sing your life; any fool can think of words that rhyme

This is the second in a continuing series of posts about 'albums that have changed me.' The first post in the series appeared here, and has garnered a lot of hits and conversations back-channel. We'll see if this can do it justice.

Dean Martin makes my soul ache. I just cannot stand to hear his voice anymore. There was a time, however, when I sought it out. I knew someone who thought that ole Dino was the epitome of cool, and emulated him in many ways.

As much as I would like to say it's his version of "Once in Love with Amy" that I look back upon most fondly, it is instead a brief, obscure song by Mary Taylor that calls back those times: "Today is Not the Day," from 1966's The Hit Sound of Dean Martin. The song's lyrics are clever, even a little silly, and paint an accurate picture of that time in my life...which was not so smooth.

My parents have long been fans of James Taylor. I grew up listening to his songs, gentle and compelling, at Christmastime and all year 'round. My favorite album was his Greatest Hits from 1976, which is odd since I'm not usually a fan of best-of albums. That version of "Something in the Way She Moves" is the sweetest one I've heard, and always makes me feel like I'm hearing it for the very first time.

I always had the impression that Steve Miller Band's Greatest Hits 1974-1978 (1978) was a real classic, and that pretty much everybody thought so. It was one of those CDs (well, at the time it was one of those LPs or tapes) that was on repeat at every college party, and we all knew the words to every song--and would sing along.

Now I've come to understand that's not the case. There are people who don't know anything about it, and even people who know it but just don't like it. That's hard for me to appreciate, because it really was such a big part of late adolescence for me: courtship and romance, partying and letting loose, testing the waters in all sorts of ways. My favorite track is "True Fine Love."

Duran Duran released Rio on May 10, 1982. I'm fairly certain that I was standing in line at our local mall's record store that very day to buy it, with a pocketful of hard-earned snow-shoveling money in my size 6 Slim jeans pocket and a metallic smile on my face that could be seen three counties away. I played it absolutely incessantly, which must have driven my parents insane; my dad used to say that it was impossible to understand a word, which was the only thing that made it possible to listen to it at all.

I was just pretentious enough to claim that "The Chauffeur" was my favorite song off the album, but it's really always been "Save a Prayer." (Read a rather hilariously melodramatic recounting of the making of the music video here.)

It's not cool in many (most? all?) circles to be a fan of Dennis Miller these days. He's sort of fallen off the far edge of comedy, politics, and prehaps sanity (though he's still on the near side of Victoria Jackson). Way back when, though, in 1988, he released what may be the best comedy set ever: The Off-White Album. I was gifted with a dubbed copy of the cassette, but I wore it out by playing it over and over in my car. I bought a copy, and then another of the CD when I made that switch. Lines from that set still go through my mind at totally inopportune moments, and they still make me laugh. Good stuff.

To try to choose "the best" R.E.M. album would be like asking a mother to select her favorite child: maybe it's theoretically possible, but it's certainly nothing I'd want to be caught or quoted doing. I hesitated to even use them on this list because their entire catalog is terrific, in all sorts of ways, and I've loved them faithfully since I (sadly late in life) first heard "So. Central Rain" as a senior in high school. So, Reckoning? Document? Green? Automatic for the People? Monster?

Nope--for me, it's Out of Time, from 1991. "Near Wild Heaven" and "Me in Honey" are great songs--and "Belong" is one of those pieces that, once I heard it, it never really left me.
"To breathe at the thought of such freedom"

Semisonic makes me happy. I don't go around seeking the happy, you know, but this band still takes me there, and that's all right with me. I own every release they've put out, including the solo stuff by Dan Wilson and some Japanese versions of their LPs. They debuted with Great Divide, which rocks but maybe suffers a little from excess earnestness. Their third release, All About Chemistry, is lighter and in some ways a little silly. The one in the middle, their 1998 album, Feeling Strangely Fine, is the one that I love the most. Every track is worth a good listen--right now I wish I could be blaring "She Spreads Her Wings," but it's far too late at night to be blaring anything. Another day!

My upbringing was evenly mixed between rock (what would now be termed "classic" rock) and country, with enough classical, jazz, and just about every other genre to keep things fresh. I still listen to a fair amount of country, but I'm pretty picky about it--I want my country to be "real country" and not straddling the rock line (nor the bluegrass line, but that's another issue for another day). I first started listening to Toby Keith around when How Do You Like Me Now?! came out in 1999. I was married at the time, and my former spouse was not a fan of country music at all. I was forced (not by him, but by the constraints of the relationship) to tone down my enthusiasm for the music. Later, when our relationship ended, I started to seek it out more and more...and the lyrics to the title song off this album started to take on a deeper meaning for me.

I love Counting Crows. Every CD they've put out has seemed new and fascinating and written just for me. I play them endlessly, memorize the songs without realizing I've done it, and sing them in my sleep. (Except the cover of the one about the parking lot, which, regardless of who's singing it, makes me want to break something. Not their fault. But seriously, enough with that one already.)

Anyway, their best-of, Films About Ghosts, is the top of the heap. It would be in my carry-on if I were to be dropped off on a desert island. "Anna Begins,"

(every time she sneezes I believe it's love

and oh, Lord--

I'm not ready for this sort of thing)

"A Long December,"

(I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself

To hold on to these moments as they pass)

and especially "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby"

(When I see you,

a blanket of stars covers me in my bed)

require it.

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Comments? Questions? Arguments? Suggestions?

[the title quotation is by Morrissey]

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extra: Maynard Ferguson "Fireshaker"



If you know why it's here, then you know why it's here, because it's you I'm thinking of. If not, then just enjoy it with my compliments.