"Someone Saved My Life Tonight" (Elton John)

Another song with that "wave your Bic lighters in the air" quality is "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" from Elton John's Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy (1975).
I would hear the song on the radio occasionally as a kid, particularly late in the evening.  I liked the pattern John played with his left hand on piano.  As a budding keyboardist myself, I liked anything that was booming and dramatic like that.  I also liked the gate reverb on Nigel Olsson's drums, which sounded like they were being played in a big stairwell.
Funny how you don't really pay much attention to the meaning of lyrics as a kid.  (Or at least I never did.)  It wasn't until about 5 years ago, when I was reading an article online about John and his work in the 70s, that I found out the song was autobiographical: it's about John contemplating suicide early in his career.  He was engaged to be married and was going to give up his music career, which had been struggling to take flight.  He felt like he was giving up anything that mattered, so he thought about ending it.  His friend, actor and musician Long John Baldry (the "someone" in Bernie Taupin's lyric), prevented him from doing the unthinkable, talked him out of abandoning his music career for marriage, and also helped him come to terms with his homosexuality.
With that bit of knowledge, it is really difficult making it to that anthemic Someone saved, someone saved, someone saved my life tonight... refrain at the end of the song without having a lump in your throat.
Heavy stuff for a song that managed to make it to #4 on the US Billboard charts in 1975.

"Purple Rain" (Prince)

You couldn't turn on the radio in 1984 and not hear something from the Purple Rain soundtrack.  Nevertheless, for a 6-year-old kid (as I was in 1984), Prince was a little too adult for me to even comprehend.  I liked the groove of "Let's Go Crazy."  "I Would Die 4 U" was catchy, too.  But then I'd see him on MTV or Casey Kasem's old Saturday morning countdown show on NBC, and the whole makeup/Glam Rock meets S&M theme that he and The Revolution had going on was a little much.  In my kid mind, every performance of his back then was a little like watching Ringling Brothers Circus, where Prince was the ringmaster and The Revolution were the clowns.  Weird clowns who humped their keytars.
It really wasn't until years later, when I went to a special showing of the film Purple Rain at an art house cinema in Chapel Hill, NC, that I had a chance to reevaluate Prince through adult ears and eyes.  I walked away with a whole new respect and admiration of his genius.  And, yes, he is a genius.  Prince's amalgam of New Wave, Glam, early rock and roll, jazz, R&B, funk, and soul into something completely new is pretty amazing.  It's a mix that, at first blush, should not work.  For any other artist, it wouldn't work.  But Prince has roots and influences that range from Duke Ellington to Marc Bolan.  That massive pool of inspiration and musical knowledge in combination with his unbridled creativity changed the way music sounded in the early 80s.
I came out of the theater that evening after watching the last scene of the film, where he finally plays Wendy and Lisa's new song (in reality, Prince alone wrote "Purple Rain"), and I felt like I had been to a revival.  In fact, I think it's the gospel feel of the song that saves it from falling into the "power ballad" camp, even though it does make you want to sway with your Bic lighter in the air.


Since Prince is notorious about keeping any of his music off YouTube and the internet, I regretfully can't post a video of Prince performing this song.  There are HORRIBLE cover versions out there, including one incredibly off-tune karaoke rendition by a guy who looks like Kenny Powers from Eastbound and Down.  There's also some dude who rambles for 9+ minutes about supposed backmasking (aka "backward messages") in the song.  Search "Purple Rain" online at your own risk.  

"Said So What" (French Kicks)

French Kicks is (was?) a New York indie band.  The little I know about them is that the band was formed in Brooklyn in the late 90s by three guys from Ohio's Oberlin College and another guy from Princeton.  One of them went on to work for the website Etsy in the late 2000s, and the band hasn't released much since.
Nevertheless, what the band did release over the years is pretty compelling stuff.  Especially 2008's Swimming, which is solid from start to finish.  Their sound conjures up the more ethereal and grooving sides of My Morning Jacket/Jim James (minus the alt country leanings) with a touch of off-kilter pop goodness à la Big Star/Alex Chilton and Lindsey Buckingham circa Tusk or Law and Order.
One standout track from Swimming is "Said So What."  I first heard the song on college radio (WKNC) one night in Raleigh, NC, after a particularly shitty day at work.  I'm still not sure about any of the lyrics.  From what I've been able to pick out, it seems like the narrator is addressing someone who is living life like it's his/her own personal drugstore, and despite letting this individual know that he is willing to stick by him/her, he still can't help but ask, "Why?"
For me, it was the mystery and murk of the verses, followed by that indelible Why, tell me, why / I don't know in the chorus, that grabbed me that evening.  I personally felt as if I were fighting an uphill battle with no chance of victory, and that harmonious refrain Why, tell me, why and the ultimate reply I don't know fit perfectly at that moment.  
It's just a well-crafted, tastefully produced song that I tend to revisit, over and over.  Just wish French Kicks would make more music one day.

"Ashes of American Flags" (Wilco)

I always found it a bit eerie that Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was slated to come out on 9/11/01 but was delayed release because of record company shenanigans.  
The album is largely a collection of songs that examine relationships and life via extended metaphors that draw on symbols from the collective American consciousness (from point-and-shoot cameras and old-timey radio hucksters to LA Glam Rock) with ambient noise continuously arising to break things apart or bring things into piercing focus.  Glancing at the sepia-toned album cover depicting Chicago's twin Marina Towers, it feels even more chillingly prophetic than Jeff Tweedy & Co. ever intended and ultimately more cathartic than they ever could have fathomed.
"Ashes of American Flags" is the literal apex of the album and the most blatant synthesis of Tweedy's commentary on America as metaphor for his own issues, pains, and disappointments.  He takes something as mundane as getting $100 bucks from an ATM machine and buying $3.63 worth of Diet Coke and cigarettes, and he makes it feel like an Edward Hopper painting set to music.  It captures the simultaneous promise and paradox of the American dream, of wide-open spaces and "a good life," tempered with the reality of singing for your supper in the middle of nowhere and wondering what it all means, if anyone really cares, and how/if tomorrow will ever come.  
It's a bucolic folk ballad at its heart, only it's a heart in that's in the process of breaking, and you hear it crack a little more every time the those four haunting notes on guitar ring out every few measures.  But then there's rebirth by fire in the last minute of the song: ashes to ashes and the end of the beginning, as you hear the first chords of "Heavy Metal Drummer" struggle to break through.  

"Here Come the Warm Jets" (Brian Eno)

I have an enormous amount of respect for Brian Eno as an artist.  If you need an example of "thinking outside the box," look to Eno.  
On second thought, don't.  
With Eno, there is no box.  Never was.  There was a rhombus covered in fluorescent lights once, but he set fire to it in the 70s.  
He's refused to be bound by any one genre or particular sound.  Yet, anytime you hear anything that he's written, recorded, or produced in the past 40 years, you can only describe it as "Eno-esque."  It's that singular, off-kilter approach to pop songcraft.  It's a synth coming in where you'd expect a drum.  A guitar that shrieks like a cat in a blender.  A piano that sounds like a nightmare come to life.  An angelic, electronic choir that blasts affirmation of life.  And sometimes all of that is within the same 4-minute song.
On the title track from his 1974 album, instruments lose their identities and intertwine in a fuzzed out fanfare that sounds like a victory song played by an army of Huns.  Or maybe a drunken lot of football fans.  
At first I wondered, is that synthesizer?  Is that guitar?  Then I realized that question was irrelevant.  It's an atmosphere.  It's a feeling.  It's a warm jet!
What's a warm jet?  
Pffft.  Irrelevant!
Whatever it is, it stirs stuff deep in your gut that makes you want to punch the air.  
Then these drums that sound like a stampede march in from all sides, carrying a faint hint of a vocal that turns into a muddy chorus of Enos, singing about...  Um.
Something about being on your knees?  Something about saints?
Whatever he's singing, it sounds like revolution and triumph.
Sounds, sounds, sounds.
That's Eno.

"Under Pressure" (Queen & David Bowie)

Everyone raise her/his hand who had never heard of "Under Pressure" before "Ice, Ice Baby" sampled unabashedly ripped off the intro and bassline.
...Keep 'em raised.
I'm sure I'm just one of many who, until Kurt Loder brought it up on MTV News (where that infamous clip of Robert "Vanilla Ice" Van Winkle saying, "Ours goes ding-ding-ding-da-da-ding-ding..." debuted) had no idea that "Under Pressure" even existed.
I'm a bit ashamed to admit that, because "Under Pressure" is a great song.  And I don't mean "great" in a generic, lazy adjective sense, or merely that it's a good groove.  I mean it's a majestic, larger-than-life composition that actually says something.  
Take a look at the lyrics sometime: it's a plea to humanity to re-examine our priorities and show some compassion toward our fellow man before we implode.
The song speaks directly to the question that I've had hanging over my head numerous times over the years: what the hell's the point of it all?  We get up every day and go to our jobs, where we spend half of our lives doing uncreative, unfulfilling crap that, in the long run, will be forgotten and completely inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.  And, in even in the midst of this realization, there's still pressure.  Pressure that's created by manufactured deadlines, unreasonable goals, and arbitrary rules that have nothing to do with our needs as human beings, much less as spiritual beings.  Deep down, we know the answer to the big question is "love."  But our culture creates a disconnect with that truth.
It's a huge topic to tackle, and David Bowie, the late Freddie Mercury, and the boys from Queen do it in 4 minutes flat.
That's why it is a great song.

"The Last Time" (Gnarls Barkley)

I don't want to be that guy, but I was a fan of Thomas Calloway, aka CeeLo Green, long before Gnarls Barkley, The Voice, or any of that.  I remember my college roommate playing music from Goodie Mob's Soul Food (1995) and being impressed with CeeLo's flow and vocal on "Cell Therapy."  I also liked his contribution to OutKast's "Git Up, Git Out" from Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik (1994).  Then there was the club banger "I'll Be Around" with Timbaland in 2004 that was completely slept on.  
Every time I'd heard something new from CeeLo, I kept thinking: Why is he not a superstar?  His style was so unique, and there was so much damn soul in everything he did.  It just confounded me why he wasn't a household name.
Anyway, unless you've been living under a rock--or, at the very least, a bunker without an internet connection, you know that CeeLo is now a huge star, largely as the result of his creative partnership with writer/producer Brian Burton, aka Danger Mouse.
But I'm not going to talk about the song you might think I'm going to talk about.  Yet.
Instead, there's a brief track sitting at the very end of 2006's St. Elsewhere called "The Last Time."  It uses a sample from a somewhat obscure funk song called "Chicano Chaser" by Ian Langley, which--as far as I can tell--was recorded in 1973 as production (or stock) music for use in TV and film.  
In other words, it basically was a track intended for use under a car chase scene in a cop show. 
Which, considering how infectiously catchy "The Last Time" is, is a testament to Danger Mouse's production acumen and CeeLo's ability to sing anything from the phonebook to his damn ABC's and make it sound like church.
Like a lot of the other tracks on St. Elsewhere, there's a party vibe, but there's also a little melancholy at the bottom of that glass of Courvoisier.  It's as much a call to dance away the troubles of your day as it is to reconnect with a lost passion within oneself.  
And that's what makes it good.  That, and that funky tambourine.

  

"Just What I Needed" (The Cars)

I was in diapers when the eponymous debut album by The Cars dropped in 1978.  By the time I was old enough to pay attention to what was on the radio and/or on constant rotation on MTV, The Cars had shifted gears (ha ha) to their early-80s sound: aka synths galore.  In particular, I recall the ballad "Drive" playing non-stop on our local rock station in 1984.  Every teenage girl (and they were all named either Christy or Crystal back then in Western NC) would call in and request it every five minutes, dedicating it to their boyfriends (who were always named Chuck or Ricky).
Admittedly, for a ballad, "Drive" is not a bad song.  It's one of the few "soft rock" songs from the 1980s that doesn't make me want to jump off a building.  It simply was played to death.
Anyway, my neighbors in college really liked New Wave stuff, and they happened to be playing The Cars album one spring afternoon.  Through our open doors and windows, I kept hearing what I thought was Roxy Music drifting through our dorm suite, yet it didn't quite sound like Bryan Ferry.  The guitars and bits of synth sounded a bit like Tubeway Army, but the vocalist didn't sound like Gary Numan either.  
Luckily, I had the fledgling World Wide Web at my disposal, and I searched the lyrics I heard emanating from next door.  "I don't mind you coming here...and wasting all my time..."  Granted, back then the Web was mainly a hodgepodge of GeoCities sites.  And if you could find a sound clip of anything, it sounded like it had been recorded on Edison's Dictaphone and then replayed through CB radio.  After an hour of searching, I eventually discovered (via a site with a dancing baby animated GIF) that the song was The Cars' "Just What I Needed."
The punky bursts of Ric Ocasek's and Elliott Easton's staccato guitars in the intro alone would be enough to keep this song in constant rotation on my iPhone for weeks at a time.  But it's also Greg Hawkes' perfectly placed MiniKorg synth wail and bassist Benjamin Orr's icy delivery (yeah, if you assumed it was Ocasek singing--like I did for a million years--you're WRONG!) over Dave Robinson's constantly-shifting beat (sometimes on the one, sometimes on the two) that make me love this song.  A great song from a great album.

  

"Heartbeat" (Annie)

I honestly don't know a lot about the performer Annie, other than she's a Norwegian singer/songwriter/DJ, who lost her boyfriend and artistic collaborator to heart failure a few years before the release of her first album Anniemal (2004).
I only heard the track "Heartbeat" from Anniemal by way of a mix CD that a friend had compiled for my birthday a few years back.  He'd carefully chosen a good mix of mainstream stuff with some more obscure things--including "Heartbeat."
I instantly warmed to the song because it reminded me a bit of Blondie, circa 1980: a little pop-punk crunch, a little disco-fied thump, although with a sweeter-than-sugar vocal that was way more bubblegum than Debbie Harry ever got.  In fact, Annie kind of skirts that line of, if she were any breathier or sweeter, she just would be too saccharine.  But she keeps it anchored with New Wave-y heart-on-your-sleeve sincerity, catchy verses, and a killer refrain that's indebted as much to Giorgio Moroder as it is David Byrne or Ric Ocasek.
Sure, on the surface it's a bubbly dance track about meeting a stranger at a party and instantly falling head over heels.  But there's that little bit of Scandinavian melancholy in the delivery that reveals the artist pining for a lost soulmate.  Once I learned that she'd actually lost her partner to a heart defect, it became that much more poignant.

"Earthquake Weather" (Beck)

Maybe it's because I'm an East Coast guy.  But the term "earthquake weather" never meant anything to me.  I'd never heard the phrase before this song.  But apparently, it is a longstanding belief (dating to the Ancient Greeks) that long periods of hot, dry weather always precede seismic activity.  
Umm.  Yyyyyeah.
(Research has debunked this myth, by the way.)
As with 95% of his songs, Beck's lyrics are pretty abstract on this track, too.  My best guess is that he was probably commenting on the state of politics and the world in 2005 when Guero was released.  The words have an air of uncertainty and worry about them.  The chorus seems to be a sly reference to the old macabre joke about California tumbling into the ocean when the "big one" strikes, with the notion that small-minded people would see this type of event as an easy "cure" for anyone who dares question the status quo.
I believe this fits with the whole myth versus fact/truth versus perception vibe of the lyrics.
But enough literary analysis.
You couldn't ask for a better bedrock foundation to build a groove upon than the drum/soul clapping break from The Temptations' "What It Is."  (Yeah, Kimye West used it for Common's "The Corner," too, around the same time.  And, no, I'm not sure who used it first.  And, yeah, Common spits raw fire on his track.  But since West is a puffed up asshat with dueling Napoleon and God complexes, I'm gonna award this one to the Dust Brothers and move on.)  Then when you mix in seemingly disparate elements, like Beck's Delta blues-style riff on his busted-ass acoustic guitar and a 70s cop show clavinet, it becomes this funky cocktail that's not-quite-alternative/not-quite-hip hop.  Actually, that's kind of the recipe (I won't call it a "formula," because Beck is anything but formulaic) of Beck's best songs.  The Dust Brothers', too, for that matter.

"The Ocean" (Led Zeppelin)

I feel sorry for anyone who still thinks Led Zeppelin was a heavy metal band.  Classic Rock radio plays "Whole Lotta Love" 100 times a day, and people equate that with the band's entire output.  Even though that's like hearing only "Down By The Seaside" from Physical Graffiti and labeling them a country-rock outfit based on that one song.  
Sure, the boys could do blooze and decibels better than almost anyone out there in the 1970s.  But, heavy metal?  Hardly.
If anything, they had a strong affection for early, fun rock and roll--Little Richard, The Monotones, Jerry Lee Lewis, et al.  (I'll have to look this up, but I think maybe they even did a song about the subject.)  I think that influence is pretty apparent on Houses of the Holy's "The Ocean"--a tribute to their fans in which lyricist/lead vocalist/golden god Robert Plant likens the roaring sea of people at their concerts to an ocean.  
The whole song is done with a wink and smile.  There's John Bonham's barely audible chant at the beginning ("We done 4 [takes] already, but now we're steady, and then they went 1, 2, 3, 4...") before he and John Paul Jones trick you into thinking the song's in 4/4 before shifting to 7/8, just to fuck up your footwork.  There's Jimmy Page's little oooooh's on guitar that sound like a reenactment of a nubile groupie getting frisky with a mud shark.  And then there's Plant's a cappella lala-ing through the bridge, like he's about to teach us the letter of the day with Grover and Cookie Monster, just before everything abruptly shifts to a 50s-style doo-wop groove.
It's weird, wacky stuff.  And no one else could pull it off as gloriously and seamlessly as this band.

"No Fun" (The Stooges)

Once upon a time, there was this amazing music store on Franklin Street in downtown Chapel Hill, NC, called SchoolKids Records.  It was the kind of place where you could ask the guys/girls behind the counter to listen to the new Pharcyde album, inquire when the new Beck was going to drop, and then have a 10-minute conversation about whether John Rutter's recording of Fauré's Requiem was better than Robert Shaw's recording.  It was Eden for a music junkie like me.

I knew a few Iggy Pop songs--stuff like "Nightclubbing" from his solo days, mainly via the Trainspotting soundtrack.  But I wasn't all that familiar with The Stooges.  I'd heard phrases bandied about like "godfathers of punk" in regard to the band, but I didn't know what that meant without context.

One Saturday, I walked down to SchoolKids for the hell of it, just to see what was new.  As I stepped through the front door, suddenly this two-chord riff smacked me in the face.  Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-a-dun...uh-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-a-dun...  It was raunchy.  Almost stupidly simple.  Yet it was perfectly syncopated with the drums and handclaps in the background.  

Was this some garage band playing a pep rally at juvenile hall?

Then this sneering voice spat out, "No ffffun.  My babe.  No fun."  And he went on like that for a few stanzas, spewing some more stuff that sounded like it was scrawled by a pissed-off teenager in his spiral-bound notebook during detention.
Then this frustrated plea came out of nowhere, "I say, c'mon, Ron...lemme hear you tell 'em how I feel!" and all hell broke loose with this howling, distorted solo that sounded like a wild animal stuck in a barbed wire fence.

As the vocalist's pleas to "Come on!" echoed off the walls, I marched to the checkout counter with my ears burning.  The song faded with one more blood-curdling scream for good measure, and the dude behind the counter asked if he could help me.

"I want a copy of whatever that was, right now," I told him.

And that's how I became an Iggy & The Stooges fan.

"For the Love of Money" (The O'Jays)

My next featured song is "For the Love of Money" by The O'Jays.   It was just many in a long line of hits by the writing/producing powerhouse Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff, who along with writer/producer Thom Bell and a consistent lineup of seasoned studio musicians, helped craft the "Philly Sound" of the 1970s.  

And speaking of studio musicians, Gamble and Huff even gave a co-writing credit on "For the Love of Money" to  session bassist Anthony Jackson, whose phased  bassline anchored the song's place in our pop consciousness.  A wise and noble move on their part.

For as many times as the song has been sampled by rap artists, professing their materialistic desires over Jackson's bassline and "money, money, money, money...money!" refrain, you might think the song is one big paean to riches.  (NBC's The Apprentice using it as a theme song hasn't helped that perception, either.)  In reality, it's a stern warning about not letting money and greed change you.

The song also is sublimely funky.  Few morality tales make you want to form a Soul Train line.  But then, not all morality tales have Eddie Levert leading the charge and the MFSB orchestra putting down a bedrock groove beneath it all.

Beyond this one track, I encourage you to get the entire Ship Ahoy album.  It is a classic album--deep, funky, with touches of psychedelia, and a deep social consciousness.  For example, the title track, which reflects upon African American history and slavery, will send chills up your spine.  

"Papa Was A Rollin' Stone" (The Temptations)

For years, I'd heard that The Temptations' lead singer, Dennis Edwards, had refused to sing "Papa Was A Rollin' Stone" when writer/producer Norman Whitfield had first presented it to the group.  As with any rumor, it's only somewhat true.
In an October 2013 interview with the Tallahassee Democrat, Edwards told journalist Mark Hinson that he was afraid his mother eventually would hear the song's lyrics (which tell a fictitious tale of a deadbeat father) and think he was defaming his own deceased father--a respectable pastor and family man.  Said Edwards, “My father was a preacher and the complete opposite of the character in the song. My father died on the third of October and the character in the song died on the third of September.  So I knew my mother wouldn't like that either."
It's also fairly well documented that Whitfield wasn't exactly the easiest producer to work with.  In the liner notes of The Best of Marvin Gaye anthology (1995), music journalist David Ritz states that Whitfield and the usually affable Gaye almost came to blows during the sessions for "I Heard It Through the Grapevine," when the producer kept pushing the singer to sing in a register higher than he was comfortable to get a raspier vocal on the track.  Similarly, Edwards also didn't see eye-to-eye with Whitfield, who kept forcing Edwards to do take after take of his vocal on "Papa," basically stoking Whitfield's anger to get a more dramatic vocal on the track.
Edwards's final word on the subject in the interview: "Norman made me mad before I sang it, but he wanted that anger in it.  And he got it.  But I never refused to sing it.”
The song itself is deceptively simple.  The bass repeats the same three-note pattern, over and over.  The rhythm guitar scratches and wah-wah's the same chord, over and over, every few bars.  And the song never changes chords for 7 minutes (12 minutes if we're talking the album version).
However, the thrifty arrangement and instrumentation cleverly add to the tension bubbling under the track.  There's a lot of space to let things breathe and to let its atmospherics sink in.  In particular, each voice takes a solo turn telling the story over the lonely tiss-tah and thump of the hi-hat and kick drum.  But then you get jolted--not unlike the shock of finding out your absentee father was a ne'er-do-well who died and left you with nothing--by this sudden burst of syncopated handclaps, tight-as-hell harmony, atmospheric strings, and bleats of trumpet that sound like they were lifted straight off a dub reggae record.
Stylistically, the record owes a lot to what Isaac Hayes was doing at the time.  Nevertheless, nothing else that preceded or followed it ever sounded quite the same.

"I'll Be Around" (The Spinners)

Before the Spinners hit their stride in the mid-70s with a string of hits with Atlantic Records, they struggled for attention over at Motown, making only a minor splash with the Stevie Wonder-penned "It's A Shame."  It took classically-trained writer and producer Thom Bell, one of the architects behind the "Philly Sound," to give them their first real hit, "I'll Be Around"--originally released as a B-side that DJs wisely flipped.
Not to downplay lead singer Bobby Smith's contribution (because it's a great vocal), this song has Thom Bell written all over it.  As he had proven with other acts like the Delfonics and Stylistics, he not only knew how to write songs ("La-la Means I Love You," "Didn't I Blow Your Mind This Time," "You Are Everything," and tons more), he also knew how to produce songs.  Every element on "I'll Be Around" is in its proper place; if you took out any one thing--the strings, the guitar, the clavinet, the vibraphone--it would not be the same groove.  That goes double for percussionist Larry Washington's congas.  Do an experiment: listen to the song on headphones (or in your car), and then push all of the sound into the right channel so that the congas drop out.  It's still a hell of a groove, but it feels unfinished without Washington's galloping rhythm.
There are other genius touches on the track, like suspending the rhythm at the end of the chorus for one bar, which gives room for the bass to do that sweet, funky descending pattern.  There's that little two-note pattern on the organ that pops up between stanzas.  There's also the call and response between the MFSB string and the horn sections on the bridge.  There's just so much going on in the song, but it all feels natural and right.
It's one of the best, most durable singles of the 1970s.

"As" (Stevie Wonder)

Every album that Stevie Wonder made between 1972-1980 was a masterpiece.  But the 1976 double album Songs in the Key of Life was a standout.  It was four sides, chock-full of everything that made Wonder a superstar: smooth R&B, raw funk, Latin-tinged pop, soulful ballads, fusion jazz, and even classical music.  Songs that weren't officially released as singles from the album, like the infectiously catchy "Isn't She Lovely," even got a fair amount of airplay in the late 70s.  (I remember that track and others were in heavy rotation even into the early 80s on local radio in Western NC, where I grew up.)
For whatever reason, the single "As" never got much airplay in our neck of the woods.  Who knows why.  Part of me thinks it was the length.  After all, it is 7 minutes long.  (Only problem with that theory is our local DJs never had any qualms about fading something out after 4 minutes.  Even if it was in the middle of the best damn part of a song.)
My current theory is that the radio program directors didn't want listeners making angry calls to the station, wondering why the Southern Fried DJ on the air just announced a song named "Ass."
I digress.
Since it didn't get a lot of exposure, I didn't really pay attention to the song until many, many years later.  I was waiting tables one summer in college, and I'd have to drive about 20 minutes from my mom's house to the restaurant every day.  I typically worked the brunch/lunch shift, which meant I'd catch the tail end of morning drive-time shows on my commute.  The crappy car radio in my Mazda barely picked up any local stations, but for some reason it could pick up the top R&B station from Charlotte!  So I got in the habit of listening to the Tom Joyner Morning Show on my commute.  Back then and now still, Joyner had a penchant for old skool R&B, and this one day, Joyner and the crew were discussing "As."  I believe it was the show's news commentator Sybil Wilkes who called it Wonder's "best song," which almost made me run off the road.  
Better than "Superstition!?"  Better than "Signed, Sealed, Delivered!?"
Anyway, Joyner played it.  All 7 minutes of it.  And it was good.  
It was--"I was two minutes late clocking in because I had to let the man's song finish"--good.
It is a very deep, spiritual song about love.  Pure love.  Musically, the verses are sunny and upbeat, with Wonder expressing that, no matter what, "I'll be loving you always."  (I'm not doing the lyrics justice at all.  Read them here.)  There are times I listen to the lyrics and think it's a parent talking to a child.  Sometimes I hear someone confirming his most heartfelt feelings to his soulmate.  Other times I hear God addressing humanity...  
And while the verses are deep, the refrain somehow gets even deeper.  As a friend used to say, "It's church."  The rhythms get more complex, the backup singers drop in, and Wonder lets loose--particularly when you get to the apex of the song.  He dips into this deep growl over the musical vamp that shakes you to the core.  Vocally, it is my favorite moment of his on tape, which is saying a lot. 
Although I still consider another of Wonder's songs my favorite for sentimental reasons, Ms. Wilkes may have been absolutely right: it is Wonder's most exceptional song.

"It's Too Late" (Carole King)

My mother owned Carole King's album Tapestry when I was a kid, and she would play it at least monthly.  Even as a kid, I understood why it was one of my mom's favorites: King knows how to write a damn fine tune.  Listening to Tapestry years later, I still think it's a solid album--better than a lot of platters by other self-important "singer-songwriters" of the early 1970s by a mile.  That's not to say it's completely free of post-hippie cheese.  ("Smackwater Jack?"  Oof.)  But the majority of it is honest and timeless.  And even when King's voice wavers or warbles on the high notes, the sincerity of the delivery and wisdom of the lyrics shine through, and all is forgiven.

Anyway, I always liked the track "It's Too Late" best.  Lyrically, it's a frank, mature examination of a relationship that, despite the best efforts of the protagonist and her mate, is effectively dead.  Musically, it is soulful, bluesy pop that easily could have been a Marvin Gaye or Curtis Mayfield original.

I still marvel at how deep and funky the first :25 of the song are: the bass, congas, Fender rhodes, guitar, and King's piano all float like Blunt smoke across a crowded bar before she casually drops Toni Stern's lyric, "Stayed in bed all morning just to pass the time..."  It is just a perfect, evocative opening line.  You immediately know what frame of mind she's in, and it sets up the entire groove of the song.

I also love the instrumental vamp in the middle after the second chorus.  The solos are brief--just a little taste of guitar, a little taste of soprano sax--but they feel so right in context.  It's almost like each partner in the relationship speaks his/her piece, and that's all there is to say.

And I always thought it was such a genius move to have the chorus shift from a minor to major key, even though, lyrically, she's coming to grips with the reality that "it's too late."  Breaking up never sounded so good.

"Hello, It's Me" (Todd Rundgren)

Kind of tucked away on Side Four of Todd Rundgren's 1972 double album Something/Anything is "Hello, It's Me."  It was originally written by Rundgren back in 1968 and even was released to little fanfare as a single by his former group, Nazz--albeit in a radically different arrangement.  (The Nazz version has a more of a singer/songwriter, "coffeehouse" kind of vibe.  Feel free to troll around the internet for it sometime if you're bored.  It's worth hearing once.)
Some say the song was inspired by the songwriting of Laura Nyro.  Some say it was Carole King.  Personally, I hear more King in "Hello, It's Me" than Nyro.  (Although, I'm probably a little biased because I strongly prefer King's music to Nyro's.  King never had to try to be soulful, whereas Nyro's music always tried a little too hard and sounded jittery--spastic even.  Really, what the hell is a "stoned soul picnic," and why would anyone "surry down" to it unless forced by court order?)  
Anyway, the first time I heard "Hello, It's Me" was on a crappy battery-powered radio during an ice storm.  Our power had gone out, and my family and I were huddled around the fireplace in our den, eating cheese crackers and listening to Mike Harvey's Super Gold oldies show by firelight.  Even with the radio's awful reception and single speaker, that tasty bassline and funky, in-the-pocket beat cut through, loud and clear.  I couldn't really make out Rundgren's lyrics too well, but they came across as a guy calling his girlfriend because he just wanted to say "hi."  Whatever he was singing, it seemed really soulful and sincere, especially with the jazzy horns and female vocals backing him up.
I didn't realize until some years later that it's a breakup song: he calls his girl to tell her that, although he's thought a lot about their relationship, he thinks they should end it.  But he offers to come see her and even bow-chicka-wow-wow every so often--but only if she is down with it.
In anyone else's hands, the song might have been complete teen pop fluff.  But it's that sincerity in the delivery and songcraft that makes it work.  
Likewise, listening to the song within the context of the entire album, you realize that Rundgren could/can do anything--write, perform, produce--in pretty much any damn genre he wants to tackle.  And the fact that he did it all well is the big red cherry on top of the sundae.

"I Shall Be Released" (The Band)

The previous entry, Etta James's "I'd Rather Go Blind," was co-written by Etta James and her musician friend Ellington Jordan, who was serving time in prison and pining for freedom.
In a similar vein, "I Shall Be Released" is a Bob Dylan composition, written from the perspective of someone who is in prison, reflecting upon his incarceration and waiting for his release.
At least, on the surface "I Shall Be Released" is a song about a prisoner counting the days until he regains his freedom.  Another read of the lyrics reveals a deeper examination of the human condition and mortality, where the "prison" is our earthly body and the ultimate release is death.
In addition to Dylan's masterful lyrics, The Band's masterful interpretation of the song is the reason it appears on this list.  Ultimately, the song is more than the sum of its parts--just like The Band itself.  There's Richard Manuel's falsetto lead vocal and heavily reverbed piano that both float, weightlessly, above the song.  
Then, there's Levon Helm's percussion.  I'd always assumed that he had somehow created that slow march rhythm by using brushes against his snare drum.  Years later, I discovered he got that sound by strumming the wires on the back of his snare, almost like a banjo!
Next, Rick Danko's bassline has a melodicism and sense of movement that is one part Beethoven and one part James Jamerson of Motown's Funk Brothers.  
But my absolute favorite part of the song is Garth Hudson's wah effect on his Lowrey organ.  It is so subtle that it's almost easy to miss or mistake for some kind of envelope filter on a guitar.  (The only guitar on the track is Robbie Robertson's straight-ahead strumming in the right channel.)  Hudson creates this ethereal backdrop that expands and contracts--it literally breathes as the song goes along.  It's a genius touch that only a genius could execute.
Although Music from Big Pink is a hard album to cherry pick for favorites, this one is a standout.

"I'd Rather Go Blind" (Etta James)

First of all, go read Rage to Survive, Etta James's 1995 autobiography, written in collaboration with music journalist David Ritz.  It's a blunt, often funny, sometimes heartbreaking account of James's life and substance-fueled career in first person.
In the book, James talks a little about the song "I'd Rather Go Blind," which was recorded 1967 and released on her album Tell Mama in 1968.  Her friend Ellington Jordan was in prison, feeling hopeless and trapped by his situation, so he turned to song to express himself.  James visited him in prison and helped him complete the song, but because she was mired in tax problems, she gave the songwriting credit to Billy Foster, a singer with doo-wop group The Medallions and, briefly, James's abusive husband.  
It was a decision that James later regretted.  As she says in her book, "It bugs me to this day that [Foster] still receives royalties."
On the surface, the song is a ballad about lost love: our heroine tells her man that she would rather be blind than see him with another woman.  But for Jordan, it was a lament about being stuck in jail and not knowing when he'd see freedom again.  For James, it was a confession about feeling that she was stumbling blindly through her relationships and life choices but not knowing how to turn things around.
Despite her battle with heroin addiction, James's voice is in top form.  Yet as confident as her instrument sounds, there's real pain beneath.  The sense of loss and fear in her voice reaches into your soul, and there's no turning away.  It's captivating, heart-wrenching, and beautiful, all at the same time.  It's what the best soul music is all about.

"Maggot Brain" (Funkadelic)

What comes to mind when you think "Funkadelic?"  
Bandleader and funkateer George Clinton?  R&B radio stalwarts like "One Nation Under a Groove?"  Dr. Funkenstein and "The Bop Gun" and stuff that actually has more to do with the keyboard-driven space funk of Funkadelic's alter-ego, Parliament?
For the uninitiated, Funkadelic's pre-1976 albums are closer to Detroit than outer space.  Picture something that screams with the same balls-out fury of MC5 or The Stooges with a dollop of gospel-tinged soul, and you get the funk-rock vibe of the band's first seven discs.
Anyway, legend has it that "Maggot Brain," the lead track from the 1971 album of the same name, was born when Clinton told Funkadelic's lead guitarist Eddie Hazel to "play like your momma just died, but then found out it wasn't true."
Who knows if the story was merely fabricated by Clinton years after the fact to fill in cloudy memories that heavy partying had erased.  (Equally legendary was the band's consumption of drugs back in those days.  If you have any doubts, just listen to Clinton's acid-fried, spoken intro to this track, as he lays down some odd stuff about "Mother Earth [being] pregnant for the third time," tasting "maggots in the mind of the universe," and drowning in excrement.  Is it an indictment of mankind's screwing of the environment?  A call to rise above social ills?  LSD-fueled nonsense?)  Whatever the case may be, Hazel laid down a minor-hued, wailing solo that sounds like a child crying for its mother.  
The true testament to Hazel's talent is that he maintains the drama and emotion of the solo over minimal backing instrumentation for 9 whole minutes, and every second is completely compelling and mind-shattering.  Honestly, if you aren't holding back tears by the time you hit the 7:30 mark, then you are stone cold--and not in the good way.

"Do Your Thing" (Isaac Hayes)

There was so much more to the late Isaac Hayes than just being the voice of a cartoon chef on TV.  The man was a pioneer in soul music, not only penning hits for the duo Sam & Dave ("Hold On, I'm Coming," "Soul Man," and "I Thank You") and backing Stax Records artists like Johnny Taylor and Carla Thomas in the 1960s, but also redefining what soul music could be heading into the 1970s.  
He was one of the first soul artists to eschew the radio-friendly single.  Limit a song to 3:00?  Screw that.  He was crafting jams that ran for 10, 15, 20 minutes that sprawled across entire sides of his albums.  
He completely rearranged, reinterpreted, and funkified MOR ballads like "By The Time I Get to Phoenix" and "Walk on By" (look for it later on this list) with a mix of gospel harmonies and rhythms, psychedelic rock guitar crunch, and jazz improvisation--ushering in a new era of the Stax/Memphis sound.
The pinnacle of that sound was the Shaft soundtrack album.  Everyone from your infant cousin to your old-as-Methuselah grandpa knows the title track.  But many have no idea just how fresh it was at the time, or the fact that it won Hayes an Academy Award for "Best Original Song."  That's probably because its once-innovative chicken-scratch, wah-wah guitar (provided by the late guitarist Charles "Skip" Pitts) got co-opted by every greasy composer writing backing music for cheesy cop shows in the late 70s, which had the unfortunate effect of reducing the original to parody.
But beyond the title track, there's a song taking up most of Side Four of the original double album: "Do Your Thing."  It begins simply enough with a soulful horn riff and cross stick pattern on the snares.  But then "Skip" Pitts's fuzz guitar with the tremolo turned waaaaayyyy the hell up slinks in, and you know what you're about to hear is baaaaadass.  
Then, Hayes's baritone comes in with the lyric.  It's nothing too philosophical or groundbreaking, the message being: if you're good at it, if it brings you joy, or if it helps you relieve some pressure (whatever it is), then do your thing.  It's not quite as anthemic as, say, James Brown's "Say It Loud" or even quite as decadent as BT Express's "Do It ('Til You're Satisfied)" from 1974, but it gets the point across.
The vocal portion more or less ends around the 2:30 mark, and thus begins Pitts's raunchy, fuzzed-out soloing.  On the single version, you get about a :30 taste before the solo fades out.  But on the album version, things are only getting started: Pitts solos for 16 solid minutes as the rhythm section locks in to this gangsta lean groove, finally culminating in this psychedelic freakout that includes Hayes blowing kisses into the mic, the children's song "Frère Jacques", and the NBC "chimes"(!) before a needle scratch sound effect brings it all to a jarring close.
It is wild, deep, funky stuff that is worth every one of its 19 minutes.  Classic.

"For Martha" (Smashing Pumpkins)

After the highs of "Move On Up," I figured we could bring things down a bit.
I'll say upfront: I was never a huge fan of Smashing Pumpkins.  However, unlike some of his contemporaries in the ubiquitous alt rock scene of the 1990s, I do respect Billy Corgan's song craft and his band's spot in the cultural landscape of that decade.  But I just never warmed to their sound: the production always sounded a little too glossy, the mix a little too claustrophobic, the riffs a little too stadium-ready, and Corgan's voice a little too much like a bitchy cheerleader who smoked three packs a day.  
(Sorry, Billy.)
Then, amid the turmoil of firing their drummer Jimmy Chamberlin (who had overdosed on tour in 1996) and the death of Corgan's mother on the heels of his divorce, the band released the fan-maligned, electronica-tinged Adore in 1998.  Suddenly, I took notice.  The ballads seemed less self-consciously bombastic; they were stripped to their bare, lovely bones.  The faster, more rocking tracks chugged along with a feeling of spaciousness and groove that hadn't existed previously.  And Corgan's voice felt like it was in the right context for a change--not too shrill, not too whiny.  It all fit.
Anyway, while I still think Adore is a very good album overall that deserves a second listen, the track "For Martha" was (and is) a standout for me.  The song is a tribute to Corgan's mother, Martha, who died of cancer.  Its intimate lyrics reflect the personal nature of the subject matter and embody a touching honesty that few songs (by the Pumpkins or otherwise) can match.  Also the piano melody that repeats throughout the song is, quite frankly, haunting--this is no coincidence, I'm sure.  Corgan also structures the song brilliantly, having it swell and then retreat back to a whisper every few bars.  (If you've ever lost a loved one, you'll recognize that those musical ebbs and flows mirror the churning sea of emotions that one feels when trying to cope with loss.)
It's just a well-crafted, beautiful song.

"Move On Up" (Curtis Mayfield)

A lot of successful R&B and soul performers came out of the late 1960s and early 1970s.  But few had the combined heart, mind, and soul of Curtis Mayfield.  While many artists were only concerned with the proposition of getting down, Mayfield was on a mission to uplift with his socially-conscious lyrics, while still crafting some of the deepest, funkiest grooves on record.

A perfect example is "Move On Up" from Curtis--Mayfield's solo debut, released in 1970 after he split from his original group, The Impressions, for whom he'd penned such classics as the black pride-themed "We're A Winner" and "Keep On Pushing."  (Look for those tracks on this list in the not too distant future.)

From the opening fanfare of horns to Mayfield's unmistakable falsetto dropping words of encouragement/empowerment, the song pumps pure positivity out of your speakers for a solid 9 minutes.  In this one jam, he basically creates the blueprint for the rest of the decade (especially his songcraft on Superfly): the trap kit interweaving intricate polyrhythms with congas and bass, tasteful (not sappy) strings, funky rhythm guitar, horns that punctuate at just the right times, and--last but not least--that smooth falsetto dropping knowledge above it all.

Seriously, if you are facing hardship or self doubt, put on this song.  Oh, and clear a spot on the floor of your living room/cubicle/subway car/etc., because you will need room to shake it--shake it till whatever is eating at you is gone.  And then say a word of thanks to the Almighty that he gave us brother Curtis to remind us all that no one ever has to be held down.  By anything.

"Kashmir" (Led Zeppelin)

Since the previous two posts were about classical pieces, it only seems appropriate to talk about a rock track that incorporates elements of classical music: "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin.
In music journalist and filmmaker Cameron Crowe's liner notes for The Complete Studio Recordings boxed set (1993), he states that guitarist Jimmy Page had been working on portions of the song for almost three years before the track was released on 1975's Physical Graffiti.  It essentially was a warmup piece that gradually evolved into a full-blown composition with layers of guitars, mellotron, as well as actual strings and brass, arranged by the band's bassist/keyboardist/resident Swiss Army knife, John Paul Jones.
Crowe notes that it's also one of Robert Plant's proudest lyrical moments, inspired by the vocalist's travels along a long desert road in Southern Morocco.  
Quoting Crowe's interview with Plant: "It was a single track road which cut neatly through the desert.  Two miles to the East and West were ridges of sandrock.  It basically looked like you were driving down a channel, this dilapidated road, and there was seemingly no end to it. 'Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dreams...' It's one of my favorites...It was so positive, lyrically."
In the interview, Plant also praises drummer John Bonham's contributions to the track, citing Bonham's "thrift" as the key factor that makes the song work.  
And I completely agree.  So many of Bonham's contemporaries from the late 60s and 70s were "busy" drummers; I'll put Keith Moon in that category (although, his wild man style was perfect for The Who), as well as Ginger Baker (curmudgeonly egomaniac who still has no sense of groove.)  It's Bonham's straightforward, driving groove and tasteful use of fills and punctuating cymbals along the way that give the song its sense of journey.  There's no showboating; there's only a deep respect for the song itself that comes through in every lick.
Although it is hard to pick a favorite track from the Zep canon, "Kashmir" is definitely up there for me.  Let's call it my favorite epic track of theirs.  (I far prefer it to "Stairway to Heaven," which--don't get me wrong--is a finely wrought piece of music.  It also has been played to death by FM radio and co-opted as a stoner anthem because of its veiled drug references wrapped in Olde English mysticism.  It was cool in high school, but now it can be a little too much tie-dye and Tolkien to digest.)  "Kashmir" is unique in that it perfectly combines a sense of mystic beauty and light with Page and Bonham's signature thundering crunch.  It embodies the very name of the band: Led Zeppelin.

"The Four Seasons: Spring, Allegro" (Antonio Vivaldi)

I first heard Venetian composer/Catholic priest Antonio Vivaldi's The Four Seasons (composed 1723) as a kid.  Specifically, my first introduction to the famous--and admittedly overplayed--"The Four Seasons: Spring, Allegro" was pretty lowbrow: it was the backing music for a commercial on local TV in Western North Carolina.
To be honest, I can't remember what the commercial was for.  (Something makes me think jewelry.  Or maybe high-end furniture?  A law firm?  Electrolysis?)
Anyway, whatever product or business it was for, the backing track made me pause from building my Lego city and ask my parents, "What is that song!?"  My mother, being the eclectic music lover that she is, went right to her massive collection of 60s and 70s vinyl and dropped the needle on the exact song.  
And it was immediate joy and happiness from note one.
Which is the reason why the movement "Spring, Allegro" is so overplayed.  Vivaldi perfectly captures the feeling of new life bursting forth.  Every note paints a picture of fresh leaves and flowers springing from bare branches and the cold ground.  The solo violin sounds like birds chirping and bees buzzing.  It's 3+ minutes of fresh sunshine dissolving winter clouds.
And bunnies dammit.  Cute, fuzzy, pink-nosed bunnies.
Few other pieces of music can help you shake off the doldrums any time of year like this one can.

"Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 in C-sharp minor" (Franz Liszt)

Anyone from generations X and Y who denies first hearing Franz Liszt's "Hungarian Rhapsody, No. 2 in C-sharp minor" (1847) anywhere but the Bugs Bunny cartoon Rhapsody Rabbit (1946) is a big fat liar.
The composition had special resonance with me as a kid because I knew my family had partial Hungarian roots.  Every time I heard it (either played by my childhood idol Bugs Bunny or via pianist Roberto Szidon's rendition below), it gave me a feeling of being connected to something bigger than myself.  Bigger than any concept of nationality.  It was something deep in the blood.  Its folk rhythms and Roma musical scale, which mixes joy and sadness/major and minor into one romantic whole, made me long for a place that I never knew I should long for.  It was the first time I'd ever experienced that emotion in my life.  (Heady stuff for a 4 year old.)
Apart from that, it was (is) such a fun piece of music.  It begins slowly and dramatically and gradually gains momentum along the way, ultimately dancing its way to one of the most difficult to execute, breakneck passages in all of classical music.

"Autumn Leaves" (Cannonball Adderley)

Originally a French song ("Les feuilles mortes," or "The Dead Leaves") written in 1945, American lyricist Johnny Mercer gave the song English lyrics and its new title ("Autumn Leaves") in 1950.  Since that time, everyone and his brother, from Louis Armstrong to Eric Clapton, has covered it.  Sometimes ten times over.  (The site Current Research in Jazz says that it has been recorded more than 1400 times, making it the 8th most-recorded jazz standard of all time.)
This particular rendition by alto sax player Julian "Cannonball" Adderley was recorded in 1958 for Blue Note Records.  In actuality, the session was supposed to have been credited to superstar trumpeter Miles Davis.  But for contractual reasons (Davis was signed to Columbia in the late 50s), the resulting album, Somethin' Else, was credited to Adderley.  
(A year later, Adderley also would take part in the sessions that would produce Davis's modal jazz masterpiece, Kind of Blue.)
Regardless of who got top billing, Somethin' Else (and, specifically, "Autumn Leaves") represents five seasoned jazzmen playing and improvising at their collective best.
Davis, who runs the proverbial show, plays his trumpet with a Harmon mute throughout, creating this sensuous sound that is both sexy and moody, even a little sad.  It somehow feels very French, and it perfectly evokes the exact sense of longing in Mercer's lyrics, which recount memories of lost love, without ever uttering a word.  
From a technical standpoint, his soloing on this track may be some of his "cleanest" and most confident on record.  By that, I mean he had the tendency to flub notes and overreach his entire career.  
There, I've said it.  
I love Miles and his creativity, but he was not the most technically proficient trumpeter out there.  (For instance, check out his and Gil Evans's take on Gershwin's Porgy & Bess sometime.  It's ambitious and genius.  But Miles flubs notes and goes flat all over that record.)  Dizzy Gillespie, Art Farmer, Donald Byrd, Wynton Marsalis, and tons of other guys are/were a hell of a lot better at breath control and doing it fluid.  
Anyway, I'll get off my soapbox now.
For the most part, Davis sticks pretty closely to the melody on his solos (his second and final solos are slight exceptions), adding a few runs here and there. However, Adderley carves out his own path entirely, playing these haunting runs and sneaking in tasty blue notes.  It's a controlled performance but it has this lilting swing, kindling mental pictures of red and orange leaves catching the chilly Fall breeze and swirling in the air before they come in for a landing.
Hank Jones solos after Davis's second solo.  His patterns on piano actually kind of mirror the feel of Adderley's solo: controlled yet creative and swinging, too.
Art Blakey (drums) and Sam Jones (upright bass) never actually solo on this track.  However, they do provide one hell of an anchor.  Blakey (who could rip up a drum solo like no one's business) simply sticks to brushes, providing this swinging shuffle that perfectly captures the crunch of fallen leaves under one's feet.  Jones mostly provides a walking bassline throughout that is subtle and tasteful.  The two places that Jones varies from this are in the intro and the coda--the latter being my absolute favorite part of the song.  
In the coda, Sam Jones's bluesy riff and Blakey's brushes beneath Hank Jones's delicate piano are as smooth and velvety as aged Scotch.  Then Davis's horn comes in for one final appearance, and it's bathed in sultry reverb and pure blues.  (It's almost worth skipping ahead to about the 9:00 mark and just letting that part soak into your brain.)  It's 2 minutes of everything that I love about Cool Jazz: sophisticated, oblique, soulful, and hypnotic.
It's just a great rendition of a classic tune.