“Closeted” (Betty Cannery)

Shrill power saw overtones rend apart the dyadic articulation(s) of abused and vengeful women. Present after the cutting: not the “closeted” figure regaining a rights-imbued self (“you owe me!”). Final imprecision of inverse-feedback language imagines the possibility of non-systemic relations, removing reproduction from the conversation.

“That Lucky Old Sun (Just Rolls Around Heaven All Day)” (Frankie Laine)

Following a strict Biblical logic, work is a curse (“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return into the ground” [Gen. 3:19]). Double-barreled vocals indicate that one will “sweat ‘til I’m wrinkled and grey,” which is both daunting and depressing for the singer; but also, as the song swells, that the Sun poses an ecstatic, negative example of “paradise.” What’s missing: an account of a rigorous laziness (or what Nancy calls “an extremity of play”) which might thread these seemingly exclusive domains, and place work in the service of what Blanchot calls unworking. As is, one is still conceptualizing the Sabbath, and thereby reinforcing the primacy of labor.

“Fundamental Frequency” (Toots Thielemans)

While the bass solo in this bop tune equals the combined time of the intro and ending, the three primary soloists have roughly the same amount of solo time: harmonica (61 seconds), sax (65), and piano (72). The BPM ambles if compared to more extreme examples of the genre. While the harmonica may be a non-standard jazz instrument, there are precedents (and heirs). Those are the particulars, as far as frequency and fundamentals go. Thielemans is probably more concerned with the spacing of the band, often pushing back against organizational and operational structures and a strict sense of time. The playful coupling and teasing of the introduction—harmonica partnering up with the other soloists sequentially—for example. And the harmonica’s carry-over from the intro to its solo magnifies the case. Frequency as a given variable. Fundamental: the foundation, the (shifting) root of a chord, and the sounding/vibration of a body.

“Picture Book” (The Kinks)

Key trax on The Village Green Preservation Society (1968), and one of a handful considering questions of saving and archiving the evanescent past. The trax’s impact has been muted in recent years because of its frequent, celebratory use in Hewlett Packard ads. What can still be heard, however, remains bracing: the photograph is designed to “prove” to “poppa” in his old age that he and “momma” “loved each other a long ago.” And Ray Davies is even clearer in the album’s last trax, “People Taking Pictures of Each Other,” where amateur photo fans also seek “to prove that they really existed” and “that they mattered to someone.” None of the above, of course, can be proven by snapshots of family and friends, and that’s part of Davies’ point: the personal photo involves a kind of nostalgia for nostalgia. Added to the archive as a “picture book,” however, such artifacts are mute until questioned and turned into “facts” (see Ricoeur’s History, Memory, Forgetting). What, eventually, will the “picture book” prove? We can’t yet imagine all the possible questions, but Davies suggests a serious psychological reversal: your incessant shutterbugging is itself the shadow of a doubt.

“Me and Giuliani Down by the School Yard (A True Story)” (!!!)

To legally dance in New York City, an establishment needed a Cabaret license until 2017. And when an establishment applied for one, they’d have to be approved by the fire department and a Community Board. With a history often centered on Giuliani’s “quality of life” campaign. the hazy origins of the law—that its institution and enforcement in the early twentieth century is related to segregation—allow alternate evasion strategies to emerge from the shadows, such as how gay bars routinely evaded the law’s enforcement. (And why Giuliani as “Julio”?) With so many layers of approval and overbearing officiousness, !!!’s focus on the “piggiest pig[’s]” stutters when it equates NYC’s situation with Footloose. There’s certainly paternalism in common, but there’s no ban. And there’s no generational conflict to exploit. It is, though, a question of what a just measure is, especially in light of NYC’s selective enforcement. The creation of an illicit dancefloor can be theorized aggressively, as Autechre’s project shows. It can also advocate for counterhegemonic praxis, as with the focus here on dancers sharing “nothing more than this very second” because mortality is always a beat away. Unlike Oliver Wang’s notion of dancefloor intersubjectivity, we shouldn’t claim that we “barely understand” what happens on the dancefloor. We listen and watch for its utopian possibilities and manifold realizations.

“The Slider” (T. Rex)

Asserts that T. Rexian surrrealism/nonsense has nothing to do with hippy/drug consciousness (“I could never understand…..”). The latter is always a form of transubstantiating idealism, which occludes (turning the “wind” into a “ball of love,” for example); the former–a.k.a. “sliding,” enacted here as a ride down the strings, while choogling in slo-mo—is a strategy of defamiliarization in order to expose (here, a boundary figure, such as a “door,” and institutions, as in “all schools are strange”).

“The Awakening (Pt. 1)” (The Reddings)

In some ways, The Reddings continue The Brothers Johnson’s investment in funk as inborn, released/expended, and premised on dance floor experiences. Not so with this trax, as we move toward an advent of sorts. Who/what arrives? From the album cover, it’s the revelation of lonesomeness conveyed by the single used pillow and the broken office clock lying on the bed (as probable frustration with a world devoid of funk). Moving between slapping and fingerstyle tendencies, the bass pyrotechnics are relentless. The difference appears in the accompanying overdubs that appear near the end; consisting of both harmonics and slaps/pops played backwards and layered within the forward momentum of the primary narrative, they emphasize causality in a distorted mirror. Reflected back to us, the other is different yet comparable, related but not an amplification. The layers, the bottom end, the sustained open E string throbbing throughout: arrival has happened and will have to happen, recursive in its movement forward, outward, and downward.

“Hey Joe Where Are You Going” (Surfaris)

The first recording of “Hey Joe,” and perhaps the most undecided since Joe really can’t make the decision (to seek out his estranged lover, to murder her, or to escape the inevitable lynching). “I guess” riddles the track, and the only place to escape is to “where all those men are free” (and not the “Mexico” of later versions). Like the confused authorship/copyright, no lineage, no endpoint, but only a question of who holds/does the deed.

“Magnetic Fields” (Numbers Station, 11290 and 6645khz)

Powerful avatars for the idea of the indecipherable, numbers station broadcasts have existed for nearly fifty years. No amateur sleuth has ever cracked a numbers station code, even though the collating and curating of actual broadcasts has accelerated since the formation of the Conet Project. It’s widely presumed that the first numbers stations were sending messages to far-flung, state-based spy networks, and part of the pleasure of listening to numbers stations is vicarious: tuning in to something that’s not for you—spying on the spies. The Conet Project describes “Magnetic Fields” as a relatively new station, and “transmission quality is usually poor and schedule erratic.” The station’s moniker comes from the musical identifier that opens each broadcast: a short selection from Jean Michel Jarre’s Les Chants Magnetiques (1981). Thus, this particular numbers station is a highly self-reflexive, sonically commenting on the nature of radio wave broadcasting in general and on the potential for overlap and interference. And it’s true: the air is full of layered, disembodied, garbled voices, waiting for an ear. What we hear sometimes seems tantalizing: if only we had the key, we might learn that some world leader is about to be assassinated, or that some “false flag” covert op has been cancelled. But according to “scowl,” “Agents were told that if the first number is even or odd (depending on the agent), it was a real message otherwise they could ignore the rest.” Because everyone is monitoring everyone, all the time, “most of the time there was no message.” So, generally, when we listen to the numbers stations, we’re hearing someone signaling someone that they have nothing to say. Over and over. Empty of non-aesthetic content rather than indecipherable as such. Something meant merely to divert attention, like a pop tune. But then, of course, that might be precisely what they want you to think.

“Garden of Eden” (Guns N’ Roses)

Axl Rose’s consistency as a lyricist should never be in question: beyond dispute, he is a “country” singer, regarding the city, over and over again, as a place of diaspora and loss for him. But he does not sing in the genre called “country music,” and for reasons of absolute and complete diaspora. Country boys are nice and simple folk (see “Welcome to the Jungle,” Appetite for Destruction), and such “nice boys don’t play rock and roll” (see “Nice Boys,” Lies). But, for Axl, that was long ago and far away. Rock is an index of Babylon, of corruption. “We’re lost in the garden of Eden,” and the “problem” itself is called “rock’n’roll.” But as a mere index, it has no pragmatic utility, and GN’R is not so much irresponsible as not responsible. A declaration of radically innocent corruption, then.