A list (in no particular order) of my 500 favorite songs (singles, deep cuts, hits, and more) of all time. Includes a wide array of selections from rock, punk, funk, R&B, soul, classical, jazz, folk, and world music.
I was not a huge Wilco fan when the band first came on the scene. Back in high school, a friend had played me a tape of Uncle Tupelo, frontman Jeff Tweedy’s old band with Jay Farrar, and I liked it well enough; it had a definite “punks playing country” feel to it. But I felt like Wilco’s debut A.M. (1995) was a bit faceless. There were hints of Exile on Main St. and Flying Burrito Brothers, and the songs were decent. But Wilco sounded like the type of band you'd hear at a dive bar, half-drunk on PBR. Really, nothing about the album signaled that Tweedy was some kind of alt-country Thom Yorke. Then in college, I was talking music with this kid from my psych class. (Actually, we were waiting to participate in a mandatory study about anxiety and social behavior. It was some deal where the researchers came in every few minutes and told us, “We’re delayed; it may be 5 more minutes before we begin,” and then after 30 minutes, they finally clued us in that it was all part of the study. The fact that the two of us struck up a conversation while we were "delayed" proved their hypothesis, I guess.) Anyway, he ended up lending me the second disc of Being There (1996). Actually, he kind of forced it on me like the overzealous Hare Krishnas on Franklin Street who would shove flowers in your hand as you walked to class, whether you wanted withered a daisy or not. (“Visualize world peace, MOFO!”) I reluctantly took it and gave him the copy of The Best of Booker T. & The M.G.’s that was in my Discman (yeah, it was the 90s), just to show him that I wouldn’t flake and hock it at one of the gajillion used CD shops that were in downtown Chapel Hill in those days. Sitting in a study carrel in the library later that evening, I decided to give the CD a spin, because I knew I’d run into him in lecture the next day. When the first few chords of “Sunken Treasure” washed through my headphones, my very first thought was, “This is Wilco?” It was quirky and gorgeous, and Tweedy sounded like George Harrison on quaaludes—but in a good way. And just about the time I was getting cozy in the jangly etherealness, suddenly there was this burst of noise-rock guitar that absolutely exploded the melody wide open and left me struggling to find its shards among the wreckage. The moment everything felt like it was going to dissolve into nothingness, the storm retreated as fast as it had erupted, and the song was back, floating on serene waters. I had chills. By the time Tweedy sang the closing lines (I was maimed by rock and roll / I was tamed by rock and roll / I got my name from rock and roll), my opinion of what this band was/is had totally changed. This wasn’t some one-note outfit, destined to play shoebox-sized venues; this was a band that had an opportunity to push the boundaries of alt-country and drag rock out of the dustbin. I’ve been a fan ever since.
The first time I heard The Soft Bulletin (1999), it felt strangely familiar. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The album's lush, dramatic psychedelia didn't really sound like anythingelse going on in rock at the time. But by the second spin, I was humming along to the songs with a feeling of childlike wonder; it was as if I'd known the record my entire life. Eventually, it hit me: every song feels like it could have been written by Paul Williams for the Muppets. (And I mean that in the most loving, sincere way.) Strip away the synths, drum machines, and atmospherics from any of the songs on The Soft Bulletin, and what you have are rich, memorable compositions about life and loss that feel like companions to "Rainbow Connection." I actually can't listen to the album anymore without picturing Kermit the Frog strumming his banjo in the middle of a swamp. "What Is the Light?" also has that joyous yet bittersweet feel. (If we're still talking Muppets, it's a little more Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem than Kermit, though.) The track begins in an almost embryonic state with a heartbeat-like thump and then builds to a crescendo of anthemic proportions, complete with a fanfare of synth brass and distorted church organ. It's nearly impossible not to sing along with Wayne Coyne as he intones Looking into space, it surrounds you / Love is the place that you're drawn to. It is one of the best hooks that the Lips have ever written.
David Bowie had gotten his fill of fame and its vices. So he left the glitz and drugs behind and relocated to Berlin in 1976, drawn by the city's Cold War-era austerity. In time, he was joined by longtime collaborator/producer Tony Visconti and musician Brian Eno and, together, they created a trilogy of challenging, groundbreaking albums (Low, 'Heroes', and Lodger) that still sound unbelievably fresh today. All three records, incidentally, were recorded at Hansa Studios, which sat within view of the Berlin Wall, or the "Wall of Shame" as it had been dubbed by the West. One afternoon while staring out the window of the studio's control room, Bowie happened to catch Visconti passionately kissing a young woman (who wasn't Visconti's wife) beneath a guard turret on the Wall. On the one hand, Bowie saw their act as heroic: they weren't allowing the very real danger of being shot by guards deter them from freely expressing their very real affection for one another. On the other hand, he surmised that they were meeting in such a dangerous place because they felt guilty about the affair, and they were psychologically justifying their rendezvous as an act of "heroism." The incident inspired Bowie to pen "'Heroes'", an intensely emotional, complicated portrait of ill-fated love winning a victory over oppression for a fleeting moment (hence the ironic quotation marks in the song's title). Although every note of this song is electrifying, my favorite moment comes in the second verse, as Bowie nearly cries the words And the shame was on the other side. It's such a smart bit of wordplay, referring not only to the lovers' literal location in the shadow of the "Wall of Shame" but also the feelings of self-reproach that they're attempting to put aside. In short, this is the song that made me a Bowie fan for life.
The 90s Grunge/alt-rock music scene (and it was a scene) never did much for me. As time went on, the whole disaffected, angsty vibe that erupted at the beginning of the decade began to ring hollow, especially after Cobain (the only figure in 90s rock I ever really gave a crap about) decided to check out early. I mean, it's kind of hard to take the zeitgeist seriously when the bands creating its soundtrack are jetting around the world, playing sports arenas packed with rich suburbanites in their Ab & Fitch flannel who'd paid $50 a ticket to be part of something. From what I could tell, the only thing that united the "movement" was this sad need to somehow legitimize the 90s as being as pivotal or important as the 60s and 70s. And as much as Gen X embraced Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (1995) by Smashing Pumpkins as its own alt-rock "White Album" or Physical Graffiti, I hated the meandering, bloated thing. If Billy Corgan wasn't screaming over overdriven guitar licks like Katherine Hepburn enduring a barium enema one moment, he was mewling over sentimental acoustic drivel the next. Every time someone decided to play the album at a party in high school, I would just grit my teeth and pray that the CD would start skipping. That said, I loved the track "1979." The gorgeously understated guitar chords and ambient vocal accents perfectly underscore his poignant sketch of fading innocence and the restless, blissful aimlessness of adolescence. For me, it was the only moment of honesty in the album's 120 minutes of sludge and self-indulgence—true emotion instead of screeching malaise and/or sentimentality wrapped up in pink cellophane. When "1979" was released as a single my senior year of high school, it truly hit home. I wasn't ready to be tossed out into the world as an adult. I'd spent too much of my youth having to be a pseudo-adult, dealing with my father's illness (which we weren't allowed to discuss with anyone for fear he might lose his job), my parents' disintegrating marriage, and various near-crippling expectations put on me by well-meaning teachers, advisers, and mentors. Staring down the future, I really just wanted to freeze time and be an irresponsible kid for a second. And damned if Corgan didn't perfectly capture that in 4:30. Interestingly enough, "1979" almost didn't make it on the album. It was one of the last songs that Corgan had written during the sessions for Mellon Collie, and it was only in skeletal form when it came time to pick the album's running order. The band's producer, Mark "Flood" Ellis, rejected the song from the lineup because he felt it was weak. But Corgan wasn't ready to let it go that easily. So he went away and worked on it for 24 hours, shaping the melody and lyrics, and then resubmitted it for consideration the next day. The moment Flood heard it, he decided the record would be incomplete without it.
When Depeche Mode's Martin Gore wrote "Enjoy the Silence" (1990), he envisioned something acoustic and spare: a lone voice and a harmonium, delivering an intimate lovers' prayer from the sanctuary of some ancient church. That version of the song actually exists, in fact. It wasn't until the band's producer, Flood, and keyboardist Alan Wilder suggested that the melody could use a beat, a bassline, and some guitar that the familiar version of the track from Violator began to take shape. Although Gore was reluctant at first to have them screw with his original concept, by the time he'd added that indelible guitar riff, he realized that they might have an actual hit song on their hands. I recall "Enjoy the Silence" being like a breath of fresh air in 1990. In the midst of having Hammertime and the last gasp of glam metal shoved at us by MTV (Warrant and Winger, anyone?), suddenly there was this mature ballad out of left field with a soulful vocal by Dave Gahan. It was Gothic yet somehow bright, and it had this danceable feel—the kind of deep groove that Downtown Julie Brown should have been wubba wubba wubba-ing all over on Club MTV. On top of that, its artsy video of a king wandering the world, just looking for a place to sit and "enjoy the silence," was a complete departure from parachute pants and teased up hair. The fact that it became a Top 10 hit and the band's biggest-ever single in the U.S. kind of proves that everyone was ready for something different.
