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Best tunes of 2003: #16 The White Stripes “Girl, you have no faith in medicine”

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I first came across The White Stripes with their third album, 2001’s “White blood cells”. The primary single from that album, “Fell in love with a girl”, came in at number three on my Best tunes list for that year. And I wrote in that very post about their blues-influenced garage rock and their contribution to the early 2000s indie rock resurgence.

For an encore, Jack and Meg White put together what is arguably their best album, critically and commercially, as a group. Recorded in two weeks in the spring of 2002, purportedly without the help of any technology newer than the early 1960s, “Elephant”, their fourth, found favour with a lot of people, placed the group in the hearts and minds of everyone, each player recognized for their instrumental prowess and the album on many best of the year, decade, and century lists. Personally, I found it delightful from many angles, my favourite track a moving target from day to day while I was initially discovering it, finding in it much to pick apart and unpack. In the end, though, it wasn’t their two big tracks “The hardest button to button” or “Seven nation army”*, nor the Burt Bacharach/Dusty Springfield cover “I just don’t know what to do with myself”** but the penultimate track on the album, “Girl, you have no faith in medicine”, that got me going every time.

Interestingly, this track was recorded for and was supposed to appear on “White blood cells”. Meg wasn’t a fan of it, however, so it was pulled and shelved until Jack lobbied hard for it a couple of year later. A lyric that Meg really took offence to was pulled and the track was re-recorded for “Elephant”. Jack being Jack, he used to tease Meg with it when they played it live and changed the lyrics to ‘Meg, you have no faith in medicine’. I don’t know and really don’t want to investigate what the offending lyric was because if Meg thought it misogynistic, I don’t want it to ruin the song for me.

Indeed, the words in this song have always little import for me. Some have talked about its placebo references and linked it to relationships and others have marvelled how White managed to string the word ‘Acetaminophen’ into the lyrics. I just think the song rocks, and that, in an album full of bangers. Meg’s anger with the skins is palpable and Jack is unrelenting on the guitars. He howls and screams breathlessly and dares us all to keep up with him. Sometimes it’s just this energy that you need to feel and absorb and that will get you through.

*The latter of which is played every night in some stadium or arena somewhere on earth.

**Though it is quite fantastic also.

For the rest of the Best tunes of 2003 list, click here.

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100 best covers: #46 R.E.M. “First we take Manhattan”

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I wrote about the very excellent Leonard Cohen tribute album, “I’m your fan”, back in 2020* when I was posting about Pixies’ cover of “I can’t forget”, which appeared at #71 on this list and was on the very same aforementioned compilation.

At the time, I had never heard R.E.M. covering anyone else (or at least, I thought I hadn’t), given I was a somewhat new convert, and this one blew my mind. Indeed, “First we take Manhattan” was one of my early favourites when listening to “I’m your fan” because the Athens, Georgia quartet was one of the only artists on it that I had heard before. The song appeared as track one on the North American release of the compilation, given R.E.M.’s increasingly high profile, but appeared as track 10 everywhere else in the world. I loved the raging and driving guitars and the contrast of Michael Stipe’s deadpan and austere delivery in the verses with the offset harmonies of the chorus. It was all very clear, though, and respectful of the words, allowing them their own space to breathe.

By the time I purchased Leonard Cohen’s “I’m your man” on CD a couple of years later**, I knew all the words by heart and could sing along with Mr. Cohen*** in his exploration on terrorism. And though I loved the poet’s deep voice and sing-speak delivery, I was less a fan of the instrumentation. Heavy on the synths and drum machine, it was definitely a product of its time and was maybe even a little late to the synthpop party. It definitely took me a little to get past that and for many years preferred the R.E.M. cover but I now can appreciate the version Cohen recorded for “I’m your man”.

Interestingly, though, his wasn’t the original recording of the song. That came two years earlier, care of frequent collaborator Jennifer Warnes, when she recorded it for her Cohen tribute album “Famous blue raincoat”. Hers is a much shorter version and more straightforwardly pedestrian than the versions I’ve already mentioned. To be honest, I only listened to it for the first time this past week while preparing to write this post because I suspected I wouldn’t be a fan and… well… I wasn’t wrong. Sure, it’s got Stevie Ray Vaughan on guitars but even those feel a bit wasted here and Warnes’ vocals a bit too cabaret for the subject matter.

So if we consider this last the original, I can definitely put my vote behind R.E.M.’s cover.

R.E.M.’s cover:

Leonard Cohen’s version:

Jennifer Warnes’ original recording:

*Right around the time that the world was deciding whether to shut its doors to take try to stem the rising COVID-19 tide.

**Incidentally, this was the first Leonard Cohen album I ever owned and purchased on the back of this song and “Everybody knows”, which I knew from the film, “Pump up the volume”.

***Yes, that’s right. I heard R.E.M.’s version before Cohen’s.

For the rest of the 100 best covers list, click here.

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Best tunes of 1993: #9 Dead Can Dance “The ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove”

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“You build me up then you knock me down.
You play the fool while I play the clown.
We keep time to the beat of an old slave drum.“

Dead Can Dance is for all intents and purposes the duo of multi-instramentalists*, Lisa Gerrard and Brendan Perry. They formed the group with a third member, Simon Monroe (drums), when they were still a couple in Melbourne, Australia, back in 1981. They shortly afterwards relocated to London, enlisted new bandmates, and signed with 4AD. Their self-titled debut album was released and its dark and ambient sound fit right in on their new label. They then released a handful of albums throughout the 80s, using session musicians, rather than finding full-time bandmates. The release of their sixth album, “Into the labyrinth”, in 1993, though, saw the duo doing it all by themselves for the first time. It saw a marked change in their sound, adopting a strong influence of world music, and it also just happened to see the band’s most commercial success.

This is where I came in… though not immediately.

“The ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove” was my introduction to Dead Can Dance in 1995. I was living in university residence at the time and a fellow resident on my floor, a young man with whom I shared a first name, was blasting it one day, through speakers ridiculously too large for his tiny bedroom. I heard and was drawn to its unique sound from my room on the other side of the floor. When he satisfied my curious query about the sound’s provenance, I recognized the name as one I’d heard from friends and made a note that the music from them was not at all what I had assumed it would be. I went out and purchased a copy of “Into the labyrinth” shortly thereafter and not only fell for “Lovegrove” but also the whole album, it’s slow and plodding nature, the atmospherics not just in the use of traditional instruments but also in the fullness of sound of the very different of the vocals of the two principals.

Whenever I think of this song, though, it’s a different memory that pops up, that of an evening a couple years after this introduction, at the ‘Crawford mansion’. This was the nickname bestowed upon an apartment rented by a handful of my university residence floormates and good friends, the summer after that one year in residence. So named because it took up the top two floors of a house on Crawford street (a side street off College Street in Toronto’s Little Italy neighbourhood) and was large enough to (and often did) sleep a good handful of extra guests on top of its usual four residents. This became a downtown destination for parties and for crashing for many years because though all the four original renters didn’t all stay on after the first year of its lease, we always knew someone that lived there for almost half a decade. Before I get too off-track here, though, let’s return to the story at hand.

I was saying that I brought my girlfriend Victoria** down to the Crawford mansion (for the first and only time ever) and though there wasn’t a party planned that night, it inevitably turned into a soirée. Vegetarian canapés and finger foods were put in the oven (in honour of Victoria’s visit), other guests appeared from the ether, and yes, there was music. It was loud in volume but bearably so and the selections mellow but full in sound. I can’t remember every song that made the playlist but I can say for sure James’s “Out to get you: and Dead Can Dance’s “The ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove” were played***. I will never forget Josh’s friend Bryce pounding on a a set bongos along to the heavy rhythm, while the ragas, strange and unique wind sound, and Brendan Perry’s deep, booming, and (dare I say) ubiquitous voice and echoed and shook the walls of the apartment. It was one of those moments that you just look around yourself, the smiling faces around the room, and a general mood takes hold and everything feels like it’s going to be alright.

*And I mean MULTI-instramentalists.

**Who as many of you know by now is now my wife.

***Both of these are among some of Victoria’s favourite songs, though she may not admit that it was because of that night.

For the rest of the Best tunes of 1993 list, click here.