April 26th, 2007
11. Television Personalities, "Stop And Smell The Roses" (available on The Painted Word)
With The Painted Word, Dan Treacy abandoned the cheeky '60s pop of his band's earlier efforts for something more introspective. As it turned out, the inside of Treacy's head was a harrowing place to be. The entire album drips with themes of alienation and despair, a mood set by this opening track, which drones along like a lost Velvet Underground song on a bed of organ and violin while Treacy halfheartedly tries to fool himself into believing "everything's so lovely," before remembering "You're just so far away / And I don't expect to see you again." It's the kind of song that anyone who's just gone through a painful breakup will play for days on end—so be careful where you leave it lying around.
12. Jawbreaker, "Do You Still Hate Me?" (available on 24 Hour Revenge Therapy)
It's easy to make sad songs slow, but few musicians can craft breakneck anthems that convey heartache and despair better than a plodding ballad would. Jawbreaker's Blake Schwarzenbach was one of them—and among his masterpieces is "Do You Still Hate Me?", a punk uppercut to the ventricles with lyrics as blunt and plainspoken as the title. "Been hearing about you, all about your disapproval / Still I remember the way I used to move you," Schwarzenbach growls regretfully before clutching at a fading memory: "I have a picture of you and me in Brooklyn / On a porch, it was raining / Hey, I remember that day, and I miss you." When tears aren't enough, sometimes you just gotta put your fist through the wall.
13. Morrissey, "The Ordinary Boys" (available on Viva Hate)
Morrissey's solo debut contains lots of mope-tastic moments, but the biggest ("Everyday Is Like Sunday," "Suedehead") have been overplayed to the point of self-parody. Tucked toward the end of the disc, though, is "The Ordinary Boys," a largely ignored track that nails adolescent isolation and gray angst with lines like "Ordinary girls, supermarket clothes / Who think it's very clever to be cruel to you." Whether the Moz is uncloaking his own heart or shrewdly catering to the stereotypical Smiths fan, there's no resisting the song's quiet power—or the weepy strums and swells of overlooked guitar genius Vini Reilly.
14. Rilo Kiley, "Portions For Foxes" (available on More Adventurous)
This lovesick lament doesn't sound especially sad, with its pinging guitars and kicky backbeat. But the frank lyrics—and the resigned way Jenny Lewis sings them—build to a regretful, shattering resolution. Addressing an occasional lover whose charms she can't seem to shake, Lewis describes how, in spite of her friends' warnings, she's compelled to call him up and see what he's doing. And then "The talking leads to touching and the touching leads to sex / And then there is no mystery left." Halfway through the song, her guy goes out tomcatting, but she forgives him because "I do the same thing / I get lonely too." As Lewis moans about how she's "bad news," everyone who's ever been unable to stop themselves from making a romantic mistake has to feel a deep chill.
15. Josh Rouse, "Michigan" (available on Bedroom Classics Vol. 1 and The Smooth Sounds Of Josh Rouse)
This low-key, cumulatively devastating character sketch is sung from the perspective of a young man—gay, according to interviews Rouse has given—writing home to his folks in Wichita from his Uncle Ray's place in Michigan. The letter starts by updating what he and the relatives have been up to. He's bartending, and playing cards during the day with Ray, while Aunt Terry's trying to become a songwriter. In the original acoustic version on Bedroom Classics, Rouse's voice cracks as the narrator gets to the point of why he's writing after being away from home for so long. "Mom, I'm sorry, I was wrong," he sings, explaining that it wasn't his parents' fault that he ran away, but the town's. He ends by saying that he's lonely, but getting along okay. Then he signs off with a line designed to melt the hearts of children and parents alike: "Just trying to be happy. Love, your son."
16. Neil Young, "Harvest Moon" (available on Harvest Moon)
Neil Young has a catalog of simple, beautiful songs and an unmistakable lilt in his voice that naturally quivers with emotion, but "Harvest Moon" stands out as particularly special because it came out in 1992, after he'd weathered the ups and downs of the music industry for more than two decades. Something about the song—a romantic reminiscence on acoustic guitar, with a gentle brush accompaniment—dovetails nicely with Young's career and all the mileage that brought him to that point. In the chorus, phrases like "Because I'm still in love with you" and "I want to see you dance again" suggest a relationship that's come through mileage and hardships, but endures all the same. This song has been used for weddings, but it's probably more appropriate for anniversaries.
17. Dolly Parton, "Coat Of Many Colors" (available on Coat Of Many Colors)
Dolly Parton's sentimental streak has led her to write some godawful songs—witness "Me And Little Andy," in which a little abused girl and her puppy meet untimely ends. But there isn't a misplaced word or an overemphasized note in this autobiographical story from Parton's childhood, in which her mother stitches together a coat from a box of rags while telling young Dolly the biblical story of Joseph and his coat of many colors. To Parton's dismay, the kids at school all make fun of her, but she learns a lesson about the real meaning of wealth, even if they never will. (The original coat now hangs in Parton's Dollywood theme park, but that ought to be beside the point.)
18. Elvis Costello, "Veronica" (available on Spike)
The upbeat bounce of Elvis Costello's peppy rock number (co-written with Paul McCartney) completely belies its sob-worthy story about an elderly woman who "sits very quiet and still," presumably in a nursing home; it's somewhere where no one ever gets her name right, not that it matters, since she no longer recognizes it anyway. Sure, that's sad. But the real killer is Costello's extended word-image of Veronica as a vibrant, active, playful young woman, "65 years ago, when the world was the street where she lived." And as if the contrast between her past and her present wasn't heartbreaking enough, Costello muses over whether that quiet, vacant woman is actually just hiding in a dream of her youth. She's still alive, he implies, but she's as lost to the strangers around her as the knowledge of her long-ago glory days is lost to them. It's all the horror of aging, death, and loss in one cheery pop package.
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