Third Planet, Modest Mouse, The Moon & Antarctica, 2000
I was a latecomer to Modest Mouse, but a song like this has, I think, something of a timeless appeal, at least so far as this is possible for indie rock to attain. No doubt the immediate appeal to me is the sentimental, semi-philosophical lyrics - the somewhat ad hoc beginning lyrics hit there frenetic stride with "Your heart felt good...it was dripping pitch and made of wood" and resolve with "and that's how the world will end". To me the progression of the chorus evokes a literary epiphany: an awakening that moves from a sensuous exhilaration - feeling the heart, the cold wet grass, the light of the moon - to a collected, profound insight - how the world began, how it will end. This having the whole of the world - the 'third planet' - in one's grasp is repeated once achieved (the universe is shaped exactly like the earth...) and by the end renounced: the return to the individual with all his failed attempts to cope with life: "Everything that keeps me together is falling apart...". The song comes full circle - from self-critical resignation to that moment of clarity during a moment of love-making back to the resignation: if you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were. These lyrics are ambitious - they span the abstract ("When it occurred to me that the animals are swimming around in the water in the oceans in our bodies and another had been found another ocean on the planet given that our blood is just like the Atlantic) to the concrete ("outside, naked..."), from the (suspiciously) sacred ("When they get to the promised land...") to the profane ("Baby cum angels..."), from the impersonal whole (the universe is shaped...") to the 'dear self' ("everything that keeps me together...). As such, it has a ambitious totality to it; as such, it can evoke our sentiments about the big picture.
But beyond the lyrical power of the song, it is also an achievement of dynamic composition and instrumentation. The variety of guitar parts adds to the ability of the song to move us emotionally. Sonically the song pulls us in different directions - it has a grandness to it (the alternation between the subdued verses/bridge parts and the raucous, built-up chorus, the reverberated vocals, the humming bass, and is that a woodwind instrument I hear?) and yet has a 'garage rock' quality to it too: particularly - the production on the drums and the chorus guitar part. I think that the former quality lends to its ability to be emotionally effective, while the latter adds to its perceived sincerity - a too polished song might have to fight against its own self-assurance.
Dry the Rain, The Beta Band, The Three E.P.'s, 1998
I think the great virtue of this song lies in the transition made mid-song - from it's slacker beginning, it sort of comes alive, with busier instrumentation (especially the addition of the horns), a catchier, livelier, vocal melody, the entrance of vocal harmony, a punchier bass, and even a rarely used increase in volume. I'd say it transforms from rather lazy to an energized: lyrically, we begin lying in bed, choking on a vitamin, eyes of gloom; this evolves to speaking out loud, to the singer's being light. Listen to the stumbling, clunking bass become lower, groovier. This song definitely works through this contrast - much like the Modest Mouse track. And like the Modest Mouse, it doesn't suffer from being too polished (take the warm, static noise that underlays the track) and retains the sincerity of a track that, we might believe, could be produced rather faithfully live.
Commentary:
Comment on 3rd Planet
I especially like the lyrics in this song too. I think the timbre of Issac Brock's voice (his vocal chords plus any filtering effects used on the recording) is the distinct element that draws us into the song (in the same way the fence that breaks the picture plane of Max Ernst's Two Children Are Threatened by a Nightingale effectively invites us into the surreal scene.)
Brock's lyrics are bizzare, but believable, unlike Dan Wilson's in Breathless, that have a tinge of insincerity (you hit the nail on the head by comparing them to a "teenagers first stab at poetry.")
The one line of Brock's that keeps catching my ear, that I don't understand, is "I've got this thing that I consider my only art of fucking people over." To me the profanity seems arbitrary and unnecessary (but that's partly because I don't know what he means.) I find it interesting how he repeatedly incorporates the idea of three ("we used to be three and not just two" as well as "a third had just been made") and references conception ("didn't know then was it a son was it a daughter.") I also like the way the beginning sounds like an indie rock lullaby until the drums burst in with that raw garage ambience and the heavier guitars rocket-ship into head banging orbit.
Further listening: Out The Window, Violent Femmes, from Add It Up (1981-1993)
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