When most artists write songs about songwriting, they embarrass themselves with maudlin sentiment or self-aggrandizing egotism. That goes double for songs about how hard it is to be a star. Nobody wants to hear someone famous complain about how hard it is to make a living in show business. With “Sad Songs And Waltzes,” Willie Nelson addresses both those subjects without sounding like a fool. He wrote the song just before he became a household name, but he can still sing the tune today as a superstar and get away with it, thanks to his earthy, anti-showbiz stance. He tells everyone his gal cheated on him and done him wrong, and you can almost hear him smirk as he sings: “My record may say it, but no one will play it, ’cause sad songs and waltzes aren’t selling this year.”
Once one of America’s most famous draft resisters, Jesse Winchester is known for his smoky vocals, smooth groove, and sparkling lyrics. Learn To Love It included protest songs and love ballads, with the optimism of the latter balancing the anguish of the former. “Defying Gravity” is one of Winchester’s most cryptic love songs and takes a long look at our tiny universe, mortality, and the puzzle of existence with gentle humor and a melody that’s one of his best. “I live on a big round ball,” he sings, “I never do dream I may fall,” he continues whimsically. “And even if one day I do…I’ll jump off and smile back at you,” he concludes, perfectly capturing the weightless, muzzy feeling of first love.
The Doors happily threw a velvet and leather monkey wrench into the hippie machine that ran on liquid sunshine, peace, love, and understanding. Jim Morrison’s vocals and Ray Manzarek’s sideshow organ had no precedent in pop music, and their sinister vibe provided a chilling and much-needed touch of darkness to the hippie daze most kids were living in. The Doors were always disturbing, but never more so than on the down and dirty Morrison Hotel, with “The Spy” being the album’s most threatening moment. When Morrison growls, “I know your deepest secret fear,” the world stops and you can hear the breathing of the night creatures that wait in the shadows, just beyond the reach of your trembling vision.
That Silver Haired Daddy Of Mine The Everly Brothers
Label: Barnaby Records
Released: 1958
In 1958 I was torn between the rebellious teenage energy of rock and the rootsy authenticity of folk music. The Everlys bridged that gap with their classic album Songs Our Daddy Taught Us. I didn’t know that the harmonies of The Everly Brothers were the bedrock of country music; I didn’t even know what country music was, but their vocals sent chills down my spine. When they sang Gene Autry’s old hit “That Silver Haired Daddy Of Mine,” I was surprised to find tears running down my cheeks. The Everly Brothers made a lot of great music in their day, but the close harmonies on Songs Our Daddy Taught Us are their finest hour, pure country with just a hint of rock attitude.
Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller were kids from the Fairfax district in L.A., a solidly Jewish, middle-class neighborhood, but they managed to write songs that captured the African-American experience of the ’50s and early ’60s with an uncanny accuracy. “Shoppin’ For Clothes,” based on a tune by songwriter Kent Harris, describes an experience most whites were unaware of at the time. Billy Guy sings lead on the sad tale of a young man going out to buy some sharp threads to up his game. The lyric describes an amazing suit, “a two-button, pure-herringbone model with custom cuffs and cut-away flaps.” Guy’s almost panting with excitement when the salesman tells him his credit has been denied. He almost weeps as he sings: “Pure, pure herringbone” and the salesman replies: “That’s a suit you’ll never own.” Life was hell before credit cards.
When Ochs decided to “go electric” in 1967 it was with an eclectic vision that owed as much to classic pop as rock ’n’ roll. The songs on Pleasures Of The Harbor were less political and more poetic than his Elektra Records work, with the exception of “Outside Of A Small Circle Of Friends,” a sarcastic protest song that became a surprise pop hit, and “The Party,” a cinematic look at a shindig thrown by rich liberals for their revolutionary friends. The air of “The Party” is bristling with resentment and misunderstanding, and Ochs investigates the inner demons of the mingling starlets, black power advocates, and scene makers with a contemptuous humor that spares no one, including himself. It may sound dated today, but it captures a unique moment in time with deadly insight.
The punk/folk of the Violent Femmes’ eponymous debut took everyone by surprise, and fans expecting more of the same were shocked when Hallowed Ground, album number two, kicked off with “Country Death Song.” The title isn’t ironic; it is in fact a country tune, a murder ballad in the mode of the traditional “Little Omie Wise” and Bob Dylan’s stark “Ballad Of Hollis Brown.” Gordon Gano’s high, nasal whine is a perfect country instrument, full of barely controlled emotion. But unlike country singers, by the end of “Country Death Song” Gano’s shrieking with emotion as the band lays down an unbridled cacophony to drive home the terrifying hopelessness of this tale of murder and remorse.
The first eponymous album by Crosby, Stills & Nash is an iconic effort, a virtual greatest hits collection marked by stellar harmonies, a great studio band, and some of the best tunes the trio has ever written. “Pre-Road Downs” isn’t a weak track by any means, but one that often gets short shrift when people rhapsodize over the album. Graham Nash pays subtle tribute to The Beatles with the backing harmonies here, and the organ and processed guitar solo give the tune a bright pop sheen. It’s a song that pledges fidelity for the girl that’s being left behind and includes the casual drug reference—“Be sure and hide the roaches”—that was de rigueur in 1969.
Fred Neil only cut three proper albums in his career, but he had an immense influence on the folk scene of the early ’60s, inspiring Tim Hardin, Hoyt Axton, Bob Gibson, and Bob Dylan, to name just a few. He teamed up briefly with Vince Martin in 1964 to cut Tear Down The Walls, and both the album and the title track became early folk hits. “Tear Down The Walls” has all the earmarks of a classic Neil track: chiming 12-string guitar, passionate but low-key vocals, and a melody that instantly embeds itself in your mind. Neil’s combination of folk and gospel imagery, and his belief in the power of song to change the world, makes this almost forgotten tune a soaring anthem to peace, love, and universal brotherhood. Martin and Neil put the icing on the cake with their powerful harmonies.
It takes a brave man to step into the shoes of Tina Turner and reinvent one of her signature tunes, but Erasure’s Andy Bell, one of the few male divas in dance music, is up to the task. His dramatic vocal style brings plenty of soul and passion to every note he sings. On this track Vince Clarke doesn’t try to duplicate the original’s bombastic Phil Spector production; he instead opts for a simmering arrangement with a slightly Latin groove. Listen as Bell builds the tension slowly.
