"Help Me" (1974)

33. Joni Mitchell, "Help Me" (April 20, 1974, #7)

For some reason, every time I find myself considering this song (or the album from which it comes, Court and Spark) I want to appropriate the William Carlos Williams poem, and plaintively declare that so much depends upon the lady with a hole in her stocking. That image and the deceptively casual way that Joni Mitchell uses it are only one of the many poignant features that have pulled me into this since it was a radio hit. This song, this album, this period, is approximately the point that Mitchell stepped boldly away from her folkie origins to showcase her broader musical skills, which were always there, passing through this gorgeous pop period (don't blink too many times because you're apt to miss it) on her way to the more rarefied regions of jazz and points further. It's so guilelessly dedicated to the painful search for love and the fleeting pleasures, when attained, and it's just about as straightforward as it gets: "Help me I think I'm falling In love again When I get that crazy feeling again, I know I'm in trouble again I'm in trouble." And it comes with a pop sheen that positively glistens, an acoustic guitar leading the charge but quickly giving way to a lush arrangement full of little surprises: a tidy, clean-cut mix, sax and flute and guitar popping up to make statements, a melody that swoops to the high notes, some of them held good and long (you'll lose your breath singing along if you don't know what you're doing), angelic backing singers, and, yes, the lady with a hole in her stocking, who, you know—you dance with her. Didn't it feel good? (Didn't it feel good?)

A Short History of Nearly Everything (2003)

I have long been a bit of a sucker for pop science books, and this is probably one of the best. It's fairly long, running to over 500 pages in the hardcover edition with the endnotes, but then its scope is ambitious and sweeping: all of the scientific history of the planet, including physics, chemistry, geology, biology, genetics, and more. A friend scoffed at it once, saying that it mostly details the petty feuds that erupt among scientists, who are all too well aware that credit for advances equates to funding for more research. That's true enough, but those conflicts are hardly without their own intrinsic interest—it's actually amazing to read how often synchronicity occurs in scientific breakthroughs. What appeals to me most is the knack that author Bill Bryson evinces for condensing the most complex concepts to understandability—there's no math here, really, which of necessity makes it all ultra-simplistic in the big picture, and I'm no expert either, so maybe my judgment is just an article of faith. But Bryson continually finds straightforward, striking strategies to convey what he's after. For example, in discussing the scope of our solar system, which we all know well from schoolroom models of various planets swirling about the sun, he makes the point that if the planets were reduced proportionally so that Jupiter were the size of the period that ends this sentence, Pluto would be the size of a single molecule—and they would be 35 feet from one another. Another example that has stuck with me: in studying the Yellowstone area, geologists could see plainly that there is a good deal of volcanic activity there. But try as they might they could not find the caldera, which is the focal point of a volcano, the large basin that results from the explosion or collapse at its center. They could not find it, that is, until satellite photography came along—and the entire region was revealed as being the caldera. That is one motherfucking big volcano, and Bryson goes on to detail exactly how devastating its explosions have been and will be again. Also that it's overdue to blow again, which is more or less going to mean bye-bye North America and hello Cormac McCarthy's The Road. The book actually makes for brisk reading, even as it remains evident that it is essentially inadequate to everything that is actually known and the controversies and disputes surrounding that knowledge. But a bibliography is also included that points to scores more books of varying levels of readability, a good many of them evidently quite accessible. I haven't got to many of them yet, but whenever I'm ready for more of this, that's probably going to be my first stop.

In case it's not at the library.

Live at the Apollo (1963)

This still holds a reputation for being one of the greatest live albums ever recorded—certainly one of the first. If it now has many rivals, it's still not hard to see the point. It is, first, a faithful chronicle of a live show, at least James Brown's portion of it, from beginning to end, as opposed to some record of a peculiarly successful jam session in front of a crowd, which is what other highly regarded live albums, as by the Allman Brothers or Phish or the Dead, amount to. So it starts with the standard introduction by a breathless master of ceremonies, in which JB is praised every which way imaginable for two minutes, a gesture that merely serves to build suspense further (by that point in many Brown shows it was getting cruelly late and the band had already been onstage for nearly an hour raving up on rhythm and blues standards). Then, suddenly, he's there, James Brown himself, flashing his moves (you see them in memory, they are emblazoned there), blasting through hits with breath-quickening tempos: here, "I'll Go Crazy," "Try Me," "Think," songs that the audience knows and craves, already satisfying appetites. The performance is complete with calculated flourishes at every point, the band tight and taut and muscular, providing ratatat transitions between the numbers. Then the show shifts gears, slowing down some with "I Don't Mind," then stretching things out to over 10 minutes with a smoldering "Lost Someone." He's got you now—somewhere in here the point occurs where you realize that all the hassles of getting to this show and waiting for it to start are now undeniably worth it. Always a good moment. Terrific accidents of live performance are captured, as when a girl shrieks into a quiet place, perfectly timed with the emotion of the song in the moment, and the audience responds with gasps of laughter, tension released. That also provides a canny concrete sense that this all actually happened once, in some faraway room, now caught forever. Then—he's actually very nearly done now—a seven-minute medley, intended to leave nothing neglected: "Please, Please, Please," "You've Got The Power," "I Found Someone," "Why Do You Do Me," "I Want You So Bad," "I Love You, Yes I Do," "Strange Things Happen," "Bewildered," and a return to "Please, Please, Please." An impossibly fast "Night Train" finishes it. In the end, after little more than 30 minutes, band and audience are equally exhausted, and satisfied. That's showmanship raw and pure, and this is one of the best places to find it.

The Matrix (1999)

USA/Australia, 136 minutes
Directors/writers: Andy Wachowski, Lana Wachowski
Photography: Bill Pope
Editor: Zach Staenberg
Cast: Keanu Reeves, Laurence Fishburne, Carrie-Anne Moss, Hugo Weaving, Gloria Foster, Joe Pantoliano, Marcus Chong, Julian Arahanga, Matt Doran

Dark and self-consciously suffused with a diseased green, as if witnessed via monochrome computer terminal monitors of the '80s, The Matrix, which seemed so futuristically groundbreaking at the time of its release in 1999 and now seems so vaguely yet persistently dated, plunges us quickly into its various exasperating contradictions and paradoxes. The action comes fast and furious in the first 10 minutes, then slows considerably until its big finish. Except for a handful of fantastic set pieces along the way it settles most of the time for being awfully talky, and the talk tends to be all too often awfully trite, sampling a smorgasbord pastiche of new age received wisdom (I can't be the only person, amidst all the yakking about a mythical Jesus-like figure known as "The One," to keep thinking of Gwen Welles's Sueleen Gay in Nashville). On first viewing it's arguably a sound enough strategy, enabling viewers time to absorb the complex implications of the high concept: a world now organized and controlled by sentient machines that depend upon human beings as a source of energy akin to batteries, maintaining human docility with an elaborate neurological ruse experienced as "the matrix," inside of which it is always 1999 and people believe they are living the kinds of lives we all think we know. Thomas A. Anderson, played by Keanu Reeves, by day is a faceless software developer in a giant unnamed corporation, by night a computer hacker with the handle Neo. He is recruited by a mysterious band of ragtag outlaws in trench coats headed up by Morpheus (played by Laurence Fishburne) and Trinity (played by Carrie-Anne Moss), who strike blows for freedom and are hunted by nameless "agents" cut so square and efficient they make FBI personnel look like weekend bikers. The first time I saw this, when it was new, the story seemed to me so complex and intricate that I could barely follow it. But every viewing since has made it seem more and more straightforward and practically hackneyed. Not sure how that works but I think I'm about done now. Still, I could not possibly ever steer anyone away from this who hasn't seen it yet—the fight scenes, heavily influenced by the gunplay of Sergio Leone and John Woo and whole traditions of kung fu action, make it entertaining enough by themselves. And the innovation of "bullet time" alone, which has gone on to be used and parodied extensively, makes it something of a necessity, although you will probably have the sense that you have already seen it even if you haven't, so pervasive has its influence grown in the years since its release. A good many absurdities must be taken at face value (human beings as batteries for machines? really?), which is surprisingly easy given the more profound sense exploited here that all is not as it seems, that there is more to everything we experience than we presently know. To the extent that this does work, that's the primary idea powering it.

"I Want to Hold Your Hand" (1964)

34. Beatles, "I Want to Hold Your Hand" (Jan. 25, 1964, #1, 7 wks.)

Another song that has ranked much higher for me on previous lists. I was surprised this time to find how relatively little I have ever cared for most of the Beatles hits. A follow-up project I am contemplating, "100 Other Songs," would no doubt correct for that, culling heavily from Beatles album tracks—because there's no question about the enduring significance for me of this strange band of pop tunesmiths, dominated by the bass player and rhythm guitarist. And there's no question this was the song that raised the curtain for most of us of a certain age. At the time, TV was generally denied in our household (the result of my father witnessing the assassination of Lee Harvey Oswald on live television) and as much as I begged and pleaded I was allowed to watch only the third of their unprecedented consecutive appearances on Ed Sullivan's variety show in February 1964. They played this with "Twist and Shout" and "Please Please Me." In April, all three would be part of the Beatles' historic assault of the Billboard charts, when in one week they occupied all five of the top positions. "I Want to Hold Your Hand" was #4; the other two were "Can't Buy Me Love" and "She Loves You." This is how Beatlemania works, in a nutshell—piling on with the statistics that delineate the phenomenon. They are literally incomparable and I doubt that anything like it will ever be seen again. And what's all the fuss about anyway? (Reaching that question was also part of the natural progression of Beatlemania.) In the case of "I Want to Hold Your Hand": bashing crashing stirring guitar chords, howling harmonies, and a nagging sweet tune, in service of a declaration of absurdly innocent puppy dog love. Don't make me say you had to be there.

"Downtown" (1965)

35. Petula Clark, "Downtown" (Jan. 2, 1965, #1, 2 wks.)

In past exercises like this I have always placed this song high, even #1 on at least one occasion, and I defend it still though it has become something of an object of occasional ridicule, as on "Seinfeld," and even though I can hear better how exceedingly slight it is in many ways. The connection for me is personal—it was my first "favorite" song on the radio, and a song that pulled me toward the radio to hear music in the first place. From here, it's all sentimental bathos. When my grandmother was dying, in the small town my father grew up in some 100 miles from our home in the Minneapolis suburbs, I often rode along with him when he traveled to visit her in her final days. It was a day away from school for me and something like a bonding experience for my father and me. There was serious weather in Minnesota at that time—early spring and unusual flooding. We always managed to get where we were going, but sometimes circuitously. I probably wasn't much comfort to him, barely 10 at the time, a kid with essentially no grasp of what was happening beyond the heavy vibe. I wasn't even allowed in my grandmother's hospital room, but instead left to wait in the lobby, where people looking out for me introduced me to games of Battleship on graph paper. For the several hours that my father and I traveled in the car together each day I begged him to play the radio and find the pop stations and I listened especially for this song, which seemed to concern itself in such dedicated fashion to a fantasy of urban living, one that has ultimately been imprinted on me. I internalized every word, viz., "You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares" and, especially, "Downtown, everything's waiting for you."

"Burning Down the House" (1983)

36. Talking Heads, "Burning Down the House" (Sept. 3, 1983, #9)

Purely a personal favorite and hardly my favorite Talking Heads song at that, I'm getting behind this strictly because it made me almost as happy to see this band win a top 10 hit as it did the day in about 1978 when I accidentally tuned in "American Bandstand" and found them featured. From 1977 until 1986 this was probably my favorite band, for better or worse (I know I'm telling stories on myself here), and every time they took a step that worried me—joining forces with Brian Eno, expanding to a band more than twice the size of the original, releasing a double-live—they redeemed themselves and then some. This originates on their 1983 album Speaking in Tongues, at which time fans were worried because it had been a few years since the band had released anything with all-new material, the longest gap yet in its career, and the problems among the members were starting to leak out and affect things. Happily, the album turned out to be a good one—workmanlike, maybe stinking a little of professionalism, but neatly consolidating their many previous gains. If it didn't offer many surprises or challenges it did provide a good deal of pleasure. This song represents its strong points as well as any (save, perhaps, the lovely "This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)"). They bring the funk, which has always marked their best work, even that arch first album. And Byrne's crazy mixed-up strategies for the words and vocals continues apace. Wikipedia informs me that he worked on these lyrics basically at the level of the syllables, piecing it together in fragments, and it shows, but not in a way that isn't charming.

"Suspicious Minds" (1969)

37. Elvis Presley, "Suspicious Minds" (Sept. 20, 1969, #1)

I know it could well be considered some kind of sacrilege to not only place the hallowed king of rock 'n' roll at such a relatively low level on a list like this, but then to complicate the matter further—adding insult to injury, like—by choosing this title to do it with. But I was born almost exactly too late for Elvis (and right on time for the Beatles) and never caught up with his great '50s work, the best of which did not chart anyway, until well after his death. Meanwhile, this song has worked its way far inside me, slow and steady, starting from that first autumn when it was on the radio. As I say, I was almost entirely ignorant about who he was and what he represented. I didn't understand this was part of a comeback that many considered almost miraculous. To me, it was just something I heard on the radio, shut up in my bedroom by myself working on puzzles and/or Ed Roth hot-rod models (which I wasn't particularly into either, I just wanted something to do while I played the radio, and liked the "Mad" magazine vibe). This song wasn't even a particular favorite, at least not consciously, but the worried tone of it worked on me, the simple but dexterous guitar playing, the strings sawing in on the big moments, the subdued and submerged tone of his vocal, as if he is singing from the bottom of a very deep place, and the overweening, aching sadness that it communicates. Over the years, I came to love this more and more, until finally, in 1981, I bought a copy of the 45 single and proceeded to wear it down to surface noise. I think I'm probably not explaining very well what is important to me about this song, but it's important.

Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant (1982)

I would still like to know how Anne Tyler does what she does. I suppose I could read closer and study harder, but invariably I find myself swept up in her characters and their stories, ordinary Baltimore citizens making their way in a heartless world. Which, I know, probably makes it sound trite, and perhaps it is, yet therein lays the wonder for me. Because they really do work remarkably well. Part of it is the language, the kind of constant ruminating stream of focus on the small details that tell, that create great giant rivers of human experience, a strategy that Raymond Carver employed particularly well. Tyler also has a remarkable ear for dialogue—not so much for the way people talk as for what they choose to talk about. The novel details the legacy and family of Pearl Tull, who married under the cloud of being an old maid for her mid-century times, bore three children, found herself abandoned by her vacuous younger husband, and set herself to single-handedly raising the children on her own, rarely asking help from anyone. It's a sad and touching tale, marred only slightly by self-pity as the opening scenes quickly map out the terrain from her point of view, as she is lying on her deathbed. Her passing, which occurs at the end of the first chapter, is heartbreakingly beautiful, one of the single most moving paragraphs I have encountered anywhere. But as events and revelations unfold, skipping across and back and forward through time and point of view, it becomes apparent that Pearl is actually severely damaged, an abusive monster even, taking out all her disappointment on anyone around her, with the children obviously most convenient. But that turn to the reality is done artfully, breathtakingly so, with only occasional and fleeting glimpses disclosed of the worst of her behavior. Isolated and set up this way, they are only more harrowing and always surprising, partly because of Tyler's shrewd introduction of her to us in the first place. The children—Cody, Ezra (proprietor of the titular restaurant), and Jenny—are each likeable and unlikeable in varying portions, and each damaged in their own rights. It is hard to contemplate some of the things that happen here, not least because all of these characters, even Pearl, came to the places they occupy in life through natural processes of experience and good will and best intentions. If they fuck up and do unforgivable harm to one another Tyler never loses sight of the parts of them that anyone could connect with. Really, it's a kind of miracle—this might be Tyler's single best novel.

In case it's not at the library.

Another Green World (1975)

Brian Eno's best album is altogether a quiet and gentle affair, though it opens with a rasping guitar noise and goes on to entertain various pop flourishes ("I'll come running to tie your shoes") and an almost comical range of textures, all in the service of its high concept (see title). Once upon a time I was more eager to argue the merits of Taking Tiger Mountain, which preceded it, or Before and After Science, which followed it. But if I were somehow forced to keep only one, a choice I would truly hate to have to make, this would be it now. It's alluring and seductive and sounds as fresh today as it did 35 years ago, an album to play every day. And not just that. It's something you can play several times a day, in practically any context, alone, with others, first thing in the morning, last thing in the evening, on a lunch break, taking a long hike in the mountains, on airplanes, or as pre-show music for practically any band in the land (now I'm getting carried away). Some of the 14 songs here are quite short, less than two minutes, though in memory it's hard to remember which are the short and which the long, or even to come away with any precise sense of any of their lengths at all. They seem to exist outside of time almost, embracing and immersive. Many are instrumentals. A few are straight-up pop songs, complete with hooks, chorus, verses, and melodies fit to sing and occupy one's head. Many are explicit about what they intend to convey: "In Dark Trees," "Sombre Reptiles," "Little Fishes," "Golden Hours," "Spirits Drifting." And while, as promised, it is indeed otherworldly as a whole, it never feels particularly cerebral or overly detached or as if it is trying to be any more than what it is. A number of the usual suspects are on hand here and there for the festivities, most notably John Cale, Phil Collins, and Robert Fripp. I should probably say something about the Oblique Strategies deck of cards, but I'm pretty sure that has been covered adequately elsewhere.