THE OVER/UNDER

Following on the (platform) heels of our Funkadelic Over/Under Order cheap modafinil online, , this week’s Parliament entry presents a special challenge. First of all, every single one of these songs—even the overrated entries—is fantastic. Phenomenal. “Epic, Colorado CO Colo. ,” as the kids say (too often) nowadays. Whips, to put it succinctly, Købe modafinil, that ass. And yet, I want to argue that the weird terrain of Parliament’s full discography has been badly served by the canonization of a handful of cuts that, since the 1990s, have been played and replayed on best-of and live compilations or licensed for use in movies and commercials or mined for samples for other songs, order cheap modafinil online. Ground zero for that phenomenon is, of course, Dr. Dre’s The Chronic, Køb discount modafinil, the 1992 album that inaugurated the G-funk aesthetic and introduced younger crossover fans to George Clinton’s skewed vision, rebooting his music for a next-gen audience. A fair amount of cheese is always grated in the comment threads of these Over/Under columns about how “overplayed” doesn’t equal “overrated, Order modafinil, ” and I’m with that, absolutely. But when the canonical songs come to represent a band in the popular mind to the virtual exclusion of all others, there’s a serious imbalance that needs to be dealt with, and Parliament’s house-jam and singalong tracks represent only a part of what made the band one of the most important soul/funk outfits of the '70s, Um modafinil online. Order cheap modafinil online, So put a glide in your stride and a dip in your hip, and let’s pop the hood on the Mothership. There’s a lot of music under there that we haven’t heard in too long.

:: The Five Most Overrated Parliament Songs
1. “Give Up The Funk (Tear The Roof Off The Sucker)” (1975)
Mothership Connection was the album on which Parliament fully nailed down the arrangement it would adopt until its disbanding in the early '80s: interlocking vocal lines, Discount modafinil, fat-ass bass runs and endlessly repeatable dancehall chants. (It also was the first album to pose the Great Divide that dogged the band’s aesthetic: the vast gulf between those who have the funk and those who emphatically do not.) “Give Up The Funk” is a great jam, but like many of Parliament’s heavily sampled and copped songs, it’s got a single move. It’s a genius move, but many more interesting songs languish in the archives while “Give Up The Funk” gets trotted out again and again for extended mixes and live performances, order cheap modafinil online. It’s one of the band’s warhorses, Nebraska NE Nebr. , and a stone crowd favorite, but allow me to suggest that even a warhorse ought to get brushed and stabled every now and then, lest it run itself ragged and straight into the glue factory. Billiga modafinil apotek, [audio:GiveUpTheFunk.mp3]

2. “P-Funk (Wants To Get Funked Up)” (1975)
Apart from being the Parliament track with the highest ratio of the word “funk” to total words in the song, “P-Funk (Wants To Get Funked Up)” is irreversibly yoked to Dr. Dre’s “Make my blunt the chronic” run on The Chronic. Order cheap modafinil online, It’s unfair to bust the song solely on that score, but long before Dre, P-Funk had become a recognized reference point in popular culture, even turning up as a joke in Spike Lee’s film School Daze. When a song is so well known it can serve as a punch line, Texas TX Tex. , it’s likely come to overshadow other equally deserving tracks.
[audio:PFunk.mp3]

3. “Do That Stuff” (1976)
One of Parliament’s poppier songs, Ohio OH , from the cartoony The Clones Of Dr. Funkenstein, “Do That Stuff” is a simple, brass-heavy party track, and on that level it succeeds admirably, cheap modafinil overnight delivery. Included on 1984 singles compilation Greatest Hits (The Bomb)—at a tight 50 minutes, still the best entry point for uninitiated listeners, if any still exist—it’s a standout, order cheap modafinil online. Even held up against some of the other tracks on Clones, however (notably “Gamin’ On Ya!” and “I’ve Been Watching You [Move Your Sexy Body]"), it’s something of a placeholder, Cheapest modafinil, and not at all representative of that album’s greatest strengths.
[audio:DoThatStuff.mp3]

4. “Mothership Connection (Star Child)” (1975)
Everything in me wants to bash my typing fingers with a ball-peen hammer rather than include “Mothership Connection” as an overrated track. The shit’s both formally flawless and essential to the Parliament canon, from the introduction of the Star Child persona to the “if you hear any noise, North Dakota ND , it’s just me and the boys” run to the “let me ride” bridge. Order cheap modafinil online, But just behind the superior “Flash Light,” the title track from the first truly great Parliament album is the most over-mined, overplayed song in the band’s catalog. And for that reason, if for no other, Order modafinil no rx, I wish the legions who revere the endlessly sampled and referenced “Mothership Connection” would follow that signpost into the deeper layers of the band’s music. Sadly, it’s become the “Like A Rolling Stone” of funk: a cut whose ubiquity often serves as a too-handy avatar for the group’s larger achievement.
[audio:MothershipConnection.mp3]

5. “Aqua Boogie (A Psychoalphadiscobetabioaquadoloop)” (1978)
“Aqua Boogie” is the best-known track—the signature single, ordering modafinil without prescription, actually—from Motor Booty Affair, Parliament’s most unfairly overlooked album. And here’s the rub: Listen to the song in sequence with the others on this “overrated” list, and apart from the “Sir Nose” spoken interjections that thread through the song, not much differentiates it from the groove-and-repeated-lyric aesthetic that dominates the group’s most popularly beloved numbers, order cheap modafinil online. But the trick to these bombastic, Buy modafinil online without prescription, memorable songs in their original settings (and Parliament was always, always a better “album” band than a “singles” band) is that they marked a focused point on the records, surrounded as they always were by weirder, stranger workouts. They achieved a distillation of the albums’ themes into a catchy, buy modafinil no prescription, groove-heavy five or six minutes. On Motor Booty Affair, “Aqua Boogie” is the moment when the funk overwhelms the funk-negative Sir Nose, Osta modafinil online, and it’s a joyous, hysterically funny song. Ripped from that context, it’s difficult to hear “Aqua Boogie” as anything but a revisiting of similar approaches on other records. Order cheap modafinil online, That’s not only a limiting of the song; it’s a misrepresentation of Parliament’s unique creative spirit.
[audio:AquaBoogie.mp3]

:: The Five Most Underrated Parliament Songs
1, Jotta modafinil verkossa. “Come In Out Of The Rain” (1970)
How long has it been since you heard Osmium, Parliament’s earliest album. Well, Nevada NV Nev. , it wouldn’t matter; “Come In Out Of The Rain” wasn’t on that record, but it dates from the same period and has been thankfully included on First Thangs, the Fantasy label’s cheesily titled reissue of Osmium with half a dozen bonus tracks. The memorable chorus of “Come In Out Of The Rain” showed up on subsequent releases inserted into other songs, but the original version is a great, modafinil without a prescription, politically conscious soul workout from the days before Parliament had settled into its funk groove. In addition to providing the earliest view into Funkadelic and Parliament’s divergent paths, the song manages to tout comprehensive social change while calling the militant wing of the protest movement on using rhetoric that was as violent as America’s Vietnam-era hawk contingent, order cheap modafinil online.
[audio:ComeInOutOfTheRain.mp3]

2. “Mr. Arizona AZ Ariz. , Wiggles” (1978)
See entry number five above for a précis of Motor Booty Affair; that album’s conceit was all about water, swimming, sinking into the briny depths of funk. And “Mr. Order cheap modafinil online, Wiggles,” the opening cut, laid out its loose approach in a self-assured mélange of the themes and voices that were to recur throughout the record. The first tracks on any Parliament album are always worth paying attention to, Maine ME Me. , as George Clinton approached them as overtures, opening sallies that telegraphed the records’ overarching themes. “Mr. Buy modafinil cod, Wiggles” initially doesn’t sound like much, but the wobbly, wiggly, squirmy leadoff provides a coy glimpse of the confident metaphor that holds the record together, and it does so better than virtually any introduction to any Parliament album, order modafinil online.
[audio:MrWiggles.mp3]

3. “Sir Nose D’Voidoffunk” (1977)
The incredible Funkentelechy Vs, order cheap modafinil online. The Placebo Syndrome is Parliament’s giant step, a blend of high-concept lyrics and ass-shaking arrangements, and the album is bookended by two unforgettable tracks, “Bop Gun (Endangered Species)” and “Flash Light.” But “Sir Nose D’Voidoffunk” and the similarly extended “Funkentelechy” are that album’s most criminally overlooked moments, and taken together for their combined 20-plus minutes, they illustrate what propelled Parliament light years ahead of its contemporaries. Imagine Kool And The Gang, fine as that outfit was, attempting anything like “Sir Nose.” Unthinkable.
[audio:SirNoseDVoidoffunk.mp3]

4. “Night Of The Thumpasorus People” (1975)
This is the victory-lap cut on Mothership Connection, unfairly muted by that album’s better-known tracks. Order cheap modafinil online, Sequenced in the final position on the record, “Night” sounds like a post-workout stretch, unsuited to memorable singalong like Mothership’s better-known songs—indeed, most of its lyrics are nonsense syllables—but somehow it spins like Clinton and Co. understand exactly what they’ve accomplished on Mothership and are content to leave the stage with an audience-pleasing vamp, driven by horns (courtesy of Maceo Parker and Fred Wesley, late of the J.B.’s and the phenomenal Becker Brothers) and Bernie Worrell’s magnificent synthesizer runs.
[audio:NightOfTheThumpasorusPeople.mp3]

5. “The Goose” (1974)
And here’s the look-back moment, from Up For The Down Stroke. Where the rest of that album pointed toward Parliament’s reinvention of funk for the '70s and beyond, “The Goose” takes a final moment to look over its shoulder into the mélange of acid rock and R&B from which the band grew. It’s slow and stretchy, like the most thoughtful of Parliament/Funkadelic’s work to that point, but it also reaches forward into the uncharted territory the band was about to embark upon. Very few bands had pointed the way—James Brown’s Apollo albums provided the most reliable map—but Parliament drove the rest of the route so confidently that after Get Up For The Down Stroke, there wouldn’t be many familiar landmarks by which to navigate. No one’s going to put “The Goose” up as Parliament’s most indelible performance, but as it’s the last bridge to be burned between that group and Funkadelic, it bears a historical weight that ought to be acknowledged.
[audio:TheGoose.mp3]

—Eric Waggoner

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Even as teenagers spazzing around in their suburban Philadelphia homes, Dean Ween (Mickey Melchiondo) and Gene Ween (Aaron Freeman) offered a giddily irresponsible, snot-fueled antidote to the tiresome PC earnestness that characterized popular music throughout the 1990s. Ween began in the mid-'80s as a lo-fi bedroom act, producing a handful of unhinged four-track cassette releases and rapidly moved up the indie-label chain—first Twin/Tone, then Shimmy-Disc—to land an inexplicable major-label contract with Elektra for the group’s third “official” album, 1992's remarkable Pure Guava. Since then, on both label-attached records and a dizzying stream of self-released recordings, Ween has delighted in nothing more than vivisecting pop music forms and twisting them into new shapes—or pushing them far beyond their logical endpoints. In addition to their astonishing talent for mimicry and parody, however, Freeman and Melchiondo are also (and this is a point that’s rarely been made with sufficient emphasis) musicians—and students of pop music—of the very first order. Anyone who’s heard the group tackle note-perfect readings of '70s sap rock with a straight face (such as Billy Joel’s “Honesty” or Wings’ “Band On The Run”) has to recognize that for all its smartass, for two decades Ween has been one of the smartest, most exceptionally gifted bands in rock. That may seem an odd claim to make about a group so energetically dedicated to absurdist goofing, but to sink into Ween’s catalog is to nuzzle the brown underbelly of pop-music history and hear what the top-40 hit parade might have sounded like after a steady diet of whippets, Ballantine’s scotch and carry-out chimichangas. On the occasion of the 20th anniversary of debut GodWeenSatan: The Oneness, here’s our take on the most overrated and underrated songs in Ween’s catalog. Hail the Boognish, mang. :: The Five Most Overrated Ween Songs 1. “Piss Up A Rope” (1996) The idea behind 12 Golden Country Greats, Ween’s honky-tonk record, is unalloyed genius. The band recorded the album—10 songs total—in Nashville, with a staggering roster of Music City session legends, including the Jordanaires and Charlie McCoy. To date, it’s Ween’s only album-length genre exercise, and though it wisely runs shorter than most of its other records, there are a couple of moments where the joke wears thin. “Piss Up A Rope,” one of the straighter chuckles on the record, is one. The punch line here is a send-up of the macho swagger of he-man, my-woman-done-me-wrong braggadocio, but after the cheeky first verse, the rest of the song falls a little flat. Unlike other tracks on the record—the equally bratty but smarter “Mr. Richard Smoker,” for instance—the song doesn’t do much to unpack the genre other than stretch its conventions to the limit. At its best, 12 Golden Country Greats pushes country forms into uneasy territory. Though it’s a good joke, “Piss Up A Rope” is one that passes quickly. [audio:PissUpARope.mp3] 2. “Ocean Man” (1997) The slower demo version of “Ocean Man,” heard here, is actually a little more interesting than the album cut, heard on aquatic concept record The Mollusk. Sluggish and watery, the vocals seem to burble up from the sea floor, coating the track with a brackish slime that’s missing from the final, cleaner version. The Mollusk is filled with excellent songs, as are all of Ween’s albums, but especially if you hear it in sequence, “Ocean Man” doesn’t quite meet the standards of the best work on the record. That it’s become one of the album’s better-known songs, overshadowing more interesting moments like “I’m Dancing In The Show Tonight” and “The Golden Eel,” is something of a mystery. [audio:OceanMan.mp3] 3. “Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)” (1994) Chocolate And Cheese contains three of the most profoundly upsetting rock songs ever recorded: “The HIV Song,” “Mister, Would You Please Help My Pony?” and “Spinal Meningitis.” By any standard of measurement, that’s an incredible hat trick—and one no other band could pull off, in my estimation. “Spinal Meningitis” gets nosed out by the other two, but mainly on style points. The lyrics of “Mister” paint as disturbing a picture as you’ll ever want to imagine in pop music, while the happy carnival music of “HIV” initially makes the jaw drop in disbelief. If your reaction moves to laughter, even on multiple hearings of the song, it’s an uneasy, shaky laughter. The silly “smile on, mighty Jesus” pun in “Spinal Meningitis” blunts the force of the song more fully than the others, and on multiple listenings, it’s the only one of the three that doesn’t get uglier the more you hear it. Granted, that’s like sporting the least horrifying medical abnormality in the sideshow, but who puts these three deranged songs on a single record and doesn’t expect us to rank them? [audio:SpinalMeningitis.mp3] 4. “Bananas And Blow” (2000) White Pepper is Ween’s least perverse record, which may be the reason “Bananas And Blow” comes off less successfully than it might. On any other album, the song would have been a light entry, a straightforward Jimmy Buffett take (Freeman has called it a Bob Weir riff), but on White Pepper, nestled among distinctly milder genre-twisting tunes, the easy parody is made to carry more weight than it’s able to support. [audio:BananasAndBlow.mp3] 5. “You Fucked Up” (1990) Here’s the starting gun, according to the “official” discography: the opening shot on GodWeenSatan. At just more than 90 seconds, “You Fucked Up” is beloved by fans of Ween’s rawer, punkier side, and it’s a great leadoff track. But what was remarkable even about Ween’s earliest recordings was the band’s deconstruction of genres. In that context, “You Fucked Up” isn’t the most creatively grating cut on the album. I’d rate “Papa Zit” or the second half of “Birthday Boy” above it. [audio:YouFuckedUp.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Ween Songs 1. “So Long, Jerry” (1996) Recorded during the 12 Golden Country Greats sessions and originally released as the b-side of “Piss Up A Rope,” “So Long, Jerry” is one of Ween’s most moving performances, another aspect of the band’s art that rarely gets the mention it deserves. As much as they love exploding genres, they’re fans of the genres they explode (the joke wouldn’t work otherwise), and “So Long, Jerry” is as heartfelt a song as they’ve ever recorded. Reportedly a tribute to Jerry Garcia, who died the year before the release of the album, “So Long, Jerry” is a criminal omission from its final track list. And while I’m yapping about it, so is “I Got No Darkside,” which also dates from these sessions and is available on several unofficial compilations. [audio:SoLongJerry.mp3] 2. “With My Own Bare Hands” (2007) You could flog a thesaurus for a solid hour and never come up with enough adjectives for this cut from La Cucaracha, one of the most punishing tracks in the Ween repertoire. The song hits like a car crusher right out of the gate. There are several wonderful things about “With My Own Bare Hands,” but among my favorites are the way Freeman bum rushes the line “I’m gonna be your lawnmower/And cut your fuckin’ grass” and the liberated cock-rock nonsense lyric breakdown that occurs in the fourth verse. It’s a rare song that can send up its genre with equal parts love and smartass. Every time I hear Freeman break forth with “take a shit on the bitch and fuck hooba-jooba,” I weep with happiness. That’s just me. Oh, and also: Melchiondo’s guitar solo sticks it in and breaks it off. [audio:WithMyOwnBareHands.mp3] 3. “Pollo Asado” (1991) Full disclosure: I’m one of those Scotchgard-heads who finds The Pod to be Ween’s career high point, no pun intended. I love everything about that goddamn record, from the snotty ripoff of Leonard Cohen’s The Best Of cover art to the murky aura of the music, which sounds like it’s been coated in cough syrup. When I’m laid up on the couch with a high fever, this is my go-to album, and nothing on it sets me to laughing harder than “Pollo Asado,” a stoned-out sendup of a Mexican fast-food order set to a faux-Muzak score. Without giving anything away, the foozle-headed character voices and the senseless transaction they’re embarked on elevate the song from stoner skit into absurdist gibberish. It’s a hysterical performance and one that reveals why producer Kramer latched onto Ween the moment he saw them play live. [audio:PolloAsado.mp3] 4. “Cover It With Gas And Set It On Fire” (1993) Remember up there in the overrated section, when I talked about disturbing pop songs? I forgot to mention “Cover It With Gas,” which I first heard on double-disc live release Paintin’ The Town Brown, but which is heard in its studio version (from the Skycruiser EP) here. I haven’t the foggiest notion what this track is about, but it sums up Ween’s penchant for terror rock better than any other song I can think of. The repeated shriek of the title, the siren that wails throughout the song’s three minutes, the squalling car-crash sound effects—this is one of the most upsetting soundscapes in all of alt-rock. [audio:CoverItWithGasAndSetItOnFire.mp3] 5. “What Deaner Was Talkin’ About” (1994) After the squeal and throttle of “Cover It With Gas,” how about one of the shiniest, poppiest songs in the band’s playbook? “Pork Roll Egg And Cheese” from The Pod runs a tight second, but “What Deaner Was Talkin’ About” is likely the band’s most Beatlesesque moment; Dean Ween has identified the Beatles as his favorite band (just ahead of the Butthole Surfers), and you can hear that love in the song’s bright melody and sweetly sung vocals. And in a songbook filled with snark and darkness, “What Deaner Was Talkin’ About” stands out as a charming, affable moment—not the only one in the band’s catalog, certainly, but one of its friendliest and most congenial. [audio:WhatDeanerWasTalkinAbout.mp3]

—Eric Waggoner

Let’s just assume that the very notion of a Tom Waits Over/Under is going to split us into two camps: those who’ll be affronted that we’d even consider calling any Waits cut overrated, and those who think the whole of Waits’ career describes an overly hyped trajectory of avant-garde noodling. And, oh yeah, his fans are tiresome sycophants. Let’s accept that and skip the usual self-justifying intro. Just so you know where this particular writer falls, though, be advised that musically speaking, Waits’ 1983 giant step, Swordfishtrombones, changed my life, and that’s no exaggeration. As with most unregenerate Waits fans, my first exposure to his music felt like a smack on the side of the head. I’d been seeking out strange sounds for most of my young life to that point, but I hadn’t heard anything like Waits’ game-changing mission statement for where his muse was about to take him—away from the barrelhouse-piano-player/dive-bar-poet persona (which had become shtick by the early '80s) and deep into much stranger, sterner territory, the clangorous midnight cabaret where he’s set up shop for almost 30 years now. And it changed my listening habits, too—led me down exploratory paths I might not have been curious about if I hadn’t heard Swordfishtrombones at age 15. (An older cousin slipped the album to me. My mom, a stone Connie Francis fan, never forgave him.) The guy’s a warhorse, a legend, an icon by now. That’s inarguable. And yet, lest we fashion Waits into post-rock’s sacred cow or divine mule or whatever, let’s slip under the fence and into the old fella’s junkyard and examine the trash and treasure there to be found. :: The Five Most Overrated Tom Waits Songs 1. “Chocolate Jesus” (1999) “Chocolate Jesus” is the closest thing to a smash hit in all of Waits’ second-act career. He’s played it repeatedly on live television and in special appearances, gradually building a whole intro riff around the song’s conceit, and when you listen to the live recordings—this one’s from the “Glitter And Doom” tour’s stop in Atlanta in 2008—you’ll hear the audience go fuggin’ nuts every time he brings it. People just seem to love the almighty hell out of “Chocolate Jesus.” And it’s not a bad song. But it’s not all that great, either. It’s just an innocuous little joke about wrappin’ your savior up in cellophane and packaging religion for mass consumption. Waits’ long ramble to David Letterman about how he and his father-in-law were going to get rich distributing “Testamints”—the candy with scripture printed on the wrapper—was actually a lot funnier. “Chocolate Jesus” seems to be becoming Waits’ “Magic Bus,” the one-off ditty that unexpectedly becomes a crowd-pleasing chestnut. Look for Waits to whip it out for his 2020 Super Bowl halftime show. [audio:ChocolateJesus.mp3] 2. “Jersey Girl” (1980) Heartattack And Vine, Waits’ dirty, electrified-blooze record, was the last wheeze of his '70s boho character. There are some excellent songs on it, but “Jersey Girl,” among the album’s most rote numbers, is the one that’s entered into the popular consciousness. Waits has been saddled by it, to some degree; several other artists, including an earnestly somber Bruce Springsteen (heard here dueting with our Jitterbug Boy), have covered it. And though only a heartless prick would deny that the song’s attempt to sex up Jersey over Noo Yawk displays a right-on-hometown spirit, in truth, the song is little more than a location-scouted retake on “Under The Boardwalk,” complete with carnival rides and sha-la-la chorus. [audio:JerseyGirl.mp3] 3. “Ol’ 55” (1973) Waits once said that the only good thing about an Eagles record is it keeps the dust off your turntable. The Eagles famously covered “Ol’ 55.” I think this tells us all we need to know about this number, on which Waits channels his inner James Taylor. When the Mellow Mafia turns an eye on your songs, it’s time to pay your tab and get the hell out of the Tropicana. [audio:Ol55.mp3] 4. “Eyeball Kid” (1999) Like “Chocolate Jesus,” this song has taken on a strange life of its own and has become a live standard. It appeared first on Mule Variations, but the Eyeball Kid and his disturbing history also turns up in songs from the Alice demos, seemingly haunting his maker’s dreams like a shade. Actually, I always thought the song works better if you hear it as a sidelong nod to the Residents, but maybe that’s just me wishing for more drama than is offered in this gone-over story of the vagaries of fame, a topic Waits has explored to much stronger effect on songs like “I’ll Take New York” and “Straight To The Top.” I have a friend who yells “More bullhorn!” in exactly the same tone as Christopher Walken’s “More cowbell!” every time he hears this song. It’s a cheap shot, but I have to say I see the point. [audio:EyeballKid.mp3] 5. “Innocent When You Dream” (1987) When Frank’s Wild Years broke, sort of, this bar-room sing-along became a set piece in the subsequent tour, with an accompanying video released separate from the excellent live film, Big Time. At the time, it seemed—and still does, if you don’t listen too closely—a handy example of Waits’ romantic bent. But the more you hear it, and considered apart from the sets and staging of the live show, the less it reveals. “Innocent When You Dream,” simple as it is, works much better as a deconstructed old Victrola recording than a sappy hearts-and-flowers croon, so here are both versions. Bar-Room Version: [audio:InnocentWhenYouDreamBarRoom.mp3] Victrola Version: [audio:InnocentWhenYouDream78.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Tom Waits Songs 1. “Buzz Fledderjohn” (1999) This song appeared as a bonus track on Japanese pressings of Mule Variations, but it got a second life when John Hammond recorded it on his estimable album of Waits covers, Wicked Grin. “Buzz Fledderjohn” has precisely one chord and a rhythmic pattern so simple it’s banal, but on the lyrical level, it’s among the most deeply strange and unsettling songs Waits has ever recorded. It’s mostly a list of the bizarre things to be found in the Fledderjohns’ yard—dogs, carp in a bathtub, weather vanes—but it’s also about the little kid who’s peeking over the fence to stare at all of those things because he just can’t help himself: “Paper’s full of stabbings, and the sky’s full of crows/She’s singing in Italian, while she’s hanging out her clothes.” This is a kid who’s figuring out how big the world is and is about to get himself into a whole bag of trouble. [audio:BuzzFledderjohn.mp3] 2. “Kentucky Avenue” (1978) Toward the end of his tenure on Asylum Records, Waits had a tendency to indulge his sentimental side. Blue Valentines is among his most capital-R Romantic records, and it occasionally gets a little syrupy. But “Kentucky Avenue” is a perfect storm of heartbreak and earnestness, a lush, verbose, sometimes Jabberwockish story that nonetheless comes off like the narrator is willing to risk everything he’s got just to run away with someone who may or may not need convincing: “I’ll take the spokes from your wheelchair and a magpie’s wings/And I’ll tie them to your shoulders and your feet.” And it’s not romantic love that’s got the singer wound up; it’s friendship, which somehow makes the stakes higher than they’d normally be. This is one of the best songs I’ve ever heard—maybe the only truly accurate one—about knowing you’ll have to leave a familiar place and wanting to take everyone you love with you, then finally accepting that that would only end in disaster. Maybe that’s what you call growing up. [audio:KentuckyAvenue.mp3] 3. “Trouble’s Braids” (1983) Swordfishtrombones tracks the progression of a fellow who, to steal a line from Hunter Thompson, has fucked up once too often and is now relegated to the outskirts of human society. Among the shortest, sparest songs on the record, “Trouble’s Braids” is the last of Waits’ voice we hear—exquisite instrumental “Rainbirds” rings down the curtain—and it sews up the repercussions of everything that’s happened on the record up to that point. “Trouble’s Braids” has always sounded to me like the inner soundtrack of a man who has to skip town in a hurry, with a single bag. Waits had written about such characters before, but Swordfishtrombones was the first time he’d gotten completely free from the stereotypical furniture of dead-end tales and just let the sounds do the talking. Listen to the crazed percussion and tell me it doesn’t sound like the frantic snapping of suitcase latches and deadbolts. [audio:TroublesBraids.mp3] 4. “Union Square” (1985) “Union Square,” from Rain Dogs, is one of Waits’ purest overviews of how good times turn bad—and get even better as a result. Every character in the song, from Sacco drinking in church to the transvestite hooker who passes even if you “go all the way,” is trying their damndest to get kicks even as the world falls down around them. And the song's downtown smartass dialogue is pitch-perfect, blurring the line between the good guys and bad guys until all we have is a crew of hardcases: “And your baby is handcuffed on the front seat/Sit right there, boy, and you relax.” One of Waits’ greatest gifts has always been the ability to tell you everything you need to know about a character in the first four lines of a song; “Union Square” paints on a much broader canvas, but considered as a snapshot of urban con artists and bustouts, it’s one of Waits’ most cinematic moments. [audio:UnionSquare.mp3] 5. “Barcarolle” (2002) Here we have, I’ll suggest, the centerpiece of Alice, Waits’ collection of songs written for stage director Robert Wilson’s adaptation of Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland. Other songs from the project may be more startling, more experimental, more bizarre, more arresting. But “Barcarolle” is simply one of the loveliest melodies Waits has ever written, and its lyrics echo the weirdest images from Lewis Carroll’s book while creating a completely different world, one in which the kids have run off, but you and I are left here with the detritus and oddments of our lovers’ history. Even in its earliest incarnation (both the demo and final versions are below), “Barcarolle” is a song with the force of years of aching and happiness behind it. Songs like this can’t be written until you’ve lived through all of that pain and joy. And Waits, who spent decades writing about loss and now seems to be writing about the stuff that outlasts loss, writes them better than anyone I can think of. Whether you’re a fan or a nonbeliever, you’ve got to recognize the rarity of that achievement. Final Version: [audio:Barcarolle.mp3] Demo Version: [audio:BarcarolleDemo.mp3]

—Eric Waggoner

Talking Heads positioned themselves in NYC’s mid-'70s downtown arts scene at the most fortunate moment possible. With one ear trained on the punk and new-wave movements and the other cocked toward the art-rock and performance-art explosions that would come in the early '80s, the Heads—David Byrne, Tina Weymouth, Jerry Harrison and Chris Franz—undertook projects far beyond the scope and ambition of most of their counterparts, everything from choreographed minimalist live shows to full-length feature films, even as the band amassed a catalog of forward-looking albums, each with a unique mood and aesthetic. As time passes, though, Talking Heads’ legacy in the popular mind is largely limited to a ubiquitous handful of songs, most notably radio staple “Once In A Lifetime,” referenced everywhere from the opening credits for second-rate movies (Nick Nolte, we’re looking in your direction) to a series of Rolling Rock commercials. That’s a shame, since Byrne and Co.’s music bridges the gap between punk’s anything-goes aesthetic and formalist art rock’s high-concept composition. So for this week’s Over/Under, we survey the “Big Country” Byrne once sang about, thereby to take the lay of the land. :: The Five Most Overrated Talking Heads Songs 1. “Psycho Killer” (1977) Qu'est que c’est? C’est the song that’s too frequently held up as the high point of the Heads’ twitchy, herky-jerky aesthetic. “Psycho Killer,” the leadoff release from debut album Talking Heads ‘77, was essentially the Heads’ entry into popular culture. Though the single only charted in the '90s, it’s since become the first reference point in talking about the band’s early development and musical approach, and the sinister cool that separated it from its late-'70s counterparts. It’s the kickoff moment for Jonathan Demme’s phenomenal concert film, Stop Making Sense, and unless anyone can correct me on this, I’m confident suggesting that it’s the Heads’ most covered song as well. There’s nothing wrong with any of that; but like many fans, I’m a little weary of the attention “Psycho Killer” gets, when other, equally strange and upsetting songs in the Heads’ catalog get short shrift. [audio:PsychoKiller.mp3] 2. “Wild Wild Life” (1986) How long has it been since you’ve seen True Stories, Talking Heads’ sweetly charming, if horribly flawed, feature-film project? Parts of the movie hold up—a lovesick John Goodman and a smarmy Spalding Gray turn in especially nice performances—but the soundtrack, unique among the Heads’ albums, tends to the formulaic. Byrne once said the soundtrack overall was a disappointment; he’d wanted the actors themselves to sing the songs, the way their characters do in the movie. But “Wild Wild Life” was released essentially as it appears in the film, so it doesn’t get a revisionist pass. Despite its pop-hit-by-the-numbers feel—or maybe because of it—“Wild Wild Life” has the distinction of being one of the Heads’ highest-charting singles, reaching number 25 on Billboard’s Hot 100. The snotty video, in which various cast and band members parodied current pop-culture icons and images (Jerry Harrison’s Prince impression is still sort of phenomenal), took MTV’s best-group-video award in 1987. Today, however, it’s hard to hear the song as anything but an aberration, a pop tune that plays like a well-planned single but displays little of the Heads’ wit or complexity. [audio:WildWildLife.mp3] 3. “Stay Up Late” (1985) “Stay Up Late” is a perverse, forthright little number about a little kid who wants to keep the baby up all night. In 1989, Byrne licensed the lyrics for a children’s book, with images by illustrator Maira Kalman. It works much better in that context. The song sports a few cool moments, like Byrne’s clever lyrical insert from the Temptations’ “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg,” and Franz drums here as well as he ever did on any of the Heads’ poppier songs. But still, taken on its own merits, “Stay Up Late” is rather a one-time joke. [audio:StayUpLate.mp3] 4. “Heaven” (1979) You know what’s great about “Heaven”? It’s all about how our professed yearning for happiness—and the methods we use to obtain it (romance, faith, finance, etc.)—often masks a deep desire to abdicate responsibility. But you know what few of the filmmakers who’ve used it, or listeners who profess to love it, ever seems to understand about “Heaven”? That it’s all about a deep desire to abdicate responsibility. Demme’s filming of the song’s arresting performance in Stop Making Sense showed he understood how to get out of the way and let Byrne and Weymouth tackle it, when they were standing in front of him. His mawkish use of the song as incidental music in 1993 AIDS drama Philadelphia, by contrast, cut the legs right out from under it. It comes, after all, from Fear Of Music, the Heads’ most paranoid album. Heard in that context, it works perfectly. Removed from that context, as it usually is, it sounds like a solemn, calm plea for respite from pain—something that it is, exactly, not. [audio:Heaven1.mp3] 5. “Swamp” (1983) I never understood the fascination with “Swamp,” from Speaking In Tongues, though I’m perfectly willing to concede I might be missing something. It sure sounds like a great Talking Heads song—deep, funky bass lines, a growly vocal from Byrne, jittery lyrics about Satan and muck and explosions, and somehow threatening nonsense images—and yet it adds up to less than the sum of its parts. There are so many other songs on the album that mine similar upsetting territory in much deeper ways—the excellent “Slippery People” and “Making Flippy Floppy,” for instance—that “Swamp” always seemed more a groove exercise than a fully fleshed out piece of music. [audio:Swamp.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Talking Heads Songs 1. “The Great Curve” (1980) Remain In Light, Talking Heads’ collaboration with producer Brian Eno, yielded two classics in “Once In A Lifetime” and “Crosseyed And Painless.” Balanced against the weight of those towering songs, this one doesn’t get a lot of play, but sewn into “The Great Curve” is everything that’s remarkable about that album. Adrian Belew’s angular guitar runs are synth-processed into long howls with the grace and fluidity of a sine curve; the lyrics are densely layered, the melodic lines tightly knotted, giving the impression of about a dozen musical patterns flashing by at once; and the percussive work is simply the best and the tightest on the record. Thirty years on, what’s most remarkable about Remain In Light is how such an aggressively techno-forward album manages to sound so human; as evidenced in the lyric “the world moves on a woman’s hips,” the band here managed to find the sexual through-line common to American rock, African rhythm and even computer programming. Not bad for a bunch of highbrow art geeks. [audio:TheGreatCurve.mp3] 2. “Love → Building On Fire” (1977) This was Talking Heads' first single, released in advance of Talking Heads 77. Despite its historical importance, “Love → Building On Fire” didn’t get compilation treatment in the U.S. until 1992’s Sand In The Vaseline collection, though a live version, heard here, appeared on The Name Of This Band Is Talking Heads in 1982. In any version, though, it’s a winner—one of the band’s freest, most good-natured moments—and for all the giddy clucking and chirping Byrne does throughout the song, it’s also a little wistful: “I can’t define love/When it’s not love /It’s not love /Which is my face /Which is a building /Which is on fire.” A lot of punk and new-wave bands refused to buy into singing about love at all; the Heads sang about it but refused to use the received language of pop romance. Here’s a love song for the modern age: urban, urbane and contentedly pessimistic. [audio:LoveBuildingOnFire.mp3] 3. “Don’t Worry About The Government” (1977) “I wouldn’t live there/If you paid me to,” sang Byrne on anti-heartland rant “The Big Country." “Don’t Worry About The Government,” to which it’s a kind little companion piece, is all about the joys of civil servitude and city living. Here’s a guy who’s so giddy about his new mod-con living space that he wants all of his pals to come by and relax in his hermitically sealed, climate-controlled rooms: “I’ll be working, working/But if you come visit, I’ll put down what I’m doing/My friends are important.” Among the most Warholian of the Heads’ songs, “Don’t Worry” doesn’t just accept the anonymity of city living as a cultural inevitability, but it embraces it as a happy alternative to the great big scary outdoors. [audio:DontWorryAboutTheGovernment.mp3] 4. “(Nothing But) Flowers” (1988) Naked, Talking Heads’ final studio album, is deeply uneven. But there are a few standout moments on it, and “(Nothing But) Flowers” is the best of these, a bouncy vision of the collapse of civilization and the retaking of the world by natural growth. In the middle of a long, slow fragmenting, the band sounds tighter here than it has since Speaking In Tongues, which is strange, given that so much of “Flowers” is about everything crumbling to earth: “And as things fell apart,” sings Byrne gleefully, “nobody paid much attention.” And I’ll put the second verse of the song (“Years ago/I was an angry young man”) up against anything else Byrne ever wrote, lyrically speaking. A billboard in love with a highway seems to me the perfect artistic summation of late-'80s advertising saturation and nowhere-fast upward mobility. “If this is paradise/I wish I had a lawnmower”: Back-to-the-land hippies and almighty-dollar capitalists alike, please take note. [audio:NothingButFlowers.mp3] 5. “Sax & Violins” (1991) First heard on the soundtrack to Wim Wenders’ film Until The End Of The World, the music for “Sax & Violins” dates from the Naked sessions, but it’s far bleaker and darker than anything on that album, and it ranks with the Heads’ starkest visions of the modern world, in which no one’s safe from damage even at the hands of those closest to them: “Mom and pop/They will fuck you up/For sure/Love so deep/Kill you in your sleep/It’s true.” By the time they’d recorded this cut, Talking Heads had progressed from art-school pickup band to one of the most eclectic groups in avant rock. “Sax & Violins” is a somber note to clock out on, but in many ways it does what the Heads did best, marrying throbbing, danceable rhythms to an aggressively modern view of the changing world. Or the end of that world, as the case may be. [audio:SaxAndViolins.mp3]

—Eric Waggoner

This came from reader Stephen Sigl, who thought it was about time MAGNET had an Over/Under on the Rolling Stones. I don’t interpret the Over/Under features in as harsh a light as most people seem to, just as long as there’s a distinction between the writer saying a song is "good but overrated" (as evidenced in the Built To Spill Over/Under)—this is good. Downright hostility toward someone’s guilty pleasure (Beck’s “Satan Gave Me A Taco”)—this is not so good. Being a Stones fan, I don’t dislike any of the overrated songs, but I do find them inessential. Here goes ... :: The Five Most Overrated Rolling Stones Songs 1. “(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction” Easily the most identifiable Stones songs ever. The riff has the legacy of being recorded by Keith Richards just before he passed out, the song was cut by the band on the fly sans horn overdubs, and it became a mega-hit despite lyrics that pushed radio standards of decency at the time. I don’t dispute this song’s greatness; it is on the top of the overrated list only because it is the one song that die-hard Stones fans generally forget exists until the encore. 2. The Brian Jones Era Hipsters who are generally down on blues-based rock do not like the Stones after '68. The infatuation with the Brian Jones era is clearly a fallen-idol/fashion issue. Unless you are still awed by '60s idealism, there is no reason to place the Jones era above the other two. 3. “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” This is probably the definitive example of a "classic song" that blows you away when you’re 14, but ends up as anathema by graduation. The length doesn’t help any, either. File under “Stairway To Heaven” for been there, done that. 4. “Wild Horses” The best (and weirdest) analogy I can come up with for including this and “Satisfaction” on the overrated list is by admitting that I went to a Fugazi show about 10 years ago with some hard-core Fugazi fans and told them (at least more than once), "I hope they play 'Waiting Room.'" That had to have been annoying, and that’s the criteria I’m using for this list. 5. “Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)” The overt urban-funk, pre-disco wah-wah pedal workout from Goats Head Soup is the album’s weakest moment, exacerbated by the aggressively topical nature of the lyrics (a theme that reached its apex on “Little Indian Girl” off Emotional Rescue). This song still gets moderate airplay, though “Fingerprint File” from It’s Only Rock 'N’ Roll is more deserving and feels more natural to its era. :: The Five Most Underrated Rolling Stones Songs 1. “Luxury” Could it be that a great riff, an unabashedly faux-Jamaican accent and a sense of novelty make this the unheralded gem off It’s Only Rock 'N’ Roll? Or maybe it’s because some of the slower songs on that album tend to drag (“Time Waits For No-One,” “If You Really Want To Be My Friend”) that this song brings the pace up and, for some reason, always strikes me as being the most unrecognized, underplayed song in the Stones' catalog. 2. “Winter” The successor to “Moonlight Mile,” though the lyrics are not as abstract. It’s still amazing: Christmas imagery, references to past Kenneth Anger-induced occult practices (bell, book and candle ... ) and Mick Jagger’s between-verses yelps (a la “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking”) add a sense of life to the overall dynamic, which is something the band has retained (on record) since Andrew Loog Oldham left. 3. The Ron Wood Era Ron Wood’s tenure with the Stones marks their most critically maligned period. Only recently have people started to come around. Whether it’s Uncut magazine begrudgingly admitting a song from Undercover onto its 50-greatest-Stones-songs list or Rob Sheffield (of all people) praising Emotional Rescue. The Stones entered their "third" phase still willing to experiment musically but with no intention of playing it safe by conventional rock-star standards, which has got to be worth something. 4. “All The Way Down” At a time when almost all their contemporaries were tailoring their music to the pre-30-something baby-boomer generation’s attempts to come to grips with its collective mortgage payments, the Stones released an '80s album that, outside of a few concessions, stayed true to the consistent formula of succinct songwriting, great guitar playing and blatantly sexual lyrics. There’s an earthiness to Jagger's singing that is a vibrant remnant of the Stones' early-'70s heyday. 5. “Tops” It’s always a revelation to hear someone mention that this song was recorded during the sessions for Exile, considering it has a sophistication no one listening to the Stones at the time would have expected. The soul element of the rhythm 'n' blues equation has always kept the Stones grounded in good songwriting and steered them clear of overbearing blues-rock banality.

Doug Martsch cannot hear you. He thinks the world has plenty of Built To Spill albums. This summer he told Pitchfork, "We're not in any hurry to put anything out. There are plenty of Built To Spill records—no one is in a hurry to hear something new." He's wrong, though. Martsch should make more albums. He should make more BTS albums, but I think that he should also start a Robert Pollard-esque program of pseudonym bands where he releases several albums a year in different styles. Remember that fantastic closing track on There's Nothing Wrong With Love that was a preview of the next Built To Spill record and it was a bunch of snippets of joke songs? That joke-song montage had a handful of tunes that were far better than a lot of bands' earnest efforts. He could do albums just like that—as a joke—and still make year-end top-10 lists. If he doesn't start recording under his own new band names, he should at least be a bit more mercenary and hire out his guitar work. More side projects and guest appearances, please. In 17 years, Built To Spill has released only seven studio albums; naturally, over that stretch of time, the band has gone through several musical phases: the early lo-fi charm of Ultimate Alternative Wavers; the poignant, small-town pop genius of There's Nothing Wrong With Love; the epic, jammy, post-rock groove of Perfect From Now On and Keep It Like A Secret. (Martsch may have saved the guitar solo and possibly even the guitar altogether on those two records.) The next two BTS albums, Ancient Melodies Of The Future and You In Reverse, though lacking the definition of the earlier LPs, found the band nestling in to its sound and couldn't have been made by any other group. Martsch has said in interviews that Built To Spill isn't innovative, that the band isn't creating anything new. And maybe he's right. But what band is? Aren't they all just a synthesis of their influences? Martsch might sound at times like J Mascis or Neil Young, but Built To Spill sounds only like Built To Spill. Though the band never found mainstream success and has yet to have a hit single, its most recent LP, There Is No Enemy, cracked the top 50 on the Billboard album chart, the highest spot for any BTS record to date. How else can we say it, Doug? More albums, please. Some of the best songs of the past 20 years are Built To Spill songs, certainly, but I can't praise them all. Look, I know what you're thinking. "Car" didn't make either list. Hit the jump to find out what did. :: The Five Most Overrated Built To Spill Songs 1. "Built To Spill" (1993) The self-titled track. Bands should never do this. It always feels forced, not to mention indulgent and clumsy. Like the titular line in a movie. Of course, audiences love to hear this Ultimate Alternative Wavers track live because it name-checks the band they're currently watching. Outside of the concert setting, it kind of takes me out of it, though. [audio:BuiltToSpill.mp3] 2. "Joyride" (1996) An adolescent punk song about heartbreak with a sense of humor. Possibly the most meta, self-conscious song since the "Song That Never Ends," though only a fraction as annoying. With the lines "This part of the song is called the second verse/Sounds just like the first verse but with different words/It only has three chords and they are A E D" and "You've heard it all before/It's the same old shit," it's a bit too much. The riff that links the verses is catchy. And I like the field recordings (the beer can opening, the birds chirping, engines revving and then the sound of the car crashing), and the way they fit in with the music and overall song is great. Unfortunately, the kind of snotty way Martsch sings it, combined with some of the lyrics, makes me cringe and outweighs all the positives. [audio:Joyride.mp3] 3. "Fly Around My Pretty Little Miss" (2001) I'll admit the first time I heard this Ancient Melodies Of The Future track, it made me very happy. It had been a few years since anything had been released by the band, and out of nowhere it dropped this upbeat gumdrop. The song could be an Apples In Stereo song. After repeated listening, though, it feels emotionally thin compared to some of Built To Spill's other really great pop songs ("The Weather," "Twin Falls," "Car"), not to mention it sounds overproduced and gimmicky. It's surprising "Fly Around" didn't become a huge hit single or at least soundtrack a commercial, considering how catchy the melody is. I'll be trying to get it out of my head for days. [audio:FlyAroundMyPrettyLittleMiss.mp3] 4. "Center Of The Universe" (1999) Don't look now. Thankfully, this one is under three minutes. The chunky lead octave riff that opens this song reminds me of great headaches I've had throughout my life. It's a bit out of tune and sea sick. A song about not being able to get your point across. Built To Spill has better songs about the same subject. The weakest spot on Keep It Like A Secret, the band's best album. [audio:CenterOfTheUniverse.mp3] 5. "Stop The Show" (1997) I'm gonna say it: Perfect From Now On is overrated. Recently resurrected by the band for a tour of full-album performances, the record is too jammy and the songs are too long and sleepy compared to the LPs that came before and after. I think that both There's Nothing Wrong With Love and Keep It Like A Secret are not only better albums, but better suited to full concert performance because of the "hits" each album contains. Perfect From Now On has a lot of great jams, but it's virtually singleless and would not be as effective at whipping up a crowd as the other two. I think a big part of what is worth praising about this record is that this was the band's major-label debut. BTS had just put out an album with "Car" and "Twin Falls" (two songs with huge radio potential), signed to Warner Bros. and then released this eight-song middle-finger of a record with some of the songs pushing nine minutes and none of them coming in under four-and-a-half minutes. It seemed almost like overcompensation against claims of "sell out." This song in particular is a good example of the extra fat that should have been trimmed. For the version on 2000's Live, the band edited out the three-minute drowsy intro—getting right to the good part. [audio:StopTheShow.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Built To Spill Songs 1. "Time Trap" (1999) This song builds from a slow ethereal crescendo to some heavy-swinging riffs that cut out right before what must be one of the grooviest, funkiest chord progressions I've ever heard. Then it speeds up and builds again to the end with soaring guitars and a pounding tribal rhythm. You can't help but move to this Keep It Like A Secret track. "Do you want to save your life?" I think you just did. [audio:TimeTrap.mp3] 2. "Virginia Reel Around The Fountain" (1998) "Virginia" isn't a Built To Spill song, so it can't fairly be considered one of its underrated tracks, but I picked this Halo Benders number to make a point: Martsch doesn't have to make Built To Spill albums. He could collaborate with any number of great singers and musicians and put out a good record. He has said recently that another Halo Benders album is in the not-too-distant future and that he and Isaac Brock (Modest Mouse) have discussed getting together and jamming. Can't wait. [audio:VirginiaReelAroundTheFountain.mp3] 3. "They Got Away" (2007) Martsch has long professed his love of reggae and soul, and in 2007, BTS released this single (with a b-side cover of "Re-Arrange" by the Gladiators). This song shows that Built To Spill doesn't have to sound like Built To Spill. After hearing this, I wish the band would make a reggae record. Actually, Built To Spill could do a series of different genre albums that would probably be amazing. [audio:TheyGotAway.mp3] 4. "Lift" (2002) Martsch solo album Now You Know is a stripped-down, mostly acoustic and slide-guitar blues record. It sounds miles away from Built To Spill. It was well received critically when it was released, but what if the same album had been put out as a Built To Spill record? Would it have been received any differently? It might have sold more copies, based on name recognition, but how would critics and fans have reacted if this had been the BTS release between Ancient Melodies and You In Reverse? Minds might have been blown. Which is probably why he had to release Now You Know under his own name. [audio:Lift.mp3] 5. "Hindsight" (2009) The new album. Sure, it's Built To Spill's highest charting release to date and it's been critically praised already by just about everyone. How could that be underrated, right? Well, some people had written the band off after the last two records. But There Is No Enemy is diverse and inspired, definitely one of the best releases of this year and—what's even more impressive—one of the best of the band's career. There's the heartfelt pop of "Hindsight," the shimmery disco of "Good Ol' Boredom," the post-punk "Pat" (which could be a Wrens song), the mariachi horns on "Things Fall Apart." Built To Spill is still doing new and interesting things, and There Is No Enemy is definitely worth a listen if you got off board at some point. [audio:Hindsight.mp3]

—Edward Fairchild

‘Scuse me, sir? You with the Devendra Banhart haircut? And you, ma’am, in the vintage prom dress and cat’s-eye spectacles? Don’t look now, but Bunnybrains are playing an unannounced in-store with Yamakata Eye on vocals at the Atomic Soundz record shop, about a block and a half up. Me? No, no, I developed tinnitus from playing Mission Of Burma in the car on long drives. Can’t be around the loud stuff anymore. But go, go, have fun ... Whew. OK. Now that those guys are out of the room, let’s talk, you and me, about Sonic Youth. And let’s be sensible. When it comes to Sonic Youth, I’m that guy; should the house ever go up in flames, my local fire brigade has standing orders to rescue: 1) the cats, and 2) my life’s-work collection of SY albums, singles, bootlegs, vinyl pressings, VHS tapes, cassette tapes of individual band members’ side projects, photocopied zine articles, books and sundry merch. Everything else can go to ashes. I’m that kind of fanatic. Like you, though, I try not to be a pain in the ass about it. I just love the stuff. Not only does SY’s career link late-'70s cerebral art noise to '80s no-wave and hardcore punk, the '90s alt-rock boom and bust and early 21st-century experimental composition (an arc no other band can even approach), the group also happens to rock, when it wants to. Maybe due to the band’s embedding in those very disparate muso-freak camps, each hyper-conscious of its own peculiar notions of “integrity” and “credibility,” Sonic Youth seems to trigger a visceral reaction in enthusiasts and dissenters alike, which means we fans have an unfortunate tendency to get snotty about what we do and don’t like. But really, I can’t think of a conversation more tiresome than the one about whether every release since 1988's Daydream Nation describes a downward spiral. And I don’t quite get how a band so openly suspicious of corporate-controlled music acts could fetishize Madonna, ironically or not, but so what? Each to their little inconsistencies, is what I say. And frankly, I couldn’t care less what anyone—including the members of Sonic Youth themselves, always rather obsessive on this point—think about whether they’ve sold out to corporate interests. Over nearly 30 years, Sonic Youth has been able to move from tiny to mid-size to major labels and back again, release a string of consistently interesting if sometimes uneven records and pull a bunch of other great bands into the spotlight in the process. That’s doing God’s work, no matter how you fine you cut it. So let’s come to the gargantuan Sonic Youth catalog not as fawners or snobs—but as people who dig good music—and see if we can talk about which tracks we find overrated or underrated. It’ll be more fun than trying to one-up each other by posing out over our own coolness, and ... Oh, hi, you’re back! What? No Bunnybrains? Huh. Sorry about that. Maybe I got the date wrong. Who, us? Nah. We weren’t talking about anything. :: The Five Most Overrated Sonic Youth Songs 1. "Kool Thing” (1990) Goo, Sonic Youth’s major-label bow, was the product of a series of arduous, often agonizing sessions, in which the band struggled with its decision to move to the Geffen/DGC stable. Both the group's and the label’s anxiety over the final sound of the album, and what that sound might suggest about SY’s future direction, dogged every step of the process, from arrangement to performance to post-production. From the rawest industry standpoint, it worked, sort of; “Kool Thing” is as close to a hit single as SY has ever come. Dirty’s “100%” may have charted higher, but “Kool Thing” is the one with the chorus people remember 19 years later. The catchiness isn’t the problem. It’s that the song’s muddled message—Kim Gordon’s vague indictment of the cult of celebrity and its ability to influence popular opinion—reflects the waffling the band was engaged in through the Goo sessions, and the song, chilly as it is, comes across clunky and confused. A largely content-neutral appearance by Public Enemy’s Chuck D might be intended as an ironic comment on rap/rock crossover (“Hit ‘em where it hurts! ... Word up!”), but as always, the problem with irony as an aesthetic tactic is that after a certain point has been passed, it’s hard to know who’s putting who on. “Kool Thing” attempts to lampoon the look and sound of a standard hit single/video, and it tries to accomplish this by looking and sounding exactly like a standard hit single/video. Emblematic of the indecisiveness that dogged the band during its transition to the major-label world, “Kool Thing” is the best-known Sonic Youth song that sounds the least like Sonic Youth. [audio:KoolThing.mp3] 2. "Radical Adults Lick Godhead Style” (2002) On Murray Street, Sonic Youth worked to get back to the grimy guitar workouts it had indulged in during the first part of its career arc. But SY had been writing semi-traditional pop song structures for several years by this point, and Thurston Moore had become a more practiced singer, particularly of dirty rock songs played and sung with a cheeky swagger. “Radical Adults,” despite its chewy title and squealy, atonal bridge, sounds like Moore trying to pull off a Mick Jagger impersonation, and I submit that the lyrics read, in large part, like cock rock filtered through esoteric downtown lingo: “Theater goddess, film destroyer/New York girls are sure to enjoy her” and “Killer tunes/Bubblegum disaster.” Coming as it does at the end of a long run of pop-friendly work, some listeners heard a newly confident blend of pop forms and avant-garde improvisation, but when you listen closely, “Radical Adults” plays like the lingering aftertaste of that “bubblegum disaster”—a little dull, a little dusty, a little stale. [audio:RadicalAdultsLickGodheadStyle.mp3] 3. "Self Obsessed And Sexee” (1994) Experimental Jet Set, Trash And No Star is Sonic Youth’s quietest album, from a performance standpoint. Butch Vig buffed the edges of the final product, but in fact the raw material for this album was, even in its early form, among the band’s most pop-friendly material. That resulted in some interesting moments—the surprisingly funny “Bull In The Heather,” for instance—but it also led to “Self Obsessed And Sexee,” a purposefully (I hope) slimy ode to quirky hipster girls. Again, Moore goes for the ironic distancing, but the sheer lyrical overload (“I’m the type of guy to boost your self-esteem/Party all night, ‘cause it’s you, you, you every day”) that by the time you get to the line “Party, party, party/Party all the time,” you no longer care whether it’s an ironic commentary on Eddie Murphy’s brief musical career, you just sort of want it to stop. Then you want to go towel off. [audio:SelfObsessedAndSexxee.mp3] 4. "Brother James” (1983) First heard on the Kill Yr. Idols EP, “Brother James” oddly became something of a standard in Sonic Youth’s catalog. It’s been collected on various anthologies and live recordings, both official and bootleg, and it reappeared on the Death Valley ‘69 EP two years later. A first listen seems to reveal why: Gordon snarls the apocalyptic lyric with raw brio, the words are enigmatic enough to sound sinister without ever getting very specific, and at just over three minutes, it’s a deft little single-serving of noise rock. It’s exactly the kind of song that fans who get their shorts in a wad over “Kool Thing” and “Sugar Kane” might point to as representative of “good” Sonic Youth. But “Brother James” isn’t strong enough to bear that weight. Its two-chord—well, two-note-cluster—pattern repeats (and repeats and repeats) over the short span of the song without developing into anything new. It speeds up as if it were chugging out of control, but really it’s just speeding up. And on the whole, as an exploration of the darker side of human nature, I’d rate it below “Tom Violence” or “The Burning Spear” (which “Brother James” very much resembles)—or, if you dig the minimalist side of SY, try “I Don’t Want To Push It.” A fine song, but nothing like the touchstone it’s purported to be. [audio:BrotherJames.mp3] 5. "Death Valley ‘69” (1985) The closing track from Bad Moon Rising is often hailed as Sonic Youth’s best work to that point: sprawling, violent, creepy and disturbing. It was also used as source music for the band’s first video, shot by “Cinema of Transgression” director/photographer R. Kern. But as time passes, this unfortunate plunge into death-trip fantasy, inspired by the Manson murders, comes to sound more and more like the cartoonish misstep it always was. Moore and Lee Ranaldo scream over the intro, Lydia Lunch caterwauls away in the background, and Lunch and Moore duet on a bridge section that narrates a first-person story of torture and murder. Oh, no you don’t. “Death Valley ‘69” is an attempt to achieve creepiness by association and mere signifying—ooh, that rascally Charlie Manson!—and it doesn’t rank with SY’s most disturbing work, lyrically or musically. Whether it wants to be or not, though, the video is hysterical, casting the band as both thrill-killers and their eviscerated victims. The sight of Gordon goofily loading and aiming a shotgun ranks as one of the strangest moments in punk-rock video. [audio:DeathValley69.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Sonic Youth Songs 1. "Swimsuit Issue” (1992) This, on the other hand, is one of Gordon’s best turns. Inspired by a seedy sexual-harassment lawsuit at what was, at the time, their label’s parent company, “Swimsuit Issue” is a pounding headache of a song, opening with a strident series of insistent, chiming chords and developing into the imagined response of a female clerical staffer to unwanted sexual advances. It’s angry (“I’m just here for dictation/I’m not your summer vacation”) and snarky (“Dreamed of going to the Grammys/Till you poked me with your whammy”). It’s specific in its terms (the claimant had alleged that the executive had made her watch him masturbate; “You spin the discs,” snarls Gordon, “Now you’re movin’ your wrists”), and it’s split adeptly in half, with Gordon laconically intoning a series of supermodels’ names over slow, grinding chords and stomping drums, like the whole thing’s running out of rage but still exhausted by its anger. It’s a powerful track, one of the best songs of their major-label era, and it signaled clearly that they weren't afraid to snap at the hand that paid them. [audio:SwimsuitIssue.mp3] 2. "Brave Men Run (In My Family)” (1985) One of Gordon’s recurring themes has always been the power dynamics of sex, which is also to say the sexual dimensions of power. “Brave Men Run (In My Family),” the first actual song on Bad Moon Rising, is one of her most rewarding explorations of that topic. At first pass, the lyrics seem elliptical and nonspecific. On repeated listenings, however, it seems as though Gordon is singing about not only the history of men and women together, but the male impulse to conquer, to explore, to command and, possibly, to destroy oneself in order to achieve glory, in the context of how that impulse drives a man to hurt and abandon the people he loves. It’s not male-bashing; rather, it’s an unflinching exploration of sexual politics and a protest against falling into the deathtrap of gender stereotypes. [audio:BraveMenRunInMyFamily.mp3] 3. "Providence” (1988) This is the dark horse cut on Daydream Nation, the one all of us fanatics admire but that gets buried by more bombastic songs like “Teen Age Riot” and “Eric’s Trip.” “Providence” is a sound collage assembled from three main elements: 1) a home demo of Moore playing the piano, 2) a tape of Moore’s amplifier frying out during an unrelated recording session, and 3) Minutemen/fIREHOSE bassist Mike Watt’s phone message suggesting where Moore might have left a bag of cables that mysteriously disappeared from the tour van. Watt’s chiding of the pot-addled Moore—“Y’gotta watch the mota, Thurston; yer fuckin’ memory goes out the window”—is so loving and note-perfect that it’s achieved a sort of underground infamy all by itself. It’s the perfect example of the whole achieving something much greater than the sum of its parts; it’s haunting, serene and funny all at once. And though it sounds like nothing else in its catalog, it underscores Sonic Youth’s faith in the happy accident as an essential building block for unique sounds. [audio:Providence.mp3] 4. "Karen Koltrane” (1998) Over the years, Ranaldo’s folksy singing voice and penchant for melody and pop structure has sometimes resulted in tension when it came time for Sonic Youth to decide which songs to cut from an album’s playlist. While this situation invites the expected George Harrison comparisons (which Ranaldo himself has sometimes voiced), Ranaldo has contributed some fantastic songs to SY’s catalog, and “Karen Koltrane,” from A Thousand Leaves, is one of his best—or, rather, one of his best-crafted. Here’s a one-song précis of everything Ranaldo does better than most other avant-musicians: a delicate balance of noise and melody, a shrewd editorial ear for cutting up seemingly disjointed sections into a coherent whole and a willingness to let the song shape itself into a final piece that feels organic and earned. [audio:KarenKoltrane.mp3] 5. "The Diamond Sea” (1995) “The Diamond Sea” exists in three easy to find versions: a five-minute radio edit; a nearly 20-minute album cut on Washing Machine; and a 25-minute version, released on the radio-edit CD single and thereafter collected on 2006 compilation The Destroyed Room: B-Sides And Rarities, heard here. When they first recorded “The Diamond Sea,” so the story goes, they told the label rep they’d canned a hit. It was a perverse thing to say, to be sure, but the logic makes a weird sort of sense. “The Diamond Sea” is many things at once: a catchy, evocative pop number, wistful and meditative; a long noise workout; an atmospheric jam; a showcase for each band member in turn; an aural history of the group's development from skronky art rock to woozy romantics; and a statement of purpose for a band that wanted to be all of that, and also remain independent, and also reach the widest audience possible. In short—or at length—it’s a great shambling mess of a song by a great shambling group, and a reminder of the sort of serious musicianship at the heart that band's longevity. Block out time for the full version; as a summation of Sonic Youth’s blend of styles and approaches into a sui generis aesthetic, it’s better than any compilation. [audio:TheDiamondSea.mp3]

—Eric Waggoner

Beck came to most people by way of MTV wearing a stormtrooper mask and rapping about "getting crazy with the Cheez Whiz." The video was "Loser," and the song was recorded as a joke—on a friend of a friend's eight-track in a span of six hours. The white-boy slacker-rap song went to number 10 on the Billboard charts. He seemed like a one-hit wonder, but now he's in the running to be considered one of the most influential pop musicians of the past 20 years. No other artist in recent memory has so thoroughly blown apart any attempts at categorization. In the span of single songs, Beck has been known to fuse hip hop, Latin, funk, punk, classical, R&B, soul and delta blues. (I could have kept going.) The diversity he's shown in his ability to take on different musical styles makes it obvious he could make any album he wants. He's even started remaking his favorite records; his online-only Record Club project has him gathering with a group of friends once a month to re-record classic albums in a weekend. The first two installments were The Velvet Underground & Nico and Songs Of Leonard Cohen. For the next round, Beck got together with Wilco to cover Skip Spence's Oar: not exactly easy lifting. He may be the hardest working slacker in show business. After 11 full-lengths, he's written a ton of great songs, but there are a few that get undeserved praise and a mountain that get neglected. Here are the five most overrated and the five most underrated Beck songs. :: The Five Most Overrated Beck Songs 1. "Devil's Haircut" (1996) This second single from Odelay followed "Where It's At," but maybe it should have just stayed a deep cut. Don't get me wrong, it's kinda catchy, and it obviously has some radio potential, but the lyrics are so negative and angst-ridden when compared to some of Beck's other work, it just sounds like he wrote the song while in a bad mood. The chorus is numbingly hypnotic and repetitive, which is probably the reason it did so well on the radio. I'm not sure what Beck is writing about here, but to me, this would be a good song to soundtrack a serial-killer movie. It sounds like it could be about someone falling apart: turning to the dark side because there's nowhere else to go. I prefer Beck when he's writing songs to soundtrack convertible drives or getting ready for a night out. [audio:DevilsHaircut.mp3] 2. "Nausea" (2006) This track sounds like Beck had been listening to too much Modest Mouse. It's like a woozy-yet-frantic sea shanty. To his credit, it is nauseous, though that's probably not something you should strive for when writing and recording music. Unless you like that kind of nervous, oh-no feeling you get when you know you're going to throw up and you can't do anything about it. This was the first single from The Information. Why anyone would choose this song to be repeated over and over on the radio is a mystery to me. [audio:Nausea.mp3] 3. "Satan Gave Me A Taco" (1994) This stupid song from Stereopathetic Soul Manure gets endlessly requested by loud morons at concerts. It's just the same chord progression and melody repeated over and over, and lyrically, it's about as pedestrian and teenage as any of Beck's songs. Sure, it pays homage to the "Alice's Restaurant" story-song style of Arlo Guthrie, but it's meandering and pointless. An anthem for Beavis and Butt-head. If Beck spontaneously made up this song during a live performance, it would be charming and funny. As a desperate rarity request, it's just annoying. The man has farted better songs since. [audio:SatanGaveMeATaco.mp3] 4. "Debra" (1999) Sure, Beck is doing his best Prince and R. Kelly, but this song sounds like an Andy Samberg SNL parody. Beck wrote it around the Odelay sessions but ended up shelving it because he was afraid it was too much of a joke. It it. Once audiences got a hold of the song though, it quickly became a fan favorite and a highlight of live sets. "I met you at JC Penney/I think your nametag said Jenny/I cool step to you/With a fresh pack of gum/Somehow I knew you were looking for some." Maybe Beck should do an entire comedy album. That could be pretty good. Even though it's about a three-way and name-drops one of my favorite restaurants, Zankou Chicken, this song from Midnight Vultures gets unfair attention. [audio:Debra.mp3] 5. "E-Pro" (2005) Beck phones it in. It's almost like he thought he found his hit-single recipe: Take one distorted acoustic groove, put a punchy beat behind it, rap a bunch of lazy non-sequitur lyrics over the top, sprinkle on some synth for flavoring, then stir. The chorus to this Guero track is just "na-na na-na-na-na na-na." It's catchy and proves his ability to make adequate music without really thinking about it, but is it really necessary? Beck has already made better versions of this song a few times over. Maybe it would have been decent, if it weren't so uninspired. [audio:EPro.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Beck Songs 1. "Brother" (1996) From the scrapped Tom Rothrock/Rob Schnapf sessions for Odelay, this heartfelt, ethereal song was among a small number of sparse acoustic tracks that were shelved because they didn't fit with the sample-laden, ramshackle hip-hop sound of the rest of the album under new producers, the Dust Brothers. "Brother" first saw light in 1997 as a b-side on the "Jack-Ass" single, and it was later re-released as part of a Japanese-only b-sides collection called Stray Blues. Beck has recycled tunes before ("It's All In Your Mind" originally appeared on One Foot In The Grave but was re-recorded for Sea Change), and this song should have been given another shot. [audio:Brother1.mp3] 2. "Go It Alone" (2006) Supposedly, "Go It Alone" was written in five minutes. The instrumentation is sparse, with nothing but handclaps and a groovy bass (courtesy of Jack White) making up the foundation for the verse. Some of Beck's best songs are minimal numbers like this one. It's not really until the final chorus where the song really gets pumping and you can hear White, with his trademark overdriven vintage-amp sound providing a heavy, broad accent. For some reason, this Guero track is a rarity live, but it's one of a few that should have been chosen as a lead single over "E-Pro." [audio:GoItAlone.mp3] 3. "Supergolden Black Sunchild" (1993) Lo-fi experimental glam from the pre-Mellow Gold era. With grander production, this Golden Feelings track could sound like something by Bowie. The wavering tremolo Beck affects on the vocal line sounds like he's shivering underwater. Probably never played live before, but this one might be worth revisiting with a full band for a once-in-a-while nugget. It would be a good tune to open the first encore. [audio:SuperGoldenBlackSunchild.mp3] 4. "Cyanide Breath Mint" (1994) Beck liked this song enough to name his publishing company Cyanide Breathmint Music but not enough to play it live that often. Probably the catchiest track from One Foot In The Grave, this diatribe against show business proves that Beck can write a solid, linear song (he has loads more) and doesn't always have to rap nonsense like he's narrating channel flipping or he's some schizophrenic bum walking down the sidewalk in Los Angeles. [audio:CyanideBreathMint.mp3] 5. "Lord Only Knows" (1996) Jangly acoustic, fuzzed-out bass and slide guitar get this song swaying. It's got a classic folk/Americana feel, reminiscent of Neil Young or the simpler songs of Dylan, but with a warm buzz on the low end and a shredding (MXR Blue Box?) solo. This song destroys "Devil's Haircut" in almost every way and would have made a much better single. It's dynamic. The lyrics make sense. The vocal melody isn't mind numbingly boring. Beck hasn't been playing this one the past few tours, and it's a shame. Do the hot-dog dance! [audio:LordOnlyKnows.mp3]

—Edward Fairchild

Seattle’s Sunny Day Real Estate somehow managed to create a footprint far exceeding what would reasonably be expected of a group that produced a mere handful of albums during its relatively short tenure (1992-95 as an original quartet, then a reunion from 1997-2001 reduced to a trio). The band’s then-unique admixture of churning, guitar-driven rock, plaintive and nakedly emotional vocals (sometimes sung, sometimes screamed) and lyrics that made clear the spiritual questing of frontman Jeremy Enigk (read our 2006 Q&A with him) would ultimately earn SDRE the label “godfathers of emo,” which for better or worse would forever link it to lesser lights such as Jimmy Eat World and Fall Out Boy, but more appropriately, to similarly minded forebears such as Fugazi. After releasing two beloved but quirky full-lengths on Sub Pop back in the early ‘90s, the quartet dissolved into a puddle of timeworn rock-music clichés: Enigk declared himself born again (and in an early, prescient move, told the world about it through a post on the Internet), the rhythm section departed and hooked up with Dave Grohl (who, by then, had discovered his post-Nirvana special purpose via the Foo Fighters), and eventually, they wandered separate paths for a decade or so before finding their way back to one another and to stages across North America for a recent sold-out reunion tour, the first shows the band had played in its original form since 1995. It may be stretching things to suggest that an act better known for its influences than for any chart hits actually possesses anything in its catalog remotely overrated or underrated, and yet SDRE has inspired such a passionately devoted fanbase that it’s clear there are, in fact, peaks and valleys throughout its sonic history, which leads us down the usual path of charting the group’s five most overrated and five most underrated tracks. :: The Five Most Overrated Sunny Day Real Estate Songs 1.“Seven” (1994) Diary, SDRE’s debut, has been called “the album that made emo accessible to the masses,” and while this is probably just the latter-day hype machine assigning a retrospective value to something that wasn’t nearly as High Concept back when it was created (emo existed, both as a term and as a style deep within the punk underground, before Sunny Day existed), it is fair to say that without this release, there would probably be no Paramore or Dashboard Confessional. (Diary also remains one of the best-selling items in the Sub Pop catalog, at more than 230,000 copies and counting, including its recent re-release.) But you can hear the band’s influences on the album’s opening cut, “Seven,” more clearly than you can hear the band itself. That lead line is guitarist Dan Hoerner’s best Edge impersonation, and there’s Enigk paying tribute vocally to Ian MacKaye and the Dischord massive (if sounding more melodic than they ever possibly could). Not a bad track, but given hugely disproportionate props by the band’s cult and not as compelling as what SDRE would ultimate produce. [audio:Seven.mp3] 2. “In Circles” (1994) As long as Sunny Day continues as an entity, “In Circles”—and its, uh, circular, repeating six-string motif and loud/quiet/loud shapeshifting sonic swings—will remain an indispensible part of its encore lineup. In fact, it’s become the band’s signature song. But it bears uncomfortably more in common with the grunge backdrop that surrounded it at the time (Pearl Jam, Soundgarden) than the group’s latter-day work, a tad too rock-by-numbers when the epic sweep and ambition of SDRE’s catalog unfolded later on. [audio:InCircles.mp3] 3. “The Prophet” (1998) By the time How It Feels To Be Something On was released, Sunny Day had broken up, Enigk had exhausted the first phase of his solo ambitions, and the band had somewhat reluctantly reformed around a core nucleus of only three members (Enigk, Hoerner and drummer William Goldsmith, as bassist Nate Mendel continued to toil as a full-fledged member of the Foo Fighters). The album was something of a mixed bag in that it fully demonstrated Enigk’s unquestioned growth as a singer and songwriter; that said, his never-ending quest for enlightenment gave How It Feels a somewhat vague and mystical worldview, with tracks such as “The Prophet” dipping further into prog (and flaunting a Middle Eastern-style chant, perhaps the band’s most forced musical moment) than its previous work. [audio:TheProphet.mp3] 4. “Friday” (1995) SDRE’s cult would hold that LP2 (a.k.a. The Pink Album, so named because of the single-hued color of its album art) is the group’s Black Album, an unheard, underrated and unbelievably great set of songs that coulda, woulda, shoulda catapulted the quartet into the rock stratosphere had only it registered with the masses and the band remained intact. In hindsight, the album’s lead cut, “Friday,” tells a slightly different story: a beautifully intricate guitar figure buried beneath an avalanche of distortion, with lyrics (“Some other candy matrimony/That strips the night I breathe/Maybe next time”) that promised more than they delivered. For sure, SDRE’s potential was great, and the high hopes for the band were sabotaged by its premature demise, but the cult probably doth protest too much. Maybe next time, indeed? [audio:Friday.mp3] 5. “Everlong” (1997) I know I’m cheating here; Sunny Day Real Estate is a far cry from the Foo Fighters, but Grohl did steal its rhythm section lock, stock and barrel when SDRE imploded, and his second FF release, The Colour And The Shape, actually serves as the “band’s” official release as a collaborative entity. If you listen closely, you can hear the relentless rhythms and churning underpinnings down around 110 Hz that characterized SDRE’s first two albums; of course, by the time the song overtook alt-rock radio and its freakishly carny-like video had invaded MTV, Goldsmith was long gone in favor of former Alanis Morrissette sideman Taylor Hawkins. Undoubtedly the best-selling thing that members of SDRE ever appeared on, not that we really care. [audio:Everlong.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Sunny Day Real Estate Songs 1.“One” (2000) Herein lies the end of the line: SDRE Phase II finally called “time” after the release of the band’s fourth studio album, The Rising Tide, which in hindsight represents the pinnacle of the group’s many achievements, the richest instantiation of its sound and vision. Anthemic, sweeping and uncompromising, the swells of sound emanating from Hoerner’s massed guitars coupled with Enigk’s most commanding lyrical platform to date (“And it’s strange how we’re selling our time and we wait … And in the end we all are one”) result in the best songs the band would pen as a collective. Unfortunately, SDRE's label, Time Bomb, had distribution woes that essentially guaranteed The Rising Tide would never receive a fair hearing. Much more than LP2, this is the band's most underrated work, and therefore “One” is its most underrated song. [audio:One.mp3] 2. “Every Shining Time You Arrive” (1998) Once Enigk had posted his born-again hopes and dreams for all the world to see, he just as quickly retreated to the bunker of obfuscation in an attempt to retain some of the lessons (and miracles) just for himself. This track, from How It Feels To Be Something On, is a good example of a moment when all of this worked to his advantage: a beautiful acoustic ballad shot through with one of Enigk’s ineffably sad vocals and guitars from Hoerner that served as surgical tools connecting the song’s vague, questing lyrics (“So the story’s beyond our grasp, we were climbing forever, an infinite task/Shoulders straining with the endless toil, we’re nothing more than a feather moving in the wind”; Robert Plant, white courtesy telephone, please) to the beating heart of the melody. [audio:EveryShiningTimeYouArrive.mp3] 3. “Song About An Angel” (1994) Diary’s best track by far, an almost impossibly delicate rumination on the sacred and profane that predated Enigk’s spiritual awakening but nonetheless hewed to many of his same core themes of grander meaning and discovery. As Hoerner said in a recent interview, “One of the first songs we wrote as a band was ‘Song About An Angel.’ Don’t you get it? We were trying to communicate about things that are deep in our souls, and we don’t even know how to talk about it, hardly anybody knows how to talk about it intelligently. I love bands that are able to explore those things, talk about things that matter.” No matter how you interpret this song’s meaning, the fact that SDRE cared that it mattered (and so in such listenable fashion) made the band instantly more interesting than 90 percent of its peers. [audio:SongAboutAnAngel.mp3] 4. “Uncle Mountain” (2003) OK, I’m cheating a little bit here as well, but not nearly as much as with the “overrated” section: The Fire Theft served as an SDRE reunion in but name only, a collaboration between Enigk, Goldsmith and Mendel that finally laid bare Enigk’s debt to The Almighty in service of a 13-song suite that was, at once, way more prog and yet way more rocking than anything they’d done together since Diary. “Uncle Mountain” is the album’s lead track, and holy scheiss, it’s a keeper: a big, sweeping orchestral piece (replete with strings, massed guitars and Enigk’s gigantic vocals) in service of a big, sweeping topic. “I’m stuck here in the middle/At war with good and evil ... Don’t wanna spend my time being afraid of dying/I really wanna do good.” By the time Enigk literally screams “I want god, if god wants me,” you get the feeling that he really means it, man. One big “wow” of a recorded moment in a career practically chock full of them. [audio:UncleMountain.mp3] 5. “Abegail Anne” (1996) Right after Sunny Day’s initial breakup, Enigk enthusiastically threw himself into his solo career, resulting in Return Of The Frog Queen, a determinedly eccentric, folk-based exploration of themes ranging from childlike fascinations with fantasy-world characters (e.g., said frog queen) to vaguely articulated explosions of soul in search of meaning in the world’s fluffy, clustered cloud formations (“Explain,” “Shade And The Black Hat”). Coming as it did after his up-and-coming band’s messy break, reviewers at the time were quick to compare the album to other equally left-field almanacs of whimsy and chaos: Syd Barrett’s The Madcap Laughs, Skip Spence’s Oar, Nick Drake’s entire oeuvre. In hindsight, these assessments mostly miss the mark. Enigk hadn’t damaged himself, wasn’t teetering on the edge of sanity, but was instead exploring a vein of music to which his extraordinary voice was well suited but hadn’t previously been paired. “Abegail Anne,” the album’s lead cut, was a magical, groundbreaking bit of spare folk and backing orchestration that could just as easily have come from the Fairport Convention camp as from one of the most original voices to emerge from the ‘90s. [audio:AbegailAnne.mp3]

—Corey duBrowa

They were one of the funniest, most consistently interesting bands to emerge from California’s first-generation hardcore scene. And yet the Dead Kennedys’ post-breakup renown languishes unfairly in this era of remastered discographies and outtake-choked bonus discs. As hardcore bands go, the DKs had a decent run, much longer than many of their contemporaries. The band formed in 1978 and released its first single, the classic “California Über Alles,” the following year. Jello Biafra, the singer and to many fans the DKs’ public face, ran for mayor of San Francisco in 1979, finishing fourth in the election. The band’s self-founded/self-operated label, Alternative Tentacles, released a series of brainy, often bizarre records by acts that flowed wide even of punk’s often conformist mainstream, a frequent target of the DKs’ snide humor. A punishing obscenity trial related to a poster included with 1985's Frankenchrist, followed by subsequent internal tensions among the band members (which resulted in an ugly lawsuit), blew the DKs apart in 1987. The Dead Kennedys left behind four albums, an odds-and-sods collection and a handful of EPs and singles as their full legacy. But that slender output includes some of the most creative and disturbing—and often hysterical—punk music ever recorded. Of course, it also contains some misfires, so let us now praise (and bury) the Dead Kennedys. Here’s hoping for the double-disc re-release of 1980's Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables soon. :: The Five Most Overrated Dead Kennedys Songs 1. "When Ya Get Drafted" (1980) For a whole generation of young punks, Reagan was Nixon redux, though Reagan was more sinister. Like Nixon, he seemed to offer permission for some Americans to give vent to their fear and hatred of whole swaths of others—young, black, poor, queer, leftist—but unlike Nixon, Reagan was a shrewd, camera-ready media hound, and his pronouncements always seemed more menacing as a result. Biafra found a great foil in Reagan, but when Biafra unloaded freely on the Great Communicator, the results were sometimes as overblown and exaggerated as anything coming out of any White House press conference. “When Ya Get Drafted” depicts an America where military power is either sold out to, or deployed to support, the nation’s economic interests. A prescient song, in its way—recall the U.S.’s mid-'80s Central American romp and the Iran-Contra fiasco—but Biafra swings the paintbrush wide and long on this number, and it ends up sounding less prescient than paranoid. To paraphrase Thomas Pynchon, paranoids get in trouble because they keep putting themselves in paranoid situations; this track is among the shrillest, most strident and alarmist songs in the DKs’ output, and it trades wholly in high-verbal doomsterism. The Dead Kennedys would gradually become subtler and more interesting, but here, they’re still working out the juvenile pessimism. [audio:WhenYaGetDrafted.mp3] 2. "Riot" (1982) And speaking of great big brushstrokes: “Riot” is, despite its high esteem among fans and its six-minute length (an epic scope when compared to most statements-of-punk-purpose), little more than a great big EZ-anarchist wank, and most of its lyrics are straight out of ninth-period study-hall flapdoodle: “Rioting!/The unbeatable high!/Adrenaline shoots your nerves to the sky!” Ostensibly, the song is about how rioting plays directly into the desires of the powers that be, who always outnumber and outgun protesters; putting a rock through a shop window, while a very satisfying act of its kind, can’t effect practical change. Practically, however, the song’s substance is totally eclipsed by its style, which always elicited a rather different response from the crowd. That spiffy chorus, in which all the words go by quickly except for “riot," gets missed in the happy destructo-shuffle. The DKs must have thought it worked, since they continued playing “Riot” up until their final live shows, while the masses slammed and stomped and mimicked rioting in front of the stage. I dig the line “Tomorrow you’re homeless/Tonight it’s a blast” as much as anyone, but on the level of content vs. form, “Riot” is the “Born In The USA” of hardcore punk. Part of me can’t believe I just wrote that, but I’m standing by it. Oh, well. I’m in the phone book, if you want to come throw a Molotov cocktail through my window or something. [audio:Riot.mp3] 3. "Chickenshit Conformist" (1986) I yield to no one in my admiration of Bedtime For Democracy, which I rank with the finest punk albums of all time. And one of the DKs’ many admirable qualities was a fondness for taking aim at the violence and vacuity of punk audiences themselves. But, my gawd, what a heavy-handed piece of work is “Chickenshit Conformist”: preachy, judgmental, presumptuous and condescending, with Biafra cocking a snook all over the crowd. The DKs had mined similar territory to better effect with “Nazi Punks Fuck Off,” which boasted a clearer, more deserving target, as well as a better riff. Biafra's spoken-word shows about free speech and local politics had by this point begun to show in the lyrics, which here read less like songs than polemic. As it stands, “Chickenshit Conformist” is less a statement about individuality than a mass finger-point. And it misses its own implications, as most heavy-handed political statements do. It always reminded me of that Jules Feiffer cartoon from the '60s, the one where the punch line goes, “What I wouldn’t give to be a non-conformist like all those others.” [audio:ChickenshitConformist.mp3] 4. "Too Drunk To Fuck" (1981) Collected on 1987 post-breakup compilation Give Me Convenience Or Give Me Death, “Too Drunk To Fuck” often turns out to be the one DKs song that even people who’ve never heard anything else by the band have encountered on at least one occasion. And here’s a little piece of punk trivia: “Too Drunk” actually charted in England (it made it to number 31) and was the first U.K. top-40 track to contain the word “fuck” in the title. It’s since been heard on television dramas and, as covered by French band Nouvelle Vague, in the film Grindhouse. What’s that? You’ve never heard it? Well, after you’ve read the title, you’ve pretty much got the gist. This is as close to a novelty record as the DKs ever got. It’s not a bad joke the first time you hear it, but it doesn’t hold up as much more. [audio:TooDrunkToFuck.mp3] 5. "Terminal Preppie" (1982) See, a preppie was ... oh, to hell with it. Suffice it to say that “Terminal Preppie” dates very, very badly. This is another of Biafra’s too easy, set-‘em-up-knock-em-down satirical jabs, and even in its own day, it was a little hoary. Consider that the now-forgotten The Official Preppy Handbook had hit the “humor” shelves in bookstores a full two years before Plastic Surgery Disasters came out, and tell me Biafra wasn’t way behind the curve on this one. [audio:TerminalPreppie.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Dead Kennedys Songs 1. "Funland At The Beach" (1980) It’s understandably hidden among the riches on debut album Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables, which also boasts “California Über Alles,” “Holiday In Cambodia,” “Chemical Warfare” and “Kill The Poor.” But “Funland At The Beach,” one of the shorter songs on the record, is also one of its funniest sick jokes, a calm report of the fallout from midnight sabotage at an amusement park. No one could let the air out of a party balloon like the DKs: “Crushed little kids/Crushed little kids/Crushed little kids adorn the boardwalk.” And unlike “I Kill Children” (which is equally sick, but a little, er, mean-spirited), “Funland At The Beach” plays like a Hieronymus Bosch painting of a seaside weekend: a sort of Six Flags Over Hell. [audio:FunlandAtTheBeach.mp3] 2. "Halloween" (1982) “So it’s Halloween/And ya feel like dancin’,” begins the DKs’ best song about appearance vs. reality. “Halloween” treats of a basic punk premise: the simultaneous attraction to and terror of standing out in a crowd. But its spooky metaphor deepens it into an investigation of the creepy seduction of hiding in a garish costume, as a way of suppressing desires you don’t quite want to admit to. As a song about social pressure and the mass mind, its investigation of why a person might want to conform in the first place puts it leagues ahead of a song like “Chickenshit Conformist”: “You’re dressed up like a clown/Puttin’ on your act/It’s the only time of year/You’ll ever admit that.” Despite a tacked-on moral at the end of the song (“Take your social regulations/Shove them up your ass”), “Halloween” is one of the DKs’ cleverest and most rewarding moments. [audio:Halloween.mp3] 3. "Where Do Ya Draw The Line?" (1986) Some would cast their vote for “The Stars And Stripes Of Corruption” from Frankenchrist, but in my book, “Where Do Ya Draw The Line?” is the Dead Kennedys’ high point. Once again, Biafra indexes the limitations and missteps of anarchist-punk orthodoxy. Here, however, he questions not the crowd, but himself: “Anarchy sounds good to me/Then someone asks, ‘Who’d fix the sewers?'/'Would the rednecks just play king of the neighborhood?’” This is the voice of a punk who’s moved from early-stage lockstep thought to somber self-examination. Like much of the material on Bedtime For Democracy, its lyrics read in places like an unedited political tract. But instead of being clumsy and verbose, “Where Do Ya Draw The Line?” sounds like a man confronting his younger, snotnosed self and grappling with hard personal and political questions as a result. I can’t think of many songs from the hardcore-punk canon that chart that progression in clearer, more honest terms. [audio:WhereDoYaDrawTheLine.mp3] 4. "We've Got A Bigger Problem Now" (1981) Let this be said for the DKs: Long before punk began to ape itself, the band aped its own infamy on the In God We Trust, Inc. EP with “We’ve Got A Bigger Problem Now,” a retooling of “California Über Alles” with newly elected Reagan standing in place of California governor Jerry Brown, the song’s original target. Over a subdued arrangement, with spot-on jazz licks from guitarist East Bay Ray, Biafra works an imaginary crowd like a greasy lounge act, underscoring the phony, booze-doped cabaret that American politics has become: “Last call for alcohol/Last call for freedom of speech.” The first pass at the chorus is a Vegas-y, loosed-necktie, finger-popping arrangement. But then the second verse hits, and the DKs attack the change with sudden, terrifying energy, snarling and snapping their way through this verse and chorus with even more venom than the original. “We’ve Got A Bigger Problem Now” is as clever and funny as anything the DKs ever recorded, but it doesn’t sacrifice a moment of urgency or power. As a result, it’s a great balance of the band’s two most formidable powers. [audio:WeveGotABiggerProblemNow.mp3] 5. "Night Of The Living Rednecks" (1987) Originally included as a flexi-disc with the vinyl release of Give Me Convenience, “Night Of The Living Rednecks” is a one-time improvised performance that just happened to get caught on tape by an audience member at a DK show in Oregon. As the band comes out of “Chemical Warfare,” East Bay Ray’s guitar goes dead, and the band has to pause while he fixes it. After a bit of stage patter, bassist Klaus Flouride begins to play a loping boho run, then the drums kick in, then Biafra begins telling a story about being accosted on the street by “a bunch of fuckheads” in a pickup truck on the occasion of the band’s last Oregon visit. Without giving away the details, while it’s totally unlike anything else in the band’s catalog, “Night Of The Living Rednecks” is a distillation of everything that made Dead Kennedys unique among their fellow punkers: self-deprecating humor, an intuitive feel for narrative timing, musical talent that ran the gamut from thrash to surf and a theatricality that made their live appearances as much performance art as punk shows. It’s the kind of moment that no band that travels with a guitar tech could ever pull off, and it underscores the most humanist assumption of the punk movement: that even a technical fuckup can become a strength, if you’re not afraid to use your own life as raw material for art. [audio:NightOfTheLivingRednecks.mp3]

—Eric Waggoner

With nine studio albums and more officially released bootlegs than any band in history, Pearl Jam has managed to not only escape the grunge pigeonhole and the shadow of Nirvana but also cement itself in rock history as one of the most uncompromising and captivating live bands of all time. Sure, Pearl Jam has inspired whole, terrible sections of the radio dial, and I cringe to imagine who will give its Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame induction speech (Eddie Vedder has done it for R.E.M., the Ramones, Neil Young and the Doors), but these guys were almost the only thing I listened to for several formative, angst-filled years growing up, and there's something to be said for being such a major influence on mainstream modern-rock radio, just like there's something to be said for having sold more than 50 million albums. Pearl Jam's debut album was 1991's Ten, and it was the first CD I ever owned. At one point, this was the biggest band in the world, but then the group decided to make a conscious effort to cut back on the videos and press and take the ride at a pace it could digest. Now the guys seem to spend most of their time surfing, skateboarding or with their families and working with various charities, but they’re still at it: Pearl Jam's latest, Backspacer, hit Target and iTunes this week. Here are the five most overrated and the five most underrated works from the last band standing from the '90s Seattle grunge explosion. Read our 2006 Q&A with Vedder. :: The Five Most Overrated Pearl Jam Songs 1. "Better Man" (1994) Supposedly Vedder wrote this song when he was only a teenager while sitting on his bed, and that makes sense. The worst part about this song is seeing it live. It is not uncommon for the entire crowd to drown out Eddie with its singing, and he’s been known to completely give the performance of the song over to the audience. I'm not against crowd participation, but during "Better Man," it can get a bit obnoxious. Also, it's not a love song, as i think it's often misinterpreted; I don't know how many times I've seen couples slow-dancing in aisles to this song or singing it to each other at shows, either missing the meaning or possibly having some issues they need to work out. [audio:BetterMan.mp3] 2. Ten (1991) Radio has killed a good number of the songs on this album along with a handful of other great Pearl Jam tunes. "Evenflow," "Alive" and "Jeremy" are so overplayed that my parents probably know all the words. When you hear a song for the 1,000th time in the cereal aisle at the grocery store, some of the meaning has probably been lost. Obviously, the band knows this and it has made efforts to fight overexposure as much as any rock 'n' roll band ever, but it’s a hard battle to fight. What rock band doesn’t want fans? Despite it being Pearl Jam's bestselling album and the whole reason for its existence, without the recent remixing, Ten sounds dated and cheesy. When the band plays these songs live, they’re usually more aggressive and amped-up, but I’m so sick of hearing them that I’m usually just wondering what’s next. "Even Flow": [audio:EvenFlow.mp3] 3. "Daughter" (1993) Very few Pearl Jam songs stay at one level of intensity. Aside from a quick electric guitar solo, "Daughter" goes almost nowhere. There might be a reason the band used to use this song as the improv section of its sets, jamming the song into a cover or something else entirely. It’s probably because the guys get bored playing it. How many songs can one band write about dysfunctional parent/child relationships? Nothing speaks to disaffected youth better than songs about disaffected youth, I guess. Troubled souls unite. [audio:Daughter.mp3] 4. "Bee Girl" (1993) When I caught Pearl Jam in Berlin last month, the band pulled out this rarity, and the crowd went nuts. I have no idea why. Originally recorded as part of a radio appearance, Vedder wrote (improvised?) this song about the girl from Blind Melon's “No Rain” video who wears a bumblebee costume. The song had been a throwaway novelty that appeared on early bootleg compilations until the guys dusted it off for 2003's Lost Dogs b-side collection and it started to make its way back into sets. It was cute for what it was: a one-shot tossed-off joke of a song. But Pearl Jam shouldn’t use it to open the first encore. It diminishes the greatness of the songs the band actually put effort into writing. [audio:BeeGirl.mp3] 5. "Yellow Ledbetter" (1992) Speaking of putting effort into writing songs, this song doesn't even have lyrics. If Vedder had taken 15 minutes to sit down and put pen to paper, this could have been one of the greatest rock songs of all time and a massive hit. As it is, it's a jumbled, mumbled mishmash on top of a guitar line nicked from "Little Wing." The band usually saves this for last at its shows, and I've always found it as the signal to start heading for the parking lot in hopes of beating some of the traffic. [audio:YellowLedbetter.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Pearl Jam Songs 1. No Code (1996) When this album was released, I remember many Pearl Jam fans claiming that the band had lost it. "Who You Are" as the lead single was a strange mid-tempo choice for a band whose last album was the jagged, punky Vitalogy, and this was the point where I started to hear the rock-critic cliché of “I liked their early stuff.” Former Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Jack Irons is partially credited with the band’s slight stylistic departure. His tribal-influenced drumming gave the group a whole new dynamic and one that it never completely lost post Irons thanks to reverent renditions by Matt Cameron. As a whole and compared with the band’s entire discography, I don’t think there's another album that better embodies Pearl Jam’s sound. No Code is full of every kind of great song the band can write: rockers ("Hail, Hail"), ballads ("Off He Goes"), ones sung by other members ("Mankind"), quirky experiments ("Who You Are") and anthems ("In My Tree"). "In My Tree": [audio:InMyTree.mp3] 2. "Brain Of J." (1998) One of the best political songs the band has done and here’s why: It’s non-specific. Pearl Jam is just raging against the machine in general here, and lyrically, Vedder has always been more interesting when he leaves spaces for listeners to fill in their own lives. This song originally surfaced during the 1995 tour but for some reason did not appear on an album until three years later. A short, paranoid, conspiracy rocker that seems to preach to the Bush administration before they even got started, this song opened Yield with a false start and then a promise: “The whole world will be different soon/The whole world will be relieved.” [audio:BrainOfJ.mp3] 3. Merkin Ball (1995) This single (two-song EP?) came out of collaboration with Neil Young for Mirror Ball, and it is a crime against rock that these guys haven’t gotten back together for another round. Stylistically, the album's songs show a more gradual evolution between the dark, jagged Vitalogy and the roomier, eclectic instrumentation of No Code. Almost all of the tracks were written and recorded in four days in the studio, and Mirror Ball is still one of the best things PJ or Young has ever put to tape. Unfortunately, only two Pearl Jam songs came out of the session, “I Got Id” and “Long Road,” but they are two of its strongest. Young plays guitar on “I Got Id” and organ on “Long Road”. "I Got Id": [audio:IGotId.mp3] 4. "Satan's Bed" (1994) The opening riff to this song is scary. It just sounds nefarious and angry. This is Vedder’s best lyrical response to fame and the temptation of money: “I shit and I stink/I’m real, join the club." Recorded at the height of the band’s popularity (just mere months from Vs. becoming the fastest-selling album of all time) and containing some of its most angst-filled lyrics, aggressive guitar lines and powerful drumming, "Satan's Bed" simply rocks. There must be a good reason why Pearl Jam doesn’t play it live very much, but I cannot fathom it. [audio:SatansBed.mp3] 5. "Fatal" (2000) Originally a Binaural outtake and later released on Lost Dogs, this infectiously catchy acoustic song has no excuse for not making it on a proper album and becoming a huge hit. I remember the first time I  heard "Fatal." I was sitting in a parking lot in Bonner Springs, Kan., in the conversion van of some truly insane superfans who had been following the band on tour. They played me this song and three others, and no one would tell me where the songs came from. (And no, I definitely could not have a copy.) I remember not being sure who I was more frustrated with, the “elitist” fans who taunted me or the band that kept the song off Binaural. [audio:Fatal.mp3]

—Edward Fairchild

The members of the Who were the revolutionaries of the '60s and the hard-rock heavyweights of the '70s. At their best, they were four separate-yet-equal forces of chaos, harnessed in the pursuit of the ultimate pop song. That might sound like hyperbole, but in guitarist/songwriter Pete Townshend, the Who had a brilliant lyricist with a gift for a hook. And in Roger Daltrey, they had a vocalist often unmatched for sheer power. With a rhythm section of Keith Moon and John Entwistle, the Who should have destroyed themselves in their first practice session. And if the band’s endless, meaningless existence since Moon’s death has sullied its legacy, the albums (thankfully) speak for themselves. Here are the five most overrated and five most underrated works of the Who’s career. :: The Five Most Overrated Who Songs 1. "My Generation" (1965) Let’s get the elephant out of the room before he breaks everything and say that yes, “My Generation” was a mistake. Or rather, that one line—“Hope I die before I get old”—was a mistake. A huge one. An epic one. On the level of Lady Gaga’s musical career and Fox's decision to make a Family Guy spin-off. But those are complaints for another time. Cheeseball stuttering included, “My Generation” doesn’t really offer much musically besides a worn-out riff and quasi-rebellious lyrics. But it’s such a dangerous song for a band to release, and the Who’s current existence invalidates everything it might once have stood for. With its musical merit negligible and its cultural message irrelevant, there’s nothing left to keep “My Generation” showing up on any best-of-the-'60s list except boomer nostalgia. [audio:MyGeneration.mp3]  2. "Squeeze Box" (1975) “Squeeze Box” was one of the Who’s last hits, and while the opening riff has some value, its fifth-grade innuendo make it the “My Ding-A-Ling” of this once-beloved pop group. Honestly, “Come on and squeeze me/Squeeze me”? Did Townshend, one of rock’s great lyricists, really have nothing better to offer than this? [audio:SqueezeBox.mp3]  3. "Who Are You" (1978) Oh, CSI. What have you wrought upon us? Capital among the long-running program’s sins is its transformation of a frank, haunting number about loss of identity, written when Townshend was at the height of his alcoholism, into a brainless question about forensics. And while that’s not enough to make “Who Are You,” the Who's last great song, a bad one, it’s sure enough to make it overrated. [audio:WhoAreYou.mp3]  4. "Behind Blue Eyes" (1971) “Behind Blue Eyes” is a terrible song. It always was, years before the unfortunate Limp Bizkit cover. I exhort The Who By Numbers below for its honest, naked depiction of a band beginning to fray. So why, you might ask, do I take down a song that, at heart, is just doing the same thing? Well, The Who By Numbers treated self-doubt with simplicity and poise, but “Behind Blue Eyes” is a behemoth. From Daltrey’s too-heavy delivery to those insipid backing vocals to the simpering lyrics, “Behind Blue Eyes” became a track for self-absorbed teenagers and depressed divorcees. Who’s Next has its flaws (its sound hasn’t aged that well), but it still has moments of greatness. “Behind Blue Eyes” is not one of them. [audio:BehindBlueEyes.mp3]  5. Tommy (1969) Like fellow concept piece The Who Sell Out, Tommy is a handful of decent numbers baked in a casserole dish of filler. There’s just no substance to it. And while Quadrophenia succeeded on pure musical skill, Tommy sees Townshend trying so hard to be clever that he forgets how to write a pop song. Tommy wasn’t the first rock album to come with a “concept," but it was the first time the Who truly sounded pretentious, setting the ground for Townshend’s often mediocre solo career. Not to mention inspiring prog rock, Genesis and American Idiot. “Pinball Wizard”: [audio:PinballWizard.mp3]  :: The Five Most Underrated Who Songs 1. The Who By Numbers (1975) The Who By Numbers doesn’t really sound like a Who album. Nor does it sound like some lost Townshend solo album—or a suicide note, as some have said. It’s its own, unique record and deserves to be treated as such. But too often, The Who by Numbers gets dismissed as whiny, neurotic, self-absorbed and simplistic. And OK, at times, it is all those things. But the naked honesty of “However Much I Booze,” the delicacy of “Blue Red And Grey” and Entwistle’s rock ’n’ roll fable “Success Story”? It’s hard to top numbers like those, and they just prove that the Who was so much more than a rock monster. “However Much I Booze”: [audio:HoweverMuchIBooze.mp3]  2. “Early Morning Cold Taxi” (1967) Let’s get one thing clear: The Who Sell Out is one of the most over-praised albums of all time. It’s a clever concept, fair enough. But has anyone in the past 40 years ever thought to themselves one night that it was time to listen to The Who Sell Out? It’s a curio, a museum piece, when the Who deserved to be alive and compelling. But clearly, outtake “Early Morning Cold Taxi,” one of the “straight” numbers (included on the deluxe reissue), is actually one of the Who’s best tracks. Though it may be buried among filler, “Early Morning Cold Taxi” (co-written by Daltrey and road manager Dave Langston) is surprisingly reflective, menacing and meaningful for such a young band. The walk of shame never sounded so sweet. [audio:EarlyMorningColdTaxi.mp3]  3. "Just You And Me, Darling" (1965) The Who might have become heavyweights not long after this track from The BBC Sessions premiered on radio in 1965, but the band was never better than in those early years before the complications of Tommy and the posturing of Who’s Next. “Just You And Me, Darling” might be a James Brown cover, but throw out your demands for “authenticity” for just one second and think about it: The Who, the Stones—hell, even the Beatles—started out covering works by American R&B singers. And they were pretty damn good at it. Daltrey in particular, with a set of pipes blessed by the gods of blue-eyed soul, was well-equipped for the challenge. Sometimes, the simple joys of a two-minute blast like “Just You And Me, Darling” is utterly refreshing, especially when it comes from a band later known for big-haired bombast. [audio:JustYouAndMeDarling.mp3]  4. "A Legal Matter" (1966) Townshend often gets dismissed as a guitarist, as someone who smashed his instrument rather than deified it, and maybe that’s a fair point. He certainly wasn’t a virtuoso in the Clapton/Hendrix category. But if Townshend’s guitar skills have been put down, his singing has passed by with the tumbleweeds. And that’s not really fair, because, as “A Legal Matter” and several solo tracks prove, Townshend had some strangely compelling vocals. Sure, they’re nasal (are you really surprised?). Sure, he lacks Daltrey’s raw power. But “A Legal Matter” provides a great foil for the early snarl of “My Generation” and “I Can See For Miles” and brings up the band’s uncomfortable view of the war between the sexes (wonderfully elaborated on “The Kids Are Alright”). Politically correct? No. Tuneful? Hell yes. [audio:ALegalMatter.mp3]  5. "Let’s See Action" (1971) Once, there was an album called Lifehouse. And it was going to change the world. It would change the way we saw music, politics, culture, the whole lot. It would even invent the Internet. But Lifehouse never happened, thanks to a lot of factors, but primarily Townshend’s escalating drug problems. And if “Let’s See Action” is any indication, Lifehouse might not have changed the world, but it would have been pretty damn great. Townshend has tried to revive Lifehouse several times since its initial failure, but “Let’s See Action” is a great testament, on its own, to a time when the Who seemed capable of anything. [audio:LetsSeeAction.mp3]

—Emily Tartanella

High on my list of rock-scribe near misses is the time I came within a Marlboro butt’s distance of interviewing Lou Reed. (You’ll never guess what happened: He suddenly decided he didn’t want to talk to one more goddamned journalist during his promo stint.) Maybe it was just as well; Reed has been known to hang up on interviewers when he’s feeling especially cranky. That sort of contentiousness is an integral part of Reed’s career persona, which is what we mean when we talk about his “charm,” in quotes. Still, down amidst the coals of that touchy tough guy, there smolders a tiny, warm, hopelessly romantic ember. Every Reed fan has a stylistic preference; my own has always been for the noisy, squonky stuff: Metal Machine Music and The Blue Mask, etc. But when you review it, his songbook is surprisingly full of softer material, evidence that like most songwriters who’ve survived more than three decades of stardom, Reed has long been involved in the process of nailing his whole life—the good, bad and ugly parts—down on paper. He’s recently made himself over as a kind of artistic Renaissance man, showing photographs at the Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh, releasing albums of ambient music for tai chi and meditation, heading up a three-man drone/noise outfit called Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Trio. But for this edition of the Over/Under, we revisit the pop songbook of one of rock’s most contentious sweethearts: the nicest Jewish boy from Long Island ever to date a transvestite named Rachel. Note: As usual, there are a few very popular songs on the overrated list. This seems to be an ongoing point of contention, God knows why. Five dollars of this writer’s personal cash money to anyone who can explain, calmly and rationally, how a song can be both overrated and unpopular. (Read our Velvet Underground Over/Under.) :: The Five Most Overrated Lou Reed Songs 1. “Vicious” (1972) The opening cut from Transformer is sort of a last nod to the Warhol Factory era—Warhol himself suggested the title and the opening line to Reed—and maybe fittingly, in terms of substance and style, it’s as shallow as Reed’s songs come. Thankfully, the album gets a lot edgier and a lot more substantive after this, Reed’s parting shot to the dingy glamour of that tragically hip downtown crowd. Other songs on the record plow similar historical soil, but what keeps “Vicious” from reaching the level of a “Walk On The Wild Side” or “Andy’s Chest” is its perfectly straightforward conceit: Aw, baby, you hurt so good. Hit me with a flower? Ooh, saucy. Transformer is, by and large, a record about deeply fucked up people in a deeply fucked up time. The stakes get much higher, and the LP consists of a sustained, dark, beautiful vision. With the exception of “Vicious.” [audio:Vicious.mp3]  2. “Satellite Of Love” (1972) Whoops. I mean, with the exception of “Vicious” and “Satellite Of Love.” Why this one shows up on every single Reed best-of collection is a mystery to me. The ride-out is great, especially when David Bowie shows up for the falsetto part, but the rest of the song is sheer pabulum, a pretty good riff on doo-wop star-gazing. Reed has often said it’s more about bitter jealousy than moony-eyed romance, but the “I’ve been told that you’ve been bold” bridge can’t balance the silly swooniness that permeates the rest of the song. [audio:SatelliteOfLove.mp3]  3. “Coney Island Baby” (1976) “Coney Island Baby” is a long, dithyrambic narrative about high school sports dreams, fairy tale princesses … um, the power of true love … and … oh, hell. I have no idea what it’s about. And despite its critical acclaim, I don’t think Reed does, either, unless he intended it as exactly what it is: a loose pastiche of nostalgic images set to corner-harmony arrangements. It’s sweet and pretty, which is what usually accounts for the praise it receives. After a decade of grating noise and shameless decadence (the Coney Island Baby album immediately followed the ear-mauling Metal Machine Music, after all), most critics and fans lauded Reed’s turn to the romantic. But a squishy heart doesn’t pump much blood, and in the context of Reed’s solo career, even among similarly romantic songs, “Coney Island Baby” is one of his more lifeless outings. The only way it works is if you poke fun at the melancholy lyrics, which is why Reed’s own snotty, smartassed version on Lou Reed Live: Take No Prisoners (“Actually, I was a pole vaulter … I went out in the sectionals at eight-six … that’s pathetic”) is the best one available. [audio:ConeyIslandBaby.mp3]  4. “Waves Of Fear” (1982) The Blue Mask is one of the most disturbing rock albums ever recorded, a long meditation on self-hatred, self-abuse and violence as a mechanism for coping with depression. On “Waves Of Fear,” Reed tries to mount a grand statement of the album’s themes, but what should be a distillation of its essence actually becomes a watered-down bleat of shapeless anxiety. Weirdly, “Waves Of Fear” is the song on the album that sounds least like its subject, due to the string of stock images Reed uses to try to set the mood: “I know where I must be/I must be in hell,” “What’s that funny noise out there in the hall?” As a general statement of paranoia, on any other record it might work. But set against the bloody specifics of the rest of the album, it’s The Blue Mask’s least compelling song. [audio:WavesOfFear.mp3]  5. “The Bells” (1979) Reed is on record about this song. He loves it. He stood at the mic and improvised the words in one take, and he was so pleased with the result that he chose to conclude his 1991 book of selected lyrics Between Thought And Expression with the full text of “The Bells.” OK. Now go read it. (Time passes. Calendar pages flip. Leaves skitter on a deserted street.) Right? I know. Me neither. [audio:TheBells.mp3]  :: The Five Most Underrated Lou Reed Songs 1. “The Last Shot” (1983) Several rock artists have made powerful music from the middle of addiction. Some artists dry out and write uplifting songs about getting clean and moving on. Rarely does a newly sober songwriter have the stones to put himself back there in order to report exactly what it felt like, without lapsing into sentimentality or feeling the need to prop it all up with a happy ending of personal triumph over addiction. “The Last Shot” is the least sentimental song about addiction and sobriety you’re ever likely to hear, an unflinching survey of everything that’s giddy and awful about surrendering yourself to booze, then swearing it off, then knowing you’re going to slide again. Listen to Reed’s numbed, exhausted repeat on the line, “And a toast to everything that doesn’t move/That doesn’t move.” That’s a man who isn’t faking it. [audio:TheLastShot.mp3]  2. “Egg Cream” (1996) And yet, it can’t all be transvestites and the DTs. The goofy “Egg Cream” appeared first in a stripped-down form on the soundtrack to Paul Auster and Wayne Wang’s 1995 film Blue In The Face, then a year later on Reed’s Set The Twilight Reeling (heard here). It’s about nothing at all but that famous NYC soda-fountain drink, concocted from chocolate syrup, seltzer and milk. Reed has always been the most “New York” of New York rock artists, and in a career filled with songs (and one entire album) all about NYC life and culture, this little slice of city history is one of the most accessible and most joyful. It also happens to rock, if that’s your thing. [audio:EggCream.mp3]  3. “The Day John Kennedy Died” (1982) On first listen, “The Day John Kennedy Died” sounds less harrowing than most of the other tracks on The Blue Mask. Understated and simply performed, the song recounts the moment when the narrator heard the news of the assassination. And while a measure of baby-boomer pathos underpins the song, on a deeper level it’s about the destruction of potential and how often dreams go unrealized. It’s also about the sheer, scary unpredictability of violence and death. “I dreamed that I was young and smart/And it was not a waste,” sings Reed, but the brutal imagery that marks that album is never far away: “I dreamed that I could somehow comprehend/That someone shot him in the face.” [audio:TheDayJohnKennedyDied.mp3]  4. “Doin' The Things That We Want To” (1984) “Doin’ The Things That We Want To” is Reed’s grand statement about artistic integrity. Opening with a story about the moving experience of attending Sam Shepard play Fool For Love, backed by a single wobbly guitar part, Reed launches with a thundering power chord into verses extolling the talents of Martin Scorsese and a whole generation of independent New York artists who bucked the system to tell the stories they wanted to tell, in exactly the language they wanted to tell them. It’s also a slap in the face to mid-'80s rock (“There’s not much you can hear on the radio today”), as well as a reminder that genuine art requires that the audience take risks, too. But when that happens, we can all be transformed, made new, made whole, by something as seemingly simple as “a movie or a play.” [audio:DoinTheThingsThatWeWantTo.mp3]  5. “Temporary Thing” (1976) I had a friend once who went through a horrible breakup. He stopped eating, stopped talking to people, couldn’t sleep. Lost a lot of weight. About a week into it, I gave him a mix tape that opened with this, the last song on Reed’s Arista debut, Rock And Roll Heart. He told me later that he put the tape on, and he didn’t get past “Temporary Thing” for three days. He just kept playing, rewinding and playing it again. It’s a remarkable song: raging, bitter, proud, in places so angry it’s inarticulate (“Maybe your ... was getting, ah, too rich”) and one of the most direct expressions of pain and fury in Reed’s romantic catalog. And still, “It’s just a temporary thing.” Sometimes that knowledge is the only awareness that gets us past the rage. Sometimes the head knows it, but the heart’s scream drowns it out for a while. As one of the most eloquent howls from a writer who’s always walked the line between the heart and the head, between thought and expression, “Temporary Thing” is a song for all of us who’ve offered our hearts only to have them busted. In other words, it’s a song for all of us. [audio:TemporaryThing.mp3] 

—Eric Waggoner

When the Decemberists signed to Capitol for 2006’s The Crane Wife, it was a sign that they, and their particular brand of quirk-friendly indie, were gunning for the mainstream. But Colin Meloy and his band of Portland, Ore., artists were the most unlikely standard-bearers of the indie cause. Influenced by folk and prog, prone to telling tales of ghosts, wayward women and man-eating whales, the Decemberists never topped anyone’s list for the next small-time band to make it big. But thanks to Meloy’s nerdy charm, clever lyrics and a band that could tackle the most epic of themes, the Decemberists are now one of the best-known groups in modern rock. With the band in the middle of part two of its “A Short Fazed Hovel Tour,” it’s time to look back and examine the most overrated and underrated Decemberists songs. Read our recent Q&A with Meloy and one from 2008. :: The Five Most Overrated Decemberists Songs 1. "Apology Song" (2001) There are many “non-traditional” vocalists in this world; Meloy ranks on the more nasal side of that category. It’s not that he’s a bad singer, but “Apology Song” turns him into the musical version of a sinus infection. The tedious tale of a purloined bicycle, “Apology Song” is often name-checked by fans despite not being very good. Plus, its referencing of Missoula’s Orange Street Food Farm has given fans a reason to travel to Montana, and that, frankly, is unacceptable. [audio:ApologySong.mp3] 2. "July, July!" (2002) I’ll be honest. I like “July, July!” But that’s not really the point here. "Overrated" does not mean "bad" (although "underrated" almost always means "brilliant"). “July, July!” is a signature track for the band, but it’s so damn effervescently cheerful that it gives me a headache. Not to mention an instant disqualification for using the word “camisole” in a rock song. So far, this July has featured downpours, the Michael Jackson funeral and Ron from the Harry Potter movie getting swine flu. What’s so great about July? “Myla Goldberg” did everything that “July, July!” wants to do, only seven times better and 30 seconds longer. [audio:JulyJuly.mp3] 3. "16 Military Wives" (2005) While "16 Military Wives" is an all-right number, in an enigmatic way, it continues to cement the kitschy image that the Decemberists always had the power to rise above. When you listen to a track as powerful and poignant as “Red Right Ankle” or “Oceanside,” you can’t help but be struck by a band both profoundly thoughtful and remarkably articulate. Even lighter moments like “Billy Liar” had more to say than this track. And so what a shame to listen to “16 Military Wives” played off as a strange, unintelligible joke. And the music video, with its overtures to auteur of kitsch Wes Anderson, isn’t doing them any favors. [audio:16MilitaryWives.mp3] 4. "Yankee Bayonet (I Will Be Home Then)" (2006) This Cold Mountain reject has about as much charm as Renee Zellweger and wears out its welcome equally fast. Meloy’s gift for words is a pretty precarious thing; one minute he’s crafting the intricate epic of “The Island,” and the next it’s self-indulgent gibberish like “You are in the ground with the voles and the weevils/All a'chew upon your bones so dry.” The Crane Wife was a step forward for the band, no question, but there’s something about the honesty, the relatability and the sweetness of those early tracks (like “The Engine Driver” or “Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect”) that “Yankee Bayonet” just can’t match. If “O Valencia!” was The Crane Wife’s standout track for a reason, then “Yankee Bayonet” represents the Decemberists at their most pretentious. [audio:YankeeBayonet.mp3] 5. "My Mother Was A Chinese Trapeze Artist" (2001) A number that’s always come across as more clunky than witty, “My Mother Was A Chinese Trapeze Artist” has become a fan favorite while the much better (and musically similar) “Mariner’s Revenge Song” languishes in obscurity. It’s not that “quirkiness” in Meloy’s hands is a four-letter word. Tracks such as “A Cautionary Song” or “Sunshine” are sweetly strange and wryly funny, respectively. And Meloy’s efforts with Tarkio, his infinitely superior previous band, were often both riotously funny and defiantly unique. The problem is when their “quirkiness” becomes overpowering, and “Chinese Trapeze Artist” is less funny, more grating. [audio:MyMotherWasAChineseTrapezeArtist.mp3] :: The Five Most Underrated Decemberists Songs 1. "Raincoat Song" (2008) Even if you felt betrayed by their jump to the major leagues, you can’t deny that this delicate number more than holds its own against the band’s early classics. A cut from the Always The Bridesmaid singles series, “Raincoat Song” is impossibly fragile and all the more beautiful for it. While the three volumes of Always The Bridesmaid were full of almost uniformly good tracks, it’s the sweet simplicity of “Raincoat Song” that keeps in our minds long after the showers have stopped. [audio:RaincoatSong.mp3] 2. "Everything I Try To Do, Nothing Seems To Turn Out Right" (2004) This gem, found on the b-side of the “Billy Liar” single, never seems to turn up on lists of fan favorites, despite being one of the band’s best tracks. Meloy’s lyricism is in fine form here, including my personal favorite “And we both had some fun, though I twice bit my tongue/And it lasted too long for my taste.” Any man who can write those lines and sing them before a crowd clearly has some confidence. Any man who can then set those lyrics to a haunting and memorable beat clearly has some skills. [audio:EverythingITryToDo.mp3] 3. "On The Bus Mall" (2005) A friend of mine once dismissed the Decemberists as sounding like “gay pirates.” While that might be the best summation for the band I’ve heard in a long time, it’s not exactly the whole story. Take “On The Bus Mall,” a Picaresque tale of two runaways (ostensibly male, though that hardly makes a difference) who turn to prostitution and discover their own kind of love. Powerful, sweet and infinitely quotable, it should have become their signature track—but somehow passed by unnoticed. “On The Bus Mall” was an anthem from a band of misfits and deserved to be treated as such. Kings among runaways, indeed. [audio:OnTheBusMall.mp3] 4. "As I Rise" (2003) A surprisingly delicate number seemingly tacked onto the end of Her Majesty, “As I Rise” is the perfect antidote to the ballooning, bombastic prog-rockers the Decemberists seem set on becoming. It’s not that we didn’t enjoy The Crane Wife or The Hazards Of Love, it’s just that the sweetness and charm of “As I Rise” was lighter than air; any more pressure put upon it and, poof, gone. While Her Majesty featured stellar songs like “The Bachelor And The Bride” (also underrated), “As I Rise” was among the best of the bunch. [audio:AsIRise.mp3] 5. "Sleepless" (2009) Proof that a seven-minute opus need not be bombastic, this cut from charity compilation Dark Was the Night might not be the most accessible Decemberists track, but that doesn’t mean it’s not brilliant. “Sleepless” is simultaneously mournful and hopeful, sounding more like a b-side from Picaresque than a cut from The Crane Wife. When the over-hyped melodrama of The Hazards Of Love becomes too much but numbers like “The Sporting Life” still seem wafer-thin, it’s time to turn to “Sleepless.” [audio:Sleepless.mp3]

—Emily Tartanella