"Fortunate Son" (Creedence Clearwater Revival)

"Fortunate Son" from the 1969 album Willy and the Poor Boys may be the protest song to end all protest songs.

The story behind it is fairly simple: John Fogerty was angry.  He was angry about students getting beaten by riot police after anti-war protests at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago.  He was angry about Richard Nixon's dismissive attitude toward young people and the establishment's attempts to paint war protestors as un-American.  And he was angry about watching young men--guys who were his age and largely from working-class backgrounds, like himself--getting drafted, en masse, to fight in a conflict where the goals and motivations were nebulous at best.  (Fogerty himself had been drafted in 1965 and served in the Army Reserve until he was honorably discharged in mid-1967, when he returned to his home of El Cerrito, CA, and re-launched his band, Creedence Clearwater Revival.)

But it was after seeing media coverage of the lavish wedding plans for Nixon's daughter, Julie, to ex-President Dwight Eisenhower's grandson, David, that Fogerty's fiery pen started flying, churning out the lyrics to the song in 20 minutes.

Stated Fogerty in a Rolling Stone interview, "You just had the feeling that none of these people were going to be too involved in the war."

As Fogerty recites from his upcoming autobiography, the song's title came from the political phrase "favorite son," which often refers to a candidate for national office who gets unwavering support from their home state regardless of political affiliation.  He took that phrase and changed it to "Fortunate Son"--an apt title for his searing indictment of politicians and figures in power, whose children were receiving special treatment by not being sent into battle.

Likewise, Fogerty points out that, having served in the armed forces himself, his goal was to let servicemen know that he was not against them, unlike some anti-war protestors who were inexplicably spitting on troops returning home from Vietnam.  Rather, Fogerty's sights were set squarely on Nixon and the establishment.

I believe "Fortunate Son" remains evergreen because of its scorching truth and brevity.  In just over two minutes, Fogerty and his bandmates unleash a stomping, swamp rock attack on hypocrisy.  That's why, even though Fogerty's lyrics were inspired by events surrounding the Vietnam War and politics in the late 1960s, it feels like the most pointed, ego-shattering editorial when it's lobbed at figures of power still today.

"Abandon" (French Kicks)

I hate to admit it.  But it kind of makes me glad when bands that should make it big only gain a cult following or remain local stars.  It's like knowing about a fantastic restaurant in a shitty location: there's a selfish joy in knowing you can always walk right in and get a table anytime, but at the same time, you are keenly aware that, unless you start telling people about the place, it's probably doomed.
I feel that way about the band French Kicks--a former indie rock quartet that was based in (where else?) Brooklyn.  I first heard them on college radio in Raleigh, NC, and then only once again after that while having dinner at a Chipotle in Chapel Hill, NC.  I spent months Googling lyrics, trying to find the band that had created the goodie I'd heard while pondering life over a veggie burrito bowl.
Once I finally found them and their near-perfect album Swimming (2008), I kind of didn't want to share them with anyone, and I didn't want anyone else sharing them with the world at large.  Apart from my inherent Gollum-like selfishness, I didn't want this great, unique thing to suddenly be picked up by the mainstream--the next logical step being a major label swooping in and buffing down all of its gorgeous, natural edges into a mass-marketable commodity.  Then, all you're left with is: "Ugh, they used to be so good, once."
At the same time, I couldn't understand why, apart from WKNC and Chipotle Radio, no one was playing the damn thing.  Especially the opening track, "Abandon."  The opening riff, which walks a tightrope between a late 60s John Fogerty guitar tone and a late 70s Joy Division/Bernard Sumner tone, should have been enough to propel the song to at least some mainstream airplay (or a car commercial, or something).  The song also has this thunderous, echoey bassline and drum track that sound like they were recorded live in a deserted subway tunnel.  In fact, the mix and mastering on this song (and entire album) are amazing--I've never heard an indie release capture this kind of "live" sound but also be able to get a drum sound this clean, or a bass sound that full, and still have lead and harmony vocals come through crystal clear.  (Yes, I just nerded out about how someone mixed and mastered an album.)
It's a great song from an undiscovered band and album that probably should have been (but gratefully/selfishly wasn't) a mainstream hit.

"Ten Years Gone" (Led Zeppelin)

If you've never read Cameron Crowe's 1975 Rolling Stone article "The Durable Led Zeppelin," read it.  It sheds light on a number of things about the band--namely, what's fact and what's fiction.  It also confirms that they're intelligent, talented guys who were intensely serious about their music (even when they weren't being all that serious on the road).  It's really a great, well-written article by an 18-year-old Crowe.
In the article, lead singer Robert Plant reveals what the song "Ten Years Gone" from 1975's Physical Graffiti is all about:

"Let me tell you a little story behind the song 'Ten Years Gone' on our new album. I was working my ass off before joining Zeppelin. A lady I really dearly loved said, 'Right. It's me or your fans.' Not that I had fans, but I said, 'I can't stop, I've got to keep going.' She's quite content these days, I imagine. She's got a washing machine that works by itself and a little sports-car. We wouldn't have anything to say anymore. I could probably relate to her, but she couldn't relate to me. I'd be smiling too much. Ten years gone, I'm afraid."

Various articles I've read over the years have said that the woman he's singing to/about in "Ten Years Gone" is Shirley Wilson, the sister of Plant's then-wife Maureen Wilson.  Shirley, Plant's girlfriend from the mid-60s when his career was just getting started, wasn't a fan of the rock & roll lifestyle, and she gave Plant an ultimatum.  So they split up, and Plant took up with her sister, Maureen, who was less concerned about his constant gigging and all of the trappings of life on the road.  
Despite building a life and having three children with Maureen, Plant pined for Shirley (as is crystal clear in the song).  Some years later, after he and Maureen had divorced and Led Zeppelin had disbanded, he and Shirley got back together for the better part of a decade and had a son, Jesse Lee, in 1991.
While the history behind the song is bar-trivia interesting, it's the quintessential Zep treatment of this ballad that draws me in every time.  The shifting dynamics, the thunderous rhythm section, Jimmy Page's crunching riffs and countless layers of guitars (especially on that gorgeous bridge), and Plant's expressive vocal--they all combine to create an intensely powerful, yet immensely tender, song.  I don't know of many bands that could pull that off without sounding hokey.

"Feeling Yourself Disintegrate" (The Flaming Lips)

The album The Soft Bulletin (1999) wouldn't have happened without its predecessor Zaireeka (1997)—an ambitious, hyper-experimental album by The Flaming Lips that consists of four discs, meant to be played on multiple stereos, all at once.  The idea is to create an interactive, surround-sound experience, where you have to play the album with other people in order to properly sync up the tracks.
Just before the recording sessions for Zaireeka commenced in late 1996, their lead guitarist, Ronald Jones, exited the band.  This left the remaining members—Wayne Coyne (vocals/guitar), Steven Drozd (drums/keyboards/etc.), and Michael Ivins (bass)—with a conundrum: replace Jones and keep moving in their quirky, revved-up rock direction (à la their unlikely hit "She Don't Use Jelly"), or remain a trio and completely change course?
As the 2013 Pitchfork Classic documentary celebrating the recording of The Soft Bulletin relays, they took the latter route, even going so far as to purposely not use guitars while writing most of the songs for The Soft Bulletin (which they began recording in 1997 while still working on Zaireeka).  In fact, there's a heavy reliance on synthesizers and electronics—including using the studio itself as an instrument—on the album.  The resulting sound isn't plastic or synth-y, however.  The music is surprisingly warm and symphonic, like the soundtrack of a 1930s Hollywood film, which matches the grand, anthemic feel of the songs themselves—songs about both the minutiae and hugeness of life and human mortality.
The track that anchors the whole album is "Feeling Yourself Disintegrate."  In the aforementioned documentary, Ivins notes that, lyrically, the song likely was inspired by Coyne's father battling cancer and ultimately losing that battle.  In four short lines and a refrain, it presents the idea that, every day that we live, we're essentially falling apart.
Musically, it's a masterpiece of inventive arranging.  From the fast-panning vocal percussion that underpins the first half of the song to the echoey stacks of vocals over Drozd's soaring church organ and synth orchestra, the song floats along on a silver-lined cloud for five perfect minutes.

"Silver Soul" (Beach House)

I find myself conflicted about the indie rock scene of the past 10+ years and all of its various classifications (shoegaze, emo, insert your own made-up name here:_________).  I feel a lot of these bands are aping elements of The Velvet Underground, New Order, The Smiths, The Cure, and/or even The Beach Boys, only they're doing it while smirking through their handlebar mustaches in $1500 John Varvatos suits with the firm belief that they were the first ones to "discover" Brooklyn/Brian Wilson/skinny ties/facial hair/angst/the 80s/etc.
Occasionally, they're able to mix a hipster craft cocktail that comes pretty close to one of those originals, but it's either too sweet, too bitter, has too much garnish, or just becomes a wash of ingredients and ends up tasting like the bar mat.
Although, every so often, one of these bands comes up with a concoction that is quite tasty, even if it is mostly empty calories.
A prime example is the song "Silver Soul," a track off of 2010's Teen Dream by Beach House--a Baltimore-based (non-romantic) duo consisting of vocalist/keyboardist Victoria Legrand and guitarist Alex Scally.  
As a so-called "dream pop" band, the music of Beach House actually does tend to have a hypnotic, ethereal effect: lots of reverb, echoes, multi-tracked vocals, and trance-inducing riffs that loop and repeat.  "Silver Soul" sort of embodies all of those things, complete with a reference to the dreamlike Twin Peaks (Legrand apparently is a David Lynch freak.)
To be honest, other than the refrain of It is happening again, I've never been able to pick out all of the lyrics.  But I think the song is mostly about teenage summer flings: the exhilaration that comes from meeting someone new, which tricks you into thinking it's "real love" and makes you feel like you're floating above your body, when it's really just the July sun baking your raging hormones.
But it's not really about the lyrics for me.  Legrand could be singing the recipe to Chicken Cordon Bleu in Tagalog for all I care.  "Silver Soul" is all about atmosphere: the soaring organ, the slide guitar, and the breathy harmonies that reside somewhere between Fleetwood Mac and The Mamas & The Papas.  It's the aural equivalent of crashing waves, cotton candy, and Coppertone.  And that's okay.  Everyone needs a day at the beach every so often.

"Before Today" (Everything But The Girl)

Despite having a career that spanned almost two decades, the band Everything But The Girl--which consisted of husband-and-wife duo Tracey Thorn (vocals) and Ben Watt (guitar/vocals/keyboards/etc.)--wasn't exactly a household name in the US.  Their only big hit here was a remix of the track "Missing" from their 1994 album Amplified Heart.  (And I miss you / Like the deserts miss the rain...  Yeah, that song.)   
I bought that album after hearing it in its entirety at a now-defunct coffeehouse in Charleston, SC.  (Ah, Fulford-Egan Coffee House, we hardly knew ye).  The brief, 10-song disc--which, by the way, is more than just the un-remixed version of "Missing" and some filler--had an acoustic-meets-downtempo feel with intelligent, soulful songs.  It kind of felt like the vibe of the coffeehouse itself.  In fact, every time I listened to the album afterward, it reminded me of that vacation and the gigantic iced mocha the pink-haired British girl behind the counter whipped up for me while she gushed about how great she thought Thorn's voice was.
Anyway, when Everything But The Girl's follow up album Walking Wounded was released in 1996, I bought it without hearing a note on it.  I fully expected the same lo-fi approach as Amplified Heart, with acoustic guitar, piano, and drum samples/loops, here and there.  So I was kind of floored when I heard this masterpiece of skittering drum-and-bass and trip-hop rhythms topped with lush melodies and honest lyrics.  It seemed as ready for play at some chic urban lounge as it did for a pair of good headphones, sitting at home on your sofa.  Granted, it wasn't quite as envelope-pushing as Massive Attack or Tricky, but it was in the same borough (different Zip code, maybe).
My favorite song from the album/by the band is "Before Today," a Watt composition that has a complex, thumping bossa nova beat set against Thorn's velvety vocal. 
A little history that may shed some light on the song: in the early 90s, Watt was stricken with a mystery illness that brought him very close to death.  Ultimately, he was diagnosed with Churg-Strauss syndrome--a rare autoimmune disease that often begins with symptoms of asthma and then quickly evolves into the body attacking its own tissues.  It probably goes without saying, it was a trying time, both physically and emotionally, for Watt and Thorn as he spent months completely incapacitated and many more months recovering.
Watt's feelings of fear, isolation, and outright annoyance with his condition come through, loud and clear, in the lyrics of "Before Today."  It's basically a love letter to Thorn that says: I don't want sympathy, promises, inanimate stuff, or cheering up; I want your love.
Hearing her interpret his words in her smoldering alto just makes them that much more poignant.
One of the best, least sentimental love songs ever, I think.

"Don't Dream It's Over" (Crowded House)

"Don't Dream It's Over" from Crowded House's 1986 self-titled album marked the point at which I began really listening to song lyrics as a kid.  Before that, I heard song lyrics and could often repeat them, verbatim.  But I never really thought about lyrics having meaning. 
Granted, that could have something to do with mainstream radio in the 80s playing tons of crappy pop with vapid, meaningless lyrics.  (Su-su-sudio, anyone?  **shudder**)
The first time I heard "Don't Dream It's Over," I remember thinking: this guy's just singing about everyday stuff.  Towing his car.  Holes in the roof.  How could that be a song!?  
My 8-year-old self dubbed it "stupid."
But as I kept hearing it after that, something about the song kept drawing me in, apart from that anthemic melody and Mitchell Froom's not-too-trendy production.  I remember taping it off the radio onto a blank cassette (how 80s is that?) so that I could listen to it, again and again.  It was still a little too lyrically complex and mature for me to unravel the whole thing, but I began to understand that it was a song about not giving up.  When that clicked in my head, it hit me: maybe lyrics could have different layers of meaning, and maybe other artists out there were writing lyrics like that, too.
Years later, I realized songwriter Neil Finn was saying that holes in roofs and broken-down cars are inevitable life stuff, but they often make us feel like we can't win—especially if we're already struggling in some other way (finances, relationships, etc.).  The song is basically a pep-talk to himself.
As Finn later told Rolling Stone magazine, "It was just about on the one hand feeling kind of lost, and on the other hand sort of urging myself on—don't dream it's over."