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by Jason Mendelsohn and Eric Klinger

28 Jan 2011


Klinger: A couple weeks ago, when I was insufficiently ebullient about Ziggy Stardust, I recall you all but threw glittery pixie dust in my eyes and challenged me to a duel. Now that I suspect the shoe is on the other foot, and I’m afraid I must reciprocate.

Mendelsohn, if you refuse to acknowledge the brilliance of Born to Run, I shall hereby slap you with a sweaty bandana and announce my intent to test you on the field of honor. Pistols at dawn, Mendelsohn!

Mendelsohn: Klinger, man, I tried. I really did and after repeated listenings I’ve come to begrudgingly respect the Boss and his E Street crew, but only for rockers like “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” and the slow-burner “Backstreets” and even the iconic “Born to Run”. But then I hit the back third of the album and all that goodwill disappears.

So I’m thinking that come tomorrow morning, one of us is going to be lying on the ground with a gut shot trying to stop the bleeding with a sweaty bandana. I may have hit you with a dose of Bowie’s pixie dust but I think you will find that I’m not so easily blinded by the light.

by William Carl Ferleman

27 Jan 2011


Paradise Lost author John Milton, a patriotic Englishman, was absolutely an aficionado of music; his father was, in fact, a composer of some 20 works.  Scholar Diane McColley recently notes that “Milton collaborated with a court composer, praised the church music that Puritans attempted to destroy, and in his epics represented choral and instrumental music in Heaven, Hell, and Paradise” (Milton in Context, 2010).  Notwithstanding, music is typically associated with the sacred among the devotional, and, for them, particularly and personally with God; in Paradise Lost, the angels endlessly, tediously sing to praise the heroic sacrifice of the Son.

This, I think, indicates that in some sense it is understandable that another Englishman and polemicist, Christopher Hitchens, refrains from citing music too frequently or specifically in his several endeavors.  “Why, if god was the creator of all things, were we supposed to ‘praise’ him so incessantly for doing what came to him naturally?  This seemed servile, apart from anything else”, professes Hitchens in his book God Is Not Great (2007).  Aware of both Milton and the Bible, he links music, generally, with “songs of praise” to the Almighty, and, of course, a loathsome variety of human slavishness and worship.

by Joseph Fisher

26 Jan 2011


Recently, I was having a conversation with Brian Flota, the author of PoMo Jukebox’s hilarious “Songs that Changed the Landscape of Human Thought and Understanding” column, and he suggested, perhaps somewhat grandiosely, that the best moment in the history of music comes in Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”, right before the start of the last verse, and right after the band descends down the scale.  That singular moment is one of pronounced silence, when it’s pretty clear that the band, which seems to be comprised of about fifty orchestras, is winding up for the crushing blast of the song’s conclusion.  Flota’s reason for his claim was simple: sometimes the best moments in music are the ones when there isn’t much going on.

That comment got me thinking a bit more deeply about the reasons why I prefer some songs to others—why some remain immediate no matter how many times I’ve heard them, while others lose their visceral power mere seconds after concluding.  Clearly, any conclusions that I could draw—if I could ever draw any—would be entirely subjective and potentially irrelevant to anyone else’s listening experiences.  Nevertheless, given that we just wrapped up The Season of Lists, I thought it might be worthwhile to break things down a bit further—to get out of thinking in terms of the best albums, or the best songs, or the best playlists, or even things like the best guitar solos or drums solos or whatever.  Rather, I thought it would be interesting to hear back from PopMatters’ esteemed readership about the best singular musical moments that you can remember.  Those brief intervals where, to trot out a hackneyed literary allusion, you felt IT!  Where you heard that one note, that one drum fill, that one vocal tic that made the entire song for you—or, indeed, for the history of music.

by Corey Beasley

24 Jan 2011


“Long Distance Drunk” is the only track on The Lonesome Crowded West that actually sounds like a b-side. On an album full of unabashed guitar rock, “Long Distance Drunk” pushes that instrument to the side, focusing instead on Jeremiah Green’s stuttering beat and Eric Judy’s bass-guitar-by-way-of-moonshine-jug drone. Isaac Brock palm-mutes a simple acoustic chord progression, joining his bandmates in their atmosphere of rhythmic navel-gazing. In between “Out of Gas” and “Shit Luck”, it’s hard for the song not to sound like an interlude. Taken on its own, it fares somewhat better.

“Hang it up now or never”, Brock sings, “Hang it up again”. He sounds tentative, a fitting tone for that slight hesitation that comes before you call your ex on a tequila-fueled whim. “Eight AM and someone calls you on the telephone / You want to be by yourself and all alone”, he’ll sing later, his vocals pushed into the back of the mix, almost an afterthought. It is an afterthought, after all, since he knows he’ll make the call, anyway. You’d do the same thing, wouldn’t you?

The track’s repetitive lyrics don’t hit as hard or in quite the same manner as the rest of Brock’s writing on the album. But then, they’re not supposed to. “Hang it up now or never / Hang it up again / Long distance drunk”—these are the stakes, slight in the bigger picture but painfully large when you’re sitting there with the telephone and a spinning room around you. Nicole Johnson’s airy vocals provide a nice counterpoint to Brock’s plaintiveness and do just enough to keep things from getting too self-indulgent. Perhaps swapping out this track for “Baby Blue Sedan”, (included on the vinyl pressing of the record), would’ve made sense to many fans, but we have “Long Distance Drunk”. Sometimes understatement can work just as well.

by Jason Mendelsohn and Eric Klinger

21 Jan 2011


Mendelsohn: I can’t take this album seriously. I know it has serious subject matter—it’s politicized, it’s raw.  I know that It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back also marks the point where hip-hop decided to grow up. I know all of this and yet listening to Flavor Flav rap about not selling out makes my brain spin. And not the good kind of spinning. The other kind of spinning—where you get dizzy and reach out to catch your balance but instead steadying yourself, your hand misses and you smack your forehead on whatever it is you were reaching for. Like the table, or your dog, or that flabbergasted elderly woman on the bus.

Klinger:  Wait a minute, Flavor Flav sold out?! That’s highly debatable, Mendelsohn. VH-1’s Flavor of Love is a puckish satire on contemporary mores, raising crucial questions about the nature of celebrity and, yes, even love itself.

I haven’t really listened to Nation of Millions in years, but I played the bejabbers out of it when I was in college. Returning to it now, I still tend to look past its flaws and find it to be a pretty solid listening experience.

Mendelsohn: See, I have a skewed view of hip-hop. I started in the ’90s with the smooth, alternative variety of hip-hop—the Pharcydes, the De La Souls, the Digable Planets and some gangster rap. But making the transition from that kind of flow to hearing Chuck D shouting me down was a bit jarring. So aside from repeated spins of “Bring the Noise” as part of the soundtrack to Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 2 video game, which I minored in at college, I never got down with PE.

Going at it for this assignment, I just don’t believe the hype.

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