Yay for mnemonic devices! Especially ones you learn in 7th grade that actually work. And yay for tunes that fit them into titles and work them through. This little number totally nails what it must be like to saunter back and forth across the visible spectrum of light. While thumbing absently through the IKEA catalogue.
Certain songs make no sense while driving through the mountains of western Massachusetts. Twice now, this one has found its way onto the car stereo in just that situation. Both times, a fabulous wrongness. As much as I love Rain Dogs, sometimes I wish old Tom had never come out the other end of his '70s piano n' booze haze. You got it buddy, the large print giveth, and the small print taketh away.
I've still got Talking Heads on the brain. Of all the groups that had those guys in their DNA, here's one that probably deserved the most acclaim. If only for their singer's complete disregard for bar lines and discernable lyrics. Sadly overlooked in their day, they're broken up now, which may have been a great career move in the long run.
Consensus has it that Remain in Light is a canonical album. And I can't disagree one bit with that. I remember being mystified and more than a little confused when I first laid ears on it in high school. In the many listens since, I've become convinced that side a is a nearly perfect display of momentum, all elements transmuted into pure rhythm. Side b finds a way to be abstract in an oddly poignant way, only to grind to an absolute halt by the end, and it unsettles enough to want to hear it all again. I'd say it represents the best African-inspired music that Eastern seaboarders can hope to make without actually aping Fela or getting into some Paul Simon-esque imperial plundering (let's not even dignify Vampire Weekend with a put-down).
And the law reasoned back. It was all very civilized. The Brooklyn Supreme Court saw fit to spring me from jury duty after taking only 10 hours of my life. Good thing to know that little has changed in the process. They've still got that ridiculous medieval justice re-enactment (I know I've mentioned this before, but it's worth pondering what it was like to be on set making that film.) The late Ed Bradley is still there to break it down for the citizenry. He actually starts it off with "In olden times..."
Some songs are made for the open road, echoing the freedom and romance of the highway. This is not one of those songs. I learned that while cranking it at a gas station in Kentucky. Almost got me killed. I hate that open road myth anyway. Meanwhile, enjoy this supremely groovy number from an awesomely-titled compilation. Translations welcome.
True fact. It's OK; everything else is intact. And I have a new respect for rodeo men. Meanwhile, I'm rocking my back-up wire frames, and this has caused a change in many things, including the shape of my face and my perceptual habits. Funny how you get used to old blind spots and thrown off by new ones.
Songblague loves krautrock. Its many forms are all sweet nectar, and I'm very excited to share my favorites in future posts. But I also love its progeny, spread out across the map, re-engineered and merged with unlikely streams. Or even just playing it straight, the way a workaday jazz combo might at your local sensible-cover club. 
You're walking through the city at night. The streets are wet and deserted in a fashion so cliche it must be a dream or a commercial. You're followed by a mist which, in another concession to preposterousness, has shaped itself into something purplish and ghostly. The song you've got stuck on repeat has scrambled your brainwaves, changed the shape of your own motion, and finally turned you into someone else altogether. You are officially ready for dancing.
When you title your album Ladies of the Eighties, you're betting on a certain amount of staying power. You probably think you're destined to thread yourself deep into the fabric of your time. I love the optimism, and if you've got the chops, why shouldn't you step proud? Especially when it's so early in the decade, before the paint has dried. As it turned out, the '80s had other plans. And the paint pretty much dried overtop these particular ladies. Maybe that's why I love this period of pop R&B so much, much as I do many things that have been shown precious little love by posterity. In my imaginary movie, this is the song that soundtracks the scene right after the breakup, with the shoulder-padded heroine striding decisively down Broadway and not looking back. Take a walk with this on your headphones and tell me you don't know just how she feels.
Good morning! Even on a Monday. Let's start the week with a smile and see how long we can hold it. One ideal I want to establish here at Songblague is an enduring sympathy for the ridiculous cast-off, a warm spot in the heart for the unloved and un-hipable. (Well, two ideals, I guess.) In that spirit, today I subject you to Gentle Giant, one of the most insistently un-ironic propositions thrown up by the kinda-ass-backwards, kinda-starry-eyed-anything-is-possible aesthetic of vintage prog rock.
What's a weekend without a little apprehension? What's a funky sunkissed jam without some skittering 6-over-4 hi-hat mischief to disturb the rubbery groove and nasal French girl vocalizing? It reminds me that I need new sunglasses. And a nice beach to restlessly lay around and burn my skin upon. But that's another weekend. Because an evening of gastric debauchery at Sammy's Roumanian Steakhouse awaits. As Anthony Michael Hall once said, "see you in the emergency room."
If you ever want to turn a slow night drive through a sleepy suburb into something more interesting, throw this one on the stereo. It helps if earlier in the day you've been shooting guns under the supervision of range instructors who resembled mismatched cops in a buddy movie.
I received my jury duty notice the other day. While it's pretty awesome that the State wants to entrust me with the deciding of an actual legal matter, I can't say I'm thinking much about it. Instead, my mind drifts back to the last time my number was called. Early 2003. The winter was bitter. Bush was on the warpath. I was vaguely depressed and enmeshed in one of Mike Davis's drearier riffs on the tortured decline and death of American urbanism. 
I had to track this down after Some Kind of Wonderful stole an hour and half of my life the other night. I admit the movie's got some staying power, however hokey. And this is the perfect song for tearfully lashing out at your best friend who you're crushing on. If you're into that sort of thing. Crank it loud because the film doesn't do justice to the sweet guitar slide coming out of the intro.
