The Pleonastic Hussalonian

I Forget It’s There: Lay Low (2008)

According to the bio on Last.fm, Lay Low (the nom de microphone of Lovísa Elísabet Sigrúnardóttir) has topped the Icelandic charts with her 2006 debut, Please Don’t Hate Me. Now, I don’t doubt for a second that Icelandic music charts exist – I know they do – but a brief search on the Internet yielded nothing reputable. How are we non-Icelanders to know what’s hot in Iceland?

I prefer to think of Iceland as another planet, a distant place I’d like to go to if only I had a rocket ship to take me there. Lay Low is not only living proof that this planet exists, but also that they have been observing us. “I Forget It’s There” simultaneously invokes Patsy Cline, Howlin’ Wolf, and Mazzy Star. I don’t know about you, but I find this interplanetary exchange of culture inspiring.

But seriously folks, the record is great. Go get it. No rocket ship required.

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Honesty Is No Excuse: Thin Lizzy (1971)

There is an undercurrent of classical influences in this song – the synthesized strings, the baroque-tinted guitar solo, the vamping chords. But the overall effect, the emotional impact, is something nonexistent in classical music.

It makes me wonder if rock music hadn’t invented new emotions. I listen to a song like this and try to find a word (or words) to describe the emotion(s) conveyed. Can’t do it. It’s kind of sad, desperate, maybe a little angry, definitely romantic in a tragic sense. But it feels so good in all its head-hanging, indulgent glory – a genuine sense of relief to let all those messy emotions hang out in the open.

It’s in his voice, in the drums. It’s what composers cannot notate – spontaneity, instinct, impulse, reckless abandon. Like it took Western composers one thousand years to finally get honest.

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Electric Stories: Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons (1968)

Everyone and everything eventually becomes irrelevant. Somewhere, someone has a drawer filled with S&H Green Stamps. Or skee ball-tickets from an arcade long since closed. A thin strip of paper printed with lucky numbers from a fortune cookie consumed eight years ago. We protect our valuables under lock and key. We must! And even when, one day, it is brought to our attention that our prized possessions have become worthless, well, it’s just impossible to throw anything away. No, not worthless, you’ll tell yourself, just irrelevant. There are worse things to be.

One could argue that in 1969 The Monkees were occupying the space that was previously filled by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Check the fine print and you’ll likely find the same circle of session players on both group’s records (L.A.’s The Wrecking Crew). The Four Seasons’ sound had become irrelevant. (There are worse things to be.) “Electric Stories” is an unsuccessful, albeit charming, attempt to reinvent, to revive, to rescue Frankie Valli. It seems like it should have worked. Kooky!

I’ll keep this one in a drawer with my Smurf-Berry Crunch box tops. You know, just in case.

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To Keep My Love Alive: Blossom Dearie (1960)

Have you a mean streak? A dark sense of humor? A love of word play? A tendency towards sweet things that bite? Well then! I’ve got an album for you: Blossom Dearie’s Soubrette Sings Broadway Hit Songs. My vinyl copy – pressed under the alternate title Blossom on Broadway – has been enjoyed so much that the only thing left to do is to eat it.

A soubrette, in case you wanted to know, is a stock character in opera and theatre. She is a comedic character known for her sauciness. She will love you and maybe kill you and then light-heartedly complain about where to dispose of your body. The audience will love her.

Blossom’s small, high-pitched girly voice, an acquired taste for some, is absolutely perfect for these songs. The primary color arrangements (by Russell Garcia) display a predilection for piccolo, xylophone, and clarinet. This combination of instruments brilliantly lend the album a nuttiness paralleled only by Raymond Scott. It’s like listening to a psychotic children’s record.

Favorite lyric (courtesy of Lorenz Hart): “Sir Athelstane indulged in fratricide, / he killed his dad and that was patricide. / One night I stabbed him by my mattress side…” Or wait, is that “matricide”? Hmm.

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Jazz: Double Dee/Steinski (198?)

She heaps herself onto the end of my bed as if to climb it. “What’s the difference between lying and when you’re making things up?” she asks.
“I know of none,” I say.
“What about stories in books?”
“They don’t count,” I say. “They’re made of writing.” (45)

- Mary Robison, One D.O.A., One on the Way (2009)

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Honesty (live): Billy Joel (1987)

Oh my god. I know I’m out of control, but I can’t be stopped. It’s music blog suicide! I’m writing about Billy Joel!

Everything I have to say about Billy Joel can be better said by talking about mashed potatoes. You see, I love mashed potatoes. In fact, I love mashed potatoes so much that I even like instant mashed potatoes. No, they’re not quite the same thing as real mashed potatoes, but they still possess the same essence of mashed potatoes, the same je ne sais quoi that brought me to the white, smooth, starchy food in the first place. Now, hold on. I wouldn’t want to permanently replace real mashed potatoes with instant mashed potatoes. But as a tasty and quick alternative, I’ll take a piping hot bowl of reconstituted dehydrated potato flakes any day.

While I love Billy Joel, I recognize that he’s largely an imitation of other, more respected, canonical artists. So what? Everyone is imitating someone. Some of us are just a little more transparent (or better at it) than others.

This particular version of “Honesty” bowls me over. The control he has over his voice is absolutely incredible. There are five or six different versions of Billy Joel singing this song – subtle shadings of his voice dispatched to deliver specific lines to their utmost. Listen to the seamless transition into the last chorus (around 3:08). Fantastic! Even the piano playing, though quite simple, is extremely dynamic, inextricably linked to his voice, to the lyrics. How you gonna diss this man? I know, I know. Billy Joel is not cool. But he’s not cool because it’s not cool to be honest or sincere without some ironic, snarky, tough-guy distance. Are you even listening to the lyrics, man? Forget the posturing. Get in touch with the Billy Joel in you. The maudlin, misunderstood, delicately desperate, syrupy sweet, low down lonely you.

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Could This Be Magic?: Van Halen (1980)

Let me come right out and say it. I love Roth-era Van Halen. There! I feel lighter already.

If it seems incongruent with other things I post on this site, let me reassure you. I like all the normal things there are to like about Roth-era Van Halen: Eddie’s mind-blowing guitar solos; Alex’s wash of cymbals; Michael Anthony’s high harmonies; Roth’s charismatic (and wholly original) vocals; the punctuating howls; the general fist-pumping, head-banging, kick-assness of the tunes. But what I really like is the campiness, the occasional old-timey vaudevillian touch which repeatedly occurs throughout the Roth-era canon. That guy was a real ham. (See: Dave TV)

This song exemplifies the side of Van Halen that doesn’t immediately come to mind when we’re talking about one of the most successful hard rock bands of the Seventies. At the end of the day, it’s sea shanty. It’s loose. It’s playful. It’s corny. Just before the guitar solo, hear Dave say, “Edward?” Edward obliges. Dave thanks him. How great!

Added bonus:
This MP3 comes from my well-worn vinyl copy. Inherited from my (still) longhaired dad!

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