Popless Week Eight: The Auteurs That Ain't

By Noel Murray
February 25th, 2008

The Cars

Years Of Operation 1976-88

Fits Between Greg Kihn and Roxy Music

Personal Correspondence What's always impressed me about The Cars is how they managed to slip around the music industry's resistance to New Wave by making music that couldn't be pigeonholed as part of any one movement. Songs like "My Best Friend's Girl" sounded instantly familiar, even though they were unlike anything else being played on the radio at the end of the '70s, and The Cars played tightly and cleanly enough that they didn't rub programmers or listeners the wrong way. (For all the arty tinge of the hit single "You're All I've Got Tonight," its guitar solo and hook are easy for any pop fan to enjoy.) The Cars, Tom Petty, Talking Heads, Blondie and a few others all exploited the confusion over punk and its aftershocks, and wormed their way into the mainstream, where they fit right in, and even subtly transformed the acts already in the room. By the time The Cars recorded their massive hit LP Heartbeat City, they were able to share space on the air with acts as disparate as Prince, Bruce Springsteen, Madonna, Michael Jackson and Huey Lewis, and not sound out of place. My own connection to The Cars is mainly through the first album and through Heartbeat City. The former came out around the time when I was listening to Top 40 and album rock pretty much equally, and the fact that The Cars showed up on both made them seem kind of heroic to me (at age 9). As for Heartbeat City, it came out a few months before I turned 14, and for all the leaden "state of the art" production and generally half-assed songwriting, I feel a pang whenever I hear any song from that record, because to me the album sounds like adolescence at its brief best moment—when being a teenager meant feeling cocky, not gawky. The first word in the song "Magic" sums up what the Cars mean to me: "Summer."

Enduring presence? The recent Rundgren-as-frontman debacle aside, The Cars have made pretty much nothing but the right moves in their career. Not every Cars album is a winner—ultimately, they're more of a singles band—but they got in early, exited only a few years too late, and left behind mostly happy memories.

Cat Stevens

Years Of Operation 1966-78

Fits Between Donovan and Fred Neil

Personal Correspondence For me, it's hard to separate "liking Cat Stevens" from "liking Harold & Maude," because at age 17 I was so devoted to the perverse optimism of the latter that I was willing to accept the dippy folk-pop of the former. I liked the romantic idea of embracing death and learning to look below surfaces so much that if I had to hum along to "If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out" in order to take the ride, then I'd gladly pay that price. There's a part of me that's still in touch with that 17-year-old version of myself, from a perspective that's equal parts nostalgic and objective. I can now recognize everything that's sappy and/or deceptively cutesy about both Harold & Maude and Cat Stevens' music, and yet I can also admire how well-constructed both are, and how for many people like myself, embracing what these pop-philosophical artifacts stand for is a necessary part of growing up. (It's this part of myself that also responded so strongly last year to Into The Wild, a movie I know is fundamentally flawed, but is beautiful to me in large part because its so naive.) As an adult, I've returned to Stevens occasionally—usually whenever one of his better pop songs like "Here Comes My Baby" or "The Wind" ends up on a soundtrack. Even at their most fluttery and sentimental, I'm impressed with his recordings' sonic depth, which rarely descends into clutter.

Enduring presence? Stevens' conversion to Islam—and the misunderstandings related to his arguably tepid repudiations of terrorism—did, for a time, damage his reputation among casual pop fans. Of course among critics, he's always been a hard sell, generally dismissed as a soft-rocker with a maudlin worldview and a tendency to over-emote. But he's also a hell of a craftsman, and though I personally have to be in a very specific mood to want to hear Stevens, when I'm in that mood his music is about all that will do.

Charlie Rich

Years Of Operation 1958-95

Fits Between Elvis Presley and Conway Twitty

Personal Correspondence I went through a long stretch—like from birth to age 28—where about the only country music I was interested in was that recorded by Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Dwight Yoakum or Lyle Lovett. Only over the past decade have I been adding other legends, piece by piece. The first artist to really guide me into the wider world of country was Charlie Rich, introduced to me by my friend Jim Ridley via the career-spanning Rich anthology he taped for me back in 1999. I was familiar with Rich's schmaltzy '70s hits: "The Most Beautiful Girl In The World" and "Behind Closed Doors." But until '99, I hadn't been aware of his roots in rockabilly, or the way he moved from being a mini-Elvis to a pop crooner to a countrypolitan hero. Really, if you're looking for an artist to help explain the ways country music changed from the late '50s to the early '80s, you can't do much better than Rich, who scored hits in different eras and different styles, and strove to stay modern without completely stepping outside the bounds of his chosen genre. The 1969 single "No Home" exemplifies his approach. The soft orchestrations and sophisticated sentiment would sound at home on a Tony Bennett record, and yet the trace of twang in Rich's voice and rippling Floyd Cramer-style piano-playing keeps him yoked to the Arkansas beer halls, too.

Enduring presence? Hearing and understanding Rich's career progression makes even "The Most Beautiful Girl In The World" enjoyable again. He's a country music hall-of-famer of course, but I hope those who only dabble in country get to know him too. Pick up a good compilation, and if you don't like one song, wait three minutes. The weather will change.

Cheap Trick

Years Of Operation 1972-present

Fits Between The Move and Billy Squier

Personal Correspondence Here's another band for the "you never know until you look it up" file. My knee-jerk impression of Cheap Trick as a youngster was that they were cartoonish pop hitmakers, about as respectable as The Knack, but still enjoyable. Then I got a little older and encountered Cheap Trick in various rock history books, and learned that just like Blondie and Blue Öyster Cult, Cheap Trick were once dearly beloved by the critical community. Prior to 1979's smash hit album Dream Police, Cheap Trick were considered among the most important remaining stewards of straightforward hooky guitar rock, unencumbered by ideology. But just as limousine liberals often over-idealize the working poor—ignoring that, if they had their druthers, the workingfolk would prefer to be among the idle rich—so rock critics sometimes latch onto the "native simplicity" of small-town bashers, and forget that sometimes those bands create likeably crude versions of mainstream music because that's all they can afford to do. Once Cheap Trick had the money and the chart cachet to make they records they'd always wanted to make, they made the kind of glossy, vulgar arena-rock that their earlier champions assumed the band was supposed to provide an alternative to. So on the credibility front, Cheap Trick were punished for being what they'd always aspired to be; and they didn't get their cred back until radio no longer had any use for them. The legacy game can be perverse.

Enduring presence? To be honest, I've always wanted to like Cheap Trick more than I actually do. All those '70s albums are studded with gems, but each has its drawbacks too, from inappropriate production to a surfeit of filler. If the songs Cheap Trick wrote when they started could've been recorded with the polish the band enjoyed the early '80s, then Cheap Trick really would've been the supreme power-pop act. Ah well. At least we'll always have "Surrender."

Chet Atkins

Years Of Operation 1942-2001

Fits Between Django Reinhardt and Floyd Cramer

Personal Correspondence According to family legend, my father played bass guitar on a Chet Atkins session before I was born, when he and my mom and my older brother were still living in Nashville. My dad was touring around with The Compton Brothers Band, and one night Atkins called our home while Dad was out, and my mom initially didn't believe it was Atkins (who was easily my dad's favorite guitarist). When Dad got back into town, he went into the studio, and his strongest memory is that at one point, Atkins tried to demonstrate a chord progression that my dad just couldn't master. "Only one person in the whole city could've played those chords," Dad said. "And he was sitting in the booth."

Enduring presence? When lumped together, Atkins' genteel instrumentals tend to wash out, but when they come up on my iPod shuffle, they make for nice palate-cleansers. Which is only right, because that's how they were intended to be heard in the first place: on the radio, as buffers between the blunter songs by other artists. Without writing manifestos about it, Atkins understood the value of negative space.

Stray Tracks

Cactus World News, "Years Later" From the era of The Alarm, The Call, U2, Big Country and Simple Minds—bands I lump together as "The Big Music," after a song by The Waterboys—comes the largely forgotten Irish act Cactus World News, who were discovered by Bono back in the early '80s, put out one reasonably acclaimed album, Urban Beaches, and then pretty much faded from view. They had two semi-hit album tracks, "The Bridge" and this never-fails-to-floor-me anthem of loss. Hey, movie directors who are roughly my age and have shared roughly my same pop-culture experiences? Can one of you please put this song over the opening credits of some '80s period piece and revive its fortunes? Because there's just so much to love about this song: the "ah-oooo" non-chorus, the wiggly guitars, the escalating bridge, the earnest spoken-word interlude…this song just drips with sincerity and emotion, and if you can't handle that, fine. But if you're cool with the grandiose, and you've never heard "Years Later" before, well…I'm glad Popless could introduce it to you.

The Cairo Gang, "Resist" It's awfully hard to record something as abstract as "texture" or "mood," but for artists that can pull it off, it almost doesn't matter whether they've got the songs to back up the sound. There's not much to this sliver by Chicago DIYers The Cairo Gang, but the feeling of the song provides the substance. Back in 2006, I wrote: "Bandleader Emmett Kelly relies on plucked strings, shimmering sound, and his own 'up all night' guitar style, which on 'Resist,' sounds like a fusion of David Crosby, Yes, and a plume of smoke."

Cake, "Thrills" This Cake obscurity may not be the truest representation of the band's usual mix of skeletal funk and fervent rock, but the ease of the song does approximate how it felt to hear Cake on the radio back in the '90s, during the onslaught of grunge and post-grunge. I'm not as crazy for Cake as some—unless you're talking about actual cake, which I enjoy beyond measure—but songs like "The Distance" and "Rock 'N' Roll Lifestyle" were refreshing then and are still likable now. In a way, Cake had the career that Camper Van Beethoven might've had if they'd emerged a few years later. So good for Cake.

The Call, "The Walls Came Down" Of all the promising post-U2 modern rock bands kicking around the US and UK scenes in the '80s, The Call is probably one of the last ones that anyone would've expected to survive the decade and land multiple songs on AOR playlists. But while I like mid-period Call songs like "I Don't Wanna," "I Still Believe" and "Everywhere I Go," I don't think The Call ever topped their lone Top 40 pop hit, "The Walls Came Down," a fist-pumper if there ever was one, with a pungently politicized twist ending. (By the way, I wasn't aware that Call frontman Michael Been's son is the frontman for my nemeses, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. But I'll try not to hold that against him.)

Camera Obscura, "Let Me Go Home" It's hard to know what to do with bands that sound almost exactly like other bands—especially when I'm a fan of the bands they resemble. But a little time and reflection often helps. I don't knock the late '60s garage bands that tried to sound like The Beatles or The Kinks; if anything, I think they're kind of charming. To be fair to Camera Obscura, they don't only sound like Belle & Sebastian. They mainly draw from the same well of melancholy Britpop and sunny '60s singles as Stuart Murdoch and company. But it's hard to deny the similarities between "Let Me Go Home" and B&S classics like "The Boy With The Arab Strap" and "If You're Feeling Sinister." But since I love those songs, there's no reason for me not to love "Let Me Go Home" too.

Candi Staton, "Get It When I Want It" Some of the more obscure funk, soul and freak-folk acts who've become belatedly popular based on reissues get by more on novelty than merit. I'm not saying they're bad, but sometimes the sudden surge in reputation has as much to do with critics' exhaustion with the same old classics than with the music's actual quality. Not so Candi Staton. The soul shouter scored one major hit in the disco era ("Young Hearts Run Free") before turning to gospel, and left behind a vast body of stunningly gritty and heartfelt R&B recordings from the late '60s and early '70s, which were collected in 2004 on the simply titled (and essential) Candi Staton. "Get It When I Want It" is pretty typical of early Staton, in that it takes an earthy, frank approach to sexual desire, over a popping track that Mark Ronson would kill to re-create.

Carole King, "So Far Away" I heard the fictionalized version of the Carole King story via the underrated Alison Anders' film Grace Of My Heart, a few years before I heard King's best-selling LP Tapestry. The legend of a talented, kicked-around pop songwriter and her coming-out party as a performer definitely informed my understanding of one of the most popular albums of all time. In the context of Grace Of My Heart, Tapestry struck me as more personal and less monolithic, and songs like "So Far Away" revealed themselves as the product of a superior craftswoman with a strongly beating heart.

Cat Power, "He War" True Confession time: I have a Cat Power Blind Spot. In the abstract, I understand why so many people love Chan Marshall's music. She has unique vocal intonations and a gritty tone, and a devotion to the kind of bluesy rock and R&B that strikes many as being more respectable than, say, arena-rock or smartass indie. But I rarely hear why people love Cat Power so much. Marshall's voice has always struck me as a little flat and emotionally removed, and her songs a little undercooked. Nevertheless, I've dutifully bought every Cat Power album, hoping my mind will change; and I typically do respond positively to about three or four songs per record. This driving, ropy number from You Are Free is pretty much what I'm looking for from Cat Power: rumbly guitars and a vocal line that makes good use of her distinctive range.

Catherine Howe, "It Comes With The Breezes" This Canadian chanteuse obviously owes debts to Carole King, Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins, and she's a spiritual ancestor to the current cult folkie Mia Doi Todd. Writing about the Numero Group reissue of her album What A Beautiful Place last year I said that "Howe's pretty, solemn songs couch hard truths in soft clothes," and that her "gentle, windswept ballads that sport their own bruised integrity." That about sums it up. Twice.

caUSE co-MOTION, "Baby Don't Do It" Attention, people who only like The Next Big Thing before it becomes "The Next Big Thing!" There's still time to latch onto Brooklyn indie-rockers caUSE co-MOTION, who are still in their "why not?" phase, combining their favorite elements of American and British DIY art-pop on brisk 7"s like "Baby Don't Do It." Fifteen years ago, a song this winning would be stranded on some limited edition 45 that only college radio DJs and a few connected scenesters would own. Now it goes up on MP3 blogs within hours of its release, and anyone who wants to can hear it. I prefer the new way.

Cee-Lo Green, "Gettin' Grown" I like Gnarls Barkley just fine, but I like Cee-Lo Green's two oddball solo albums even more. This sweet, catchy tribute to Green's late mother should've been a hit—maybe not at the level of Gnarls' "Crazy" or Outkast's "Hey Ya," but bigger than it ended up being. Come on… it's got a whistling solo. A whistling solo!

Chad & Jeremy, "Before And After" I'll never forget being impressed as a boy that my mom had a Chad & Jeremy album, because I'd seen them once on Batman, sticking their head out a window as the caped crusader scaled a wall. But I don't think I actually heard Chad & Jeremy until Wes Anderson put the very pleasant "A Summer Song" on the Rushmore soundtrack. A couple of years later, I took a chance on a comprehensive Chad & Jeremy anthology, and really enjoyed it. They're such an interesting band. Post-Beatles and pre-Mamas & The Papas—both by just a little—Chad & Jeremy were as popular on the Easy Listening charts in the early '60s as they were on the Pop charts. This dreamy ballad certainly belongs more squarely on the former. It's as though in the first rush of Beatlemania, record companies rushed to put a cap on the well and control it, by signing clean-cut young Brits willing to play the game. This is what the music business does, of course. The suits would rather impose their will on a burgeoning movement or scene than let it flower naturally and reap the rewards. (Fun fact: "Before And After" was written by industry veteran Van McCoy, who had a major hit on his own in the disco era with "The Hustle.")

Chaka Khan, "Clouds" This Chaka Khan single is maybe in my Top 5 all-time favorite disco songs, because it represents the potential of the form at its most mature. It falls into the particular category of disco that's not trying to be "arty" per se, but is looking to add some depth to the genre, through sophisticated arrangements and richer emotional content.

Chappaquiddick Skyline, "Solitary Swedish Houses" And now we come to the first appearance in the countdown by Joe Pernice, an artist who five or six years ago I would've said was one my five or six favorite contemporary singer-songwriters. The last couple of Pernice Brothers albums proved to be a little bit of letdown, though—nice, but nothing of the caliber of Joe Pernice in the late '90s and early '00s. It's a measure of what a roll Pernice was on at the turn of the millennium that he could bury one of his best sets of songs under a makeshift name that he'd never used before and hasn't used since. Though the songs on the Chappaquiddick Skyline album are recorded a little more simply than The Pernice Brothers' glittery AM pop, the quality of tracks like "Solitary Swedish Houses"—with its dumbstruck vocal performance and gently twisting melody—is indisputable.

Charlie Parker, "Parker's Mood" As I've said before, I'm relatively weak on jazz, with the exception of the legends: Monk, Coltrane, Miles, etc. The exception to that exception is Charlie Parker. My Parker knowledge is pathetic. I had one anthology in college that I tried over and over again to get into, without much luck, and I've got the soundtrack to Bird, which I never listen to. I'm not sure what it is with me and Charlie Parker and why I'm not wowed by his work the way I am by the post-boppers I cite above. Parker's not abrasive, which can be a deal-breaker for me, and his songs don't drone on. I guess I just always get the feeling that I'm meant to be appreciating some technical or historical aspect to Parker that I just don't have the training to grasp.

Chavez, "You Faded" The music industry was so wide-open after Nirvana that for a couple of years, it seemed like just about every band had a chance to break wide. Heck, Dinosaur Jr., Meat Puppets, Butthole Surfers and The Flaming Lips were all getting mainstream radio play, which would've been unthinkable when I was following all those bands back in high school. In retrospect, the New York noise-rock outfit Chavez were way too skronky to become big time, but at the time, it seemed like some kind of massive injustice that they weren't better-known. At the very least, Chavez's inability to catch on probably hastened their demise after only three years and a scant handful of recordings—which is a shame, given the potential evident in songs like this blazing rocker, dripping with hooks and sonic leakage. Bandleader Matt Sweeney laid low for years, then re-emerged recently as Billy Corgan's puppet in Zwan, and Will Oldham's worthy partner on a couple of decent LPs. Rumors of another Chavez record have been floating around since they re-formed for a few gigs in 2006. But so far… nil.

Listened to, unremarked upon: C.C. Adcock, C. Gibbs, C. Vason, The Cables, The Caesars, Cake Like, Cal Stewart, Cal Tjader, Caleb, Calexico, Califone, Call & Response, Call Florence Pow, Call Me Lightning, Calla, The Calling, Canada, Candy & The Kisses, Candy Machine, Canned Heat, Cannon, Canon, Canray Fontenot, The Cansecos, Canyon, Cap’n Jazz, Capitol K, Capitol Studio Orchestra, The Capitol Years, The Capstan Shafts, Carbon Leaf, Carbon/Silicon, Carey Bell, Caribou, Carl Mann, Carl Perkins, Carl Sandburg, Carmen McRae, The Carolina Tar Heels, Caroline Herring, Caroline Peyton, Carolyn Crawford, Carolyn Mark, The Carpenters, Carrie Akre, Carrie Rodriguez, Cartel, The Carter Family, Carter Little, Carter Tanton, Cary Brothers, Cary Hudson, Casey Bill Welson, Casey Neill, Cass McCombs, Cassandra Wilson, Cast Iron Filter, Castanets, The Casual Dots, Catarina Pratter, Catatonia, Catherine Tuttle, Caustic Soul, Cavalier King, Cave In, Celebration, Celebrity, Celibate Rifles, Celine Dion, Cell, Central Falls, Centro-Matic, Cerberus Shoal, Cerrito, Cesaria Evora, Ceumar, Chachi Jones, Chad Rex & The Victorstands, Chakra Bleu, Challenger, The Champs, Chance, Change, Channels, Chantal Kreviazuk, Chariots, The Charlatans, The Charlatans UK, Charlemagne, Charles Brown, Charles Douglas, Charles May, Charles River Valley Boys, Charles Wright & The Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band, Charley Pride, Charlie Dowell, Charlie Feathers, Charlie Mars, Charlie Poole & The North Carolina Ramblers, Charlie Robison, Charlie Sexton, Charlotte Rae, Chatham County Line, Che Arthur, Cheater Pint, The Cheeksters, Cher, The Cherry Tempo, The Cherry Valence and Cheryl Lynn

Next week: From Chet Baker to Common, plus a few words on dilettantism.

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