Beautiful Song Of The Week

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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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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.

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This is a 1990s alt-rock anthem that doesn’t get enough credit. Which is fitting, because the band that created it, Treble Charger, was one of those bands that seemed to teeter on the edge of a breakthrough without ever breaking through.

It’s almost like they couldn’t decide what type of band they wanted to be: the sensitive indie type, or the three-chord rawk type. This split personality might have been a result of their two-vocalist situation. Bill Priddle was the introspective one with the twangy voice who would have been right at home in a band like Iron & Wine, while Greig Nori was more oriented towards pop-punk, and would end up producing for (and living vicariously through the enormous success of) Sum 41.

To my ears, everything this band did after Nori started working with Sum 41 sounds…like it’s trying to imitate Sum 41. Having said that, their earlier recordings (including the first recorded version of “Red”) sound under-produced and sloppy. 1997’s “Maybe It’s Me” hits the sweet spot, as the band’s two principal songwriters trade tracks, each one perfecting their own style.

Ultimately though, Treble Charger may have proved too indie for commercial tastes, and too commercial for indie tastes. But at least they left behind a great album in “Maybe It’s Me”, and a great song in “Red”.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The lyrics. No song features a better description of a colour than “cigarette white”. Try finding that shade in your local paint store.

2. The good ol’ patented 1990s quiet-loud-quiet formula. Each quiet verse gives you just enough time to bust out your lighter before barreling back into the slow-mosh chorus.

3. The repeated mini-guitar solo at the end of each chorus. Catchier than the vocals.

Recommended listening activity:

Briefly considering growing out your hair.

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I’m sure all the Beatles fans out there would agree that it’s about time I added a track by the Fab Four to this list. I’m equally sure that there would be some disagreement about which of their songs I should choose.

Let It Be was the Beatles’ last album. Or second last. It was recorded before Abbey Road, but released afterwards, and the debate among fans as to which is THE LAST ALBUM is enough to make you want to tell them all to take the Beatles’ advice and just let it be.

Given the deteriorating relationships between the band members during recording, the arguments, the pouting, and George Harrison’s I-quit-wait-no-I-don’t state of mind during the sessions, I think that Let It Be deserves to be recognized as the Beatles’ official final album. The title track especially acts as a great epilogue to the band’s career.

It’s a beautiful song about endings. The perfect song for grieving something that has come to an end, but being relieved about it at the same time.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. A hint of tension. At 1:07, you can hear an annoyed whisper saying what sounds like, “Stop it, John.” Is this someone chastising Lennon for doing something silly in the studio? Over the years, John’s humour was an asset to the group, but in the strained recording sessions for this album, we might assume that his joking around was about as welcome as Yoko.

2. An uncorrected mistake. The piano part is gorgeous, and the choir that accompanies it is heavenly. But it’s not perfect. At 2:59 you can hear Paul flub the chord, and I love that they didn’t overdub a correction.

3. A nice, but restrained, build-up. The final chorus swells a bit, but there’s no extended, Hey-Judian ending. No Day-In-The-Life style eternal chord. It’s just done.

Recommended listening activity:

Going to your favourite restaurant, but ordering something you’ve never tried.

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There are a lot of Weezer fans who hate Weezer.

Recent research (ie. an afternoon of me Googling “Weezer”) suggests that a significant percentage of people who classify themselves as fans of the band don’t actually like anything they’ve produced in the last ten years.  From what I’ve read on forums and fan sites, the basic trajectory for the average Weezer fan seems to go like this:

Nerdy white male, awkward in middle school. Life was changed by Weezer’s first album. Bought guitar with sole purpose of learning riff from “Say It Ain’t So”. Bought thick-rimmed glasses and new sweater.

Second album released. Didn’t like it on first listen, but soon realized it was a masterpiece. Briefly dated Japanese girl. Listened to “Across the Sea” incessantly after break-up with said Japanese girl.  Eventually got over it.

Went to college. Lost thick-rimmed glasses. Gave sweater to Salvation Army. Waited years for third album. When it finally came, didn’t like it at first. Gave it a chance, based on delayed appreciation experience with previous album. Still didn’t like it.

Kept buying Weezer releases until 2005. Gave up on band. Still thinks first two albums are genius. Occasionally sings “El Scorcho” at karaoke.

Of course, there are “unconditional” fans who love all Weezer’s music, but the wealth of fan-created websites bemoaning the band’s downfall is pretty overwhelming.  You can read about all the different times the band has jumped the shark, peruse the ten meanest things Pitchfork has said about Weezer, or even contemplate the simple question, what the hell happened to Weezer? At one point, there was even a tongue-in-cheek fundraising campaign with the goal of paying the band to break up.

Whether or not you read any of the above, and regardless of your feelings about the band, I’d like to invite you to listen to my favourite Weezer song, “Only In Dreams”.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. It’s unlike anything else Weezer ever did. This is an 8-minute song from a band that rarely strays past three and a half.

2. It’s got nerdy lyrics. Any band can write a song pining for a girl. Only Weezer would describe her as being “in the air…in between molecules of oxygen and carbon dioxide”.

3. It’s got an incredible ending. Two guitars play off each other starting at about 5:40 and bring the song to its soaring, spine-tingling climax.

Recommended listening activity:

Setting up a drum kit in your garage.

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The playground at my elementary school was enormous. Two horseshoe-shaped hills, connected by bridges, encircled massive play structures, one of which was four stories high. There was a giant pyramid made of tires. There were tire swings on chains that were perfect for vomit-inducing orbits. There was a huge orange slide that was lightning fast.

Years after I had graduated, home for the summer and exploring childhood haunts, I discovered that the playground was gone. In its place were some trees, some sad-looking safety swings, and a dog looking for somewhere to pee. There were no children anywhere. I was horrified by the scene, and my mind went through all the standard “things-aren’t-what-they-used-to-be” complaints usually reserved for old men sitting on porches with their pants hiked way up.

But just recently I went back a second time and tried to be as objective as possible when comparing the new playground to my memories. On this visit, the new playground was full of kids, playing and laughing and having as much fun as I’d ever had on the same spot. They hid behind the trees, played tag on the grass, and had even figured out a way to get the safety swings to induce vomiting.

Was my childhood playground really that good? I’m not sure it was four stories after all…it may have only been three. The tire pyramid had a permanent smell of urine to it that I might have been blocking from my memory. And sure, the orange slide was lightning fast, but only until your skin touched it, at which point you came to an instant, squeaky, and painful stop.

I’ve decided to stop complaining about how things aren’t the way they used to be. They never are. Deal with it. And I’m sure that one day the playground will be changed again, at which point the kids I saw on my return visit will be grown up and lamenting the loss of the incredible forest of wonders that they grew up with.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The tapping foot. Perfectly paced for walking.

2. The imperfect guitar playing. He mis-plucks the strings, and he speeds up. But not being a great guitarist is part of what makes Jack White a great guitarist.

3. The way the last line of each verse is repeated. It makes the statement “I can tell that we are going to be friends” sound less sure of itself, as if repeating it will make it happen.

Recommended listening activity:

Sharpening pencils.

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The first few months of 2012 were pretty strange for Christopher Stopa.

A baker with a passion for music, Stopa had been in a band which, a decade earlier, had played some shows, released some songs, and enjoyed what was at the time a burgeoning music scene in Toronto. Years passed, and the recordings from those early days sat collecting dust.

You can imagine his surprise when he read a story on the internet about a “lost Radiohead recording”, and clicked the link, only to hear one of his own songs played back to him. Somehow, one of those early demos had been leaked, with the completely fabricated backstory that Radiohead had some previously unreleased material from the mid-90s that had only just been uncovered.

The truth came out, CNN got in touch, and Stopa’s saga became one of the stranger overnight success stories in independent music.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The brushes on the drums. I love it when drummers play with brushes. It sounds like someone shuffling around in their slippers.

2. Stopa’s voice. It’s no wonder he was mistaken for Thom Yorke; the falsetto in the first chorus, and his delicate, slightly mumbled delivery is worthy of the comparison.

3. He lets it rip in the final chorus. Listen to it two or three times and the temptation to raise a triumphant rock n’ roll hand at 2:49 will become difficult to resist.

Recommended listening activity:

Making a new tea towel out of an old t-shirt.

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I’m not the type to complain about the state of popular music, or claim that “the music died” a long time ago. However, considering the type of acts that dominate the radio these days, it’s difficult to imagine a band like Simon & Garfunkel topping the charts today the way they did in the latter half of the 1960s.

And yet, they were huge. Political and poetic with tight harmonies and soaring falsettos, Simon & Garfunkel reeled off a string of hit albums that vaulted them to superstardom. Eventually, the pressure of their fame started to eat away at their relationship, and during the recording of this song (and the album of the same name) tension and disagreements were pushing the two apart. By the time this track finished its six-week stay at #1, Simon & Garfunkel had already split.

Knowing that their relationship was under strain and that their partnership was about to end only makes this song more poignant. But despite that knowledge, I can’t help but love this song as an anthem to friendship.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. Garfunkel’s voice. Apparently, he didn’t want to sing it, and thought Paul Simon’s voice was better suited. During a reunion tour in 2003, they split the difference by alternating verses, and singing together on the final verse.

2. The big echoing snare drum that begins to creep into the background just after 3 minutes. It’s the first hint of what’s coming…

3. …the huge ending. Truly epic. Any song that ends by getting louder and slower is likely to make you want to raise your fists in triumph and look to the heavens; the high strings at the end of this one might make you throw tears of joy into the mix.

Recommended listening activity:

Giving someone half your cookie.

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The Tea Party is a Canadian band that gained a healthy following in Canada in the 1990s. They were a bit of a curiosity: in the midst of a decade where simple, three-chord grunge was the secret to mainstream success, The Tea Party was experimenting with strange instruments, odd time signatures, and a sound that brought to mind the phrase, “Zeppelin Goes To India”.

They earned a spot in my cassette collection (yes, cassette collection) with big tunes like “The Bazaar” and “Fire In The Head”, but the song that I’m most compelled to give another listen to 17 years later is this little instrumental beauty.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The title. It’s about time that the under-appreciated badger got a song named after it. I’m not sure which attributes of this animal we’re supposed to be hearing in the song, but I like to imagine the badger waking up with a stretch, brewing himself a cup of coffee, and getting ready for a busy day of whatever it is that badgers do.

2. The Hurdy Gurdy. Aside from having the coolest name in instrument history, it’s one of the wackier looking instruments you will ever see. Part violin, part old-timey movie camera. Listen for it at the beginning; it’s the one that sounds a bit like a mellowed-out set of bagpipes.

3. The guitar. Jeff Martin was (is) a very talented musician. I saw The Tea Party live once, and he seemed to switch instruments every minute or so, and played each one masterfully. But his home is the acoustic guitar, and in this song he makes it do lovely things.

Recommended listening activity:

Digging through your closet to find summer clothes you forgot you owned.

P.S. For those of you who, like me, find significance in multiples of 10, this week marks BSOTW’s 100th post. Yay!

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My first encounter with this song was the version recorded by Smashing Pumpkins in 1994. At the time, my hair was slightly too long and my regard for Billy Corgan’s poetry was slightly too high. I remember hearing this delicate song, a b-side on the Pumpkins’ “Disarm” single, and thinking, “wow, I didn’t know Corgan had this in him”.

As it turns out, he didn’t. I soon discovered that it was not his song at all, but a cover of a classic tune by Fleetwood Mac.

But it’s no surprise that the lyrics appealed to Corgan’s angsty generation-X sensibilities. Stevie Nicks wrote it at a pretty turbulent time in her life: her band, Buckingham Nicks (a two-person forerunner to Fleetwood Mac, with guitarist Lindsey Buckingham) was floundering, had been dumped by its record label, and the two weren’t getting along. Nicks was visiting a friend in Colorado, considering the crossroads at which she found herself, wondering whether she should go back to school, or continue in the music industry. As she looked out over the Rockies, she visualized her life as a landslide of events crashing down all around her…and the lyrics to this song were the end result of that visualization.

What makes this a beautiful song:

1. The guitar is picked so delicately. It almost sounds like little drops of rain are hitting the strings, especially right at the opening.

2. Stevie Nicks’ voice. Although it’s got some of the same delicate sound as the guitar, it has a nice solidity to it. Just a bit deeper than most women’s voices, with a nice edge of sadness in this song.

3. It manages to be reflective without being indulgent. I still like the Smashing Pumpkins, but Billy Corgan never quite got to this level with his lyrics. Nicks’ lyrics pose the type of simple questions that everyone has asked themselves in difficult times.

Recommended listening activity:

Reading poems you wrote in high school.