i crawl like a viper through these suburban streets, make love to these women, languid and bittersweet

86.





aja
steely dan [mca, 1977]

the silky-smooth jazz arrangements and lush, crisp production are often misconstrued as signs of effete wimpiness, but Steely Dan isn't all cocaine and caviar with Christopher Cross in a yacht off the coast of California; wry, detached cynicism and subversive contrarianism emanate from their records. popular lore paints Donald Fagen and Walter Becker as unrepentant perfectionists, wary of mainstream trends and defiantly operating in the idioms of jazz and classic pop. Aja is a quintessential example of their mastery of sound and studio; the production is intricately textured and luxuriant, a bonsai garden of carefully tended notes and tones. the chordal progressions are unpredictable, sometimes bizarre, and the solos - usually by renowned studio musicians - abound in nonchalant virtuosity. the Hawaiian wind title track is a winding, intricate showstopper concluding with a cascading drum attack, while "peg" coasts in on its easy accessibility and then confounds with its mocking Michael McDonald backing vocals and an earworm trumpet riff. "black cow" is sardonic, crystalline funk, and the Odyssey-inspired "home at last" riddles with mellifluous synthesizers. the album's highlight is "deacon blues," a melancholically derisive ode to youthful, conquer-the-world naïveté. this is the record where all the elements that define Steely Dan consolidate, and the remarkable attention to sonic detail controverts any disparaging, milquetoast label: soft rock, jazz-rock, yacht rock, whatever.

daisy age moment: several tracks from this album have been sampled in rap songs, but the most charming example is still de la soul's "eye know," which takes takes that aforementioned trumpet riff from "peg" and skedaddles with it.

i never let the mic magnetize me no more

87.




paid in full
eric b. & rakim [4th & broadway, 1987]

the sweet, tender haze of nostalgia has romanticized "old-school" hip-hop culture into a good-natured, violence free utopia of breakdancers, graffiti artists, DJs, and b-boys makin' with the freak-freak. but, rap in its infancy bears little resemblance to what dominates the charts today, especially in terms of the cadences of the MCs and their lyrical content. the rhyming was generally unsophisticated and unwavering braggadocio rivaled party-starting hype as the supreme subject matter. enter one Rakim Allah, flanked by his scrit-scratchin', bass droppin' DJ Eric B. On Paid in Full, Rakim introduces poetic devices heretofore underutilized or unseen in rap - internal rhyme, alliteration, complex metaphors, enjambment - while Eric B. generates a vibrant wall of sound using soul and funk samples. the unfaltering boasting and excessive use of echo on the vocals - see "my melody" - are retained from the old-school aesthetic, but this record represents a watershed moment, a marked shift in focus for hip-hop. Rakim doesn't shout or Mickey Mouse to the beat, he flows, he simmers, he sputter-mutters, he spins, bodyslamming the rhythm the ground for the one-two-three count. "pump up the volume!" he exclaims on "i know you got soul" before casually droppin' intricate rhymes like a modern-day Lorenz Hart. ignore the Eric B. solo DJ cuts, they've dated terribly, and instead, nod and sway while Rakim grinds with sloppy, frothy big-booty bass on "move the crowd" and decimates all challengers on "Eric B. is president." Rakim is commonly regarded as the greatest rapper of all time, and this record pops at the seam with brilliance while establishing a new paradigm; long live lyrical complexity!

non-sequitur moment: contemporary rap is full of allusions to Rakim and his songs, but the best reference certainly is found on 50 Cent's verse on "hate it or love it:" "daddy ain't around, probably out committin' felonies/my favorite rapper used to say 'ch-ch-check out my melodies.'"

go and kill! joro jara joro. go and die! joro jara joro.

88.




zombie
fela kuti and afrika '70 [celluloid, 1977]

among many, many other things, non-Western nations got a raw deal in regards to musical representation. the gag reflex "world music" tag summons scenes of hoity-toity, lily-white liberal guilt stuffed-shirts politely clapping to Ladysmith Black Mambazo in marble-lined university assembly halls. "it's inspiring because they're repressed!" Fela Kuti demolishes any and all watered-down, tepid approximations of Third World anxiety and rage; this is bomb-throwing music for revolutions, not fashionable exoticism. drawing influence from the rhythmic ferocity of James Brown, the experimental intensity of late period Miles Davis, and the call-and-response structure of traditional West African music, Fela Kuti and Afrika '70 constructed an intoxicating hard-edged jazz-funk fusion, later labeled "Afrobeat." they released a multitude of records in the '70s, but Zombie is the most notorious. the title track is a scathing, fanged critique of the Nigerian military, comparing soldiers not to the brain-eating shamblers of Western pop culture, but to the trained-to-kill mindless automatons of Voodoo lore. a brutal, braying alto sax leads the charge while the rhythm section pulsates and throbs. after barking commands over a chorus of voices shouting "zombie, oh zombie!" Kuti fires up the organ and lets loose with a skin-burning solo. the album's other track, "mister follow follow," is a slow-burner, gradually gathering momentum towards an exhilarating refrain denouncing blind Pied Piper devotion to charismatic leaders. through his ardor and fearlessness in the face of corruption and dictatorship, Kuti makes a mockery of Western "protest" music by proving that a record could be as subversive as a pamphlet and as dangerous as a grenade.

bring down the government moment: when i say this record was dangerous, it's not just critical hyperbole. check the Wikipedia page for this album: the Nigerian military felt so threatened, they attacked Kuti's compound, destroyed his instruments, nearly beat him to death, and threw his mother out a window. it's further proof of Kuti's indefatigable resolve that he responded by recording more inflammatory music.

i shot my mouth off and you showed me what that hole was for

89.





pretenders
the pretenders [sire, 1980]

many female musicians have attempted to co-opt the unrepentant machismo, the primal urgency, the reckless abandonment of good ol' fashioned guitar-based rawk n' roll, but none have done so with the conflicting vulnerability of Chrissie Hynde. yes, she performs as the predator, the player, the peddler, and the pretender [har!], but, despite all her blue-balling bluster, she's an arch sentimentalist at her core. with the valor and vim and vigor of punk and a pop sensibility borrowed from the sixties, few debut records are as unapologetically fierce as Pretenders. "precious" and "the wait" are both chugging, after-school detention attention-grabbers, with Hynde literally telling a dude to "fuck off" in the former. the rustling drums and chiming guitars on "tattooed love boys" underscore Hynde's tale of sexual awakening. even gratuitously catchy MONSTER HIT "brass in pocket" is laden with innuendo and cocksure swagger. however, the aching sadness on the Nick Lowe-produced cover of the Kinks' "stop your sobbing," the surprising tenderness on tough-love ballad "kid," and the hopelessly melancholic "lovers of today" belie Hynde's tough girl image. though the laboriously dull reggae-tinged "private life" threatens to dilute the visceral impact of the record's second half, salvation arrives in the form of the uplifting "mystery achievement." Hynde's Jekyll and Hyde dichotomy would eventually coalesce, and, due to shifting lineups, the Pretenders would never again sound as raw and edgy, but the beautiful contradictions exposed on this record still resonate.

unsung guitar hero moment: though the Pretenders weren't as musically innovative as many of their peers, guitarist James Honeyman-Scott injects a lot of sharp-edged post-punk nastiness, especially on the spasmodic break-down in "tattooed love boys." too bad he OD'd on blow a few years after this album was released.

a dinosaur victrola, listenin' to buck owens

90.





cosmo's factory
creedence clearwater revival [fantasy, 1970]

traditionalism is a tricky-dicked endeavor, a tightrope walk over the sinkholes of novelty kitsch and reactionary conservatism. Creedence is a shining beacon, a paragon of pop sincerity; one foot was ankle-deep in the trends of the past, but the guys weren't corny or cranky or campy, they were just fucking good. the integral element is John Fogerty's wail: slightly unhinged and tremulous, with undertones of rage and terror blemishing the all-smiles exterior. Cosmo's Factory has more hits than [insert off-color joke here]: the rambunctious "travelin' band," the ominous "who'll stop the rain," and the Vietnam-scarred "run through the jungle." there's also the slide-guitar spike in the vein of "up on around the bend," used in every buddyroadtrip movie in existence and the sweetly idiotic psychedelic imagery in "lookin' out my back door." but the record's defining moment may be in the opening track, the raucous seven minute jam "ramble tamble," in which Fogerty unleashes the finest guitar solo of his career: simple, eloquent, transcendent. the ten minute cover of "i heard it through the grapevine" may be the embarrassed elephant in the corner, but its relentless repetition gradually becomes compellingly hypnotic. from shuck n' jive barn burners to open road po' boy ballads, Cosmo's Factory is Creedence's most varied and consistent record and a testament to their quiet, unassuming artistry.

"wouldn't hold out much hope for the tape deck, though. or the creedence." moment: a lot of Creedence's songs have suffered from overexposure, either from oldies radio or incessant use in movies and television. however, The Big Lebowski undoubtedly contains the best use of Creedence's music, especially "run through the jungle" during the botched ransom drop-off.