Popless Week 36 & 37: The Home Stretch

After 17 years of
professional music-reviewing, Noel Murray is taking time off from all new
music, and is revisiting his record collection in alphabetical order, to take
stock of what he's amassed, and consider what he still needs.

Way back in January, when I was attending the Sundance Film
Festival and trying to write Popless at the same time, I joked that by the time
I arrived at the Toronto International Film Festival in September, I'd have run
out of new things to say about my record collection, and would be reduced to
speaking in code, thusly: "The Sea & Cake: Airy p-r; banana-berry smoothie;
my 12th birthday party; see also Pw14, 26." So far, I haven't actually gotten
that reductive, though the nature of this project is such that some weeks are
richer than others. (The alphabet can be a cruel mistress.)

Anyway,
looking back at what I wrote back in January, what stands out isn't my
prediction about Popless' potential diminishing returns; it's that I guessed
correctly that I'd be writing about The Sea And Cake this week. (And Sam Prekop
and Shrimp Boat to boot!) Early in the year, I wasn't so sure I'd make it to
the end of the alphabet by New Year's Eve. Now, thanks to a strong tailwind I
caught over the summer (and despite a detrimental iPod crash last week), it's
looking like I should be done by early December. After this week, I'm facing
about two more weeks of "S," followed by a boatload of "T," but then it'll be
headlong tumble to the finish line, with each remaining letter taking roughly a
week or less.

And then
what? Well, every epic needs an epilogue, and for Popless, the plan all along
has been for me to re-immerse myself in new music after a year of deprivation.
Starting next month, I'll begin picking up some of
the best-reviewed, best-regarded LPs of 2008, and starting in
November (which is about when I ran out of 2007 music last year), I'll begin
listening. When I finish writing about my collection—whenever that may
be—I'm planning to round out Popless with a short series of posts about
how 2008's best music sounds in the context of everything else I've listened to
this year.

Which means
the floor is open to suggestions. Since this is a shorter-than-usual
installment of the column—due to a weak stretch of the alphabet,
preoccupation with a week of art films, and the aforementioned iPod
trouble—I'm throwing open the comments section to ideas about what you
all think are the unmissable records of 2008. Make your cases. I can't promise
I'll get to everything—I do still have about 8000 songs worth of old
stuff to listen to, after all—but if I can easily get my hands on a
record, and it sounds like it's up my alley, I'll try to make time.

In the
meantime, we're down to the wire here, folks, and it's getting pretty exciting.
Will XTC, Yes and ZZ Top hold up? Please stay tuned.

*****************

Pieces
Of The Puzzle

Sam Cooke

Years Of
Operation 1950-64

Fits
Between Marvin Gaye
and William Bell

Personal
Correspondence For
a few years during my adolescence, I was convinced that "You Send Me" was the
most perfect pop song ever recorded. I heard it for the first time in an early
'80s HBO special about musicians who died young, and then heard it repeatedly
on that same special. (I only ever got to see HBO when I spent summers with my
dad, so I tended to abuse the privilege.) This was before the legal tangles
over Cooke's back catalog had been (partially) straightened out, so his music
wasn't really a staple of oldies stations—and even if it had been, classic
rock radio has never been inclined to play songs by any black artist whose name
doesn't rhyme with "Remy Pendricks." I can't really recall what struck me about
"You Send Me" at the time, aside from Cooke's unaffected, sandpapery voice,
which gave the sugary lyric a richer flavor without losing the sweet overtones.
But as soon as the now-out-of-print nearly career-spanning compilation The
Man And His Music
came out, I bought it, and began developing a strong appreciation for the way
Cooke could slide easily from simple spirituals to teen-dream reveries to
something more universally inspirational. Nearly two decades later, I learned
that The Man And His Music left out a significant aspect of Cooke's legacy: his skills
as a live performer. It wasn't until I saw Michael Mann's Ali, with its extended opening montage
set to a medley from Cooke's Live At The Harlem Square Club, 1963, that I realized Cooke belonged in
the same league as James Brown, Tina Turner, Bruce Springsteen and Prince in
terms of his ability to rework music and rouse a crowd. Cooke, like the other
artists on that list, could draw spontaneously from the wide range of songs at
his command, turning fragments of melody and lyrics—along with the
response of the audience—into an entirely new composition, up-to-date and
of-the-moment. Even now, recordings of Cooke in concert sound as fresh as
tomorrow's news.

Enduring
presence? Cooke was
the first legendary R&B; performer I got into, shortly before delving into
James Brown and Marvin Gaye, followed by fleeting obsessions with Otis Redding,
Wilson Pickett, Isaac Hayes, and William Bell, among others. To some extent,
I've jumped from soul man to soul man too quickly, because I didn't really give
Cooke my full attention until recently. I still enjoy all those R&B;
legends—especially Brown and Hayes—but Cooke's the one whose music
continues to surprise me, revealing depths that his most popular lovesick
teenager songs barely hint at.

Sam Prekop/The Sea And Cake/Shrimp Boat

Years Of
Operation
1987-present

Fits
Between Donald
Fagen and Gilberto Gil

Personal
Correspondence I'm
not sure whether it was meant to be an insult or not, but back in 1995, my
editor at the time tossed me a copy of The Sea And Cake's sophomore LP Nassau, and said, "This wasn't for me, but
I think you'll like it." And he was right. Between the music—a fusion of
Afro-Cuban, cool jazz, and a sort of numb European soul—and song titles
like "A Man Who Never Sees a Pretty Girl That He Doesn't Love Her A Little," I felt
on listening to Nassau at age 24 like I did when I read Catcher In The Rye at age 14, or when I heard the
first Modern Lovers album at age 17. I felt like I'd found a thing that I understand. I later learned more about S&C;
bandleader Sam Prekop—or I should say Dr. Sam Prekop, since he has a PhD in
musicology—and discovered that to many of his early supporters, The Sea
And Cake will always be the wimpy, sellout version of the superior Shrimp Boat,
the outfit with which Prekop first explored the intersection of the
then-burgeoning neo-cocktail and post-rock movements. I guess this may be a "first
cut is the deepest" situation, because while I like Shrimp Boat, they've never
sounded to me like anything other than a dry run for The Sea And Cake. I
understand that Shrimp Boat was more raw-sounding and more wide-ranging in
style, especially in comparison to The Sea And Cake's pervasive mellowness. But
I also think that The Sea And Cake gets dismissed too easily as "light" and "soft."
To me the beauty of the band is in the way its members—Prekop,
drummer/engineer John McEntire, guitarist/keyboardist Archer Prewitt and
bassist/electronics wiz Eric Claridge—play with such mathematical
precision, while expressing their individual passion in short, unexpected
eruptions. In their subtle explorations of sweet tension, The Sea And Cake have
brought a touch of avant-garde to easy listening and vice versa.

Enduring
presence? That
said, I'll be the first to admit that Prekop's music can be a little boring.
When in doubt, he tends to travel the easy route, running light percussion and
muted horns under and around his whispery voice and delicate guitar. At the
same time, Prekop has such a singularly dissolute presence, all shabby-suave
and nonchalantly gifted. Listen casually, and his music hangs back against the
wall, likeably undemanding. Listen close, and the album's elegant patterns
become actively entrancing. Become a devotee, and the vibrations of Prekop's
affectedly hushed vocals start to hang in the air like an unspoken thought.

Sebadoh

Years Of
Operation
1986-present (off and on)

Fits
Between Guided By
Voices and Bright Eyes

Personal
Correspondence It
took me a long time to get comfortable doing interviews with people whose work
I respect or even love, and even now I always feel a little flutter before I
pick up the phone to start talking with the talented. Usually I know within the
first two minutes if I'm in for a tough grind (as has happened with some
subjects who shall remain nameless) or if I'm going to get what I need with
little fuss. I felt a giddy thrill from the start when talking with George
Carlin, Peter Falk, and William Gibson, for example. And I felt the same with Lou
Barlow, an exceptionally open and personable dude who freely answered
my questions about Sebadoh's status as DIY and emo godfathers, as well as
satisfying my curiosity about how a musician with such a spotty career makes
money. (His answer: It ain't easy.) But what I especially liked about talking
with Barlow back in '04 is that it spurred me to jump back into a catalog that
I'd consumed hungrily back in the '90s and then had all but forgotten by the
advent of the '00s. Some of my waning interest was Barlow's fault: too many
side projects and too many samey-sounding ballads had started to make his music
sound less effortlessly misty than sopping wet. But I was happy to hear that
the core of the Sebadoh canon—III, Bakesale and Harmacy—still held up well, even with co-Sebadohs Eric
Gaffney and Jason Lowenstein's monotone yelps and preoccupations with power
chords. Writing about the fitful 1999 album The Sebadoh, I lamented,† "Inspiration is so fleeting for so many
that we hold our breath every time one of the good ones slips even a little,
and we weep when the best of them wander far away." Now, that seems way too
dramatic for me. What's been winning about Barlow's work all along is that he
treats recording the way some people treat keeping a journal or writing a letter.
Waiting for his music to progress is a fools' errand. Sebadoh has been more
about how Barlow
progresses.

Enduring
presence? And yet I
still wish Sebadoh's best work weren't centralized in three spotty LPs released
over a five-year period in the early '90s. Sebadoh are of the warts-and-all
school that applauds endless releases of outtakes and B-sides, and that kind of
value system can cripple an artist's judgment. The lo-fi types often settle for
something that should've been honed more or thrown away. Though Sebadoh
gradually amped-up the craftsmanship, Barlow's allegiance to playing off the
cuff may have kept him from developing his songs to their fullest potential.

[pagebreak]

The Sex Pistols

Years Of
Operation 1975-78

Fits
Between MC5 and The
Who

Personal
Correspondence Some
acts have names or reputations that suggest their music will be harder and more
bone-rattling than it turns out to be, but the first time I heard The Sex
Pistols, I was not disappointed. I often marvel at the sheer loudness of some of the acid rock that hit
the charts in the late '60s, but not even The Jefferson Airplane was as
abrasive as the entirety of Never Mind The Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols. It's just a rude, rabble-rousing
record, still capable of shocking the complacent with its slaughtering of
sacred cows and its persuasive nihilism. ("No future" indeed… lately those
words seem more prescient than ever.) Due to the usual vicissitudes of access,
I got Bollocks
about a year after I was already immersed in The Clash, Black Flag, Suicidal
Tendencies, Hüsker Dü and the Ramones, but I still wasn't prepared for the
demonic cackle of "Anarchy In The U.K." or the brazen flippancy of "God Save
The Queen." Man, is anyone?

Enduring
presence? On the
other hand, are The Sex Pistols the most influential band that almost nobody
listens to a regular basis? Or is my perception out of whack? I probably spin Never
Mind The Bollocks
about once a year, but I'd be lying if I called it one of my favorite albums.
I've always found Johnny Rotten/Lydon more compelling as a menacing trickster
god than as a musician, an icon or a prophet of rage. There was a strong
component of self-awareness in Lydon's work even back with the Pistols, evident
in the song "EMI," which takes the piss out of the label that signed the band
when they became tabloid sensations than dropped them quick when they became an
outrage. I tend to find the art-project aspect of the Pistols a little
distancing—even as I dig the way that Steve Jones' guitar is issuing its
own, arguably more enduring polemics.

Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings

Years Of
Operation
1998-present

Fits
Between Tina Turner
and James Brown

Personal
Correspondence If I
were to construct my ideal R&B; act, they'd look, sound and perform a lot
like Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings, mixing slow-simmering gospel,
horn-pumped funk, mellifluous afrobeat and electric rock fervor. Writing about
the band's third album 100 Days, 100 Nights last year, I said that, "While the
record doesn't pop with sweaty passion like The Dap-Kings' more memorable work,
it retains a ripped-from-the-past vibe that's astonishing in and of itself.
Songs like the title track, 'Tell Me' and 'Something's Changed' don't just
sound like they've been lost in the Stax vault for the last 40 years; they
sound like they've matured in isolation, developing flavors that didn't exist
in 1967." Ultimately, that's what's impressed me most about the band's three
LPs to date. There's usually a fair amount of diminishing returns with acts
that try to accurately re-create the styles and sounds of the past, but The
Dap-Kings mostly skirt that problem by era-hopping, making old music that's
informed by the existence of what came afterward. The band also seems to
understand that much of the excitement of old R&B; lies in those moments
when the acts forgot about hitting the charts and instead played to their base:
the fans in clubs, looking to drink and dance and maybe even do something wrong
by sunup. These are the moments—usually captured live—when
musicians seem to say, "Oh, it's just us here? Then let me tell you how it
really is." Maybe it's because of the way word-of-mouth has spread on The
Dap-Kings over the last 10 years, but something about the band just feels in
the know.

Enduring
presence? I should
note though that while my ideal R&B; act would sound "a lot like" The
Dap-Kings, they wouldn't necessarily be The Dap-Kings. I think that impresario Bosco Mann is
arguably a more significant force in the new retro-soul wave than even Mark
Ronson (who's hired The Dap-Kings more than a few times), but I still hesitate
to crown him as a genius, because what he does remains so derivative. Without
Jones—an R&B; vet providing instant credibility—The Dap-Kings
wouldn't be half as special as they are. Or maybe the problem is that I've
reached the stage in my life where I'm hesitant to wholly embrace the current,
especially when it doesn't sound current. I like The Dap-Kings a tremendous lot; but I've
got too much wait-and-see on my mind these days to really love them.

The Shins

Years Of
Operation
1997-present

Fits
Between Badfinger
and The Chills

Personal
Correspondence
Oddly enough, success can be a bad break for some rock bands—especially
those that prefer scribbling in the margins, unobtrusive and unassuming. The
Shins' debut album Oh! Inverted World was a determinedly small-time affair, working in the muted
watercolors of '60s British Invasion pop and Cosmic Americana. At the time, I
thought it was a minor, enjoyable record with a fair number of highlights,
though hardly a stop-the-presses moment in rock history. But The Shins'
follow-up Chutes Too Narrow was bolder in style and songwriting, and about as good as
modern rock albums get. It was confident, but never overbearing, and with the
help of strong word of mouth—including an unexpected nod in an unexpected
indie-film hit—The Shins quickly became the rare indie-rock band that
nearly everyone seemed to love. Inevitably, the backlash kicked in, and in some
ways The Shins' third album Wincing The Night Away felt like a reaction to the new
waves of Shins fans and Shins haters that emerged around the mid-'00s. At least Wincing's not
the kind of over-fussy, over-ambitious record that some minor league bands make
when they break into the bigs, but it's still up-and-down, and closer to the "don't
look at us too closely" mumble of Inverted than the strong foundation of Chutes. So I'm highly interested to see
what The Shins have in store for album number four, which should determine
whether they're going to an ongoing force in contemporary rock and pop, or
whether they're going to be doggedly small-time, currying favor solely with the
aficionados. It's hardly the most important question facing our culture today;
but I'm still curious.

Enduring
presence? Along
with Death Cab For Cutie, Rogue Wave, The Arcade Fire and a few other bands,
The Shins are largely responsible for taking the disparate elements of a
decades' worth of indie-rock and streamlining it into something more like a
style than an ethos. As a result, they've become representative of everything
many rock fans hate about what's going on in the alt-rock scene now—in
particular the ways that the music has become more mainstream-sounding and
immediately palatable, and less adventurous. I understand those concerns, but I
don't share them. There are plenty of adventurous bands around for people who
prefer to explore. But to my ears, there aren't enough mainstream rock bands
who can string memorable hooks together while layering a mood as anxious and
queasy as a man in a waiting room. I'd love it if The Shins kept making albums
that connect wide.

*****************

Stray
Tracks

From the fringes of the collection, a few songs to share….

Sade, "By
Your Side"

Seal, "Just
Like You Said"

I've always
had a fascination with these two British neo-soul stars, perhaps because I find
their positioning in UK pop scene curious. From the start, Sade has been
pitched as a singer from some kind of mythical golden age, and was part of a whole
nostalgia movement back home. (See also: Cannibals, Fine Young.) But since all
I know about England is what I've seen in movies and on TV, I've never been
able to figure out where Sade's "type" was supposed to come from. I sure
haven't seen a lot of black cabaret crooners in old David Lean films, I know
that. Anyway, even if she's purely a fantasy figure, Sade Adu cuts a classy
figure and sings beautifully, and her and her bandmates have shown a
now-decade-plus-long knack for coming up with soft R&B; ballads that quickly
become guilty pleasures. As for Seal, he seems to represent the opposite end of
the scale from Sade: the future, not the past. I find that Seal's exotic
dream-man routine wears thin over the course of a whole album—even a
greatest hits album—but for a song at a time, his raspy bray and swirling
background arrangements command attention, like a rainshower while the sun's
still out.

The Sadies, "Song Of The Chief Musician,
Pt. 2"

The Sadies'
brief, productive indie-rock career had been respectable but mostly
unspectacular until 2004's Favourite Colours, on which the Toronto twang
engineers made a remarkable creative leap. On four earlier records, The Sadies
dabbled in surf instrumentals, psychedelia and country-rock, looking to
recreate the ghostly, stricken strain that runs through certain American pop,
connecting Johnny Cash and The Byrds. To my ears though, the band came off a
little mannered in the early going. On Favourite Colours, the band finally exhibited an
integrated command of its genre obsessions, playing chilly-but-urgent music
with a distinctly Sadies flavor. Bandleader brothers Dallas and Travis Good
mumble in unison below tracks heavy on slide guitar and rapid jangle, as on "Song
Of The Chief Musician," one of the many songs on the record that offers
fragments of stories that borrow interchangeably from history and myth, just
like the early work of fellow countrymen Neil Young and The Band.

Sagittarius,
"Song To The Magic Frog (Will You Ever Know)"

Scud Mountain Boys, "Freight Of Fire"

Just as we
said so long to Greg Cartwright a couple of weeks ago, now we bid farewell to
two more Popless stalwarts: Curt Boettcher and Joe Pernice, whose various
projects have appeared multiple times in Stray Tracks and Pieces Of The Puzzle.
I don't have much more to say about either artist that I haven't written over
and over again. Instead, I'll just admire Sagittarius' co-producer Gary Usher's
high, precious vocals on the unfortunately titled "Song To The Magic Frog," and
the way the song starts high and drifts even higher, looking for a comfortable
cruising altitude. I'll also enjoy the way Pernice pushes past his the usual
drippy, post-grad's idea of country on Scud Mountain Boys' "Freight Of Fire,"
and writes and sings the kind of '70s-style soft-rock classic that wouldn't
sound out of place on a Poco record. (Or, okay, a Poco demo collection.)

Sam & Dave, "I Thank You"

Until I
bought a Sam & Dave anthology two years ago, I had no idea that they
originated this song—one that I'd always associated with ZZ Top—nor
that Isaac Hayes wrote it with his Stax partner David Porter. In retrospect, it
all makes perfect sense; there's a very Hayes-y vibe to "I Thank You"'s low
groove and wry humor. So this one goes out, with eternal gratitude, to the late
Black Moses. Rest in peace, you freaky Scientologist dude.

Sandie Shaw, "Girl Don't Come"

One of the
great '60s British pop chanteuses, Shaw is probably best known stateside for
her version of Bacharach & David's "(There's) Always Something There To
Remind Me," but I'm a bigger fan of this offbeat hit, in which Shaw sings in
the second person, describing the nervousness and frustration of a guy who gets
stood up by his date. Is Shaw that date? Why didn't she show up? Is "come"
supposed to have two meanings? So many questions…

Santana, "Everybody's Everything"/"Winning"

Santana was
one of those bands that was omnipresent when I was growing up, even though it
was tough for me to figure out how they fit into the larger rock picture. I'd
seen them in Woodstock, I'd ogled the cover to Abraxas, I'd grooved to "Black Magic Woman" on classic rock
radio, and I'd scratched my head over '80s hits like "Winning" (which didn't
really match any of the other Santana data points). Now I know more about
Carlos Santana: how he blended Latin music with acid rock to generate a sound
with more soul than much of what his hippie peers were cranking out, and how he
extended his career by lending his name and his guitar to whatever generic
radio-ready fare the producers and songwriters of different eras wanted to
throw at him. In the end, there may not be a whole lot of separation between
the various facets of Santana-dom. His name is a kind of imprimatur,
representing professional polish and unthreatening exotica. You can either
knock him for trending towards the bland, or praise him for bring a touch of
skill and personality to the conventional.

[pagebreak]

Scissor Sisters, "Mary"

Disco-haters and genre purists found little joy in the late
'70s, when the indestructible beat of Saturday Night Fever drove even rock icons like The
Rolling Stones to make synthetic dance records. But those who prefer their
music to be crossbred and even a little adulterated keep returning to that era,
when ambitious prog types channeled their energies into Top 40 songs, and
sensitive singer-songwriters learned to boogie. For all the critical sneers
that still greet them, the hit songs of 1978 and 1979 are suffused with a
relatable kind of uncertainty, as the anxieties over a messy decade and a
changing pop landscape wormed their way into factory-made, radio-ready singles.

Thank
goodness then that '70s addicts Scissor Sisters made themselves buzzworthy in
the '00s with elaborate, gender-bending cabaret shows, otherwise some
discerning types mightn't have accepted a pop ballad as glorious as the band's "Mary,"
with its watery electric piano and soft, syncopated drums. Melding a "friends
forever" message with a sketch of heartbreak, "Mary" captures the sincere tone
and ambiguous commitment of classic '70s lite-rock. It's both homage and
explanation. Unfortunately, Scissor Sisters share another trait with the acts
they idolize: they only crank out a handful of great songs per album, while the
rest coast on busy arrangements and kitschy sexuality. But over the course of
two LPs, Scissor Sisters have come up with a handful of songs in which the
wrenching emotion of pop's most maligned era drips off, mingled with its potent
cocaine sweat.

Scott Miller, "On A Roll"

Shooter Jennings, "Aviators"

Call these two the sons of Steve Earle (even though Shooter
Jennings is literally the son of Waylon Jennings). Both of these cranky
roots-rock troubadours sing songs about decaying Americana and shade easily
from straight country to something much rowdier. Miller's the more overtly
political of the two, though it's hard to discount the spot-on scene-setting of
this line from Jennings' "Aviators:" "It's like that time I took you to Waffle
House and you made me mad."

Scrawl, "Take A Swing"

Here's one
from the glory years of indie-rock, when it was less a genre than an ideal,
with room for bands that worked in darker, punkier, artier veins. Scrawl never
really had strong enough songs to grow out of the indie realm, but in the early
'90s there were few bands as skilled at evoking desperation and danger.

Screamin' Jay Hawkins, "Hong Kong"

There's
nothing quite like a truly unhinged old rock single to recalibrate your
understanding of the Eisenhower era. This song was recorded in 1958, but sounds
a little like Tom Waits fronting The Bad Seeds. Inadvertent cultural
insensitivity aside, this one is just gloriously weird.

The Screaming Blue Messiahs, "Twin Cadillac
Valentine"

Though the
Messiahs' futurist rockabilly was partially dulled by the production standards
of the mid-'80s, I think Bill Carter and company honestly tried to—and
occasionally succeeded at—getting to that frenzied, sweaty place that
wild men like Screamin' Jay Hawkins seemed to access so easily. The best SBM's
songs were incantatory, with Carter spitting into the microphone like a street
corner preacher, in storming call-and-response anthems that tied together
Jesus, cars, murder, TV, American capitalism, and how much fun betraying your
principles can be.

Screaming Trees, "Nearly Lost You"

While the
majority of the early grunge acts proved disappointing, Screaming Trees were
one of the few that consistently worked wonders with the sound, adding a moody
psychedelic aspect, and wedding it to actual songs, not just tuneless rumble. Plus,

Mark Lanegan's voice is one of the best of a surprisingly strong lot in the
Seattle scene: deep and warbly, with a texture that's like velvet interlaced
with Velcro.

Seals & Crofts, "Summer Breeze"

I
considered posting "Unborn Child," Seals & Crofts' career-killing pro-life
ballad, but its lost some of its kitsch appeal over the past couple of weeks,
given the suddenly shifting political tides. Instead, here's the duo's biggest
hit, a song that always catches me by surprise with its unconventional
structure and undertones of melancholy. Fun fact: For years, I heard the line "not
a care in the world" as "I can not go on," which completely changes the meaning
of the song. I didn't even think about the implications of my version until one
day I was singing along to "Summer Breeze" on the radio and realized how
hilariously awful my line sounded in context.

Self, "Pattycake"

In the liner notes to Self's 2000 album Gizmodgery, the Tennessee-born studio rats
took special care to thank late-80s college rock staples Pianosaurus. Why the
nod? Because Pianosaurus was the first to do what Self set out to do on Gizmodgery: write, perform, and record pop
songs using nothing but toy instruments. It was an exercise that proved rewarding
both for Self frontman Matt Mahaffey and his fans, as Gizmodgery proceeded through 12 tracks of
danceable pop spiked with so much techno-clank that the original conceit of
tinny childlike instrumentation wasn't immediately noticeable. But some songs do seem to have directly resulted from
their unusual origins. Perhaps the most memorable track on the album is "Pattycake,"
a Prince-like ditty highlighted by Mahaffey's groovy falsetto, rhythmic
hand-clapping and a catchy children's rhyme over the chorus. It's a
toy-generated song about playing with toys.

Sergio
Mendes & Brasil '66, "Scarborough Fair"

Does this
easy-listening cover of an easy-listening song push so far through the
looking-glass that it transforms from cheese back into art? Since I'm an avowed
fan of The Sea And Cake, you can probably guess my stance on this question. I
find this recording strangely progressive, and sort of beautiful.

Seth
Kaufman, "Black Biscuit"

Seth Kauffman's amazing 2006 album Ting sounds for all the world like a
sampler drawn from the Numero Group archives, bringing together the label's
regional R&B; collections, island-hopping exotica, and lost roots records.
But it's actually the work of one North Carolina music theorist who's apparently
run out of junk shops to rummage through for funky old 45s, and has decided to
make tomorrow's curios today.

The Shazam, "Fallin' All Around Me"

The Nashville guitar-pop trio broke out of their local club
circuit with Godspeed The Shazam, a lively piece of power-pop that drew its inspiration from
the gutty style of late '60s genre progenitors The Move rather than the more
pensive and pretty version offered by the likes of Fountains Of Wayne. The
album made The Shazam cult sensations in the U.K., where the rock press,
appreciative audiences, and scene demigods Paul Weller and the Gallagher
brothers anointed the band the legitimate heirs to their pet sound. But back
home, The Shazam's retro side got them lumped in with the neo-garage movement
(when it was noticed at all). Bandleader Hans Rotenberry and producer Brad
Jones responded by accentuating the raw on their follow-up LP Tomorrow The
World, but the
beat-it-until-it's-bloody technique didn't fool anyone, especially given
Rotenberry's continued affection for soar and sparkle. Note the fetching
acoustic guitar overture to the rollicking and hopelessly hooky "Fallin' All
Around Me," and its overall '70s-AM-radio-friendly approach. The band's
gleaming melodies and Rotenberry's full-throated bellows indicate that there's
more of the arena about them than the garage.

Sheriff & The Ravels, "Shombalor"

Everytime I
hear someone include doo-wop among the list of genres they can't abide (usually
alongside country and disco), I wonder if they've heard this frenetic doo-wop
side, in which the voices compete with drums and piano and saxophone for which
can go the most beat crazy.

The Shoes, "Like I Told You"

Proving
that every generation has their own power-pop critics' darling that never
breaks wide despite their obvious awesomeness, here are The Shoes, with a rare
cut from 1978, driven by big riffs, jangly fills, and a rhythm that rolls like
a ahead like a Greyhound bus.

Sidney Bechet & His New Orleans
Feetwarmers, "Preachin' Blues"

When this
song begins, it sounds like a fairly standard example of original
boogie-woogie, and the horn comes in, adding a Dixieland jazz feel, followed by
a loose, funny jump-jive vocal. Recorded in 1939, "Preachin' Blues" is like a
compendium of the styles that would later become rock 'n' roll.

Sigue Sigue Sputnik, "Love Missile F1-11"

This
British art-pop act garnered a lot of attention in the mid-'80s when they
declared themselves to be commercial entity first and foremost, and announced a
plan to sell advertising on their debut album. For all their blatant sell-out
moves though, I find it endearing that their first and biggest hit is
essentially a rip-off of Suicide. A sound that almost no one would buy a decade
earlier became popular when packaged properly.

Sigur Ros, "Saeglopur"

Everything
I like about Sigur Ros is present in this song: the music-box chimes, the moony
vocals, the boom and billow, and the abrupt changes from epic to intimate. I
wish Sigur Ros had more songs as well-organized and dynamic as this one,
instead of filling their records with so many pleasantly atmospheric
mood-setters. So many Sigur Ros tracks are like establishing shots; "Saeglopur"
is like an entire movie, in just under eight minutes.

*****************

Regrettably
unremarked upon:
Sahara Hotnights, Saint Etienne, Salt-N-Pepa, Sam Phillips, Sam Roberts, The
Sames, Sarah Lee Guthrie, The Scientists, Scott Walker, Scritti Politti, The
Secret Machines, The Selecter, Serge Gainsbourg, Shadowy Men On A Shadowy
Planet, Shapes And Sizes, Shawn Lee's Ping Pong Orchestra, Shelby Lynne, Sheryl
Crow and Shuggie Otis

Also
listened to: S.J. Tucker, Sabrosa Purr, Sadaharu,
Saddlesong, The Safes, The Sails, The Saints, Salako, Salaryman, Salim Nourallah, The Sallie Martin Singers, Sally Shapiro, Sally Timms, Salomé De
Bahia, Salt Water Taffy, Salvatore, Sam Baker, Sam Baylor, Sam Bush,
Sam Dees, Sam Taylor, Sammy Johns, San Francisco T.K.O.'s, Sandra King, Sandra McCracken, The Sands, Santa Esmeralda, Saosin, Sara Evans, Sarah
Bettens, Sarah Connor, Sarah
McLachlan, Sarah Pierce, Satellite
Party, Saturna, Saturday Looks Good To Me, Save
Ferris, Saves The Day, Saxon Shore, Say Hi To Your
Mom, Scary Kids Scaring Kids, Scatman Crothers, The Scattered Pages, The Scenic Vermont, Schiller Street Gang, Schonherz & Scott, The Schoolyard
Heroes, Schooner, Scissors For Lefty, Scotch Greens, The Scotland
Yard Gospel Choir, Scott Coussu, Scott Fisher & 1 A.M. Approach, Scott H.
Biram, Scotty, Scout Niblett, The Screamin' Sirens, Screeching
Weasel, Sea Ray, Sea Wolf, Sean Lennon, Seaweed,
Second Saturday, Secret Primper, Seether, Seger Ellis, Self Righteous Brothers,
Semiautomatic, Semisweet, The Sems, Seth Tiven, Seu Jorge, Seven Degrees From Center, Seven Storey Mountain, Sex Gang
Children, Sexton Blake, Seymores, Shaka Zulu Overdrive, Shakeyface, Shane Bartell, Shark Quest, Shaun Cassidy, Shawn Camp, Shawn Cummings, Shawn Fogel, Shawn Rudiman, She's Spanish I'm American, Shearwater,
Shelley Short, Shimmer, Shiner, Shiner Massive, Shirley & Lee, Shitdisco, Shocking Blue, Shotgun
Honeymoon, Shout Out Louds, Sick Bees, Sick Of It All, Sick Puppies
and Signalmen

*****************

Next
week: From The Silos to Son Volt, plus a few words on drummers