Pitchfork

I spent a couple of hours driving around and running errands the other day, and I stumbled upon some sort of "80s Block" on the radio. It can be interesting to revisit songs from my youth at times like this, confronting them alone, randomly, in a situation having nothing to do with a movie or a commercial. There's a pang of nostalgia, of course, but lately I've been noticing something else, too-- it's been so long since I've come across some of these songs that it's possible to hear them again with fresh ears. I heard Culture Club's "Karma Chameleon" during this 80s set, a track I'd never paid any mind when it was on MTV and never owned, by a band I never cared about, and I thought to myself, you know, this is a damn nice song. The harmonica bit, OK, that's an odd relic, maybe that could go, but otherwise, it works. And then, right after that, I heard Deniece Williams' "Let's Hear It for the Boy", which once had some emotional resonance (school dances and all), and man, it occurred to me, this really is not very good at all.

I was hearing "Let's Hear It for the Boy" with critical ears, I suspect, maybe even for the first time. Back when it was being played all the time, it was just sort of there, and I absorbed it through osmosis and liked it. But now I couldn't help picking it apart and figuring out what was wrong with it (which was mostly everything). That's part of being a certain sort of critic now; our time is so filled with media that, on one level, we're searching for a reason to stop listening to something. We're waiting for songs to make mistakes, some error in judgment or execution that sets them outside what a good song ought to be.

This idea of hearing old, familiar music with a critical ear got me thinking about songs that strike me as unassailable. Certain songs seem so structurally robust, so well put together, that they always work. Maybe these songs are perfect. Which isn't necessarily to say that they're the greatest songs or my favorite songs. Perfection, sometimes, can be a little boring. I'm thinking of Brian Wilson's "Surf's Up", which on any given day I might call my favorite song of all time. I like at least four different versions of it very much, but none are perfect; neither he nor the Beach Boys ever got it quite right, and they knew it, which is partly why it took forever to be officially released. But there's something about the ragged edges on the various recordings of "Surf's Up" that makes me like each of them even more. In my head I can picture the one ultimate version, the one that never got made.

This unfinished quality, wondering what might have been, isn't there with this other class of records. They cannot be improved; each has fulfilled its destiny and become everything it could hope to be. A good example of what happens when you tinker with a song of this caliber is Z-Trip's remix of the Jackson 5's 1969 ultra-classic "I Want You Back". The original record, everything about it-- the chords, the melody, the performances, the way it's mixed-- there's not a thing you wish were different. But Z-Trip was charged with re-working the song for the 2005 collection Motown Remixed Vol. 2, so he did something fascinating and pulled the various pieces apart and laid them on the table so we could examine them. The result is an interesting song that can't help but be less. He did what he could, and he did it well, but, sorry-- you can't improve upon Jackson 5's "I Want You Back".

So, perfection. "I Want You Back" is one. Eleven more, then, to make it an even dozen.

Jim O'Rourke: "94 the Long Way"
Multi-faceted composer Jim O'Rourke used to say that he called his 1997 steel string opus Bad Timing not just in homage to the Nicolas Roeg film, but also because his own sense of tempo tended to wander. There is a loose, rootless quality to this 14-minute track in its opening section, as it speeds up and slows down and doubles back, seeming to search for some unnamable thing without much luck. But then, at the 3:30 mark, we find out what "it" is, as he begins the relentlessly repetitive minimalist plucks on the chord that will guide the piece the rest of its way. From there, he adds one voice after another-- piano, pedal steel, trombone, organ-- each new instrument filling a hole in the tune you subliminally knew existed but couldn't quite put your finger on. Until, finally, the entire thing, bursting with hope and dripping with a peculiarly American optimism, is on the rails and steaming west over the horizon.

Brian Eno and John Cale: "Lay My Love"
In a sense the opening number from Brian Eno and John Cale's 1990 collaboration Wrong Way Up is of a piece with the O'Rourke track, in that it's all about addition, the satisfaction that comes from realizing that 2+2=4. It's notable for both its thick sound and its bold use of repetition. The violin riff that follows the opening programmed bit continues through the tune almost without changing. It rises like it's carefully ascending a staircase, one step at a time, but, curiously, never seems to be getting anywhere. As the layers begin to crowd in-- the scraping West African guitar, Eno's small chorus of voice, the swell of synth-- everything snaps into place like a well-designed kit, taking up the space it needs and not an inch more.

Aphex Twin: "Flim"
Simplicity is often a component of perfection, and the iconic Satie-like piano line here fits the bill. But pushing against the gorgeous melody is nifty and intricate drum programming that astounds with busyness, each little stop/start, roll, and fake cymbal ride in its place to maximize the emotional impact. Richard James used the drums as a lead instrument on this tune and managed to imbue them with uncanny feeling; he excelled at spazziness and texture and pure tune but the three never came together as well as they do here.

Dwight Twilley: "Looking For The Magic"
The obscure singer and bandleader from Tulsa, Okla., has just the right voice for 70s power-pop infused with rockabilly, a high tenor that sometimes evokes John Fogerty, but with a sharp clarity and little grit. He uses his hiccupping phrasing to build a monument Buddy Holly's rock'n'roll ideal. Twilley's articulation is weird and it's not easy to get every word, but that only serves to keep you focused on what counts: the sound of the band, the chiming guitars in the turnaround just as it moves into the chorus, and the leap his voice takes when said chorus finally arrives. Whatever he was looking for, he found it here.

Fleetwood Mac: "Never Going Back Again"
One imagines something flawless being born in a relaxed atmosphere, over time, when one has the mental clarity, soundness of judgment, and sober disposition in which to get every detail right. That's the mood conveyed by this song, and yet it was probably written on the fly by a young Lindsey Buckingham somewhere in the vicinity of a mountain of cocaine. No matter-- the clarity of his guitar picking, and the way it patiently winds around the chord progressions, is like watching a master weaving a blanket, a marvel of musical design.

Herbert: "So Now"
Speaking of patience. This is ostensibly a house song and is supposed to be something like dance music, but the tempo is so lazy, the forward motion so unhurried, it sounds best when one is in repose. This is perhaps the most economical song on this list. Matthew Herbert uses a total of like five sounds on it, all more or less percussively: a few clacks for drums; a loping, tactile, bass; snatches of synth to spray a thin mist of color. At the center of it all is Dani Siciliano's voice, simultaneously icy and warm, robotic and human, an untreated whisper in your ear and a skipping ghost swept off into the ether. It's also incredibly sexy. The rare contemporary song Prince probably wishes he'd written.

Prince: "I Wanna Be Your Lover"
Oh yeah, but he wrote this. Coming from a guy with a dirty mind, this song is so clean it positively gleams. He wrote crazier songs, louder songs, funkier songs, more emotionally devastating songs, better songs, but never a more perfect song. The fact that it tries for little, and from him seems to come so easily, has something to do with why it seems so right and so confident.

Jürgen Paape: "So Weit Wie Noch Nie"
I wonder if this guy knew what he had on his hands when he finished this thing. I'd be hard pressed to name a sound with a sense of longing as palpable as the one conveyed by the sentimental vocal sample. And then, when the repetition almost seems to be getting too much, the moment when one more bar of the same would diminish the song greatly, it opens up and faces the sky, and the wordless, angelic vocal gives one more wrenching, bittersweet twist.

Nina Simone: "The Twelfth of Never" (Live at Carnegie Hall)
Take a square yard of crushed velvet, crumple it into a ball, and burn a few holes in it with a cigarette, and you get the impossibly rich texture of Nina Simone's voice. Here it is at its most naked, all alone on that big stage, the production dry as the wind through a desert palm tree, a piano tinkling somewhere far away. Hearing that voice, in this setting, away from the pop production of her hits, is like seeing a dim and dusty masterpiece restored to its original vibrant color.

Tommy James & the Shondells: "Crimson & Clover"
Those descending chords. That chasm of space. The underwater vocal effect. Tremolo. Acoustic guitar. Tambourine. In what world is this all happening? James obtains perfection here in a tricky way. He basically invented a new feeling with this song, so we can only assume that, as the lone author of that feeling, he got it just exactly right. It's not a song you sing to somebody or a song you think about, it's something you bask in, like sunlight.

Michael Jackson: "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough"
We started by thinking about Michael singing with his brothers, and end with him all alone. His own personal obsession with perfection has taken him to a dark and ugly place, but there sure was a lot of beautiful scenery along the way.