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The
Fatal Flaw
Metroland writers gripe about
the nagging blemishes in otherwise perfect songs
As a great songwriter-philosopher once observed,
“Every rose has its thorn.” There are countless recordings
that are almost perfect, except . . . one tiny little
thing is wrong. And, similar to that sluglike critter Khan
puts into Chekov’s ear in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan,
the one tiny thing slithers in your ear, gnaws at your brain
and makes you crazy. Like the Rolling Stone critic
who was mightily perplexed by Paul Simon referring to “The
Boxer” as a “bloke” in a line—when the character was clearly
American, not British—our writers have been struck dumb by
gaffes by everyone from Pete Townshend to Mark Bolan.
The Who
“Won’t Get Fooled Again”
Who’s Next is arguably the Who’s
most defining album—no less than six of its nine tracks remain
in continuous rotation on classic-rock radio today. Of these,
“Won’t Get Fooled Again” contained the most devastating scream
ever put to vinyl, best embraced the incorporation of prerecorded
synthesizer tracks into the band’s sound, and was the apex
of Keith Moon’s explosive, unpredictable drumming capabilities.
The song conveys a timeless dissatisfaction with
the human role in change on a wide scale, citing the recurring
mistakes of civilization throughout history. Despite being
used by Kiss to this day as a live intro and stolen by George
W. as an appendage to a botched-press-conference axiom, it
remains the perfect rock anthem . . . with one small
exception: Moon, who delivers a flawless performance for eight-plus
minutes, blows the finale by missing a key cymbal crash
with four notes left in the song. Kills me every time.
—Bill Ketzer
My Bloody Valentine
“Only Shallow”
True story: I still have the receipt (from 1991)
for this CD tucked inside the sleeve. The reason for that
act of posterity is simply that I thought something was terribly
wrong with my CD when I first bought it and listened to the
opening track, “Only Shallow.” On the one hand, this is a
very powerful, densely layered wall of sound that perfectly
represents the shoegazing madness of the early ’90s United
Kingdom. On the other hand, the track (the whole album, in
fact) is disorienting and . . . hurtful. It sounds warped.
It messes with my inner ear and induces a state much like
carsickness. (Plus, there is a moaning in the background that
sounds like whales undergoing a surprise cavity search.) Leader
Kevin Shields has built a Brian Wilson-like mythology out
of his endless studio tinkering and that “great, lost” (yet
never heard) My Bloody Valentine album. I would respond that
there are simpler ways for me to get carsick, like reading
Newsweek in a moving vehicle. But you know what? I
still listen to the whole album (Loveless) at least
once a year to confirm its genius.
—Erik Hage
Billie Holiday
“God Bless the Child”
Holiday recorded this a few times, but it’s the
1950 Decca version that’s sublime. Well, almost. The
glory’s all on Lady Day, as the arrangement’s so cheesy the
shellac must have smelled like Velveeta. Gordon Jenkins, who
later wrote excellent string-drenched settings for Sinatra,
put Holiday with the whitest faux-gospel choir in the history
of Western music. If you make it through the horrendous choral
intro, however, the power of Holiday’s rueful, soulful reading
is stark and moving. That’s why it was always nice to play
this on one of the old Palais Royale jukeboxes; for some reason,
the needle always dropped on the record after the choir.
—Shawn Stone
Poco
“And Settlin’ Down”
Time has never been kind to Poco, the band formed
out of the ashes of Buffalo Springfield by Richie Furay and
Jim Messina. They watched former bandmates make truckloads
of money, and even Poco members would leave to make it big.
Though Poco were poised for success throughout their career,
the passage of nearly four decades has done little to alter
perceptions. The fact is, Poco’s country stylings, cut loose
from the context of their era, sound nakedly lightweight.
Surprisingly, when they emphasized the rock and just flavored
it with country, they ended up with a few songs that fare
better now. “And Settlin’ Down” has an undeniable kick to
it. It has a 25-second intro that serves to crank up the engine.
Sadly, at the 10-second mark, as drums and chordal riffs are
staking out their territory, Furay lets loose with a cry of
“Boogie!” With his church-boy clarity, he should never have
emitted such a plea. It sounds sufficiently wrong for me to
feel embarrassed for him now, all these years later.
—David Greenberger
Counting Crows
August And Everything After
I am willfully botching this assignment by talking
about an album, but hear me out. Counting Crows’ 1994 debut
came on like a ton of familiar, and resonated with the music
nation accordingly. It is a timeless recording: The songs
are hopeful slices of American life, simultaneously sun-drenched
and -damaged; the production is flawless, thanks to miracle
worker T-Bone Burnett. The Crows would have been wise to ask
Burnett back for subsequent releases: As time wore on, they
sounded less like a rock band and more like a life raft for
singer Adam Duritz’s bloated ego. But, for August’s
52 minutes, they were perfect—well, almost: Over the decaying
ring of guitars at the end of “Rain King,” Duritz lets loose
with a wailing “Yeeeeaaaahhhh!” What the fuck was that all
about?
—John Brodeur
Procol Harum
“Pilgrim’s Progress”
Released in the summer of 1969, A Salty Dog
was the last hurrah of Procol Harum’s original lineup. The
originality of their sound owed much to them being a band
of mismatched parts: an R&B singer, a psychedelic blues
guitarist, a Who-worthy drummer and a classical organist.
With success came competing desires. The biggest disappointment
on this album is built into one of the finest songs of their
career, the closing “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Organist Matthew
Fisher composed it, but for reasons not made part of the public
record, he also sang it. His thin voice makes it sound like
a demo for the band’s real singer, Gary Brooker. Alas, as
reissues have appeared, there is no alternate version sung
by Brooker (though he did go on to sing it live in later years
and in re-formed versions of the band).
—David Greenberger
Flatt and Scruggs
“Foggy Mountain Breakdown”
Among banjo tunes, perhaps only “The Ballad of
Jed Clampett,” the theme from the 1960s TV series The
Beverly Hillbillies, and “Dueling Banjos” from the 1972
movie Deliverance are better known than Flatt and Scruggs’
classic bluegrass instrumental “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.”
The soundtrack of the 1967 film Bonnie and Clyde
features it, and it also serves as the background
music to other Hollywood rural car chases. The original 1949
version, which you can hear on the CD Bluegrass Legends,
contains an atrocious-sounding clam, though: Every time Earl
Scruggs picks the notes of the E-minor chord first heard in
the fifth measure on his banjo, Lester Flatt plays an E-major
chord on his guitar. What’s so bad about that? This mix
of chords produces a clash of tones called a half-step dissonance,
and although dissonance is common in music, it grates on the
ear when wrongly used. That’s the case here. Thankfully, Flatt
fixed the error by changing to an E-minor chord in later recordings
of the piece.
—Glenn Weiser
The Who
“Who Are You?”
Why pick on an otherwise perfect song, you ask?
Well, because the Who have so many utterly perfect songs.
In this case, however, the imperfection comes in the form
of one word: a blight upon the otherwise ultimate rock song.
Pete Townshend wrote “Who Are You?” as a question about his
own place in the scheme of things. Punk rock was taking over
England, and this song, about a lost night in London (and
about Townshend’s generally drunken lifestyle at the time),
also questions—beyond the literal—whether Pete and company
really matter anymore in light of punk’s newfound fury. (Answer:
Yes. In retrospect, most punk-rock groups of the first wave
were whimpers in comparison to the bludgeoning, jackhammer-like
force of the Who at their best.) So what’s the flaw? It’s
Roger Daltrey’s impassioned (and hopefully improvised) cry
of “Who the fuck are you?” For one moment, a perfect song
sloshes over the top into melodrama. Daltrey never needed
to use the F-word—c’mon, it’s overkill, man! Townshend’s slashing,
jagged chords are practically all the F-word we need. (If
you thought this was going to be about CSI, then fuck
you.)
—Erik Hage
T. Rex
“Baby Boomerang”
T. Rex’s The Slider is one of the best
albums ever. (Just accept it and move on. We can argue about
it online, or in the letters section.) But track five, “Baby
Boomerang,” has always tripped me up. It’s a good song, don’t
get me wrong. The guitars are bouncy, the backing vocals just
as warm and exciting as on the rest of the album. It stands
out as a piece of glam-rock perfection, but the song is sandwiched
between two of the most sentimental and timeless tracks Mark
Bolan has ever written. “Baby Boomerang,” the sleazy ode to
a groupie who “never stopped the fussing/But you always banged
the whole gang,” just sort of skeeves me out in what would
otherwise be the most emotionally powerful moment of the album.
Maybe I just can’t accept glam rock for all its excesses,
but if the chorus had just been anything else. . . . Even
the chorus from “Buick Mackane” from the same album would
have cut it. “Slider, slider/You’re just a sexual guider.”
Sooo Bolan, just a little bit less graphic.
—David KingC
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