of successful singer-songwriter. Even after one listen, musical and lyrical ideas from these songs stuck in my head and made me want to listen again.
“Ariel” is in fact the standout track. It was a minor hit, peaking at #26 on the Billboard Hot 100 in June 1977. It’s got a fantastic pop chorus comprised entirely of the name “Ariel” sung repeatedly with layers of soaring harmonies. The verses are where you get the humor, as Friedman tells how he falls in love with a beautiful stoner girl who he meets at the mall in Paramus, New Jersey. The joke that begins “I said hi” is an exemplar of comic delivery in song; he absolutely nails the punchline. There’s also a nice rock’n’ roll-style saxophone solo, not terribly different from something you might hear on a Springsteen record from the same era, but enjoyable and not too dated. All in all, a true lost classic of the type I always hope to discover.
The rest of Dean Friedman is not as overtly funny as “Ariel,” but there’s definitely a sardonic wit that underlies the whole thing. On “Company,” Friedman wonders if “maybe one day I’ll be a famous man with an L.A. tan/A million fans, and a catamaran floating movie stars.” The story of a mother’s suicide on “Song For My Mother” is really sad, but the last line has a dark and surprising humor to it. And “Solitaire” has some great lines too, particularly “If the lies don’t do it, then the honesty will.” The melodic fall of this phrase is great, and the combination of big piano, smart-aleck vocal style, and clever songwriting remind me strongly of Ben Folds.
Another theme running through the album is Friedman’s New Jersey upbringing. But unlike working-class hero Springsteen, Friedman gives us a much more suburban take, prefiguring Fountains of Wayne. There are the references to Paramus in “Ariel,” (the only time the word “Paramus” has occurred in a Top 40 hit, per Wikipedia), as well as callouts to apple cider and donuts, New York radio station WBAI, taking the train into the city, and more. While Friedman’s album predates my teenage years by more than two decades, there’s still a lot about its setting that feels familiar to me as a native of the New York City exurbs.
Friedman is also capable of real feeling, and the album’s other standout track, “The Letter,” shows off his philosophical side. It’s the story of a friend or lover who’s gone off to find herself, leaving those close to her to wonder about this journey of self-discovery. The song has a great arrangement, building from simple piano on the verse to swelling strings and a multi-tracked vocal on the chorus. It’s got a yearning feeling, heightened by lyrics like “Freckles still misses you/She always sleeps on the floor in your room” and a mournful trumpet solo. There’s also narrative complexity, as Friedman both romanticizes the journey and wonders if it’s all it’s cracked up to be.
If you need any further convincing to listen to this album, let me just tell you that I wrote this review after hearing most of these songs only two or three times. There are albums that I like well enough, but that I’ve heard a dozen times without being able to single out some of the tracks. Dean Friedman’s immediacy and originality of voice makes it compelling from the first listen, and at 35 minutes it’s tight and filler-free. The possibility of digging up gems like this is why I stay obsessed with pop.