I’m drinking a lot of coffee this weather, and was thinking about songs about coffee. ‘One More Cup of Coffee’ by Dylan is an obvious one I guess, but we’ve got a couple of posts about old Bob already. Ahm, apart from that, it’s the easy option of Google to discover other songs about coffee. Then I thought about Blur, and Graham Coxon’s charming little ditty from 1999’s 13 album. In between all of Damon Albarn’s wallowing in lost love, comes a great song about giving up booze and overdosing on something else, something that’s probably not a whole lot healthier.

When I was a lad of seventeen (we’re talking ‘93/’94 here), Blur came from the arse-end of the Stone Roses and rose to be Britain’s Best Band™. With albums like Modern Life Is Rubbish and Parklife, they brought working-class English culture into the 1990s with an ironic wink and a “how’s your sister” type humour, while also poking fun at binge drinking, group holidays, the lottery and commuter towns. Kind of like a funnier version of The Jam.

Then came The Great Escape, and it was poor. Hyped up by the brilliant-but-severely-dated ‘Country House’ single, it was indulgent, smarmy, arrogant, egocentric, overlong, and quite low on quality (’The Universal’ aside). There are only so many songs about wife swapping and meeting Morrissey that anyone can handle. Oasis won the media and sales war, and Blur headed ‘to the ditch’ (as Neil Young might say) with 1997’s Yankee-alternative-influenced Blur album.

‘Coffee & TV’ shows the influence of Graham Coxon. Trebly, ringing Kinks-y guitars are out, as are lyrics cocking a snoot at the Mr. Cleans, service stations and the like. Albarn does backing vocals and batters an old acoustic guitar while Coxon sings about ‘black gold’ and the idiot box, doubling up with searing guitar runs that push excitedly into feedback, like the brain of a man who’s watched too much Lost (terrible show) or Coronation Street.

Coxon’s lyrics speak of a life of grinding boredom, where the days just pass by in a haze of caffeine and the couch potato lifestyle. Ironically, because the song is so upbeat you get the feeling he’s enjoying it, compared to the alternative, which he doesn’t really outline.

The video to this song deserves special mention - a cute little milk carton dancing around to the music, and getting into some strange situations. Leaving the safeness of home, the milk carton (seriously) nearly gets shredded by a lawnmower, is chased by children, finds and loses love in a second, and eventually ends up crashing a Blur rehearsal. A great video and a great song.

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It’s hard to believe The Beatles graduated from wanting to hold your hand in 1963 to this just four years later. No matter what is written about career progression and evolution, nothing beats this metamorphosis.

As much a product of the times as the synth and mullet was to the ’80s, ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ (Wikipedia page) was nonetheless revolutionary. The Beatles were always slightly outside the whole ‘hippie’ developments of the 1960s, and yet they led the trend for all other bands to follow.

Obviously based on concepts and ideas developed by Lennon in the midst of an LSD trip, the song juxtaposes Olde Englishe whimsy with a surrealism that rivals Picasso and Dali, and was to be taken to its logical conclusion with ‘I Am The Walrus’. In Strawberry Fields (in reality a Salvation Army house in Liverpool), reality is just another side of the the illusion, yet there’s “nothing to get hung about”. The lyrics resemble the random, idiosyncratic conversation that takes place on such drugs. On a couple of occasions, Lennon tries to make a point about growing up, togetherness and society, but then backs away with a carefree “It doesn’t matter much to me”.

Musically, ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ is a revelation, quite unlike anything the Beatles had heretofore recorded. Although 1966’s Revolver album had given us songs like ‘I’m Only Sleeping’ and ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’, with ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ Lennon left us in no doubt as to what he’d been taking.

The intro starts with a mellotron, and the song is composed in an unusual key with some unorthodox chords - quite difficult to play on the guitar. Certain chord progressions are avoided, leaving the listener with a sense that things really are not quite what they seem. Several elements of the song - the softly-played guitar, Ringo’s phased drums, vari-speeded multiple takes and Lennon’s breathy vocal - all contribute to a feeling of time slowing down slightly…

‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ has, of course, long since become a standard. I think I first heard it sung in a playground when I was four or five. It says a lot about the Fab Four that such a subsersive song can be accepted so readily into popular culture. But listening to this song with fresh ears is a real revelation, and if you’re one of those people who say they’re “not that gone on The Beatles”, then maybe it’s time you had a fresh listen to this (nice video too).

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Now fifties music isn’t my “bag” at all, but having recently re-visited David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, I found myself cheerfully humming this unsettling Roy Orbison piece on a regular basis. Released in a time before JFK regretted a visit to Dallas, and pretty much pre-Beatles, this is one of the few American pop songs of the era that I rate.

And I’m not sure if I’d have listened as closely had I not seen the disturbing and brilliant Blue Velvet, had not watched the villainous Frank Booth (the frankly crazy Dennis Hopper) clench his teeth and contort his face while listening to this song.

Blue Velvet focuses on the dark side of a suburbia that could have been set in the ’50s or the ’80s (it came out in 1986). Cars show off their chrome, and the music is decidedly doo-wop, but there’s a cynicism there that could only have come from “the mullet decade”. It’s like an America that has gone backwards, and the cultural reference points are beehive hairdos, oversized Buicks and Roy Orbison.

For its time, the song’s structure is very innovative. It comes together in two or three pieces that are not repeated, giving the piece an orchestral feel that is made more apparent by the gushing strings. Yet there’s something very restrained about it. Orbison cannot have the woman he wants in his waking hours - but wait until the “candy-coloured clown they call the Sandman” sends him to sleep, and then he can possess her.

The use of the song in the film is a famous moment in indie film, and one that was pretty much improvised by Dean Stockwell: karaoke to the song with a torch as a microphone, giving Stockwell’s face a ghostly glow. It’s a bravura performance, and one that obviously affects Frank deeply, while Kyle MacLachlan wonders how he got invited to the house party from hell.

Here’s the video of the complete scene, culminating in the abovementioned performance of ‘Blue Velvet’. Listen closely at the start of the video - it’s a great ad for obscure American beer Pabst Blue Ribbon, and one of those silly scenes from movies that always gets me chuckling.

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I always liked ‘Psycho Killer’ and ‘Once In A Lifetime’, probably Talking Head’s signature tunes. Being into Bowie, and especially his “Berlin trilogy”, I was bound to check out Brian Eno. While I can take or leave Eno, his production touches on Talking Heads’ Remain In Light album is something else. I was going to write about the album opener, ‘Born Under Punches’, but my brother recently got me into ‘The Great Curve’, which is even more danceable.

Remain In Light has been called a “white funk” or a “minimalist funk” album, and a lot of it was very out of step with what the new wave and post-punk groups were doing in 1980. Wikipedia refers to “funky African polyrhythms”, which to me is an extremely pretentious way of describing it. Either way, it’s a very dance-friendly album, but in a very arty, self-conscious way.

This affected, ironic knowingness is abetted by David Byrne’s lyrics, which throughout the album conjure up images of distance, ill communication, powerlessness in the face of grand schemes, systems out of sync…in short, a world that isn’t working quite right, with ghosts in the machine.

‘The Great Curve’ is a great example of Byrne’s worldview circa 1980:

“The world is here but it’s out of reach
Some people touch it…but they can’t hold on”

Behind lyrics that describe one woman’s effect on this esoteric world - the gyration of her hips causes it to spin on its orbit - is some of the best late-70s/early-80s music you’ll ever hear. With lots of “mickey guitar” (def: very low-slung, with chords played at the higher end of the register, in a very funky way), a propelling tribal drumbeat, and lots of shouting and harmonising.

Yes, another one of those tracks that are better heard than read about. Here’s the studio verion on YouTube and here’s a blistering live version from 1980, also on YouTube. If you like it, check out the Remain In Light album - a really good listen.

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Now that I’ve finally got mobile broadband in my apartment in Dublin, I can write some posts in the evening, as opposed to just lunchtime. ‘Computer World’ seems an apt choice. Taken from the Computer World album (or, as we Kraftwerk fanatics like to call it, Computerwelt, before slugging down a stein of Paulaner), this song is eerily prophetic and great music to robot-dance to (I’m just assuming).

In any case, need I say it one more time? Okay. Kraftwerk at Electric Picnic 2005 was my. Favourite. Gig. Ever.

The song kicks in with a driving, insistent drumpad percussion, as synthetic as you like. All sounds are made by plugged-in things, and the melody instantly makes an entrance. Kraftwerk songs are built like lab creations, a product of the very best German engineering, an ironic take on the creative songwriting process. While all of this is true, they also make, in their own scientific way, timeless melodies.

After the music has set the scene, the lead singer drily intones, in an extremely efficient voice:

“Interpol and Deutsche Bank, FBI and Scotland Yard”
“Business, numbers, money, people”

For anything even pretending to be a pop song, these lyrics break all convention, reading like a cross between Forbes and a business motivational speech. But the lyrics are, retrospectively, disingenuous. Kraftwerk are presaging the Internet, and the “computer world” is a logged-in network to which all of the above agencies subscribed back in 1981.

“Time, travel, communication, entertainment”

The internet has freed up time for many people (it’s also a bit of a time-waster sometimes, let’s face it); booking online is now an integral part of travel; e-mail has revolutionised communication; and anyone can find entertainment in any form on the Web.

Here’s a great user-generated (cheers ‘Dosswerks’!) video of the song here. If you like it, check out probably their best albums, The Man Machine and Trans Europe Express. There’s another thishereboogie post by another classic Kraftwerk song here.

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Between playing Latka on Taxi, sending up Italian stereotypes with his hideous Tony Clifton persona, wrestling women and getting slapped on the face by a famous wrestler on Letterman, Kaufman divided audiences across America. Those who got it thought of him as a genius of improvisational comedy, a Lenny Bruce for the ’70s and ’80s. Those who didn’t get it thought he was a dangerous nut.

‘I Trusted You’ is the best example of this comedy (although check out his famous ‘Mighty Mouse’ song, which is done very well by Jim Carrey in the Man On The Moon biopic). Set over an imbecilically simple guitar riff (A-Ab-G-Ab-A) and a bass line that echoes the main riff, Kaufman repeats the words over and over: “I trusted you, I trusted you/I trusted you, I trusted you” to the excited amusement of the crowd.

After about a minute of this comes the chorus, with the same “I trusted you” lines, this time shouted and screamed. It’s a tough one to describe how this comes across as funny - best just watch the video. If you don’t crack a grin, it’s time to have a little talk with yourself My favourite part is when he gets out into the crowd, shouting “I trusted you” and pointing at individual members of the audience. And what a great dance.

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Go on, admit it. Pete Townshend’s a legend. I mean, you only need look at the photo below to know that.

Sure, Roger Daltrey may be lead singer of The Who, but Townshend’s the main man. He wrote all the songs, handled all the interviews, and took centre stage (with Keith Moon) in his instrument destruction while Daltrey and the imperceptible Entwistle (Des has a post of one of his songs here) looked on, almost aghast.

‘Keep On Working’ is one of the songs taken from Pete’s 1979 album Empty Glass. Apparently he was going through a rough time (as the video will show), questioning his relevance in the current generation of punksters, grieving over the recently-deceased Moon, and with a heroin and alcohol problem going on too.

In the current climate (current favourite phrase on thishereboogie and the rest of Ireland) ‘Keep On Working’ is a humourous take on the British stiff upper lip and work ethic. The video shows Townshend looking terribly dishevelled in some decrepid old house, writing on a chalkboard, singing songs, trying to be productive.

The rest of this album is nothing to write home about - ‘Rough Boys’ should be heard if only out of morbid curiousity, and the rest of it can be left to gather dust. But ‘Keep On Working’ is a great tune, showing that Townshend could write winsome little-Englandness as well as any young upstart named Paul Weller. Here’s the video.

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While disgustedly pondering Tottenham Hotspur’s latest descent into turmoil, I took my mind off things by pondering the best song ever written about football. Of course, being a Spurs fan (it puts years on you, I swear), it had to be the charming novelty song (some would say it’s not so charming, and Arsenal fans would use appropriately colourfully dismissive language) penned by Chas ‘n’ Dave for Spurs’ 1981 FA Cup odyssey.

Now I hear disagreement at the back. New Order’s ‘World in Motion’, the theme for England’s 1990 World Cup, the best song ever? Please. Cheesy synths and a self-help lyric does not a classic make, even if John Barnes gets to rap in it. And there are close-ups of Peter Beardsley.

No, ‘Ossie’s Dream’ is the best. Penned by those cheeky Cockney chappies Chas ‘n’ Dave, the song (as is the wont of all football songs) make unrealistic claims about Tottenham’s superiority, and features the entire squad (with some female totty thrown in for the cameras) singing along to a drunken barrel-house piano.

Here’s the video, with the protagonist, Ossie Ardiles, looking suitably uncomfortable. And, for the record, we need to play 4-4-2, get a top-class striker, and get a bloody defensive midfielder that plays and shouts like Roy Keane. Can you hear me Juande?

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I’m really liking Klaxons at the minute. Their Myths of the Near Future album (which gets an unfair dissing on rateyourmusic) updates early ’90s rave music and staples it to solid pop grooves, brilliant harmonies, and quasi-mystical lyrics to brilliant effect.

‘Two Receivers’, the first song on the album, starts with a grungy drumbeat that seems to come from the ether, before bass and cascading keyboards announce the introduction to Klaxons’ worldview:

“Krill edible oceans at their feet
A troublesome troop out on safari
A lullaby holds their drones in sleep“

I’m not even going to try to interpret this, but the alliteration and phrasing of the lyrics work very well with the song and backing harmonies. With song titles like ‘Atlantis to Interzone’, ‘Golden Skans’, ‘Totem Timeline’ and ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’ (nice to see fellow Pynchon fans), it’s safe to say that many of the lyrics are digressive in-jokes and meanderings.

But one meaning I got from this song was a 2001: A Space Odyssey-style set of ‘receivers’, positioned “nearly out of reach” and tracking everything that humankind does, to report back to base camp. Hmmm…very profound.

The music, like all of Myths of the Near Future, is layered yet very hummable. Listen to this three or four times and you start to notice things in the music, the keyboard riff beneath the keyboard riff. It’s difficult to know what their next album will be like - they should be jailed for starting the ‘fluorescent adolescent’ craze in the first place - but ‘Two Receivers’ and the rest of the Myths… album are worthy debuts. Listen to the song on this YouTube video.

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I really got into Pavement when I was in my teens. Growing up in the middle of the Irish countryside, touch-me-I’m-sick bands like Nirvana or earnest, hand-on-heart-despair bands like Pearl Jam (sorry Des, I know they’re a favourite!) didn’t do an awful lot for me. My music taste focused on three groups: Sex Pistols, Velvet Underground and these boys, Pavement.

‘Cut Your Hair’ is a classic example of their ability to glue a great melody together to some sparkling wit. A commentary on the explosion of the “hair, flannel shirts and sincerity” groups that came up in the wake of grunge’s pioneers, the harmonies that open the song and come up after the choruses are inspired, like a slowed down Beach Boys on helium.

The lyrics always get me laughing, just for the surrealism. Lines like “hit me wearing muzzles”, “did you see the drummer’s hair” and (my favourite) “NO BIG HAIR!” just seem to come out of nowhere. It’s as if the band sat down to write a poppy song, but just kept getting sidelined into weird tangents that come out in the lyrics. This isn’t the only Pavement song that does that - check out ‘Silence Kit’ (or, as I always thought it was called, ‘Silent Kid’), the first song on the Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain album.

The whole Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain album is a really good listen, and their debut, Slanted & Enchanted is also recommended. Here’s the video for ‘Cut Your Hair’ - a treat in itself. “No big hair!”

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