J's top five - day two

Today's selection could be dubbed Exercises in subtlety, except for maybe the odd one out. It slowly did turn into that though, quite on its own, a current I decided to ride out. Today's harvest is also leaning towards the past a little bit; again, a bit unexpected, but if so, so what. Today’s is another eclectic collection of music, from 80's thoughtful pop, to rock, to disco and back again, all with some tasty bass performances. Other than the criteria I proposed at the beginning of my first list, there really is no motivation or formula to my choices than the desire to bring them to your attention. These are songs that are currently on my playlists and that I enjoy deeply. Perchance you will too (if there's a "you" out there).

Ok, let's get right to it
Number 5 is a timeless little artifact. From 1980's Never for Ever, Kate Bush's Egypt is a haunting piece, that breathes mystery, and conjures visions of pyramids and rituals, smells of howling desert winds. Kate soars through her exquisitely high register, combining her melody seamlessly with captivating counterpoints by the backing vocals. In rhythmic terms, she switches with mastery between 4 and 7 as the track swells and ebbs. Every time she hits that 7 – especially the last time around, which arrives after a climactic crescendo – the music becomes bewitching, in an enigmatic interplay between the soloing keyboard (or is it a guitar, I wonder) – featuring a sound I don’t feel dated at all, something hard to find in most 80’s music – the bass – mixed satisfyingly in the foreground, and powerfully leading the rest of band – and tasteful drums, that accentuate the song, bringing about a dramatic ending. And, almost as if affirming the song's evocative essence, metallic chimes and bells, hidden in the background, add depth to the textures. This song has been with me for years, disappearing only to get unearthed time and again, organically mirroring its theme, ecstatic, gorgeous and edgy.

Number four is a bass-guitar orgasm, plain and simple. Jamiroquai’s Don’t Give Hate a Chance, a cut from Dynamite (2005), is a real scorcher. To actually listen to it, first you have to resist the urge to just give in to the infectious groove and boogie down. Somehow, the challenge becomes to hold that energy, while at the same time becoming absorbed in the music. The trick for me is to let it invade from the feet up, but then anchor it in the ears; like in meditation, go back to the sound. It’s no secret that Jay Kay and company have been driving a disco revival since the early 90’s. In their arsenal of compositions, there are ample examples of accomplished rhythm and string sections, the right dose of electronica and the inspired exchanges between his vocals and the de rigueur female backup singers. This tune, however, just adds everything up oh so nicely. Great melody, meaningful lyrics, and at the center of everything is Derrick McIntyre’s amazingly complex, fast-paced and precise bass playing. He leads the verses with a very funky root-fifth back-and-forth, in ascending lines that are every bit as creative as they are hip; he resolves into the chorus, switching to a much rockier riff, while at the same time adding a little distortion to the sound, taking everything into overdrive. Later, toward to the end, when the rest of the instruments fall away a bit, letting the vocals and the bass play off each other, oh my god the licks he pulls out: just out of this world. Pure solid gold, I tell ya.

Following with today’s bass fixation, the next ditty features another memorable performance from the low end of the auditory spectrum. From Ben Harper’s Burn to Shine (1999), this issue’s number three is Alone. On this down-tempo, melancholy track, Harper does a wonderful job of transmitting angst in sedate, temperate way, imprinting the song with a clear message of slow burning sadness that courts but never quite becomes all-out desperation. In the tradition of Miles Davis, who knew exactly which notes to play on his horn, distilling the art of soulful sparseness, Ben’s solo, dished out through the ebow-magnetized strings of his guitar, is really an ode to tastefulness, a magnificent passage that beautifully enriches the melodic aspect of the tune, mirroring the sober, tender pain of his vocals. And, boy oh boy, the quality of Juan Nelson’s bassline is truly something: neither flashy nor flamboyant, it is clean, accurate and with just the right dash of complexity, to make a subtle statement of just impeccable elegance. This sonic painting is brought to completion by carefully chosen percussion: a triangle at the right moment, a splash that is like a soft brushstroke, a polyrhythmic hihat driving the song straight through. Sometimes things just come together; this is a brilliant example of just that kind of perfection.

Number 2 this time around, comes from a unknown band that had a short life and no real hits, I don’t think. An outfit out of Salt Lake City, of all places, Acroma’s Don’t Think Just Move was featured in the band’s 2003 debut Orbitals. This song stands pretty much alone in an album that is more grunge than anything else. It is a lovely tool-esque ditty, a piece that rises and falls with great artistry. Beginning delicately with a clear ride-and-rim-shot groove on the drums and a sweet bassline, the guitar slowly starts developing, first with the ebow, and then the pick, heavy on the delay, letting it breathe and evolve. The voice is also soft and tasty, taking its time to rise through the tune, along with the rest of the band, in a wave that progressively gathers strength, getting bigger and bigger, until it finally delivers us into an orgy of cymbals, a slight yet powerful storm in their sonic ocean. Buried in the mix are enticing keyboard lines that have a vaguely vocal quality, giving the whole landscape an hypnotic, magical aura. With the stoner vibe of The Door’s The End, the message of Don’t think just move is about letting go into an unhurried trance, eyes closed, body swaying in movements generated from one’s center.

Number one today was hard to pick. I had to think about it, mainly because, with the exception of Jamiroquai’s disco anthem, the rest of the tunes this time around - quite organically - have a certain subdued character, delivering their messages with a kind of assertive restraint, each taking their time to evolve into blooming sound landscapes that are never an all-out assault. I wanted number one, today, not only to be consistent with this essence, but to be a uniquely skillful expression thereof, and it finally came to me. In The Noose (Thirteenth Step, 2003) A Perfect Circle have created a near-perfect example of graceful collective collaboration. Music that is movingly beautiful mixes with the amazing poetry of singer/lyricist Maynard James Keenan, a hymn to personal responsibility and accountability for this new millennium. It begins almost like a whisper, sparse liquid drums slowly blending in with an electronic pulse, and Maynard’s soft and elegant voice. Slowly, effortlessly, the tune begins to build, soft parts flowing in and out of each other. Delay-tinged guitar parts come in to lay down delicate layers, progressively adding to the song’s thickness, until the drums solidify, Josh Freese’s technical nuances front and center. Only at the end of the song do we arrive at its full power. Distorted guitars are finally unleashed, backing vocals become a harmonic tapestry of calls and responses, drums are pounded, transforming the experience into a vibrant sonic collage that coalesces for only one of the tune’s near five minutes. Then, everything drops in an instant, leaving only the voice and a solitary, chorus-effected guitar, to close it all off, almost as mere witnesses. Did I really hear a song just now? A mirage, a soft suggestion, surely a figment of my imagination, only a dream, this was. Yet I am awake, delivered, and with the vague sense that a religious-like experience just happened.

Comments. Musical suggestions. Always welcome. Until next time, thanks for reading.