Month: April 2018

Two songs about science and hope

Posted on by kristen
The Trylon and Perisphere at the 1939 New York World's Fair.
The Trylon and Perisphere at the 1939 New York World’s Fair.

There are not that many pop songs about science, so I find it remarkable that two of my favorites address the topic in such a similar way. Donald Fagen’s “I.G.Y.” and Aimee Mann’s “Fifty Years After the Fair” talk about science not from a technical perspective, but from a societal one. They’re about science as a proxy for hope and progress, science as a vision of a better future. And they’re about what happens when that vision breaks down.

Fagen’s song title refers to the International Geophysical Year, a real series of scientific collaborations that took place from 1957-58. It’s perfectly at home on The Nightfly, a loose concept album that describes the world from the perspective of a boy growing up in New York City during the 1950s. “I.G.Y.” opens with otherworldly synths, followed by a disco beat and an ascending sax riff. It sounds clean and modern, the kind of thing you might hear in the waiting room of a spaceship. The sonic atmosphere supports the song’s conceit, a vivid, 1950s imagining of the kind of future that will be made possible by the miracle of science. Fagen paints this picture so well, offering up a world of “graphite and glitter,” a “wheel in space,” and “Spandex jackets, one for everyone.” There’s an outlandish beauty to these images, and it’s possible to be seduced by them sincerely, in the way that young Fagen presumably would have been.

Of course there’s a layer of irony too, all the more subtle because “I.G.Y.” makes no reference to it all. The incongruity comes from the listener’s own knowledge that the world portrayed in this song is not our present reality. While “I.G.Y” estimates that “By ’76, we’ll be A-OK,” the song was released in 1982, thereby eliminating any hope that these goals would be met. The irony is reinforced by the cheesily idealistic refrain “What a beautiful world this will be/What a glorious time to be free,” which evokes clueless optimism and post-war patriotism. What modern listener would ever think, let alone say such things out loud?

Using a similar approach but with more layers, Mann’s “Fifty Years After the Fair” addresses another iconic scientific and cultural event, the 1939 New York World’s Fair. With this song, Mann first reflects on the hope of a generation who created exhibits like “Tomorrow Town” and dreamt of technicolor dishwashers and robot dogs.1 She celebrates the spectacle of the fair, with its famous buildings, the Trylon and Perisphere: “That for me was the finest of scenes/The perfect world across the River in Queens.” Reflecting this imagery, “Fifty Years” features a bright melody and a ringing, climbing 12-string guitar riff courtesy of Roger McGuinn.

But, as in most of Mann’s songs, these lovely sounds soon give way to a darker set of lyrics. Unlike “I.G.Y.,” “Fifty Years” explicitly jumps between past and future perspectives. Mann sings, “But it does no good to compare/‘Cause nothing ever measures up.” And what could measure up to a generation who “conceived of a future with no hope in sight”? She’s mourning not necessarily a failure of execution (we do have robot dogs after all), but the death of a worldview. It’s not only that this generation had such high hopes, it’s that they had these hopes despite living through the Great Depression and seeing the start of a second World War. Rather than romanticizing the past, Mann just feels a bitter disappointment: “It hurts to even think of those days/The damage we do by the hopes that we raise.”

“I.G.Y.” and “Fifty Years After the Fair” both use real historical scientific events to contrast the hope of the early 20th Century with modern-day disappointment. Fagen’s song is ironic, but it can’t help but get a little caught up in its own fantasies, perhaps reminding us that there is still value to imagining that we could one day be eternally free and eternally young. We might not create a Utopia, but if we achieve even some of our goals, it’s a small victory. Mann’s disillusionment is much harsher. Should we never have hope, because we will only do too much damage when our dreams fail to deliver? I don’t believe that as a rule, but this song plays to the part of me that is at times depressed and discouraged.

Like most things in life, hope is not binary. We can feel its pull even as we realize that it’s preposterous or misplaced or overambitious. “I.G.Y.” and “Fifty Years” fall somewhere on that continuum between hope and despair — and never in the same place each time I hear them. They illustrate the messy mix of hope, longing, nostalgia, excitement, and sadness that’s always present in the world in fluid proportions.

A Beginner’s Guide to Sparks

Posted on by kristen

Ron and Russell Mael of SparksWhen a band has released 23 albums since 1971, where do you start? That question is especially pertinent when the band is Sparks, a cult duo known for singing about 75 percent of their material in a camp operatic style, composing bizarre narratives about topics like blackmail and funeral speeches, and cramming improbable numbers of notes and words in every hyper-melodic line. But fear not because, despite existing outside of any dominant musical precedent of the last 50 years, Sparks are still indisputably pop and a lot of fun.

I’ve been listening to a ton of Sparks lately, so I decided to pull together a very short list of the songs I like the most, spanning their entire career. I’ve by no means heard every Sparks song, and I haven’t even listened to most of their albums all the way through. But honestly, with so many songs, Sparks can be a little uneven, and they’re a band best heard by cherry-picking the best bits across the years. If you know nothing about Sparks and listen to these songs, you should walk away with a decent sense of what the band is about and whether you might like them.

“This Town Ain’t Big Enough for Both of Us” (1974)

If you only listen to one Sparks song, this should be it. It’s one of their best and most well-known, typifying what their classic period was all about. Keyboardist and main songwriter Ron Mael delivers an arc that starts slow and ponderous, but quickly builds to a frantic pace, the aural equivalent of when the cartoon Roadrunner’s legs start going so fast they become a circular blur. Brother Russell’s falsetto is so indefinable that my husband had to ask me if the singer was a man or a woman. Lyrically, Sparks’ main obsession tends to be sexual politics, and this track fits that mold, albeit obliquely, presumably caricaturing some kind of male preening behavior. “This Town” comes from the album Kimono My House, probably Sparks’ best album and one that’s worth a full listen. Lots of famous people love this album, including Morrissey, and it’s widely accepted that Sparks basically created the prototype for Queen’s sound with their early work.

“High C” (1971)

Sparks’ debut album is not that consistently Sparks-like, but “High C,” one of my favorites, was an early step toward their signature sound. Despite being a story about seducing an opera singer on the decline, it actually doesn’t use Russell’s higher register, opting instead for a kind of sleazy, music hall tone. I love the way Russell unnecessarily rolls his Rs and pronounces “Vienna” as “Vie-enna,” resulting an a kind of fake, dramatized accent. Pretty much every line is a hook, and the best of them all is when the song slips into the jauntiest little “whoo-hoo-hoo” that I’ve ever heard. Seriously, if I could whistle, I’d whistle that part non-stop until my friends and family decided to band together and murder me.

“Over the Summer” (1976)

After Kimono My House, Sparks slipped into a short down period that was less critically acclaimed. I don’t have a real solid grasp on this era, but I know there’s at least one great song: “Over the Summer” from the 1978’s ironically-titled Introducing Sparks. A Beach Boys pastiche, it’s not actually that representative of Sparks, and the lyrics — celebrating a mousy girl’s transformation into a bombshell — represent the bands occasional turns toward the sophomoric. But melody conquers all, as do Russell’s captivatingly odd vocals. “July, you were the plainest of Janes” stands out as the best line to me, with its suitably weird pronunciation of “Jew-lye.”

“When Do I Get to Sing ‘My Way?’” (1994)

Sparks restored their reputation in the late ‘70s when they teamed up with Giorgio Moroder on No. 1 in Heaven and a few other albums. Their embrace of an electronic, danceable, disco sound was surprisingly successful. They continued in this vein for quite a while, up through 1994’s Gratuitous Sax and Senseless Violins, which features the excellent “When Do I Get to Sing ‘My Way?’” What I like about this song is that it’s lightly mocking of its subject, who dreams of making it big with his rendition of the titular song, but at the same time it still works as a ballad itself. When Russell sings, “When do I get to sing ‘My Way?” / When do I get to feel like Sinatra felt?” I feel the hunger and longing of this character more than I want to laugh at him. It might be something of a first for Sparks, and they continue to build on that shift in later years. The Sinatra/Sid Vicious dichotomy is brilliant as well. It seems so obvious, but did you think of it?

“Dick Around” (2006)

Jumping forward to the 2000s, Sparks shapeshifted once again to a more symphonic sound. To my entirely untrained ear, “Dick Around” is one of the more credible attempts to combine rock and classical music. Rather than the typical verse-chorus of a pop song, it flows through a series of movements that mirror the ambitious narrator’s moods as he breaks up with his girlfriend and descends into a life of slackerdom. Ominous, jaunty, angry, sad, triumphant — a full range of emotions is on display. The balance of classical instruments with some borderline heavy metal guitar is particularly effective during the angry sections. The experimental nature of the composition doesn’t mean a lack of hooks either.

“Edith Piaf Said it Better Than Me” (2017)

Possibly the most astounding thing about Sparks’ 2017 LP Hippopotamus is the fact that, at the time of its release, Ron Mael was 72 and Russell Mael 69, thus proving that one can make a great pop record at any age. It helps that Sparks’ music is so unusual that they never sound like they’re trying to recapture a bygone era or cash in on trends that aren’t rightly theirs. The writing here reaches a kind of literary height, with many of the songs telling full, subtle stories in a relatively economical space. Another benefit of age is that we get lots of interesting reflections about topics like decline, regret, and death — elements of the human experience that are generally underrepresented in pop music. “Edith Piaf Said It Better Than Me” is a perfect example, telling the story of man who has lived a boring, risk-free life. He repurposes Piaf’s line “Je ne regrette rien,” regretting nothing in a literal sense, because he’s never done anything to regret. There’s some great one-liners in here too, like “There’s no poem, just prose” and “Few amours, feu or not.” Musically, the record is a synthesis of previous Sparks sounds — some opera, some classical, some rock, some pop — but the pace has become a bit more reflective and the emotions more real.

Further listening

I have a personal Spotify playlist of my favorite Sparks tracks, which includes all of the songs above.

Sparks have an official “Essential Sparks” playlist on Spotify that features 101 songs and is six hours long. I find this works well for shuffling and discovering new songs.

Sparks appeared on Brian Turner’s show on WFMU in October 2017. They played live and Brian played a good array of Sparks tracks, as well as some crazy vintage commercials.

Sounds Delightful #11: If I wore your shades could I share your point of view?

Posted on by kristen

Another mix of melodic, ready-to-enjoy pop music. This month’s mix does have a couple political songs, but not ones that get too preachy. There’s also a good variety including bubblegum, classic rock, show tunes, and the usual pure pop.

Listen on Spotify

The Orion Experience — “Emerald Eyes” (2011)

Musically, the Orion Experience embrace the immediate pop giddiness of 1970s bubblegum. On one hand, they’re quite clever with their lyrical updates, which project a kind of urban, hipster feel. On the other, I can easily imagine that if someone hears this song in 40 years time, they’ll say, “Getting a guy’s name tattooed on your wrist? That’s so 2010s.”

Paul Kelly — “Before Too Long” (1986)

This Aussie gem is power pop perfection in the interplay between guitar and piano, the strong melody, and the harmonizing with the female vocalist near the end. And how about that middle eight? It’s not showy, but it does everything that a good middle eight should. It ups the emotional ante a bit and the sproingy guitar flourishes add a not unpleasing discordant touch.

Bleachers — “Alfie’s Song” (2018)

I’ve kept an eye on Bleachers, mainly because of Jack Antonoff’s involvement with the dearly departed fun.. And while they’ve had a few good songs, there’s an almost aggressive quality to their ’80s tribute-ness that I find off-putting — too many huge drums and shouty, staccato vocals. But “Alfie’s Song” is something different. It’s still retro, but with a wider and better range of influences. There’s a Paul Simon calypso quality, as well as a admirably restrained Clarance Clemmons-style sax. As usual, the mode is triumphant, but the prettier instrumentation and wash of “ahh-ahh-ahh” backing vocals tone it all down a bit. More of this, please!

Bob Seger — “Still the Same” (1978)

Here’s this month’s obligatory classic rock song that people will scoff at, yet I will insist is good if you give it a chance. The hook is simple, but unforgettable. And Seger’s portrait of an unrepentant gambler is just vague enough that nearly everyone can read someone they know into the story. I’ve always particularly liked the “only bluff you couldn’t fake” line, as it implies some kind of vulnerability to this otherwise cold-blooded character. Shout out to the ladies singing back-up vocals on this: Venetta Fields, Clydie King, and Sherlie Matthews. They were some of the best in the business at that time.

The Killers — “Run for Cover” (2018)

I always forget whether The Killers are British or American, but this Springsteen pastiche leaves no doubt. It’s a big, hooky, sing-along anthem — The Killers’ bread and butter. There’s some political stuff in there, including the reference to “fake news” and the line “Are your excuses any better than your senator’s?” But I get the sense that the song is more personal, perhaps only hinting that that bad behavior of politicians has begun to seep into our own relationships.

Kirsty MacColl — “Free World”

Kirsty MacColl’s “Free World” is so perfectly melodic, beautifully sung, and lyrically sharp that it actually makes me like a political song. It helps that “Free World” doesn’t feel like a lecture, but rather an impressionistic dystopia brought about by credit cards and free trade. The high note on “I wouldn’t tell you/if I didn’t care” is gorgeous, as is the way she lets it linger even as the next chorus kicks back in. That’s Johnny Marr on guitar too.

Frank Turner — “1933” (2018)

Again, political songs work best when they’re not lecturing you. Frank Turner avoids this on “1933” by mixing anger with a kind of throwing up of hands. What is there to do but hit the bar? I like the bit about the Greatest Generation being pissed at recent events, and I’ve often had a similar thought myself — though I suspect that’s mainly wishful thinking. If nothing else, the anger gives Frank something to get riled up about, a good turn around from his slightly boring previous album. Compositionally he’s spot on as always, with hooks that would make Brittney Spears proud, dressed down in punk camouflage.

Mike D’Abo — “King Herod’s Song (Try It and See)”

This is such a weird song to like. Despite not being a practicing Catholic for many years, I feel somehow disrespectful enjoying this musical interpretation of Herod mocking Jesus. Yet, I’ve been listening to it all the time lately, along with other highlights from the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack. Translating Herod into the modern archetype of a sleazy, overly-tanned rich guy who treats Jesus like a performing seal is just one example of why the whole Superstar thing works. The vaudeville idiom hammers home the sideshow vibe, in addition to being super catchy. (By the way, I’ve been working on this mix for a while, and it’s a total coincidence that I finished it on Easter. I will be DVRing the live Superstar tonight to see how Alice Cooper does with this one.)

The Cleaners from Venus — “Clarendon Lane” (2000?)

Just a jaunty little tune conjuring up a psychedelic streetscape circa 1968. What I like about Martin Newell is that he’s an underground figure, but the chief quality of his songs that they’re readily enjoyable.

Sloan — “Right to Roam” (2018)

Every song written by Sloan’s Jay Ferguson has the dusty glow of a sunbeam streaming through an open window. “Right to Roam,” from Sloan’s upcoming 12th album, has an easy melody, Anglo-pastoral themes, and some great handclaps. You’ve got to love a song that can incorporate the words “Marquess of Anglesey.”

Blossoms — “I Can’t Stand It” (2018)

Blossoms are kind of just your basic Brit rock band wearing a lot of ’80s and ’90s influences on their sleeves. But as usual their strong melody writing and perfect arrangements result in an infectious, classic-sounding track.

Sheryl Crow — “The First Cut is the Deepest” (2003)

“The First Cut is the Deepest,” written by Cat Stevens and recorded by countless others, has a melody that conveys sadness so much more viscerally and directly than its somewhat confusing lyrics ever could. I like Crow’s version, because her vocals have a straightforwardness that doesn’t rely on theatrics to get the point across, which is what this song needs. She’s probably one of the most underappreciated artists of the ‘90s.

fun. — “Why Am I the One?” (2012)

While it has its virtues, fun.’s Some Nights album has already begun to sound dated — the one exception being this blessedly auto-tune free ballad. It’s the song from the album that wouldn’t have been completely out of place on either of Nate Ruess’s previous pop opuses, and it’s almost certainly near the top of my best of the 2010s list (a list I am uniquely unqualified to write). The melody is one for the ages, the arrangements bring the right amount of drama, and the middle eight so good that I’m always mad it doesn’t get fully repeated when that little teaser comes at the end. To paraphrase Nick Hornby, it’s the kind of big, emotional ballad that makes you want to sing with your eyes closed, and I’m glad Fun had one last chance to write the kind of uncool, revealing track I love them for.