"Moonlight Mile" (The Rolling Stones)

Sitting at the end of the second side of The Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers (1971) is "Moonlight Mile."  It basically began as a throwaway riff, tentatively titled "Japanese Thing," that Keith Richards had recorded to tape and promptly forgot about.  That is, until Mick Taylor resurrected it with Mick Jagger's help, the two of them reworking it into a full-fledged song during an all-night recording session.
(Yet somehow the song was only credited to "Jagger/Richards."  Crappy move on their part.)
Compared to the other songs on Sticky Fingers, which mostly romp and rave through topics ranging from interracial nookie to rock and roll excess, "Moonlight Mile" is decidedly sweeter and more poetic.  That's not to say it doesn't have its thinly veiled drug references.  (Who is Jagger kidding with the line "a head full of snow"?)  But in the context, they're less celebratory or cautionary (see "Sister Morphine") and more road-weary.
It's one of those rare Stones songs where Jagger isn't strutting like a rooster in a henhouse.  Instead, it's as if he's reciting a private letter to a loved one, revealing that the on-stage persona and bravado are all part of the show.  Deep down, he's grown weary of the constant touring and its accoutrements.  In fact, it's almost a confession that he wanted out, which actually is consistent with what he was telling the media in 1971-2: he'd grown bored with rock and roll.
Consider the lyric:
Made a rag pile of my shiny clothes
Gonna warm my bones
Gonna warm my bones
I got silence on my radio
Let the air waves flow
Let the air waves flow
It's one of the band's few ballads that looks forward to a place of solitude and comfort rather than reflecting upon loss.

Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 27: No. 2, aka "Moonlight Sonata" (Ludwig van Beethoven)

I wouldn't consider myself a classical music aficionado by any means.  I'd probably fail miserably playing "name that tune" if you played me 10 different songs by different classical composers, back to back.  To be brutally honest, I think a lot of classical music is overblown, vanilla background music that's only suitable for doctors' offices or snobby shopping centers.
Nevertheless, I like what I like: compositions tinged with passion (either romantic or spiritual), interesting interplay among instruments and/or parts, and a strong rhythmic feel.
That's probably why I like Beethoven.
My favorite song of Ludwig's is what is commonly known as "Moonlight Sonata."  Beethoven himself never referred to it as such.  It was "Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 27: No. 2, Movement 1" to him.  It only was after Beethoven's death that German music critic and poet Ludwig Rellstab likened the composition to watching the moon shining down on Switzerland's Lake Lucerne.  Hence "Moonlight Sonata."
In actuality, it's more of an aching expression of love from Beethoven to his piano student, Austrian countess Julie Guicciardi, than an ode to the moon.  
According to the site Classic FM, sometime around 1797, Beethoven became quite ill with typhus--a bacterial infection spread by lice, fleas, and other vermin.  (Ahhh, the 18th Century...)  It's believed that this illness is what caused Beethoven to gradually lose his hearing.
Even before the illness and hearing loss, the poor guy had a tough time of it.  He finally got to meet Mozart in 1787 and was poised become his student, but he suddenly had to return home to Bonn, Germany, because his mother was dying of tuberculosis (or "consumption" in 1700s parlance).  Then Mozart died before Beethoven could return to see him.  Furthermore, Beethoven's father was a raging alcoholic, who spiraled out of control after the death of his wife, leaving Ludwig to look after his younger brothers.
So when he met Guicciardi in 1801 and fell for her, it provided a respite from the preceding years of strife.  
But in true romantic fashion, the story wasn't over there.
He eventually realized that nothing could come of the relationship because she was of a higher social strata, and she went on to marry someone else. 
So "Moonlight Sonata" is the sound of a tortured soul, deeply in love, realizing that it just can't be.  It's delicate yet profoundly powerful, and deceptively more complex and inventive than its arpeggios and rumbling left hand chords might betray.
Just absorb those chord changes through your headphones and have your Kleenex at the ready.

"Little Wing" (Jimi Hendrix)

Of all Jimi Hendrix's compositions, "Little Wing" from Axis: Bold as Love (1967) always affected me most.  This is going to sound cheesy, but there's something inherently Native American about the song that speaks to my own Cherokee heritage.  In my mind, Little Wing is the benevolent, pure spirit of an Indian princess who splits her time between the physical world and the afterlife--a guardian angel of sorts. 
Or at least that's what I like to think.
All of the elements come together on this track perfectly.  For one, it's a perfect example of Hendrix's uncanny ability to play both rhythm and lead guitar at the same time.  Just listen to the verses: he's hitting the downbeat and then improvising around the melody, all without overdubs.  (Nevertheless, the overdubs on the chorus are gorgeous as they warble and ripple through the rotating Leslie speaker.)
It's also one of Hendrix's most soulful and nuanced vocals.  It's like he's channeling Ron Isley--which actually might not be far fetched, considering Hendrix toured with the Isley Brothers early in his career.
Also, I never really cared for Mitch Mitchell's drumming on almost every other Jimi Hendrix Experience song.  It always was too damn busy--too many fills, not enough groove.  Although, I like what he does here.  He keeps things subtle and uses his fills sparingly.  Also his work on the glockenspiel is solid.
Last but not least, Noel Redding does his thing on bass.  It's nothing groundbreaking, but it's not distracting either.  Just like his contributions to every other JHE song.
Anyway, whatever or whomever Little Wing represents, it is such a positive, expressive (albeit brief) song.

"One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer" (John Lee Hooker)

One of the most memorable recordings to come out of 2120 South Michigan Avenue in the mid-1960s was John Lee Hooker's "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer."

If you were alive in the late 70s/early 80s, you no doubt heard George Thorogood's stomping roadhouse boogie rendition of the song from 1977 on rock radio.   There's also the original version by Amos Milburn from 1953, which has a slightly different title ("One Scotch, One Bourbon, One Beer") and a very poppy feel.  (It also sounds like the musicians had one take to stumble their way through the chord changes.)

Hooker's version strips Milburn's original down to the floorboards with his stinging guitar licks over a grooving South Chicago blues shuffle beat and walking bassline.  Hooker also changes the lyrics from the original a bit: like Milburn, he's drinking because his lady left him.  But unlike Milburn who vows to go find his woman, Hooker accepts that she's long gone and is just looking to drink her off his mind!  He also marks his time at the bar by letting the listener know what the clock on the wall reads each time he orders another round.

The bite of Hooker's version reads like a crib sheet for The Rolling Stones in their golden period (see: Exile on Main St.), not to mention gritty blues-rock outfits like The Faces.  It's just a great performance from one of the best blues men ever.

"Tomorrow Never Knows" (The Beatles)

I remember watching the Beatles Anthology on TV back in 1995 and hanging on every word that George Martin and the surviving Beatles said regarding the creation of "Tomorrow Never Knows" from the 1966 album Revolver.  
(Of any song from the psychedelic era, it really holds up to repeated plays, even now.  I'll even go so far as to say that its innovative use of loops and rhythm were a direct precursor to hip-hop and trip-hop.)
According to George Harrison in the interview, John Lennon had read a copy of Dr. Timothy Leary's book The Psychedelic Experience, which is basically a how-to guide for tripping, based on the Tibetan Book of the Dead.  Apparently the notions of "turning off one's mind and floating downstream" came from the book and made their way into Lennon's lyrics.  
Lennon also envisioned the music having a transcendental vibe, with the entire song remaining on a single chord, much like an Indian raga, and his voice being treated in such a way to make it seem as if he were singing from a mountaintop.
On each take of the song, the boys lock in on a C chord.  Likewise, Lennon's vocals are sent swirling through a Leslie speaker to give them that far off effect.
But everything else about Take 1 and the final take that appears on Revolver are vastly different.  The original take is like a funeral dirge with this murky, underwater feel and Ringo Starr drumming in this march pattern, not the hypnotic groove everyone is familiar with.
As for the ambient noises on the final track, Paul McCartney explained that these were tape loops that he'd chopped up/spliced at home and brought to the studio in a plastic bag.  (For instance, the famous "seagull loop" heard on the song is actually a recording of McCartney laughing, sped up.)  Being that these were actual loops of recorded tape, they had to be spooled onto machines throughout the studio for playback, with people holding pencils, jars, their fingers, etc. in place so that the loops would spool properly and play at the desired speed.  Then the loops were fed into the mixing board, and everything was mixed live--meaning each sound on the final recording is the result of The Beatles pushing the faders spontaneously.
As a music geek, it just gives me chills thinking about the unbridled sense of creativity and collaboration in the studio that gave rise to this track.  

"The National Anthem" (Radiohead)

I have to be in the right mood to listen to Radiohead's Kid A (2000).  It's not an album I just put on for background music.  It demands a certain level of attention.  There's a lot going on, even though many of the tracks are stripped bare to very basic elements--spare acoustic guitar here, computerized blips and bloops there.  There are elements of Eno, but nothing that feels blatantly derivative.  There also are elements of free jazz, particularly in "The National Anthem."
The song begins with Philip Selway's drums and Thom Yorke's bassline, laying down an angular funk groove.  For about two minutes, it lulls you into thinking that maybe the electronica of the first two tracks on Kid A were a fluke and they're returning to alt rock form, à la OK Computer.
Then the horns come in.
There's this controlled chaos, with everyone going in his own direction, trying to be heard over everyone else.  You hear tension build as each soloist gets louder and louder.  Sonically, tempers flare.  Things calm down momentarily, and order breaks through.  Then all hell breaks loose, and it ends in a shouting match.
I think there's the obvious interpretation of the song, which is the chaos of trying to maintain a civilized society.  (Rather prophetic, considering the world events that transpired  in the years after Kid A's release.)
But I also think it's a sonic reenactment of Yorke's personal struggles and his long recovery  from a mental breakdown after OK Computer.  Amidst all of the noise and chaos going on around him, he tried to keep "holding on" to rediscover the reason why he became a musician in the first place.

  

"Stay (Faraway, So Close)" (U2)

I've never been a huge fan of U2.  That's not to say I don't like a lot of their music or think they're talented tunesmiths.  It's just that I don't belong to the Saint Bono of Hewson fan club like some people do.  I think that the boys veer into territory that feels a little too self important, too bombastic at times to swallow the communion wafer whole.
Other times, though, they come up with something that is just so unique or so beautiful that it can't be denied.
"Stay (Faraway, So Close)" from the underrated Zooropa (1993) is one of those compositions.  It feels like it wasn't written for shouting throngs, packed into a stadium built for World Cup finals.  Instead, it feels like something improvised in a smoky club late at night with only three, down-on-their-luck barflies listening.
The Edge (see what I mean about bombast?) plays a riff that doesn't so much rely on heavy amounts of reverb and effects.  It's a very clean 1960s sound.  In fact, it is almost reminiscent of something George Harrison or John Lennon might have played on Rubber Soul; it has an "In My Life" kind of folk-rock feel.  
Bono's vocal delivery also is much more nuanced than usual.  For once, he's not crying like a man in the wilderness the entire track.  He only lets loose on the chorus, which makes the sense of longing in the verses that much more poignant.  Dare I say, it's almost more of a Frank Sinatra or Mel Torme kind of delivery.  Just listen to the line where he sings Miami...Newwww Orleeeeans... and tell me that there's not a jazz influence there.  (Apparently, when they began writing the song during the Achtung Baby sessions, they had used the working title "Sinatra," because they had set out to create a track that had the feel and chord progression of classic Frank Sinatra songs!)