Essential Song #4

Moonlight Mile - Rolling Stones – Sticky Fingers, 1971. [5:56]

When I was a freshman in college (in 1990), I was hanging out in a friend’s dorm room when I noticed a dusty Rolling Stones cassette on a shelf. I had gone to high school with this guy, and he didn’t seem the classic rock sort. When I asked him about it he gave it to me without hesitation. I had liked the Stones a lot in high school, but besides a couple of hits compilations, I had never heard any of their albums. The cassette my friend gave me was 1971’s Sticky Fingers, and I fell in love with it instantly. It quickly became my favorite album, and (amazingly to me, in all sincerity) it remains my favorite today. It’s the only album I have in three formats (cassette, CD and vinyl). Its virtues are many, and I could go on about it for days.

One of those virtues is the way the album cleverly winds to a close. Sister Morphine is a slow, dark, harrowing depiction of drug horrors. The music is stark and unsettling, but when it fades out the Stones launch into the disarmingly wonderful country honk of Dead Flowers, a belt-it-out sing-along (“Take me down, little Susie, take me down…”), Mick with that faux-twang in his voice and a twinkling barroom piano ending the tune. It’s an emotional swing from the previous song, and afterwards the listener is ready for anything. And the Stones deliver a stunner, THE PERFECT album closer: my favorite Stones song, Moonlight Mile.

The elements in play are: Jagger’s near-constant strummed acoustic guitar, Charlie Watts’ cymbal washes and minimal drumming, Mick Taylor’s lilting electric guitar, Jim Price’s tasteful piano, and Paul Buckmaster’s gorgeous strings. The lyric is a testament to the loneliness and weariness of the road, and a longing to be home. The words are heartfelt and plaintive and are borne by a sweet melody and fine, restrained musicianship. Supposedly Taylor worked a short Keith Richards guitar phrase into a full song and pulled in Buckmaster to augment it. The result is tremendous: a beautiful song that builds to a crescendo and then fades out in a flourish of piano and strings, bringing a great album to a memorable close.

Essential Song #3

What Goes On – The Velvet Underground – The Velvet Underground, 1969. [4:55]


My college roommate turned me onto Lou Reed and the Velvets. I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to hear this music, and I instantly loved it. We spent long hours digging those great Velvet albums. I remember one intense evening staring at the huge Warhol banana poster on the wall with Heroin playing on the stereo and some substance or other causing me to see some really captivating and strange things coming out of that poster. Back then my favorite VU song was the instrumental version of Ride Into the Sun, but when Ethan and I had parted ways and he’d left me with a “Best of…” CD, I latched onto What Goes On, and it’s my all-time fave Lou tune.

If there was ever a song that recommended its creator for immortality on the basis of the rhythm guitar alone, this is it. The ultimate rock groove, Lou’s guitar chugs along for five minutes, insistent and undeniable. Just try to sit still during this song. Impossible.

Other elements augment (organ and blaring lead guitar, Lou’s wonderfully gravelly vocal), but it’s that rhythm guitar that propels this tune. The momentum it creates is palpable, and towards the end it only intensifies, with Lou attacking the strings with vigor. The song could be thirty minutes long, and it would still feel too short. All hail Lou.

Essential Song #2

Scarlet Begonias > Fire on the Mountain - The Grateful Dead 5-8-77 Barton Hall, Cornell University, Ithaca NY. [appr. 25:00]


One of several “peaks” in the Dead’s long history, the spring ’77 tour saw the band hitting on all cylinders. The 5/8/77 Barton Hall show has appeared on so many “best show” lists that it started popping up on some “overrated show” lists as well. But, its accolades are well-deserved; and this lengthy two-song suite, which opened the second set, stands for me as the high point in the band's catalog.

It begins with a quick three-hit signal from the drum section, and they’re off… with Phil Lesh’s bass diving down to the depths and bouncing back up, booming, and they move right into the first verse of Scarlet Begonias: “As I was walking down Grosvenor Square...” Jerry is in fine vocal form and the instrumental break is sublime (it always lasts one more bar than I think it will – how is that?). It’s a great version all around, and even Donna Jean is having a good night belting out the words. As it winds down around the six-minute mark the band settles into the ride-out groove: Keith tickling out a calliope-like tune on the ivories, dummers clinkering away at their expanded kits, bass bobbing and weaving, Bobby’s guitar sparkling away, low in the mix, Jerry’s dancing up high, Donna channeling the goddess with her moaning… then, so subtle you might miss it, Keith changes his tune, and the other players fall in line. The groove melts ever so slowly into the next song. The rhythm becomes hypnotic. Fire unfolds in its own sweet time. It’s a blissful eternity before Jerry sounds the familiar wah-wah melody and croons “Long distance runner, what you standing there for?”

There are few fireworks for the next ten minutes, just the uber-pleasant groove the multi-headed beast has settled into; although Jerry’s playing throughout is shimmering, it’s the dreamy trance that prevails. This is the golden sound of the Dead, with all members locked into the groove and riding the wave for miles until the shore, which arrives at the appointed time, and not a moment before. Plus, Keith Godchaux is sitting at the piano bench; and the Dead never had a better keyboard player. It’s one of the finest pieces of music I’ve heard.

Essential Songs

*This is the first in a series of short essays on my favorite songs (and I've got a ton of them). Hope you enjoy*









Sisters of Mercy – Leonard Cohen – Songs of Leonard Cohen, 1967. [3:32]


I first heard this song around 1991 while watching McCabe & Mrs. Miller, Robert Altman’s 1971 western, which featured a few Leonard Cohen tunes. I was not familiar with Cohen’s music and had only heard his name once before (as the punch line of a great joke from the British comedy The Young Ones. Stoner hippie Neil ponders aloud, “Nobody ever listens to me. I might as well be a Leonard Cohen record.”). The Altman movie takes place in a snowy old west town, and I sometimes picture Warren Beatty staggering through the drifts looking for a good place to die when I hear this song.

It was years later that I bought Songs of Leonard Cohen, the Canadian’s remarkable 1967 debut. You can’t recreate the experience of hearing an astounding record for the first time, but I was completely awed by that album. I loved the melodies and spare arrangements, I dug Leo’s nerdy voice, and I thought the lyrics were just dynamite: they had depth, class, humor, magic. Almost instantly, my favorite song on the album was Sisters of Mercy. On a record filled with amazing songs, it managed to stand out, and remains my favorite LC song today.

It starts with Cohen’s intoned “O” met with a simple plucked guitar, in waltz time. “O, the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.…” Cohen begins to relate his encounter with the mysterious sisters, who comfort him in his weariness and inspire him to write this very song. At the start of the second verse Cohen is joined by tinkling percussion and squeezeboxes. I imagine LC singing and playing on the dusty, dimly lit porch of a saloon as the other musicians stroll up behind him. Cohen continues to croon, his voice rising higher over the swelling music.

The lyrics glorify the sisters in religious terms. The narrator makes confession to them. There is talk of love and grace to cure unholiness. But, just who are these sisters? Nuns? Prostitutes? Groupies? Cohen once said he wrote the song for two women who visited him in a hotel once and inspired the song. Yeah, sounds like groupies to me. Whatever the case may be, Cohen the narrator is transformed by the encounter and urges his listener to seek the sweet salvation of the sisters. I’ve always cherished the line “Don’t turn on the light; you can read their address by the moon.” Like the whole record, this song is pure poetry set to a pretty, hummable tune. A true masterpiece.