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Don’t Change a Thing for Me: Two Songs Where the Bassist Can Relax

November 9, 2009 in Features | 1 comment

Michael Jackson, “Thriller” (Thriller, 1982)

Kings of Leon, “The Bucket” (Aha Shake Heartbreak, 2004)

Like I mentioned last week, shelling out to see the uneven but still fascinating Michael Jackson concert documentary This Is It played a big role in my decision to bring this blog back from the dead. Part of it was seeing the way MJ worked, taking a vision that was in his head and turning it, masterfully, into a gigantic spectacle, one that required endless patience and the cooperation of hundreds of people. If he could do that, I can write 300 words about my favorite songs once in a while.

The other part was “Thriller,” or rather something about it that I’d never noticed before: the bass line almost never changes. With the exception of that killer bridge and a few section breaks, the chord changes are dictated by other instruments—primarily the keyboards. It’s as though the bass finds the perfect groove in the very first bar, and  decides to just set up shop. Maybe there’s a thematic connection there; the figure could be called “zombie-like” in its relentless repetition. Or maybe it’s just a neat idea that happened to work.

In any case, the “Thriller” revelation immediately triggered another. I’m pretty indifferent to most of what Kings of Leon have released into the world, but there’s one song of theirs that slays me. “The Bucket” charms with its simplicity—both the verse melody and the main guitar riff take simple descending patterns and loop them for the song’s duration. But there’s one minimalist trick that took me months to catch: the bass line is just. one. note! Straying only in the chorus, and then just barely, bassist Jared Followill finds D-natural and then sits back and lets his brothers do the work.

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Don’t Say You Will Unless You Will: The State of the Union

November 4, 2009 in Editor's Notes | No comments

Hi there. Hope you all enjoyed Halloween; I did.

So here’s the thing: I’ve been really busy. There’s a lot going on in my world right now, much more than I would ever have expected when I quit my job last winter. Perhaps most notably, I’ve been a hired gun for WNYC, New York’s awesome public radio station, producing segments for the music talk show Soundcheck — like this one. And more importantly to me, I’ve been working on an album — the very first full-length studio release by my project Art Sorority for Girls, after seven years of performing under that name. It’s taken over a year, and it’s still got a ways to go… but I think it’s pretty good so far, and I can’t think of another time I’ve felt so passionately committed to getting something done. Mind you, it hasn’t all been fun; in fact, bouts of intense, crippling doubt and despair have become quite common. But the good days? They’re really good.

In any case, between days at the radio station, days in the studio, and the in-between time that I’ve spent scrambling for freelance work to finance this quasi-bohemian life, I admit I’ve had very little time for you, my faithful readers. Hell, I’ve barely had time for my friends. And when that reality hit me, I panicked and considered shutting my young blog down, if only to save myself the embarrassment of more time in public limbo. But two things have happened in the past week that kept me from jumping ship. The first was that people asked why I had stopped writing; granted, they were all friends of mine, but it was proof that someone out there cared whether this thing lived or died. The other was that I saw This Is It, the Michael Jackson documentary. Apart from being inspired by Jackson’s work ethic, I found that during the rendition of “Thriller,” all I could think about was what the bass line had in common with this one really great Kings of Leon song. That, in itself, seemed proof enough that the well wasn’t dry; I was still thinking the kinds of thoughts that made me start this damned silly thing in the first place.

So I’m giving it another shot. I promise you there will be more dry spells; I’ve got my fingers in so many pots right now that it’s just inevitable. But I’ve been exposed to so much new music this year and it’s given me so much to think about; if you’ll just stay with me, I’ll do my best to deliver the goods whenever I can. Thanks for your support so far.

With love,
Daoud

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The King is Dead. Long Live The King: An Irresponsible Tribute

June 29, 2009 in Editor's Notes | 8 comments

Michael Jackson, “Billie Jean” — 1981 Home Demo Version
(Thriller: Special Edition, 2001)

Today’s post was supposed to be a personal history in music: 25 formative songs in honor of my 25th birthday, which I celebrated last week. As it happened, though, my birthday was scooped by another, more sensational news item. I think you can guess where this is going.

I’m avoiding the Michael Jackson media blitz as best I can. I’m not watching TV and I’m not reading the news and I’m certainly not listening to the radio—I already got spooked bad enough on Thursday afternoon, when I hadn’t yet learned he’d died and couldn’t figure out why every store I walked into was blasting “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” I’ve got a sensitive constitution for this stuff. For what it’s worth, I do believe that celebrity worship in this country is a destructive force, one that sidelines real news and turns fallen stars into gleaming idols, scrubbed clean of whatever unsavory details might mar their legacies. I recognize that it’s wrong to whitewash history like this. But it’s exactly what I intend to do.

The thing is, it isn’t MJ’s death that’s really upsetting me, it’s his life. Not all of it, of course—not that exuberant child singing his heart out on The Ed Sullivan Show, and definitely not the confident young man who took the stage at Motown’s 25th anniversary concert and produced a shriek from the crowd by sliding backwards on his toes for all of two seconds. What’s got me down is the other Michael—the middle-aged man-child with the bleached skin, the sloped nose, the cleft chin he wasn’t born with, and all the attendant scandal and scorn. To witness, via a rapid-fire succession of press clips, his transformation into this state is more than I can stand to watch right now.

As a performer, Michael was astonishingly calculated and precise, and yet in his private life, he seemed ever more unbalanced and confused. His videos rendered him an enchanted sylph, whose powers of invisibility and shapeshifting could get him out of any scrape; in reality, he saw his public image reduced to a crude punchline he could never shake. He spent the latter half of his career in a curious dual existence as both undisputed king and villainous jester, at once a source of inspiration and ridicule.

Michael was 25 when I was born. Now I’m 25 and he’s dead. And as irresponsible as it may be, I prefer to memorialize him as I first saw him: on the cover of the tattered copy of Thriller that I discovered at the Roosevelt Island Thrift Store, and ran on stubby five-year-old legs to ask my mother if she’d buy it for me. That’s the Michael who changed my life, and that’s the Michael I want to remember: halfway through life, at the peak of his career, his beautiful face still mostly intact, still just a kid figuring his life out.

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