Quincy Jones feat. Astrud Gilberto “Who Needs Forever?” The Deadly Affair Verve 1967

Media mogul and record producer Quincy Jones is one of the most recognizable names in popular culture, but few are aware of how extensive his résumé reads
outside the realm of pop music. During the ’50s and ’60s, the man was practically ubiquitous. As a young trumpeter, he toured with the likes of Lionel Hampton and Dizzy Gillespie. He arranged for Duke Ellington and Ray Charles. He studied theory in Paris with Nadia Boulanger. He also wrote over thirty scores for film and television, including the Poitier vehicle In the Heat of the Night (1967) and The Bill Cosby Show (1969). When factored in with the phenomenon that was Michael Jackson in the late ’70s and into the ’80s, Jones’ career has been incomparable in the music industry. His story isn’t based around a lucky industry connection or a string of right-place-right-time circumstances. Jones most certainly put in his work, and deserves every bit of success that he has earned over the decades. But enough of the history lesson; onto this week’s song.

Jones first began soundtrack work with acclaimed director Sidney Lumet on the psychological drama The Pawnbroker (1964). The film and score were such a sensation that the duo continued working together, resulting in the soundtrack to the spy thriller The Deadly Affair (1967). (Verve paired the two onto a single disc for a 1996 release.) Recorded during the height of the bossa nova craze, the latter is mostly known to bossa enthusiasts for the lone Astrud Gilberto contribution on the film’s signature tune “Who Needs Forever?” Many of the cues in the soundtrack are derived from various elements in the song, from the mysterious acoustic guitar at the introduction to the slinky sax solo at 1:49. Gilberto’s cool detachment is de rigeur for this sort of thing, but Jones is careful not to let the string arrangement compete with her, emphasizing certain phrases with punctuations from the woodwinds or flighty harp arpeggios. The suspenseful ending is the best part of the song, a resolution that arouses a sort of anxious calm, stoking the audience’s enthusiasm for the film (and the soundtrack).

“Who Needs Forever?” – Quincy Jones feat. Astrud Gilberto 3:10 (The Deadly Affair, Verve 1966)

Last December I posted a list of “Ten Rarely-Listened-To Albums,” a handful of records I’ve had for years but never gave more than two or three spins. This list is in a similar vein, only they’re albums that I’ll never voluntarily listen to again, despite receiving my nod of approval. It’s the one major downside of collecting music and sharing it with others; eventually someone is going to ruin your relationship with a record and tarnish your memory of it, whether it’s an ex-girlfriend who nearly destroyed your life, a close friend with whom you never speak now, or (usually in my case) the rest of the free world not knowing when enough is enough. In general, the word “overexposure” has negative connotations – sunburns, deficient film, child-raising techniques – but for purposes here my use of the word should imply “no longer fresh” or “no appeal left in it.” I’m not hating on these records, because I think they’re iconic statements in popular music, but external factors have entirely diminished any demand I had for them. So enjoy the mp3’s from these albums, dear reader, because you’ll never see them on this site again.

Jeff Buckley Grace Columbia 1994

At the time of its release in ‘94, Jeff Buckley’s Grace (1994) didn’t stand a chance with me. I was at the height of multiple fixations – Wu-Tang chiefly among them – that some ’singer-songwriter’-type who looked like he missed grunge’s brief window didn’t even catch a second glance. When I re-discovered Buckley’s music a few years after his death, I scolded myself for not recognizing the man’s songwriting talent and that uniquely angelic voice, plus he had the stones to cover “Lilac Wine,” a song which Nina Simone had rightfully claimed as her own decades ago. Then, by some odd twist of fate or alignment of the planets, I must have heard Buckley’s version of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” twenty times in one week. It was featured on every television show, played twice an hour on every FM radio station, heard in every bar and restaurant across the country, and served as the score to the dramatic climax in every film. Even worse, everyone within earshot would suddenly stop what they were doing to experience their own personal moment of wistful reflection, like that one Seinfeld episode when Elaine’s boyfriend heard “Desperado” and demanded silence. I never cared much for the song in the first place, which served only to intensify my overdose, but it seemed like after that week Grace was inescapable, and soon “So Real” and “Mojo Pin” were added to the entire population’s playlist. You created some timeless music, Mr. Buckley, but your songs have reached such a level of familiarity that listening to Grace would be like me enjoying a surprise visit from a group of Christmas carolers on my doorstep in July. In other words, it ain’t gonna happen.

“So Real” – Jeff Buckley 4:43 (Grace, Columbia 1994)

The Clash London Calling Epic 1979

Of course The Clash don’t deserve to be on this list. For thier inclusion, I blame the manager of a paper goods store that used to employ me about three years ago. Evidently, someone must have mentioned to her that The Clash would be a hip addition to her otherwise abominable taste in music, so she picked up London Calling (1979) one day and brought it into work. What at first was a refreshing diversion from the endless shuffle of indie garbage like The Decemberists and Death Cab for Cutie became an aural nightmare of maddening proportions, as my manager would often spin the disc a full four to five times during an eight-hour shift. Any complaints to her would only result in a defensive and snappy retort flavored with subtle hints of termination. After a few weeks I decided that I’d had enough, and quickly shanked the underside of the disc with an unraveled paper clip when no one was looking. The look of heartbreak on my manager’s face upon discovering my horrid crime matched my guilt at having to dishonor such a great band’s music, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’m sure the group would understand.

“Spanish Bombs” – The Clash 3:18 (London Calling, Epic 1979)

Miles Davis Kind of Blue Columbia 1959

Some of you may remember that about two months ago I compiled a “Ten Non-Essential Jazz Records” list. Kind of Blue (1959) was the sole catalyst for it. Miles Davis was one of the greatest artists of the past century, I certainly won’t argue that (particularly since I own more records by him than any other artist). Kind of Blue is a gorgeous and timeless record, absolutely necessary for anyone with any appreciation of music. So we’re all in agreement here? With that being said, exactly how many times will I have to hear this record during the course of my life? Somewhere in the tens of thousands, perhaps? I understand that Kind of Blue is the ‘go-to’ jazz record for most of the population, but please, folks, know that it’s not a bad thing to branch out a little. I know it may seem like a revolutionary concept, but you don’t have to own just one jazz album. Trust me, there are plenty of other records similar to Kind of Blue, and who knows, maybe you’ll end up liking them even more; all it takes is a little time and research. In the same way that you probably wouldn’t want to eat lasagna every night for dinner, some of us don’t want to hear this record every time we step outside.

“Flamenco Sketches” – Miles Davis 9:26 (Kind of Blue, Columbia 1959)

New Order Substance Qwest 1988

While I’ve always had a healthy amount of respect for them, I’ve never been able to achieve fandom with New Order. Yes, Peter Hook’s basslines frequently drive me to ecstasy. Stephen Morris‘ hugely-underrated drumming amazes me every time I hear the band. I’ve even been known to give Gillian Gilbert’s simple yet tasteful keyboard flourishes the occasional double-take. Without New Order, the entire electronic/dance movement of the ’90s would have been an entirely different animal, such was the band’s influence on the genre. My single reservation with the group – and it’s a doozy – lies with singer and guitarist Bernard Sumner, whose vocals and (especially) lyrics are on par with Anthony Kiedis where cringe factor is concerned. I used to work at a coffee shop where a friend tried for weeks to convince me of the band’s brilliance, but I refused to be swayed. His solution was to play Substance (1988) on repeat for hours on end until I caved, but it only fueled my contempt for the band and the record. I can still appreciate them now, of course, but that stark cover gives me chills to this day.

“Thieves Like Us” – New Order 6:36 (Substance, Qwest 1988)

Pink Floyd Wish You Were Here Capitol 1975

Granted, I was never much of a Pink Floyd enthusiast to start with, but few records have taken me so long to realize that I flat-out disliked them like Wish You Were Here (1975). For months I attempted to convince myself that the nine-part album centerpiece “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” (which occupies more than half of the record) was an epic masterpiece. I pretended that “Welcome to the Machine” actually held my interest after the third listen, and that “Wish You Were Here” didn’t elicit more than a yawn. Toughest of all, I tried to suppress all urges to listen to Animals (1977) or Meddle (1971) instead. Sure, I’ll acknowledge that it’s a ‘classic’ record and it means a lot to many listeners, but “Have a Cigar” aside, I’ve found this album to be about as exciting as a loaf of Wonderbread.

“Have a Cigar” – Pink Floyd 5:08 (Wish You Were Here, Columbia 1975)

Pixies Doolittle 4AD 1989

It amazes me that I still catch flak when I state that I’d rather hear Trompe le Monde (1991) than any other record from the Pixies. What the hell do you expect, people? I can’t get past the production on the otherwise excellent Surfer Rosa (1988), Bossanova (1990) bores me to tears, and Doolittle (1989), the band’s defining moment, has been shoved down my ears by every restaurant, bar, and venue I’ve ever frequented. No, I don’t want to hear “Monkey Gone to Heaven” for the hundred-thousandth time. I wish the lead guitar on “Here Comes Your Man” didn’t give me a headache, but it does. Yes, “Wave of Mutilation” is a great song, but how many more times must we emphasize the fact? To every lazy-ass sound man who plays this record between sets, know this: not everyone wants to hear Doolittle every time they go out to see a band, and some of us – exacerbated by foul beer taps, malfunctioning air conditioning, and that seven-foot-tall asshole that insists on being front and center – may be prone to bouts of verbal and physical abuse in your direction. Increase your chances of survival by maybe putting on another record while you’re testing mics and various D.I. boxes on stage.

“Here Comes Your Man” – Pixies 3:21 (Doolittle, 4AD 1989)

Radiohead The Bends Capitol 1995

I’ve digressed before on this site about the ongoing personal hangover that is Radiohead, so I don’t feel any need to drag the water yet again. But occasionally I’ll ask myself: why, if given a choice, would I pick the mediocre Pablo Honey (1993) out of the band’s records to listen to first? Could it be that it’s the one album of theirs that hasn’t been ground into my subconscious from years of overexposure? The Bends (1995), even more than the universally-heralded OK Computer (1997) and Kid A (2000), has by far aged the worst out of the band’s catalogue since it reached ‘agreeable public acceptance’ status with every bartender in the country a few years ago (except for that shrieking feedback part at the end of the guitar solo in “Just”). To be clear, I’ve never “bar-hopped” a night in my life, but on one recent evening I happened to visit three subsequent alcohol-serving establishments, and to my shock and chagrin, each played a song from The Bends during my patronage there. Don’t you people ever get sick of hearing this album? You don’t ever tire of singing along to “Fake Plastic Trees” for God only knows how many times now? The reverse sequencing of “Sulk” and “Street Spirit (Fade Out)” doesn’t annoy the piss out of you? For Christ’s sake, play Doolittle for a change, something – wait, no, forget I said that.

“Just” – Radiohead 3:54 (The Bends, Capitol 1995)

The Roots Do You Want More?!!!??! Universal 1994

I thought I’d have more than one hip hop platter on this list, but The Roots‘ Do You Want More?!!!??! (1995) was the only entirely unlistenable selection I could find. This one is because of an old roommate whose obsession with the group bordered on clinical. While I initially admired his devotion and enthusiasm, I soon grew wary of his shallow credentials when he dismissed Rakim and KRS-One as “simplistic.” A quick peek at his CaseLogic uncovered the nasty truth that The Roots were the only hip hop he listened to besides a scratched-up Goodie Mob disc that he likely found under a couch somewhere. From that point on I would antagonize him by referring to the group as “Stetsasonic wannabes” and lead MC Black Thought as “all brains, no balls.” It was all in good fun back then (for me, at least), but when I tried to enjoy Do You Want More?!!!??! a few years ago I found that I just couldn’t sit through it. “Proceed” was only accompanied by intense visions of my roommate playing Madden NFL in the living room with the track on repeat, and I didn’t make it much further into the disc beyond that. A shame, too, because from what I remember it’s a great record, but these days I’m more inclined to opt for ‘untainted’ gems like Illadelph Halflife (1996) and Things Fall Apart (1999) during those now-rare Roots hankerings.

“Distortion to Static” – The Roots 4:18 (Do You Want More?!!!??!, Universal 1995)

Wilco Yankee Hotel Foxtrot Nonesuch 2002

A prime example of a great record slowly withered into aversion from months of overexposure. I know I may come across as a snob when I hate on this record, and perhaps I am to a certain degree (ahem), but I’ve always been a firm believer in the adage that the best things come in small doses. Like, I don’t know, chocolate. Or a fireworks show. Or a concise little four-bar guitar solo. Not an entire album, in this case Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002), that I had to hear on repeat for an entire summer, played by everyone from my closest friends at parties to unknown hipsters in their shiny new VW Beetles at stoplights. Even now, when I hear “Heavy Metal Drummer” or “War on War” in public and everyone begins tapping their feet and bouncing delightfully, I restrain myself and smile passively, silently wondering how a perfectly decent but far from exceptional album swept an entire generation by storm.

“Kamera” – Wilco 3:30 (Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Nonesuch 2002)

Stevie Wonder Songs in the Key of Life Tamla 1976

Again, an artist that most definitely doesn’t belong here, but due to external circumstances beyond Stevie’s control, I’ll never touch this record again. We all know he was a phenomenal songwriter, but my experience with this record goes beyond everyday appreciation. You see, I spent three years at music school (and by “spent” I mean my grandkids will still be paying for it long after I’m gone) surrounded by (mostly white male) geeks whose crotches of their pants used to tighten at the mere thought of bands like Dream Theater and shredders like Steve Vai. I had a harmony teacher who was well aware of this, so one day he brought in lead sheets of as many selections as he could find from Songs in the Key of Life (1976) to analyze. Far from my favorite platter from Stevie’s ’70s discography, but it was a refreshing change of pace. By the third week I couldn’t bear to hear another note of this record, and for the rest of the semester my gag reflex would trigger if I even thought I detected “Isn’t She Lovely” coming from somewhere. Imagine yours truly actually tiring of endless discussions on subdominant minor modal interchange and other various harmonic turnarounds within a song! Even now I’ll occasionally wake in the morning with a foul, bile-like taste in my mouth and “Another Star” mysteriously stuck in my head.

“All Day Sucker” – Stevie Wonder 5:05 (Songs in the Key of Life, Tamla 1976)

Ennio Morricone “Il Clan Dei Siciliani (Main Titles)” Il Clan Dei Siciliani Cam 1970

Exploring the discography of the most prolific soundtrack composer alive is quite an intimidating task. I thought I was up for the challenge about six years ago, during the height of my Ennio Morricone obsession, but gave up after calculating the thousands of dollars in various Italian imports that the project would cost me. We’re talking hundreds, literally hundreds of records, people, and most of them unavailable domestically. Soundtracks to avant-garde horror flicks. Spaghetti Westerns. Sweeping romantic love themes. Action-filled suspense yarns. Softcore porn. Morricone did it all, and while most of his soundtracks are pretty average, very few are disposable, and they all have at least some musical element or mood that’s worthwhile. Plus, the man invented an entire genre, one that countless bands mine for ideas to this day, and is one of the few composers where one can add an “-esque” to his surname and the reader will know exactly what is implied. His double-disc A Fistful of Film Music (1995) (sadly out of print) is absolutely phenomenal and the most ideal place to start with his catalogue; any remaining copies left are worth snatching up anywhere they can be found.

I was considering a Top Ten Morricone Title Themes post (which I still might drop), but I was itching to share one of my favorites of his, the title to Il Clan Dei Siciliani (The Sicilian Clan) (1970). While the film itself was an average heist caper, Morricone’s title piece rewards repeated listens unlike any other item in his discography. Based around a chromatically descending four-note idea, what’s initially so entrancing about the motif is the way it’s placed in beats of three on top of the 4/4 signature. The flutes that enter at 0:34 provide an exotic countermelody, and at 1:04 the strings enter to establish the beautifully melancholy theme. Sure, he probably goes overboard on the jaw harp but that’s part of its charm, and I’d take this over Rota’s The Godfather Theme (which is heavily indebted to Morricone) any day. (John Zorn was particularly taken with this title, arranging it for his Naked City collective and reworking a version for the reissue of his Morricone tribute The Big Gundown [1985].)

“Il Clan Dei Siciliani (Main Titles)” – Ennio Morricone 3:37 (Il Clan Dei Siciliani, Cam 1970)