"Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)" (Marvin Gaye)

There’s no arguing that the album What’s Going On (1971) is a masterpiece.  It’s Marvin Gaye’s most complete artistic statement, and it’s one of the 1970s best albums from start to finish.
By the late 60s, Gaye had grown disillusioned not only with the Vietnam War and the social/political situation in America, but also the Motown/Tamla hit-making machine.  Even though his recordings had made him a star, he felt his music wasn’t saying anything important.  For a moment, he even decided to take a break from music and tried out for the Detroit Lions.
Ultimately, he returned to music because he felt a duty to say something—something Motown/Tamla chief Berry Gordy strongly advised him not to do.  Gordy (who also was Gaye’s brother-in-law at the time) flat out told him he was crazy for wanting to shed his crooner image and came very close to blocking the album’s title single from being released at all, calling it “the worst thing (he’d) ever heard.”
Thanks to pressures from other musicians and writers at Motown and the massive chart success of the lead single, Gordy didn't shelve the project, thankfully.
Quite literally, “Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)” is the climax of the work; it’s the very last song of the 9-song cycle that makes up What’s Going On.  Thematically, it’s also the synthesis of everything Gaye was thinking and feeling: his dismay at the hardships and crushing poverty that plagued America’s inner cities; politicians who seemed to care more about sending a man to the moon than helping people on Earth; and endless discrimination against blacks, hippies, young people, and the poor.  All of these themes simmer throughout the song, delivered by Gaye’s falsetto over a cold groove that’s driven by Gaye’s piano, Bob Babbitt’s funky bass, and Ms. Bobbye Hall’s expressive bongos.  When the reality of it all gets too much for him to take, Gaye dips back into his regular tenor to make commentary (Make me wanna holler, how they do my life... Make me wanna holler, throw up both my hands...). You also hear two or three Marvins in the background, howling/hollering/praying.  
It’s cerebral, spiritual, funky, angry, and weary, all at once.
On the single version, the song abruptly fades out just before the 3-minute mark.  On the album, however, the groove slows, and you’re treated to a stark, intimate piano/vocal reprise of the title track, just before the song/album dissolves into a foggy mist of multiple Marvins harmonizing over Hall’s heavily reverbed bongos.  This coda is somewhat bleak, and it's rife with a feeling of uncertainty.  Although, the treatment of the sound—the reverb and echo—automatically makes one think of being in church.  It absolutely fits with Gaye’s other primary theme on the album: seeking divine guidance and spiritual strength to cope with modern problems.

"All Blues" (Miles Davis)

Along with the iconic “So What,” the track “All Blues” also is a cornerstone of the jazz classic, Kind of Blue (1959).  Much like “So What,” there was little or no practice before the musicians recorded "All Blues."  Miles Davis told them the basic structure and the chord changes he had in mind, and away they went.  
It’s Take #2 that you hear on the album.
The song gets its name from its core musical structure: the 12-bar blues.  That said, Davis doesn’t exactly have his musicians play the game straight.  Instead of sticking to a traditional I chord/IV chord/V chord blues progression, they move around the scale a bit, dipping to minor chords and chromatic chords outside the scale along the way, creating alternating waves of electrifying dissonance and mellow resolve every few measures.
Also, Davis utilizes waltz-like 6/4 time instead of common 4/4 time, giving the song a special, lilting swing that the musicians ride for well over 11 minutes.  
Although, it doesn’t feel like 11 minutes.
In fact, it’s not uncommon for me to hit “repeat” three or four times on this track.

"Cruisin'" (Smokey Robinson)

The song "Cruisin'" has been covered by a slew of artists.  One of the best and truest renditions was by the Howard Hughes of soul, D'Angelo, in 1995.  There also was a dubious, saccharine version by Huey Lewis and Gwyneth Paltrow a few years later in 2000.  But nothing bests the original by Smokey Robinson from his 1979 album Where There's Smoke...
It's the consummate Robinson song: sensuous, romantic lyrics delivered by that unmistakable tenor over an enduring melody.  In fact, that last point is why the track is a perennial favorite of mine.  There's nothing about Robinson's production that particularly screams "1979": no cheesy synths, no drum machines clacking out a disco beat, no wah-wah guitars scratching away.  Instead, he builds a timeless, smoldering groove atop undulating congas and real, live percussion and then brings the extra sweetness with a layer of lush, but tasteful, live strings.
In short: you won't find a better track to set the mood for amour.

"Still Water (Love)" (The Four Tops)

Smokey Robinson is so well known as a vocalist and performer that it's easy to forget he's also a prolific songwriter.  For every song he wrote and turned into a hit for himself/The Miracles ("Shop Around," "Tears of a Clown," "Ooo Baby, Baby," "Being With You"), he wrote just as many for other Motown artists ("My Girl" by The Temptations, "My Guy" by Mary Wells, "Ain't That Peculiar" by Marvin Gaye...).

Add to that list the often overlooked classic "Still Water (Love)" from 1970, which Robinson co-wrote with Motown producer/arranger Frank Wilson for The Four Tops.

It's a shame the track isn't in heavier rotation on oldies radio, because it has everything going for it: a melody that sticks with you, a funky syncopated groove, and a perfect lead vocal from the late Levi Stubbs who, as the protagonist of the song, passionately tells his significant other that, although he may not boast to others about their relationship, his love is strong and true.  

Also, somewhat unusual for a Motown song from this era, it has an instrumental intro that is well over a minute long, which sets the tranquil mood before Stubbs even sings his first note.  In a way, the song points the way to the more experimental song structures that Marvin Gaye would explore on What's Going On the following year.

"Goin' Out of My Head" (Little Anthony & The Imperials)

I'm often surprised at how few people know the song "Goin' Out of My Head," considering that it was a Top 10 pop hit for Little Anthony & The Imperials in 1964 and was covered by everyone from The Zombies to Frank Sinatra.

The song was penned by the NYC-based songwriting duo Bobby Weinstein and Teddy Randazzo.  Randazzo was a childhood friend of the group and co-wrote the dramatic ballad specifically with The Imperials in mind.  He also arranged and produced the song, giving it an equally dramatic treatment with full orchestration and tons of reverb—not unlike the techniques producer Phil Spector was using at the time.  (An interesting tidbit: Don Costa, famed producer/arranger for Sinatra and father of funk/soul artist Nikka Costa, directs the orchestra on the track.)

The song truly is a showcase for Jerome "Little Anthony" Gourdine.  His powerful, operatic falsetto sells the narrative of a shy guy who's coming apart at the seams because of a girl who fails to notice him.  I'm especially fond of his vamp as the song fades: it's theatrical and soulful at the same time.  I imagine if Enrico Caruso had grown up in Brooklyn's Fort Greene Housing Projects in the 40s (where Gourdine was raised), this is what he might have sounded like.

"Without Her" (Harry Nilsson)

Before we start: there's "Without You," Harry Nilsson's cover of Badfinger's syrupy ballad from Nilsson Schmilsson, and then there's "Without Her," which is a track from Nilsson's second album, Pandemonium Shadow Show (1967).  The latter is one of my favorite songs of all time; the former is overblown, overplayed, and kind of grating, even though Nilsson's voice truly is something to behold as he belts out those high notes.

"Without Her" is a Baroque-pop ballad about the fallout after a breakup.  The protagonist is despondent, lonely, and introspective about the nature of love and relationships after realizing that his mate isn't coming back.  (Compared to "Without You's" faux-operatic melodrama, "Without Her" is just a poor schmuck, quietly sipping a cup of lukewarm coffee while sitting around in his bathrobe at 3 in the afternoon.) 

The thrifty arrangement, which utilizes only electric bass, cello, flute, and strummed acoustic guitar, provides a perfect backdrop for Nilsson's voice.  It also brilliantly emphasizes the feeling of solitude conveyed in his lyrics.

Who knew feeling so bad could sound so gorgeous?

"Perfect Day" (Lou Reed)

Lou Reed—God rest his soul—was a curmudgeonly prick who was notoriously tight-lipped about the meaning of his songs.  But, damn, the man could write some memorable songs.
Over the years, I've read countless articles and people's web musings about the meaning of "Perfect Day."  One popular assertion is that it's a song about trying to kick heroin addiction.  But I don't really buy that theory.  Just because the film Trainspotting used it in the scene where Ewan McGregor's character, "Mark Renton," o.d.'s on heroin, doesn't make it a smack song.
The more plausible explanation is that Reed had fallen in love with cocktail waitress/aspiring actress Bettye Kronstadt—someone who was pretty far removed from the world of Andy Warhol's Factory and the various characters (transvestites, hustlers, junkies, socialites, and fame-seekers) that he had rubbed elbows with.  Thing was, he didn't really know what to make of Kronstadt, a nice, straight-laced girl who took him to sip sangria in Central Park, feed animals at the zoo, or go watch a movie like a "normal" couple.  He obviously found a certain comfort in going home to their love nest at the end of an evening rather than hitting the streets, looking to score drugs and/or sex.  Yet at the same time, he felt a bit disquieted at the prospect of domestic bliss; it's just not who he was.  
There's that heartbreaking stanza toward the end of the song, where he sings:
Just a perfect day
You made me forget myself
I thought I was someone else
Someone good 
Not to mention the very unromantic line he repeats at the very end: You're going to reap just what you sow.  Whether he's acknowledging to himself that the bliss is not going to last, or warning her that she's only going to get hurt, it is Reed at his cruelest (and that includes the sailor getting shot at the debauched party in "Sister Ray" and the partygoers being more worried about his blood staining the carpet than him dying from a bullet wound).
For me, the juxtaposition of sentimental strings against his self-analytical, very unsentimental musings make it less of a ballad about an idyllic day with a sweetheart and more of a commentary about the inevitable destructiveness of hypocrisy and self-deceit.  If there's anything Reed could do, it's tell the blunt, unvarnished truth.

"Never My Love" (The Association)

My mother had The Association's Greatest Hits (1968) in her record collection when I was a kid.  While I found a lot of that album supremely cheesy—like some sort of irritatingly peppy, college a cappella group, there was something infectious about the band's six-part harmony vocals...not unlike some irritatingly peppy, college a cappella group.

One track I actually enjoyed on the album was the band's 1967 hit single, "Never My Love": a mellow, heartfelt ballad underpinned by a surprisingly funky drum/bass/rhythm guitar pattern.  

The song's arrangement is purposely spare, spotlighting that famous five-note bass riff and the jazzy keyboards, to draw most of your attention to the nearly whispered lead vocals and sighed backing vocals.

My favorite part of the song (and the part that I'm certain producer Bones Howe knew was going to make it a platinum-selling single) is after the second bridge: the beat stops, the organ hits this dissonant chord, and the band layers on a stack of vocals that would make ice melt.  That's probably why it's still the #2 most-played song on commercial radio behind The Righteous Brothers' "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'."

"Just Once in My Life" (The Righteous Brothers)

"Just Once in My Life" (a 1965 single written by Carole King and Gerry Goffin, and also credited to producer Phil Spector) kind of gets overshadowed by The Righteous Brothers' first and biggest hit, "You've Lost that Lovin' Feelin'."  Although it's obvious that Spector enlisted King and Goffin to write a followup with the same sound and feel as "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'," I've always felt "Just Once in My Life" is a superior song.  
(Side note: the writers of "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'," Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, were working on their own followup song, "(You're My) Soul & Inspiration," but felt it was shaping up to be too similar to the former.  So they pushed to shelve it.  Spector vehemently disagreed, which led to Mann and Weil being ousted and King and Goffin being brought in to replace them.  Later, when The Righteous Brothers had gotten their fill of Phil and jumped ship, they went back to Mann and Weil and convinced them to finish writing "Soul & Inspiration," which the group turned into their second #1 single in 1966.)
Production-wise, Spector uses practically the same instrumentation and "Wall of Sound" techniques on both songs: multiple instruments simultaneously playing the same lines, tons of echo and reverb, sentimental strings with orchestral tympani percussion, and angelic backing vocals.  
Performance-wise, Bill Medley lets his soulful baritone float over the lush instrumentation, transmitting every verse as if his whole life depended on it.  And Bobby Hatfield is no slouch either, even though you only hear his distinctive tenor briefly toward the end of the song.  (Again, not that different from its predecessor.)
The biggest difference is the breakdown after the second chorus.  Yes, "You've Lost that Lovin' Feelin'" also has a breakdown after the second chorus—a little song within a song that takes you to another place for a minute or so.  But there's something a little more real, a little more soulful about the breakdown in "Just Once in My Life."  Lyrically, it's not so much a plea for a lover to rekindle a dwindling flame; it's a plea from a financially and emotionally broken man, asking his woman not to give up on him as a human being.  It's a subtle difference.  But it's what makes "Just Once in My Life" a song about personal triumphs and not just love turned cold.

"Don't Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)" (The Beach Boys)

If there were any doubt about Brian Wilson being a genius, "Don't Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)" puts all uncertainties to rest.
Wilson and lyricist Tony Asher penned the song for The Beach Boys' groundbreaking album Pet Sounds (1966).  Just like the album's closing track, "Caroline, No," Wilson performed the piece as a solo number without the rest of the group; it's only his double-tracked vocal accompanied by The Wrecking Crew that you hear on the recording. 
Compositionally, it's an otherworldly hybrid of vocal jazz, doo-wop, and classical music.  There are glimmers of groups like The Four Freshmen and The Platters in Wilson's vocal treatment, along with rhythmic and melodic nods to J.S. Bach's arrangement of Italian composer Alessandro Marcello's achingly beautiful "Concerto for Oboe & Strings in D Minor."  
Production-wise, Wilson was taking cues from Phil Spector's Wall of Sound.  Touches like having Carole Kaye's electric bass and Lyle Ritz's upright bass doubling the throbbing bassline, which mimics a beating heart as Wilson pleads Listen to my heart beat, are right out of Spector's hit-making playbook.  But Wilson even takes Spector's techniques a step further, demonstrating that he truly understood how to arrange music on a level that bridges pop and classical conventions.  For example, having the vocals drop out and strings swell after he beckons us to Listen, listen, listen is like something Verdi or Puccini would do for dramatic effect in an opera.  As you listen, it hits you that you're literally hearing the love in Wilson's heart, translated into melody.  That section chokes me up sometimes if I'm not careful.
Amazingly, there are bits of the recording that Wilson opted to leave on the cutting room floor.  Specifically, he recorded—by himself—an intricate set of a cappella vocal harmonies for the song (ostensibly as a roadmap to show the session musicians the kind of sound and feel he was driving for) that he never included in the final edit.  You can hear his chill-inducing, 8-part harmony vocals here.

"Gymnopédie, No. 1" (Erik Satie)

Composer Erik Satie was an eccentric.  
His wardrobe consisted of a dozen identical velvet suits.  He hung out with radicals and pre-Dadaists.  He wrote spoof compositions, named such odd titles as Limp preludes (for a dog) and "Three Pieces in the Shape of a Pear," just to goad other more serious composers.  He also wrote pieces specifically for non-traditional instruments: typewriter, police siren, handgun, etc.  In fact, he referred to himself as an experimenter of sound rather than as a composer.
(He was a foppish, 19th century version of Frank Zappa, basically.)
His most famous composition, "Gymnopédie, No. 1" (1888), is one of his more straightforward compositions. 
In researching the meaning of gymnopédie, no sources really agree on a definition.  Some say that it refers to dancing gymnasts of ancient Greece.  Others say it was kind of a nonsense word, first used by Satie's author friend, J.P. Contamine, in his poem "The Ancients" ("Les Antiques") to evoke a sense of nondescript "ancient times."
Whatever it means, the piece is a brief, low-key waltz that's based upon a very simple two chord progression with an extremely jazzy feel (even though jazz as an art form didn't actually exist at the time of composition).  Atop that foundation floats the song's delicate melody, which is curiously soothing and sorrowful at the same time.
Although Satie considered himself an anti-Romantic, few pieces of music evoke a sense of nostalgia, love, and loss quite like this one.

"Agnus Dei - from Requiem in D minor, Op. 48" (Gabriel Fauré)

It's a pretty safe bet that any work of music about death isn't going to be a light and breezy affair.  Masses for the dead, or Requiem Masses, often are centered, lyrically, around themes of suffering and harsh divine judgment.  That's because, traditionally, funeral masses all were based on Latin liturgical texts, particularly the "Dies Irae" ("Day of Wrath"), which is just chock full of images of suffering, destruction, and retribution for the sins of mankind.  (Even perhaps the most famous Requiem Mass of all—Mozart's Requiem—is laden with images of misery.  Take the "Sequentia" movement from Mozart's work, which contains elements of the "Dies Irae;" it is 8 minutes of full-on apocalyptic imagery.)  
Not exactly what a grieving loved one wants to hear in the throes of despair, in my opinion.
That's why I've always been fond of French composer Gabriel Fauré's Requiem in D minor (1887-1890, rev. 1893).  Fauré omits most of the hellfire and brimstone in his lyrics.  He focuses instead on Biblical passages that convey messages of love, eternal rest, and light, set to a score that shares the Romantic notes of late 19th century contemporaries like Debussy, Tchaikovsky, Satie, and Puccini.
One of my favorite movements from Fauré's work is the "Agnus Dei" ("Lamb of God").  I've had the chance to perform it a number of times over the years, so I know the music pretty well.  Nevertheless, its dramatic dynamic and melodic shifts never cease to surprise and inspire me, time after time.  
My absolute favorite part of the song comes around the 2-minute mark, where the tenors are singing the Agnus Dei theme, and the sopranos come out of nowhere, singing a single word on a sustained note: lux (light); it's the compositional equivalent of the exact moment at dawn when the sun peeks over the horizon.  As the note crescendos, the key completely shifts, and all of the other voices join in to bask in lux aeterna (eternal light).  
It may be the single most beautiful, most moving moment in all of classical music, which is saying a lot.

"You Can't Always Get What You Want" (The Rolling Stones)

Sitting at the very end of the album Let It Bleed (1969) is the epic-length "You Can't Always Get What You Want."  It basically was Keith Richards and Mick Jagger's response to The Beatles' "Hey Jude"—purely from the standpoint that the Fabs had successfully crafted a 7-minute hit song with strings and a singalong chorus, and the Glimmer Twins felt compelled to shoot for a similar goal.
"You Can't..." opens with a tongue-in-cheek a cappella choral intro, performed by the 60-voice London Bach Choir (who ultimately requested that their name be removed from the performer credits when they discovered the album contained songs with themes ranging from serial killers to shacking up).  The track then shifts gears, making you think it's going to be an acoustic tune in the vein of Blonde on Blonde-era Bob Dylan—that is, until the drums, organ, and backing vocalists spring to life and reveal the song to be a gospel-inflected R&B number that digs down as low as it soars high.  
Throughout the song (and album, for that matter), the common thread is Jagger's weariness with the 60s—the drug scene, the political scene, the free-love scene, etc.  Even when Jagger is singing about a fairly lighthearted exchange with a friend over a cherry cola, the friend's response to Jagger is the word "dead."
While that might sound like a celebration of bleakness, the feeling is actually one of resolve: you don't always get what you thought you wanted; but, in the end, you get what you need.  Pretty sage wisdom.

 

"Love Rears Its Ugly Head" (Living Colour)

Although Living Colour might have had bigger hits than "Love Rears Its Ugly Head" (from 1990's Time's Up), none were quite as slinky and soulful as this composition by the band's multifaceted guitarist, Vernon Reid.
In the song, the protagonist is examining his relationship and feeling increasingly suffocated.  In the end, he dreams he's about to tie the knot, which leaves him in a state of panic as he wakes up in a cold sweat.
(You might say he has some commitment issues.)
Frontman Corey Glover delivers an impassioned vocal, as usual, while his bandmates lock into a funk groove that sounds like Prince jamming with The Meters in a smoky club after hours.  Which just goes to show that the label of "black metal" that was thrust upon the band completely ignores its jazz, blues, funk, and pop sensibilities.

"Don't You Evah" (Spoon)

"Don't You Evah" from Spoon's 2007 album Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is one of those songs that doesn't seem like anything particularly special the first time you hear it.  Then you catch it again on the radio while vacuuming fast food debris out of your car or over the speakers while waiting in line at the ubiquitous green mermaid for your daily dose of caffeine, and it suddenly hits you how perfect it is in its straightforward, rocking simplicity.  
For the longest time, I didn't realize the song was a cover/reinterpretation of "Don't You Ever" by defunct NY band The Natural History.  Britt Daniel's lyrics are a little different from the original, but the theme is the same: it's a guy talking to a buddy who is bound for the altar, and he's trying to get the friend to reconsider not only marriage but the whole relationship.  
Apart from the lyrics, the biggest difference between the two songs is that Spoon sheds the jam band vibe of the original and takes it squarely into New Wave territory.  Spoon's rhythm section is bouncier and more buoyant with its thuds of bass guitar and perfectly-placed compressed handclaps.  In fact, it's careful touches like the percussion and blips of studio chatter that propel it past the original into greatness.

"Taxman" (The Beatles)

Although "Taxman" from Revolver (1966) wasn't George Harrison's first foray into writing songs, I think it is the song where he started to step out of Lennon and McCartney's shadow.  There's a real sense of confidence and bile in it: Harrison was pissed off about being in an income bracket in the UK where the majority of his earnings were going straight to taxes, and he let fly with this terse, scorching editorial.
You can't completely count out the other Beatles' contributions, though—particularly McCartney.  Macca does double duty on the track, cranking out the hellacious, Stax-indebted bassline (the man sounds like he has four calloused thumbs on the section from 0:55 to 1:06), as well as the raunchy, Eastern-tinged lead guitar solos at 1:12 and 2:25.
For me, it's the best Beatles album opener, next to "Come Together."

"Trash" (New York Dolls)

New York Dolls is one of those bands that pretty much tanked in its day yet influenced a bevy of disciples in the years that followed.
When the band formed in 1971, few outside the Lower East Side of New York really got what the Dolls were all about.  The band's crass, unpolished blend of 50s rock & roll, 60s tough-girl pop, and garish, glittery cross-dressing got it dismissed as a cartoonish, ham-fisted rip off of The Rolling Stones.  In reality, the band was charting its own course and simultaneously setting the cornerstone of everything from glam and punk to 80s hair metal (for better or worse).
The song "Trash" from the band's Todd Rundgren-produced 1973 debut album pretty much summarizes the band in one three-minute burst.  More or less, it's a love song, set in the gutter.  The lyrics—which are barked by one Mister David Johansen (you might know him better as his alter ego, Buster Poindexter)—are purposely vague and full of double entendre: he might be singing an ode to a streetwalker/hustler; he might singing about drugs ("trash" could be synonymous with "junk"); or, he himself might be the hustler, warning his "sweet baby" not to throw her/his love away on him.
Whatever the case, the backing vocal (supposedly provided by Rundgren) that bawls Tra-aaash and coos ooh-ooh-ooh-ooooh's are a dramatic touch that pays homage to groups like The Shangri-Las or The Chiffons, giving the song a kind of tarnished sweetness.
But there's no chance of the song turning too charming with the twin guitars of Johnny Thunders (in your right channel) and Sylvain Sylvain (in your left channel) shredding away.  It's an in-your-face assault that rocks with calculated menace and provides context to what The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, Blondie, The Clash, et al. would be doing by the end of the decade.

"The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get" (Morrissey)

I've never really understood the religious fervor with which some people regard Morrissey.  Yeah, The Smiths were an impressive band.  He's done some solid solo work, too (more on that in a sec).  But seeing footage over the years of emotional fans at his concerts looking like religious pilgrims on their way to Lourdes, clamoring for a chance to touch his hair/hands/feet/eyebrows, always left me thinking...whuck?
And I'm not touching the whole "asexual" thing.  (Apparently, no one else is either.  Ba-dum-tss.)
But I do really enjoy the track "The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get" from Morrissey's 1994 album Vauxhall and I.
Lyrically, he's telling the object of his affection (obsession) that he's going to be there, grinding his way into his/her/its brain, whether he/she/it likes it or not, so resistance is futile.  While I'm sure the lyrics are meant to be very tongue in cheek, his signature crooner-ish delivery kind of makes the words even creepier and David Lynchian than if he had, say, shouted them.
The backing track provides a nice counterpoint to Morrissey's mellowness with the song's co-writer, Boz Boorer, contributing that dramatic (and kind of pissed off-sounding) lead riff.  
Producer Steve Lillywhite, whose production style I generally dislike (Do you go out of your way to make drums sound crappy, Steve?) actually does a good job here of pushing Jonny Bridgwood's bass way up in the mix so that it rumbles on the low end with as much ferocity as Boorer's piercing guitar on the high end.
Who knew stalking could be this catchy?

"You Were on My Mind" (We Five)

For years, I thought "You Were on My Mind" was an Everly Brothers record.  The blend of folk and rock, the chiming guitars, and tight harmonies just seemed to point to Phil & Don.
However, the track is actually by San Francisco folk-rock band We Five, and the lead vocal is sung by Beverly Bivens—a force of nature with a supernatural vocal range that, at the time, stretched from Tenor 2 to Soprano 1.
Although We Five popularized the song in 1965, it's a cover of a song by Canadian folk duo Ian & Sylvia.  The original is very vanilla; it's just a jangly song about a bad breakup and getting drunk to numb the memory.  But We Five's version drops all of the blatant lyrics about boozing, making the subject matter much more vague.  While it's quite possible that the band adjusted the lyrics to make the song more friendly to a mass audience, I suspect they made it purposely hazy to reflect the unease of the era, giving it a sense of intrigue and edginess.  Is it about a breakup?  Is it about an addiction?  Is it about fear of the future, bordering on obsession?  Maybe all three?
Whatever it is, I could listen to We Five's rendition a million times (especially the last 10 seconds, where Bivens and her bandmates lock into that soaring, four-part harmony) and never tire of it.

"Back in the Tall Grass" (Future Islands)

If you've ever seen Baltimore's (formerly Greenville, NC's) Future Islands perform live, you know that frontman Samuel Herring is like watching a young Marlon Brando who's trying to exorcise demons from his body.  He'll pound his chest.  He may smack himself in the face.  He may even go from a whisper to a full-on metal growl within the span of a second and back again.  He's just one helluva entertaining performer with a lot of heart.
The band's past few albums have had some fantastic moments, but the trio seems to be hitting its stride with the 2014 release Singles—an apt title, considering that more than half of the songs could stand on their own as singles.
I'd almost never add a new song to a list of "all-time" favorites, but the Singles track "Back in the Tall Grass" has a timeless quality that recalls the best of Joy Division/New Order with a healthy dose of blue eyed soul.  It's going to be in my playlist for years to come, I know.
As Herring told the audience during a May 1, 2014, NPR live-streaming concert from Washington, DC's 9:30 Club, the lyrics refer to a creek that ran behind his childhood home in Eastern NC.  The nostalgia Herring expresses for these environs is an extended metaphor for missing a loved one.
Everything works in this song: the mix of digital and analog, the shifting dynamics, as well as the memorable hook (One step takes me home / Two steps back on my own...) that sounds like it was lifted from an ancient hymn.
Keep a close eye on this band.  

"The Passenger" (Iggy Pop)

Can a punk song be "jaunty"?
I mean, if there ever were a song that fits into that category, it's "The Passenger" off Iggy Pop's 1977 album Lust for Life.
The music was written by guitarist Ricky Gardiner while strolling through a field with his acoustic guitar on a spring day, which might explain why it feels so upbeat.  As Gardiner told music journalist Dmitry Epstein in 2000, "The apple trees were in bloom, and I was doodling on the guitar as I gazed at the trees.  I was not paying any attention to what I was playing…At a certain point my ear caught the chord sequence…which became 'The Passenger'." 
Inspired by a ride on Berlin's commuter rail, Pop wrote the lyrics, borrowing the song's title and a few lines from an untitled Jim Morrison poem found in a collection called The Lords and The New Creatures (1971):

Modern life is a journey by car. The Passengers
change terribly in their reeking seats, or roam
from car to car, subject to unceasing transformation.
Inevitable progress is made toward the beginning
(there is no difference in terminals), as we
slice through cities, whose ripped backsides present
a moving picture of windows, signs, streets,
buildings. Sometimes other vessels, closed
worlds, vacuums, travel along beside to move
ahead or fall utterly behind.

There also are allusions to Pop's collaborative partnership with David Bowie, who provides the la-la harmony vocals on the track.  If you read the credits of Lust for Life as well as The Idiot (also from 1977), the musical direction, production, and a bulk of the songwriting are all Bowie.  In a way, Pop was a guest on his own records—a "passenger" along for the ride, if you will.  Nevertheless, the fact that Pop was enjoying a modicum of success with Bowie at the helm made the ex-Stooge a willing participant.
In all, Gardiner's riff is something that sticks with you for days and then pops into your head months later while tooling down the freeway.  There's a feeling of freedom and hopefulness ingrained in the music and lyrics.  Even when Pop is singing about seeing crumbling cities from his window, there's a feeling of rebirth in the decay.  And that, to me, is what makes this song—and a lot of Pop's songs from this period—a perennial favorite.

"Randy Scouse Git [Alternate Title]" (The Monkees)

The track "Randy Scouse Git (Alternate Title)" from the album Headquarters (1967) is kind of significant for a number of reasons.
First of all, this song represents one of the first instances of all four Monkees being allowed to play their own instruments on a recording.  (Specifically: Micky Dolenz sings lead and plays drums/tympani, Davy Jones performs backing vocals, Mike Nesmith plays guitar, and Peter Tork plays piano/organ.  Their producer, Chip Douglas, plays bass.) 
Prior to Headquarters, the group's record label had forced them to record exclusively with session musicians.  Label execs had purposely left the group out of the creative and songwriting processes, ostensibly to allow them to focus on acting in their NBC sitcom. The label's stance was that The Monkees were just actors being paid to play musicians; however, The Monkees felt they were artists, first and foremost, and had a responsibility to fans and themselves to not just mime their songs.  Ultimately, The Monkees won the battle.
Secondly, the song is one of the few instances of a Monkees hit single that actually was written by a Monkee: in this case, Dolenz.
Lyrically, it's about The Beatles (the four kings of EMI) throwing a "welcome to England" party for The Monkees in early 1967.  On each verse, Dolenz recounts the festive atmosphere in a stream of consciousness sort of way.  But then, the chorus purposely breaks from the narrative and provides a burst of confrontational chaos in the midst of the merriment.  It's a blunt jab at the killjoy establishment, touching on hot-button topics of the time from the Vietnam War to longer hair.
The odd title of the song is unrelated to either topic, though.  While The Monkees were touring England, Dolenz happened to see a TV program called Till Death Do Us Part—a Britcom that centered around a grouchy, bluntly racist, blue collar patriarch who often butted heads with members of his family—particularly his progressive, strong-willed son-in-law.  (The show eventually was adapted for US TV by Norman Lear as All in the Family.)  One of the patriarch's common retorts to the son-in-law was the phrase, "Randy Scouse git!"
Dolenz thought it was a funny line and felt it might make for a catchy title for his new song.  He didn't realize, however, that it was slang for "horny Liverpudlian bastard"—"git" being a shortened version of the word "illegitimate."  When the band's label notified Dolenz that it was potentially offensive to Brits, it was irreverently retitled "Alternate Title" for the UK market.
Most of all, though, it's just a great, innovative pop song.  At the time, few mainstream artists (apart from The Beatles and Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys) were writing songs with shifting dynamics or stop-start structures.  But here, Dolenz throws convention out the window, opening the song with a tympani solo that suddenly gives way to mock 1920s dancehall music before erupting into a cacophony of pounding drums and shouted vocals.  The moment it all seems ready to careen out of control, everything halts and retreats to the lighthearted flapper motif, starting the cycle all over again.
(And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Dolenz's damn fine scat singing on the third verse.)
All this from a guy and a band who supposedly weren't real musicians.

"Jump Into the Fire" (Harry Nilsson)

Quirky is probably the best way to describe the late Harry Nilsson.  How else could you characterize someone who had both a heartfelt ABC-TV children's special and a raunchy rock song containing the line "I sang my balls off for you, baby" to his credit?
If the name Harry Nilsson doesn't mean much to you, let me fill you in; he's actually a pretty interesting character with a rollercoaster of a life.
When he was barely three years old, his father abandoned his family, leaving Harry, his half-sister, and his mom to fend for themselves in the hard knocks Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn.  (They occasionally ate dog food when times were exceptionally tough.)  In time, the fractured family wound up in Southern California, where Nilsson eventually dropped out of high school in 9th grade but landed a job as a banker in LA by fibbing about his education.  While working at the bank by night, he was working to break into the music industry by day—recording scratch vocals for demos, rubbing elbows with various producers/arrangers, and plugging his own songs to whomever would listen.  Eventually, he landed a recording contract with RCA Records, and his first album, Pandemonium Shadow Show (1967), ended up grabbing the attention of the Beatles' publicist Derek Taylor and, ultimately, Paul McCartney and John Lennon, who became major proponents of his work. 
By the time the early 70s rolled around, Nilsson was hanging out and making music with Lennon and Ringo Starr—that is, when they weren't enabling each other's addictions and partying like...well, rockstars.  For a number of years, the trio became almost more well known for their carousing than their music.  (Case in point: there was an infamous incident where Nilsson and Lennon got stinking drunk and ended up getting thrown out of an LA comedy club after mercilessly heckling the Smothers Brothers.)  
Somehow in the midst of all the partying, Nilsson created a bizarre pop gem called Nilsson Schmilsson (1971) with producer Richard Perry at the helm.  There's everything from strange Calypso (the notorious "Coconut") and power ballads (the schmaltzy, albeit impeccably sung, "Without You") to screaming proto-punk, which brings us to the song at hand: "Jump Into the Fire."
Much like the material on his buddy's 1970 album, John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band, "Jump Into the Fire" rocks a spare groove (with zero chord changes) and minimal instrumentation: couple of guitars, thunderous drums, pounding barrelhouse piano, and funky electric bass. And, ohh!  That bass...
Session musician Herbie Flowers takes a three-note line that could have been mundane and utterly forgettable and turns it into something debauched and decadent by sliding into the tonic at the start of each measure.  It's so perfect and indelible that it easily becomes the hook of the song.
If that weren't enough, he takes it a step further by detuning during the frenetic, tom-tom heavy drum solo (performed by Jim Gordon of Derek and The Dominos fame).  Supposedly, Flowers was just screwing around, figuring that Perry would just cut the jam short and edit out the farcical descending notes when all was said and done.  Instead, his goofing became the song's second signature.

"Bodhisattva" (Steely Dan)

The opening track from Steely Dan's second album Countdown to Ecstasy (1973) is, in typical Steely Dan fashion, a snarky commentary on pop culture trends of the time.  For one, it's a jab at supposed gurus and self-appointed spiritual leaders.  But it's also poking fun at fadsters who were jumping on the bandwagon of Eastern religious philosophies while wanting a fast track to enlightenment by way of superficial gestures (I'm gonna sell my house in town).
At its heart, it's a blues song, stretched out from a typical 12 to 13 bars.  But its what the band does with those 13 bars that sets it apart from just any ol' electric blooze.
I'll start with Donald Fagen's keyboards.  They're deceptively simple.  At first blush, he just seems to be playing the same two-chord, boogie-woogie pattern, over and over.  But as you listen, you realize he's playing some pretty complex cluster chords that are akin to something Billy Strayhorn would have written for Duke Ellington.
But most notable is the guitar solo by Denny Dias.  It's not specifically a jazz solo, but it's also not squarely in the realm of rock either.  It's like Django Reinhardt reinterpreting Danny Cedrone's solo from Bill Haley's "Rock Around the Clock."
Even though it isn't Steely Dan's best known song, it's one of the band's best moments.

"Song for the Dumped" (Ben Folds Five)

"Song for the Dumped" may be the ultimate break-up song, complete with a contested black t-shirt.
In a nutshell, it's about Ben Folds Five's drummer, Darren Jessee, getting dumped by his girlfriend during the recording of Whatever and Ever Amen (1997).  Just as the song says, she broke up with Jessee on her front porch, just after he'd treated them to dinner.  
(Classy.)
And while you might figure that a slacker-nerd trio with a piano as its most prominent instrument wouldn't be able to rock out, Folds, Jessee, and bassist Robert Sledge prove otherwise.  They pummel their way through the track like a pissed off Jerry Lee Lewis fronting the Sex Pistols.

"The New Pollution" (Beck)

I won't say the lyrics to "The New Pollution" mean nothing, but they're pretty nonsensical.  (Ex: She's got a carburetor tied to the moon.)  
According to Beck, he was just tossing out random word pictures in an attempt to "evoke the 60s glamour of femme fatales" to match the hippy-shake vibe of the song.  As he told Gavin Edwards of Rolling Stone in 2008, "A lot of these tracks, we made the music really quick, and there would be an atmosphere to it, and then lyrically, I would try to convey the pictures that it gave me."
Speaking of the music, the backing track is just another great example of The Dust Brothers' prowess in unearthing/weaving together random samples to create something bigger than the sum of its parts.  
So, what's in the mix?  

• The drum sample comes from the track "Hallelujah, Alright, Amen!" from an obscure soul-jazz record called Soul Revolution (1970) by organist Gus Poole.  
• The sax line comes from the baby makin'/smooth jazz song "Venus" from the 1976 album Feelin's from Within by saxophonist Joe Thomas.
• And that über square, Wonder Bread 'n' mayo intro comes from a still-unidentified recording that Dust Brother Mike Simpson stumbled upon at a used record shop in Florida.  Says Simpson on MusicRadar.com, "This family of religious singers had pressed their own record, and one of the songs started with that sound...It had nothing to do with the musical notes of 'The New Pollution,' but it just seemed like a crazy way to start a song."

"Are 'Friends' Electric?" (Gary Numan & Tubeway Army)

When Gary Numan and his band Tubeway Army first got together, they were a guitar-driven band.  In fact, they even scored a recording contract on the basis of being "punk-crossover."  But then, quite serendipitously, Numan stumbled upon a mini-Moog synthesizer that another artist had left in the recording studio where they were cutting their first album.  As he told The Guardian in February 2014, the synth made him reevaluate the band's entire approach.
"When I turned (the mini-Moog) on, the sound blew me away.  In that moment, I knew exactly what I wanted to do."
The band's record label, however, wasn't thrilled.  It was quite reluctant to back Numan's new musical direction.  That is, until "Are 'Friends' Electric?" from their second album, Replicas (1979), hit #1 on the UK music charts within a month of release.
Although, compared to Numan's hit song "Cars," "Are 'Friends' Electric?"  is practically unknown here in the US.  I first heard it on alt rock radio late at night in Fall 2001 while living in Washington, DC, and was hooked immediately.  Somehow, its Orwellian vision of a android-dominated future didn't seem so far-fetched in light of events at the time.  In fact, it still seems eerily (Siri-ly?) feasible.
Specifically, the song centers around a lonely, isolated man who hires an android sex worker, or "friend" (hence the quotes in the song title), for the evening.  Long story short, the guy is seeking affection and a true connection, but, when the evening is done, he realizes the android is incapable of feeling any kind of real emotion, leaving him feeling even more empty.
What I love about this song (and "Cars," too, for that matter) is the DIY feel and mix of analog and digital: real, live drums and real, live bass, juxtaposed with buzzing, almost frigid, synthesizers.  Plus, there are bright bursts of distorted guitar on each bridge, which keep the song rooted in the realm of punk.  (I kind of imagine this is what The Velvet Underground would have sounded like had they formed in 1976 instead of 1964.) 

"Chameleon" (Herbie Hancock)

Until his Head Hunters album in 1973, Herbie Hancock mostly had been known for his bop and modal jazz work with his own bands and with Miles Davis.  He'd flirted with electronic instruments and funkier sounds on several experimental albums in the late 60s/early 70s.  But on Head Hunters, he went headlong into electric funk, inspired by the copious amounts of James Brown and Sly & The Family Stone that he was listening to in those days and transcendental meditation.  
Hancock recalls his decision to move toward funk in Chris Smith's 101 Albums That Changed Music (2009). "I was beginning to feel that we (the sextet) were playing this heavy kind of music, and I was tired of everything being heavy. I wanted to play something lighter."
As reedist Bennie Maupin recounts to author George Cole in The Last Miles (2007), the track "Chameleon" developed out of jam sessions that led up to the recording of the album:

"My participation was the little horn melody.  I had gone to a Wattstax concert…During the course of the afternoon, people would get up and dance. There was this dance that became popular called the "Funky Robot," and I was watching the kids doing it. I was studying the body movement and looking at the rhythm, and some patterns start coming into my head. So when we got back to the studio, somehow that stuff started coming out. We had the tape on and during a break.  We listened back, and it was pretty much by consensus that we should take a closer look at this one theme!” 

The name "Chameleon" ostensibly comes from the fact that the song, like a chameleon, changes in color and texture as it goes along, starting off as hard funk, transitioning into a hustling, bop-influenced jazz jam, and then transitioning back to the hard funk theme before fading out.
Probably the most famous part of the song is Hancock's keyboard bassline, played on an ARP synthesizer—the kind that Stevie Wonder was using on hits like "Superstition" about the same time.  But the equal contributions of drummer Harvey Mason, bassist Paul Jackson, and Maupin make the track the fluid, booty-shakin' jam that it is (which is why Hancock credited the song to the entire band).

"Groove Is in the Heart" (Deee-Lite)

The first time I saw the video for "Groove Is in the Heart," my brain melted like a G.I. Joe in a microwave.  Not that I ever melted a G.I. Joe in a microwave or anything...
There was Kierin Kirby (a.k.a. Lady Miss Kier), dressed up in day-glo, psychedelic relics and speaking faux-French/belting out crazy lyrics about succotash wishes and Horton Hears a Who (with a surprising amount of soul for a pale white girl) over that funky Herbie Hancock sample.
There also was Bootsy Collins playing bass and just...being Bootsy, along with Maceo Parker and Fred Wesley from The JB's on sax and trombone, seen and unseen, respectively.  
And last but not least, there was Q-Tip from A Tribe Called Quest, whose floating head delivered a trippy verse over a freaky drum break, courtesy of Billy Preston.
After the smoke ceased pouring from my ears, I spilled a little of my BoKu Juice Box on the ground to pay my last respects to the 1980s, which were officially dead, and went out and bought the cassette single that afternoon with money I'd earned mowing our lawn.
While other things from 1990 haven't aged so well (like that dusty crate of cassette singles under my bed), this funkified little dance tune out of left field somehow remains fresh.

"Doing It To Death, Pt. 1" (The JB's)

From 1971 to 1976, James Brown had his own label, People Records, which he used as a venue to record members of his roadshow, the James Brown Revue.  The People roster included artists like Lyn Collins, Bobby Byrd, Marva Whitney, as well as The JB's—the Fred Wesley-led backing band for Brown himself and all of his acts.
Thing is, it's often hard to distinguish a "James Brown" record from a record credited to these other artists during that period.  Most of the time, Brown can be heard shouting directions to the band, yelling his signature uhn!, or even singing on songs that bear other artists' names.  
Such is the case on the 1973 single "Doing It To Death" by The JB's.  It's Brown's voice you mainly hear throughout, singing the refrain (Gonna have a funky good time) and giving the band its cues, including telling them to modulate from the key of F down to the key of D in the middle of the song.  (I've always assumed it's because Brown was having to strain a bit to hit the top note on We gotta take you hiiiiiigher.  Listen to his rasp on the second refrain.)  But, really, who else but Brown could get away with yelling out a key change in the middle of a song and not only make it work, but also turn it into a #1 hit?
Unlike some of his other songs from the early 70s, there is no political statement or deeper sentiment here.  This one's all about laying down a funky, sweaty groove.
Oh, and if you thought a trombone couldn't get funky, take a listen to Fred Wesley's fluid, minute-long solo in the middle of the song.  

"Killing Floor" (Howlin' Wolf)

Based on the Depression-era song "Hard Time Killing Floor Blues" by Skip James (1931), "Killing Floor" (1964) is a track written/performed by Howlin' Wolf (a.k.a Chester Burnett) about being in a relationship where your mate has you so whipped and so down that you feel like you could die.  To convey just how beat he is, Wolf uses the metaphor of a "killing floor," i.e. the putrid slaughterhouse in a stockyard--a scene that probably would have been all too familiar to working class Chicagoans in the vicinity of 2120 South Michigan Ave.
(All of us have probably been in a similar situation at some point in our lives.  It's just a matter of whether or not we had the good sense to get the hell out!)
The brief but substantial song is driven by Wolf's signature growl and Hubert Sumlin's stinging electric lead guitar, which shreds through the song's signature riff.  
Led Zeppelin fans probably will recognize that riff as the basis of Led Zeppelin II's (1969) "The Lemon Song."  In fact, Burnett's music publisher, Arc Music, sued the band in 1972 for a co-writing credit on the song, ultimately settling out of court to the tune of $45K.