Tag Archives: 1993

Exile in Guyville, by Liz Phair – Album #125

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Exile in Guyville, by Liz Phair
1993, Matador Records. Producer: Liz Phair and Brad Wood
In My Collection: CD, 1994.

(Five minute read)

IN A NUTSHELL: Exile in Guyville, the 1993 album from Liz Phair, helped usher in lo-fi 90s rock. It’s a diverse record, with some songs qualifying as rockers, a few as singer-songwriter musings, and some that are downright strange. The production from Phair and Brad Wood, who also drums and plays bass, places Phair’s unusual voice at the center of the proceedings. Whether she’s belting it out, using a lilting soprano, or delivering lines in her slackery, raspy growl, she always sounds good. And the lyrics are varied, too, even if they mostly focus on life as a young woman in music. Sometimes they’re direct, sometimes they tell a story, often they’re simply poetry. Eighteen songs may be a handful too many, but overall, this collection stands the test of time.

THEORHETICAL PLACE IN A FUTURE TOP 100 LIST I’LL NEVER WRITE: Top 30.

~ ~ ~

The lucky among us will eventually arrive at that nebulous, confusing, perhaps decades-long holding pattern called Adulthood. Before we get there, we spend a lot of time trying to understand it.

As young kids we ape the grown-ups on TV, playing spies or house, as we try to figure it out. We fantasize about becoming mechanics or doctors or basketball players or dancers, but Destination Grown-Up lies in the distant future. Regardless of whether we pursue those childhood dreams through our ever-changing adolescence, an annoyance common to Adulthood gradually reaches into our lives: obligations. We have to pay for things. We have to meet people we don’t want to meet, and be places we don’t want to be, and plan for a future beyond Saturday night, all because it’s what mature people do. Adulthood looms over everything, and we try to keep it at bay in bars and ballfields and video game screens. Still, we know the inevitable awaits.

So how will we know when we arrive? Obligations are always part of the picture. I’ve been buying baseball cards with my own money since elementary school, and was compelled to attend church until I finished high school. As a young man/old boy, I guessed that when all the frivolities of youth were finally stamped out, I’d know I was an adult. When I no longer played pickup basketball, and stopped doing stand-up and acting, that will be the sign. The day I finally blocked up my new-music ears and started the adults-only complaint that “the music today just doesn’t compare to the stuff from my youth” … then I will have, sadly, arrived.

I first listened to Exile in Guyville in late spring, 1994, at an afternoon party, of sorts, in the apartment of an older couple who were friends of my new girlfriend. A recent emigre to San Francisco, I’d been dating Julia about 6 months, and this party was going to be one more new experience in a year full of new and exciting experiences. Determined to evince the persona of an ever-intrepid sampler of new and exotic encounters, I’d offered a resounding “Yes!” when she’d asked me, “Do you want to go meet Sharon and Jim’s newborn twins?” A part of me couldn’t believe I was going to spend an afternoon with a couple of incontinent, drooling, crying weaklings. (The twins, not the parents.) And even though I’d met and enjoyed the company of Sharon and Jim many times, now that they’d become parents, it felt impossible that I’d have anything to discuss with them. But … obligations, y’know?

We sat in the couple’s sunny living room, and Jim handed both Julia and me a swaddled little bundle like he was handing out hoagies from A&M Pizza. (I needed some assistance to properly hold the kid.) He moved to the stereo as we cooed and chirped at the sleeping infants and chatted with Sharon about her new life as a mom. Then Jim put on Exile in Guyville. As a new music fan and longtime subscriber to Spin magazine at the time, I’d heard a couple tracks on the radio and read a few things about Exile in Guyville over the past few months. The song “Never Said” was getting a lot of airplay. But I hadn’t heard much of it.

I don’t want to overstate the impact of the moment, but that’s about when I knew I was an adult. We were doing non-youthful things – handling babies and talking about parenting – but also enjoying new music. I felt as if I was in a scene from some TV program from the 60s, The Dick Van Dyke Show or Bewitched, and instead of placing Coltrane’s A Love Supreme on the Hi-Fi, my neighbor just slid Exile in Guyville into the CD player[ref]Thankfully, this was not a 60s sitcom, so nobody tumbled over a footstool or conjured Paul Lynde with a twitch of their nose.[/ref]. I liked the record, we discussed it, and I went out and bought it soon after. Even as an adult I could like new music. I kept playing basketball and performing comedy and acting, too.

Exile in Guyville opens with a song that exhibits most of what makes the album tick. The subtly rocking “6’1″.”

It opens with a strumming electric guitar, and the bass and drums entering quickly to propel things along. Phair’s facility with melody and unusual song structure is also on display. It’s bouncy and catchy, but warmly unpolished. The entire record has a lo-fi sound that was popularized at the time by bands like Guided by Voices and Sebadoh. Phair’s work is a bit less messy, but still, her thin, inexact voice and rough guitar give the record an immediacy and energy. This isn’t to say I don’t like her voice – I really do! And the harmonies sound great, as well. The lyrics are about standing up to the douchebag boyfriend, in which the 5’2″ Phair acts as if she’s 6’1″.

The same features are on display on the rousing next song, “Help Me Mary.”

This one’s a bit more driving, with Brad Wood’s bass pulsing throughout. The guitar riff is pretty cool, and Phair’s gruff voice is perfect on this song about being a strong, resilient woman in a scene dominated by thoughtless (or worse) men. Her words about locking doors and memorizing rules, and the seesawing self-esteem that such efforts cause, ring true. Meanwhile, Phair plays some great guitar lines throughout.

The album is 18 songs long, and as with many lengthy records (but not all) I think it could have been trimmed down. However, 18 songs is key because that’s the length of The Rolling Stones’ masterpiece Exile on Main Street. In early interviews, Phair claimed Exile in Guyville was a song-by-song response to that Stones record, an idea doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. (Try it – you’ll see.) However, this type of endeavor is just the sort of thing that gets (mostly male) music-nerds hyped up and arguing over whether or not it’s true. And since the record is partly about Phair’s experience among those music boys, this sounds to me like both a clever joke at their expense and a way to get them to listen. Anyway, “Glory,” a brief cut that may be about either a creepy guy or a lovable dog, isn’t one of my favorites.

Dance of the Seven Veils,” featuring just Liz and her Fender Jaguar, is also just okay, although I like how she varies her voice as she hits the chorus. It also displays her penchant for using “bad words” (the “C” word here), which caused a bit of controversy back in the day, as well. But when her songs work, Phair really produces gems. For example, “Never Said.”

The vocals are the key to this song, with Phair rasping the lead while also layering background vocals behind it. The music’s ascending chords are simple but catchy, and guitarist Casey Rice rings out a single note over top. It’s a very laid-back sound, perfectly supporting Phair’s vocal delivery. The lyrics actually read as an angry rebuke, but the song has a more Gen-X, slacker “whatever, dude” vibe. “Soap Star Joe” has a really cool strummed guitar pattern, with squawky harmonica and distant drum cracks highlighting sections. It’s an unusual-sounding singer-songwriter piece that may be about the silliness of male models. The harmonica that finishes the song is great.

Phair returns to the quiet place on “Explain It to Me,” a subtle piece with inscrutable lyrics. (I would like someone to Explain It to Me.) “Canary” introduces the piano into Phair’s repertoire, recorded in a lo-fi way that suits her voice. Exile in Guyville was among the first wave of alt-rock records by women. Coming just after Juliana Hatfield and Belly, joining artists like Hole and Fiona Apple, these were welcome voices in a testosterone-heavy rock scene. “Canary” offers a look into what it’s like to be a young woman making a go in a traditionally man-dominated field.

The next song, “Mesmerizing,” builds brilliantly from those slow songs.

It starts off sounding like another slow, dreary piece, but adds a bass drum and maracas, which are enough to kick up the energy. Phair’s voice is watery and distorted, and it sounds great, particularly the “I-I-I-I-I like it” (1:38). The guitar playing is terrific, with a nifty solo from Rice at 2:02. It’s one of the few songs on the record that does kind of reflect Exile on Main St., with the sparse arrangement and a guitar solo overtop. Then there are the lyrics, which seem to comment a bit on “Rocks Off.” In a way, this all reminds me of a softer White Stripes kind of song.

Up next is another number that had folks clutching their pearls in ’93. After decades of men bragging about their varied, numerous sexual exploits, some people weren’t prepared to hear a young woman sing “Fuck and Run.”

Whereas the dudes have always sung about their lack of feelings over these situations, Phair actually explores the emotional impact of the situation. (Something I’m certain those dudes always felt, as well.) The lyrics are great, as Phair asks for a boyfriend (with great self-harmonies), and all that “stupid old shit/ like letters and sodas.” It’s actually a very romantic song. Musically, it’s bouncy and light. I like the transition when she sings “I can feel it in my bones/ I’m gonna spend another year alone” (1:49). “Girls! Girls! Girls!” is almost a companion piece to “Fuck and Run.” It’s a strange little guitar number with creepy vocals responding to the main lyrics, which offer a different perspective of her love life, with Phair now relishing in manipulating men.

My favorite song on Exile in Guyville is “Divorce Song.” Despite its lo-fi production and Phair’s gruff voice, the song packs an emotional wallop documenting what sounds like the last time a couple will have the same fight they always have.

The song takes a long time to finally get to the chorus, but when it does Wood’s bass drives the song forward. At 1:48 the bass rings out some high notes behind Phair’s “you put in my hands …”, and for some reason that really adds to the lonely feeling of being in a fight with a partner. The song sounds great and has a cool little harmonica-led coda, as well. “Shatter” is another slow song, not too distinct from the others, about Phair’s devotion to a boyfriend. “Flower” continues Phair’s efforts to make your grandparents uncomfortable, as she sings her desire to get very physical with a guy she’s into. She proto-raps the dirty (and funny!) lyrics behind weird guitar spikes and an angelic vocal riff, which enhances their effect. Hey, if Robert Plant can say he’s gonna give his lady every inch of his love, why can’t Phair say she wants her man’s fresh young jimmy?

Another favorite of mine is “Johnny Sunshine.”

it starts as a sound-collage, a meditation on one chord. Two crunchy guitars support her as she lists all the shitty things her partner did. The second time through, she adds a lament in a higher register. Phair has a voice that can go many places, and in this song she shows it off. At 1:17 she breaks out her light and airy soprano voice, as the song slows to a turtle pace. It’s really a terrific vocal demonstration, and it’s also a pretty weirdly constructed piece of music. “Gunshy” is a gentle, weird song with great guitar picking. (It also includes a reference to the 70s comic book sensations Sea Monkeys!) It’s the best guitar song on the record, with multiple parts fit together like a puzzle.

As I said earlier, this is a long record, and I’d have liked it better if it was cut down to the 12 best. But it finishes on a couple strong notes. “Stratford-On-Guy” starts with a flange, and describes a flight landing in Chicago, her adopted home town. She delivers her very poetic lyrics in her typical slacker style, and I like the chorus. “Strange Loop” bops along to end the record on an upbeat note. Well, musically, anyway. Lyrically, it’s a precursor to “Divorce Song,” expressing a desire to stop fighting.

Even though I’m now an old(er) man who has supposedly been a grown-up for decades, it’s not hard to recall the confusion of what adulthood would mean. It seemed to click for me when I heard this record, but that doesn’t mean I understand it 30 years later. I’m still not sure if I know what I’m doing, but I still like listening to Exile in Guyville.

TRACK LISTING:
6’1″
Help Me Mary
Glory
Dance of the Seven Veils
Never Said
Soap Star Joe
Explain It to Me
Canary
Mesmerizing
Fuck and Run
Girls! Girls! Girls!
Divorce Song
Shatter
Flower
Johnny Sunshine
Gunshy
Stratford-On-Guy
Strange Loop

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Song #1006*: “Regret,” by New Order

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Regret,” from the 1993 New Order album Republic.
Tension, cool riff, fun bass.

(4 minute read)

*Note – I’m not even going to try to rank songs. I just plan to periodically write a little bit about some songs that I like.

~ ~ ~

Music critics have been at work since (at least) the days of Bach and Beethoven. Three hundred years later, their place in society is still debated, discussed, and defended. While I love reading reviews and opinions on music, I’ve always found it silly to think that a writer can state, fairly and objectively, that a piece of music is “good” or “bad.” It’s ridiculous that someone can pompously name himself “Dean of America’s Rock Critics[ref]By the way, as I argued at length when writing about Billy Joel, I truly believe that most critics are failures, creatively, who turn to criticism to soothe their egos. I learned from Christgau’s Wikipedia page that this is true about him. As I suspected.[/ref],” and folks just follow along as if his opinion (and it is an opinion) means more than any other schlub’s out there. As Emeritus Professor of Music at McMaster University Alan Walker wrote:

[I]t is difficult to show that a value judgment can stand for anything that is even remotely true about music, as opposed to standing for something that is merely a personal whim on the part of the critic …[ref]He goes on to neatly make a case for why it is an important effort nonetheless. I, however, have deftly trimmed his complex, multi-part essay down to a snippet of a sentence so as to make it appear that he thinks the entire enterprise is bullshit.[/ref]

It’s simply impossible to appreciate music outside of the context of your own experiences. To me, music IS a personal experience. If music writing isn’t based on one’s intimate connections with it, the opinion isn’t worthwhile. The writer may as well simply assess a piece of sheet music.

So I say, unequivocally and proudly, that I love New Order’s “Regret” because it reminds me of a great time in my life. Its lyrical tension between aspiration and apprehension captures the essence of my outlook in the summer of ’93. I like the riff and the bass and drums, too. It’s a good-sounding, catchy song. But it’s Bernard Sumner’s lyrics and delivery that really resonate.

The song opens with Gillian Gilbert’s shimmering synth chords, with a sample of Sumner’s guitar riff dropped on top. It’s a catchy, strummed, syncopated riff, but as a sample it sounds clipped and robotic. It’s a duality that mirrors the song, and it drew me in the first time I heard it. It was spring, 1993, in a bank parking lot in San Rafael, CA. I’d arrived a few weeks earlier as a 25-year old, after a 2800-mile drive from my childhood home.

At about 0:13, Stephen Morris’s drums crash in and the treble-y bass line from Peter Hook starts driving the song. For a long time “Regret” was the only New Order song I liked. I found them to be too synth-y and drum-programmy. Then I realized that drummer Morris is often playing drums, but is so precise and fast that it only sounds programmed! (Sometimes they are programmed.) This made me listen to them more closely, and now I like several of their songs. Also, as a bass player myself, I love Hook’s penchant for playing lead bass. He’s truly an excellent, unique bassist.

The band plays through the verse, and Sumner’s syncopated strumming sounds great through all the chord changes. Then his lyrics start. Having left everything behind, I totally bought in right away: “Maybe I’ve forgotten/ The name and the address/ Of everyone I’ve ever known/ There’s nothing I regret.” It’s only one of many lines that spoke to my new life as a transplant, wondering if landing in a faraway place with no job, no friends, and no plan was such a great idea. I told myself I didn’t regret anything just to stay afloat.

That introductory guitar sample hits at the end of every verse, leading into the chorus (1:06), and it lifts my spirits every time. Sumner’s voice isn’t powerful, but the melody in the chorus just begs a sing-along. “I would like a place/ I could call my own,” he sings. In more ways than one that’s the sentiment of anyone’s Big Move. The lyric “Wake up every day/ That would be a start” also resonated. My depression at the time brought with it several days spent lying in bed.

But the song isn’t sad and dreary! Morris plays ahead of the beat, with a danceable hi-hat shaking throughout. Hook’s lead bass line is sticky behind that upbeat, winding chorus melody. Sumner sounds a bit tired, a bit hopeful – like any human facing life and getting through the day. Some of the words are dark, but they’re set against this happy music – a damned pleasing juxtaposition. That balance is maintained all through the song.

Artwork for New Order’s 1993 release Republic expresses the spirit of the song “Regret.”

The lyrics evoke both the excitement and anxiety of my first few weeks in Cali. So many lines connected with me. “Have a conversation on the telephone,” describes virtually every conversation I had. “You used to be a stranger/ Now you are mine.” Anyone who I met a second time fit this bill – including the beautiful young woman Julia, to whom I’m still married. “I was a short fuse/ Burning all the time” was how I felt before I decided to leave home. “You may think that I’m out of hand/ That I’m naive, I’ll understand/ On this occasion it’s not true/ Look at me, I’m not you.” As a small-town kid, this quatrain summarizes the entirety of my decision to get in my 1985 VW Jetta and get the fuck outta Dodge.

To me, “Regret” is an uplifting song, one I never grow tired of. Sure, Sumner’s lyrical coda sticks a pin in the positive thoughts generated by the catchy melody, cool riffs and hopeful lyrics: “Just wait ’til tomorrow/ I guess that’s what they all say/ Just before they fall apart.” Damn, Bernard, I was just feeling like getting out of bed! But that’s okay – overall the song retains its perfect tension and leaves me inspired. It’s a tremendous song, emotionally complex yet fun.

The band shot a video for it on a Southern California beach with David Hasselhoff, as a tie-in to the TV show Baywatch. It sort of encapsulates the song: the juxtaposition of carefree, seashore frolickers and the pale, trouser-clad band members, the most out-of-place beach-goers since The Munsters.

I think you have to take some chances in life, then accept the good with the bad. We all just have to make the best of it. If we can do so with few regrets, maybe we’ll end up happy. It’s been a long time since I made that move, and the only regret I carry about it today is New Order’s “Regret.”

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14th Favorite: You Gotta Sin to Get Saved, by Maria McKee

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You Gotta Sin to Get Saved. Maria McKee.
1993, Geffin Records. Producer: George Drakoulis.
Purchased, 1995.

IN A NUTSHELL: You Gotta Sin to Get Saved, by Maria McKee, is nine songs of passion and emotion, of spirited fun and reflections on life, and one song that, well, isn’t. McKee is a tremendous singer, and her voice is the star on songs that range from Country to gospel to folk and even Motown. The all-star band sounds great, and there isn’t a note out of place. McKee writes personal lyrics that connect with the listener, and whether she’s singing her own or someone else’s, she never disappoints.

NOTE: The setup – below the line ↓ – might be the best part … Or skip right to the album discussion.
~~~~

“If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content.”

-Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Perfection is a popular topic for quotes. (That Tolstoy one popped up immediately.) It is a popular topic for blog posts, and a popular topic for blogs in general. The gist of all of these seems to be that everyone should just relax a little and not focus on being perfect. Striving for perfection may give you problems you just don’t need. But some people can’t help it: they are perfectionists. But there is help for them, too.

There are self-help books for perfectionists[ref]Which teach you how to BATTLE perfectionism, not how to attain it.[/ref], and more self-help books for perfectionists, and even MORE self-help books for perfectionists. Many of these books are based on the piles of research papers all about perfectionism. There are kids’ books for burgeoning perfectionists. There are Group Therapy sessions, and TED Talks for adult perfectionists. The state of Western Australia offers mental health resources for perfectionists.

This all seems a little overblown, perhaps. But if you’ve ever been around a true perfectionist, you have likely come away with the thought that “This person needs serious mental help.” I had an uber-perfectionist boss whose entire business (which was very successful) ran at about 35% efficiency

because he was so stifled by the thought of making imperfect changes that by 2012 we were still using Dot Matrix printers and having staff hand-deliver hard-copy documents to each others’ desks instead of using email. It worked perfectly in 1995, and he didn’t want to take a chance that upgrades would be less than perfect. Imperfect 2012 technology may have helped his business more than perfect 1995 technology, but that was beside the point. The point, to him, was perfection. He was paralyzed by it.

I myself have never been a perfectionist. With most things in life, I’m a good-enough-ist. And it turns out there are books and articles and posts and etc. all about why this approach to life is just as problematic as perfectionism. I haven’t read these articles in-depth. I’ve read a few paragraphs and thought, “Okay, that’s good enough.” I’m not interested in perfectionism for myself, and I’m not really looking for perfectionism in others, either. But I am sometimes astounded by works that are one giant flaw away from perfection.

There is a podcast called “Heavyweight” in which the host, Jonathan Goldstein, helps people deal with problems they’ve had in their past. In the episode “Marchal” he discusses an incredible movie called Russian Ark, a 100-minute long movie that traces the history of Russia, and which was filmed, unbelievably, in one single, 100-minute long take.

The podcast delves into a four-second part of the movie in which an extra, a violin player in a ballroom scene, breaks the “4th wall” by staring into the camera. In the entire movie, it is the only instance where someone acknowledges the camera, and in fact is the only error in the entire production. Nobody forgot lines, nobody sneezed, nobody tripped, there were no on-set mishaps or lighting or costuming or prop mistakes. It all went perfectly. Except for those few seconds (visible in this clip at about the 9:35 mark). The podcast host, Jonathan Goldstein, is obsessed by this imperfection.

Similarly, I’m interested (certainly not obsessed) with artistic choices that seem to render an otherwise excellent effort, well, imperfect. At least two albums on my list, The Fine Art of Surfacing and Making Movies, have a clunker song that diminishes the album. I’d say “Revolution #9” does the same to The Beatles’ White Album, although “Don’t Pass Me By” and “Wild Honey Pie” are also rather weak[ref]Although, as frequently noted, it would still be a Top Ten album.[/ref], so it doesn’t really fit the “single blemish” idea.

I’m thinking of imperfections this week because one of the most egregious imperfections on my list of 100 Favorite Albums occurs on Maria McKee’s You Gotta Sin to Get Saved, and it occurs on the first song. When I heard the first song, I almost didn’t listen to the rest of the album, but I’m sure glad I (sort of) got over it! But first, let’s see how I got here.

Back in 1994, one of my all-time favorite movies was released: Pulp Fiction. It was funny, thrilling, shocking, dramatic … and it had an incredible soundtrack. Many of the songs were oldies by artists like Chuck Berry, The Statler Brothers and Dusty Springfield. I loved the movie, and I loved the music and I went out and got the CD. It became a favorite, and it played almost nonstop in our home. One of my favorite songs was by a woman whose name I’d never heard before: Maria McKee. It was a beautiful, heart aching performance of a sad song, written by the performer herself: “If Love Is a Red Dress (Hang Me in Rags).”

Somehow, I got the idea that Maria McKee was the singer for the lo-fi, Canadian alt-country band Cowboy Junkies. I went out and bought a CD by them and, while it was okay, the singer was not Maria McKee, but was Margo Timmins. Maria McKee had in fact been the leader and singer of the 80s alt-country band Lone Justice. When I got that sorted out, I went out and bought You Gotta Sin to Get Saved so I could hear more of McKee’s stylish, heartfelt vocals, like I heard on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. The first track disappointed me immediately.

I’m Gonna Soothe You” sounds over-produced and sappy, like some record executive’s effort to get “a hit” for a young artist by distilling her voice into simply well-sung notes and adding it to a style and format to which she’s unsuited, leaving out what makes the artist so great: her emotion and style and wild abandon. The song was written by McKee and her Lone Justice collaborator, Marvin Etzioni, with a third person, professional songwriter Bruce Brody. You can almost hear the deal being made: “Okay, you can make an album, but the first song has to be this song, and you have to let Brody add some panache to it!” (This style of wheeling and dealing is touched on in this European TV interview with McKee.) I almost stopped listening right then. I’m glad I didn’t.

The next song is her rendition of Van Morrison’s “My Lonely Sad Eyes,” and it sets things right from the first sung notes.

The simple acoustic riff and swirling organ set the table for McKee’s voice, which is powerful and direct. She’s not really “a belter,” in the style of, say Johnette Napolitano, from Concrete Blonde. McKee’s voice is a bit thinner. She’s more of a shouter, but she controls it really well. And more than that, she has a way of performing the songs that makes them connect with me. This song is a story of two people who both feel like they should have stayed together, and even though I don’t have a personal connection to the lyrical content, it still sounds moving.

Next up is “My Girlhood Among the Outlaws,” one of the best song titles ever.

It’s one of my favorites on the record. The album features Benmont Tench, from Tom Petty and the Hearbreakers, the guys from The Posies, and from The Jayhawks, and also members of McKee’s Lone Justice. I don’t know who plays on this song, but I do like the subtle electric guitar. At about 2:11, there’s also a nice guitar solo break. I love how the song builds through the first verse, then starts a second verse and builds to the wonderful chorus, about 1:06. The lyrics are personal, like all in McKee’s repertoire, and almost confessional. Here McKee claims she’d relive all her evil deeds if it brought her to this place. The song is dedicated to her Lone Justice band mates, so we know who the “outlaws” of the title refer to. She sings the song with great conviction.

She’s full of conviction, as well, in the Country swing of “Only Once,” a tale of giving up true love to pursue her passion for music.

However, the story is more complex than that, as by the end she reveals that she may have made the wrong choice. I’ve written before about my complex relationship with Country music, and this is the style of Country song I like. It’s got a sweet, twangy guitar throughout (check out that harmonic bend at 0:25!), some pedal steel thrown in, and a terrific walking bass line and backing vocals in the chorus (1:21). McKee really sells the songs she sings, connects completely with this listener.

She can do more than Country, as well. The stellar “I Forgive You” has a bit of a gospel feeling to it.

It’s the type of song that, if I’m in the right (wrong?) mood, could bring a tear to my eye. The backing vocals, the horns, and especially the lyrics, in which McKee acknowledges it’s a bad relationship for her, all help to create a sad scene. Even as the Greek Chorus of backing vocalists reminds her not to stand for abuse, McKee admits her man is a habit she can’t quit. The song slows down at appropriate times (2:40, 3:07) to build the emotion, and McKee delivers. Then the break at 3:34 sets the stage for McKee to improvise over swelling instruments and backing vocals. For me, this performance is so many miles beyond the opening track that it’s hard to believe it’s the same artist. Back when albums had two sides, this song was the classic Side 1 closer.

Even in McKee’s fun songs, there’s a sadness to the lyrics. “I Can’t Make It Alone” is a bouncy, pop gem with an infectious chorus and great harmonies. It has a nifty guitar solo and great drums, and yet the lyrics express the sadness of lost love. When she pulls out all the stops and puts her melancholy lyrics together with a mournful tune, as in the haunting “Precious Time,” about the lonely people around us, the effect is quite powerful. (I think of this song as a third-party reflection on the narrator in The Replacements’ song “Here Comes a Regular.”)

But whether doing her own songs or interpreting others’, as in her second Van Morrison song, the celebration of love “The Way Young Lovers Do,” it’s her voice that stars in the show. Check out what she does here.

The control she shows on a ranging melody, the scatting (1:37), the jazzy notes she finds beginning at 2:22 … it is a striking performance. And the band, particularly the bass and drums, is quite up to the task of supporting her. The song fades out, and I get the feeling they kept playing and singing for another 20 minutes. It’s this joy and excitement that was excised from Song 1.

On “Why Wasn’t I More Grateful (When Life Was Sweet),” McKee puts her voice to good use on a song that could’ve been a 60s Motown hit.

The band is smoking’ hot on this one: the guitar, the bass, the drums, the horns and keyboards. The backing vocals shine and there’s a terrific guitar solo at 2:50, too. I could imagine Al Green doing a version of this song of regret in 1971. But McKee doesn’t need anyone else to sing her songs: her voice is always up to the task. It astounds me that she’s not better known.

And maybe that’s the feeling the record company had when they got her to cut that first track: “We hafta get this voice out there in front of the public!” But the problem is, they put it to use on an over-produced pop song instead of letting that voice fly high, as it does on the wonderful album closer, “You Gotta Sin to Get Saved.”

It’s a fun, funny, singalong party number, in which McKee tells her longtime boyfriend not to worry about her wicked cheatin’, as it only means he’ll be able to save her later. It sounds as if it was recorded live, and you can feel the spirit, the life in the room of musicians. It’s a performance that connects with me, as the entire album does.

Except for that first song. This is an imperfect album. It came so close to perfection, but it wasn’t meant to be. That one imperfection says a lot about what it means to be a professional creative person, trying to balance art and commerce. There will come a time when you have to make compromises – you’ll have to put out a crappy pop song in order to release the music you want to release.

In other words, you gotta sin to get saved.

Track Listing:
“I’m Gonna Soothe You”
“My Lonely Sad Eyes”
“My Girlhood Among the Outlaws”
“Only Once”
“I Forgive You”
“I Can’t Make It Alone”
“Precious Time”
“The Way Young Lovers Do”
“Why Wasn’t I More Grateful (When Life Was Sweet)”
“You Gotta Sin to Get Saved”

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28th Favorite: Star, by Belly

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Star. Belly
1993, Sire Records. Producer: Belly, Tracy Chisholm and Gil Norton.
Purchased, 1993.

IN A NUTSHELL: Star, Belly’s debut record, sounds different enough to be interesting yet retains enough jangle and melody to stay hooked into mainstream rock. It’s truly a showcase for leader Tanya Donelly’s voice, with songs that allow her to vary between sweet purrs and powerful belts while harmonizing beautifully. Guitarist Thomas Gorman’s charming riffs stay in the background so the vocals can shine.

NOTE: The setup – below the line ↓ – might be the best part … Or skip right to the album discussion.
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Obsession. [uh b-sesh-uh n] Noun. The domination of one’s thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire, etc. (From Dictionary.com.)

I’ve heard stories, both troubling and hilarious, regarding individuals’ struggles with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, so I don’t want to minimize this awful disease by claiming my idiosyncrasies are symptoms of it. Also, I’ve had sufficient (mild) diagnosed disorders of my own, and so I don’t want to allege any maladies to which I don’t really have a claim. However, in the everyday vernacular used outside a clinical psychiatric setting, I can say without hesitation that I can get obsessed by things.

Foods, shows, writers … in almost any area of human endeavor I can at times find myself pursuing the same ancient, midbrain impulse that compelled my ancestors toward water and shelter instead directed solely on one more Kurt Vonnegut novel or another tube of Tangy Buffalo Wing-flavored Pringles. I can fixate for days at a time, accomplishing work duties and household tasks using some robot-like space in my cerebral cortex while any remaining mindpower is drawing plans for obtaining, building scenarios for experiencing, and reliving satisfactions I’ve received from well-written, deftly humorous pages, or crunching, savoring and fashioning-duckbills-from those unmistakeable potato-paste pressed chips.

Obsessions of this nature generally aren’t harmful, apart from inducing a series of unpleasant visits to the bathroom and a tongue that feels as though it’s been repeatedly scraped against a cheese grater. (In the case of the Pringles, not the Vonnegut.) The effects aren’t long-lasting and often the obsession isn’t, either. A few days after binging, I’ll usually find myself disinterested in what I once desperately craved, and the balloon of desire that once swelled to inhabit nearly every cranny within my consciousness will have burst and withered to a flaccid swath of plastic among all the disregarded and obscure ephemera of my past. Tangy Buffalo Wing Pringles? Did I really ever find these edible?

Some past obsessions leave me regretful, with painful memories. Girls from high school[ref]Here I use the term “obsession” in the puppy-love/crush sense of the word, not the psychotic stalker sense.[/ref], disgusting foods and time-wasting TV shows fall into these categories. Some leave me feeling wistful yet confused, as I’ll never again understand what I found so compelling about, for example, word-search puzzles. Others make me happy to recall, as I retain a bit of love for them, even if I no longer feel the magnetic pull they once imparted.

Some of my biggest obsessions have been with individual songs, and these past obsessions fall into all of the above categories. I’ve written many times about my childhood of music and record listening. I’ve been a music fan since I was really young, and I’ve gotten obsessed with many, many songs over the years. The earliest were cuts off my Havin’ Fun with Ernie and Bert record. But the first song I remember being truly obsessed with, and listening to over and over, was The Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields Forever,” which my sister had on a Beatles Greatest Hits (aka “The Blue Album”) 8-Track Tape.

It was sort of spooky sounding, with pinched, distorted vocals and instruments that sounded angular, watery and weird. The drums were somehow spooky, too, particularly throughout the choruses: mesmerizing and tribal. When they combined with the swooping orchestra it created a sound I’d never heard before. I listened as much as I could, which was easier to do – given my proximity to my sister’s 8-Track – than listening to some of the other songs I was obsessed with around that time. I didn’t have the records for Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke,” or E.L.O.’s “Mr. Blue Sky.” To hear these, I had to listen constantly to the radio, hoping some DJ would find the psychic wavelengths I was sending and answer by spinning the disc. At some point, my other sister recorded “Mr. Blue Sky” from the radio, so at least then I could sometimes sneak a listen. I still enjoy all of these songs, although I wouldn’t say I’m still obsessed.

My freshman year of high school coincided with the launch of MTV, so while I was a fan of heavy rock like Rush and Van Halen, and proggy art-rock like Yes, I spent lots of time watching MTV. And many of my song-obsessions were MTV-video-based. I got obsessed with dozens, I’m sure, the charms of which usually wore off quite quickly. But some have lingered as favorites.

MTV played songs I’d never hear on the radio, so I stayed glued to the screen for hours at a time to catch “Save It For Later,” the ska-tinged English Beat number, with its happy, bouncy beat offset against minor chords from the strings and Dave Wakeling’s distinctive vocal style. Most of the bands with songs I obsessed over were British. When you watched MTV, you had to watch at the top of the hour, as that’s when the VJs would announce, “Coming up this hour videos by Talk Talk and Roxy Music,” bands whose names were never mentioned on the radio stations that reached my antennae. I’d hope for “It’s My Life” and “More Than This,” two songs I couldn’t get enough of. Two songs that were far too weenie and soft and synthesizer-based to share with my hard-rock friends, so I kept my interest to myself. I also obsessed over an obscure single called “Bears” by the obscure metal band Zebra, one of the hair-band clones with a nuts-in-a-vice singer that were becoming popular in the mid-80s.

College was when I really got into The Beatles. I’d say I was obsessed with all of their songs and albums. But what I remember playing most of all was the album Abbey Road, particularly the Side Two medleys, beginning with “Because,” and ending with “Her Majesty.”

These aren’t songs that were played on the radio much, as they are short pieces that blend into others. You’d occasionally hear the Joe Cocker version of She Came In Through The Bathroom Window.” Every once in a while, if a DJ needed a smoke/bathroom break, you might catch the “Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight/The End” medley. But songs like “Polythene Pam” and “Mean Mr. Mustard” and “Because” were new to me. I practically wore out my Abbey Road cassette. Also during college, I went through a long stretch of playing the Led Zeppelin song “Fool In The Rain” every day. It’s a song I think is just fine today, but my fascination with it is akin to that of the Tangy Buffalo Wing Pringles: did I really need to hear it every day? Just after college, it was the Concrete Blonde song “Joey” that burrowed into and resided within me for several weeks. Johnette Napolitano’s voice, the shimmery, distorted guitar, the 60’s Phil Spector drums … I’m over it now, but I still like the song.

So many other songs triggered my faux OCD in the years after college. I’d regularly dive into a song and wallow there through five or ten plays, and dive in again the next day for weeks at a time. There were two on the Singles movie soundtrack, the first and longest-lasting (I’d say I’m still somewhat obsessed, although I don’t play it five times in a row anymore) is Chris Cornell’s solo piece “Seasons.”

It wasn’t just the voice – one of the best ever in rock, I’ve said – and it wasn’t just the acoustic strumming, and it wasn’t just the hazy lyrics. It was all of it together. I’d generally play it along with the epic Singles track “Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns” from the tragic band Mother Love Bone. Other songs that commandeered my senses during the 90s were “Regret,” from New Order, a band I’d always dismissed but who I grew to appreciate in my late 40s. Another soundtrack song that remains today one of my all-time favorite songs is from the ubiquitous 90s soundtrack to Pulp Fiction, Maria McKee’s beautiful “If Love Is A Red Dress.”

Since I’ve had kids, most of the songs I’ve become “obsessed” with are songs that my kids have loved. I guess you could say I was obsessed with The Wiggles and The Laurie Berkner Band in the early-to-mid 00s. Never the type of parent to roll my eyes at my kids’ music, I generally tried to get into it a little bit[ref]My son’s eventual dive into Odd Future and other weird shit was a bridge too far, however.[/ref], and tried to never mock it. So I found myself listening a million times to the songs they listened to a million times, which meant – perhaps – I did become a bit obsessed with, say, “That’s Not My Name,” by The Ting Tings.

I never loved Mika’s “Grace Kellyor Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe” as much as other songs on this list, but they are ingrained in my mind the same way as the others. However, they elicit fond memories of my kids’ childhoods as opposed to fond memories of time spent playing and re-playing them. I can’t really hear them without my mind flipping through an imaginary photo album of my two kids being goofy, funny, wonderful children.

So, you may ask, what’s this got to do with Belly’s record, Star? Well, I made my way to this album through a song I may have been most-obsessed with ever.

Tanya Donnelly, the singer/guitarist/leader of Belly, got her start in the successful 80s college-radio band The Throwing Muses, playing and singing alongside her stepsister, Kristin Hersh. Back in the early 90s I’d heard the band’s name many times. The morning DJs on my local Rock Radio Station at the time used the band as a punchline, incorporating it into lists (“… playing all your favorite rock, from bands like AC/DC, The Rolling Stones, Throwing Muses, Aerosmith …”) and fake giveaways (“… first place gets the latest Throwing Muses record; second place gets two Throwing Muses records …”). They were presented as some worthless, sissy, college band, unfit for the macho rock played on the 100,000 Watt Flamethrower, or whatever bullshit tagline marketing had thought up to appeal to the Monster Truck enthusiasts and squealing-guitar fans (myself included) who listened. But I never heard any of their songs.

That is, until 1991, when their album The Real Ramona was released, and I heard Donnelly’s composition “Not Too Soon” played at The Melody Bar, in New Brunswick, NJ. My band was playing there, and I was drunkenly dancing to Matt Pinfield’s DJ set after the show, and for some reason I heard the song and it immediately grabbed me. It’s the only CD single I’ve ever purchased.

A friend at the time who had some connections in the music industry pointed out to me that The Throwing Muses were “finally putting Tanya’s songs out there,” and said that he thought she was the more talented of the stepsisters. To this day I don’t know anything else about The Throwing Muses except for this song, so I can’t say whether his assessment was accurate. All I can say is that after playing this song a billion times, I was extremely ready to go out and get the first album by Donnelly’s new band[ref]She also played in Kim Deal’s band The Breeders for a while.[/ref] Belly. When Star was released, I bought it right away.

Belly was getting a lot of airplay from their lead single, the cool, jangly “Feed The Tree.” It’s a good entry point to the album, as it’s got most of everything the album has to offer, plus a super-catchy melody.

For me, the defining characteristic of Belly is Donelly’s voice. In this song, she transitions from gentle, through spirited to full-on belting while providing harmony vocals all throughout. The first two verses are rather quietly, but as she enters the second chorus (1:23) she sings more fully. I also like how she glides up and over the “me and feed” lyrics (1:41), adding an extra note. By the final chorus, at 2:37, she lets loose with a healthy belting voice. Thomas Gorman’s guitar in the song is also really cool, particularly the dripping riff during the first verse (0:26) and elsewhere, and the solo at 1:46 – recorded in an era when guitar solos were about as untrendy as spandex. Her lyrics are also rather Steely Dan-ish in that they tell stories using imagery and indirect phrases (“This little squirrel I used to be/Slammed her bike down the stairs/They put silver where her teeth had been/Baby silver tooth she grins and grins”) but yet still get across a story with feeling – even if you’re never sure what the story is.

A good example of her lyrical style is on the barn-burner “Slow Dog,” which seems to be about a dog that may have been hit by a car and so needs to be put down? According to Donelly, it’s actually about all the ways we punish ourselves. Either way, I sure love singing along to “Maria carry a rifle …”

Gorman’s guitar riff is angular and harsh, and his brother Chris’s drumbeat gives the song an urgency, then turns into a fast shuffle for the choruses. Donelly’s harmonies are really cool over the little guitar figures. It’s a driving song – meaning it’s always driving forward AND I like to listen while I drive. It’s a shout-along melody, with the fun “ah – ah” sections in the chorus. It’s another song that I could see myself being obsessed with, and one of my favorites on the record.

Another song in a similar vein – angular guitars, driving beat – is “Angel.”

This song, however, is much stranger, with starts and stops, and a minor key that gives the song a bit of an eerie sound. I like the guitar line throughout the song and also the harmony vocals. The lyrics are about as obscure as lyrics can get, although the line “I had bad dreams/so bad I threw my pillow away” is pretty cool. This is a record with many odd songs that somehow not only work well, but improve with every listen. “Low Red Moon” is a track that also has an eerie vibe, with Donelly’s sweet voice carrying long stretches (0:18 – 1:14) of empty space that’s afterward filled by pounding drums and shimmering organ, and her full voice. I’ve grown to love this track. “Sad Dress” is another odd one that’s grown on me, a song in 6/8 that bounces above a buzzing guitar. Donelly’s voice is the star, once again, although Tom Gorman does play a nice little solo. The lyrics could be about drug use? Date rape? Simply a bad date? Regardless, if you wish to chew off your foot to get out of a dress, something unhappy is going on.

One of my favorites on the record is a catchy, punchy number that takes a little while to get going. “Full Moon, Empty Heart” features Donelly’s beautiful voice for a minute, then takes off.

There’s a lot of cool guitar feedback and other sounds behind her voice, particularly during the chorus. The lyrics are, well, geez, I don’t know: out the window backwards. It’s an interesting little song that, once again, took a few listens to catch on with me. I think it’s a testament to the record that repeated listens reveal more to enjoy.

One song I’ve loved since I first heard it is the fun, sing-along number “Gepetto.”

The lyrics are all imagery and Pinocchio, with the line “That kid from the bad home came over my house again/Decapitated all my dolls” taking me back to the bullies I knew as a kid. The song has a great beat, and fun “sha-la-la” backing vocals. Belly and Donelly have a penchant for bouncy, fun songs, but they do throw in an aggressive tune once in a while. The ferocious “Dusted” is a good example. It’s short and direct (well, apart from lyrics that may be about a kidnapping?)

I really love the rockin’ and/or weird songs on the album. Some of the slower songs on the album don’t do much for me, although Donelly’s voice and strange arrangements always make things interesting. One gentler song I do love, however, is the ditty about strained relationships (perhaps with frogs and birds?) “Untogether.”

It’s just a simple acoustic guitar with a little steel guitar in the background, but her voice carries it. And the lyrics – once again, I’ll compare them to Donald Fagan’s Steely Dan lyrics – are inscrutable, yet presented as a narrative that the listener should clearly understand. I like how she does that throughout the record. “White Belly” is another slower song that has cool guitar, and once again leaves some empty space for guitar lines (about 1:53) and vocals (2:34) to fill in. Donelly’s voice is great because it can be both airy and powerful, sometimes in the space of a few measures.

The album closes with an entreaty to a significant other, or listener: “Stay.”

The wobbly guitar effects and 60s girl-group riff provide a platform on which the song can build, and it does so subtly and steadily. Donelly’s harmony vocals are outstanding as always, and new sounds are continually incorporated, including a guitar solo about 2:00 that sounds like a violin, and then (I’m pretty sure, though none is listed on the credits) and actual violin. I don’t know who Solomon is, but I’ve grown to love not knowing what her lyrics mean. By about 4 minutes, Donelly proclaims “it’s not time for me to go,” and whenever I listen to this record, this part always makes me want to start it again, back at the beginning.

Most of my obsessions start off intense, then fade away like like so much Tangy Buffalo Wing Pringle-dust in the wind. They’re never long-lasting, and they’re difficult to understand when they’re done. My love for Star is sort of the opposite. It took a little while for me get into the album, but there was always something about the songs and the voice that made me want to listen again. The more I listened, the more I loved it. It’s a different sort of obsession.

Track Listing:
Someone To Die For
Angel
Dusted
Every Word
Gepetto
Witch
Slow Dog
Low Red Moon
Feed The Tree
Full Moon, Empty Heart
White Belly
Untogether
Star
Sad Dress
Stay

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