"Holy Ghost" (The Bar-Kays)

I more or less came to The Bar-Kay's song "Holy Ghost" (1978) by way of MARRS' unlikely hit song "Pump Up the Volume" (1987).

As I've mentioned before, I'm always one for playing "spot the sample."  Before Google and iTunes came along, though--and before sampling artists felt compelled to list the sampled artists in song credits, I often had to rely on fellow hip-hop heads or my parents ("You do know that's the GAP Band they're rapping over, right?") to serve as my musical Rosetta Stone.

For years, I'd tried to figure out some of the core samples in "Pump Up the Volume" to no avail.  In particular, this drum break.

So, I was attending a freshman orientation party at Hinton James Dorm on UNC-Chapel Hill's South Campus in 19yadda-yadda.  The RA broke out his 70s funk mix, which included the loooooong version of "Holy Ghost," and when that drum break with the timbales, congas, cowbell, and Moog came on, it was like a religious experience.  

I say this without a hint of irony.

It really was like someone had unlocked a secret of the universe.  I had this Liz Lemon-esque "I want to go to there" moment, and it must have shown on my face because my RA started cracking up.

A little history about the band known as The Bar-Kays: the group was one of Stax/Volt Records' house bands along with Booker T. & The MGs and The Mar-Keys (which consisted of various members of Booker T. & The MGs and The Bar-Kays).  More or less, The Bar-Kays existed as a second-string backing band (with first-rate players) for Stax artists like Johnny Taylor and Sam & Dave when Booker T. & The MGs weren't available to play on their songs.  

Even so, The Bar-Kays had their own Top 20 hit with the instrumental "Soul Finger" in 1967, just months before many of the original band members died in a plane crash with Stax artist Otis Redding outside Madison, WI, on their way to a gig.  Two of the surviving band members soldiered on and rebuilt the band, forging a heavier funk sound that was indebted to Sly & The Family Stone with tinges of psychedelia, too.  Ultimately, the new incarnation of the band would back Isaac Hayes on his 1969 album Hot Buttered Soul, and unwittingly help Hayes set the course of R&B music for the next decade.

"Sexual Healing" (Marvin Gaye)

Listening to "Sexual Healing" and Marvin Gaye's absolutely ecstatic, silky smooth delivery, it's almost hard to believe that he was climbing his way out of one of the lowest points in his life during that period.  
In the years before he recorded the song for his "comeback" album Midnight Love (1982), Gaye had endured his second divorce, struggled with debt and problems with the IRS, and had wrestled with an addiction to cocaine.  On top of all that, he hadn't had a hit since "Blurred Lines" "Got To Give It Up" and was deeply depressed.
But he felt things were turning around by 1982.  He'd moved to Belgium at the urging of a friend and gradually began to kick his drug habit.  He'd landed a new recording contract with Columbia Records, cutting his decades-long ties with Motown and Berry Gordy.  He also was getting inspired by some of the new music he was hearing in Europe--particularly synth pop and reggae.
It's easy to hear both musical influences in "Sexual Healing's" syncopated electronic beat and synths.  It's also easy to hear the sound of an innovative artist and man, reawakened in his prime.  While he'd made euphemistic references to sex before (ex: "Let's Get It On"), he no longer minced words.  I found out only recently that there's a reason why 99.9% of radio DJs fade the song out quickly after the line Please don't procrastinate.  (Listen to the last few seconds of the song with the volume turned up, and you'll hear that Marvin apparently was borrowing a few moves out of the Rick James and Prince playbook, too.) 
Nevertheless, there's still a tenderness in the delivery that makes this song less about panty-droppin' and more about intimacy.  (Unfortunately, a lot of the slow jam purveyors that followed--particularly in the 90s--failed to get that subtle difference.)

"Superfly" (Curtis Mayfield)

Super Fly (the film) originally was released in mid-1972.  For better or worse, it set the stage for what came to be known as the "blaxploitation" genre.  
I've seen the film maybe twice over the years on late-night TV.  It's a story about "Youngblood Priest" (played by Ron O'Neal), a street-smart, young coke dealer who decides he wants out of the game, and all of the shady characters and crooked cops who try (by persuasion and/or violence) to keep him from making one last $1M score.
It's an okay film with decent performances.  But it's not really a movie you watch for the plot or the acting; you watch it to gawk at the crazy ass clothes and Priest's pimped-out, custom Cadillac (which, incidentally, belonged to an actual pimp named K.C., as the liner notes of the re-issued soundtrack album point out).
Speaking of the soundtrack, it's the most compelling reason to watch the film.
What makes it so good is that it's not two or three Mayfield songs, surrounded by a lot of cheesy instrumental filler; it's a complete Curtis Mayfield album.  He set out to create a work that would stand on its own while expressly tying each song to a scene or character in the film.  (Unfortunately, the editors of the film didn't always use the songs in the appropriate spots or to the greatest effect.  Key example: there's Mayfield's anti-drug song, "No Thing on Me," playing during a scene where Priest is convincing his old mentor to front him 30 kg of cocaine.)
In all cases, Mayfield never tried to glorify any of the situations depicted in the film; he simply was a omniscient narrator, chronicling what he observed, delving into the characters' thoughts, while constantly reminding the listener that these were human characters with human foibles.
Such is the case on the track "Superfly."  Mayfield more or less summarizes the entire plot of the film in the lyrics, characterizing Priest as a resourceful, complicated man who is the product of his environment.  As the song goes on, Mayfield comments that Priest realizes there's no future in dealing drugs, and although he has no clear idea of what the future holds or what challenges he's going to have to overcome to get there, he's still tryin' ta get over.
You can't beat Mayfield's singular voice on this tune.  But the stars of the show are the fat bass (played by Joseph "Lucky" Scott) and the pitch-sliding roto-toms and congas (by "Master" Henry Gibson) that punctuate the track.  It's no wonder why everyone from The Beasties to Sean Combs have sampled the intro hundreds of times.

"Across 110th Street" (Bobby Womack)

Across 110th Street is a blaxploitation/action film starring Anthony Quinn and Yaphet Kotto from late 1972.  I've never seen it, but I've read that it's pretty violent.  (But what action films weren't during that era?)
The soundtrack combines tracks by the underrated Bobby Womack and trombonist/composer J.J. Johnson.  A lot of it sounds painfully dated and kind of like off-brand Super Fly (which was released earlier the same year).  But Womack's contributions stand out, particularly the title song.  
Revived and put to perfect use in the opening credits and final scene of my favorite Quentin Tarantino film, Jackie Brown (1997), "Across 110th Street" is a gritty portrait of inner-city life and struggling to survive.  Womack mixes semi-autobiographical info (he was actually the third brother of five in his family) with details that are more closely related to the film, specifically the references to Harlem (the unofficial boundary of which is Manhattan's 110th Street).  Nevertheless, Womack points out that pimps, prostitutes, pushers, and other social ills weren't just plaguing Harlem; they were a reality in cities all across America where people were trying to find a way out and a way up.   
In every city you find the same thing going down / Harlem is the capital of every ghetto town.
Along with the poignant social commentary, it's a helluva groove.  (My favorite elements are that pattern on the hi-hat paired with the moving bassline and that subtle Moog synth line that opens and closes the song.)

"Walk On By" (Isaac Hayes)

If you like playing "spot the sample" like I do, you'll recognize Isaac Hayes's "Walk On By" as the entire basis of the Hooverphonic song "2Wicky" (1996).  
As with most things, though, the original is better.
Back in 1969, Hayes recorded the album Hot Buttered Soul, which contains his take on the Hal David-Burt Bacharach song "Walk On By."  As music journalist Barry Lazell wrote in the liner notes for Hayes's Enterprise: His Greatest Hits (1980), the label released 27 albums by its entire roster of artists, all at once, in May 1969 as a promotional push--the idea being to get the Stax name and its talent in front of music buyers and radio program directors across the nation.  Hot Buttered Soul was an afterthought--basically a jam session that produced four, sprawling tracks that no one, including Hayes, expected to get any kind of airplay.  The record only existed to help Stax flood the market.  (Lazell points out that Stax's promotional posters had new albums by famed artists like Johnny Taylor, Booker T. & The MG's, and Eddie Floyd, front and center, while the cover for Hot Buttered Soul was tucked quietly into the lower right corner.)
To Hayes's and the label's surprise, the album--particularly "Walk On By"--got major FM airplay and huge sales.  The Motown music machine and Philly soulsters took notice, and before too long, artists from The Temptations to The O'Jays were recording songs with fuzzed-out guitars, heavier/funkier drums, and sprawling arrangements that filled up whole sides of vinyl records.
I'm sure that, at the time, no one could have anticipated Hayes's radical funk/soul arrangement of Dionne Warwick's 1964 hit tune--which is itself a great track.  
It's a pretty radical departure from Warwick's light bossa nova groove.  The drums immediately kick in with massive amounts of reverb, sounding like someone slamming a door and kicking a suitcase down a flight of stairs.  Then there's this extended interlude with lush strings, fuzz guitar, church organ, and fat electric bass before Hayes even opens his mouth to sing.  But when he does sing, you hear this husky, grieving baritone.  Lines like If you see me walking down the street / And I start to cry / Each time we meet somehow take on a different resonance and reveal a deeper pain--especially when paired with the wailing guitar and female chorus backing vocals--than Warwick's version.  It's larger-than-life dramatic.  It's a Memphis soul version of Greek tragedy.

"Venom Confection" (Beck)

The song "E-Pro" from Beck's Guero (2005) wasn't a bad opening track.  The "na-na" chant in the chorus was fairly catchy.  The crunchy riff was pretty good.  But the rhythm sample from The Beastie Boys' "So Whatcha Want?" (itself a sample) felt like a lazy cop out.  It was a rare occasion of The Dust Brothers phoning it in.

Then about a year after Guero dropped, I was watching something online, and I heard a different version of the song in the background of the video.  "Venom Confection," as I discovered the remixed track was called, had the same lyrics and same catchy "na-na" nursery rhyme chorus, only with this fresh new melody and "groovy" feel--like the theme song for some long-forgotten ABC serial drama from the early 70s.  (Premise: an ex-KGB agent defects to the States and joins the LAPD to help fight organized crime with his new partner: a hot-headed, un-hip ginger with a heart of gold.  Red Square - Thursdays at 9pm, following the Mod Squad.)

The remix didn't just alter the beat or loop one portion of the song, over and over, ad nauseam.  It completely transformed it into a new song, stripping away the original sampled beat and distorted guitar and replacing them with new piano, synths, chimes, and funky bass and drums.  Even Beck's vocal takes on a layered, Beach Boys-like feel that is completely lacking in the original.

Lyrically, I'm still not sure what it's about.  I'm thinking maybe it's about environmental protection and the politicians/corporations who talk a lot but do nothing to change the status quo.  Or, maybe it's just a bunch of words that he thought sounded badass.  This is Beck, after all.  The man who once rapped, Get crazy with the cheez whiz.  

So... y'know.

[There was a video for this song, but it was removed from YouTube.]

"Midnight In A Perfect World" (DJ Shadow)

This one resonates with me more now than it did when it was released on DJ Shadow’s 1996 album Endtroducing…
Way back when, my freshman year roommate in college (who had been assigned to me, not chosen by me) had the CD.  I didn't much care for it at the time, mainly because he’d gotten into the habit of playing it after I'd gone to bed, which is when he'd decide to stop playing video games or playing the same three-note ska riff on his electric bass and finally crack a book.
If you hadn't already figured it out, my freshman year roommate was a jerk.  First words out of his mouth after move-in: "You in-state kids barely have to write your names to get into UNC.  I had to work a lot harder than you to get here."
I usually give people the benefit of the doubt when I first meet them.  But this lanky Buckeye hayseed had crossed a line.
Rule of life: never think you know the whole story unless you know the whole story.
He knew nothing about what it took me to get there: the hours of study; hours of hard work; hours of paperwork for scholarship applications; hours of worrying if I was going to be able to pay for an education; hours driving myself to writing competitions and then cranking out essays to try and win some scholarship money; hours spent sitting at the hospital with my Parkinson's-stricken dad in the middle of the night because he was having (yet another) depression-fueled panic attack--only to have to get up the next morning and go to school, exhausted, and not being able to tell anybody because dad was afraid of losing his job if people found out he was sick; hours (years) of listening to my parents argue, followed by hours of ghostly silence, and knowing that it was only a matter of time before the whole thing imploded--which it did, nastily, and with relatives involved who only thought they knew the whole story—all happening days before I was set to enter my freshman year at Carolina.
He only thought he knew.

As for the roommate, we didn't interact much after that.  It was a rough year.
But if the whole experience taught me anything, it's that we humans are resilient creatures.  When life gives us coal, God willing, we’re going to turn it into diamonds.
(I ended that year with a 4.0 and a full-ride scholarship.)

I revisited this album years later after a client wanted to use “Midnight In a Perfect World” as backing music for an online commercial I was scripting.  I told him that we couldn’t use the song (copyrights and all that), but I might be able to write something that had a similar feel.
As I listened to the song for inspiration—the same music the roommate had once used to torment me, I began hearing it with new ears.  It was pure genius.  
While the song is primarily built on a sample from the 1975 recording “The Madness Subsides” by Finnish jazz-fusion multi-instrumentalist Pekka Pohjola, it contains tons of snippets (sometimes less than a second long) of obscure vocals, instrumentals, sound effects, etc., that were sampled, chopped up, and reassembled into something new, cohesive, and exhilarating.  (Case in point: the entire drum track was built from a 2-second sample from Marlena Shaw's "California Soul.")  Created all by using the limited tools of a sampler, one turntable, and a digital recorder, and nothing more.
More or less, DJ Shadow was taking these odd, mismatched pieces that would make no sense on their own and giving them context and meaning while overcoming--even utilizing--the limitations of the resources he had.
That's pretty much the definition of life.

"Ego Trippin' - Part Two" (De La Soul)

De La Soul has never been the type of group to play by mainstream music industry rules.  They've also never written lyrics that smack you over the head with their meaning.  Often, their songs take a couple of listens before the meanings begin to reveal themselves.
"Ego Trippin' - Part Two" from their third album Buhloone Mindstate (1993) is one of the most abstract, clever, filled-with-hip-hop-references rap songs ever written.  (By the way, there is no "Ego Trippin' - Part One," unless you count Nikki Giovanni's poem or "Ego Trippin'" from Ultramagnetic MC's.)
When the song was released, East Coast rap was getting eclipsed by West Coast gangsta rap.  So when listeners heard the line Tired of the merry go round and around and then saw the the video for "Ego Trippin' - Part Two," which featured an almost frame-for-frame parody of the pool scene from 2Pac's video for "I Get Around," people automatically assumed that the song was a dis to 2Pac and the West Coast.  
But that oversimplifies what De La Soul was getting at.
Really, it was an open letter to the hip hop community that asked: what do we want this genre to become?  Is it going to be a showcase for raw talent and lyricism?  Or is it going to be all about crass commercialism, misogyny, and fixation on material wealth?
If there's any doubt what camp De La Soul was in, check out who they name-check and quote: hip hop teachers (I'm something like a phenomenon is a direct reference to Grandmaster Flash & Melle Mel's cautionary, anti-cocaine rap "White Lines"); hip hop wordsmiths and party-starters (When I'm on the mic / There won't be no delayin' is a reference to Doug E. Fresh and Slick Rick's "The Show"); and hip hop storytellers (When they reminisce over you / For real is a reference to Pete Rock & CL Smooth's autobiographical "They Reminisce Over You.")  And there are tons of other references--from Big Daddy Kane (I'm the foot, but who's steppin'? / Ain't no half-steppin') to Boogie Down Productions (But they're still tellin' lies to me). 
So, they weren't specifically dissing 2Pac.  But they also weren't buying what gansta rap and the mainstream were selling either.  And they weren't about to change their style to cash in on the thug trend, or gimmicks like backwards and inside-out clothes, or "hardcore" yelling (hence the over-the-top screaming in the intro/outro, à la Onyx).
Luckily, that meant we got treated to that tasty Al Hirt "Harlem Hendoo" sample and some mind-bending lyrics from Plugs #1-3 and MC Shortie No Mas.

"Mercy, Mercy, Mercy" (Cannonball Adderley Quintet)

"Mercy, Mercy, Mercy" is the title track from the Cannonball Adderley Quintet's 1966 album Mercy, Mercy, Mercy - Live at 'The Club' (which really wasn't a "club" at all, but Capitol's LA recording studios with the addition of an open bar and a bunch of partiers). 
The song is just a great little groove. 
As Julian "Cannonball" Adderley announces at the beginning of the track, the song was written by Austrian pianist Joe Zawinul, who'd gain further acclaim playing with Miles Davis on Bitches Brew (1970) and with the jazz-fusion band Weather Report throughout the 1970s.  With the exception of two verses where Adderley (on alto sax) and his brother Nat (on cornet) blow a couple of bars, it's really a showcase for Zawinul on Wurlitzer electric piano.
If you've ever played a vintage Wurlitzer--I did once at a junk shop years ago, you know it's somewhat limited in what it can do.  You basically can adjust the volume and the sustain, unless one or the other is busted.  And speaking of busted, the flat metal reeds inside the Wurlitzer, which create its signature sound, apparently break if you look at them cross-eyed.  Plus, they are/were a pain to replace and tune.  (The junk shop owner effectively talked me out of buying the thing, if you can't tell.)
Anyway, I only bring this up because of how Zawinul works the heck outta the Wurlitzer on this recording.  He doesn't fly across the keyboard or do anything too crazy; he just finds every bit of soul that's in that funky little electric piano and channels it right into every bluesy chord he plays.  He not only is able to finesse the instrument to get a mellow, almost vibraphone-like tone on the first two verses, but he gets the funk to a real boil and takes it to church on the hook and final verse.
In all, it's a song that makes you feel good when you're feeling bad, and makes you feel so bad (in a good way) when you're feeling alright.

"These Eyes" (The Guess Who)

"These Eyes" is one of those songs that you know from the first five notes.  
Yes, it has been hellaciously overplayed on classic rock radio.  And I'd bet cash money that Delilah has this song queued up at the beginning of each show, because she knows some lonely schlub from East Mooseknuckle, Wyoming, is going to call in and dedicate it to his high school sweetheart with some cryptic message like, "I'm sorry about the tractor accident, Laverne; but I still lurve you."
Call it sappy, call it white boy soul.  But, dammit, there's something about those staccato chords on Burton Cummings's Hohner Pianet keyboard that get me every time.  
By the time Jim Kale's bass drops in along with Randy Bachman's muted guitar lick and Gerry Peterson's drums (which sound closer to Soulsville or Hitsville USA than Winnipeg), there's just no turning back.
The pathos and drama just keep building as the song progresses: strings swell, there's a vibraphone doubling the keyboard part, and then a lone trumpet comes out of nowhere.  The key shifts from C major to D, and then from D to E, as Cummings soulfully wails through his tongue twister of a confession that These eyes have seen a lot of loves, but they're never gonna see another one like I had with you...  
It's cheesy.  

But it's really good cheese.

"Them There Eyes" (Billie Holiday)

By 1949, Billie Holiday was a big star with even bigger problems.  She was a household name because of her voice, but she also had made a name for herself through two widely-publicized arrests for narcotics possession.  (Yeah, kids.  It's not just rock 'n' rollers who were known for their partying.)
By the late 40s, her addictions to booze and heroin had started to affect her voice in subtle ways: notes wavered where they'd previously soared, ends of consonants were slurred, and her general energy level was lower.
Which is why this recording of "Them There Eyes" stands out.  Her voice and energy are in top form here.  She even sounds like she's having...fun.  There's a playfulness that comes through, especially when she speak-sings lines like My heart is jumpin' / You started somethin', without even a hint of melancholy.  Also, the upbeat Big Band sound provided by her backing band, Sy Oliver & His Orchestra, gives the track an extra kick and swinging feel that keeps things buoyant.
My hunch is that this recording served two purposes: 1) to combat music critics who began grumbling around 1947 that her output was relying too heavily on languid balladry and 2) to serve as a "comeback" of sorts after a high-profile arrest in California.  
Long story short: on January 22, 1949, she and her manager/lover were arrested for opium possession at a hotel in San Francisco, and he'd pinned the whole incident on her.  In June of that year, she was exonerated by a jury, which unanimously believed that he'd framed her, and was back in the recording studio by August, laying down "Them There Eyes."
So while having a sunny, upbeat song surely would have helped to counter critics and any residual negative press, to me, it's a song that says one thing: she was just happy as hell to be free. 

"I Wanna Get Next To You" (Rose Royce)

My mom often reminisces that the first movie she and my dad went to see together was the comedy Car Wash (1976).  It sort of became a tradition in our household to watch it at least once a year when I was growing up.  I mean, it has George Carlin and Richard Pryor in it.  So even if some of the 70s references are a bit dated, its skit-like scenes and (surprisingly) tasteful dramatic moments always guarantee a good time.
The soundtrack, which was written and produced by Motown expatriate Norman Whitfield and performed by Los Angeles-based band Rose Royce, may be one of the best, most consistent original soundtracks to any film.  What makes the double album so good is that Whitfield had the band tackle a number of styles: straight up funk, smooth soul, R&B, disco, and jazz soul.  The effect is that you're listening to a mix of hit music by different performers on an urban radio station, circa 1976.  (In the film, the workers at the car wash listen to fictional station KGYS over the PA system, with selections from the soundtrack comprising the station's program set.)
"I Wanna Get Next To You" from the soundtrack sets the mood for a key scene, where comedian Franklyn Ajaye's character "T.C." tries--and fails--to get a date with "Mona," a waitress at the coffee shop next door to the car wash.  The song has a feel that pays homage to smooth Philly soul (think: The Stylistics or The Delfonics) with a dash of Whitfield's own composition "Just My Imagination" mixed in.  
Unlike most Rose Royce songs, where Rose Norwalt (a.k.a. Gwen Dickey) takes the lead vocal, trumpeter Kenny Copeland is the featured vocalist here, addressing a woman who constantly ignores him and takes him for granted in a smooth falsetto (the lyrics mirroring the on-screen relationship between T.C. and Mona.)
It's a simple song with a simple theme: no matter what, he still wants to be her man.  
But it's so indelibly sung by Copeland with such soulful backing vocals and a note-perfect performance from the rest of the band that it's hard not hit "replay" a time or two to let its tranquil vibe soak in.  This is a song made for a long drive on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
Also, I have to point out what Lequeint "Duke" Jobes is doing on bass throughout this song.   Although it would have been easy to just play whole notes, he instead keeps this steady pulse going that syncopates with the kick drum and congas.  He also doesn't just stick to the tonic of each chord, which gives the track movement and a little extra injection of soul.  It's simple but effective playing.

"Spottieottiedopaliscious" (OutKast)

Yes,
I remember the first time I heard "Spottieottiedopaliscious" from Aquemini.
Must've been about late October '98, sitting in my dorm room.
Some cat sounding like Curtis Mayfield singing about...
Dickies and Lincolns and Stankonia, GA--
Even though they hadn't crowned it yet.
These real, live dubbed-out horns and drums
Floating from the speakers like blue blunt smoke,
And then Andre 3000's voice comes in:
Damn.  Damn.  Damn.  James.
My roommate and I look at each other like
What the?...
And then Mr. André Benjamin starts to talk,
Painting poetry about a night club:
The DJ is handing out aural group therapy to the needy,
While his girl is whispering in his ear,
As the "Olde E" and "Set It Off"
Compete for his undivided attention.
Then fists fly somewhere across the room
Before three dudes get "hauled off in an ambulance."
Suddenly it's 3am again, and...
Damn.  Damn.  Damn.  James.
We're expecting Big Boi
And Mr. Antwan Patton is there to deliver,
Only he's got his Gil Scott Heron hat on.
He introduces us to his Spottieottiedopaliscious Angel:
She sounds like Pegasus, Pam Grier, and Helen of Troy,
All rolled into one-- 
On roller skates, no less.
He muses about raising children with this woman
Even though, once upon a time,
"Booty clubs" were all that was on his mind.
He reveals what being a grown ass man
And handling your business is all about.
(How's that for your "typical MC?")
It becomes obvious that Sir Lucious is giving advice
To some young cat
Who thinks he can raise his family
On dirty/inconsistent money from slinging dope.
He cautions this dude
About the hell of self sabotage,
Reminding him about his
Halfhearted attempts at a good job
Only to be defeated by his own weedy pee.
As the song fades into an echo of cross sticks,
We think to ourselves:
"Those dudes didn't even rhyme once."
Yet we still hit "repeat."
Three times.
That's my interpretation of the situation.

"So What" (Miles Davis)

So Miles Davis books time at Columbia's 30th Street Studios for March 2, 1959.  He has a basic idea of what he's looking to record: songs built around basic chords and scales--modes, if you will.  He has a few melody lines sketched out in his head.  But as far as actual "compositions," nothing is written down or meticulously arranged--a direct contrast to his most recent work with arranger Gil Evans.
The musicians (consisting of Bill Evans on piano, Julian "Cannonball" Adderley on alto sax, John Coltrane on tenor sax, Paul Chambers on bass, and Jimmy Cobb on drums) come in for the recording date.  There's little or no rehearsal.  Davis in his badass growl gives them a basic idea of the scales and the changes, and the tape starts rolling.
Evans and Chambers set the tone by playing some scales before Chambers suddenly plays this riff that becomes the foundation of the hook.  Then, Evans follows by playing these accentuating block chords.  After a couple of bars, Davis, Adderley, and Coltrane fall in, playing the two-note pattern: bahhh...baaap...bahhh...baaap...soooo...what
And the rest is serendipity, sheer talent, and a little ESP.

"A Night in Tunisia" (Bud Powell Trio)

I was in a jazz music appreciation class in college, and I heard "A Night in Tunisia" for the first time as homework.  (Our assignments each week were to listen to a specific set of songs and read the liner notes from a boxed set compiled by The Smithsonian.  Hard work, I know.)   The song was sitting among some other great bebop tunes from the late 1940s by saxophonist Charlie Parker and trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie.  I recognized "A Night in Tunisia" as a Gillespie composition, but The Smithsonian had chosen a cut by the Bud Powell Trio.  Who was Bud Powell?  I had no idea.
(Talk about an eye-opening experience.)
As I would learn in class, Powell basically defined piano playing for the bebop era, often playing at a breakneck pace and rarely if ever holding a note for more than a moment.  
He also was an example of one of jazz's tragic stories: substance/alcohol abuse, mental illness, stints in psychiatric hospitals, stints in jail, bouts with physical illness including tuberculosis, and ultimately a disintegration of his talents before dying at the age of 41.
In spite of (or maybe because of) these lifelong challenges, he invented a style that, like Parker's, tried to pack as much life and living as possible into one song--or even into a single solo.  
Powell (whom you also can hear singing/grunting along as he plays) literally floats across the keyboard throughout this recording of "A Night in Tunisia."  I don't think he plays anything other than 16th notes for 90% of the song!   And even though every note comes flying at you at lightning speed, every note is in its proper place.  It reveals a virtuosity and vision that is rare.
But it was the funky groove on snares and cowbell, laid down by drummer Max Roach, that initially grabbed me when I heard the song for the first time.  (Hip-hop producers dream about drum breaks that sick.)  And then when Curly Russell falls in with that unmistakable undulating bassline, it transports you to another place--somewhere between North Africa and 52nd Street, circa 1951.

"Blue Rondo à la Turk" (The Dave Brubeck Quartet)

Anytime anyone tells me they don't like jazz, I point them to either Miles Davis's Kind of Blue or The Dave Brubeck Quartet's Time Out, both from 1959.  
In the case of Time Out, I find that the uniqueness of the odd time signatures--which is the whole reason why the album is called Time Out--keeps anti-jazz curmudgeons engaged long enough that they actually start realizing how inventive and great jazz can be.
Basically, the album came about after Brubeck and his band went on a State Department-sponsored tour of Europe and Asia in the late 50s.  Along the way, Brubeck and co. kept hearing these intricate, non-Western folk rhythms that just blew them away.  In particular, the band had made a stop in Turkey, where Brubeck heard some street musicians playing this funky folk rhythm in 9/8 time: 
1-2, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2-3 / 1-2, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2-3 / 1-2, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2-3 / 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3.
And that cinched it: their next album was going to avoid typical 4/4 and 3/4 time signatures as much as possible.
That Turkish folk rhythm, as you might have guessed, was the basis for "Blue Rondo à la Turk."  In fact, the name of the song spells out literally what's happening: the song is written in the rondo form, where the main theme (built on the Turkish rhythm in 9/8) cycles with alternating episodes (in swinging 4/4), which are based on a typical blues chord progression of 1-4-5.
Forgetting about the unique time signature for sec, it's just a great showpiece for Brubeck's chunky block chords and alto sax virtuoso Paul Desmond's light as a feather, fluid as quicksilver improvisations.  I also can't neglect Eugene Wright's bass playing or drummer Joe Morello's unfaltering time-keeping abilities.  In short, everything works on this track--easily a contender for the best-ever album-opening song.

"Linus and Lucy" (Vince Guaraldi Trio)

Before writing the classic "Linus and Lucy," pianist Vince Guaraldi had a fairly big hit (especially for a jazz single) with a song called "Cast Your Fate to the Wind."  It is very much in the same instrumental vein as "Linus and Lucy," featuring upright bass, drums, and piano.  And, just like the latter, it has Guaraldi's singular approach: funky and swinging, yet bubbling over with this ebullient energy and childlike innocence.
So it's no wonder why Lee Mendelson, producer of Charles Schulz's Peanuts Christmas special, commissioned Guaraldi to score the TV program after hearing "Cast Your Fate to the Wind" on the radio.
I still marvel, though, at how funky "Linus and Lucy" is--especially that last bridge before the final chorus, and yet it still perfectly captures the innocence of childhood.  
But that's why I love this song.  It isn't some saccharine, watered down kiddie pop that was crafted by studio executives and hired hit-men to be an instant hit single the minute the show originally aired.  The composition has real grit and integrity, and it stands on its own as a great composition.  
At the same time, it captures the spirit of running around with abandon but also falling down and skinning your knee.  In fact, it's the whole wild wonder of being a kid, condensed into 3 minutes.  

"Cantaloupe Island" (Herbie Hancock)

You can't help but admire Herbie Hancock as an artist.  
He was a child prodigy who, by age 10, could play any classical piece anyone threw at him.  Then he became famous playing with Miles Davis in the early 1960s, making a name for himself by combining a feel for the blues with his ear for classical composition.  Then, as Davis nudged him toward the Fender rhodes in the late 60s, Hancock went full-on into tha Funk before reinventing himself yet again as an R&B futurist/hip-hopper.
Anyway, as much as I appreciate his "gather no moss" work ethic, I still enjoy his early post-bop stuff.  It's still so inventive, fluid, and rhythmically complex.  
I especially love the song "Cantaloupe Island" from the album Empyrean Isles (1964).  It has this great syncopated groove that tugs at your ear, making you think it might not be in straight 4, even though it is.  That running Latin-tinged riff throughout also lays down a foundation that allows cornettist Freddie Hubbard to play the melody straight or go off exploring wherever he wants.  That little repeating pattern gets etched in your brain so that, when Hancock goes off and solos and is only playing the skeleton of the riff with his left hand, you think you still hear it.  The presence of it is still there, even though the foundation is only being held up by Ron Carter and Anthony Williams on bass and drums.  
It's genius.
Like most people my age, I discovered the song via Us3's "Cantaloop," which sampled Hancock's core piano riff.  At the time (1993), I couldn't get enough of "Cantaloop" and its pastiche of samples that were cobbled together from various Blue Note Records sides.  But as time went on, its novelty wore thin.  In hindsight, the verse by the MC (who can even remember the dude's name?) wasn't that great.  The sampling paled in comparison to the kind of mind bending stuff that Ali Shaheed Muhammad and Pete Rock were doing at the same time, even though they were sampling some of the same jazz records as Us3.
But that "Cantaloupe Island" riff stuck with me.  It's the kind of thing that I'd find myself humming or playing on the piano to warm up my fingers.  "Cantaloupe Island" also was the gateway to me searching for the sources of the crazy jazz samples I heard on A Tribe Called Quest/Gang Starr/De La Soul/Digable Planets/etc records and buying up tons of jazz recordings from the 1950s-70s in turn.

"God Bless the Child" (Billie Holiday)

So yesterday I was discussing Frank Sinatra and his sense of vocal phrasing.  One of Sinatra's biggest influences was none other than Billie Holiday (who was influenced by Louis Armstrong.  I had a music appreciation professor in college who showed us a flowchart once that basically had every bit of modern music--jazz, rock, R&B, etc--all leading directly back to Armstrong.)
Anyway, Holiday tends to be a polarizing performer for people.  She has the type of voice that you either can't live without or absolutely can't stand.  Granted, her voice isn't as velvety smooth as, say, Ella Fitzgerald's; it's rough around the edges and has this perpetual raspiness, which got even more pronounced toward the end of her life as heroin and booze took their toll.  Although I'm in the former camp of "fan," I'll admit that it's difficult to listen to Holiday for more than a few minutes at a time.  But that's not because of her voice; it's the brutal truth and intoxicating blues that pour out of her voice.
Especially on a track like "God Bless the Child," one of the few songs that Holiday helped pen.
She wrote the song in 1939 after an argument with her mother about borrowing money.  Her mother likely knew that Holiday needed cash for her drug habit and flatly turned her down.  According to Holiday's autobiography Lady Sings the Blues, she told her mother, "God bless the child that's got his own."  The incident gnawed at Holiday, prompting her to write the lyrics, which intersperse Biblical references with secular ones as a commentary on how people treat one another, regardless of their supposed religiosity.  It's a pretty brutal lyric that implicitly concludes: you're on your own in this life.
The curious thing is, she could have delivered the song with real bitterness.  Instead, there's a very wounded, blue feeling there.  (It's there whether you listen to the original OKeh recording from 1941 or the oddly schmaltzy, choir-backed version from 1950 for Decca.)  And that's what makes Holiday difficult, yet so compelling, to listen to on all of her songs: she channeled every bit of disappointment, hurt, and glimmer of joy in her life into every word she sang.  It even gives her frothiest material a certain gravity.  
It's even more poignant here because she's singing her own words and not just interpreting someone else's lyrics.

"Night and Day: Live / Paris, 1962" (Frank Sinatra)

Frank Sinatra did quite a few recordings of Cole Porter's song "Night and Day."  The first recording happened back in his early days with Columbia Records when he weighed 90 pounds soaking wet, and bobby soxers were screaming "Frankie!" and fainting in the aisles.
Even in the early version of the song, his sense of phrasing was quite advanced and his interpretation wrung every bit of carnal desire that is nestled between the lines of Porter's lyrics into a smoldering torch song that would set any teenybopper's bloomers en fuego.
But I personally prefer the recording from his 1962 charity concert in Paris, which features just "the Voice" and his guitarist, Al Viola, without any other orchestral backing.  The recording is included as part of the Sinatra and Sextet: Live in Paris album, which was first released to the public some 32 years later in 1994.
What I love about this recording is that he's obviously struggling with a cold or some sort of vocal ailment throughout the entire concert; he coughs pretty audibly at the beginning of "Night and Day."  But it doesn't stop him at all.  He uses it, he adjusts to it, and it gives the performance a very real, husky sound.  It's a key example of how Sinatra viewed his voice as an instrument and "played" it, just like trumpeters or pianists would play their instruments.
The performance is confident.  Viola walks this line between flamenco and jazz guitar throughout, providing the perfect backdrop for Sinatra's words of longing--words that are tinged with different colors as a 47-year-old vocalist rather than as a teen heartthrob crooner.  That nuance comes through partly because his voice is really on display with such minimal backing.  But it's also because he'd done a helluva lot of living, had been to the brink and back, and had battle scars to prove it.  The emotion is loud and clear.  There's also the feeling that he's singing to someone specific this time around.  (My guess is that it was actress and ex-wife Ava Gardner.)

I don't think there's a bad Sinatra performance out there.  But this one has its own sort of magic and majesty.

"Dinah" (Quintette du Hot Club de France)

Nothing can conjure a smile like the music of violinist Stéphane Grappelli and guitarist Django Reinhardt, founders and the only real perpetual members of Quintette du Hot Club de France--the first all-string jazz ensemble.
Each musician has an amazing backstory.  (I'm kind of amazed no one has ever made a film about either of them.)
Grappelli was born in Paris, lost his mother at a young age, was sent by his father to live in an orphanage--where he nearly starved to death--at the outbreak of World War I, learned violin largely by observing street musicians and listening to jazz records from the US, and spent a lot of time playing accompaniment for silent films at movie houses and busking on the street before joining up with Reinhardt in 1934 to form the Quintette du Hot Club de France.
Reinhardt, who was of Romani heritage (better known by the generic term "Gypsy"), was born in Belgium.  He learned to play guitar at a young age, learning from other family members in their encampment outside Paris.  Around age 18, he was badly burned after an accident with a candle that set his home ablaze.  The incident left him with his pinky and ring fingers on his left hand fused together, initially leading him to believe he would never play guitar again.   Though, in time, his dogged determination led him to develop a completely unique playing style, playing solos using his middle and index fingers while playing chords with his injured fingers.
So, there you go.
Two amazing stories.  Two largely self-taught musicians.  And a shared love of American jazz--particularly Louis Armstrong.
Incidentally, their take on "Dinah," a pop song that was popularized by Armstrong, is my favorite example of both musicians at their creative best.  Reinhardt flies across the fretboard like a man with four arms--never mind that he essentially had four fingers.  It's a style that definitely has Gypsy roots yet resides in a stratosphere all its own.
Likewise, Grappelli's violin work is so fluid and effortless.  There are hints of classical mixed with French folk, spiced up with an intuitive feel for soulful, jazzy blue notes.  It's the sound of pure and unadulterated joy.

"Brandenburg Concerto #3 in G mjr, 1-3" (J.S. Bach)

J.S. Bach is my favorite classical composer, hands down.  
Beethoven runs a close second in terms of melodies that grab me.
And then I have other faves (Gabriel Fauré, Erik Satie, Claude Debussy, Antonio Vivaldi, Giacomo Puccini, Franz Liszt, George Gershwin, to name a few.)
But inevitably people will say, "Well, Mozart, too.  Right?" 
Mozart, though brilliant, always was a little too cute and clever for his own damn good; I just hear a bratty kid every time I listen to his music, and it makes me want to turn it off.  (I have a similar reaction to Picasso's paintings.  Although I find his works intriguing, he was a total asshole--especially to women, and it leaves me feeling cold about his work.)
Anyway, growing up in the Lutheran church, I heard a lot of Bach--what with Bach having been a Lutheran himself.  Luckily, I really liked the music.  Even as a young kid, when someone asked me what music I enjoyed, along with rattling off a slew of mid-80s performers (some of which had staying power, others...not so much), I'd inevitably mention Bach, usually to the person's surprise.  I think adults just assumed it was something my parents had trained me to say, and kids my age just figured it was me being pretentious.  
But I really did like Bach.
A lot of it probably had to do with the album Switched-on Bach, which my mom often would play while doing housework.  For the uninitiated, Switched-on Bach is a (sadly) out-of-print 1968 album by Wendy Carlos (an interesting and talented figure herself, who is worth reading about) that uses Moog synthesizers to recreate some of Bach's "greatest hits" with pretty stunning, timeless results.  The album not only held the distinction of being one of the best-selling classical albums of all time, but it also introduced the Moog synth as a real instrument, not just a novelty that could be used for generating sound effects and gray noise.
For me, being a kid of the funky late 70s and New Wave-y early 80s, the album fit easily into the sonic palette that Stevie Wonder used on his "classic period" of albums as well as bands like Devo and Gary Numan & Tubeway Army.  (But I'm sure, in 1968, the album probably sounded like it had come from the year 2068.)  
But I can't owe my affection for Bach completely to Wendy Carlos and her futuristic synths.   It's Bach's singular approach to melody, counterpoint, and rhythm that have always engaged me.  His music requires equal amounts of precision and heart to perform well.  If you're missing one element or the other, what you get is the sound of Bach sluggishly rotating in his grave.
This is very true of "Brandenburg Concerto #3 in G major."  While I enjoy all six parts of this Baroque masterpiece, #3 always grabbed me the most.
The first movement (Adagio) has this bright, sunny feel that chugs along with this unceasing momentum.  There's also astounding counterpoint and all sorts of subtle interplay among the violas, violins, and cellos, where one set of instruments will start a line and then hand it off to the next set of instruments.
Then there's Movement 2.  Which kind of isn't a "movement" at all.  
The sheet music is just two chords on a single measure.  That's it.  Music historians sometimes argue about Bach's intent, but I think it's pretty obvious that he expected someone (lead violinist, maybe the harpsichordist) to improvise a solo.  How badass is that?  It's basically jazz circa 1721.  (Side note: I realize that this type of soloing is a Baroque technique that was not necessarily limited to Bach.  But I still think it's pretty gutsy to have two movements separated by a piece where you "give the drummer some.")
Finally, Movement 3 (Allegro) takes off like a racehorse, and it doesn't let up until the final note.  Once again, Bach uses the technique of one instrument/set of instruments starting a line and then handing it off to the next instrument, with the lead violin soloing every few measures before disappearing back into the swirling rush of notes.
There's also the basso continuo ("continuous bassline") throughout, played by the double bass and harpsichord.  I believe it's this specific Baroque technique and Bach's mastery of it that make me love this music.  It's that unceasing, melodic bass that gives Bach's music--and this composition in particular--a certain bounce that feels almost indebted to folk rhythms.  It's earthy yet spiritual music, and you can't get any better than that.
(P.S. I really like this rendition I found online performed by EUBO--the European Baroque Orchestra--from 2011.  It's a group that auditions and selects completely new members every year.)

"Love" (John Lennon)

John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band is an album that probably wouldn't have happened if The Beatles hadn't gone their separate ways.  Or, at the very least, it would have been a very different album.
But, as it is, it's quite the time-tested artistic statement from a complicated, immensely talented individual: one moment he's exorcising his demons through thumping, thrashing, bare-bones proto-punk; the next, he's playing the most beautiful, most delicate patterns on piano or acoustic guitar and expressing the purest of emotions.  He tosses everything out the window and puts his guts on a plate.  It is one of the rawest, truest, most confidently vulnerable albums of all time.  (This relatively short album is the home of several of my all-time favorite songs.)
One of the standouts from the album is "Love."  It features Lennon on acoustic guitar and producer Phil Spector on piano.  On the album version the piano begins ever so faintly (differing from the 1982 single remix, which remains the same volume throughout), fading up very gradually over the course of about 30 seconds.  It's a brilliant arranging/production technique that makes you really lean in and give your undivided attention.  Because by the time Lennon intones Love is real / real is love... you're entranced.
The lyric is innocently simple, but far from being banal.  The words have a deep, universal truth that always resonates and never gets old.  My favorite line of all:
Love is needing to be loved.
Timeless.

   

"Helpless" (Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young)

Neil Young has written tons of memorable songs over the years.  But few have the heart and soul that overflow "Helpless," one of the strongest, most timeless tracks from Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young's 1970 album Déjà Vu.  
Young's lyrics are so vivid that, even if you'd never set foot in Northern Ontario, it immediately takes you there.  He also taps into humankind's universal nostalgic longing for a simple place where one can escape from the world, transporting you to whatever that place is in your own mind.  On that note, I've always found it interesting that Young used the word "helpless" without implying any negative connotation.  In fact, he's using the word in a way that seems to imply surrender and letting go of cares.  It has a very spiritual implication.

"Fade Into You" (Mazzy Star)

Call it shoegazer.  Call it neo-psychedelic.  (I'm never one for cramming music into categories.)  Whatever you want to call their music, few could match the sedate, ethereal quality of Santa Monica, CA-based Mazzy Star in the early 1990s.  The band, which in reality is more of a duo consisting of vocalist/instrumentalist Hope Sandoval and instrumentalist/producer David Roback with a varying array of backing musicians, was able to blend the softer side of The Velvet Underground (think: "Sunday Morning," "Femme Fatale," and "Pale Blue Eyes") with the sun-bleached sound of Southern California.  Although, to clarify, theirs isn't the sound of jeeps on the beach or surfers hanging ten; it's the sound of bonfires on dark, chilly beaches with just a hint of a moon to illuminate the endless ocean.
"Fade Into You" from the 1993 album So Tonight That I Might See is probably the most famous and well-crafted of Mazzy Star's songs.  It seems to be about loving someone who is in too dark a place to truly and fully return the emotion.  It's also a very sensuous song.  The lush reverb on the track and quality of Sandoval's voice create this dreamy atmosphere that is--dare I say it--incredibly sexy.  What makes the song so sexy is that it's not about doin' it; it's about longing to share a part of someone on a deeper plane.  This seems to be a subtlety that has been lost in the past decade in music; somehow, "sexy" became less about intrigue and passion and more about "let me shake my scantily-clad ass in your face."  I miss the days of smoldering desire à la Mazzy Star, Chris Isaak, and Janet's "That's the Way Love Goes."  **sigh**