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The term “staycation” may not have surfaced until 2003, but the dynamic songwriting duo of Rodgers & Hart captured the idea perfectly with this 1925 gem.

The song tells of the exploits of a young couple who decide against vacationing in a faraway place, but instead “save their fares” and explore their own backyard. They indulge in New York’s simpler (aka cheaper) delights – Mott Street! Delancey! Baloney on Coney Island! – and turn Manhattan into an isle of joy.

Staycations are highly recommended. No passport, no lineups, baggage optional. Admittedly, if you’re seeking adventure in your own backyard, those who live in Manhattan are at a clear advantage over most of us. But I love the song’s message; some of life’s best adventures are free, and right around the corner.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. Lorenz Hart’s clever lyrics. My favourites are in the first and last lines. In the first line he rhymes “Niagara” with the first half of the word “aggravate”, and in the last line he gives himself the chance to throw in a New York accent by rhyming “spoil” with “goyl”.

2. While the tempo of other versions are more foxtrot-friendly, this one is ideal strolling speed.

3. The voice and strings are very far forward in the mix, but the drummer is back there somewhere, about 50 feet in the background, waiting for the session to be over so he can go chill in his hammock.

Recommended listening activity:

Pretending your bike is a train, and embarking on a glamorous trip across the continent.

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The next time you’re feeling stressed out, go to the library. Hang out there for a while, and I guarantee that you will start to feel better.

Libraries are the perfect place to de-stress. Especially big libraries. They’ve got all the grandeur, reverence, and peacefulness of a church. They’ve got the comfort and warmth of a living room. Everybody’s welcome, especially these days, when the internet has eliminated many people’s need to visit.

A few weeks ago I spent a couple of blissful hours in my city’s biggest library. I found a quiet corner by a window, way up on the fifth floor, and just sat doing nothing for a couple of hours. That’s the other great thing about libraries; they’re all about books, but you don’t have to go there to read. You don’t really have to do anything. It’s not like a store where the staff will start to look at you funny if you don’t buy anything.

For a while I just sat there, enjoying the almost overwhelming silence. It’s a bizarre feeling to be surrounded by stacks upon stacks of words, but not hear anyone speaking. After a while I put in my headphones and listened to some music. This song came on, and it immediately struck me as the perfect library anthem.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. Parts of it sound like a music box in slow-motion.

2. Parts of it sound like a sleeping accordion.

3. There’s no real melody, tempo, or structure. Just a couple minutes of peace.

Recommended listening activity:

Picking books at random, and reading their first and last sentences.

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In the 1980s, rock and roll had become ridiculous.

Or at least, the most popular bands were ridiculous. A genre that started out as something rebellious, grassroots, and political had become a parody of itself. The outfits. The huge hair. The songs about partying and girls. Overly sanitized production and lyrical emptiness that took the heart out of the music. There is certainly a place for that kind of music, don’t get me wrong. But as the 80s turned into the 90s, mainstream rock was not doing anything new.

Meanwhile, a new kind of musical culture was emerging. Hip hop was rebellious, grassroots, and political in the same way rock had been a few decades earlier. I remember buying my first hip hop record and feeling immediately connected to something exciting.

Fast forward to the present day. I would argue that hip hop has evolved in the same way rock did. Most mainstream hip hop today gives us very little in the way of rebelliousness or political statements, but is more concerned with partying and girls, just like mainstream rock was in the 80s.

Which is why artists like Lupe Fiasco, and albums like his 2007 release, “The Cool”, are so refreshing. He’s a reminder that hip hop is doing fine, as long as you’re ready to search beyond what makes it to radio, and the generic, watered-down suburban mall rap that is currently occupying the mainstream.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The percussion is really light and crackly. It almost sounds like a needle skipping at the end of a record that someone forgot to take off the turntable.

2. Guest vocalist Matthew Santos has an interesting voice. The way he articulates his words reminds me of Feist.

3. With each chorus, there’s a bit more harmony. Except the very last chorus, when everything else fades out, and we’re left with a single vocal line.

Recommended listening activity:

Giving something a second chance.

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Not only is Metric one of my favourite Canadian bands, but they might be the most Canadian band in the world. Metric is everything Canadians like to think of themselves as being: multicultural, hard-working, intellectual, under-appreciated.  And of course, there’s the name. Metric.

The metric system of measurement has been used by almost every country in the world since France invented it in the early 1800s. Every country, that is, except for the United States and the United Kingdom, who have stubbornly held on to the imperial system like a child who refuses to throw out his ratty, smelly teddy bear. Officially, both countries have accepted the metric system, but in day-to-day life almost everything is imperial.

Because of Canada’s combined French/British background, and its BFF status with the United States, we have adopted a typically Canadian position on the imperial vs. metric debate. And that is, of course, firmly on the fence.

Ask a Canadian how tall they are and they will tell you in feet and inches. But look at their driver’s license and their height will be listed metrically. Ask them how far it is to their cottage and they’ll tell you in kilometres, but ask them how big their cottage is and they’ll tell you in square feet. They buy milk by the litre, but beer by the pint.

Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yeah. Metric (the band) has been fully embraced in Canada, and like the metric system itself, they’ve begun to pick up some recognition all over the world. They may not have reached the level of US success that most Canadian bands covet for some reason, but maybe that’s for the best. And maybe, given their name, that’s what they wanted.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The synth. Just a hint of UK new-wave influence.

2. The accordion that pokes its head out at 1:41. Just a hint of French folk influence.

3. Emily Haines’ voice. I love its strength and its raspiness. Haines, by the way, was born just months after the metric system was officially adopted in Canada.

Recommended listening activity:

Pairing any type of food with maple syrup.

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I was a bit hesitant to listen to Thom Yorke’s first solo effort, The Eraser, upon its release in 2006.

While I loved his voice and his lyrics, I always felt that the Greenwoods were as important to Radiohead’s songwriting process as Thom Yorke was. Following Radiohead’s career arc, it seemed like any time Yorke’s influence over the band’s direction got stronger, the results got weirder. Not bad weird, but I got the impression that without the Greenwoods there to counterbalance his tangents, they would become more and more experimental.

As it turns out, I was wrong. Well, mostly. There’s some pretty strange stuff on The Eraser, but it’s mostly listenable, and the stuff that isn’t too listenable is still interesting. And besides, listening to things that are difficult to listen to is good exercise for your ears.

The title track is probably my favourite, and Christian Scott does it justice (and then some) on his 2010 album Yesterday You Said Tomorrow.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The…thing…that rattles. I don’t know what it is. It might be a snare. But every time the piano hits one of its chords, something rattles. At first it bugged me, because I thought something was wrong with my speakers. But now I like it.

2. The soft trumpet tone. Scott calls it his “whisper tone”, and it’s a trademark of his playing. I love it because it means that his trumpet needs to be recorded really close, picking up all the subtleties of his playing.

3. The tempo change at 3:20. In both the original and this version, it’s a startling switch that doesn’t seem to make at sense. But like everything else in the song, it works effortlessly and inexplicably.

Recommended listening activity:

Doing something that’s difficult but worth it.

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Vanilla is a producer from the UK who makes delicious soul-inspired beats. If I were a rapper, I would immediately hire him to make beats for my upcoming platinum-selling release. But since I’m quite clearly not a rapper, I will instead encourage you to listen to the title track from what I believe to be his strongest album, “Chrometrails”.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. Sparkly piano. Hip-hop thrives on low-end, but a lot of beatmakers forget that they key is having something nice and shiny in the high frequencies to complement the bass.

2. Off-beat percussion. Can’t tell if the kick is a bit behind, or if the snare is a bit ahead, but it gives the track a laid-back, Flying Lotus type of groove.

3. High-def vinyl crackle. Especially when those strings come in. Like the fabric-fluff sound you hear when you plunge your face into your favourite pillow.

Recommended listening activity:

Riding the bus through your favourite neighbourhood at night.

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There are countless songs about growing up. It’s got to be the most written-about topic that doesn’t involve falling in love, being in love, or breaking up.

What bugs me most about a lot of growing-up songs is their tendency towards nostalgia. Lyrics about things never being the same, or wishing we could go back, or wasn’t that the bestest summer ever…it often feels like a one-dimensional look back. It feels like you should be pessimistic about being an adult.

Herbie Hancock’s 1968 album Speak Like a Child is, according to its liner notes, about retaining a childlike (but not childish) philosophy. Hancock was encouraging people to “think and feel in terms of hope, and the possibilities of making our future less impure”.

And so, while “Goodbye to Childhood” is probably the album’s most contemplative, introspective track, I don’t find it to be sad. I feel like Hancock wants us to say goodbye to the elements of childhood that we don’t need anymore, while retaining the joy and innate optimism that make childhood fun.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The opening sequence. (Which you might recognize from last week.) Ominous and spooky.

2. As ominous and spooky as the first moments of this song are, by the one-minute mark it’s settled into soothing piano and upright bass. Maybe it’s Herbie’s way of telling us that adulthood isn’t as bad as we think it’s going to be.

3. The ride cymbal. Through most of the song it sizzles away constantly. It makes me imagine that the drummer gave the job of cymbal-hitter to an excited kid, who could barely contain himself throughout the entire song.

Recommended listening activity:

Putting on hilarious underwear beneath your fanciest work clothes.

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Sleeping is one of my favourite things to do.

I’m not trying to imply that I’m lazy, but nothing beats a really good sleep. Especially when it’s punctuated by a really good/bizarre/realistic dream.

One of the coolest dreams I ever had was…well, like all cool dreams, it’s almost impossible to explain. But basically, it involved commuter trains that transformed into rollercoasters whenever I wanted them to. They functioned in slow-motion, and I could control everything about them; direction, speed, even when I wanted to feel weightless. I only had the dream once, but for years I tried to fall asleep while thinking about rollercoasters, just to try to trick my brain into doing it again.

But that’s the crazy thing about your brain: even though it creates your dreams, you can’t tell it to replay one. And when it does replay one, it’s probably a dream you didn’t particularly want to experience again, like the one where you’re trying to recite tongue twisters while naked and dizzy in front of every ex you’ve ever had.

Anyway. This all comes to mind because I’ve recently been listening to DJ Cam. He was France’s main contribution to the trip-hop craze of the mid-90s, and his jazzy samples really set him apart from the sea of Portishead clones that the era gave us.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The opening sample. It’s eerie and inviting, the opening bars to the dreaminess that’s about to come.

2. The vibraphone. So clean and clear compared to the gritty sampled drums.

3. The quote at 3:17. A great and paradoxical quote to include in a song built out of samples. The speaker is Eric Dolphy, and although he’s talking about music, he might as well be talking about dreams.

Recommended listening activity:

Daydreaming.

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Polyphony used to be considered offensive.

It’s hard to imagine how two people singing different notes could possibly offend anyone, but there was a time when the Catholic Church decreed that anything other than Gregorian chant, or plainsong, was unsuitable. Pope John XXII had this to say about composers who used harmony:

“These composers…cause great confusion. The great number of notes in their compositions conceals from us the plainchant melody, with its simple well-regulated rises and falls that indicate the character of the church mode. These musicians run without pausing. They intoxicate the ear without satisfying it; they dramatize the text with gestures; and, instead of promoting devotion, they prevent it by creating a sensuous and indecent atmosphere.” (From Teachings of the Holy Father, 1324)

With this in mind, songs like “O Vos Omnes” seem as rebellious as anything London produced during the peak of punk. So put on some ripped jeans, gel your hair into a mohawk, give yourself a “Palestrina 4 Life” tattoo, and enjoy this wonderful piece of polyphony by Tomas Luis De Victoria.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. Often, a line begins with a single note, allowing the harmony to grow around it, and accentuating the polyphony.

2. At 1:48, most of the choir drops out, leaving just three voices.

3. It spends so much time avoiding thirds, that when it becomes decisively major or minor, it’s always a surprise.

Recommended listening activity:

Seeing the sign, but walking on the grass anyway.

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The story of Sixto Rodriguez is the most incredible, unlikely, and moving rock & roll fairy tale of all time. You’ve probably already heard it, but in case you don’t, here’s the bullet point version:

• Working-class guy from Detroit writes some songs in the early 70s.
• Gets signed to a label, releases two records.
• They sell terribly. Record label folds in 1975. Career over.
• Years pass. His two records become incredibly popular in South Africa.
• He has no idea, because someone else is collecting his royalties.
• His songs become anthems for the anti-apartheid movement in the 80s and 90s.
• He becomes a legend in South Africa, literally more popular than Elvis. He has no idea.
• They assume he’s dead; rumours circulate he killed himself years earlier.
• After the fall of apartheid, a few devoted fans aim to search him out.
• They find him, still working manual labour in Detroit.
• He goes to South Africa and plays in front of thousands of delirious fans who thought he had been dead for decades.

To hear this story told more eloquently than can be done in bullet points, I highly recommend the 2012 Academy Award-winning documentary “Searching For Sugar Man”, which finally earned Rodriguez a bit of recognition in his homeland.

The best part is that it’s not just a nice story; Rodriguez is a really good songwriter. His political protest folk ballads are as good as any that were popular in the late 60s and early 70s. Perhaps better.

This song, a two-in-one type of song that showcases both the instrumental and vocal sides of Rodriguez, is probably my favourite, and serves as a good introduction for those who aren’t familiar with his music.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The opening guitar. They use this little lick several times in the movie. Pure plinky sunshiney goodness.

2. The string section. It really helps the song blossom in the chorus. The ascending scale at 3:31 really reminds me of the “oh no, not me” part at 0:46 of “The Man Who Sold The World”.

3. Rodriguez himself. He’s incredibly Zen for a guy who writes protest songs, and I feel like it comes across in his voice. Unsurprisingly, his recent fame hasn’t changed him. He lives in the same Detroit apartment he’s always lived in. Money from his recent tours goes mostly to his daughters. And although he was cheated out of years of royalties, he never instigated any lawsuits. When asked on CNN if he felt hatred towards those who had gotten rich off him, he said, “hatred is too strong an emotion to waste on people you don’t like.”

Recommended listening activity:

Letting go of a helium-filled balloon and watching it float away.