Hotty Toddy, Part One

As I mentioned in a previous post, this summer my family took a short vacation up to Oxford, the home of University of Mississippi. Being a graduate and lifelong fan of Mississippi State University, I had not been to Oxford more than a handful of times, and my wife--also an MSU graduate--had never been. We've been contemplating visiting Oxford a few times over the past few years, but some part of me seemed to recoil at the thought of visiting Rebel nation, and we always seemed to postpone going till the next summer.


Well, this summer became the next summer when my wife read online that Southern Living was building and showcasing their "Idea House" in Taylor (near Oxford) on Saturday, June 28. "It's perfect," she said, "we can plan our entire vacation around the Idea House!"

"We can stay next door?" She never answered my question. Instead, she began looking for places in or near Oxford where we could stay--this colonial mansion, that colonial bed & breakfast, all with exorbitant prices and many easily-breakable (by two-year olds) antiques. I scoffed at her suggestions, and before she could utter protest one, I told her about Pat's Place.

"Sounds like a diner." I reassured her that it was definitely not a diner. No, indeed. Pat's Place is an exclusive condominium, available only to those with, ahem, connections. She looked at me for a moment and then asked, "Who do you know with connections?"

"My dear," I replied, "it is I who is connected."

"No, really...who told you about this? Where is this place? What does it look like? How much will it cost?"

"Ahem," I coughed, "Pat's Place is located at the southern end of Oxford, halfway between the campus of the University of Mississippi and the small village of Taylor. Accomodations include two bedrooms, each with plush carpet, a king-sized bed, the finest linens, a television, an iStation, a closet, and a ceiling fan; two full baths; a kitchen; a dining area; a living room with two comfy chairs, a large couch with a hideaway bed, and a giant-sized high definition television with digital cable, a DVD/VCR, a Playstation 2, and a couple of games; and an outside porch. Pat's Place offers the finest in luxuriant living. And the cost, my dear...free!"

"Free?"

"Free," I told her.

"Hey! That must be where Patrick stays when he goes to all those stank Ole Miss games."

"That it is," I said.

"So when did you ask him about this? I just decided today that we were going to Oxford."

"We've got practice tonight," I told her, "and he'll make the offer then. I won't even have to ask."

"A little presumptuous, you think?"

"Yes," I said, "Lunch was delicious today, but that's beside the point."

"What in the cat hair are you talking about?"

"I've got the eclair avoidance. It means I can steer clear of any danger because I know what's going to happen before it happens. It's a French phrase. You should know it. You took French in college, right?"

"Eclair?" she asked.

"I think that part means that my life will be sweet because I can avoid any bad things that might happen because I know they'll happen, " I explained. "Anyway, because of the eclair avoidance that I've got, I know Patrick will tell me that he'll let us stay there for free if we want to. So, we've got nothing to worry about! Better start packing, so we can leave early in the morning. I've got all kinds of places I want to visit on the way there, while we're there, and on the way back."

"What kinds of places?"

"Oh, you know, the usual stuff..." I said.

"Now wait a minute, Andy. We are not stopping at every cemetery along the way just because some black-mascara-wearing meth-head with a flashlight or some stupid yellow-acronymned, black-shirted freak on some message board took a picture of a tombstone and thought they saw some mist or ghost blorb..."

"ORB!" I corrected her, "Ghost ORB! Geesh. No, Penny, we won't stop at every little cemetery along the way...though there is this one little graveyard near Pleasant Ridge Church in Thaxton...."

"Go. To. Practice." she ordered. I obeyed. I went to practice...where Pat offered his condo for us to stay at. Hah! I returned home, planned our intricate itinerary, and awoke the next morning, ready to go to Oxford (and Thaxton, too, heh!).

Tomorrow: Part Two--The Trip Begins!

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #319

#319: "Change of Heart" (2007) - Teddy Thompson

When I was young, I stayed at my grandmother's house (which is now my house) most weekends. I don't remember much about what I did (other than read comic books) while I was there, but my most vivid memories recall Saturday mornings. I'd wake up and walk into the kitchen. Maw and (my aunt) Bernice would be sitting at the table drinking buttermilk, and when they'd see me approach, one or the other would, without fail, begin making me sugar biscuits. I'd sit down at the table in the spot vacated by whoever was readying my breakfast, and I'd stare at the old, rustic gas heater with the ornate grill, my grandfather's socks resting atop, the amber glow transfixing my eyes, allowing me the comfort of slowly warming up to the day. A small radio (which now sits in my attic) rested on the counter near the heater, and my aunt always kept it atuned to WOKK, the country station out of Meridian.

The country songs that station played in the mid '70s differ greatly in style from today's Music Row records, though the two eras of country music share one similarity: the homogenity of production--the Nashville Sound. Thirty years ago, the Nashville Sound was Countrypolitan, a loping blend of steel guitar; lush strings; rim clicks; prominent fiddles; mellifluous voices; and lyrics either melancholy, inspirational, or playfully, eye-winking, garsh-m'am flirtacious (verging on bawdy, but never quite crossing over). Almost every single song those radio stations played used that exact same style (the Outlaw Movement records were played with much less regularity), as country music has almost been as resistant (almost hostily at times) to change as has the blues. Heard one country song, heard 'em all, right? All country music sounds the same, right? Well, there's some truth in those axioms (much more in the latter than in the former), but that doesn't mean that mainstream country music is inherently bereft of creativity; one can still create lasting works of art (be it music, or painting, or writing, etc...) using a tried-and-true template. I mean, Da Vinci still used a simple seated posture and oils to create his masterpiece, right? It's (often) what's created within that framework that leads to art; breaking the mold is not a necessity.

In "Change of Heart," Teddy Thompson (son of the innovative and influential Celtic/folk/rock guitarist/singer/songwriter--and former Fairport Convention member/founder--Richard Thompson...but more on him later up the countdown) doesn't break the mold; in fact, he adheres to it strictly. The younger Thompson uses the Countrypolitan style and all its traditional elements to elegantly heartbreaking effect. The record's arrangement and production (by Thompson himself) are clean and crisp, but not too slick; graceful, not glossy. At first listen, the production seems spare, yet a closer listen reveals several instruments (bass, drums, acoustic guitar, steel guitar, mandolin, and a string section) used concurrently; however, Thompson knows how to smoothly segue from one set of instruments to the other, one beginning just as the other fades, overlapping to create a courtly sway.

Thompson's tenor is as wistfully lucid as his production, recalling the easy grace of Ray Price. Moreover, the entire record sounds like a Ray Price number, not just the voice and production, but the classic song structure as well, which makes sense, as the song was orginally written for the Everly Brothers by husband-and-wife songwriting team Boudleaux & Felice Bryant, who penned much of the Everly Brothers' top hits (as well as clogging classic "Rocky Top"). Thompson's version tops Phil & Don's, as he slows down the tempo a bit and gives the music (and his vocals) space to breathe, allowing it to seep down the soul like buttermilk down the throat on a cold, sugar-biscuit, Saturday morning and warm the body like socks to a flame.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #320

#320: "Goodnight Irene" (2006) - Tom Waits

Last night--or, rather, early this morning at one in the a.m.--a small assemblage of troubadours, vagabonds, tipplers, orphans, brawlers, bawlers, and n'er-do-wells gathered near and 'round the old upright on the stage of the pavillion of the Neshoba County Fair for the A. J. Yates' Memorial Late Night Sing, led by co-chairperson Dr. Joe Jordan (my dentist and little-league baseball coach) and pianist/co-chairperson Laura Bryan (my fourth-grade teacher and elementary-school librarian). Each year, Dr. Jordan puts a cardboard box full of collections of stapled-together lyric sheets--containing (at last count) the words to eighty-five songs--on the piano, and somehow the sheets are all grabbed and passed around (though there are rarely enough copies, as all seem to share, many looking over the shoulder of a stranger). Ms. Bryan then begins playing and singing at her discretion, following the order listed on the sheets while skipping over a song or two here and there. Sometimes she'll announce the next song, but just as often she'll just begin playing the next tune, expecting at least a few of the throng to recognize the melody and begin to warble the correct words (and they invariably do). Bryan never pauses more than a few seconds between songs, and the duration for the hootenanny entire lasts approximately half an hour. All the songs date back to bygone eras. Most of the tunes are turn-of-the-century vintage, while others range from the early Tin Pan Alley days to the weeks just before America entered World War II (and the oldest hails from the pre-Civil War era). A small smattering of genres are represented, including pop, country, ragtime, folk, and show tunes. The first page of the lyric sheets includes "My Wild Irish Rose," "In the Good Ole Summer Time," "Moonlight Bay," "Oh, You Beautiful Doll," "Wait Till the Sun Shines Nellie," "You Are My Sunshine," "When You Were a Tulip," "Put on Your Old Gray Bonnet," and "School Days" (not the Chuck Berry version, either). Somewhere near the back of the collection lies the folk song "Goodnight Irene," first popularized and often attributed to Lead Belly (he recorded the song in 1936, but the tune is older than that--and probably older than him). "Goodnight Irene" has since been recorded by many a musician, with acts as diverse as Johnny Cash, Dr. John, Bryan Ferry, Jimmy Buffet, PJ Harvey, and Van Morrison (who sang it during his very first performance) covering the song; moreover, The Weavers, Frank Sinatra, and Ernest Tubb & Red Foley all hit #1 on the Billboard charts with their respective versions.

Tom Waits's rendition is perhaps my favorite. Included on his immaculate 2006 triple-album Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers, and Bastards (the best collection of rarities and B-sides I've ever heard), Waits's take is the most all-inclusive recording of the song ever put to tape (or mp3 or vinyl or shellac). Singing the lead vocal in his gruff, razzled, melancholic voice (and this distinction is important here, for Waits uses more than one "voice" throughout his canon), Waits sings the lead as if in a state of slightly inebriated reverie--and he backtracks himself singing both in varying pitches and in varying tones, a warbling and caterwauling* drunken chorus of hangers-on and drinkin' buddies, all drowning merrily in the storyteller's sorrow. The simple arrangement of piano and accordion, along with the echo-hall production, support the rambling vocals, all of which seem to invite the audience to sing along. It doesn't matter if you can't sing in tune or on key, and it doesn't matter if you don't know the words. Just chime in during the chorus--or peer over the shoulder of the guy who's got the lyrics in his hands--and be careful not to spill your beer on his shirt.

*Notes - Waits pushes the highest-pitched backing vocal to the fore, and that particular voice sends my wife and son into fits of pain and laughter. They hate this song.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #321

#321: "Hemorrhage" (2000) - Fuel

Fuel was one of many bands that rode the crest of the Nu Rock wave in the late '90s and early '00s. Nu Rock sounded to me like a more depressing, less entertaining version of '80s hair metal; it was grunge with slicker production, the flannel given back to the Salvation Army in favor of the latest Hot Topic shirts, onto the sleeves of which they could tatoo their battered hearts. Bleh. Not-for-me.

It was for my band, though. We started playing together in late '00, and my bandmates (except for the Blue Falcon, but he soon would fly the coop) loved this swill. We'd argue often over what types of songs to play: I wanted to play songs that would inspire an audience to dance, and they wanted to play songs that would inspire an audience to rock. Guess who won the argument? We played songs by Creed, Staind, Default, Puddle of Mudd, Godsmack, P.O.D., Incubus, Nickelback (we played five Nickelback songs), and Fuel.

The first few times I listened to "Hemorrhage," I paid attention soley to the drum beat, trying my best to ignore the rest of that pouty, drony, sludge. Once I picked up the percussion pattern, though, the song started to seep into my skull. I started to appreciate it, thinking, "Okay--maybe this one's not quite so bad." I started yearning to hear it more, wondering why I liked this treacle, and one day it hit me: "Hemorrhage" is really a sea chanty! The drummer plays his high-hat disco style during the verses, and the strings often rise and fall, both of those elements mirroring the to-and-fro of the waves; the guitar solo sounds as if it were recorded underwater; a few of the images in the lyrics reflect this theme, as the song's about a lost love (as quite a few sea chanties are). Most sea chanties don't contain distorted guitar, growling vocals, and crashing cymbals, but, hey, there's always a first time!

The record's not perfect. There's the pathetic, overgrowled, hyperbolic, whining histrionics ("hold me now I feel contagious," "leave love bleeding in my hands"), but there's a bit of a poetic turn of a phrase here and there as well ("Am I the only place that you've left to go," "drag the waters till the depths give up their dead"). The songwriter mixes the metaphors, but some of the imagery leaves a sense of some strangely detailed aquatic morbidity. The record--whenever the singer's not pounding and screeching--carries with it--at times--a serious sense of lonliness, defeat, and desperation--the singer's last gasp and grasp before the waves of love's despair sweep him under.

At times, the record can feel more-than-a-bit bombastic: the singer and the imagery and the production are almost a parody of themselves. The production, arrangement, and vocal delivery are so over the top that I could easily imagine Spongebob Squarepants, in full rock-star mode, singing the song at a concert, with all the fish fans sobbing while worshipping at his feet.

The song haunts me, though. It seems there's something tragic here, not underneath the song, but in the aftertaste. I don't know; maybe I'm grasping at straws to justify including an oversung, bombastic power ballad, but the inclusion and mix of elements as disparate as a disco hi-hat, strings, and an underwater guitar solo in that same oversung, bombastic, power metal ballad belies a creativity unlike I've heard in any other nu-rock song and produces a disorienting sound that leaves a decidedly dampening effect on the soul.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #322

#322: "Gold Digger" (2005) - Kanye West featuring Jamie Foxx

Women love this song. No lie. I don’t know why, though. I can’t explain it—but I’ll try anyway. Here, West raps about low-down, triflin’ women who attach themselves to men for their money. Why in the world would women celebrate a song like this? Maybe it’s just the beat—and it’s a great beat, too, one that spotlights the kick drum by surrounding it with just the sparest of instrumentation. Maybe it’s the expert looping of Jamie Foxx singing a variation of Ray Charles’ “I Got a Woman.” Maybe it’s West’s clear, well-enunciated speech, which is easy to decipher and comprehend even upon first listen. Maybe it’s the fact that West is rapping a type of woman that most women are sure they’ll never be—they see these gold diggers as an extreme type of woman, one that they can ridicule and point out to their friends, making them feel better in the process.

Or maybe—just maybe—the women who love this song are proud. As many times as women have been raped, beaten, emotionally abused, stereotyped, sexually harassed, and left pregnant, broke, and alone by men—then maybe women see this song as some sort of vindication. As West serves the scene here, it’s a comic situation, but maybe these humorous elements provide the levity needed for women to proclaim their love for this song…without worrying about any repercussions later.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #323

#323: "The House of Jealous Lovers" (2003) - The Rapture

Today, the missus and I start back to school, and I'm a little bummed; so much so, that I think I've got the funk. I need something to liven my spirits, something completely lacking lyrical depth (or even lacking lyrics), something with a little crunch and a little bounce, something to put a silly step in my giddy up, something to make me feel better. You see, I've got a fever, and the only prescription is....