Category: 366 Songs

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366 Songs 040: To Binge

It’s possible that there’s a song somewhere in the world of music that more easily and quickly evokes the idea of a damaged relationship trying to be repaired than Gorillaz’ “To Binge” (from Plastic Beach, which may or may not be the final “proper” Gorillaz album depending on what rumors you care to believe), but if there is, I doubt it has a moment that tugs the heartstrings as much as when Damon Albarn sings “But I just have to tell you that I/Love you so much these days/I just have to tell you that I/Love you so much these days/It’s true.”

Plastic Beach is a weird album, and “To Binge” a standout song from it because it is so much more fragile than everything that surrounds it, and so much more… traditional, I guess; the song structure is pretty much a basic duet, with very basic accompaniment, which helps make its case as something more honest than the songs it hides between, more heartfelt. Who can listen to this and not want for everything to end up okay for Albarn and Little Dragon’s Yukimi Nagano and their mini drama implied in this four minute song?

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366 Songs 039: Girlfriend


Besides Jellyfish’s (sadly meager) output, Matthew Sweet’s Girlfriend is pretty much my template for “power pop” as a musical genre; it has the 1960s emphasis on harmonies, guitars and songs that are easy to singalong to, but it also has a particularly 1990s sheen to the overall production. That’s what “power pop” is, for me; an attempt to evoke the 1960s in a very then-contemporary way (Things like Lilys’ Better Can’t Make Your Life Better, for example, with a sound that’s far, far closer to the actual production values of the original ’60s pop and garage bands, are something other than power pop, for some reason; I know that it’s a particularly weird line to have, but it’s mine and it’s there, dammit. Sorry). In those terms, I’m not sure it gets much better than “Girlfriend,” which is Sweet in full-on sugary-pop mode giving it his all with his nasal voice and love of guitar solos. Outside of all the “ooooooh” and “aaaaaaaah” backing vocals – which I adore, no joke – what really makes this song so memorable for me are the lyrics, which are so… childlike, I guess, in such a weird way: “I wanna love somebody/I hear you need somebody to love” and “Oh honey, believe me/I’d sure like to call you my girlfriend” are the kinds of things that you’d expect from someone who’s never been in any kind of relationship ever, which I somehow manage to take as charming rather than, say, offputtingly naive. So much of Sweet’s 1990s peak feels like the work of someone who’s obsessively listened to their favorite records over and over again, taking them apart to see how they work and then trying to recreate them with each new song they write, and that idea follows through on “Girlfriend,” which you can believe is the work of someone who’s so much of a music nerd that they’ve not had time to actually pursue a real life relationship of their own. And yet… that kind of nerditry appeals to me, here; if you’re going to write a song called “Girlfriend,” why not have it sound as if it’s being sung by someone for whom that word still holds a special charge…?

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366 Songs 038: Let Love Rule

I know that admitting to a liking for Lenny Kravitz these days – or, for that matter, any point since he first appeared on the music scene, some 20-odd years ago – isn’t something that the hep kids in the audience are likely to do anytime soon, and I can see why: He’s really been a shameless purveyor of regurgitating sounds and songs that he grew up on without any particular spin or change, and nobody likes a copycat unless they’re called Oasis (and even then…). And yet, “Let Love Rule” has always been a song that I’ve adored, for many reasons.

In terms of a debut – unless I’m misremembering, this was his first single, released before the album of the same name – this is a pretty great one; not only does it happily set Kravitz up as the Prince For The Daisy Age that he so clearly wanted to be (Remember the Daisy Age? Oh, those were the days), but it’s just a lovely and more than a little catchy song – There’s a demo version that was released on an anniversary version of the album, and it shows off the strength of the song in basic, bare-boned form. But, oh, the arrangement on the final version! The way that it builds in the first two minutes, adding new players and instruments slowly until it’s just there, this weird powerhouse of retro psychedelia that’s crept up on you, before taking more than a minute in the middle (2:18 to 3:20; the single version of the song cuts at least 30 seconds of that, sadly) to temporarily turn into the theme from Saturday Night Live, is something that’s downright charming, at the very least. But even without that interlude, just the horns and organ would be enough to win me over entirely, especially in the long, long outlerlude as the groove continues long after the song proper has finished.

It’s possible that “Let Love Rule” was as good as Kravitz ever got; certainly, everything that came afterwards didn’t feel as fresh, even if it felt more deliberate and forceful. I want this Lenny Kravitz back, please.

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366 Songs 037: Disappointment


The idea that people could complain that David McAlmont’s vocals during any of the McAlmont and Butler songs were too over the top is one that I’ve always found amusing. Sure, he swoops and soars and chews the aural scenery as much as humanly possible – although at no point does he do the thing that American Idol contestants love so much, when notes stretch to include multiple ups and downs to show off just how well they know their scales; clearly, he’s a show-off in an entirely different way – but listen to what he’s competing with; Bernard Butler was the one in charge during the McAlmont and Butler sessions (The first album, The Sound of…, at least), with the tracks doing their best to become his attempt to fulfill the old Brian Wilson saying about pop songs being teenage symphonies to God; listen to “Disappointment” and try to argue that McAlmont’s vocal isn’t just icing on a cake that doesn’t even necessarily need it – something, of course, that Butler helps to convey with his 90 second instrumental freak-out in the middle of the song, which may be the most interesting point of the proceedings, before McAlmont comes back to chant “Disappointment,” his voice becoming just another instrument in Butler’s grand experiment, as everything seems to build towards something that has always felt like a George Harrison guitar solo that the Beatles forgot to include somewhere at 7:07 (Yes, the track is more than seven minutes long; I’d argue that the “song” portion is actually closer to three minutes, and the rest is Butler going crazy with sound). It’s epic, and overblown, and more than a little self-indulgent, but also completely and utterly Bernard Butler’s creation. Let David McAlmont sing as wildly and as openly as he wants; he’s always going to lose when he’s surrounded by music like the stuff on show here.

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366 Songs 036: We Just Won’t Be Defeated

Yes, yes, I know, I’m late; things haven’t exactly been going to plan recently, shall we say.

There’s been a lot said about the Go! Team, and their mix of found source music and influences; the place where mash-up mentalities meet live music, and then go off and do something less boring instead (A reference that’ll make sense to no-one who isn’t of a particular age and nationality, but for those who saw Why Don’t You…? on British television during the 1980s, you’re welcome; oddly enough, there’s something about the Go! Team sound that reminds me of the theme music for that show, too), and in theory it’s a fine, fine thing. But in practice, there’s a mudiness and laziness to much of the Go! Team’s music, especially on the second album, where songs sound far too alike, and far too busy, for their own good. It impacts even their best songs, and “We Just Won’t Be Defeated” is certainly one of those, but behind the “Double Dutch” vocals and sampled horns and indie jangle, there’s something… tired, perhaps, would be the best way to put it? For a song made up of all these elements that are so alive, so vital, there’s a life missing from the final effort.

It’s something that struck home especially when watching this live performance, which looks like a band barely awake, working to a formula and doing it very professionally, which is great as far as it goes, but – well, music, especially pop music, is something where professionalism is always trumped by passion, and this performance is passionless. You watch everyone at work, and you end up liking the song less, as a result. The Go! Team, when you think of them as this multi-cultural group mixing genre and culture and era into one aural blender and coming out with something to shake your tush to as a result, should be above all fun, and this… isn’t fun at all. It’s just something doing a job very well.

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366 Songs 033: Melody Day

What makes Caribou’s “Melody Day” work is that it disguises itself, sounding like something from the 1960s on first listen – The vocals, the two-note piano, the sleigh bells – while being something with the shape of the 1990s, or more contemporary. It’s like a harder Polyphonic Spree, in a way, or a meaner, sleeker Mercury Rev/Chemical Brothers collaboration; there’s a collision of musical cultures that, by the time you get to 1:09, sounds like a collision in the best ways, with drums and vocals and guitar all spiraling out and fighting for your attention. By the time you get to what sounds like a flute, twittering away in the background (It may be a keyboard…?), I’m completely won over.

Also wonderful, but with a very different feeling: The Four Tet (Yes, him again) remix:

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366 Songs 032: How We Wrote Elastica Man

Continuing the Mark E. Smith-ness from yesterday, “How We Wrote Elastica Man” – from Elastica’s patchy second album, The Menace – is another messy, yet catchy, song that Smith sounds as if he’s wandered into by mistake, mumbling and moaning in the middle of the band chanting down how to spell their name like some kind of bizarro cheerleading squad (I’ve always loved that the chant doesn’t follow the spelling convention you’d expect: “E! The possibilities are…/L!” and so on). But that seems fitting, considering the sound of this song, distorted but recognizably classic in its arrangement (two guitar, bass, keyboards, drums, vocals) and structure. Like so much of Elastica’s output, there’s something knowingly nostalgic and traditional here, performed with a smirk and off-kilter velocity. For all of the MES vocal fuzz, this song could’ve come from any point from the 1960s forward, which may be why Elastica worked so well during their short lived existence: The music appealed to so many people because it could’ve come from each of their own favorite eras.

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366 Songs 031: Inch

If ever there was a song that sounded like something created to confirm old people’s preconceptions and prejudices about music created post-Beatles, it’s almost undoubtedly “Inch,” by Inch (with vocals by Mark E. Smith of the Fall). With a brutal, looped at such a point that it sounds too short (and unfinished as a result), riff and sampled drums that are similarly off-kilter and seem to be fighting with everything else in the track, this is a mess way before the theramin (or keyboards that sound theramin-esque? I’m not sure) comes in for full overload. But nonetheless, it’s great, from the hilariously deconstructive opening (which, really, makes Mark E. Smith sound like a crazy old man) to the overkill of the static/feedback at 2:55; there’s something winningly chaotic and scattered and… well, catchy, about this song, to me. Especially when MES ends up doing his weird sing-along thing right at the end.

“Inch,” then: A mess, but the very best kind of mess imaginable.

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366 Songs 030: Maybe I’m Amazed

It’s possible that, if someone said to you, “what do you get when you put Rod Stewart and Paul McCartney’s post-Beatles output together,” your answer would be “an unlistenable, sentimental mess,” and – let’s face it, in most cases, you’d be entirely correct. But then you get this, as the exception that proves the rule.

I’ve always loved “Maybe I’m Amazed,” which I’m pretty sure I first heard as a Carleen Anderson cover (produced by Paul Weller) at some point during the mid-90s. There’s definitely the McCartney sentiment at play, but it’s phrased in such a way – and couched in such wonderful music – that it doesn’t feel treacly or overly saccharine, as so much solo (and Wings-era) McCartney can; instead, it feels genuine and quite lovable. The original version is a great performance – Paul is in belter-mode (Listen to his voice at 0:47!), and the odd arrangement has an intensity and a push there that seems at odds with the vocal at times, but adds to it, at the same time; I especially love that the song seems to finish at 3:01, and then comes back for an instrumental coda that ends with a stompy, jammy mess. There’s a messiness there that really appeals to me, and makes it just ugly enough to feel like something more than a pretty love song.

Recent cover versions have lost this; you hear Jem covering it, and it’s… pretty, but that’s it (Pretty vacant, says John Lydon from thirty years ago, and he’s right). At its best – the McCartney version or the Faces version I started with – this is a weirdly masculine song because of the awkward interplay between the lyrics, the vocal performance and the guitar rock structure that goes off into riff-city when it gets too embarrassed by the honesty of what the words are trying to reveal. Yes, the basic melody means that it can be a pretty song, but I always think that it’s not meant to be; it’s supposed to be something more complex and confused.