A couple of days, the iPod shuffled up, back to back, the Beatles' "Ticket to Ride" and the Wallflowers' cover of "I'm Looking Through You."
A completely random occurence, obviously. A roughly one in 12,000 chance that "Ticket to Ride" gets shuffled up. And once that song ends, a roughly one in 12,000 chance that the Wallflowers' cover of "I'm Looking Through You" gets shuffled up. Not that big of a deal. Trivial, really.
But it's exactly that kind of random occurence, of course, that gets people to believe in a higher intelligence directing the chaos that surrounds us. After all, is it not a sign of intelligence that the iPod knew to follow a Beatles' song (particularly a track that, in many ways, pointed the way toward Rubber Soul) with not just another Beatles' song, but a cover by a different band. That's some Intelligent Design, no? Some Wise Old Benevolent Being Shit, no?
It's the chaplain, in Catch-22, who "would have yielded to reason and relinguished his belief in the God of his fathers... had it not been for such successive mystic phenomena as the naked man in the tree at that poor sergeant's funeral weeks before and the cyptic, haunting, encouraging promise of the prophet Flume in the forest only that afternoon: Tell them I'll be back when winter comes."
Right, Mr. Tappman. It's mystic phenomena. Or maybe, maybe, it's just Yossarian without his clothes.
It's our ability to reason run through (or perhaps clouded by) our need to find a reason.
Incidentally, I liked Catch-22 more this year than either of the last two years. Not sure why. At the end of last year, I was ready to leave it on the shelf for a few years and teach something else instead. Now, it's back in consideration for next year's rotation.
Showing posts with label iPod. Show all posts
Showing posts with label iPod. Show all posts
Friday, June 12, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
Random iPod Song
The Whatnauts: "Why Can't People be Colors Too?"
If the bouncing bassline and the occasional wah-wah licks couldn't place it, the title alone should date this one fairly clearly to the early '70s. Nothing wrong with that, of course, and if you're looking for medium-tempo generic soul, that's a fine era to do a little diving.
And there's nothing wrong with the song, either.
And, for that matter, there's nothing particularly right about it.
It comes in, nods its head a few times, makes its point
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Why can't people be colors, too?
and gets out before overstaying its welcome. Nothing surprising, nothing enlightening, no hint of tension and, thus, nothing to get released from.
Did A Tribe Called Quest sample these drums for something?
If the bouncing bassline and the occasional wah-wah licks couldn't place it, the title alone should date this one fairly clearly to the early '70s. Nothing wrong with that, of course, and if you're looking for medium-tempo generic soul, that's a fine era to do a little diving.
And there's nothing wrong with the song, either.
And, for that matter, there's nothing particularly right about it.
It comes in, nods its head a few times, makes its point
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Why can't people be colors, too?
and gets out before overstaying its welcome. Nothing surprising, nothing enlightening, no hint of tension and, thus, nothing to get released from.
Did A Tribe Called Quest sample these drums for something?
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Keep It or Lose It? Why Is It There?
Okay, so I know that 80 GB of music in portable form is, in some rational sense, too much. I know that having access to another 20 GB wouldn't -- again, from any rational perspective -- improve my life. Wouldn't even change it, really.
And I know that another 500 albums sitting in a pocket isn't, just by virtue of being more, automatically, better than not having another 500 albums.
And I know that the quest for the perfect collection of artists, the perfect combination of familiar and new music, is quixotic, at best.
And I know that the word quixotic marks me as an idiot.
But, just like using more activator only stimulates the jheri curl to want more activator, I find myself, every week or so, having to decide what GB of music to move of the iPod in order to make room for a different GB's worth.
Which brings me to this post. A few songs, shuffled up, and a decision, upon individual reflection, whether to keep or lose each one.
1. "Glass Hotel," by Robyn Hitchcock. There are only a few RH songs on here (and a handful of Soft Boys' numbers, as well), and all of them from Eye. I don't know that I necessarily need, say, "Queen Elvis" or "Certainly Clickot" (which I put on the iPod originally only so that sometime, somewhere, I could hear the lines "I had one chance to stop her eggs / Pronounced 'eggs' or 'Brad,'" lines that I used to find quite funny), but this one I like. It's got a great, delicate melody. And unlike "Beautiful Girl," which I like, but that originally made the cut mostly because it makes me think of Dan Wineman and my sophomore year of college, it's one that I like because of the song itself, not because of associations with it. And although I haven't listened to Eye in a few years, hearing this song now, out of context, made me want to hear the album again. So, it stays.
2. "I Don't Mind," by James Brown. The track itself was ripped from the Star Time box, but the version of the song originally came from Live From the Apollo. I'd rather hear the song in the context of the live album -- 30 perfect, joyous, pleading, soulful, knee-dropping minutes if there ever were -- but so good is JB here, and so good is his backup and so immediate and keyed in is the audience's reactions to his every cry and moan, that it has to stay.
3. "Billy Preston," by Miles Davis. From the Complete On the Corner Sessions. Now, I love me some On the Corner. It's chaotic, it's dark, it's dense, it's abrasive, yes, but it's also hypnotic, rich, layered, and, ultimately, melodic. And there are parts of the box set that are fantastic -- though mostly those parts, like "He Loved Him Madly" that had already seen release elsewhere -- but, like the Jack Johnson box, too much of the extraneous material doesn't work on its own. It might have a certain impressive cumulative weight over the course of several discs, but a track like this, 14 minutes of relatively aimless, formless searching-without-finding can't hold up to being excerpted from that context. A great bassline, with plenty of space, but nothing particularly interesting riding atop it. It should get cut, I guess.
4. "Percy's Song," by Fairport Convention. Dylan originally wrote this, and hearing his version, on the Biograph collection, when I was a sophomore in high school, was one (of soooo many) of the more formative musical experiences of my youth. FC's rendition lacks the weary sadness of Dylan's, and while it has an impressive arrangement, and great harmonies during the refrains, and fantastic guitar, it still sounds, in the end, like a bunch of good musicians singing a folk song. And that's not a bad thing, necessarily. And it does, in the end, achieve a certain catharsis. And it reminds me of what it was like to hear, really hear, Dylan for the first time. And, in that, it reminds me of what it's like to be open to getting, on such a wonderfully regular basis, absolutely blown away by music that you haven't heard before, to having your freaking life changed, man, by an album or song or cracked vocal or three-part harmony in a middle-eight every three or four days. So, it stays.
5. "The Clairvoyant (live)," by Iron Maiden. From the bonus disc included with some pressings of Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. Now, this is a Tuesday afternoon I can get behind. Sure, I desperately need to finish up a unit for my National Board Certification Seminar this evening, and I can't, in good conscience, spare the time to continue to write this nonsense, but, damnit, I like this song. I like the album. I'm tempted to cut it -- because, really, do I need a relatively straightforward live reading of an album track? It's not like they rearrange it for solo piano. And Bruce never, say, implores the audience to scream for him. But, instead, I think I'll cut the album track and keep this. It has less of a synthesized guitar sound.
6. "Long Lonely Nights," by Lee Andrews & the Hearts. From Rhino's first doowop box set. Now, here's the problem with this exercise: I don't want this thing to shuffle up when I'm driving home from school on a perfect spring day, or even while driving to an afternoon class on a perfect spring day, and so, part of me says, "Cut it. Cut it. Be a man and cut it, for Christ's sake, and quit your crying. 'Tis unmanly grief, as Claudius says." But, right now, in this moment, I like it. Sure, a little doowop goes an awfully long way, and I don't need 100 slightly different iterations of this song and sound, but isn't the occasional perfect doowop moment worth the 4 MB this thing probably takes up?
7. "Tell It to Me," by Tom Waits. From Orphans. No brainer: Tom stays. Unbelievable bass sound on this. I find the pedal steel to be a little intrusive, but only because the song is already so perfect before it wanders in. "For all of your faithless beauty / I'll give all of my tomorrows." That pretty much captures it, doesn't it? And don't be afraid to check out this Waits site: www.tomwaitslibrary.com.
All that to cut one song?
And I know that another 500 albums sitting in a pocket isn't, just by virtue of being more, automatically, better than not having another 500 albums.
And I know that the quest for the perfect collection of artists, the perfect combination of familiar and new music, is quixotic, at best.
And I know that the word quixotic marks me as an idiot.
But, just like using more activator only stimulates the jheri curl to want more activator, I find myself, every week or so, having to decide what GB of music to move of the iPod in order to make room for a different GB's worth.
Which brings me to this post. A few songs, shuffled up, and a decision, upon individual reflection, whether to keep or lose each one.
1. "Glass Hotel," by Robyn Hitchcock. There are only a few RH songs on here (and a handful of Soft Boys' numbers, as well), and all of them from Eye. I don't know that I necessarily need, say, "Queen Elvis" or "Certainly Clickot" (which I put on the iPod originally only so that sometime, somewhere, I could hear the lines "I had one chance to stop her eggs / Pronounced 'eggs' or 'Brad,'" lines that I used to find quite funny), but this one I like. It's got a great, delicate melody. And unlike "Beautiful Girl," which I like, but that originally made the cut mostly because it makes me think of Dan Wineman and my sophomore year of college, it's one that I like because of the song itself, not because of associations with it. And although I haven't listened to Eye in a few years, hearing this song now, out of context, made me want to hear the album again. So, it stays.
2. "I Don't Mind," by James Brown. The track itself was ripped from the Star Time box, but the version of the song originally came from Live From the Apollo. I'd rather hear the song in the context of the live album -- 30 perfect, joyous, pleading, soulful, knee-dropping minutes if there ever were -- but so good is JB here, and so good is his backup and so immediate and keyed in is the audience's reactions to his every cry and moan, that it has to stay.
3. "Billy Preston," by Miles Davis. From the Complete On the Corner Sessions. Now, I love me some On the Corner. It's chaotic, it's dark, it's dense, it's abrasive, yes, but it's also hypnotic, rich, layered, and, ultimately, melodic. And there are parts of the box set that are fantastic -- though mostly those parts, like "He Loved Him Madly" that had already seen release elsewhere -- but, like the Jack Johnson box, too much of the extraneous material doesn't work on its own. It might have a certain impressive cumulative weight over the course of several discs, but a track like this, 14 minutes of relatively aimless, formless searching-without-finding can't hold up to being excerpted from that context. A great bassline, with plenty of space, but nothing particularly interesting riding atop it. It should get cut, I guess.
4. "Percy's Song," by Fairport Convention. Dylan originally wrote this, and hearing his version, on the Biograph collection, when I was a sophomore in high school, was one (of soooo many) of the more formative musical experiences of my youth. FC's rendition lacks the weary sadness of Dylan's, and while it has an impressive arrangement, and great harmonies during the refrains, and fantastic guitar, it still sounds, in the end, like a bunch of good musicians singing a folk song. And that's not a bad thing, necessarily. And it does, in the end, achieve a certain catharsis. And it reminds me of what it was like to hear, really hear, Dylan for the first time. And, in that, it reminds me of what it's like to be open to getting, on such a wonderfully regular basis, absolutely blown away by music that you haven't heard before, to having your freaking life changed, man, by an album or song or cracked vocal or three-part harmony in a middle-eight every three or four days. So, it stays.
5. "The Clairvoyant (live)," by Iron Maiden. From the bonus disc included with some pressings of Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. Now, this is a Tuesday afternoon I can get behind. Sure, I desperately need to finish up a unit for my National Board Certification Seminar this evening, and I can't, in good conscience, spare the time to continue to write this nonsense, but, damnit, I like this song. I like the album. I'm tempted to cut it -- because, really, do I need a relatively straightforward live reading of an album track? It's not like they rearrange it for solo piano. And Bruce never, say, implores the audience to scream for him. But, instead, I think I'll cut the album track and keep this. It has less of a synthesized guitar sound.
6. "Long Lonely Nights," by Lee Andrews & the Hearts. From Rhino's first doowop box set. Now, here's the problem with this exercise: I don't want this thing to shuffle up when I'm driving home from school on a perfect spring day, or even while driving to an afternoon class on a perfect spring day, and so, part of me says, "Cut it. Cut it. Be a man and cut it, for Christ's sake, and quit your crying. 'Tis unmanly grief, as Claudius says." But, right now, in this moment, I like it. Sure, a little doowop goes an awfully long way, and I don't need 100 slightly different iterations of this song and sound, but isn't the occasional perfect doowop moment worth the 4 MB this thing probably takes up?
7. "Tell It to Me," by Tom Waits. From Orphans. No brainer: Tom stays. Unbelievable bass sound on this. I find the pedal steel to be a little intrusive, but only because the song is already so perfect before it wanders in. "For all of your faithless beauty / I'll give all of my tomorrows." That pretty much captures it, doesn't it? And don't be afraid to check out this Waits site: www.tomwaitslibrary.com.
All that to cut one song?
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Ipod Statistics
You know that "Play Count" column for your iPod? Out of curiosity, I sorted for it today, and here's my top three:
Johnny Cash's "I Walk the Line" -- 22 times. Jeebus.
The Smiths' "Please Let Me Get What I Want" -- 21 times.
The Persuasions' "I'm So Glad" -- 13 times.
Those are all Harper's fault, either from car trips or from times when he's felt like sitting on the couch with headphones on. Rounding out the top five -- with ten plays each -- are two songs with no relationship to Harper:
"My Baby Crying," by Bill Fox and "Birds," by Neil Young.
I feel okay about that.
But twenty-one plays for The Smiths. Jeebus. I'm not sure whether to be ashamed, or just happy that the song less than two minutes long.
What's interesting -- at least to me -- is that, with the exception of Harper's requests (and other examples of those, like James Brown's "I Got the Feelin," are scattered through the top twenty), these numbers are essentially the result of only using the iPod as a shuffling device. I rarely take the time to scroll and select an individual song. I might create and move randomly through playlists, or occasionally select an entire album, but, by and large, I simply let the shuffle do its work. (And maybe that is its own source of shame; I'm not sure).
So, "Birds" has shuffled up ten times and been listened to ten times. Go figure.
Al Green's version of "I Want to Hold Your Hand" has seven plays, tying it with "Bugs Are Really Swell" (Harper) and "Rudie Can't Fail" (not-Harper).
On the flip side of the coin, Tom Waits' "Singapore" still, unfortunately, has zero plays. We'll remedy that on the way home today.
Johnny Cash's "I Walk the Line" -- 22 times. Jeebus.
The Smiths' "Please Let Me Get What I Want" -- 21 times.
The Persuasions' "I'm So Glad" -- 13 times.
Those are all Harper's fault, either from car trips or from times when he's felt like sitting on the couch with headphones on. Rounding out the top five -- with ten plays each -- are two songs with no relationship to Harper:
"My Baby Crying," by Bill Fox and "Birds," by Neil Young.
I feel okay about that.
But twenty-one plays for The Smiths. Jeebus. I'm not sure whether to be ashamed, or just happy that the song less than two minutes long.
What's interesting -- at least to me -- is that, with the exception of Harper's requests (and other examples of those, like James Brown's "I Got the Feelin," are scattered through the top twenty), these numbers are essentially the result of only using the iPod as a shuffling device. I rarely take the time to scroll and select an individual song. I might create and move randomly through playlists, or occasionally select an entire album, but, by and large, I simply let the shuffle do its work. (And maybe that is its own source of shame; I'm not sure).
So, "Birds" has shuffled up ten times and been listened to ten times. Go figure.
Al Green's version of "I Want to Hold Your Hand" has seven plays, tying it with "Bugs Are Really Swell" (Harper) and "Rudie Can't Fail" (not-Harper).
On the flip side of the coin, Tom Waits' "Singapore" still, unfortunately, has zero plays. We'll remedy that on the way home today.
Friday, June 29, 2007
iPod Wisdom (Part Four)
The cover of "Tom Sawyer" by the Bad Plus is not nearly as good as it should be.
This is taking into account both the pretensions of the Bad Plus and the pretensions of Mssrs Lee, Lifeson, and Peart.
It should be a glorious meeting of madness, Bruce Dickinson joining Iron Maiden for the third album, or Mark Kozolek bringing his self-absorbed crybaby nonsense to the AC/DC catalogue for an album of open-tuned folk-styled covers.
It should be either perfect or perfectly unlistenable. Instead, it just exists.
And, gawd knows, too much just exists at this point.
This is taking into account both the pretensions of the Bad Plus and the pretensions of Mssrs Lee, Lifeson, and Peart.
It should be a glorious meeting of madness, Bruce Dickinson joining Iron Maiden for the third album, or Mark Kozolek bringing his self-absorbed crybaby nonsense to the AC/DC catalogue for an album of open-tuned folk-styled covers.
It should be either perfect or perfectly unlistenable. Instead, it just exists.
And, gawd knows, too much just exists at this point.
iPod Wisdom (Part Three)
Oh, lord, more poetry, via the Ohio Players:
Together / Feelings
Can the hand touch you
From across the room?
Hmmm?
Can I make feelings
Happen to you
And never have seen you?
Hmmmm?
Is it not more painful
To be wrong than
To do wrong?
Hmmmmm.
Eat your heart out, Mr. Bukowski. A thousand racetracks ain't going to teach you that shit.
Together / Feelings
Can the hand touch you
From across the room?
Hmmm?
Can I make feelings
Happen to you
And never have seen you?
Hmmmm?
Is it not more painful
To be wrong than
To do wrong?
Hmmmmm.
Eat your heart out, Mr. Bukowski. A thousand racetracks ain't going to teach you that shit.
iPod Wisdom (Part Two)
In case you missed the sheer poetry of the Ohio Players when they first layed this shit down in 1975:
It's All Over
Aw girl
Put that suitcase
Down. You ain't
Kiddin' nobody.
You can't leave me
Woman. You love me.
Say what?
And then the song itself. A perfect blend of mid-70s quiet storm and remorse and cocky posturing and pleading "don't tell me that it's over" and more moments of beauty:
"Put that suitcase down, girl
You ain't leavin' town
You know I need you around."
And, the repeated question, "Say what?"
Is there a more universal question than that? Isn't that what Ahab got to by the third day of the chase? Isn't that what he wondered in "The Symphony," maybe the best single chapter in American literature? Isn't that, in essence, what Job asked Gawd?
It's All Over
Aw girl
Put that suitcase
Down. You ain't
Kiddin' nobody.
You can't leave me
Woman. You love me.
Say what?
And then the song itself. A perfect blend of mid-70s quiet storm and remorse and cocky posturing and pleading "don't tell me that it's over" and more moments of beauty:
"Put that suitcase down, girl
You ain't leavin' town
You know I need you around."
And, the repeated question, "Say what?"
Is there a more universal question than that? Isn't that what Ahab got to by the third day of the chase? Isn't that what he wondered in "The Symphony," maybe the best single chapter in American literature? Isn't that, in essence, what Job asked Gawd?
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Back to School
Not that Rodney Dangerfield film (but maybe that, too), but me trying to catch up on all the stuff that I should have done when I was sitting in bed reading, listening to music, and waiting for my steri-strip things to fall off and ring the All Done Healing Bell.
Much grading.
Much trying to crank out this year's literary magazine.
Much trying to write a Baccalaureate speech by June 10.
Much trying to write two units for an online film study course.
But, then, the iPod just shuffled up Eric B. and Rakim's "I Ain't No Joke," so all is, ultimately, pretty damn good. "You like to exaggerate, dream and imaginate," Rakim says. Imaginate. Poetry is, obviously, everywhere.
Much grading.
Much trying to crank out this year's literary magazine.
Much trying to write a Baccalaureate speech by June 10.
Much trying to write two units for an online film study course.
But, then, the iPod just shuffled up Eric B. and Rakim's "I Ain't No Joke," so all is, ultimately, pretty damn good. "You like to exaggerate, dream and imaginate," Rakim says. Imaginate. Poetry is, obviously, everywhere.
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