Crushing On

I spend so much time and attention putting things on my iPod that I hardly know what’s on it anymore.

Wait, that didn’t make any sense, did it?

There are distinct reasons that I am avowed in my neglect of streaming music services like Spotify. When I want all of the records Rolling Stone gave four or more stars to this year or everything from MetaCritic that scored an 80 or above, I am not just talking about the music a service managed to get the licensing rights to. I mean all of it, all the time – in cars and subway tunnels, on elevators and airplanes.

The downside of this Cookie Monster sort of approach to gobbling music is that I have no context. Songs aren’t showing up via recommendations or new playlists – they are just appearing en masse in my “Unheard Songs” list, which I’ve narrowed down to a very manageable 1995 at the moment.

Case and point: “Little Numbers” by BOY from their 2011 LP Mutual Friends. This came on via a random shuffle of my unheard songs the other day. I proceeded to play it 10 TIMES IN A ROW. It is so effing awesome. I can’t even.

That wicked simple piano line paired with a relentless handclap and snare hybrid. The slight Aimee Mann esque prickle to the vocal. Lyrics like “I rearrange parts of my living room – time is hard to kill since I met you.” And that’s all before the magnificent sing-songy refrain, “seven little numbers,” about the abject cruelty of those not-so-random digits that can make up the telephonic address of another human being. Somehow the whole feels indie but also somehow like a dance party without reeling out the slashing guitars and wheezing synths most indie rock uses to get to that point.

Apparently the song was in a Lufthansa Airlines commercial and was big in Japan (really), which tells me nothing about why I own it. It racked up nearly 10 million views on YouTube – although, if my listening habits are any indication, that may have come from 500,000 or less unique people mainlining the tune over and over.

Oh to get a look at those YouTube internal metrics.

Meanwhile, the LP Mutual Friends was out two years ago today and did in fact get an 80 on MetaCritic (from five reviews that don’t actually average 80), which I suppose explains how it wound up on my iPod, but Rolling Stone just shared the MP3 this year and the only review I can locate is 3.5 stars and in German.

So how did it wind up on my iPod? No idea. But I’m keeping it – not only because it is an amazingly little construct of a song, but because it is proof positive that my widely cast net of musical interest hauls in some prize catches amongst all the flotsam.

E and I saw Heart at the Tower Theatre on Friday, a classic-rock date night sequel to our spur-of-the-moment decision to see the Pretenders a few years ago.

I don’t adore the entire Heart catalog like I adore that of The Pretenders, but I do love a great number Heart songs – especially from their first three albums. That acoustic-driven galloping rock is definitely in the lineage of Arcati Crisis; I’ve always been fascinated that Gina isn’t a particular fan, given her similarities in writing and performance to the Wilson sisters.

Of course, those Heart albums were all before my time. My actual introduction to the band was most like the video to “These Dreams” in 1986, which to me at the time might have plausibly seemed as though it came from the Labyrinth soundtrack.

Don’t worry, I won’t subject you to the entire video.

I was always confused by Heart on Casey Casem’s count down, because in their videos they were made up just like the big-haired rocker guys I was so bored by … except, these were… women? I felt like I should have liked them, but this was in their “All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You” period, a song Ann Wilson won’t even sing today, so could you blame me for not liking them?

Yet, these were also the acoustic-rockers who spawned hits like “Barracuda” and “Crazy on You.” What gives?

I read Heart’s new memoir Kicking and Dcreaming overnight on Friday, and it explained the peculiar duality of the band. Heart nearly dissolved when they left CBS Records imprint Portrait in 1982, and when they reformed for Capitol records they began performing songs by other writers in an attempt to fit in on rock radio. It brought them their greatest success – including their first number one single, “These Dreams,” one of their few songs with Nancy Wilson singing lead.

I’ve always been obsessed with the song, but the synthesizer- and reverb-drenched original never really sounded right to me. Back in college while I was trolling through the CD racks at Tower Records I noticed a peculiar lone title in the W section – Live at McCabe’s Guitar Shop by Nancy Wilson?

That Nancy Wilson? I picked up the case an examined the track list and, LO AND BEHOLD, it included an acoustic version of “These Dreams”! But, it was $18 – far too rich for my blood when it came to CDs.

(Oh, the quaint stories of being a music fan in early 2000s.)

I eventually did buy the album, after picking up those early Mushroom and Portrait LPs with the encouragement of my old colleague Alex. I’ve never been one for those Capitol albums, though. Their stadium rock sound also mean that Nancy’s acoustic leanings were muffled and later altogether drowned out.

Happily, that wasn’t the end of Heart – in the past decade they’ve refocused on their old-school sound with a bluesy tinge on three solid studio albums.

That also means that on tour they’ve reclaimed some of their excessive 80s hits. On Friday they brought me to tears with an acoustic version of “These Dreams” with Nancy on mandolin that flowed directly into an acoustic and piano duet on “Alone.”

This post is about a song I have never heard that you cannot buy.

Sort of.

So much good new music arrived in my mailbox last week – Amanda Palmer, Adrien Reju, and Juliana Hatfield – and the coolest part is that I sponsored it all! Juliana Hatfield’s new LP was truly a surprise – an all-covers project with no hint of the setlist or direction when I pledged my support. Given that Hatfield’s past decade of albums have ranged from minimal acoustic to grungy indie rock, there was really no telling what would arrive.

When it showed up in our mailbox last week I did what you would expect and likely do yourself – I listened to the covers of songs that I knew. The version of “Learn to Fly” was delightful! I’m still digesting the rest of it.

Anyway, this is not a post about Juliana Hatfield (partially because Ms. Hatfield doesn’t have her album up for streaming/sharing anywhere – oh noes!). It’s about one of the songs she covered, a pretty and ingenious bit of sfi-fi tinged heartbreak called “Self Machine,” originally by I Blame Coca AKA Sting’s daughter, Eliot Paulina Sumner.

Lonely robot in a wasteland
Rusting in a lonely harbor
Lonely robot in a wasteland
Rusting in the harbor’s water

I’m not a human if you say I’m not
I’m not a human if my engines lock
And this motor that you call my heart
Is another machine that will stop

The Hatfield version of the song first came on as E and were running errands on Saturday, and you could almost draw a dotted line from our ears to the car speakers as they perked up. Not only is this a great song, but it brought out the best in Juliana Hatfield. Her singing is tuneful yet bruised, suspending by pulsing, buzzing synthesizers like a man laying on a bed of nails.

It’s one of her best songs in years – maybe ever.

Which brought me to the original I Blame Coco version. It’s good. I’d probably give it four stars if it came up on my iPod. But, in my first and only listen to the original version above, Sting Junior does not bring that same powerful fragility to the song. It’s too strident – too much declaration, not enough regret.

Of course, I wouldn’t know that without listening to Juliana Hatfield’s version. She took a good song and exploited it’s flaws in the best way possible. Her version is the more definitive of the two, in my mind.

Even if it was the I Blame Coco’s version I was obsessed with, her LP Constant isn’t available in the US, nor is the MP3 of this song (though you can buy the LP as an import).

The Juliana Hatfield version, which I am obsessed with an firmly believe you should buy, is not available for download anywhere, and Amazon only has a single copy of her CD – or, you can buy it directly from her.

Two versions of an excellent song, both trapped in the internet machine, unable to shake free.