Song of the Week

Tension drives the best rock ’n’ roll songs, followed by release. Chords that fill layers of frequencies get balanced out by space. Some artists use tried-and-true formats, like verse, chorus, and bridge; others meander in magical ways and somehow still capture our fancy. I’m always pleased to hear a surprise frame tacked onto the melody.

Here are some of my favorite outros, defined by Meriam-Webster’s as a “short, distinct closing section.” I’ve tried to limit this list to instances when there’s an entirely new passage, not just a jam on the same progression.

1. The Beatles, “I Am the Walrus”: Books have been written on this topic. This passage snowballs into an overpowering avalanche, with enough effects tossed in to keep listeners debating the meaning for decades. The masterpiece manages to merge into a cohesive whole, even though it’s a collage of fragments. An epic performance of production, composition, and recording. Also, in a similar vein, listen to the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life.” And then there’s “Hey Jude”—and others. Face the facts, folks, the Beatles wrote the book on everything.
2. Led Zeppelin, “The Rover”: A searing, sizzling guitar burns with ferocity. It’s the only way to top the edgy riff that carries this tune into the stratosphere, matching the lyrics that trace the itinerant narrator’s journey. Short, but incendiary.
3. The Who, “Pure and Easy”: Nothing about this song screams template. It slows down, speeds up, and strikes a spiritual stance, speaking of a higher place. The dazzling guitarwork at the end seals the package like shiny silver Christmas wrapping. I would’ve selected the unstoppable “Baba O’Riley,” but it’s endured more than its fair share of ink.
4. Neil Young, “Cinnamon Girl”: There’s nothing too complicated or serious, just prototypical grunge guitar. As usual, Neil keeps it simple but classy, tasteful, and perfectly placed.
5. Derek and the Dominos, “Layla”: I have no idea what to make of this coda. The piano has nothing to do anything. It’s like a new song but—in a complete mystery—works anyway.
6. Guns n’ Roses, “November Rain”: Slash tactfully blows away the tangible pain of the ballad, storming the melody like a Category 5 hurricane.
7. Fleetwood Mac, “The Chain”: This song was cobbled together from leftover snippets from their three songwriters, but it sounds whole, working well as a powerful anthem of resilience and faith. The lyrical bassline at the end pulls its distinct parts together in a whopping frenzy.

There are plenty more great outros. Please post your favorites.

Many artists treat the transition from one song to another as a subtle form of communication. When the occasion arises, they seamlessly blend two songs. The Grateful Dead specialized in this sort of misdirection. Many of their tunes locate and inhabit wormholes leading to other musical galaxies. For example, “Slipknot” evolved as a means to move from “Help on the Way” into “Franklin’s Tower.” Dead connoisseurs often say they get so lost in this timeless cosmos they don’t know when one piece ends and the other begins. Other songwriters don’t meld their creations but build their beasts as distinct entities. No matter what, everyone can agree on one thing: it’s difficult to know how to pronounce segue.

It’s “seg-way,” for those of you lacking time to Google. I know that, and it still doesn’t come easy. Can’t we spell it segway, for everyone’s sake? Would that offend someone in Italy, from whence the word came? Accommodations in language occur all the time. Didn’t doughnut become donut? My suggested change would surely be healthier than that delicious piece of deep-fried batter.

Okay, back to the task at hand. (I feel better, please send me a bill for the therapy.)

1. Queen: No one in their right rock mind would argue with the way “We Are the Champions” organically and dramatically flows from “We Will Rock You.”
2. Bob Seger: The Live Bullet performance of “Travelin’ Man” and its seamless transition into “Beautiful Loser” is, well, nothing short of gorgeous. It’s evocative and sweet, and it hits the listener on a sublime visceral level. Hard to beat.
3. Beatles: It’s impossible to leave the Beatles off this list. But where do we start? The entire side one of the White Album? I hereby select the unsurpassed harmonies that lift the title cut on “Sgt. Pepper’s” into “With a Little Help from My Friends.” They serve as an announcement that we’re about to enjoy the archetypal psychedelic production of our lives, a statement the album lives up to—and surpasses.
4. Grateful Dead: I like to cop out as much as the next person, but you could pick dozens of songs from scores of this group’s performances. Trucking on interstellar highways was the Dead’s specialty. They threaded the needle from song to song by exploring nooks and crannies in hyperspace, then building bridges between. Yes, they sometimes hit walls and got lost in gravity, but they get kudos for their improvisational skills and bravery.
5. Led Zeppelin: “Black Mountain Side,” on their first album, slides perfectly into “Communication Breakdown.” It craftily advances from complex acoustic fingerpicking to an electrifying rhythmic riff that portends an ominous future of innovative, influential, and gutsy guitar phrases. Honorable mention goes to the dive from “Heartbreaker” into “Living Loving Maid” on their second album.
6. The Who: I don’t claim to possess eclectic tastes or know anything about sonatas, jazzy jams, or operatic arias. It may seem predictable, but I can’t resist complimenting a band I’ve lauded too many times. Still, the manner in which the atmospheric symphony Quadrophenia reaches its crescendo can’t be overlooked. The six-minute-plus instrumental “The Rock” incorporates the themes, tropes, and emotions of the entire four-sided disc, driven by the shrewd interplay of guitar, melody, and Keith Moon’s distinctive drumbeats. It’s a magnificent recapitulation of the entire masterpiece, but it’s also a set up for the climax: the impassioned howling of Roger Daltrey against the poignant tinkering of Pete Townshend on piano through “Love Reign o’er Me.” A top ten musical moment in rock ’n’ roll history.

Like all of these discussions, this one largely reflects my taste. Let me know if you agree, and fill me in on the legions of segways I’m missing (see, I did it!).

What rock ’n’ roll songs made you laugh out loud the first time you heard them? I’m not talking witty, sardonic, or smug. What’s flat-out funny? Certain artists specialize in the theater of the clever and absurd. Frank Zappa, Randy Newman, Warren Zevon, and Steely Dan come to mind. Even the Eagles gave us the Mercedes bends. But what cracked you up, then or now? Here’s a handful of my picks:

1. Chuck Berry, “My Ding-a-Ling”
   It’s somewhat sick that this novelty hit, which Berry didn’t write, was his only number one single in the USA. Chuck pushed his double-stop twangs to the top of the charts with evocative poems set to brilliant, blues-based beats, but it was his personality that pulled off the execution of this classic. Upon its release in 1972, the edgy, masterfully performed piece made you want to sing along with a smile pasted on your face.
2. Bob Dylan, “Idiot Wind”
   Many of Dylan’s best songs follow simple patterns, with vivid images that don’t require fancy progressions. This screed, from 1975’s Blood on the Tracks, makes no effort to hide its disgust while delivering an exhilarating payoff in the melody. Disappointed, perplexed, and fucking pissed off, the singer’s despair comes through loud and clear. It’s outrageous yet true to life and delivered with such dead-serious hostility that it’s funny. Dylan’s Nobel Prize could be based on this one album, if you ask me.
3. Joe Walsh, “Life’s Been Good”
   From another artist, this outlandish tale from 1978 could’ve been boring, cocky, and forgettable. But Joe instills warmth, authenticity, and a tender sense of vulnerability. It sounds like his story as a guy who never ran from the spotlight or his rock star lunacy. Add a tasty lick as the intro, as well as more great guitar interplay along the way, and you’ve got a recipe for a classic—one that accentuates its frivolity.
4. The B-52s, “Rock Lobster”
   The extraordinary vocal performances and deceptively sophisticated chords employed by members of this Athens, Georgia, group get obscured by their “party band” vibe, but to me they’re more “arty” than “party.” This smash, from their debut album in 1978, released as a single in 1979, refuses to follow any convention in verse, chorus, lyrics, instrumentation, or performance. Its wild, reckless beat makes you want to dance, yet it still tickles your funny bone on repeat listenings. With this off-the-wall anthem to irreverence, the B-52s served notice that they could balance their boards on rogue new waves while focused on steady radio airplay.
5. Sparks, “I Predict”
   The LA-based Mael brothers, Russell and Ron, outdid themselves with this 1982 gem, or I should say, crystal ball. A perfectly played indictment of the phony prognosticators who get major media attention as every new year approaches, they glide effortlessly from one silly proposition to another. My favorite part is the end, when the lyrics predict a fade-out. The tune starts to do that, then abruptly stops, proving the singer wrong. I laughed out loud then and still do now.

Please share your own favorites. I know many are missing from this short list.

Most composers incorporate transitional bridges into the structure of their tunes. These short sections, commonly called the “middle eight,” distract us from the main theme long enough to create a sense of anticipation so the melody can reestablish itself with a bang. It’s an essential element of Songwriting 101. Of course, some next-level artists vibrate to their own frequencies, damn the consequences. “Jungleland” and scores of other songs by Bruce Springsteen adhere to no preconceived notions, nor did folk ballads by Joni Mitchell and many other artists who consider themselves jazzy. In “The Crunge,” on Houses of the Holy, Led Zeppelin included the spoken aside “Where’s that confounded bridge?” in a blatant acknowledgment that the riff didn’t attempt to build tension by veering off course or try to modify its stubborn funky groove.

Which brings us to Pete Townshend. Actually, this week’s installment of the SOTW should properly be called the “Song Section of the Week,” but it’s fun to mix things up a bit. More importantly, when it comes to this topic—like every other pop music analysis—the Beatles reign. I could spend hours—days— dissecting the Fab Four’s sublime shifts from major into minor keys, the innovative way they stretched the middle eight, and the mold-busting means they used to incinerate the playbook and create a dynasty of unprecedented creativity. The colors, tones, textures and shapes, unpredictable dynamics, and emotional range in their bridges—as well as verses, choruses, intros, and outros—place the Beatles at the top of the musical Everest, where they will rule until the end of time—and after.

But they don’t stand alone in the rarified air. I’ve always appreciated the visceral subtlety Pete Townshend brought to the Who. So here’s a list of my Favorite Five Bridges of Pete Townshend:

1. The second song on Who’s Next, “Bargain,” opens with a Keith Moon drum fill followed by Roger Daltrey’s confession that he’d “gladly lose me to find you.” But it’s the tender bridge that reveals Townshend’s distinctive intimacy, when Pete takes over to sing, “I know I’m worth nothing without you.” After its climax, the snare snaps, the percussion picks up the pace, and we return to the sweet whirring melody.
2. The last track on side one of Who’s Next, “This Song Is Over,” withstands the test of time as a triumphant rock and roll symphony. Yet it’s the quiet middle part that sucks the listener into its emotional vortex. Again it’s not sung by Daltrey but Pete. “She was the first song I ever sang. But it stopped as soon as it began.” If I wasn’t already going to cry, this would’ve sent me to the Kleenex.
3. Yes, Who’s Next again, but it would be sinful to omit “Going Mobile,” sung in its entirety by Townshend. A vulnerability accompanies the breakdown when Pete wails, “When I’m driving free, the world’s my home.” Traffic-challenged citizens of our fair city like me, who fancy the rush of the open road, certainly relate.
4. “The Real Me,” the first track on Quadrophenia after the overture (“I Am the Sea”), foretells the despair about to be symbolized in the rain and beach. The verses give us insight into the psyche of the protagonist, Jimmy, while the choruses display his heartache and search for identity, but it’s the bridge where we feel the anguish: “The cracks between the paving stones, like rivers of flowing veins.” To Jimmy, even the streets bleed.
5. “Love, Reign o’er Me” serves as Quadrophenia’s crescendo, but its fury and passion pause momentarily in the soft passage where Jimmy realizes that “I need to get back home to cool, cool rain.”

There are many others too. For example, I could add “The Seeker,” “Slip Kid,” and “Pure and Easy.”

Which bridges by which artists penetrated the surface of the choruses and verses for you?

In March 1981, the Who released the first album of their post–Keith Moon era, Face Dances. The melodies mirrored the band’s precarious state, with members caught under rip tides of alcohol and cocaine, but the songs also portrayed the general unease and despair of the early 1980s. The whole disc relayed the sense of dread that spread in the early hours of Ronald Reagan’s presidency. Two weeks after Face Dances got shipped to stores, a madman tried to assassinate the former actor and California governor. In the Who’s homeland of Great Britain, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher presided over 10 percent unemployment; hunger strikes and riots erupted that spring. In SoCal, the band’s tunes resonated with the restlessness of a certain twenty-three-year-old Wayward Westside Teen.

To this day, I find myself drawn to the final cut off Face Dances. The better-known single, “You Better You Bet,” took up more radio space, but “Another Tricky Day” conveys a deeper meaning. Bright, crisp power chords drive potent feelings, from disappointment to futility to reassurance, dispatched by the innovator of that technique, singer-songwriter Pete Townshend.

Townshend essentially invented power chords in a band with only one guitarist. Led Zeppelin also limited itself to one guitar player, but Jimmy Page’s sinewy solos overshadowed his raw-edged riffs and finely textured layers. Townshend’s main thrust is the sustained suspended chord, a diamond-tough pillar of rhythm compared to Page’s drifts through the seven seas of lead. The closer on Tommy, “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” with its unyielding “listening to you” chorus, delivers the same emotional payoff as the solo in Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.” So does the solid rhythm on the Who’s “My Generation,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” and “Baba O’Riley.”

None of this might’ve meant much if Pete hadn’t become such an exquisite songwriter. When Roger Daltrey belted those anthems into the rafters, accompanied by John Entwistle’s dazzling bass work and Keith Moon’s frenetic drumming, all four members of the Who etched their way into rock immortality.

When the first notes of “Another Tricky Day” strike your ears, you’re captured by Pete’s sparkly rhythm. The effervescent tone maintains an uplifting tempo, at a lively 113 beats per minute. But it soon takes on a sense of frustration, saying “You can’t always get it when you really want it.” But this isn’t the Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” The Who take a more ponderous route through the travails of the human experience and eventually preach equanimity: “We go down and we come up again.”

I hear John Wooden teaching his UCLA basketball team—and the whole country— “All of life is peaks and valleys. Don’t let the peaks get too high and the valleys too low.” The Who went beyond the Stones’ statement that we get what we need. The Who tell us that “this is you having fun, getting burned by the sun.” That message struck me—a SoCal sunworshipper who looked for the warm rays to clear my messy face—back in the angst of my teenage dream. It explained that, like a tide that ebbs and flows, pain is the price we pay for our peak on the other side of the pleasure extreme.

Townshend lets us know that hardship can serve as a valuable asset on the path to personal evolution if you “dance while your knowledge is growing.” He prescribes a dose of realism when he reminds us that we “can’t expect to never cry,” then grows optimistic because “rock and roll will never die.” We all recognize that refrain from Neil Young’s 1979 sensation, “Hey Hey, My My,” though it must be mentioned that Pete penned a similar theme in “Long Live Rock” back in 1972 (unreleased as a single until 1979).

Daltrey and Townshend’s harmonies and alternating vocals propel the robust pulse of “Another Tricky Day.” Produced by Eagles mastermind Bill Szymczyk, it doesn’t come across as a slick commercial product. It’s a full-circle statement that brightens up an otherwise depressing LP.

The middle section in this song, like so many by Pete Townshend, winds its way to a philosophical footing. “The world seems in a spiral. Life seems such a worthless title.” Ah, but redemption awaits in our ability to bring the heat through the music we need: “Break out and start a fire y’all. It’s all here on the vinyl.”

The bridges in Townshend’s songs are unabashedly brilliant. They serve as centerpieces, peel back hidden layers, and reveal secret emotions behind lyrical journeys. So much so they deserve their own post.

Stay tuned for the fourth edition of the Song of the Week, coming soon.

The first album by the Stephen Stills–led band, Manassas, stands as one of the most underrated records of all time. There’s one great track after another for the full four sides. One of those classics is called “It Doesn’t Matter.” It established a blueprint for the Stevie Nicks–Lindsay Buckingham edition of Fleetwood Mac, the Eagles, and every other country-rock-blues-based band, many of which achieved multiplatinum success. My love for this song led me to, well, Wikipedia, where I learned about the man who cowrote the catchy tune with Stills: Rick Roberts. Who? Rick Roberts, one of the mainstays of an underachieving band that attained intermittent success, Firefall.

Rock lore states that if Firefall hadn’t succumbed to mismanagement, infighting, and heaven knows what else, they could’ve sold out arenas and stadiums like their contemporaries. Instead, they fizzled and received an unfairly minimal amount of radio play. Unfortunately, they settled for a double when they should’ve been credited with a grand slam.

Here’s a partial list of wonderful Firefall numbers featuring hummable melodies, sweet harmonies, sharp guitar licks, and tasteful production, all neatly wrapped into radio-friendly hooks: “Livin’ Ain’t Livin’,” “No Way Out,” “Cinderella,” “You Are the Woman,” “Mexico,” “So Long,” “Just Remember I Love You,” “Even Steven,” and “Strange Way.” But the gateway tune for me was “It Doesn’t Matter.”

The Manassas album has never been surpassed for its outstanding musicianship and pioneering country-rock-soul-Latino adventurism, but I’m partial to the Firefall rendition of IDM. Every time I hear it, I think of Nicks-Buckingham and a world of other professional musicians, sitting at home studying its composition so they could copy it and make the big bucks that eluded Rick Roberts and his brethren.

Give it a listen, and let me know if you agree.

People gravitate to many types of songs for various reasons. Some contain personal messages, triggering sense memories. Others dig into our ears, like earthworms, even when we try to ignore them. I’m convinced the public doesn’t yearn for yet another analysis of “Like a Rolling Stone” or “Born to Run.” This series of contemplations isn’t intended to state the obvious. I’m here to highlight overlooked gems buried beneath overplayed commercial faves. I figure, if I’m struck by a chord, lyric, or emotion, others might be too. We owe it to the composers, who toiled long and hard, to float their works into the stream of our collective consciousness.

To kick off this series, I’ve chosen a relatively recent tune by Jackson Browne. He’s one of the few LA-associated acts, emblematic of the West Coast sound, who actually grew up in our fair city. Born in Germany, to a serviceman and his wife, he moved to Highland Park, northeast of downtown, at the age of three. He’s technically not a native, but he embodies LA in spirit, temperament, and our restless search for identity.

In 2021, Browne released his fifteenth album, Downhill from Everywhere. The title cut reminds us that all our human detritus ends up in the ocean eventually. As far as I know, the record didn’t make a big splash, but it struck me way beneath the surface. “Still Looking for Something,” the opener, is a more down-to-earth version of the longing expressed in U2’s wistful “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” (without ending the title with a preposition). “Until Justice Is Real,” as political as the title cut is environmental, exemplifies JB’s activist leadership. The overall production is clean and crisp, with layered guitars providing a box spring for the beat and Browne’s ever-enchanting voice. But this isn’t an album review. The winner of the prize for first Song of the Week? “Minutes to Downtown.”

I try to steer clear of hackneyed concepts. To say a song is “haunting” is a descriptive cop-out. Profound melodies hit hard, making us feel viscerally. But to say they haunt us is too vague. Let’s face it, we could pick any Stevie Nicks song and say it’s “haunting.” Her raspy cadence and witchy lyrics overlay that effect. Same with Don Henley’s soulful grit, which, coupled with those steely guitars, elevate the Eagles’ “Witchy Woman” into a spooky voodoo vibe. For me, the Stones “Gimme Shelter” evokes the specter of Armageddon. Maybe we’ll compile that list of etherea later. But this entry is intended to showcase one under-the-radar song on the latest JB album that makes my soul strings vibrate.

“Minutes to Downtown” evokes a sentimental tone at the start through a stark arrangement that accentuates a brooding keyboard and percussive guitar in a minor key. Browne’s vocal doesn’t hit until we’re beyond the 30-second mark. With a dark keyboard melody mirroring his nuanced phrasing, Browne reflects on his inability to understand the nature of his residency and expresses surprise that he remained in LA. Clearly, Jackson is singing to the over-60 crowd—which includes me.

The chorus speaks to the swift passage of our days. So it’s a bigger tale, one of loss, longing, and dead-end dreams. By keeping the instruments sparse but distinctive, the focus stays on Browne’s well-worn voice, still stirring, penetrative, and transcendent in tone. Through this story, he takes us on a journey to the center of our being, to the heart of the open spaces that give us time to think as we traverse the wide expanse of the sprawl that defines LA.

Months after I first heard this song I found myself driving east on the 101 through the valley. I looked up at one of those changeable message signs that offers traffic estimates in real time. The electronic letters lit up, “Minutes to Downtown,” and flashed a best guess on how long it would take to reach DTLA. “Aha,” I thought. “Jackson Browne, like any true artist, found inspiration in the mundane. From this sign, he took the tune’s name.”

I highly recommend this song—this entire album, indeed—for your cruising pleasure. I also advise a view of the (not haunting but heartfelt) video. But wait until you’re off the endless freeway and able to enjoy a restful YouTube moment when, for a change, you’re not driving.