Category: Songs

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.

My husband and I always talk about our “top 90 of the ‘90s” lists, a concept that up until now has been largely theoretical. It’s really easy to say, “Oh yeah, ‘Santa Monica?’ That’s definitely on my list, top 10 for sure.” It’s unclear exactly how many songs have been verbally named to my list at this point, but it’s likely that the top 10 and top 20 now represent mathematical impossibilities.

So I finally decided to sit down and write out my real top 90. As I began this exercise, one thing became immediately clear: it’s impossible. Sure, it’s easy to name 90 great ’90s songs, but it’s also easy to name more than 90 great ’90s songs, so cutting down the list is hard. Then there’s the fact that ranking the songs is so difficult as to border on meaningless. Do I like “You Get What You Give” or “Flagpole Sitta” better? It’s really hard to say. I resorted to a thought exercise where I imagined myself driving my car on a beautiful, sunny day, flipping around the radio. Two songs I’m trying to rank are each playing on a different station. Which one do I pick? That tactic actually helped a lot.

Then there’s the tension between representing personal favorite songs and the best songs of the ’90s. I decided I wanted my list to be the former, but this dichotomy still presented a challenge. I realized that I have a strong mental divide between “songs I like that happen to be from the 90s” and “90s songs.” The first category tends more toward indie, non-hits, and deep cuts. The second category is heavier on one-hit wonders and songs that embody some concept of “90s-ness.” I tend to regard the ’90s category as separate, something I only listen to when I’m deliberately going for a nostalgia trip, so it was hard to integrate them into my “real” favorites. I also struggled with my love for Oasis. They’re my favorite band that was most active in the ’90s, but including, like, 20 Oasis songs in the list just didn’t feel right. So I limited myself to three, though they are all ranked pretty highly.

In the end, I found the most effective strategy was to just do it and not care too much about the finer points of the rankings. I’m sure if I did this again next week or next year, I’d end up with something different. But if nothing else, the result is a list of 90 great songs from the ‘90s that I’d be happy to listen to any time.

Here’s the list! Listen to these songs on Spotify

90. Right Said Fred — “I’m Too Sexy” (1991)
89. Coolio — “1-2-3-4 (Sumpin’ New)” (1996)
88. Lightning Seeds — “Lucky You” (1994)
87. Imperial Drag — “‘Breakfast’ By Tiger” (1996)
86. LFO — “Girl on TV” (1999)
85. Lisa Loeb — “Stay (I Missed You)” (1994)
84. Jimmie’s Chicken Shack — “Do Right” (1999)
83. R.E.M. — “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” (1994)
82. Finley Quaye — “Sunday Shining” (1997)
81. Soul Coughing — “True Dreams of Wichita” (1994)
80. Sloan — “The Lines You Amend” (1996)
79. Super Furry Animals — “Something 4 the Weekend” (1996)
78. Spin Doctors — “Two Princes” (1993)
77. Sparks — “When Do I Get to Sing ‘My Way’?” (1994)
76. Citizen King — “Better Days (And the Bottom Drops Out)” (1999)
75. Nerf Herder — “Sorry” (19996)
74. Seal — “Kiss From a Rose” (1994)
73. The Lemonheads — “If I Could Talk I’d Tell You” (1996)
72. Martin Newell — “She Rings the Changes” (1990)
71. BMX Bandits — “Serious Drugs” (1993)
70. Michael Penn — “I Can Tell” (1997)
69. Old 97s — “19″ (1999)
68. Freedy Johnston — “Bad Reputation” (1994)
67. Deee-Lite — “Groove is in the Heart” (1990)
66. Blind Melon — “No Rain” (1993)
65. The Cardigans — “Lovefool” (1996)
64. Alice in Chains — “No Excuses” (1994)
63. Blur — “Coffee and TV” (1999)
62. Weezer — “El Scorcho” (1996)
61. Foo Fighters — “Big Me” (1996)
60. Skee-Lo — “I Wish” (1995)
59. Jason Faulkner — “Revelation” (1999)
58. Pavement — “Cut Your Hair” (1994)
57. Belle and Sebastian — “She’s Losing It” (1996)
56. Matthew Sweet — “Sick of Myself” (1995)
55. Presidents of the United States of America — “Peaches” (1996)
54. Bend Folds Five — “Philosophy” (1995)
53. Spacehog — “In the Meantime” (1996)
52. Stone Temple Pilots — “Big Bang Baby” (1996)
51. Blur — “Charmless Man” (1995)
50. Cotton Mather — “Lost My Motto” (1994)
49. Third Eye Blind — “Semi-Charmed Life” (1997)
48. Nirvana — “All Apologies” (1993)
47. XTC — “The Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead” (1992)
46. The Wonders — “That Thing You Do!” (1996)
45. Pulp — “Common People” (1995)
44. Stroke 9 — “Little Black Backpack” (1999)
43. James — “Laid” (1993)
42. Hootie and the Blowfish — “Only Wanna Be With You” (1994)
41. The Lightning Seeds — “Pure” (1990)
40. Ben Folds Five — “Army” (1999)
39. Blessid Union of Souls — “Hey Leonardo (She Likes Me For Me)” (1999)
38. Polaris — “Hey Sandy” (1993)
37. Jamiroquai — “Canned Heat” (1999)
36. Pernice Brothers — “Overcome by Happiness” (1998)
35. Cornershop — “Brimful of Asha” (1997)
34. Hole — “Celebrity Skin” (1998)
33. Fountains of Wayne — “Radiation Vibe” (1996)
32. Belle and Sebastian — “The Boy With the Arab Strap” (1998)
31. Soup Dragons — “Divine Thing” (1992)
30. Mariah Carey — “Fantasy” (1995)
29. Sixpence None the Richer — “Kiss Me” (1998)
28. Guns N’ Roses — “November Rain” (1992)
27. Teenage Fanclub — “Alcoholiday” (1991)
26. Mary J. Blige — “Real Love” (1992)
25. They Might Be Giants — “Birdhouse in Your Soul” (1990)
24. White Town — “Your Woman” (1997)
23. Backstreet Boys — “I Want it That Way” (1999)
22. Jellyfish — “Baby’s Coming Back” (1990)
21. John Wesley Harding — “The Devil in Me” (1990)
20. Fastball — “The Way” (1998)
19. Sheryl Crow — “Everyday is a Winding Road” (1996)
18. Fountains of Wayne — “Troubled Times” (1999)
17. Harvey Danger — “Flagpole Sitta” (1997)
16. New Radicals — “You Get What You Give” (1998)
15. Oasis — “The Masterplan” (1995)
14. P.M. Dawn — “Art Deco Halos” (1998)
13. Pulp — “Disco 2000” (1995)
12. Macy Gray — “I Try” (1999)
11. Big Audio Dynamite II — “Rush” (1990)
10. Oasis — “Don’t Look Back in Anger” (1995)
9. Aimee Mann — “Fifty Years After the Fair” (1993)
8. XTC — “I’d Like That” (1999)
7. Barenaked Ladies — “It’s All Been Done” (1998)
6. Violent Femmes — “American Music” (1991)
5. Hedwig and the Angy Inch Original Cast — “Wig in a Box” (1998)
4. Blackstreet — “No Diggity” (1996)
3. Everclear — “Santa Monica” (1995)
2. Jellyfish — “Joining a Fanclub” (1993)
1. Oasis — “Whatever” (1994)

John Wesley Harding’s “I Should Have Stopped” is a song that, for lack of a better phrase, speaks to me. But perhaps it’s an apt metaphor, because this is a very literary song — as much about words as music. It’s from Harding’s 2011 album, The Sound of His Own Voice, and it tells a short story with astonishing depth in a mere 3:55. It’s also melodic and jangly, sung with Harding’s trademark British accent and wry delivery. Give it a listen:

Song and Story

Harding (aka Wesley Stace) is also a novelist, so it’s not surprising that his songs should have a literary bent. “I Should Have Stopped” is one of his best in this regard as it contains a fully-formed plot, lots of idiosyncratic detail, and a series of clever transitions between past and present narratives. In short, the song is about a guy who sees a women at the laundromat with whom he once had the sort of unformed glimmer of romance that marks one’s early teenage years. He wants to talk to her, but he doesn’t.

What makes the story so compelling is the level of nuance Harding brings to the telling. Through a series of flashbacks, we learn that the narrator and his crush shared a few awkward encounters but always seemed to be kept apart by their differences in status and confidence. In the example of the school play, the narrator “ended up as prompter for the matinees,” while his crush, the more precocious of the two “played Salome.” The present moment is equally vivid, as the narrator spots his former beloved in the midst of laundry day. She’s “looking pretty special in her disco hat,” suggesting that she retains some of her former panache, but maybe it’s become a touch sad and out of date. Or as he puts it: “You’re eyes look kind of tired, but you basically look the same (the same).”

All of this makes for a striking story, and Harding even commented that, “Everyone asks me about the song ‘I Should Have Stopped,’ and they go ‘Who is that woman?’; and the answer is that I just made it up!” The first-person narrative combined with such exceptional detail goes a long way toward making this song feel real.

“We will never know the mystery again”

But the seeming verisimilitude is more than the result of clever songcraft. What makes “I Should Have Known” so captivating is an emotional truth with universal appeal. I think many people have someone like the crush in this song, not even a first love, but a first infatuation, a first person who made them understand, if only to a tiny degree, what a first love might be.

There’s someone I count in this category, a boy I liked in 8th grade and danced with at many a middle school dance. I remember they played “Say You’ll be There,” by the Spice Girls, and he told me how he liked the song  specifically because of the great harmonica solo. (A daring admission for a boy, and perceptive too.)  Even now, I remember our connection as being somehow real, our conversations having depth, despite our youth and the general impossibility of the fledging relationship going anywhere. These connections, though seemingly inconsequential in the long term, stick with us.

The poignant side to “I Should Have Stopped” comes out in the fact that the narrator should have stopped — but he didn’t. And his circumstances are even a little bit desperate. He acknowledges that rather than stopping, he’ll be going back to “the mess at home,”  a mess that surely must make the appeal of a lost flame that much more alluring. But ultimately, he accepts the reality that you can’t go back again. “Because it’s ancient history and we are not the same/And we will never know the mystery again.”

The reason I love this song is that there are some mysteries that we will never know again. I don’t particularly want to see any of my old crushes at a laundromat. But one of the joys of great art is that it lets you relive the experiences and emotions you may never have again— and explore what-ifs that will probably never come to pass.

Related listening

The Kinks’ “Do You Remember Walter?” is another marvel of economic storytelling that also makes use of a past-to-present shift. Ray Davies tells a story of boyhood friendship and explores sad fate of adulthood, all in under three minutes.

XTC’s “Harvest Festival” is another story-song that captures youthful infatuation and the perspective of age. The line “more than enough to keep me fed all year” is almost unbearably brilliant.

And believe it or not, “Say You’ll Be There” holds up rather well.

It’s funny that my first Oasis-related post should be about Liam Gallagher, when Noel is my true love. But I’m pleased and maybe a little surprised to report that Liam’s new single “Wall of Glass,” his first as a solo artist, is actually quite good. Like a lot of the best Oasis songs, it’s melodic and loud with a vaguely empowering message. It’s also got a cleaner pop sound, lacking the slathered on layers of Noel’s guitars and maybe even getting a touch danceable.

What’s exciting to me about “Wall of Glass” is that Liam co-wrote it with Greg Kurstin, a professional songwriter who co-wrote Adele’s “Hello,” along with tracks for Sia, Kelly Clarkson, and tons of other hitmakers. (Better still, Kurstin is also one half of The Bird and The Bee, purveyors of the fantastic “Polite Dance Song,” as well as an entire Hall and Oates cover album.) I generally love it when superstar songwriter teams up with a classic act. This combo has produced some unexpectedly enjoyable late career hits like Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” (co-written by Max Martin) and Aerosmith’s “Pink” (co-written by Glen Ballard). The addition of a co-writer seems to have given Liam some new life as well, especially after the disappointment of the second Beady Eye album.

Liam said in an interview that’s he’s happy to work with other songwriters and that his real gifts are his ability to interpret and deliver a song. Especially for a certain kind of listener, it’s easy to fall into the trap idolizing only those rare individuals who can deliver the whole package: writing, singing, playing, and performing. And that’s impressive. But it’s also important to remember that great interpreters of songs are not no-talent hacks. Liam’s voice sounds strong and brash on “Wall of Glass,” and the material really suits him. Given the synergy that Liam and Greg Kurstin have so far, I’m hopeful that the full album will deliver at least a more more winners.

It’s also worth noting that Liam as a successful songwriter is not unprecedented. Admittedly he’s kind of like the veggie burger to Noel’s real burger: usually a serviceable substitute, but occasionally transcending his status as an imitator on his own merits. The two Oasis singles he wrote — “Songbird” and “I’m Outta Time” — are both great. “Songbird” is uncharacteristically simple with a gentle harmonica and some basic two-chord strumming. “I’m Outta Time” is a solo-Lennon pastiche with a delicate touch of falsetto at the start of the verses, supplemented by Noel’s trademark poignant guitar. It would be great to hear a few of these more contemplative tracks on the new album, perhaps penned by Liam himself, as a counterpoint to the big, loud stuff.

This tension between obnoxious and contemplative is the crux of Liam’s appeal. (It’s probably Noel’s appeal as well, but in a less exaggerated way.) On Oasis’s DVD video compilation, Liam provides commentary for his two Oasis single credits. On “Songbird,” he talks about how the song was a really honest expression for him and concludes with a bit of insight only Liam Gallagher could come up with: “All these geezers walking around, thinking they’re tough and all that. If there’s not a songbird inside you, then you’re a fucking pussy.”

Liam’s kind of a lout, but I’m glad he’s back.

I feel like I have a special intuition for when a song is written by a famous songwriter. I’ll be thinking about a song and suddenly overcome by a desire to know who wrote it — and it always turns out to be Carol King or Jim Steinman or Max Martin or some other classic writer. A few days ago I was thinking about “Different Drum,” having recently heard The Lemonheads’ version for the first time, and I was convinced I would find that it had been written by someone famous. So I looked it up on Wikipedia and sure enough it was written my Mike Nesmith of the Monkees. One of the song’s first appearances was actually as a gag on The Monkees, as Mike pretends to be an inept folk singer:

(An aside: I know YouTube comments are the scourge of the internet and whatnot, but I find that one of the benefits of looking at more obscure material is that the comments are often quite good. One commenter here astutely points out here that Mike’s performance is particularly brilliant, given the difficulty of performing your own song so badly.)

So I admit that Mike Nesmith does not meet the criteria of “great songwriter,” but he is famous, and he did write “Mary, Mary,” and “The Girl I Knew Somewhere,” two minor Monkees classics. So I think this counts as an example of my songwriter intuition. And there’s no real argument that “Different Drum” isn’t Nesmith’s best song. It’s endured and spawned tons of great renditions. So I thought I’d go down the rabbit hole and highlight some of the versions I’ve loved over the years.

The Stone Poneys had the most famous version of “Different Drum” in 1967, with a young Linda Rondstadt on lead vocal. It hit number 13 on the Hot 100. The Stone Poneys’ version is textbook baroque ’n’ roll, full of lush strings and jaunty harpsichord. It’s super catchy, and the melody sticks with you’d despite the lack of a traditional verse-chorus structure. Linda’s got a good voice, and her her vocal, while not life changing, has a appealing, slightly vulnerable quality to it. She’s also amazingly pretty, which I’m sure didn’t hurt.

“Different Drum” is particularly memorable because of the quirky lyrics, full of odd colloquialisms (“make eyes at me,” “it’s not that I knock it,” “honey child”) and a jumble of metaphors (“travel to the beat of a different drum,” “can’t see the forest for the trees,” “pull the reins in on me”). The song is about not wanting to make a commitment to a serious relationship, and it really works so much better when delivered from a female perspective — here’s a woman who wants to enjoy her freedom and avoid a bad decision, rather than just another dude who just doesn’t want to get tied down. Linda’s version is also brilliant in that she switches the genders on the all the pronouns, but still keeps the line “I ain’t saying you ain’t pretty.” This line would be fairly unremarkable in a song addressed to a woman, when when directed at a male, it’s attention-grabbing and conjures a nuanced image of what this guy might be like — attractive but slight, not someone who really understands the full responsibility of commitment.

On the Lemonheads’ 1990 version, Evan Dando keeps the the pronouns exactly as they are on the Stone Poneys’ version. I like when singers do this. It doesn’t come off like Evan is deliberately singing the song to a man — it’s more like he’s just singing a song he likes, the way he’s always heard it on the radio, and the effect is charming. The Lemonheads’ version is also pretty raucous, with some unlikely squalls of feedback toward the end. That noisy approach isn’t usually my thing, but when someone is singing the melody to “Different Drum” over top, it suddenly becomes a lot more appealing. I should mention that Evan Dando was also very pretty, which probably didn’t hurt either.

Me First and the Gimme Gimmes included a version of “Different Drum” on their ‘60s-themed covers album Blow in the Wind. I hadn’t listened to this in years and couldn’t really remember if it was good. Turns out I’m impressed. The Gimme Gimmes play it a little extra fast, as befits a pop-punk cover, and the singer (who is awesomely named Spike Slawson) attacks the song with loose, sloppy gusto. There’s also a nice whistling bit at the end.

Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs tackle it on their ‘60s-themed covers album, Under the Covers Vol. 1. While their version is closest to the original in terms of tone and tempo, they add some unique touches. Susanna’s voice is more weathered and mature than Linda Ronstadt’s, which recasts the song from the perspective of someone whose reluctance to commit stems from experience. Matthew contributes some stellar backing vocals, completely different from any I’ve heard on other versions. The two harmonize together wonderfully, and “Different Drum” is one of the standout tracks on their album.

Finally, I saw Paul Westerberg perform “Different Drum” live at the TLA in Philly in 2005. At the same show, he also covered “If I Had a Hammer” and “I Think I Love You,” and I was pretty much beside myself with excitement at these song choices. Unfortunately, there don’t appear to be any easily accessed recordings of the performance. As I was searching for one, I was reading some Westerberg fan message boards and was surprised to find that reaction to Paul’s choice of covers on that tour was mostly negative. I forget that “Different Drum” might be considered a little poppy for the too-cool-for-school crowd. But if you look at the caliber of the artists who have covered this song and the variety of approaches that have worked, I think you’ll find it’s a keeper.