Pantheon Songs

A really great pop song with little to no flaws truly is like finding a diamond with no flaws. They really are rare. All too often there is one glaring flaw in good pop songs: the vocals are off; the beat either isn’t great to begin with or it loses something during a shift or at a bridge; it’s either too short or too long—something causes it to not be rated as high as it should be. But when the stars align on a pop song and all facets of it are as close to perfect as you can get, it is intoxicating. It makes you believe that all is right in the world. It reaffirms your faith in art.

Obviously, this is all bordering on hyperbole but there is a definite nugget of truth at its core. It is the reason why The Beatles and Madonna will always be seen as legends. It is the reason why the genius of Pet Sounds will be extolled for as long as humanly possible. And the reason is: it is really fucking hard to write a truly great, nearly perfect pop song. Because pop, almost by default is seen with a suspicious eye. Pop oftentimes resides in the domain of the mindless and the disposable, so when something like “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” or “Like A Virgin” or “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” is released it stops us in our tracks. All of the proverbial stars have aligned—the sound, the image of the artists, the catchiness; it all conspires to make us re-think the paradigm of Pop.

Now, I am not trying to compare Alicia Keys to The Beatles or Madonna or The Beach Boys per se but I am saying that “No One” is as close to pop perfection as I have heard in the last twenty years. I dare say that it is the best pop song by a female artist since… well, I can’t mention it now because it will be the focus of a future post on this site. I will just leave it at that I think it is one of the best pop songs of the last twenty years.

“No One” is a communion of modern sound (the beats and the music sans piano is perfect and comprised of an organically flawless production value) and classical pop (the lyrics—whether intentional or not—read like an homage to the Phil Spector or Brill Building school of songwriting).

And then there are the vocals.

The late ’90′s ushered in an almost masturbatory use of sustained vocals, led by Britney Spears’ and Christina Aguilera’s oftentimes unnecessary desire to string a long an “ooh” or “oh” or “yeah” to a point that all you heard were hills and valleys worth of range that signified nothing. And even though Christina was capable of belting out some notes that smacked of genuine passion and purpose, the copycats had already diluted the pool in the ’00′s when it came to that particular talent. On “No One” Alicia Keys makes use of some vocal sustain but it all seems to be purposeful, like this song had a definite feeling in mind. I hate to make comparisons across musical generations and genres (especially when it involves icons) but Keys’ vocals on this track—so perfect, as they alternate between strong and frail—reminds me of Ronnie Spector. Or, more specifically, it makes me think that this is what Ronnie Spector would sound like if she were born forty years later. Their vocals are in no way identical, but the way that Spector and Keys are able to evoke a kind of desperation in their voice on “Be My Baby” and “No One” respectively does have its similarities.^[1]

It will be interesting to see what history will make of Alicia Keys, as she certainly has the talent, image, and demeanor to become an artist who stays relevant for years to come. (I can see her releasing albums at a consistent rate, fostering a solid base of fans, and finding an unexpected hit here and there over the next two or three decades.) As it pertains to the 2000′s as a decade, you would be forgiven if her name is not the first (or fifth or twelfth) name you think of when trying to assimilate the music of that decade to a particular artist. But if there are any Music Gods at all, “No One” will be a song that lives on for a while. Because, for all of the social and musical shifts that occurred in the previous decade, this song—a solid, no frills, un-glitzy classic—can certainly work as a metaphor for what our desires were during those ten years: a desire for stability, a desire for a classically simple love song in a time of Flavor Of Love and “fair and balanced news.”

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

[1] Again, they are not identical, but listen to how Spector’s vocals sound towards the end of “Be My Baby” and how Keys unleashes the “uh-uh-oh-oh-oh”s at the end of this song. Both have a raw power that any producer worth their salt would wish they could bottle up in reserves.

“I bet there’s rich folk eatin’ in a fancy dining car
They’re prob’ly drinkin’ coffee and smokin’ big cigars
But I know I had it comin’, I know I can’t be free
But those people keep a-movin’, and that’s what tortures me”

The total area of the United States is 3,794,101 square miles and almost every square mile of it has a history rooted in lawlessness and a freedom that would best be described as “free as in beer,” not “free as in free.” British convicts were sent here. One of the first things that white people did here was attack the Indians. Black people were enslaved. We went to war with Britain because we did not want to pay any taxes. We have always been a democracy, but we were also okay with class systems early on.

We are a country of pioneers eternally looking for something new, and when the West called us we blazed trails in droves. The settling of the American West—that wide open and lawless frontier of the 1800′s—might do a better job of describing the identity of the United States than its own Constitution or the Revolutionary or Civil War.

In my thirty two years of living on this earth I have been told that we are a country of gun-loving people. John Wayne, Sam Peckinpah, Dirty Harry, and all that jazz. Guns, our social narrative goes, are as American as baseball, apple pie, Wall Street, and a bald eagle. While I cannot refute our overall infatuation with guns, I will say that I think our admiration for them is mostly transparent. We think they’re cool, we think the idea of the Wild West is cool, but realistically no one wants to live in a society in which guns are constantly drawn and shootouts occurring on the street or in abandoned warehouses are commonplace. We like to watch Dirty Harry beat down punks, and we’d like to sound and look like him but we don’t want to be the one in charge of beatdowns and discharging lethal justice.

I mention all of this because “Folsom Prison Blues” is rooted in things that make up the American fabric (and mythology): the West, guns, class systems, justice, and repentance. The lyrics quoted above capture all of these things perfectly. The narrator “shot a man in Reno just to watch him die” and now he is haunted by the fact that all of those people inside the cars of the nearby train are moving on with their lives and he never will. And to help him deal with it all he envisions them all as being rich; people who could never understand the man’s motives and how he arrived into this world.

Musically, “Folsom Prison Blues” is a tour de force. The stand-up bass provides the anchoring, the drums have a sort of train mimicry going on with its time measurements, and Johnny Cash’s simple yet powerful guitar picking during the breaks are nothing short of attention-grabbing.

Visually, Johnny Cash embodies that particular type of recklessness that America worships to some degree: a recklessness that lies at the midpoint between charming and severe. Cash always wore black—his nickname being “The Man In Black”; he embraced performing at prisons; he looked like a guy who could be a corrupt sheriff of some Texas border town; he was unbelievably blunt in interviews; he took copious amounts of drugs in his youth. He was Outlaw personified.

Now, when it comes to the Pantheon Johnny Cash automatically gets his own space. But which song best defines him? Obviously, anyone could make a case for “Ring Of Fire” or “I Walk The Line” or his cover of Nine Inch Nail’s “Hurt” as being the song that represents him the best.^[1] My reasoning for selecting “Folsom Prison Blues” lies with the lyrics above. Those lyrics could have been words taken from a story by Twain, Melville, Whitman, Faulkner, or Cather. They are thoroughly American, right down to our desire to always want the villain to apologize so that he can begin his journey to tragic hero.

Johnny Cash was 23 when he recorded “Folsom Prison Blues.” It was the second single he ever released and it was his first hit. Throughout his career, this song was his signature to end his live shows. The combination of prison and train elements in the lyrics of this song would go on to define his career both musically and in terms of image.

Artists like Elvis and Bob Dylan and James Brown: those are people we wish we could be; Johnny Cash is who we are. And if you need any proof just look at the picture of him above and try to think of any other picture of a rock star that better encapsulates America.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

[1] As much as I love his version of “Hurt,” and as much as I get chills every time I watch the video for it, I couldn’t realistically select a song he did during the 2000′s when so much of his legacy and image is tied to his music produced in the ’50′s.

The history of modern music has its fair share of giants—men and women who redefined the power of music, pushed the envelope, or became the first to modify established theories of what constitutes a proper single or an album. Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Ray Charles, Paul McCartney, Elvis Presley, Diana Ross, John Lennon, and Bo Diddley are just a handful of examples. In my mind, one of the most overlooked giants of modern music is Carl Perkins.

Perkins grew up dirt poor in Tiptonville, Tennessee but, luckily for us, he had access to listen to the broadcasts of Roy Acuff and The Grand Ole Opry. He wound up making his own guitar as a kid and he eventually wrote and produced one of the most iconic American songs ever made, “Blue Suede Shoes.” Most people know Carl Perkins as the writer of “Blue Suede Shoes” and as one of the reasons why (Sun Records founder and producer) Sam Phillips sold Elvis Presley’s contract to RCA for $35,000 in 1955.^[1] Elvis would eventually record his own version of “Shoes” but in my opinion Perkins’ version is head and shoulders above everyone else’s version; it thoroughly murders Presley’s cover.

I believe “Blue Suede Shoes” is an indescribably important and fantastic song but to me Perkins’ masterpiece is “Dixie Fried”, a song so perfect and energetic that it is by itself ample reason as to why Carl Perkins was known as “The King of Rockabilly.” And it also is one of the greatest songs to be recorded in Memphis during the ’50′s in general.

Above everything else, for art to really matter—for its audience to care at all about it—it must always be entertaining. Always. Whether you are someone who enjoys hip hop, death metal, ethereal soundscapes, classical music, or plain old pop, the songs that you love had to reach you at some basic level when you first listened to it. You have to be entertained by them. “Dixie Fried” is entertainment par excellence. It is two minutes and twenty seven seconds of rockabilly perfection.

Is this song dated? Sure. Will you like this song if you do not listen to (or like) old country or rockabilly? Probably not. But if it connects with you on any level at all, you will probably be hooked on it. Musically and lyrically, “Dixie Fried” is all about elasticity—the desire and the ability of Carl Perkins to bend and twist and expand the limits of rockabilly in under two and a half minutes.

“Dixie Fried” starts out with a guitar intro before shifting into a rhythm anchored by a da-da-da-dum piano sprinkling and a solid and steady drum beat. Perkins’ vocals range from standard fare rockabilly to local slang and accent to wild vocalizations that almost rise to the level of over the top (but it never reaches it). Just listen to the first set of lyrics—they look like:

“Well, on the outskirts of town, there’s a little night spot
Dan dropped in about five o’clock
Pulled off his coat, said ‘The night is short’
He reached in his pocket and he flashed a quart”

But Perkins sings them with a mastery that bleeds and feels like (and encompasses) ’50′s Memphis. Listen to how he strings along the “well” and coolly melts in to the rest of the lyric. Or how “quart” is sung like “KWAUGHT.” Listen to how he effortlessly breaks out rockabilly solos on his guitar with an energy that can practically project the image for you of kids dancing around a jukebox with unabashed youthfulness.

History dictates that Sam Phillips made the wrong deal. His decision to sell Elvis’s contract is the music equivalent of the Red Sox trading Babe Ruth, or the Cubs trading Lou Brock. But when you hear “Dixie Fried”^[2] and you allow yourself to let it live inside of you, you can’t really blame Phillips for taking that chance.

This is one of the ten greatest songs ever made.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

[1] First and foremost, Phillips sold Elvis’s contract to alleviate some financial stress that the studio was going through. But he also used some of that money to better promote Perkins after his first singles were cut.

[2] Or the original “Blue Suede Shoes,” or “Matchbox”

To people who never grew up in the ’50′s (or even came close to it) that decade seems like it could be best summarized by: sock hops, going steady, music that will make you sing into your hairbrush, racism, the birth of Suburbia, and an unreasonable amount of obedience and domesticity being expected out of women. It was a time that was largely irony-free. As a result of this, the film, television, and music of that decade were mostly cheery and smelled and tasted like bubble gum. If you wanted to see or hear art that went against the sign of its time the ’50′s will almost always let you down in terms of mainstream art.

Enter Sonny Burgess.

To be sure, Burgess was not a huge game-changer; he was not an equivalent of Elvis, or a precursor to Dylan or Lennon or anything like that. What he did was produce some of the most raucous and energetic rockabilly and boogie woogie music of the ’50′s (i.e.–the nascent years of Rock ‘N’ Roll). Now I know what you’re thinking: “energetic rockabilly music” sounds about as cool as a sock hop, or hanging out with Betty Sue at the diner hoping that the star high school QB will come over and give you his jacket.

Many of you probably do not know who Sonny Burgess is (he’s the guy with the guitar wearing the dark suit in the picture above). Many of you probably have never heard the song “We Wanna Boogie” either. This song, to my knowledge, has never made an appearance on any noteworthy soundtrack or has ever been used in a popular ad campaign. Nonetheless, it is a song that should be properly introduced, as it is not only one of the best songs to have been produced in the Sun Records studio but it also contains one of the best guitar solos of the ’50′s (and could possibly even crack the top 50 of Most Underrated Guitar Solos of All Time list).

If you are reading this you are most likely a person who has grown up believing two things: 1) that Eddie Van Halen, Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page, Pete Townshend, or Eric Clapton are the archetype images of what a lead guitarist should look (and sound like), and 2) that the rock music of the ’50′s is hopelessly uncool and has aged poorly. “We Wanna Boogie” not only still holds up well (all things considered) but it also so raw and so raucous (for the time) that one can almost see why some parents were afraid of rock and the social changes it was bringing about.

“We Wanna Boogie” starts off innocently enough as a straight-up boogie woogie track with an emphasis on the piano and a horn, all while Burgess’s vocals sound like a guy trying to sing while facially imitating Groucho Marx.

And then it happens.

At the 1:25 mark, a guitar solo breaks out and for the next 25 seconds you hear a slew of screams and yells in the background to accompany it. The solo itself is surprisingly full-bodied and jagged, and not tinny and careful like many other “solos” of this era. If you were to put yourself in the mindset of someone hearing this song for the first time in 1956 this could have been as incendiary as Elvis’ appearance on the The Ed Sullivan Show that same year. Rock has always been founded on movement and rhythm and guitars and “We Wanna Boogie” never deprives the listener of these three things.

This song may sound really dated to some: the vocals might be too much of an obstacle, the horns an outdated relic, and maybe the overall song is too boring. And that’s fine. But inside that guitar solo (and even the escalating drums towards the end of the song) you will find some great rock roots amongst the heavy rockabilly and boogie influences.

By the time “We Wanna Boogie” was released in 1956 Sun Records had already seen Elvis, Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis walk through its doors and cut singles and achieve huge success. And while you may have never heard of Sonny Burgess or this song, it is pretty telling that on a reissued best of rockabilly CD Sun put this song as the first track to start things off.

This is one of the best songs from when Sun Records was at the height of their Zeitgeist that most people have probably never heard.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

The conversation of Woodstock vs. Monterey Pop Festival is, to many people, not even a debate. Woodstock wins. It stands over Monterey like Ali over Sonny Liston.

Woodstock was bigger, more important in the overall scheme of things. Woodstock was like Star Wars: ahead of its time, huge in scope, and containing a message that future generations will never have a problem understanding. Woodstock is East, Monterey is West; in almost all things media- (and history-) related the East wins out.

But the Monterey Pop Festival was significant. It might not roll off the tongue like Woodstock. It might not have the famous documentary but it was a huge event within the history of modern rock. Organized in part by John Phillips of The Mamas & The Papas, the Monterey Pop Festival was an ambitious three day event that famously debuted The Who to an American public, as well as being the first real debuts of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin.

Another significant part of Monterey’s legacy is that this show introduced the world to Otis Redding.

By the time Otis Redding took the stage in Monterey in 1967 he was already known by other artists and by Southern black audiences. He released Otis Blue in 1965 and from this album Aretha Franklin took the song “Respect” and turned it into her own huge hit. But this performance catapulted him to a wider (and whiter) mainstream audience. Redding’s stage presence and energy made him one of the most talked about performers of the festival and, realistically, if Jimi Hendrix hadn’t announced himself with such an otherworldly performance (shocking the crowd with his skills, simulating having sex with his guitar, setting fire to his guitar) it is likely that Redding would have stole the entire show.

Despite all this, though, Otis Redding is most known for one thing, one song.

Released less than a month after his death and recorded three days before he died, “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay” was the first posthumous single to ever hit #1 on a U.S. music chart. It not only cemented the legacy of Otis Redding but it (unintentionally) adds another dimension to the argument that death is sometimes the best thing that can happen to a musician.

The music of Otis Redding is one that was born out two seemingly mutually exclusive influences: gospel music and Little Richard. In reality, these two voices and styles aren’t terribly different—gospel has more soul than rock and roll, Little Richard had more rock and roll than soul. When Redding was a child his family moved to Macon, Georgia, which was also the home of Little Richard. He once said of Little Richard, “If it hadn’t been for Little Richard, I would not be here. I entered the music business because of Richard—he is my inspiration. I used to sing like Little Richard, his rock ‘n’ roll stuff, you know. Richard has soul, too. My present music has a lot of him in it.” Though Redding never sang as wild as Richard he had a definite handle on how to command an audience (the crowd at Monterey was taken by his polished look, gregariousness,^[1] smile, and of course singing ability).

Redding’s studio music was powerful, soulful, and authoritative^[2] and usually backed by Booker T. & the M.G.’s, who to this day are highly revered musicians. Which leads me back to “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay.” This song is so mellow and gorgeous, and it shows Redding embarking on a different direction of soul—one that was infused with more down-to-earth (and personal) narrative elements. There are some songs that are so perfect that I find it impossible for anyone who considers themselves to be a fan of music to not like. This is one of those songs. If the waves—the literal ones in the background and the elemental ones that the bass guitar creates—and Redding’s voice don’t connect with you in some positive manner then I don’t know what to tell you.

Here’s the $1 million question: is this song great because Redding died right before recording it, or is it great regardless of the circumstances that unfolded?

Unlike Morrison or Joplin or Lennon (or even Cobain), the last thing that Otis Redding recorded was his masterpiece. When all of the other pop/rock icons died they did not leave behind a great, finished track let alone an above average track that made you think of them differently.^[3] If Otis Redding had lived to be 50 years old would “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay” have reached #1 on any charts? Maybe not. But I believe it would have still be an iconic song, a once-in-a-lifetime song that would have still acted as an inspiration to countless artists down the line.

We will never know what would have become of Otis Redding had he not died in a plane crash in a lake in Madison, Wisconsin. What we do know is that before he died he recorded this song and it resonated at a powerful clip.

At the end of the day, Otis Redding will always be overshadowed by James Brown and Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield—just like the Monterey Pop Festival will always be overshadowed by Woodstock. But no matter who you put above Redding on an all-time greatest list, none of those artists could have ever produced something as soft and timeless and perfect as this song.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

[1] “So this is the love crowd?” Redding famously said to the audience.

[2] Just listen to “Ole Man Trouble,” the opening track of Otis Blue as an example.

[3] You could maybe make the argument that “L.A. Woman” and “Riders On The Storm”—released three months before Morrison’s death—are an exception, but I would maintain that “Light My Fire,” “Break On Through (To The Other Side)” and “The End” capture Morrison’s essence and mythology better.

Try to imagine that you have never heard the Talking Heads’ cover of “Take Me To The River” by Al Green.^[1] And, if possible, try to imagine that you have no idea what a) lead singer David Byrne looks like and b) what his voice sounds like. Now pretend that you have no idea that Talking Heads are comprised of three white dudes and a white girl. Finally, pretend that it is 1978 and I have just told you that this band from New York—some “new wave” type band called Talking Heads, consisting of four white people and an Anglo-French producer (Brian Eno)—has just recorded a cover of Al Green’s “Take Me To The River.”

Your normal guesses before you heard the song would have most likely fallen into one of the three categories. Category One: “This song will most certainly not be good. How could a band of white kids possibly cover Al Green?” Category Two: “This song might be good, but it will probably deface Green’s version in some way.” Category Three: “Why are you even asking me this question? Charlie’s Angels starts in a half an hour. Get away from me.”

Not only is this version of “Take Me To The River” a phenomenal cover, both in terms of a rock group covering an R&B song and of production value, but this song is arguably one of the ten best covers of all time. And it was done by four people who possessed varying degrees of dorky-looking qualities covering a guy who had one of the smoothest voices and presence of his time.

Like countless bands before them Talking Heads are defined to the casual music fan by their frontman, the face of the band, which in this case is David Byrne—a guy whose arsenal of vocalizations, combined with his overall lanky-ness, all conspired to make him into a kind of updated, un-dixie fried version of Carl Perkins. Byrne, like many other musicians, was perfect for and benefited greatly from MTV. The video for “Once In A Lifetime” was like the music video equivalent of Ulysses or the Pop Art movement in terms of its creativity. The song was memorable and catchy to begin with; add the video with its indelible images of Byrne acting like a precursor to Cosmo Kramer and you have an early blueprint for how the fertile landscape of videos would eventually evolve into.^[2] (You will also notice that no other band member is in this video.)

Byrne may have been the face of the band and his vocals on “Take Me To The River” are nothing short of outstanding but this song is the consummate example of every member in a band playing in perfect harmony. “Take Me To The River” starts out slow and remains slow until the wonderful and tornadic flourish kicks in and ends the song. But its slow tempo is perfectly executed. Chris Frantz’s drums plod beautifully; Tina Weymouth’s bass lines are crisp and deep; Jerry Harrison’s work with the organ and synthesizer exist within two wonderful spheres: as subdued texture (including the playful melody in the middle of the song) and then a large whirlwind of sound when called upon towards the end—both executions being all the proof you need that electronic keyboards can breathe great life into a song.

Talking Heads would continue to produce some great singles (the aforementioned “Once In A Lifetime,” “Life During Wartime,” “Stay Up Late,” “And She Was” and “Burning Down The House”), a genre-redefining concert documentary (Stop Making Sense), and a critically acclaimed album (Remain In Light) before finally disbanding in the late ’80′s.

They were a band that, when all was said and done, had dipped their fingers in damn near every genre of music. To listen to their studio catalog from beginning to end is an exercise in chameleonism. But it is the simplicity of “Take Me To The River” that is the band’s crown jewel. It not only exists in its own atmosphere in terms of greatest cover songs ever recorded, but it also acts as a great bridge between the late ’70′s CBGG/New York rock and the higher production, synth-pop driven music that would help define the early ’80′s.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

[1] And if you have not heard this song before in the first place (or know who Talking Heads or Al Green are), I’ll just chalk it up to “I’m old, you’re young.”

[2] For anyone who is reading this who is under the age of 25, it is truly impossible to put into words how culturally significant MTV was at one point. Seeing certain music videos for the first time was like an event on par with JFK’s assassination and Nixon’s resignation.

“They’re not the best at what they do, they are the only ones who do what they do.” — famous quote from Bill Graham, concert promoter, operator of the Fillmore West, Fillmore East, and Winterland venues, trying to describe The Grateful Dead.

The Grateful Dead are one of the most polarizing bands in the history of rock. (If they do not claim the top spot in your book it is probably fair to assume that they at least crack the top five.)

If you strip everything away about them, they are a band that: a) has never had a singer with a polished voice, and b) is best known for their live performances (and the atmosphere that encompasses their shows). To the cynical person, The Grateful Dead are nothing more than an untalented band whose lifeblood is a blind adoration from countless kids and adults who inhale (or ingest) copious amounts of drugs. To a devoted fan, the Dead are “an experience” and makers of music rich in its own mythology. Some people will even tell you that what the Dead wrote says more about America than anything than guys like Springsteen or Mellencamp or Dylan could have ever written. Where you sit in this debate—even if you are apathetic or neutral—is of no real matter.

And that is because, probably more so than any other band, The Grateful Dead are a mirror. To their fans, the Dead reflect an idea of easygoingness combined with community; a place where the softer spoken (and sometimes perpetually squinty and red-eyed) outcasts can fit in. To a lot of other people, the Dead reflect an image of a series of feelings brought on by an intangible irritation (as only a dogmatic stereotype can produce). What I mean is: to the Dead Head haters, The Grateful Dead are seen as something that should have never lasted in the first place. The Dead should have gone the way of all of those other Counterculture era bands who never sniffed success after the heaviness of the ’70′s set in. For every one person who says “You know, you may like this live version of ‘El Paso.’ You should give it a listen,” there are probably a hundred who thought that Jerry Garcia transcended the word overrated, or that a dancing tie-dye bear is a symbol of indefensible taste. These are also the same people who may flinch when the words ‘jam band’ is used in any context.

Bottom line: trying to sell The Grateful Dead can be an extremely tough sell.

And I am not trying to sell them here per se, but it would be foolish and close-minded to claim that The Grateful Dead have no place in the Pantheon. (Just as it would be foolish to think that N.W.A. or Public Enemy has no place in the Pantheon, even if you do not like rap or hip hop.) Their longevity and amazing ability to cultivate and connect to a wide audience aside, the Dead did produce two noteworthy and very good albums (The Grateful Dead and Workingman’s Dead) as well as a no questions asked masterpiece (American Beauty), and from that masterpiece a truly perfect and beautiful song—“Ripple”.

Most Dead haters, I think, have an image burned into their head of a band that always played thirty minute tracks and were always in Jam Band Mode. While it is true that the Dead performed sitcom-length live versions of “Dark Star” and “Playing In The Band”^[1] from time to time, they were, during the early ’70′s, a legitimately solid band that made some great music. American Beauty is probably the lone Dead album that non-Dead Heads could enjoy with relative ease. If nothing else, it is the album that could be described as “the one with ‘Truckin” on it.”

“Ripple” is the opening track of side two, and it is quite possibly the most beautiful song I have ever heard this side of “Blackbird” by The Beatles, “Sweet Thing” by Van Morrison, and Neko Case’s “John Saw That Number.” To say that the music of “Ripple” is pitch perfect would be an understatement: from the beginning chord that is strummed from Jerry Garcia to the light skipping of Mickey Hart’s drums to Phil Lesh’s anchoring bass to the chorus of uplifting “la la la”s, this is a song that is so wonderfully layered and crafted it could be used as a soundtrack to just about anything, ranging from the shiniest of days on the beach to the memory of someone at a funeral.^[2]

Lyrically, this track is brilliant: its philosophical and spiritual tone is never over-reaching or winking. Sometimes the most poignant words are the ones written when absolutely no one is looking for them or paying attention to them. Written by Robert Hunter during a night of very heavy drinking by himself, “Ripple” was not born out of an orthodox desire to find spiritual truth or answers. It was born out of the thoughts of a flawed but creatvie mind (and those are usually the best and most resonating thoughts).

“Ripple” ends with the lyrics,

“You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall you fall alone
If you should stand, then who’s to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home”

The last line, to me, perfectly encompasses everything about Jerry Garcia: if you love him, this lyric reinforces that emotion; if you cannot stand him, this lyric reinforces your disdain for him. Again, all of it—the band, their music, this song—is pretty polarizing. Few people ever get in to heated conversations about their dislike of Bruce Springsteen or Counting Crows (or Lady Gaga).

But then again, they are not mirrors either.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

[1] As well as uninterrupted, police procedural-length medleys like “Turn On Your Love Light/Goin’ Down The Road Feeling Bad/One More Saturday Night.”

[2] Or, as a way to convey self-discovery like the indescribably great final scenes of the Freaks and Geeks series finale with Lindsey leaving home for a couple of weeks during the summer, and getting picked up by her new friends.

From a music standpoint, every decade can be split into two very diverse parts. Most of the time this split occurs at the midpoint of the decade. For instance, the’70′s: the first half containing prog rock, concept albums, and a new lionization of the songwriter; the second half containing punk, disco, and the early roots of rap. The same thing happened with the ’60′s too: 1964 saw the debut albums by The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks, and The Animals, as well as being the year in which The Beatles got high for the first time—these things drastically altered the rest of the decade and pretty much eradicated the bubble gum pop and symphony-backed music of the early ’60′s.

The ’90′s split occurred either in 1994 (the death of Kurt Cobain, which abruptly stunted the directions that radio and MTV were going in w/r/t “alternative” music) or in 1996 (the deregulation of radio, which caused the proliferation of vanilla rock like Matchbox 20 and Sheryll Crow and The Wallflowers and their progeny to explode for years to come)^[1], depending on how you choose to look at it. To some, saying that the death of Kurt Cobain was a defining moment of the decade is a hard pill to swallow because it suggests—however subconsciously—that Cobain is on par with Hendrix, Lennon, or Joplin in terms of significant cultural deaths of musicians, and this makes some people irritable.

Whatever your thoughts are about Cobain as a musician (or Nirvana as a band) the live version of “All Apologies” from Nirvana‘s Unplugged performance is on the short list of the most defining songs of the ’90′s.

The early ’90′s was extraordinarily fertile in terms of music. From 1991-1994 you had a debut album (Ten) that ranks right up there with Are You Experienced? in terms of most polished debuts, you had an album that single-handedly killed entire genres of music (Nevermind), and you had a set of diverse albums from a range of established artists that were jaw-dropping in their execution (Automatic For The People, Achtung Baby, Loveless, The Downward Spiral, and Eric Clapton’s and 10,000 Maniacs’ Unplugged albums), to say nothing of all of the wonderful debuts and sophomore efforts by a wide range of indie and rap artists.

On November 18, 1993 Nirvana recorded their Unplugged performance^[2] and the show aired less than a month later on December 14. Their performance ran counter to almost every other show before it: rather than perform a set of greatest hits and familiar songs (or familiar covers), Nirvana performed six rarely heard covers, three songs in collaboration with (and covers of) The Meat Puppets, and two songs from their own catalog that could best be described as “Oh yeah, I forgot about those songs.”^[3]

But for all of the unexpected treasures Nirvana brought to its live and delayed audience, “All Apologies” is not only the most emblematic song of that set but it is also in many ways emblematic of the generation that watched that performance, that bought Nirvana’s albums, that believed that the new school of music would blossom into our own Beatles and Stones and Hendrix. Was it naive? Absolutely. But as Cobain sat in his chair that night, wearing his woolly and tattered-looking sweater jacket, sitting next to the awkwardly tall Krist Novoselic and the unusually calm Dave Grohl and Lori Goldston with her perfectly gloomy cello, surrounded by black candles and flowers, you were able to catch a glimpse of a band that was—albeit temporarily—shunning its bread and butter. Nirvana was supposed to be about raw power and yelling and simple chords, a new, better hybridized version of The Stooges, Cheap Trick, and Sonic Youth.

Instead, we were treated to a cover of “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me For A Sunbeam” complete with Novoselic playing accordion. And it fucking worked.

But the legacy of that live performance and of the band in general will always be the Unplugged version of “All Apologies.” Within two years, the band had gone from the high decibel cryptic angst of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” to a gentle, haunting show-stopper performance of a song that most people probably did not care too much about when they first heard it on In Utero.

Would Nirvana have made great albums if Cobain had not killed himself? Who knows and who cares. This version of “All Apologies” showed that the band had a much bigger musical soul than we previously knew. It is a fitting recessional not only for the band but also for the fertility of early ’90′s music as a whole.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

[1] The deregulation of radio was also a tipping point for the emergence of boy bands and bands like Limp Bizkit and Blink 182, which I will affectionately refer to as corporate frat rock.

[2] In one take.

[3] “About A Girl” and “On A Plain.”

With all due respect to James Brown and Otis Redding (or any other soul singer that you may put on high ground), one of the all-time greatest live performances of a soul song belongs to Sam Cooke. You may not realize this but it is true. And you may not realize this because the seminal live soul recording in question that I am referring to—which resides on the album Live At The Harlem Square Club, 1963—is a recording that most people seem to be unaware of. (Whereas James Brown’s Live At The Apollo Theater 1962 and Redding’s Live In Europe are a bit more known and popular amongst casual music fans.)

The fact that a Sam Cooke live recording would go relatively unnoticed is not without its irony, as Cooke seems destined to become more and more forgotten as time goes by. All Sam Cooke ever did was legitimize soul as a genre, and he helped popularize it for a mainstream audience that maybe never attended a raucous, small town Southern church setting.

Cooke was killed in December 1964 by Bertha Franklin, who shot him in self-defense (she said he was threatening her). This means that he never had the chance to self-promote himself like James Brown did, and that he did not get the opportunity to maybe fall into the Monterrey Pop Festival like Redding did and strike a chord with a large, diverse audience. And because he died so young there was no ability to craft a legacy.

I cannot possibly carry the torch for Cooke’s legacy but I do want to make a proclamation and I want to make it very clearly: if you describe yourself as someone who loves music (i.e.–a notch or several notches above “casual music fan”), if you sometimes crave the feeling that a truly great song can attach to your ears and brain, the live version of “Bring It On Home To Me” is 100%, no questions asked required listening if you have never heard it. (I am guessing that if you are reading this, you have not heard it before. If you have heard it before I think you know what I am talking about.)

The live performance of this song is set up as such that the song does not truly begin until around 2:45 mark. Cooke starts the song off with a quasi-medley/spoken word intro with lines like “Sometimes me and my baby, we fuss and fight” and “‘Who is this?’/'This is the operator’/'I don’t want you operator, I want my baby!’” But once the song hits its final gear, you hear not only how great Cooke’s voice was but you also witness just how great his command was of the audience.

At around the 4 minute 45 second mark Cooke gets the audience to chant “yeah” and the way that everyone joins in on it is nothing short of goose bump-inducing. And the fact that you can clearly hear a woman scream too quickly when it comes time for the second go-round is just a perfect and non-manufactured touch that proves how on he was that night in 1963.

The best live songs are ones that, when you listen to them, you have the feeling that you wish that you could have been there while it was happening. If the live version of “Bring It On Home To Me” does not make you wish that you could have been there (or, at the very least, make you turn up the volume or move your feet or sway your head, or something) then I don’t know what to tell you. To me, this is a hell of a live performance—it is not only one of the best live songs I have ever heard, but it is also an amazing single song portrait of someone who is quite possibly the most overlooked singer in modern music.^[1]

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

[1] I would be remiss if I did not mention the music of this performance. The studio version of “Bring It On Home To Me” is polished and kind of pristine; the live version has a much looser vibe and an energy that is completely infectious (even the medley/spoken word intro isn’t half-assed; it demands attention). Albert Gardner on the drums, Clifton White and Cornell Dupree on guitars, and King Curtis on saxophone, they all combine to create a wonderful and moving foundation for which Sam Cooke can take to another level with his strong, booming voice. While the focus of the song will inevitably fall on to Cooke’s vocals, the music here is really terrific and definitely worth a lot of praise.

Even if you describe yourself as a Bob Marley & The Wailers fan there is a decent chance that you do not own the album Natty Dread. And if you do own the album there is a good chance you own it solely because of the song “No Woman, No Cry.” Natty Dread was released on October 25, 1974. Two hundred and sixty six days later at The Lyceum Theatre in London, Bob Marley & The Wailers performed a two-day concert that would be released on December 5, 1975 as the live album Live! If you are a Bob Marley fan there is a very good chance you own this live album, and you own it most likely because of the live version of “No Woman, No Cry”. Furthermore, even if you are not a fan of Bob Marley specifically—or reggae in general—there is a very good chance that you like/love this song.

The live version of “No Woman, No Cry” is a mellow summertime masterpiece^[1]: the bass drum is heavy and spaced out like heartbeats, the rest of the percussion is lighter and even carefree, the organ is smooth and upfront but never overpowering, and the early chants of “no woman, no cry” from the crowd as they try to anticipate when Marley will begin singing; all of it conspires to create both a wonderful airiness and, especially in the case of the crowd singing, a small sense that you can somehow feel as though you are there.

To be sure, there is an irony here in describing this song as a summertime masterpiece that has a wonderful airiness, and that is: “No Woman, No Cry” is rooted mostly in sadness. But it is easily on the short list of most beautiful sad songs ever. Almost exactly midway through “No Woman, No Cry” there is a chorus of “everything’s gonna be alright” and it coincides with the music becoming a little more upbeat and the crowd cheering a little bit louder. Not very many songs with that chorus would elicit cheers but it is not a typical song and Bob Marley was not a typical musician.

The history of rock has its fair share of icons by which you can connect definite dots across in order for the story to unfold—a top level that includes Elvis, Mick, John, Paul, Chuck, Jimi, etc. But Marley was different. He was not born in the U.S. or the U.K. His first singles never included a Chuck Berry cover. His music, to a casual fan, was not directly born out of country, blues, or R&B. Instead, he was born in Jamaica, became a member of the Rastafari, and collaborated briefly with Lee “Scratch” Perry. One could say that Bob Marley became an international star because of his music first and his image second, which is to some degree in contrast to how some of the other icons achieved their immortality^[2]. (I.e.–it took 8 years after their debut for Marley and The Wailers to break through on to the world stage; the aforementioned artists did not encounter anywhere near the same amount of delay in reaching their iconic status.)

It is important to note Marley’s international success (and the non-traditional way he achieved it) because every subsequent musician who was not born in the U.S. or the U.K. would love to emulate him, regardless of whether or not they play reggae music. What I mean is this: it makes sense why guys like Elvis, and John and Paul, and Jimi (and Jimmy), and Mick became Icons on a worldwide stage—they were in their own respects blessed with great talent, a great look, and great timing. Their music—as it was being produced—was being viewed as timeless because of the style of music that they were performing. The Beatles, Elvis, the Stones, Zeppelin: they were all making music that was fundamentally accepted by most people as being important.

On the other hand, you have Bob Marley, a reggae musician whose popularity was in many ways tied to the fact that he was not American or British, and he was not singing about social or political things that were U.S.- or U.K.-centric. When Marley sang about politics or freedom from force, the inspiration to write about those things might have been similar to how a musician from the U.S. got their inspiration to write a song about Nixon or dictators (or whatever). The difference, though, is that a Bob Marley song will always resonate on a different wavelength. To someone living in Africa or South America, a Bob Marley song will almost always be more accepted/profound than a Bob Dylan song; there is a universalness to a Wailers song that an American or British song cannot compete with.

Regardless of Marley’s international significance, or how his iconic status compares with the other legends and pioneers of modern music, “No Woman, No Cry” is the best song to sum up one of the most popular musicians of the last 40 years. And the live version of it is one of the best ever recorded.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

[1] It’s an anytime masterpiece, really, but it seems to be most fitting to listen to when it is warm outside.

[2] To some degree, yes, Marley’s image as a laid-back, pot-smoking Rastafarian surely helped garner new audiences (white teenagers) but I think the fact that he was an accomplished reggae musician in an era of concept albums and disillusionment and prog rock definitely helped him stick out amongst the other trees in the landscape of music.