Songs That I Thought Were Literally Perfect Part I: Space's Money

There are times in my life when I feel like I have stumbled across the perfect song. One of those times was when I was in London when I was seventeen and discovering indie British music. I bought their debut album Spiders from HMV in November 1997 and was blown away by the track Money. I remember having what I considered to be a very important conversation with a girl named Tracy about how it was a perfect song. Subversive lyrics, a great melody, a pre-chorus that you think is the chorus and then BOOM, an awesome ascending chorus. (Yes, I still remember my arguments for the song.)

I don't have Spiders any more and I have no idea what happened to it in the post-mission haze. For some reason, it came to mind tonight and I had to revisit it to see if that precocious American in Britain knew what he was talking about.

Prognosis: It's a funny novelty song and nothing more. So much for that.

Dang it.

War on Drugs: Lost in the Dream

This is a unification album.

The moment it began, I was transported to the summer of 1996, taking summer's Driver's Ed and listening to classic rock with Dave Baugh as we slowly crept around the driving range in a really long Dodge sedan that made parallel parking a nightmare. We were supposed to have the radio set to the AM frequency of the driver's ed instructor who yell instructions at various cars from a tower. But we figured out that there was one area to practice three-point turns that was behind the tower, and it was there that we would flip the radio to classic rock.

Everyone I knew had a period where they switched over from listening to whatever was current to mining classic rock. And listening to classic rock meant that you crossed over into listening to things that your dad listened to, so suddenly there you were, in the car with your dad, singing together to Steve Miller Band.

The sound of Lost in the Dream is the sound of an American rock band from the late 1970s/early 1980s that was either from the Midwest or the East. It's the sound of timeless American rock. It sits with Wilco's Sky Blue Sky in that way. Perhaps the moment that most evokes that sound is the saxophone that comes in at the end of Eyes to the Wind and in general, I cannot stand saxophones (it's the reason why I can't listen to any early Bruce Springsteen album because when Clarence Thomas [obviously not Clarence Thomas but I like to think that Clarence Thomas moonlighted with the Boss while being a lawyer man during the day] starts blowing, I am out), but the saxophone comes in so quietly that I am okay with it while it makes me think that it's about time for me to listen to Foreigner again.

The whole album sounds effortless and timeless and, like Sky Blue Sky, the effortless feeling is because of the guitars. I don't know how to describe it, but the guitarist is not bound by chords, but is operating on the guitar as if it is a piano generating constant melodic lines. That might not even be what is happening on the album. I might be totally wrong. But that's what it sounded like to me and from the very first song, I felt like I was in the hands of professionals who knew that they were doing something great and had the ability to do it.

This is a unification album because it's a contemporary classic rock album that sits astride the multitude of rock genres and time. This is an album for 16 year olds who are tired of boys in skinny jeans making moronic EDM and for 64 year olds who have grown bored with their 1970s LPs and for everyone in between. In a just world (or a world of 30 years ago), this would sell 10 million albums and would inspire countless fathers and sons to reunite, attend concerts together, and play that game of catch that they had put off for years.

It's not a just world.

A Listener's Experience Review of The War on Drugs' Lost in the Dream

(This review is a departure of style for me.  Listening to Lost in the Dream was a very different experience for me compared to our other album reviews—one that, consequently, produced a different review.  I don’t go song by song—I don’t grade the album, I don’t give it a score.  Part of that is because I’m really not smart enough or experienced enough to talk about this album in the way it should be talked about.  All I can write about is what I know—which in this case is my listening experience.)

From the get go, the influences on this album are obvious and I made a snap judgment on The War on Drugs that reaches back to my experience with music starting in the 1970’s.  I don’t like this music.  I don’t like this kind of music.  It’s slow and boring.  It’s not satisfying to me.  It is cigarettes and cheap beer and guys who work at auto parts stores (at least the sensitive guys; the other guys listen to AC/DC); it's torn, dusty denim and beat up cowboy boots; it’s country for people who live in areas of our nation where country isn’t king; it’s playing a late night set at the bar on the county line when half your band doesn’t show up and then driving your 1975 El Camino home to pass out on the couch.  That’s what this music is and I’ve never liked it.

It’s fun to write about music I don’t like.  There are lots of jokes and silly comparisons.  I was planning this whole thing in my head while I listened to the album the first couple times through.  This review was going to lead with “Dire Straits met Mike and the Mechanics at a party at the bowling alley and got drunk and made a baby and that baby grew up to be The War on Drugs.”  My finale was going to be something like, “This album is the soundtrack of an unauthorized Bob Dylan biopic with songs written and performed by Bryan Adams.”  Funny.  Real funny.

But this is what really happened: I listened to Lost in the Dream.  Then I listened to it again.  And then, during the third time through the album, while I was listening to the song “Lost in the Dream,” I stopped what I was doing and stood still in the middle of the room.  In that stillness my jokes ran out; the comparisons disappeared; the snappy lines were suddenly…embarrassing.  The album stood alone.  Out of reach.  Out of reach, you see?  In an instant I was…irrelevant.  I didn’t matter.  My likes and dislikes, my history, present—they didn’t matter.  My thoughts, my filters, my memories.  It didn’t matter what I thought or what I brought to the album.  The album was out of reach.  The album was beyond me.  I was free to look upon the album and see it for what it is.  And what I see is a very finely crafted album.  It is a very fine work of art.  This is a special work. 

There is something that has appealed to me—especially the last ten years or so—about the way lo-fi, messy, hectic albums reflect the reality of true life.  I’ll always love Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? for that reason.  It’s so approachable, so relatable.  It’s the holy mess of regular life.  And I would never want it to be re-recorded.  Ever.  But, on the other end of the spectrum, this album is so incredibly well crafted.  And that doesn’t mean it negates the value or importance of lo-fi or other genres, but it’s given me a new appreciation for the craft of recording music and for musicians who are more than guys hacking out songs in a basement.    

One can read the history of the recording of this album so I won’t go into it—only to say Adam Granduciel worked hard on this album for a long time.  This album should be a textbook for musicianship for young bands.  Youngsters: this degree of craftsmanship is what happens when an artist works and is patient and is uncompromising and is not self-indulgent.  The songs contribute to the narration and fit and they work and the album, as a whole, works tremendously.  And I cannot deny the craft.  Even the stupid freaking saxophone parts are perfect in their sphere.

Maybe it is timing.  For me, the importance of timing cannot be overstated when it comes to me determining whether music is great or pedestrian.  It’s all about where I am in my life when I hear it; it’s about what I need; it’s about whether or not I’m prepared for it.  Maybe I needed this album in my life right now.  Yes, I did need it.  I know that because, having listened to it, I’m changed.

All the name-dropping that reviewers have done in relation to this album is dead on.  Bob Dylan, The Eagles, Neil Young, Don Henley, Tom Petty, Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Dire Straits, John Mellencamp, Bob Segar, Yes, etc. forever.  (And I’ll stand by the Mike and the Mechanics and Bryan Adams references I made above; in addition I’ll throw in musical style references to The Cure and James and Pink Floyd.) But this album is never about copycatting or goofing on a progenitor.  This album is about operating within a tradition for the sake of the beautiful expression of the form. All the five star reviews are right.  It deserves five stars.  It deserves all the stars.  The music is strong and the lyrics are interesting (sometimes brilliant: “I’m in my finest hour.  Can I be more than just a fool?”) and the atmosphere they create together is exciting and appealing.  But the question of whether or not I “like it” is irrelevant because the craft of the whole transcends the import of the parts.  It’s the craft.  I am irrelevant.  The beautiful expression of the form thrills me and leaves me standing still in the middle of a room—captivated and listening.  And I love it for that.  I love it.