#radiohits — Public Fediverse posts

Blind Melon Play “No Rain”

Listen to this track by Nineties indie-rock poster boys Blind Melon. It’s “No Rain”, a big hit taken from their 1992 self-titled debut. Serving as the second single from the record, this tune was released the following year and proved to be the band’s biggest and most recognized song. It scored top ten placements across multiple U.S. charts and made a similar impact internationally.

There’s plenty to recommend this song, composed by bassist Brad Smith and brought to life by his bandmates, particularly lead singer Shannon Hoon who sings in a key just out of his natural range. His resulting grunge falsetto lends a pleading, agonized quality to a song about feeling alone and misunderstood. This is made all the more potent by the music, touched by blue sky brightness against lyrics that stand in direct opposition, lamenting the absence of rain rather than celebrating the clearness of the day.

The happy strum of acoustic guitar and the almost jazz-like lead that made this song so effusive on the radio in 1993 conveys the sound of an isolated, rainy-day soul stuck in the middle of a sunny world; out of place and out of sorts. This certainly fit in nicely with the social landscape coming out of an era that demanded something to which a lot of people were not willing or able to adhere: conformity.

This subtext was helped along by the song’s distinctive video featuring the adorable Bee Girl, a character who would become emblematic of an entire era. The image on the album cover shows a similarly dressed girl, a picture of drummer Glen Graham’s sister. In the video, the character is played by 10-year old Heather DeLoach, with the Bee Girl starting off as an object of ridicule as she tap dances in her bee costume only to be laughed off the stage by what sound like an audience of staid adults.

From there, Bee Girl goes on a journey, meeting people and offering her act to them with only middling results until she eventually discovers a crowd of similarly dressed people dancing in a field, all of them sporting the happy yellow garb so recognizably in line with her own. She’s found her people. As sombre as the lyrics to the song are, the video served as the perfect source of resolution that resonated with a generation of teens and twenty-somethings. We also sought to find our people in a world that seemed to be closing doors that were once open to our parents.

Saying that, if the Bee Girl’s journey is about the search for acceptance, the song is about feeling unworthy of it, thinking one is insane for points of view that don’t align with what is accepted as rational or reasonable by the majority. At its darkest, its narrator fears that there are no people for them to find, and that they are truly alone in the way they feel and thinks about the world. But the song isn’t just a monochromatic misfit’s story. It suggests something that was at least indicative of a social sea change by the early Nineties even without the video to bring the point home.

“No Rain” is one of the earliest songs on mainstream radio in the 1990s to suggest that the strict division between what’s normal and what’s not is ultimately arbitrary. As late as the 1980s, these ideas were not explored in such an overt way in rock songs. Even in the Sixties, songs like this (“Fool on the Hill”, “Madman Running Through the Fields”) became relegated to hippie costuming by the Seventies. Adherence to prescribed points of view and expression was still an expectation even in pop culture, and very much so by the end of the conservative Eighties.

In that environment, ridicule and even violence was treated as a natural consequence of rejecting or failing to respond to the social pressures to conform. After all, who doesn’t love a sunny day? Who longs for rain when there isn’t a cloud in the sky? Who stays inside to read books and sleep all day when the sun is shining and there are so many things to do? Only a sloth, a wet blanket, a doomsayer, a stick in the mud.

A crazy person.

“And all I can do
Is just pour some tea for two
And speak my point of view
But it’s not sane
It’s not sane”

– “No Rain”, Blind Melon

“No Rain” made room for the idea that people with divergent perceptions and different experiences of the world for any number of reasons still have valuable inner lives. It subtly questioned the value of making generalized pronouncements on people who don’t, or simply can’t, conform or even perform under one-size-fits-all social conditions. It helped to give voice to the changing values of a generation different to the one that came before. Very subtly, it points out that a lot of what was and is still considered normal was always just an aggregation of societal constructs. Most of all, the song suggested that mental illness and addiction are issues to address seriously and with compassion, not to dismiss, ignore, or to vilify those who struggle with them. We’re still coming to terms with that distinction today, of course.

“No Rain” was never considered to be a political song. But it still suggests themes and issues which make it an important artistic signpost to how culture was changing when the song came out and how culture has continued to change since. Healthier and more informed discussions around orientations, identities, neurotypes, and points of view are ongoing today even if the powers of conformity still try to demonize and/or erase the experiences, conditions, values, ideas, and agency of people who contradict what is deemed to be normal. Looking back at this song, it’s easy to interpret it as one of great compassion and empathy that was well ahead of its time.

After their initial success and their second record Soup was followed by the tragic death of Shannon Hoon in 1995, Blind Melon have continued on their path. After a third album in 2008 and intermittent reunions, they are an active band today.

Learn more about them at blindmelon.com.

Enjoy!

Christopher Cross Sings “Sailing”

Listen to this track by singer-songwriter, guitarist, and soft rock doyen born Chris Geppert, now better known as Christopher Cross. It’s “Sailing”, a smash single off of his equally smashy 1979 self-titled debut album. That record won an armful of Grammys, including Best Album, Best Song (this one), and Best New Artist. This single was the second from the record, released in May of 1980, and gaining a number one chart position on the Billboard Top 100 by June. By then, the album was well on its way to multiplatinum status, with its singles becoming radio staples across a spectrum of formats from easy listening to top forty.

For years after the album’s release and likely because of the subject matter of this very song, Christopher Cross became identified as an exemplar of a certain strain of pop music; yacht rock. The producers, engineers, and musicians on the scene in California by the mid-Seventies to the early-Eighties called this distinct brand of soft rock music by another name—The West Coast Sound. This musical subset is known today for its meticulously clean production, earnest lyrics, and slickly streamlined arrangements. It’s also defined by the approach producers took in the studio in working with session musicians known for their quick study and instrumental precision.

One of those musicians was keyboardist Michael Omartian who also served as producer and arranger on Christopher Cross and “Sailing”. One of his highlights as an instrumentalist on this track is the delicate piano part Omartian lays down in the middle section, standing as one of the most celebrated and evocative instrumental breaks of the period. Full of gentleness and lyricism, it’s another striking example of how an instrumental part can help convey emotional undercurrents in a song’s lyrics—in this case, peacefulness, contentment, safety, and serenity—that enables the song to communicate with listeners on multiple levels at once.

Besides Omartian’s sympatico playing and production skills, the high calibre of musicianship on display all around, and the lushness of the arrangements, the song’s thematic open-endedness may also explain its wide appeal. Listeners seemed to pick up on the emotions conveyed in the song whether they were into sailing themselves or not. “Sailing” is about escaping the world for a while in search of peace, a subject widely covered in modern pop music, but also in folk music that goes back even farther. Even if you don’t know a bow from a stern, the need to find solace away from worry and struggle is very relatable.

In interviews at the time, Cross stated that “Sailing” was more metaphorical than literal anyway, with the miracle-working canvas mentioned in the lyrics being either that of a sailor’s or an artist’s. Yet besides the fluidity of the meaning, “Sailing” was a personal statement, too. The song came from a memory of his teen years when life at home with an alcoholic father was not easy. The impulse to escape and to find solace and peace of mind wasn’t an abstract for him then. During a painful period in his life, Christopher Cross needed the care and guidance of a trusted friend.

He wrote “Sailing” with such a friend in mind; Al Glasscock, who was a kind of father figure slash older brother to him during this tumultuous period. Among other things, Glasscock took a young Chris on his small sailboat for sojourns on San Antonio’s Canyon Lake. On closer inspection, the narration on this song includes the voice of an older man speaking to a younger one, coaxing him to embrace another world that’s gentler and more forgiving than his present, troubled one.

The canvas can do miracles/Just you wait and see/Believe me …

In this respect, “Sailing” is in part a love song between friends as an older one sees a chance to free a younger one from the pain he’s experiencing. It’s about a close bond of friendship that feels familial. It’s also about experiencing the feelings of safety and belonging the narrator had always heard about but had never encountered himself. It catches the moment in which a young person realizes that things can be different and better in the realization that they deserve much more from all their relationships than they’ve experienced before.

The criticisms of the yacht rock genre as it’s become known are many. It’s too slick on the surface to be very deep or artistically worthy. It’s contrived and calculated, paying no respect to the unrefined emotions we all feel and hardships that real people face. It’s mellow and at ease because it comes from a place of privilege. It’s over-earnest and warmed-over hippy sentiment repackaged and financed by yuppie money. It escapes into fantasy instead of meeting the world head-on. Maybe it’s also complacent or even dishonest. It’s just not very punk rock.

“Sailing” challenges those spurious and generalized assumptions. As mellow and sonically refined as it is, this song deals in powerful themes common to the human experience, communicated in multifaceted ways. It certainly is a song of escape, without a doubt. It’s also rooted in painful personal history, and genuine gratitude. It is the product of an artist who reached back into his troubled past to draw all of the good out of it so he could put it into his music to bring peace of mind to anyone who hears it. For the most part, that was how the song was received and is still received today.

The early Eighties moved fast when it came to what was popular and then, very suddenly, what wasn’t. After another smash hit in “Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do)” in 1981, Christopher Cross felt the brunt of that shift. This roughly corresponded with the arrival of MTV, crowding the pop music field with new faces and new sounds. Yet, “Sailing” remained in the public consciousness well past that era. It was covered by N’Sync by the end of the 1990s. It’s been more recently sampled by The 1975.

Today, “Sailing” is celebrated across the generations by those who hear the emotional nuances beneath its smooth surfaces. It’s still full of gratitude as a song about finding a source of personal connection and inner peace in a tumultuous world. As much as we need songs of rage, we also need ones that remind us of what the point of all our raging should be; a sense of serenity and of connection, safety, and belonging for everyone.

Christopher Cross is an active musician today. You can learn about his recent activities including shows and new music at christophercross.com.

To learn more about this song and the inspiration behind it, read this article from Texas Monthly, Texas being Christopher Cross’ home state. In addition to the song’s origins, the piece touches on why the appeal of yacht rock seems to be so enduring; that it is aural comfort food for the kids who heard it coming out of their parents’ radios during a simpler time—a source of the very comfort this song is all about.

Enjoy!

Christopher Cross Sings “Sailing”

Listen to this track by singer-songwriter, guitarist, and soft rock doyen born Chris Geppert, now better known as Christopher Cross. It’s “Sailing”, a smash single off of his equally smashy 1979 self-titled debut album. That record won an armful of Grammys, including Best Album, Best Song (this one), and Best New Artist. This single was the second from the record, released in May of 1980, and gaining a number one chart position on the Billboard Top 100 by June. By then, the album was well on its way to multiplatinum status, with its singles becoming radio staples across a spectrum of formats from easy listening to top forty.

For years after the album’s release and likely because of the subject matter of this very song, Christopher Cross became identified as an exemplar of a certain strain of pop music; yacht rock. The producers, engineers, and musicians on the scene in California by the mid-Seventies to the early-Eighties called this distinct brand of soft rock music by another name—The West Coast Sound. This musical subset is known today for its meticulously clean production, earnest lyrics, and slickly streamlined arrangements. It’s also defined by the approach producers took in the studio in working with session musicians known for their quick study and instrumental precision.

One of those musicians was keyboardist Michael Omartian who also served as producer and arranger on Christopher Cross and “Sailing”. One of his highlights as an instrumentalist on this track is the delicate piano part Omartian lays down in the middle section, standing as one of the most celebrated and evocative instrumental breaks of the period. Full of gentleness and lyricism, it’s another striking example of how an instrumental part can help convey emotional undercurrents in a song’s lyrics—in this case, peacefulness, contentment, safety, and serenity—that enables the song to communicate with listeners on multiple levels at once.

Besides Omartian’s sympatico playing and production skills, the high calibre of musicianship on display all around, and the lushness of the arrangements, the song’s thematic open-endedness may also explain its wide appeal. Listeners seemed to pick up on the emotions conveyed in the song whether they were into sailing themselves or not. “Sailing” is about escaping the world for a while in search of peace, a subject widely covered in modern pop music, but also in folk music that goes back even farther. Even if you don’t know a bow from a stern, the need to find solace away from worry and struggle is very relatable.

In interviews at the time, Cross stated that “Sailing” was more metaphorical than literal anyway, with the miracle-working canvas mentioned in the lyrics being either that of a sailor’s or an artist’s. Yet besides the fluidity of the meaning, “Sailing” was a personal statement, too. The song came from a memory of his teen years when life at home with an alcoholic father was not easy. The impulse to escape and to find solace and peace of mind wasn’t an abstract for him then. During a painful period in his life, Christopher Cross needed the care and guidance of a trusted friend.

He wrote “Sailing” with such a friend in mind; Al Glasscock, who was a kind of father figure slash older brother to him during this tumultuous period. Among other things, Glasscock took a young Chris on his small sailboat for sojourns on San Antonio’s Canyon Lake. On closer inspection, the narration on this song includes the voice of an older man speaking to a younger one, coaxing him to embrace another world that’s gentler and more forgiving than his present, troubled one.

The canvas can do miracles/Just you wait and see/Believe me …

In this respect, “Sailing” is in part a love song between friends as an older one sees a chance to free a younger one from the pain he’s experiencing. It’s about a close bond of friendship that feels familial. It’s also about experiencing the feelings of safety and belonging the narrator had always heard about but had never encountered himself. It catches the moment in which a young person realizes that things can be different and better in the realization that they deserve much more from all their relationships than they’ve experienced before.

The criticisms of the yacht rock genre as it’s become known are many. It’s too slick on the surface to be very deep or artistically worthy. It’s contrived and calculated, paying no respect to the unrefined emotions we all feel and hardships that real people face. It’s mellow and at ease because it comes from a place of privilege. It’s over-earnest and warmed-over hippy sentiment repackaged and financed by yuppie money. It escapes into fantasy instead of meeting the world head-on. Maybe it’s also complacent or even dishonest. It’s just not very punk rock.

“Sailing” challenges those spurious and generalized assumptions. As mellow and sonically refined as it is, this song deals in powerful themes common to the human experience, communicated in multifaceted ways. It certainly is a song of escape, without a doubt. It’s also rooted in painful personal history, and genuine gratitude. It is the product of an artist who reached back into his troubled past to draw all of the good out of it so he could put it into his music to bring peace of mind to anyone who hears it. For the most part, that was how the song was received and is still received today.

The early Eighties moved fast when it came to what was popular and then, very suddenly, what wasn’t. After another smash hit in “Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do)” in 1981, Christopher Cross felt the brunt of that shift. This roughly corresponded with the arrival of MTV, crowding the pop music field with new faces and new sounds. Yet, “Sailing” remained in the public consciousness well past that era. It was covered by N’Sync by the end of the 1990s. It’s been more recently sampled by The 1975.

Today, “Sailing” is celebrated across the generations by those who hear the emotional nuances beneath its smooth surfaces. It’s still full of gratitude as a song about finding a source of personal connection and inner peace in a tumultuous world. As much as we need songs of rage, we also need ones that remind us of what the point of all our raging should be; a sense of serenity and of connection, safety, and belonging for everyone.

Christopher Cross is an active musician today. You can learn about his recent activities including shows and new music at christophercross.com.

To learn more about this song and the inspiration behind it, read this article from Texas Monthly, Texas being Christopher Cross’ home state. In addition to the song’s origins, the piece touches on why the appeal of yacht rock seems to be so enduring; that it is aural comfort food for the kids who heard it coming out of their parents’ radios during a simpler time—a source of the very comfort this song is all about.

Enjoy!

Dionne Farris Sings “I Know”

Listen to this track by folk-soul-roots-rock-pop maven Dionne Farris. It’s “I Know”, her most recognized hit song from her 1994 debut album Wild Seed, Wild Flower. That record followed her standout spot as guest vocalist on another era-defining hit song— Arrested Development’s 1992 hit “Tennessee”. That earlier song and her adjunct involvement with the group on other tracks and in live appearances raised her profile as a singer with an impressive range and emotional depth. She takes what she displayed working with Arrested Development and applied it here on her own hit song that also stands as an anthem of the era.

This tune hit the charts in early 1995 as the flagship single to represent her debut album. It achieved a number one position on Billboard’s top forty mainstream chart for ten consecutive weeks between April and June of 1995. That made “I Know” the most successful song all year on that specific chart. It scored a number one in Canada and top twenty positions in Europe and in Australia and New Zealand as well. The song also garnered Farris a 1996 Grammy nomination for Best Female Pop Vocalist.

“I Know” came out of a collaboration between Dionne Farris and songwriters Milton Davis and William DuVall shortly after she parted ways with Arrested Development. Davis and DuVall each had distinguished pedigrees as writers and musicians, working with a wide spectrum of artists between them including John Mellencamp, The Neville Brothers, and Alice in Chains. They worked up this song and others with Farris on a demo and pitched it to Columbia Records A&R man and future American Idol judge Randy Jackson. Plans for Dionne Farris’ debut record moved forward on the strength of the demo with Jackson co-producing this track and others.

The song’s synthesis of styles was an important factor that contributed to its success and to Dionne Farris’ overall artistic profile. It mixes musical elements across a spectrum of styles in one seamless package in a way that remains unmatched even today. Her bluesy delivery suggested it as an R&B record. Yet because it doesn’t colour within the lines stylistically speaking, it also bucked the system of what an R&B single was supposed to sound like in 1995. Significantly, this didn’t affect its massive success on the charts. Farris’ performance made that question of style immaterial. What counted was the balance she struck between ferocity, sweetness, and melancholy, doing so with startling emotional precision.

“I Know” is musically appealing instrumentally as well, mixing in beats with muscular slide guitar in a bluesy stew of sounds. The soaring middle section that introduces a vital layer of vocal harmonies is a highlight, communicating feelings of liberation mixed with a sorrowful lament that is truly affecting. The jangly guitars underneath that in this section add more stylistic variance still. They suggest a folk-rock influence that pairs incredibly well with Farris’ neo-soul style vocal.

The lyrics that tell the song’s story are a reflection of their times when love songs went beyond the emotional primary colours of the past. By the 1990s, listeners developed a vocabulary to understand and express feelings associated with bad relationships in a way that hadn’t been in place before. This was the height of the Oprah era! The strict lines between emotions even within loving relationships became understood as a lot more blurry and harder to define as all good or all bad. That’s exactly where this song lives; between fatigue, deep sadness, personal resolve, and emancipation.

Farris’ narrator sounds world-weary and burdened with an unhealthy history between her and the subject of this second person narrative. Maybe that person is a lover, either current or ex. Maybe the song is aimed a whole social framework in the form of racial gaslighting rather than a specific individual. All of these could apply. Maybe that’s another reason it was so resonant.

In any case, “I Know” still confidently puts its cards on the table as a song of liberation. It’s about someone coming to the realization that it’s time to move on after being emotionally hoodwinked and ransacked too many times in a relationship. Farris’ vocal serves that facet of the song incredibly well. She voices a narrator who is steadfast in her convictions. The narrator knows, finally, what’s happening, and what’s always been happening. And she decides it’s time for it to stop.

Yet, this is only one feature of this song’s emotional landscape. She knows why the object of the narrative says they love her. But she can’t say the same, which is perhaps something new that she’s come to realize. There is pain and regret heard in that statement as much as there is confidence and inner strength. Cutting bad relationships loose always implies how much we once invested in them with all of our hopes as life as we once knew it comes to an end. New starts after putting something away for good are almost never all about jettisoning only the bad memories and experiences associated with a bad relationship. The good and the hoped-for get lost along with it.

That’s why it often takes so long to get out of a bad relationship. The healthiest decisions are so often the hardest to make as we cling to the hope that things will get better, patterns will end, and people will change. Dionne Farris singing “it’s not going to work this time” is full of strength and self-possession. But there is also an element of deep sorrow and mourning heard in it that is just as strong. Letting people and the worlds they’re a part of go even if it’s the right thing to do and even if we aren’t entirely ready to give them up is healthy. But it’s also among the cruelest realities we’ll ever have to face.

Dionne Farris lost some career momentum after her hit debut album due to disputes with her label. Purportedly, this was in part because of how uncategorizable her music is and how unwilling she was to be placed into a marketing box defined by prescribed genre lines. But she is an active singer, performer, and songwriter today. You can review her more recent activities and output at dionnefarris.com

To hear another version of this song, check out this rocked-up rendition from Dionne Farris and her band on a May 1995 appearance on The Jon Stewart Show hosted by a remarkably fresh-faced Jon Stewart before his Daily Show tenure began.

Enjoy!

David Bowie Sings “Let’s Dance”

Listen to this track by pioneering style-shifting era hopper David Bowie. It’s “Let’s Dance”, the title track to his 1983 album of the same name. The new album, his fifteenth, was something of a comeback for Bowie who found himself on top forty radio again after a period of exploring the fringes a bit with the shadowy art rock of 1980’s Scary Monsters. After a brief recording slow down between 1981-82 and a change of record labels from RCA to EMI, Bowie was interested in a more straightforward approach to making music for his next album.

Instead of competing with the New Romantics and post punk bands who were vitally influenced by his past output, he moved to other musical territories entirely. In typical Bowie style, he donned a new look and stage persona to suit the new music he was making; that of a blonde pompadoured R&B frontman inspired by Little Richard and the Isley Brothers. He also sought a more accessible and dance-oriented direction to contrast the layered and more angular approach of his previous few records. The new album title says it all. Or, at least it seems to on first listen.

To help him get the funky and dance-oriented feel he wanted, Bowie co-produced the new album with Chic guitarist, writer, and producer Nile Rodgers. A cast of crack musicians appear on this single, including an up and coming Texan guitar player called Stevie Ray Vaughn whose lead guitar lines on this song show that he had a stunning and unique instrumental voice of his own even this early on. As for Rodgers’ own contributions as an instrumentalist, the co-producer added musical sophistication to this track informed by his instinctual way with irresistibly danceable grooves.

A key element that makes “Let’s Dance” work so well is the A-minor 13th chord featured in the song’s central riff. That small but significant compositional tweak evolved from Bowie’s original straight-ahead A-minor chord. Along with the echoey delay effect, this helped to elevate the song from its folky and funereal original form to being subtly menacing, mysterious, and sexy instead. During this post-disco period, Rodgers steered away from Studio 54-style rhythm parts completely. Instead, he touches on jazz harmony as met with post punk atmosphere. He plays his rhythm guitar part straight not syncopated and lets the delay do most of the work.

The collaboration between co-producers Bowie and Rodgers and engineer Bob Clearmountain resulted in David Bowie’s biggest single. It certainly aided in making its namesake album into his best-selling record. Because of these successes, lot of fans of his Berlin period and of Scary Monsters suggested that Bowie had sold out to the mainstream instead of continuing to push the artistic envelope into edgier territory. To them, his new music was too fit for radio and (worst of all) for casual listeners. Preppies were buying this record! Scandal!

With Grammy nominations and wins and heavy rotation on MTV, it was easy to miss what lies beneath this tune that was a top forty radio staple by 1983. Delving deeper, “Let’s Dance” deals in many of the same areas of concern Bowie explored in his earliest work. One of these is the theme of isolation and the alienation that goes along with it. The lyrical call this tune makes is not about a joyous night out partying or in mindlessly dancing to any old song that happens to be playing on the radio. The dancing described here is a dance of danger.

The moonlight under which that dance happens is not romantic moonlight – it’s serious moonlight. It’s the light in the darkness of the times in which it was more important than ever to gather and to move as a whole society toward something better. “Let’s Dance” is a song about peril. But it’s also one that suggests the importance of facing peril together in whatever way that’s necessary in solidarity; if you say run, I’ll run with you. If you say hide, we’ll hide. As always with Bowie, it’s a fight against the idea that such struggles are those we all must face on our own in isolation.

Bowie was not the first artist to explore the metaphor of dance as struggle, of course. Martha Reeves & The Vandella’s “Dancing in the Streets”, which Bowie would (ill-advisedly?) record later on himself is one high profile example of this from decades before. The lines between a joyful night on the town and taking to the streets in angry protest are pretty blurry in R&B songs of that era. The classic side “Hi-Heel Sneakers” is another example of that and possibly even more of a parallel as reflected in the lyrics. Nearly two decades later, the put on your red shoes line is a subtle nod to what that earlier song suggested.

“Let’s Dance” contains those same elements of danger and struggle that lurk under its celebratory surface. As far as social issues and political climates in which he wrote the song are concerned, not much had changed. With that in mind, “Let’s Dance” is not really a party song. It’s a song of disquiet, tension, and resistance. But it’s also a song about reaching out and rebelling against forces that keep people thinking they struggle on their own. Not much had changed there, either. In fact, this is another example in his work in which Bowie declares “you’re not alone!”, a sentiment he’d put forward to a whole other generation over a decade before.

Regardless of that, a lot of hardcore Bowie fans dismissed “Let’s Dance” as mere radio fodder. It was just too big a song. Even Bowie cut it from his setlists by the Nineties. By then he’d gone in other directions into more experimental areas that a big hit single in his live show wouldn’t allow. Yet for his Glastonbury performance in 2000, it returned again in a re-invented form. Before that, he performed a stripped down version in his appearance at the 1996 Bridge School Benefit. That version revealed it as a song of struggle a bit more than the original pop single version does.

Even if Bowie’s Let’s Dance made him more accessible to a wider audience by deliberately aiming for hits and capturing a new generation of listeners along with it, he was still exploring the core ideas of isolation, struggle, and a search for connection in his songwriting. This period of pop radio success was just another facet of his artistry in a career characterized by near-constant re-invention. But whatever face he wore, and whatever style he applied to his work, Bowie always plotted a steady course into some of the darker regions of the human experience in culturally resonant ways.

To explore more about David Bowie during his Serious Moonlight phase, check out this article about the Let’s Dance record on American Songwriter.

For more about Nile Rodgers’ approach to arranging this song, take a look at this video that has him telling the story of how he adapted the song based on Bowie’s original chord progression.

Enjoy!

David Bowie Sings “Let’s Dance”

Listen to this track by pioneering style-shifting era hopper David Bowie. It’s “Let’s Dance”, the title track to his 1983 album of the same name. The new album, his fifteenth, was something of a comeback for Bowie who found himself on top forty radio again after a period of exploring the fringes a bit with the shadowy art rock of 1980’s Scary Monsters. After a brief recording slow down between 1981-82 and a change of record labels from RCA to EMI, Bowie was interested in a more straightforward approach to making music for his next album.

Instead of competing with the New Romantics and post punk bands who were vitally influenced by his past output, he moved to other musical territories entirely. In typical Bowie style, he donned a new look and stage persona to suit the new music he was making; that of a blonde pompadoured R&B frontman inspired by Little Richard and the Isley Brothers. He also sought a more accessible and dance-oriented direction to contrast the layered and more angular approach of his previous few records. The new album title says it all. Or, at least it seems to on first listen.

To help him get the funky and dance-oriented feel he wanted, Bowie co-produced the new album with Chic guitarist, writer, and producer Nile Rodgers. A cast of crack musicians appear on this single, including an up and coming Texan guitar player called Stevie Ray Vaughn whose lead guitar lines on this song show that he had a stunning and unique instrumental voice of his own even this early on. As for Rodgers’ own contributions as an instrumentalist, the co-producer added musical sophistication to this track informed by his instinctual way with irresistibly danceable grooves.

A key element that makes “Let’s Dance” work so well is the A-minor 13th chord featured in the song’s central riff. That small but significant compositional tweak evolved from Bowie’s original straight-ahead A-minor chord. Along with the echoey delay effect, this helped to elevate the song from its folky and funereal original form to being subtly menacing, mysterious, and sexy instead. During this post-disco period, Rodgers steered away from Studio 54-style rhythm parts completely. Instead, he touches on jazz harmony as met with post punk atmosphere. He plays his rhythm guitar part straight not syncopated and lets the delay do most of the work.

The collaboration between co-producers Bowie and Rodgers and engineer Bob Clearmountain resulted in David Bowie’s biggest single. It certainly aided in making its namesake album into his best-selling record. Because of these successes, lot of fans of his Berlin period and of Scary Monsters suggested that Bowie had sold out to the mainstream instead of continuing to push the artistic envelope into edgier territory. To them, his new music was too fit for radio and (worst of all) for casual listeners. Preppies were buying this record! Scandal!

With Grammy nominations and wins and heavy rotation on MTV, it was easy to miss what lies beneath this tune that was a top forty radio staple by 1983. Delving deeper, “Let’s Dance” deals in many of the same areas of concern Bowie explored in his earliest work. One of these is the theme of isolation and the alienation that goes along with it. The lyrical call this tune makes is not about a joyous night out partying or in mindlessly dancing to any old song that happens to be playing on the radio. The dancing described here is a dance of danger.

The moonlight under which that dance happens is not romantic moonlight – it’s serious moonlight. It’s the light in the darkness of the times in which it was more important than ever to gather and to move as a whole society toward something better. “Let’s Dance” is a song about peril. But it’s also one that suggests the importance of facing peril together in whatever way that’s necessary in solidarity; if you say run, I’ll run with you. If you say hide, we’ll hide. As always with Bowie, it’s a fight against the idea that such struggles are those we all must face on our own in isolation.

Bowie was not the first artist to explore the metaphor of dance as struggle, of course. Martha Reeves & The Vandella’s “Dancing in the Streets”, which Bowie would (ill-advisedly?) record later on himself is one high profile example of this from decades before. The lines between a joyful night on the town and taking to the streets in angry protest are pretty blurry in R&B songs of that era. The classic side “Hi-Heel Sneakers” is another example of that and possibly even more of a parallel as reflected in the lyrics. Nearly two decades later, the put on your red shoes line is a subtle nod to what that earlier song suggested.

“Let’s Dance” contains those same elements of danger and struggle that lurk under its celebratory surface. As far as social issues and political climates in which he wrote the song are concerned, not much had changed. With that in mind, “Let’s Dance” is not really a party song. It’s a song of disquiet, tension, and resistance. But it’s also a song about reaching out and rebelling against forces that keep people thinking they struggle on their own. Not much had changed there, either. In fact, this is another example in his work in which Bowie declares “you’re not alone!”, a sentiment he’d put forward to a whole other generation over a decade before.

Regardless of that, a lot of hardcore Bowie fans dismissed “Let’s Dance” as mere radio fodder. It was just too big a song. Even Bowie cut it from his setlists by the Nineties. By then he’d gone in other directions into more experimental areas that a big hit single in his live show wouldn’t allow. Yet for his Glastonbury performance in 2000, it returned again in a re-invented form. Before that, he performed a stripped down version in his appearance at the 1996 Bridge School Benefit. That version revealed it as a song of struggle a bit more than the original pop single version does.

Even if Bowie’s Let’s Dance made him more accessible to a wider audience by deliberately aiming for hits and capturing a new generation of listeners along with it, he was still exploring the core ideas of isolation, struggle, and a search for connection in his songwriting. This period of pop radio success was just another facet of his artistry in a career characterized by near-constant re-invention. But whatever face he wore, and whatever style he applied to his work, Bowie always plotted a steady course into some of the darker regions of the human experience in culturally resonant ways.

To explore more about David Bowie during his Serious Moonlight phase, check out this article about the Let’s Dance record on American Songwriter.

For more about Nile Rodgers’ approach to arranging this song, take a look at this video that has him telling the story of how he adapted the song based on Bowie’s original chord progression.

Enjoy!

David Bowie Sings “Let’s Dance”

Listen to this track by pioneering style-shifting era hopper David Bowie. It’s “Let’s Dance”, the title track to his 1983 album of the same name. The new album, his fifteenth, was something of a comeback for Bowie who found himself on top forty radio again after a period of exploring the fringes a bit with the shadowy art rock of 1980’s Scary Monsters. After a brief recording slow down between 1981-82 and a change of record labels from RCA to EMI, Bowie was interested in a more straightforward approach to making music for his next album.

Instead of competing with the New Romantics and post punk bands who were vitally influenced by his past output, he moved to other musical territories entirely. In typical Bowie style, he donned a new look and stage persona to suit the new music he was making; that of a blonde pompadoured R&B frontman inspired by Little Richard and the Isley Brothers. He also sought a more accessible and dance-oriented direction to contrast the layered and more angular approach of his previous few records. The new album title says it all. Or, at least it seems to on first listen.

To help him get the funky and dance-oriented feel he wanted, Bowie co-produced the new album with Chic guitarist, writer, and producer Nile Rodgers. A cast of crack musicians appear on this single, including an up and coming Texan guitar player called Stevie Ray Vaughn whose lead guitar lines on this song show that he had a stunning and unique instrumental voice of his own even this early on. As for Rodgers’ own contributions as an instrumentalist, the co-producer added musical sophistication to this track informed by his instinctual way with irresistibly danceable grooves.

A key element that makes “Let’s Dance” work so well is the A-minor 13th chord featured in the song’s central riff. That small but significant compositional tweak evolved from Bowie’s original straight-ahead A-minor chord. Along with the echoey delay effect, this helped to elevate the song from its folky and funereal original form to being subtly menacing, mysterious, and sexy instead. During this post-disco period, Rodgers steered away from Studio 54-style rhythm parts completely. Instead, he touches on jazz harmony as met with post punk atmosphere. He plays his rhythm guitar part straight not syncopated and lets the delay do most of the work.

The collaboration between co-producers Bowie and Rodgers and engineer Bob Clearmountain resulted in David Bowie’s biggest single. It certainly aided in making its namesake album into his best-selling record. Because of these successes, lot of fans of his Berlin period and of Scary Monsters suggested that Bowie had sold out to the mainstream instead of continuing to push the artistic envelope into edgier territory. To them, his new music was too fit for radio and (worst of all) for casual listeners. Preppies were buying this record! Scandal!

With Grammy nominations and wins and heavy rotation on MTV, it was easy to miss what lies beneath this tune that was a top forty radio staple by 1983. Delving deeper, “Let’s Dance” deals in many of the same areas of concern Bowie explored in his earliest work. One of these is the theme of isolation and the alienation that goes along with it. The lyrical call this tune makes is not about a joyous night out partying or in mindlessly dancing to any old song that happens to be playing on the radio. The dancing described here is a dance of danger.

The moonlight under which that dance happens is not romantic moonlight – it’s serious moonlight. It’s the light in the darkness of the times in which it was more important than ever to gather and to move as a whole society toward something better. “Let’s Dance” is a song about peril. But it’s also one that suggests the importance of facing peril together in whatever way that’s necessary in solidarity; if you say run, I’ll run with you. If you say hide, we’ll hide. As always with Bowie, it’s a fight against the idea that such struggles are those we all must face on our own in isolation.

Bowie was not the first artist to explore the metaphor of dance as struggle, of course. Martha Reeves & The Vandella’s “Dancing in the Streets”, which Bowie would (ill-advisedly?) record later on himself is one high profile example of this from decades before. The lines between a joyful night on the town and taking to the streets in angry protest are pretty blurry in R&B songs of that era. The classic side “Hi-Heel Sneakers” is another example of that and possibly even more of a parallel as reflected in the lyrics. Nearly two decades later, the put on your red shoes line is a subtle nod to what that earlier song suggested.

“Let’s Dance” contains those same elements of danger and struggle that lurk under its celebratory surface. As far as social issues and political climates in which he wrote the song are concerned, not much had changed. With that in mind, “Let’s Dance” is not really a party song. It’s a song of disquiet, tension, and resistance. But it’s also a song about reaching out and rebelling against forces that keep people thinking they struggle on their own. Not much had changed there, either. In fact, this is another example in his work in which Bowie declares “you’re not alone!”, a sentiment he’d put forward to a whole other generation over a decade before.

Regardless of that, a lot of hardcore Bowie fans dismissed “Let’s Dance” as mere radio fodder. It was just too big a song. Even Bowie cut it from his setlists by the Nineties. By then he’d gone in other directions into more experimental areas that a big hit single in his live show wouldn’t allow. Yet for his Glastonbury performance in 2000, it returned again in a re-invented form. Before that, he performed a stripped down version in his appearance at the 1996 Bridge School Benefit. That version revealed it as a song of struggle a bit more than the original pop single version does.

Even if Bowie’s Let’s Dance made him more accessible to a wider audience by deliberately aiming for hits and capturing a new generation of listeners along with it, he was still exploring the core ideas of isolation, struggle, and a search for connection in his songwriting. This period of pop radio success was just another facet of his artistry in a career characterized by near-constant re-invention. But whatever face he wore, and whatever style he applied to his work, Bowie always plotted a steady course into some of the darker regions of the human experience in culturally resonant ways.

To explore more about David Bowie during his Serious Moonlight phase, check out this article about the Let’s Dance record on American Songwriter.

For more about Nile Rodgers’ approach to arranging this song, take a look at this video that has him telling the story of how he adapted the song based on Bowie’s original chord progression.

Enjoy!

Sting Sings “Fortress Around Your Heart”

Listen to this track by former Police bassist, songwriter, and singer turned exploratory solo artist Sting. It’s “Fortress Around Your Heart”, a smash single of a deeply personal nature taken from his 1985 debut under his own name The Dream of the Blue Turtles. This cut was the record’s third single in the UK, and the second in the States. Overall, it was his second number one charting song as a solo artist on Billboard’s Top Rock Tracks chart. Added to the success of two other singles, things were off to a pretty good start for Sting outside of his former band.

The results he won were significant, if not entirely surprising. Sting was a welcome and familiar presence on the radio and on MTV’s video flow at the time. This had been mostly in the context of The Police who scored their highest sales and best reviews only a couple of years before with the landmark Synchronicity album and its ensuing tour. This culminated in an historic appearance at Shea Stadium by the summer of 1983 in front of seventy-thousand fans. That’s Beatle-sized success right there. So, the best thing to do was to keep it all going.

Right?

Sting?

Well, on paper, sure. This was but for an actual dream Sting had of enormous blue turtles invading his garden; bursting out from holes in the walls, doing backflips, and generally making a mess of things. His subconscious was trying to tell him something—or at very least it sparked a great hook for press releases. The retelling of this dream from which the record gets its title was at the forefront of interviews at the time. This stood to reason as the question hung in the air. The Police had been the biggest act on planet Earth. Why he would take such a sharp left turn from the prescribed pop music path to further success that was practically guaranteed with The Police?

Undoubtedly, there were personal reasons for doing this as well as artistic ones. As successful as they were, The Police was not an easy band to be in. All three members have acknowledged that at length by now. And besides that, there really is something to be said for going out on top. The Police definitely did that. As for the creative reasons beyond all that, the impulse to tear up one’s carefully manicured artistic garden in favour of sowing a bit of chaos instead is a pretty rock ‘n’ roll move—as long as it works! To help ensure it would, Sting decided to make a few changes to his approach.

By 1985, pop music was becoming increasingly compartmentalized across both stylistic and racial lines. So first, to buck the system on two different fronts, he hired prominent Black American jazz and fusion musicians to back him up on the record and on tour. The new band included Kenny Kirkland on keyboards, Branford Marsalis on saxophones, and Omar Hakim on drums. Vocalists Janice Pendarvis and Dolette McDonald joined the group as well, the latter of whom having accompanied The Police on the aforementioned Synchronicity tour of the previous two years.

Second, he largely handed bass duties to former Miles Davis sideman and future Rolling Stones hired gun Darryl Jones, another key member of the new band. Sting became the guitarist instead. This subtle instrumental shift helped him serve an essential factor particular to a lead singer of a popular band striking out on his own; a unique sound to separate his past work from his present.

Third, instead of trying to stick to a strict pop rock template, Sting went back to where he came from stylistically. His previous band to The Police was the fusion outfit Last Exit based in his hometown of Newcastle in the days before he decided to go to London to see what all the punk rock fuss was about. With those aforementioned American jazz musicians being first-rate purveyors of the styles Sting was interested in exploring, they all laid the groundwork to planting a new kind of artistic garden together. They recorded the album in Barbados and then took it on tour.

Even with a new approach in place, there were still a few stylistic markings left over from The Police. After all, it was in that band that he came into his own as a singer and writer over eight years as a group. You can hear those influences in “Fortress Around Your Heart”, particularly in terms of atmosphere. The shadowy psychological angles found in the lyrics are of the same variety as the ones Sting explored since at least the Ghost in the Machine era. Saying that, there is another facet of his past that can be found in this tune that makes it an important statement in his catalogue of songs even today.

While he was in The Police, Sting’s first marriage ended. This was difficult enough to navigate without his obligations to millions of fans and steeple-fingered record label executives who all expected him to continue as an untouchable pop avatar. “Fortress Around Your Heart” is an expression of that troubled time and emotional landscape, full of metaphor and symbolism equal to anything on Synchronicity. Today, it remains to be one of the most personally revealing songs he ever wrote. With all of the risks he took in leaving The Police behind and going in what was considered to be an unexpected direction, “Fortress Around Your Heart” represents a risk of another kind.

Sting initially described this song as one of appeasement, of trying to meet someone half-way to keep a connection with them alive. But the language of protection in the chorus begins to blur with allusions to prisons in the verses until “Fortress Around Your Heart” becomes a song about confinement instead. Both parties involved are encircled in trenches and barbed wire, walking through minefields of their own making and trapped inside of oppressive architecture that undoes all of the good intentions they have to stay connected. This song is a desperately sad expression of all that, and all too real as a reflection of what can happen in a marriage despite the love that so often remains even when one ends.

In the meantime, “Fortress Around Your Heart” shines instrumentally. Branford Marsalis’ pleading soprano saxophone lines throughout provide an additional voice to embody the reflective and profound sadness that Sting’s lead vocal conveys lyrically. The track certainly wins in terms of pure atmosphere and emotional tone that seems to embody resignation as much as regret and sadness. Overall, the song reflects the artistic signature of its writer with incredible precision. It complemented the familiar sonic landscapes established with The Police with the new directions Sting was taking by 1985. Together with the whole of the album, it met and exceeded all expectations on those fronts, and on others besides.

As big a solo artist as he would become for the rest of the decade and onward, going solo at the time he did was very risky. With the success of The Police, Sting had to match the potential of that success right out of the box, which was no small task. But the bravest thing when it comes to this song is in revealing his own faults, missteps, and personal regrets that present a unique level of openness. In a profound way, this song that served as a hit single embodied a kind of personal liberty in more than one sense. The song that tells a story about thick walls and barriers also reveals that they could not contain the storyteller for very long as he sings of them. On another level, with the success of this song and the album Sting was free to go his own way.

For more background on Sting’s artistic journey during this post-Police and early solo period, check out this page on his website, sting.com

And for a fuller portrait of Sting and his band around the time of the album and the shows to support it, check out Michael Apted’s 1985 documentary and concert movie Bring on the Night. Check out the trailer for that film right here.

Enjoy!

Sting Sings “Fortress Around Your Heart”

Listen to this track by former Police bassist, songwriter, and singer turned exploratory solo artist Sting. It’s “Fortress Around Your Heart”, a smash single of a deeply personal nature taken from his 1985 debut under his own name The Dream of the Blue Turtles. This cut was the record’s third single in the UK, and the second in the States. Overall, it was his second number one charting song as a solo artist on Billboard’s Top Rock Tracks chart. Added to the success of two other singles, things were off to a pretty good start for Sting outside of his former band.

The results he won were significant, if not entirely surprising. Sting was a welcome and familiar presence on the radio and on MTV’s video flow at the time. This had been mostly in the context of The Police who scored their highest sales and best reviews only a couple of years before with the landmark Synchronicity album and its ensuing tour. This culminated in an historic appearance at Shea Stadium by the summer of 1983 in front of seventy-thousand fans. That’s Beatle-sized success right there. So, the best thing to do was to keep it all going.

Right?

Sting?

Well, on paper, sure. This was but for an actual dream Sting had of enormous blue turtles invading his garden; bursting out from holes in the walls, doing backflips, and generally making a mess of things. His subconscious was trying to tell him something—or at very least it sparked a great hook for press releases. The retelling of this dream from which the record gets its title was at the forefront of interviews at the time. This stood to reason as the question hung in the air. The Police had been the biggest act on planet Earth. Why he would take such a sharp left turn from the prescribed pop music path to further success that was practically guaranteed with The Police?

Undoubtedly, there were personal reasons for doing this as well as artistic ones. As successful as they were, The Police was not an easy band to be in. All three members have acknowledged that at length by now. And besides that, there really is something to be said for going out on top. The Police definitely did that. As for the creative reasons beyond all that, the impulse to tear up one’s carefully manicured artistic garden in favour of sowing a bit of chaos instead is a pretty rock ‘n’ roll move—as long as it works! To help ensure it would, Sting decided to make a few changes to his approach.

By 1985, pop music was becoming increasingly compartmentalized across both stylistic and racial lines. So first, to buck the system on two different fronts, he hired prominent Black American jazz and fusion musicians to back him up on the record and on tour. The new band included Kenny Kirkland on keyboards, Branford Marsalis on saxophones, and Omar Hakim on drums. Vocalists Janice Pendarvis and Dolette McDonald joined the group as well, the latter of whom having accompanied The Police on the aforementioned Synchronicity tour of the previous two years.

Second, he largely handed bass duties to former Miles Davis sideman and future Rolling Stones hired gun Darryl Jones, another key member of the new band. Sting became the guitarist instead. This subtle instrumental shift helped him serve an essential factor particular to a lead singer of a popular band striking out on his own; a unique sound to separate his past work from his present.

Third, instead of trying to stick to a strict pop rock template, Sting went back to where he came from stylistically. His previous band to The Police was the fusion outfit Last Exit based in his hometown of Newcastle in the days before he decided to go to London to see what all the punk rock fuss was about. With those aforementioned American jazz musicians being first-rate purveyors of the styles Sting was interested in exploring, they all laid the groundwork to planting a new kind of artistic garden together. They recorded the album in Barbados and then took it on tour.

Even with a new approach in place, there were still a few stylistic markings left over from The Police. After all, it was in that band that he came into his own as a singer and writer over eight years as a group. You can hear those influences in “Fortress Around Your Heart”, particularly in terms of atmosphere. The shadowy psychological angles found in the lyrics are of the same variety as the ones Sting explored since at least the Ghost in the Machine era. Saying that, there is another facet of his past that can be found in this tune that makes it an important statement in his catalogue of songs even today.

While he was in The Police, Sting’s first marriage ended. This was difficult enough to navigate without his obligations to millions of fans and steeple-fingered record label executives who all expected him to continue as an untouchable pop avatar. “Fortress Around Your Heart” is an expression of that troubled time and emotional landscape, full of metaphor and symbolism equal to anything on Synchronicity. Today, it remains to be one of the most personally revealing songs he ever wrote. With all of the risks he took in leaving The Police behind and going in what was considered to be an unexpected direction, “Fortress Around Your Heart” represents a risk of another kind.

Sting initially described this song as one of appeasement, of trying to meet someone half-way to keep a connection with them alive. But the language of protection in the chorus begins to blur with allusions to prisons in the verses until “Fortress Around Your Heart” becomes a song about confinement instead. Both parties involved are encircled in trenches and barbed wire, walking through minefields of their own making and trapped inside of oppressive architecture that undoes all of the good intentions they have to stay connected. This song is a desperately sad expression of all that, and all too real as a reflection of what can happen in a marriage despite the love that so often remains even when one ends.

In the meantime, “Fortress Around Your Heart” shines instrumentally. Branford Marsalis’ pleading soprano saxophone lines throughout provide an additional voice to embody the reflective and profound sadness that Sting’s lead vocal conveys lyrically. The track certainly wins in terms of pure atmosphere and emotional tone that seems to embody resignation as much as regret and sadness. Overall, the song reflects the artistic signature of its writer with incredible precision. It complemented the familiar sonic landscapes established with The Police with the new directions Sting was taking by 1985. Together with the whole of the album, it met and exceeded all expectations on those fronts, and on others besides.

As big a solo artist as he would become for the rest of the decade and onward, going solo at the time he did was very risky. With the success of The Police, Sting had to match the potential of that success right out of the box, which was no small task. But the bravest thing when it comes to this song is in revealing his own faults, missteps, and personal regrets that present a unique level of openness. In a profound way, this song that served as a hit single embodied a kind of personal liberty in more than one sense. The song that tells a story about thick walls and barriers also reveals that they could not contain the storyteller for very long as he sings of them. On another level, with the success of this song and the album Sting was free to go his own way.

For more background on Sting’s artistic journey during this post-Police and early solo period, check out this page on his website, sting.com

And for a fuller portrait of Sting and his band around the time of the album and the shows to support it, check out Michael Apted’s 1985 documentary and concert movie Bring on the Night. Check out the trailer for that film right here.

Enjoy!

Sting Sings “Fortress Around Your Heart”

Listen to this track by former Police bassist, songwriter, and singer turned exploratory solo artist Sting. It’s “Fortress Around Your Heart”, a smash single of a deeply personal nature taken from his 1985 debut under his own name The Dream of the Blue Turtles. This cut was the record’s third single in the UK, and the second in the States. Overall, it was his second number one charting song as a solo artist on Billboard’s Top Rock Tracks chart. Added to the success of two other singles, things were off to a pretty good start for Sting outside of his former band.

The results he won were significant, if not entirely surprising. Sting was a welcome and familiar presence on the radio and on MTV’s video flow at the time. This had been mostly in the context of The Police who scored their highest sales and best reviews only a couple of years before with the landmark Synchronicity album and its ensuing tour. This culminated in an historic appearance at Shea Stadium by the summer of 1983 in front of seventy-thousand fans. That’s Beatle-sized success right there. So, the best thing to do was to keep it all going.

Right?

Sting?

Well, on paper, sure. This was but for an actual dream Sting had of enormous blue turtles invading his garden; bursting out from holes in the walls, doing backflips, and generally making a mess of things. His subconscious was trying to tell him something—or at very least it sparked a great hook for press releases. The retelling of this dream from which the record gets its title was at the forefront of interviews at the time. This stood to reason as the question hung in the air. The Police had been the biggest act on planet Earth. Why he would take such a sharp left turn from the prescribed pop music path to further success that was practically guaranteed with The Police?

Undoubtedly, there were personal reasons for doing this as well as artistic ones. As successful as they were, The Police was not an easy band to be in. All three members have acknowledged that at length by now. And besides that, there really is something to be said for going out on top. The Police definitely did that. As for the creative reasons beyond all that, the impulse to tear up one’s carefully manicured artistic garden in favour of sowing a bit of chaos instead is a pretty rock ‘n’ roll move—as long as it works! To help ensure it would, Sting decided to make a few changes to his approach.

By 1985, pop music was becoming increasingly compartmentalized across both stylistic and racial lines. So first, to buck the system on two different fronts, he hired prominent Black American jazz and fusion musicians to back him up on the record and on tour. The new band included Kenny Kirkland on keyboards, Branford Marsalis on saxophones, and Omar Hakim on drums. Vocalists Janice Pendarvis and Dolette McDonald joined the group as well, the latter of whom having accompanied The Police on the aforementioned Synchronicity tour of the previous two years.

Second, he largely handed bass duties to former Miles Davis sideman and future Rolling Stones hired gun Darryl Jones, another key member of the new band. Sting became the guitarist instead. This subtle instrumental shift helped him serve an essential factor particular to a lead singer of a popular band striking out on his own; a unique sound to separate his past work from his present.

Third, instead of trying to stick to a strict pop rock template, Sting went back to where he came from stylistically. His previous band to The Police was the fusion outfit Last Exit based in his hometown of Newcastle in the days before he decided to go to London to see what all the punk rock fuss was about. With those aforementioned American jazz musicians being first-rate purveyors of the styles Sting was interested in exploring, they all laid the groundwork to planting a new kind of artistic garden together. They recorded the album in Barbados and then took it on tour.

Even with a new approach in place, there were still a few stylistic markings left over from The Police. After all, it was in that band that he came into his own as a singer and writer over eight years as a group. You can hear those influences in “Fortress Around Your Heart”, particularly in terms of atmosphere. The shadowy psychological angles found in the lyrics are of the same variety as the ones Sting explored since at least the Ghost in the Machine era. Saying that, there is another facet of his past that can be found in this tune that makes it an important statement in his catalogue of songs even today.

While he was in The Police, Sting’s first marriage ended. This was difficult enough to navigate without his obligations to millions of fans and steeple-fingered record label executives who all expected him to continue as an untouchable pop avatar. “Fortress Around Your Heart” is an expression of that troubled time and emotional landscape, full of metaphor and symbolism equal to anything on Synchronicity. Today, it remains to be one of the most personally revealing songs he ever wrote. With all of the risks he took in leaving The Police behind and going in what was considered to be an unexpected direction, “Fortress Around Your Heart” represents a risk of another kind.

Sting initially described this song as one of appeasement, of trying to meet someone half-way to keep a connection with them alive. But the language of protection in the chorus begins to blur with allusions to prisons in the verses until “Fortress Around Your Heart” becomes a song about confinement instead. Both parties involved are encircled in trenches and barbed wire, walking through minefields of their own making and trapped inside of oppressive architecture that undoes all of the good intentions they have to stay connected. This song is a desperately sad expression of all that, and all too real as a reflection of what can happen in a marriage despite the love that so often remains even when one ends.

In the meantime, “Fortress Around Your Heart” shines instrumentally. Branford Marsalis’ pleading soprano saxophone lines throughout provide an additional voice to embody the reflective and profound sadness that Sting’s lead vocal conveys lyrically. The track certainly wins in terms of pure atmosphere and emotional tone that seems to embody resignation as much as regret and sadness. Overall, the song reflects the artistic signature of its writer with incredible precision. It complemented the familiar sonic landscapes established with The Police with the new directions Sting was taking by 1985. Together with the whole of the album, it met and exceeded all expectations on those fronts, and on others besides.

As big a solo artist as he would become for the rest of the decade and onward, going solo at the time he did was very risky. With the success of The Police, Sting had to match the potential of that success right out of the box, which was no small task. But the bravest thing when it comes to this song is in revealing his own faults, missteps, and personal regrets that present a unique level of openness. In a profound way, this song that served as a hit single embodied a kind of personal liberty in more than one sense. The song that tells a story about thick walls and barriers also reveals that they could not contain the storyteller for very long as he sings of them. On another level, with the success of this song and the album Sting was free to go his own way.

For more background on Sting’s artistic journey during this post-Police and early solo period, check out this page on his website, sting.com

And for a fuller portrait of Sting and his band around the time of the album and the shows to support it, check out Michael Apted’s 1985 documentary and concert movie Bring on the Night. Check out the trailer for that film right here.

Enjoy!

Tears for Fears Play “Break it Down Again”

Listen to this track by anthemic and inward-looking pop song hitmakers Tears for Fears. It’s “Break it Down Again”, a single from the 1993 record Elemental, the fourth release under the Tears for Fears name. That album was a return to the world stage to follow up 1989’s highly successful Sowing the Seeds of Love. However, a lot happened since that release to redefine the band for a new decade.

By this time, Tears for Fears was a vehicle for band co-founder Roland Orzabal’s solo work, and not as a duo. His fellow band founder, vocalist and bassist Curt Smith, had left the group by 1991. Orzabal, who had always done the lion’s share of the songwriting, carried on with the help of writing and production partner Allan Griffiths and studio musicians, with sessions at Orzabal’s then recently established home studio Neptune’s Kitchen where he could play with ideas and lay down tracks at his leisure.

The Elemental album found Orzabal as artistically bold as ever as he continued to evolve the Tears for Fears sound. Re-invention from one record to the next had always been par for the course. Their debut album, The Hurting, is an amalgam of bedsit post-punk meets confessional folk rock. Songs From the Big Chair is a straight ahead mainstream rock radio affair aimed directly at stadium crowds. Sowing the Seeds of Love is Beatlesque while also going deeper into more soulful musical territory in part thanks to their collaboration with singer Oleta Adams.

All the while and at every stage, the band’s music still sounds like Tears for Fears. Change had been no big deal. But with Curt Smith’s departure, the conditions were uniquely challenging on a more personal level. Along with financial issues with management happening at the same time, the situation was enough to get Orzabal thinking about what he’d built up as an artist and what he needed to examine and deconstruct into essential elements to move forward.

The album title Elemental was a reflection of that necessary process, which made “Break it Down Again” a natural flagship song. The single’s sleeve included a visual reference to their previous record, with the flowers which the sown seeds of love produced now wilted and cradled in Orzabal’s arms; a symbol for the beauty of decay referenced in the lyrics, but also perhaps the state of his own heart.

With that said, Orzabal continued to develop the sound for which his band had become known, drawing from what had come before to help get him there. Some of the elements of the past are distinctly in place on “Break It Down Again”, anchored in large part by his own strong lead vocal at its center. Some of the Beatles’ influence is still here too, particularly with the military snare and operatic chorus in the intro. The latter sounds like a radio sample, suggesting a kind of dreamlike Magical Mystery Tour effect. The cellos throughout the song underscore that as well.

Meanwhile, Orzabal was aware of new movements and stylistic elements happening at the time. He incorporated textures and rhythms from modern R&B here, too, with a looped percussion line in the background that suggests an inspiration from early-Nineties dance tracks like “I’ve Got the Power” by Snap!. Orzabal and his production and writing partner Allan Griffiths make sure not to appropriate any of these disparate elements wholesale. Instead, they’re blended in until – as always and once again – the whole song sounds like a Tears for Fears record.

In many ways, Elemental is a thematic callback to the first Tears for Fears record inspired by readings of Arthur Janov’s Primal Scream. It’s also a continuation of those same themes found in their subsequent hit single “Shout”. These earlier songs center around childhood trauma as it affects people in adulthood. The principles in this newer song are the same; that waste seeps underground in our psyches as we hide from the truth of our unprocessed experiences and emotions.

It’s in the way you’re always hiding from the light
See for yourself, you have been sitting on a time bomb
No revolution, maybe someone, somewhere else
Could show you something new about you and your inner song
And all the love and all the love in the world
Won’t stop the rain from falling
Waste seeping underground (Break it down again)
I wanna break it down …

~ “Break it Down Again” by Tears for Fears

Although Orzabal minimized the significance of his musical partner leaving the group they founded together at the time, the emotional tumult that came out of those circumstances certainly had an effect on how this song and others on the new record came out. The bitterness and anger in songs like “Cold” and, particularly, “Fish Out of Water” starkly reflect Orzabal’s state of mind during a trying time of which the breakup was only one part. Those lyrics about sitting on a time bomb are as much about Orzabal as they are about anyone hearing him sing them.

Perhaps writing angry songs was as much a part of a healing process as any song on the record. But “Break it Down Again” feels like it’s coming from a place that’s further along in the journey. In its exploration of deconstructing harmful emotional architecture, it manages to be the most constructive and life-affirming track on the record. It’s a song of resolution to face up to the truth of a situation and take what one can from it to move on. It’s about healing and recovery, and of being resilient enough to reinvent your life after experiencing traumatic events and life-altering conflicts.

Orzabal made good on that resolution by continuing in his career trajectory as the sole permanent member of Tears for Fears. He put out Raoul and the King of Spain by 1995; a set of songs that explore his origins and family background. Luckily, by the early 21st century, Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith reconciled their differences and rekindled their friendship after nearly a decade apart. Not only that, they reformed the band as a duo with 2004’s comeback record Everybody Loves a Happy Ending sealing the deal to make it official.

That title rings true, of course, especially when that happy ending was so hard won and well-earned.

Tears for Fears is an active band today with Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith still well-established as its core and (notably) with “Break it Down Again” still a staple in their live sets. You can learn more about their history and more recent activities at tearsforfears.com.

In 2024, the band released a concert film after the release of their The Tipping Point album in 2022. You can watch the trailer for that movie right here.

Enjoy!

#90sMusic #radioHits #songsAboutHealing #TearsForFears

Stevie Nicks Sings “Edge of Seventeen”

Listen to this track by shawl-spinning Fleetwood Mac Maven and singer-songwriter of great renown Stevie Nicks. It’s “Edge of Seventeen”, her epic solo single that appears on 1981’s Bella Donna. That album was her debut record as a solo artist, and one that would return dividends for literally years after it came out. Amazingly, it remained on the Billboard 200 until 1984. For a record that made such a big impact, it was one that emerged in increments, with sessions planned piecemeal around the same time as her band, Fleetwood Mac, was cutting their 1979 double album Tusk.

The songs that appeared on the Bella Donna record, with at least two others besides this one that became big hits of the era, were sourced from earlier material Nicks wrote. She’d worked up some of that material even before she became a member of Fleetwood Mac in 1975. “Edge of Seventeen” was a relatively new song, capturing where her head was at by the turn of the decade. In preparation for her solo debut and while she was involved in the Tusk sessions, Nicks cut demos of the material and presented them to musicians that producer Jimmy Iovine gathered together. These players included E Street Band member Roy Bittan who lays down the big dramatic piano chords that help to give this song such a cinematic scope. Heartbreaker Benmont Tench fills out that same effect on organ.

Another musician who helped to make “Edge of Seventeen” a classic is guitarist Waddy Wachtel who had a Fleetwood Mac connection himself. He’d been an integral part of Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” session along with Mick Fleetwood and John McVie on drums and bass guitar respectively. On this song for Nicks, Wachtel would craft the tensely rhythmic sixteenth-note guitar motif for which it’s known. Unbeknownst to Wachtel himself, evidently, the riff is very similar to the one on The Police’s “Bring on the Night”, in part thanks to an identical set of chord changes. In 2000, Destiny’s Child would sample that same riff for their “Bootylicious” single. Talk about a well-traveled and era-spanning guitar part!

In the meantime, Stevie Nicks put her considerable songwriting skills into this cut which would provide a signature hit for her. Importantly, it would help to establish Nicks as a creative force on her own apart from Fleetwood Mac just in time for a new decade and new musical era. She pulled the song’s lyrics from disparate sources. One was a misheard phrase from Tom Petty’s first wife who had a strong southern accent (“we met at the age of 17”), to a restaurant menu in Phoenix Arizona that referenced the local white-winged dove who “sings a song that sounds like she’s singing: ooh, ooh, ooh.”

Other inspirations for the song held greater gravity, with John Lennon’s murder being one, and Nicks’ dying uncle being another. The lyrics don’t tell either story in any overt way. What’s in place instead is Nicks’ penchant for powerful symbolism to put across feelings and moods rather than specific events. The arrangements lock into this, with Waddy Wachtel’s aforementioned guitar part creating an almost palpable ticking clock-like tension that is integral to the overall effect of the song.

That part goes along with the lyrical evocation that suggests the fragility of life as it teeters on the edge of death, along with the tenuous nature of innocence in such a world where anything can happen at any time. Heavy stuff for a pop song, but also very resonant on an instinctual level for listeners, which is one of the song’s great strengths.

The clouds never expect it when it rains
But the sea changes colours
But the sea does not change
So with the slow, graceful flow of age
I went forth with an age old desire to please
On the edge of seventeen …

~ “Edge of Seventeen” by Stevie Nicks

As great as the instrumentalists are on this song, it’s the author’s own vocal performance that conveys all that. Stevie Nicks’ distinctive voice – a sultry, throaty texture that’s full of sex and danger – is perfectly cast in a song that evokes feelings of fear, youth, age, heartbreaking loss, and the will to overcome all at once. It’s a song that suggests the feelings of wonder and also of being overwhelmed with too much experience to manage all at once, with some in our lives who weather those conditions better than some others; some retaining their resolve while others fall.

Again, none of these ideas are conveyed in a straightforward, hard-coded narrative. It’s the feelings, the impressions of experiences that count the most here. The emotional content of this song had been true for Stevie Nicks who was in the eye of a particularly tempestuous storm at the time she wrote it. But it’s true for we listeners, too, who are left with a set of residual emotions that tell us something about the human experience of seeking out meaning in our lives and finding it to be elusive, especially at times of loss.

That’s another of this song’s strengths of course; that it connects with a kind of universality about the way our existence sometimes feels to us in the depths of our souls, hard to pinpoint and express with any precision. As a song rife with imagery, it mixes sorrow and unease with defiance and the hope for dawn even when things seem at their darkest. In a space like that, and when it comes to powerful emotions, it’s at times like these that, truly, nothing else matters.

Stevie Nicks is an active artist today, having enjoyed hit songs while in Fleetwood Mac and as a solo artist.

You can connect with new releases, tour information, and social media profiles at stevienicksofficial.com.

For more on Stevie Nicks’ Bella Donna album and specifically about “Edge of Seventeen” and how it retains every bit of its intensity and ability to reach audiences of every generation over four decades and counting, check out this 2021 article from the BBC.

Enjoy!

#80sMusic #radioHits #singerSongwriters #songsAboutLoss #StevieNicks

Wheatus Play “Teenage Dirtbag”

Listen to this track by former high school metalheads turned radio-friendly chart champions from New York, Wheatus. It’s “Teenage Dirtbag”, their signature hit as taken from 2000’s self-titled release. The song made an international splash when it was released as a single in the summer of that year, scoring top ten placements in regions from North America, to the UK, to Australia as a rallying cry to teenage dirtbags everywhere, former and otherwise. As it turned out, the theme was pretty universal.

“Teenage Dirtbag” is a compelling story song about young love, bullying rivals, feelings of invisibility, and also how young people (and people in general!) so often misjudge each other due to outward appearances. That’s the main takeaway here on this song; that just because you think that person doesn’t even know you’re alive, it doesn’t mean it’s true and that they also aren’t into the same kickass music you’re into. As it turns out, sometimes you don’t know they’re alive in quite the way you thought, and to discover that they are is its own reward. So, this is a tale of insecurity that ends pretty happily.

Saying that, “Teenage Dirtbag”‘s sunny sheen actually came from a source that was much, much darker and very much a product of the times – the early 1980s, that is.

For kids in the 1980s, the way people dressed defined their identities to a polarizing degree and often along musical lines. This was the age when you couldn’t publicly like Duran Duran and AC/DC. You had to choose. This certainly included costuming associated with musical genres and their proponents, also pretty evenly aligned with one’s own perceptions of one’s own identity; a prep, a punk, a new waver, a dirtbag, etc. Among hormonal teens, trying to work out one’s identity by way of outward indicators and role models in pop culture only stood to reason. That’s a teenager’s job; to figure out who they are and who they’re going to be.

But unfortunately at that time, musical genres, imagery, and costuming as they shaped youth culture had implications beyond the social ecosystem of high schools. Some of that spread to senate hearings, public policy, court appearances, and news coverage. Gender fluidity and questions of sexual orientation presented by Culture Club, Eurythmics, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, and other bands aside for a moment (a whole other thing!), it was primarily heavy metal music and hard rock that were (literally!) demonized in the press. This was in no small part due to Evangelical Christianity’s rise in political power under Ronald Reagan and the influence that had on public discourse when it came to so-called morality in popular media.

This was during the beginnings of a period now known as The Satanic Panic; a series of baseless conspiracy theories about widespread devil worship in part associated with the music and imagery of bands like Ozzy Osbourne, Judas Priest, and yes, Iron Maiden, among many others. Musicians and songwriters actually ended up in court as parent groups and other axe-grinders tried to make names for themselves by reflexively linking the influence of heavy metal music to cases of teen suicide and supposed ritual murder. A lot of these same conspiracies persist today in various forms. But from the early to mid 1980s, they routinely made mainstream headlines.

It was an early memory of this period that served as the initial reason that Wheatus creative head Brenden B. Brown wrote “Teenage Dirtbag”. Interviewed by thebrag.com, Brown said:

“It came from the summer of 1984 on Long Island, when I was 10 years old. That summer in the woods behind my house, there was a Satanic, drug-induced ritual teen homicide that went down; and the kid who did it was … wearing an AC/DC t-shirt. That made all the papers, and the television, obviously; and here I was, 10 years old, walking around with a case full of AC/DC and Iron Maiden and Metallica – and all the parents and the teachers and the cops thought I was some kind of Satan worshipper.”

-Brenden B. Brown, thebrag.com (Read the whole article)

So, what’s an Iron Maiden-loving kid supposed to do in that environment? What was it like for a child to be perceived as some kind of mindless adherent to a demonic conspiracy? That, or to be thought of as morally pliable and easily led, susceptible to being drawn into some unspeakable act of violence? What happens to a kid’s sense of self, fragile as it is, when tarred with that horrendous brush and placed under constant suspicion by the adult world?

By the time Brown wrote the song in time for its release in 2000, he had an adult’s perspective on what fueled that hostile media environment; the usual suspects of prejudice, ignorance, and fear. This is not to mention the disingenuous intentions around issues that had no real basis in fact but provided plenty of exposure on national and even international stages for people to build reputations for themselves.

One of the great things about “Teenage Dirtbag” is that it took that set of negative childhood experiences and turned it into something truly life affirming. This is a song about discovering oneself and others through meaningful connections and self-determined realizations. It’s a love song to any kid trying to work out who they are along these same lines. It’s also about a refusal to be maligned because of who one is as determined by what one likes or is perceived to like and that preferences, presentations, and identities shouldn’t be judged without considering a person’s full humanity and the value of their experiences.

In this, the song is taking back what was taken away from a kid in Long Island who couldn’t understand why grown adults feared his musical preferences and the way he dressed. But it’s also for anyone who longs to be accepted for who they are, with the acknowledgement that outward appearances will only take us so far to truly knowing who a person really is. And for those who can’t see any of that due to fears and prejudices, well, they don’t know what they’re missing.

Wheatus is an active rock ‘n roll band today with a whole catalogue of music to enjoy beyond their signature song. You can find out more about their story, their work, and upcoming tour dates by visiting wheatus.com.

For more background on the legacy of the Satanic Panic, and how it’s still playing out today in renewed forms, here’s an interview with Talia Lavin – writer, social critic, and author of the book Wild Faith: How the Christian Right is Taking Over America.

Enjoy!

#2000sMusic #radioHits #songsAboutChildhood #songsAboutIdentity #Wheatus

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Bomfunk MC's - Freestyler (Vid...

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Bomfunk MC's - Freestyler (Vid...

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Bomfunk MC's - Freestyler (Vid...

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Bomfunk MC's - Freestyler (Vid...

Listen to this track by celebrated classic rock and pop singer-songwriter and hit-maker Sheryl Crow. It’s “All I Wanna Do”, her smash hit song taken from 1993’s Tuesday Night Music Club, Crow’s official debut album. That record was named after an informal group of musicians who would gather on the night in question as a songwriting collective, eventually gathering around efforts to work up Crow’s record. The effort paid off, with six songs from the album released as singles between 1993 and 1995. This song was the fourth of those, put out in the summer of 1994 to significant buzz and becoming her commercial breakthrough.

The track is based on a 1987 poem by Wyn Cooper called “Fun”, which provided the text for the verses and for the first line in the tune: All I wanna do is have some fun before I die. Like the poem, this is a story-song set in a bar, with patrons having their own reasons for being there besides just for the fun of it of course. The narrative is compelling to say the least, delivered in Crow’s half-spoken lilt of a voice with which she precisely communicates the feeling of that beer buzz early in the morning celebrated in the lyrics. The performance won her a Grammy in 1995.

There is something else to be found in this song that goes beyond the impressionistic characters and setting. It’s a series of elements that may explain why it was so resonant at the time it came out.

The lyrics of the song betray its poetic origins, being downright literary with an irregular meter that doesn’t quite follow the standard rules of pop music. Crow manages this effortlessly in the verses that can otherwise be read like a short story. This is before the song falls back on the more conventional chorus that brings it all back home to something that listeners can very easily sing along with. The balance between these two forces of the literary and irregular meeting with the hooky and singable made this cut a real standout on the radio at the time.

Another aspect of the song’s success is its fluid, summery groove that defies any kind of specific musical label. The instrumentation and feel suggest a country music influence, but the song somehow escapes that genre’s trappings. At one point, “All I Wanna Do” was called a re-write of Stealer’s Wheel’s “Stuck in the Middle with You”, a song which gained a resurgence around this same time when it appeared in Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs. Even if the vibe is undeniably similar with its slippery slide guitar part in particular, this reductive pronouncement doesn’t quite capture the essence of “All I Wanna Do” either. Neither does the one about it being a “90s Piano Man”, which is just plain ridiculous.

So, what is it about this song, exactly? What gives it such dimension?

Besides its considerable lyrical and musical charms, what this song does is something that many songwriters seek to do with their music over the course of their entire careers; it captures the zeitgeist. “All I Wanna Do” does this in a very unassuming, unselfconscious way. It was a perfect addition to the soundtrack of Generation X graduating from high school and university, doing exactly as they’d been instructed to do to move forward with their lives as young hopefuls seeking to define their lives as adults, and finding that the road to success did not lead to where it once did.

Otherwise the bar is ours
The day and the night and the car wash too
The matches and the Buds and the clean and dirty cars
The sun and the moon …

– “All I wanna do”, Sheryl Crow

Where one might hesitate to compare this song to generational anthems by Nirvana and other bands of the grunge era, that same spirit lurks here in this song about two barflies watching the world go by from their barside perches. “All I Want to Do” captured grunge’s same sense of despondency in the lives of listeners. These are the people who followed the prescribed path to success their parents followed that instead led them into a wilderness of student debt, fallow fields in job sectors, and rising costs of living unmatched by their salaries at the phone company and the record store, too.

There is something about “All I Wanna Do”, as fun and bright as it is, that suggests that the characters in it have been duped and that they know they’ve been duped. By 1994, that was a very relatable experience among Gen Xers, demonized in the press as a generation of layabouts who didn’t know the value of a day’s work, or that of their parents who raised them. In an environment like that, why not hang around in a bar all day lighting books of matches and peeling beer bottle labels while some guy in a suit washes his car across the street on his allotted lunch break? Both the barflies and the car-washing suit are gaining the same amount of traction anyway.

Did Sheryl Crow and her collaborators set out to create a generational anthem about twentysomething alienation in light of wage stagnation and lack of upward mobility? That is highly doubtful. Like most songwriters aiming for the mainstream, they likely intended to write a good song with a compelling story that would resonate with a record-buying audience.

As far as that audience goes, this song certainly wasn’t considered as any kind of social statement. It’s way too much fun to be that. Instead, it was a summer anthem and a celebration of letting the pressure of life go for a while. This held just as much resonance for a struggling generation as anything. But as the kids now say, a full thirty years later: the struggle was, and still is, very real.

Sheryl Crow is a musician, songwriter, and actor today. Find out more about her back catalogue and recent releases and projects at sherylcrow.com.

Enjoy!

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#90sMusic #GenerationX #radioHits #SherylCrow #storySongs