366 Songs 161: Ebeneezer Goode

Now, here’s one everyone would rather forget.

“Ebeneezer Goode” was a ridiculously big hit in the UK in 1992, staying number one for four weeks despite the tabloid press managing to work themselves into an outraged lather over the drug references in the song; it’s quite clearly a song about ecstasy – The chorus, after all, goes “‘Eezer Goode/’Eezer Goode/He’s Ebeneezer Goode” the first part of which translates/is heard as “Es are good/Es are good” – but it’s not just a “Neck ’em and have a good time!” one, considering the “A gentleman of leisure, he’s there for your pleasure/But go easy on old ‘Eezer, he’s the love you could lose/Extraordinary fella, like Mister Punchinella/He’s the kind of geezer who must never be abused” verse. That turnaround may get lost in the horrific dayglo singalong of the rest of the song, though; this is very proudly from the period where “rave crossover” meant “8-bit meets Casio meets childish” (Anyone else remember “Charley”? Aieee).

Listening to this for the first time in decades – It’s twenty years old, and I don’t think I’ve heard it in at least fifteen years – what jumps out is how close this is to Britpop, and especially Blur’s earlier stuff. It’s the storytelling aspect, the creation of a character through which to address a different topic. Once you get past the way this song sounds, there’s really not that much difference between “Ebeneezer Goode” and “Colin Zeal” or “Ernold Same.” I wonder if either the Shamen or Blur ever really made that connection themselves, and if they did, whether either party felt guilty about it.

For those playing along at home, there’re a couple of pop cultural steals in here worth noting. The opening “A great philosopher once said…” is Malcolm McDowell, from If…, and if the dirty laugh isn’t Sid James from the Carry On movies, then it’s someone doing a Sid James impression.

366 Songs 160: I’m On My Way

Another song that got into my head at some point this past weekend, and one that’s far harder to explain away; I hadn’t really thought about this song for years, and when I did find myself remembering it, I softened the hilariously thick Scottish accents of Craig and Charlie Reid (That’d be the Proclaimers, known in America for “500 Miles” and little else, it seems) more than a little bit. But listening to it again, I kind of love it: There’s a very old-fashioned quality to it, especially when you get past the “I’m on my way/From misery to happiness today/Uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh” part and into… what, the bridge? The verse? I’m not sure how you’d define the construction of this song, really. But there’s an old rockabilly sense to this one that I love. It sounds completely at odds with everything that was happening in pop culture in 1988 when it was released, with the exception of Billy Bragg’s stuff at the time… which, now that I think about it, may be why I have such fond memories of it, really. Here’s to bands who wish it was thirty years earlier and somehow convince other people to wish the same.

366 Songs 159: Hello Sunshine

After the rain-themed songs over the weekend, I couldn’t resist choosing this one for today. The fact that I found myself with this song playing on repeat at some point in the last couple of days didn’t hurt, of course. There’s a comfortable feeling to this song, the slow march of it (with slide guitar, piano and constantly-present buzz in the background; it’s got a wonderfully strange arrangement, if you think about it) filled with the warmth of the vocals and gentle comedy of the lyrics (“If you fled a million miles/I’d chase you for a day/If I could be bothered”) to create something soft, unassuming and casually charming. It’s a lovely wee song, really.

366 Songs 158: The Dogs of B.A.

There are too many things about the song that I could list as loving: The sound of the rain before it starts, and the sound of the sea as it finishes; the longing that’s so present in Mirah Yom Tov Zeitlyn’s voice as she sings (“I looked into the darkening/And while the air did chill/I knew that though I’m here in exile/That you should love me still.” I adore that couplet, the history implied and the selfishness of love gone away with the “You should love me still”); the accordian that appears at 2:13, weirdly and wonderfully fitting as the spoken word section begins and a reminder of how like the sea this song has been until now, ebbing and flowing, wonderfully choppy.

“So many tears could make me blind.” Another lovely, melancholy line (I’m listening again, as I write).

There’s an exoticness to this song, an alienness. But it’s not necessarily an attractive one, which I find makes the song more compelling. There’s something to “The Dogs of B.A.” that reminds me of the feeling you sometimes get in unfamiliar locations, where you don’t understand the language or where you are; even though everything surrounding you is beautiful and unusual, there’s a fear there, too. A sense of being lost, and powerless. This song suggests that to me, and not just in physical locations; it transfers that idea to romance, and love affairs gone wrong. I like that.

366 Songs 157: It’s Raining

My brain is too tired for commentary; today, I’ve declared something akin to a sick day – It’s officially my day of not producing content for people, and instead hanging out with my lovely wife and trying to pretend that writing about technology and pop culture isn’t a seven-days-a-week, twenty-four-hours-a-day gig. So, instead, this post written last night as you read this, during a rainstorm that is both chilly and refreshing, and a song that fits the bill for such days. I love Quasi’s scruffy pop; it’s funny and dirty and creaky in all the right ways. This is a great song, for all those very reasons.

(There’s another post in an hour or so, but I wrote that one on Friday evening as well. Technology!)

366 Songs 156: Son of Sam

Also from Elliott Smith’s Figure 8, also great: Son of Sam, which ends up with a lovely piano line but apparently started as something entirely guitar-based; this was originally released as a “demo version” of the song:

And here’s the final, album version with the piano taking the place of the guitar:

First off: The finished version really gains something from the piano, doesn’t it? Not that it wasn’t a great song before – It clearly was/is, not least of all because of the lyrics, which feature amongst some of Smith’s best; I’ll get back to that in a second – but the piano adds not just a fragility and variation in aural color, but also the greatness of the honky-tonk piano moment that happens after “King for a day” at 1:42.

Secondly, back to those lyrics: I love the creepiness inherent in the song, embedded deep in lines like “I’m not uncomfortable being weird/Long revered options disappear/But I know what to do” and “Acting under orders from above,” but the surrender as the song closes is a lovely piece of taking one common thing and turning it into something much less comfortable (As if naming the song after a serial killer wasn’t hint enough): “I may talk in my sleep tonight/Cause I don’t know what I am/I’m a little like you/More like the son of Sam,” followed by a “ahhhhh,ahhhh, ahhhh” breath out/pop note moment that’s just a little bit more unsettling because of where it ended up.

Here’s to being not uncomfortable, being weird.

366 Songs 155: Stupidity Tries

This just in from the “Lovely little pop songs that sometimes get lost in the reputation of their creators” department. 2000’s Figure 8 is, looking back on it, a strange album for Elliott Smith; it’s the only one, for example, that doesn’t include a cuss word anywhere on it, and also the one where he’s at his most obviously “produced,” for want of a better way to put it. Because of that, I’ve tended to think of it in my head as his “pop” album, which both is – It was created with the intent of “crossing over” and building on the success of XO, after all – and isn’t – Smith was never really not pop, if you listen to his music and hear his influences and obvious gift for melody – true.

Nonetheless, “Stupidity Tries” is a great pop song, one that mixes subtle arrangement (At 1:11, the lovely use of horns, softening the moment even though there aren’t any horns anywhere else in the song, and get replaced with pedal steel when the moment recurs at 2:21; the strings that provide structure and grace, lifting from the guitars at 3:23 and take the song home from there) and wonderfully… Smithian lyrics (“The enemy/is within/Don’t confuse/me with him”) to come up with something that could only be more delicious if it didn’t fade out at the end. I mean, seriously people: You can even hear it finish really quietly before the fade’s done. You couldn’t just have let that happen…?

Also lovely: Smith’s live versions of the song, which ditch the more elaborate orchestration for something more Beatles-rocking-out-y:

366 Songs 154: Bad Ambassador

It sounds like an odd thing to say, but what I love most about “Bad Ambassador” by the Divine Comedy – probably my favorite song from the band, although I suspect I’m almost alone in that – is the tension between all the moving parts; the rising piano and strings as Neil Hannon’s voice sinks, singing “I wanna hold your hand/Hey, what’s your favorite band, honey?” or the way that the piano’s four notes at 2:19 act as a period, ending the tentative “Maybe some other time” (Notice the short rises and falls of the instruments in the background, as if it’s hopes rising and being pushed down by nerves, before those notes, and then everything swells amazingly, incredibly).

It’s such an unashamedly emotional song, so dramatic and aching with unrequited passion (Think of the way that the song is just a list of what Hannon wants to do, including “Play with the big boys/I wanna ride with the tough guys/On a Japanese motorbike,” but, as he goes on say, “Maybe some other time…”). The song even ends with a long fade that makes you think of ellipses, unfulfilled promise. It’s a song where the music is the text as much as the lyrics, one that tells a story in under four minutes and in that short time make you want the best for the character singing. Good job, Neil Hannon.

366 Songs 153: Lonely At The Top

Written, it’s said, for Frank Sinatra – who apparently didn’t get the joke, and turned it down – “Lonely At The Top” remains one of the greatest missed opportunities in music from the last few decades. It’s one thing for the Randy Newman of the 1970s to sing “All the applause/And all the fame/And all the money/That I have made” because, well, at the time he wasn’t getting a lot of any of those, so it can be taken as sarcastic commentary on celebrity, but if it’d been Sinatra singing those words at the time… Well, that’d take things at least one stage more meta, wouldn’t it? How would his audiences have taken the line “Listen, all you fools out there/Go on and love me/I don’t care”?

(Missing in that video is the spectacular arrangement from the original version, which uses the orchestra to create something that’s both very Newman-esque and also, somehow, fit for Sinatra:

…I think, weirdly, it’s the horns that make it feel Sinatra-esque, although I can’t really think of any songs of his where the oompah thing happened often; Nelson Riddle was normally more subtle than that. But that banjo in the background feels wonderfully disrespectful, out of place and comedic, doesn’t it…?)

Of course, the song has been covered many times since its appearance; I think the Divine Comedy version gets the decadent, sad glamor of the idea best, for me:

Robbie Williams has, I’ve been told, performed the song live a couple of times, which seems particularly fitting; he has the fame, the humor and the sadness to “get” what Newman was trying to say in the first place. Maybe, one day, we’ll see a Justin Beiber version when he finally gets around to his big band album…

366 Songs 152: O Lucky Man!

What’s that you say? The best theme song for any movie ever made? It’s not something that I’d necessarily argue too much against, I have to admit (Just listen to that guitar; the production on this song just makes me smile so broadly, it’s crazy. Plus, the line about “If knowledge hangs around your neck like pearls instead of chains, then you’re a lucky man” is just the right side of 1970s indulgence and faux wisdom for me). Considering the exhausting marathon of work that today has ended up being, this seems like a good one to leave the internet with for the day. Time to go searching for the meaning of the truth in this whole world…