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.
The Fugees were the sound of my senior year of high school. School trips, parties, hanging out, driving around—The Score always was playing in the background. Wyclef Jean, Pras Michel, and Lauryn Hill were at the height of their powers back in 1996. Their unique blend of hip-hop and soul with a touch of the Caribbean had the raw excitement of the early 80s Boogie Down Bronx (think: Funky 4 + 1) but also an immediacy and global-minded relevancy that seemed to point the way for hip-hop into the 21st Century. "Ready or Not" was the first Fugees song I ever heard. I was riding in a friend's car, heading somewhere after school. That creepy Enya sample ("Boadicea") and Hill's blue velvet voice singing the refrain from The Delfonics' "Ready or Not Here I Come" floated through the speakers, and I immediately was hooked. I still love the track because it has swagger without clichéd hip-hop posturing. It's smart, fluid, and catchy as hell. I'm especially still in love with Hill's voice after all these years.
Looking back over the music career (I'm not even going to touch the TV/acting career) of James Todd Smith, a.k.a. LL Cool J, it has been pretty uneven. Each album was a complete crapshoot: one album groundbreaking (Radio), the next kind of lame and forgettable (Bigger and Deffer). The key to his best work, in my opinion, was how well he gelled with the DJ/producer at the helm of each project. If his producer was creating sick beats/finding great samples for him to rap over, then LL Cool J did his job and whaled on them like a prize fighter. Case in point: my favorite collaboration of his was with Marlon Williams, a.k.a. Marley Marl, on Mama Said Knock You Out (1990), an album that is filled with worthy hits and obscure classics. Marley Marl had a way of keeping beats raw and rooted in hip-hop while also adding a pop sensibility—kind of like The Bomb Squad meets Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis.That technique gave a certain grit yet accessibility to songs like "Around the Way Girl," which is basically a ballad to all girls from the hood. At a time in rap when lyrics were taking a misogynistic turn, here was an MC who told ladies they were beautiful for being street smart, independent, and confident. It was refreshing and catchy as hell. (Just try not singing along with The Flex on the chorus.) Granted, he took some heat from the rap establishment, which griped that tracks like "Around the Way Girl" were "too soft," "too commercial." But his fluid rhyming over Marley Marl's smartly-used samples of jazz/R&B artist Keni Burke's "Risin' to the Top," the Mary Jane Girls' "All Night Long," and The Honey Drippers' "Impeach the President" made the song an undeniable classic.
"That's the Way I Feel About Cha" is a single off Bobby Womack's 1971 album Communication. Prior to the single's release, Womack had been known as part of his family's vocal group, The Valentinos, and as a friend/collaborator of Sam Cooke, Jimi Hendrix, Sly Stone, and Janis Joplin. (It was while riding in Womack's Mercedes coupe that Joplin came up with the song "Mercedes Benz.") Once "That's the Way I Feel About Cha" hit #2 on the R&B charts in 1972, he became a star in his own right.
It's a soulful ballad where the protagonist is having a discussion with his distraught mate; she's questioning his love while also giving in to he-said/she-said rumors and self doubt. He tells her, quite frankly, that she needs to stop questioning his loyalty, stop treating his affection as weakness, and count her blessings that he's in her life. It's not as chauvinistic as it might sound, though; it's actually quite tender. The song puts him in the position of being the vulnerable one (even though he's the one telling her how much she has to lose), which is kind of unique for a 70s soul song. The soulful backing track is the handiwork of The Swampers, a.k.a. the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section: Barry Beckett on keyboards, Roger Hawkins on drums, David Hood on bass, and Jimmy Johnson on lead guitar—the same bunch of guys from backwoods Alabama who'd supported Wilson Pickett on "Land of 1000 Dances," Percy Sledge on "When A Man Loves a Woman," Etta James on "Tell Mama," and many, many others. The tight-but-loose groove of this song is a dead giveaway that the track was played by the guys from 3614 Jackson Highway, Sheffield, AL. And while each player and each element is essential to this song, I have to point out Johnson's lead guitar. It absolutely wails. I mean, it sounds like someone crying. It's what makes an already great track unforgettable.
It was late January 2000, and Chapel Hill, NC, had just experienced one of its biggest blizzards in years. Classes were canceled, and public transportation wasn't running. But a number of stores along Franklin Street had stayed open, including a couple of record stores. I trudged across campus through a foot of snow to pick up a copy of D'Angelo's Voodoo at 90s relic, Wherehouse Music, on the day of the album's release, and then trudged back to my dorm and listened to the album, five times in a row. "Untitled (How Does It Feel)" definitely stood out as a key track. It's a brilliant, soulful workout in 6/8 time featuring bass and rhythm guitar by the underrated Raphael Saadiq, scorching lead guitar by the late C. Edward Alford, and all other instruments/vocals by D'Angelo himself. (Although Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson from The Roots plays on most other tracks on Voodoo, it's D'Angelo on drums on "Untitled.") The song twists, turns, builds, ebbs, and ultimately explodes, with D'Angelo howling the refrain in a Prince-like falsetto. Then around the seven minute mark, the song just abruptly stops in mid-chorus: How does it fee... It's as if he gets interrupted in the middle of a daydream. In fact, I've always thought that was the point. The sexy, love-man persona is just something D'Angelo is trying on for size, checking out how it feels to be Prince for seven or so minutes. That's why the song is simultaneously an homage to and parody of Prince; its risqué lyrics are just so frank and so blunt that they come off being tongue-in-cheek. Even the song's title (or lack thereof) is a clever acknowledgment that it's a pastiche of Prince's early catalog. Which brings us to the song's infamous video—that single, uninterrupted shot of a (presumably) nude D'Angelo, singing seductively to the camera. As Questlove has told interviewers for a number of years, D'Angelo never thought of himself as a sex symbol in any way, shape, or form. The video was him clowning. But the rest of the world didn't take it that way. Suddenly, he became recognized worldwide as "that naked guy with the abs" and not as an artist. And that took its toll: reclusiveness, alcohol and substance abuse, a followup album that still hasn't seen the light of day 14 years later (and counting). So while I love this song, I've gone from being ambivalent about its video to absolutely hating it. That one snippet of film essentially robbed the world of new music from this brilliant talent.
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.
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.
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.
