Sell me a song

[-N-]

Tell me about a song you like but you don't think I have heard before. Tell me why you like it, and if/why you think I will like it. Go as in depth or remain as shallow as you think is necessary to convey your like for the song. Tell me who wrote it and when/how it was released. Try not to use the Internet (AMG, Pitchfork, Last, whatever).

I'd prefer you keep it to one song per post, but if you wish you may talk about more. If you wish to put an interesting spin on things for yourself then you may tell me about a song you do not like, and tell me if/why I would not like it. Or you may wish to talk about an album as a whole unit, but I would not prefer that.

What I am interested in is how you look at music, how you think about music, and how you talk about music. Don't be afraid to pontificate or to be succinct. Feel free to express yourself without inhibition, and as a corollary try to keep debating people's views to a minimum. Thank you, and enjoy stumping for your song.

[Cz]

I was going to wait a while until I replied to this, but for some reason nobody else seems interested in this awesome thread idea, so I'll have to go first. I'm afraid that there's a decent chance you've heard this one before, Neel, but when I'm invited to gush about music I adore there's only one song I'm going to talk about. I warn you, I mean each and every word of this.

I used to think there was a certain naivety in having a favourite song. To pick one three or four minute passage from the hundreds of hours that make up the average music collection seemed to me not just impossible, but a foolish thing to even try. Music can get at you in so many different ways. It can assault you with frenetic, pounding percussion or an irresistible hook, or it can ensnare you subtly with its poetry, seeping into your skin and melting into your very being. It can elicit any number of complex emotional responses, stirring feelings of an intensity that’s difficult to put into words (which, of course, is the great power of music). To pick just one combination of these elements from such a dizzying range of composi<b></b>tions just seemed absurd.

I do, however, have a favourite song.

I’m not sure how it happened. I knew it was good the moment I heard it. Hell, I knew it was great. You know how it is: you’re listening to an album for the first time, thumbing through the sleeve notes and admiring the artwork. The next song starts, and it’s just right. The first four bars of the beat catch you on some primal level, or the riff bursts out with such energy that it makes you sit up and listen (and if you’re like me, you actually sit up and listen). You put down the album case, and give the thing your full, undivided attention. You stare at the stereo, because something this good deserves the attention of more than just one of your senses. And then it gets better: the verse goes exactly where you want it to go; the bridge, the middle eight, the solo, all perfect. The final chord fades out, and you slump back into your chair, a stupid grin on your face. Right then, you know you’ll still be listening to this in twenty years’ time.

This is how I respond to Ibi Dreams of Pavement (from Broken Social Scene’s self-titled album) almost every time. I listened to it just now for what seems like the hundredth time, and by the end I’d started giggling like an idiot at how sublime this song is. I’ve had obsessions with records before, but inevitably, no matter how resonant they’ve started out, they’ve become too familiar and their impact has dulled. I honestly regret having worn them out; they really meant a lot to me. I can listen to them now, but I know every quirk of the production and every vocal tic too well, and I don’t think they’ll ever feel quite the same again. What makes Ibi so special is that it hasn’t worn out. The things that sent a shiver down my spine when I first fell in love with it still send a shiver down my spine. That deep, indecipherable feeling that the song creates in me doesn’t diminish with each successive listen. Past favourites have sadly faded into background music over time; this one is never anything less than the centre of my attention.

It’s an unabashedly simple song: just six chords. It’s not quite the three minute pop song, but still proof that great music can be straightforward. There’s nothing fancy about Ibi at all. The song’s cadence is unvarying; the guitar lines measured, even subdued. The marching-band drum fills are as simple as they come. The lyrics are uncomplicated, almost to the point of meaninglessness, and half-buried in reverb so that little beyond the melody is distinguishable. It fits Ibi perfectly. The song’s strength is not in its details, but in the cumulative force that sweeps you up and sends you soaring. The moment when the intro makes the transition from Em to D/F# for the very first time is close to a physical sensation, like having a great weight lifted right out of your soul, and knowing that everything is going to be fine.

There’s very little to analyse in the song, to be honest. Those same four chords, filtered through the euphoric, wall-of-sound production are all it needs. There’s the chorus, which is excellent, but in many ways just a continuation of the head-spinning splendour of the verse. Kevin Drew’s vocals don’t matter as vocals, and what he’s singing is less important than the swirling echoes that make it sound like he’s singing from a higher plane of existence. To dissect this song bar-by-bar would be to miss the point. It’s all about the mood, and the sheer transcendent state of mind that this song sustains throughout. It's four and a half minutes of constant, blissful release.

My favourite, absolute favourite thing about this song (and by extension, my favourite thing to happen to music ever) is the ending. As wonderful as the first half of the song is, the bit that always puts a big stupid grin on my face is at 2:48, when the song its gradual ascent towards its pinnacle. It’s the same four verse chords, the same rhythm, only the heartbeat propulsion of the drums and the addition of Feist and Emily Haines’ backing signify that something wonderful is about to happen. Then the brass enters, a gorgeous fanfare celebrating the unrestrained sensual joy that music can bring, and the song gets even better. Then Justin Peroff throws in a crash, a declaration of intent to beat the hell out of that cymbal over the next thirty seconds, and the song gets even better. Then he hits it again, and again, and again, each time like a firework on New Year’s Day, and the song gets even smurfing better, and all the while that fanfare repeats, riding a current of gleeful, heart-lifting noise all the way into heaven, and to the song’s inevitable crescendo. And when it gets there, it’s everything you wanted it to be, and there are church bells ringing in the streets, and the man on the radio’s telling you to wake up, because the war’s over, and there’s a parade outside in the street, and all your family and friends are alive, and they love you, and the world is a wonderful place, so throw the curtains open, lift your head to the sun, and sing.