Apologies for the lack of any activity around these parts in the past week; between working on about half a dozen post ideas right now, getting my year-end write-ups out of the way, and making my way through 8 Diagrams (2007) and The Big Doe Rehab (2007), finding time to drop even a Song of the Week has been tough. Until I can get my act together this weekend, enjoy this post I wrote for EarFuzz earlier this year.

The sweetest of ’70s Soul has always been about summertime and sunshine for me, so during these dreary days of November in New England I’ll occasionally have to remind myself that June is only… eight… months… away by digging out some of the more ignored Soul records in my collection. Recently I’ve taken a certain fascination with Sylvia Robinson’s Pillow Talk (1973), and the more I listen, the more I become attuned to how utterly strange this record is. An explanation is probably in order.

Regardless of one’s feelings about Robinson as a cold, heartless businesswoman (see: The Sugarhill Gang, a discussion for another time), she nevertheless had a long and successful career in the music industry, beginning in the late ’50s as the latter half of Mickey & Sylvia, most remembered for their single “Love is Strange.” During the ’60s she worked behind the scenes, nurturing New Jersey trio The Moments to stardom while raising her family. She began releasing solo records under her first name in the ’70s, moving into bedroom disco and even hip hop during the ’80s. Yet while many of her contemporaries patiently waited by the assembly line for producers to churn out chart-toppers for them, Robinson actively played a hand in shaping her own career, writing or co-writing most of her material and supervising the daily operations of running her record label with her husband, Joe. She was also a hell of a guitar player to boot.

Still, listening to Pillow Talk, one gets the impression that something just isn’t right, but it’s difficult to place a finger on what it is. It’s a pleasant listen, to be sure, undeniably sensual and full of slithering, late-night grooves. Perhaps it’s Sylvia’s reserved presence and somewhat hesitant delivery, at times sounding as if she’s curled up on the couch in the control room, intimidated and cradling the microphone; others, her whispery coos and moans have all the sincerity of a minimum-wage phone-sex operator. But there is a certain intimacy in her voice that connects with the listener despite the fact that it’s quizzically buried in the mix most of the time. “Gimme a Little Action” is one such example, a sleeper cut that would have benefited tremendously from a boost of Sylvia’s vocal track, yet she seems content to cuddle into her surroundings, treating her voice as equally as the other instruments of pleasure. And oddly enough, it works.

“Gimme a Little Action” – Sylvia 4:00 (Pillow Talk, Vibration 1973)

“Sunday” was written for Sylvia’s brother’s fiancee, who tragically died in a car accident the night before they were to be married. It sounds unlike any of the other selections here, a haunting ballad with just Sylvia, her acoustic guitar, and a lone cello. The atmosphere calls to mind something out of a Country-Western musical from the ’60s, with Sylvia’s cries echoing throughout the moonlit desert canyon long after her companions have fallen asleep by the campfire. (Attentive listeners will recognize this track as the basis for Ghostface’s “The Letter” skit from The Pretty Tony Album [2004].) Compared to the relatively standard instrumentation and arrangements of the original Moments version, the two are like night and day.

“Sunday” – Sylvia 3:12 (Pillow Talk, Vibration 1973)

“Sunday” – The Moments 2:47 (Not on the Outside, But Inside In!, Stang 1968)

Pillow Talk is definitely worth checking out, if only for two reasons: 1) there are few records of the era that sound remotely similar to it (keep in mind that this stuff was pretty risque for the time), and 2) a seven-minute version of “Not on the Outside” where Sylvia seductively introduces her “little band,” then instructs her guitar player on how to play his solo as if he were forcibly pleasuring her. Bizarre, to say the least.

Opeth “In Mist She Was Standing” Orchid Candlelight 1994

For a good six or seven years, Stockholm’s Opeth could do no wrong in my book. Their finely-honed balance of crushing riffage, rich melodicism, and uniquely structured songwriting – displayed in all its glory on My Arms, Your Hearse (1998) – was nothing shy of a revelation to these ears. I spent hundreds of hours trying to wrap my head around Still Life’s (2000) complexities, and still hold Blackwater Park (2001) to be metal perfection from start to finish. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the less-metal/more-’70s-prog direction band leader Mikael Åkerfeldt had shifted the group toward on Deliverance (2002) and especially Damnation (2003), and I was utterly defeated when I heard these tendencies nurtured to fruition on Ghost Reveries (2005) two years ago. (A recent listen to the record revealed it to be much better than I had remembered, though it’s safe to say that I’ll never want to hear “Hours of Wealth” again.) With the recent departures of longtime guitarist Peter Lindgren and drummer Martin Lopez, I highly doubt that my unwavering devotion to the band will reach the same levels of fanaticism, and the recent announcement that Opeth will occupy the opening slot on Dream Theater’s 2008 tour hardly gains them any points. Yet I’m still amazed by the replay value of those earlier records, especially the debut Orchid (1994) and ambitious follow-up Morningrise (1996).

It wasn’t until after My Arms, Your Hearse that I backtracked through the band’s catalogue and heard these two records, which, other than the extended song structures, bear little resemblance to what Opeth would grow into. (Part of this could be attributed to the fact that the impenetrable rhythm section of Lopez and bassist Martin Mendez had yet to jump on board.) Orchid’s opening volley “In Mist She Was Standing” remains one of the band’s finest quarter-hours (literally, clocking in at 14:09), with an abundance of single-note dual-guitar harmonies, galloping 6/8 grooves, Åkerfeldt’s chilling death-metal roars, and expansive instrumental passages and brief acoustic interludes in equal measure. Åkerfeldt’s gift for composing the most gorgeously sad and moving melodies is already apparent at this early stage – note the dreary spaciousness of the movement at 5:34, which sounds like something off Pink Floyd’s Animals (1977). His wealth of ideas here is ebullient, moving through each section with a furious, don’t-look-back intensity that he would abandon by the time of Still Life; in other words, enjoy that riff while it lasts, because you won’t hear it again. It’s a wonder how lesser bands like Night in Gales and even In Flames had the stones to continue after hearing something of this caliber; in less than fifteen minutes, Opeth just trumped anything they could ever hope to write.

“In Mist She Was Standing” – Opeth 14:09 (Orchid, Candlelight 1994)

Few hip hop veterans are more qualified to be the subject of a graphic novel than MF Grimm. For those unfamiliar with his compelling story, I’ll summarize it briefly: Percy Carey was born and raised in Manhattan’s Upper West Side, and through connections with his neighbor Morgan Freeman, was a regular child cast member of Sesame Street for four years. As he entered his teens his business interests shifted to those of the illegal variety and around the turn of the ’90s, Carey’s reputation as a notorious drug dealer was matched by his skills as a ferocious battle rapper; he supplemented his income from the narcotics trade by ghostwriting and working with everyone from Kool G Rap to MF Doom. Then, in ‘94, while being courted by several major labels and on the cusp of blowing up, Grimm was shot seven times, leaving him blind, deaf, and paralyzed from the waist down. He recovered his sight and hearing and continued to write and record for the remainder of the decade, yet he still requires a wheelchair for mobility. Grimm was sentenced to life imprisonment in 2000 for narcotics conspiracy charges, was released three years later, and is currently focused on overseeing the operations of his label, Day by Day Entertainment, which releases his material.

The handful of 12″’s that Grimm recorded during the ’90s were gathered and released by Day by Day two years ago on a collection titled Scars and Memories (2005), which is about as essential as breathing for heads like me who used to regularly fantasize about a hungry Grimm verbally destroying tracks by producers like Doom and Rob Swift (for proof, hear his devastating first single “So Watcha Want” from ‘93). The A side of one of those original platters was called “Get Down” and was released in ‘96 on the underground Dolo Records. The track is about as close as Grimm achieved to a club hit, which is to say it barely registered at all, but it’s a fascinating cut nonetheless for its half-assed and ultimately failing intentions (packing the dance floor) yet has aged much more gracefully than any of its peers from that era (ahem, Bad Boy Entertainment).

The production on “Get Down” was handled by the legendary turntablist and studio wizard Dr. Butcher, and was obviously influenced by the sound of A Tribe Called Quest’s then-popular Beats, Rhymes & Life (1996): plenty of electric keys, subterranean bass thuds, and swinging, downtempo grooves. Butcher’s beat consists of a two-bar loop of a minor-keyed chord progression outlined by a Fender Rhodes, emphasized by pedal bass hits and an uncomplicated, no-frills drum pattern; the only variation occurs when the keys drop out for a brief four-bar spell at the beginning of the second verse. Grimm is joined here by guest DJ E-Kim, who supplies the run-of-the-mill “Everybody on the floor, throw your hands up” hook for the chorus and echoes a few of the MC’s lines during the verses.

What’s so odd about “Get Down” are Grimm’s unusual lyric patterns in his verses, to say nothing of his overall disposition here: he doesn’t exactly seem amped or committed to an attempt at a club banger, yet he’s not completely resistant either. E-Kim opens the track with some standard exerpts from the DJ lexicon before Grimm begins:

Days of Alazay, nights of Cristal
Champagne corks bust like your pis-tals
Feelin’ good, sit back, wine, dine
Watch the diamonds glitter, gold shine
Expensive games we play
Mad shout outs coming from the DJ
Some come as couples and others single
DJ scratch it in, everybody jingle

Grimm opens his verse by reciting a laundry list of time-honored hip hop standbys: guns, jewelry, alcohol – nothing new here. What’s so unique about it lies not in the content, but Grimm’s delivery (I’ve underlined the syllables that fall on every downbeat). Around the third bar, he begins to shift his rhyme scheme two beats so that the rhymes fall in the middle of the bars rather than toward the end. What at first appears to be accidental is revealed to be intentional; note the casual but methodical pacing of the words and how Grimm pauses after the word “expensive” to preserve the pattern.

A lot of players party, game’s tight
But jealous motherfuckers only come to start fights
You’s a bigger nigga, ignore it
They’re broke, mad at you for it
Eye on bottle, really want to pour it
Throat’s so dry, playa haters don’t know why
They can play too if they really try
There’s enough for everyone to have a slice of pie
To the bar, more drinks we buy
“How we live?” Live the good life ‘til the day we die.

Grimm continues this inverted rhyme scheme, hesitating before the downbeats and progressing in short, compact phrases rather than extending ideas and thoughts. The second half of the first verse is dominated by his exploration of two vowel sounds: “-or” and “y,” the latter of which is exhausted for five bars. He slows his pacing for the line, “Playa haters don’t know why,” which suddenly brings him back to a standard rhyme pattern for the last four bars; the change in feel is subtle yet noticeable. E-Kim then enters with the party chants before the second verse:

My crew’s representing jitty
Exotic women, perfume, dress pretty
See the DJ, he got the music flowing
Party over here, Soul Train line going, have no fear
Ladies hypnotize with bootys on the low
Players smile with cuties, dress spandex
So you know the ass out, niggas sweaty
Drunk about to pass out, but fuck that
Hear a favorite song, to the floor, stagger back
With the slight ditty-bop though, stepping like The Mack
Bitches roll in packs, eyes on money stacks
All dime pieces, none seem wack
Soul come through speakers as sound
Can you feel it? Can you feel the love all around?

Compared to the off-kilter rhyme patters of the first verse, the second is more conventional but not by much, as Grimm can’t resist playing with the downbeat for the first eight bars. As he depicts the atmosphere in the club, he strangely eschews elaborate descriptions for direct, almost dumbed-down outlines like, “ladies hypnotize with bootys,” “dress spandex,” and “hear a favorite song.” The whole thing seems like it was penned in less time than it took to record it, a sentiment that is carried over into the third verse:

Look – you come in here to have fun, don’t act up
No wins, you’re outgunned a thousand to one
Represent Monsta Island, shine like the sun
Parties rock straight from start, continue, never done
Five families unite, become one
Invisible on map, the world we run
Accumulate the papers, nonbelievers left stunned.

Grimm drops a few references to his crew, organized crime, and his bank account before abruptly concluding the verse. At this point in the song his enthusiasm appears to have diminished for the party-over-here! vibe, though to his credit, his delivery and rhyme patterns remain consistent throughout. Perhaps he was aware of the song’s somewhat thin transparency during the recording, realizing that his style was better suited to “Emotions,” the record’s gullier B-side. Regardless, “Get Down,” remains more listenable than 95% of what qualifies as a ‘club banger’ today, and if anything, helps to further illustrate a curious transitional period for one of the ’90s most slept-on lyricists.

“Get Down” – MF Grimm 3:23 (Get Down/Emotions 12″, Dolo 1996)

Rabid hip hop fans have always been notorious for elevating a merely good record to ‘classic’ status, whether it’s due to the date of its release, the iconic status of the artist whose name is on the cover, or for personal reasons never to be determined. I suppose it depends on one’s definition of ‘classic,’ but when heads are throwing the word around, I don’t know, a DMX disc, it’s hard to deny that it tends to cheapen its meaning. And when it comes to many first-golden-era albums, many fans who apply those classic tags liberally – and I’m just as guilty of this – conveniently overlook that “I Need Love” jam or some other new jack nonsense nestled somewhere in side two. Here are ten ‘classics’ from the first golden age (roughly ‘88-’92) that came to mind who have been able to disguise their ugly little secrets better than others.

Big Daddy Kane “To Be Your Man” It’s a Big Daddy Thing Cold Chillin’ 1989

From the outset of his career Big Daddy Kane was unable to drop a full-length that didn’t showcase, if only for a track or two, his ridiculous ‘lover man’ persona, from “The Day You’re Mine” off debut Long Live the Kane (1988) on through the majority of his career-extinguishing Prince of Darkness (1991). From an MC whose albums were a mess of contradictions anyway, it was a perfectly natural and accepted peculiarity of a man who preached positive Afrocentricity on one cut then bragged about pimping women on another, whose devastating battle rhymes were frequently interrupted by embarrassing slow jam intermissions. I guarantee that if the dub-inflected “To Be Your Man” was removed from the track sequence of the already-overlong It’s a Big Daddy Thing (1989), not a single individual would complain. Every musical element of this song is so horribly dated and just plain wrong, from the level of reverb on the painfully out-of-tune crooning by guests Blue Magic to the clunky drum programming. Even worse is hearing Kane discover the pitch wheel while playing a synthetic bell sound, emitting a whining frequency similar to slowly letting the air out of a helium balloon; it’s one of the most distasteful and inappropriate things I’ve ever heard. Further proof that Kane should have spent more time waxing lyrical on the mic than constructing lightweight love patter behind the boards.

“To Be Your Man” – Big Daddy Kane 5:46 (It’s a Big Daddy Thing, Cold Chillin’ 1989)

Boogie Down Productions “Nervous” By All Means Necessary Jive 1988

I remain firm in my belief that “My Philosophy” is the greatest five minutes in the history of hip hop (G Rap’s “Men at Work” coming in a close second), and while I’ll always adore By All Means Necessary (1988), I’ve never understood the point of “Nervous,” which closes the first side of the record. It’s the very definition of album filler, an easy means to bump up the number of cuts on the record to a tidy ten. Over a throwaway electro beat, KRS gives various shout-outs and explains the intricacies of a 48-channel mixer between long and repeated howls of the song’s title, which becomes mildly grating by the second minute or so. So what does it mean to get “nervous”? Is it a dance move? One of The Teacher’s many styles of vocal delivery? Does it have something to do with the technique of “breaking down” a track? I doubt I’ll ever figure it out. The only certainty I can rely on has been my habitual skipping of this song since my eleven-year-old hands first picked up a copy of the record.

“Nervous” – Boogie Down Productions 4:12 (By All Means Necessary, Jive 1988)

Brand Nubian “Try to Do Me” One for All Elektra 1990

“Try to Do Me” has haunted me for years, a festering, malignant growth of new jack garbage on an otherwise near-perfect record and proof positive that Grand Puba’s ego could have benefited from a serious checking during the One for All (1990) sessions. One of the earliest productions of Dave Hall (who went on to work with Mary J. Blige and Mariah Carey), the track sounds like an outtake from a late-’80s Full Force LP, its hard-swinging groove and clichéd R&B hook establishing an ugly contrast on an album dominated by dusty and lo-fi Soul loops. Puba doesn’t necessarily sound out of his element here, although he doesn’t seem entirely comfortable in this setting either as he routinely disses a girl who’s trying to play him. Wisely – and certainly tellingly – Sadat and Jamar are nowhere to be found in this shameful spectacle.

“Try to Do Me” – Brand Nubian 4:20 (One for All, Elektra 1990)

EPMD “It’s Time 2 Party” Unfinished Business Priority 1989

Odd how Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith are perhaps best known for pioneering the rough and rugged, slower-tempo productions that would characterize much of early-’90s hip hop, yet hip-house bullshucks like “It’s Time 2 Party” from their much-anticipated sophomore release Unfinished Business (1989) somehow got the duo’s seal of approval. Admittedly, to EPMD’s credit, the track is the sole responsibility of their studio engineer Ivan “Doc” Rodriguez, constructed presumably as a late-night exercise to ward off boredom while the uninspired pair sluggishly added content to their rhyme books. The final result is nothing short of disastrous. Sermon, whose signature speech impediment prevented him from participating in any track over 100 bpm, sounds nearly unintelligible here. Parrish handles the awkward dance rhythm slightly better, but couldn’t appear more disinterested in what’s going on around him. It’s still mind-boggling that this track is culled from the same record that produced “So What Cha Sayin’” and “Get the Bozack,” and if there was ever a stronger case for the utilization of the programmable skip feature on the modern CD player, I’d like to hear about it.

“It’s Time 2 Party” – EPMD 4:36 (Unfinished Business, Priority 1989)

Kool G Rap & DJ Polo “The Polo Club” Wanted: Dead or Alive Cold Chillin’ 1990

“The Polo Club” is another hip-house concoction that contributes immensely to the loss of momentum toward the tail end of Kool G Rap & DJ Polo’s otherwise outstanding second outing Wanted: Dead or Alive (1990). The track appears to be little more than an excuse for Polo to practice his scratch technique over a tired 4/4 dance rhythm, as his rhyme partner had likely vacated the premises long before the tape was cued. A few random samples and some tired “go!” chanting comprise most of the substance here, but the whole track is immediately forgotten seconds after the fade. My theory is that this steaming pile was the catalyst for G Rap’s solo career, considering Polo was all but absent from the following Live and Let Die (1992) LP, which happened to be the last release with the DJ’s name on the cover.

“The Polo Club” – Kool G Rap & DJ Polo 4:04 (Wanted: Dead or Alive, Cold Chillin’ 1990)

L.L. Cool J “Illegal Search” Mama Said Knock You Out Def Jam 1990

Uncle L.’s Mama Said Knock You Out (1990) was one of the first CDs I ever purchased, and up until the second-to-last selection on the disc, I could hardly contain my excitement for how good it was. Then the bouncy, cheese-ridden beat for “Illegal Search” kicked in and crushed my young and naive impressions in a heartbeat. Granted, we’re talking about the purveyor of instant mood-killers like the aforementioned “I Need Love” and cornball pap like “You’re My Heart,” so I shouldn’t have been surprised, but L.L. came so close to a solid TKO with this record. When old-school heads begin rambling on about how producer Marley Marl never put a foot wrong in his career, kindly point their attention in the direction of this asinine rubbish. I can’t recall another song about police harassment in the rap canon that’s this irritatingly peppy (compare with, say, Jeru the Damaja’s dark “Invasion” or even BDP’s almost playful “Who Protects Us from You?”).

“Illegal Search” – L.L. Cool J 4:34 (Mama Said Knock You Out, Def Jam 1990)

Naughty by Nature “Rhyme’ll Shine On” Naughty by Nature Tommy Boy 1991

To reiterate what Dan Love has declared on this site: few acts in hip hop balanced on the fine line between street credibility and mainstream appeal better than Naughty by Nature. It’s hardly surprising that I much preferred Treach’s hardcore verbal threats on cuts like “Yoke the Joker” and “The Hood Comes First,” but I was just as enthralled with “O.P.P.” as any other fellow middle-schooler at the height of the single’s popularity. The group’s self-titled debut contained battle cuts and party rhymes in equal measure, but “Rhyme’ll Shine On,” went a little too far in the direction of the latter. It’s not as entirely awful as some of the above selections, but recycling the same beat that Rakim made famous on “I Know You Got Soul” (and – let’s not forget – Salt-N-Pepa’s “Let’s Talk About Sex”) is strike one, “I like a party, over-pumped and lovely” is strike two, and Aphrodity’s embarrassing channeling of the Isley Brothers during the bridge is strike three. By the end of the track one begins longing for Vinnie’s foul mouth come in and crash the PG-rated party. Conveniently nestled into the forgettable waters of the back end of side two, I’m betting the group doesn’t get too many requests to perform this one live.

“Rhyme’ll Shine On” – Naughty by Nature 3:56 (Naughty by Nature, Tommy Boy 1991)

N.W.A. “Something 2 Dance 2″ Straight Outta Compton Priority 1988

I was going to include N.W.A.’s hilariously ill-suited “Express Yourself” on this list until I remembered “Something 2 Dance 2,” the last cut on the CD release of Straight Outta Compton (1988) and easily the quickest way to get any of the remaining members of the group to cover their faces in shame if played today – read: Dre, as Cube and Ren hadn’t joined yet. His unaccompanied request that proceeds the track is just the beginning in what can only be described as a train wreck subdivided into semi-coherent rhythmic components, with a synthetic cowbell pattern to boot. Atop a bed of stale 808 drums, the group banter back and forth and trade lines, U.T.F.O.-style, about how to best construct the backing track for maximum dancibility, or as Arabian Prince puts it, to “feel the groove, bust a move.” Really, the lack of effort put forth into this borders on comical. Obviously, the still-developing group hadn’t yet slipped into the personification of conservative white America’s nightmare, but that still doesn’t explain the inclusion of something this disposable on their momentous opening volley to the record-buying public.

“Something 2 Dance 2” – N.W.A. 3:32 (Straight Outta Compton, Priority 1988)

Public Enemy “I Don’t Wanna Be Called Yo Niga” Apocalypse 91… The Enemy Strikes Black Def Jam 1991

There’s a chief reason (among a slew of others) why I consider Apocalypse 91… The Enemy Strikes Black (1991) the weakest in Public Enemy’s trilogy of cultural terror at the turn of the ’90s: its incorporation of two of Flavor Flav’s weakest solo features in the track sequence. “I Don’t Want to Be Called Yo Niga” is a side one pace-killer that the record never fully recovers from, a massive blunder that crushes the momentum of the air-siren intensity of opener “Lost at Birth,” the punishing claustrophobia in “Nighttrain,” and the head-nodding bounce of “Can’t Truss It.” Over a greasy guitar loop that quickly wears out its welcome by the end of the first minute, Flav and a nameless, nearly tone-deaf R&B hook-chanter gleefully recite their ode to the dreaded N-word like a couple of idiots who’ve just discovered how fun it is to say. Flavor’s verses are as clumsy and awkward as expected, but fortunately, its brevity is its only blessing as the song begins fading shortly after the three-minute mark for a poetic, matter-of-fact interlude by Chuck D, who brings some much-needed gravity to the proceedings. Try programming this cut (and “A Letter to the New York Post,” for that matter) out of the sequencing and hear how much better the record benefits in lieu of their omission.

“I Don’t Wanna Be Called Yo Niga” – Public Enemy 4:23 (Apocalypse 91… The Enemy Strikes Back, Def Jam 1991)

Slick Rick “Teenage Love” The Great Adventures of Slick Rick Def Jam 1988

Slick Rick more or less admitted in Brian Coleman’s excellent Check the Technique (2007) (covered here) that “Teenage Love” from The Great Adventures of Slick Rick (1988) was intended to follow in the footsteps set by L.L.’s “I Need Love,” although to his credit, this artistic decision wasn’t entirely his. Sure, it’s a pretty worthless little slice of rap balladry, but one can’t help but laugh at how corny it really is, like when that cheesy slap bass enters at 0:36 followed by a “bust this,” or employing a gated sample of Rick pleading “don’t hurt me again” for the hook. I could give this one a so-bad-it’s-good pass considering that it was actually a single, but then again, we’re talking about the same record that houses “Children’s Story,” “Treat Her Like a Prostitute,” and “Indian Girl,” hall-of-fame contenders that the still-aging “Teenage Love” can’t stand parallel to.

“Teenage Love” – Slick Rick 4:53 (The Great Adventures of Slick Rick, Def Jam 1988)

The Flaming Lips “Oh My Pregnant Head (Labia in the Sunlight)” Transmissions from the Satellite Heart Warner Bros. 1993

I find it mildly fascinating the processes that occur in the mind of a music addict during an eight-day stint without a note of their drug of choice. Not that I didn’t enjoy every waking second of my vacation, but by day three various songs were trapping themselves in my head for hours on repeat, despite my repeated attempts to push them away. By day five I was reciting entire albums that I knew intimately to myself, from Miles Ahead (1957) to Stunts, Blunts & Hip Hop (1992). By day seven I would have sacrificed one of my toes just to hear a song from, say, Stereolab’s Emperor Tomato Ketchup (1996) or anything by Tom Zé. One of the more curious selections that soundtracked my intermission was The Flaming Lips‘ “Oh My Pregnant Head,” a song I hadn’t heard in years, despite its participation on one of my favorite records of all time. A song that I had always regarded as a decent ‘bridge’ track – not necessarily filler, but not a standout either – that contributed immensely to the flow of the album. A song that reiterates why this band was so absolutely wonderful back in 1993.

Before the kaleidoscopic grandiosity, before the epic studio orchestrations, before the Lips became immensely popular without releasing a worthwhile record in nearly a decade, they couldn’t put a foot wrong in my book, constructing a unique blend of noisy, acid-tinged pop that was equivalent of staring into the sun while on an intense sugar rush. Wayne Coyne’s famous aphorism of “Don’t do drugs, be drugs,” was the perfect summation of their sound, and this theory was applied tenfold to songs like “Oh My Pregnant Head” from their flawless Transmissions from the Satellite Heart (1993). The track opens with a sudden wash of expansive tremelo while drummer Steven Drozd experiments playfully with the 6/4 time. Coyne’s drugged vocals float hazily over Michael Ivins‘ bass pedal, moaning free-associative nonsense like “I just have stumps left for fingers” and something involving cans of spaghetti and skulls being crushed. The band’s penchant for exotic studio effects is reined somewhat here, although the swelling rush of reversed reverb that closes the chorus is a welcome touch, as is the buzzing guitar under the verses that whines like a crying newborn. Perhaps most impressive is the fact that the entire song is composed of only three long, droning chords. I’ll be the first to agree that the Lips deserve every ounce of the success that they’ve achieved, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the spiky, bubblegum noise-pop of their ’90s releases.

“Oh My Pregnant Head (Labia in the Sunlight)” – The Flaming Lips 4:06 (Transmissions from the Satellite Heart, Warner Bros. 1993)