The Perfect Songs, Part XI

Right on, right on, here's another installment in my perpetual series of brief essays on songs I would deem "perfect," whatever that means to me. Songs that stick with you and keep circling about in your heads like bats at sunset. Songs that end up as mix-tape fodder (hey kids, remember tapes?). Here's three more to add to the list* (and I know, more Bob Dylan and Ryan Adams, but hey, it's what I've been listening to lately on the daily commute):

31. Bob Dylan, "Tombstone Blues." This song launches down the track like a locomotive on steroids and never looks back, conductor Dylan taking a gonzo tour of weird America, waving from the engine room. It's from the height of Bob's quest for that sound like "thin wild mercury," the abandonment of the gentler squawk of folk and appropriation of balls-out rock 'n' roll that resulted in his two best albums, Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde. "Tombstone Blues" is like the road map – locked into an unstoppable groove by guitarist Michael Bloomfield and the band, it's a tour of the wild psyche, surreal scraps of imagery hurtling by as fast as Dylan can spit them out. The hysterical bride in the penny arcade, John the Baptist, the reincarnation of Paul Revere's horse, Gypsy Davey and Cecil B. DeMille – it all rockets along and then collapses with Dylan's cruel, unforgiving line: "Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain / That could hold you dear lady from going insane / That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain / Of your useless and pointless knowledge." Full of more imagery in a mere five minutes or so than most artists manage in an entire career. "I'm in the kitchen / With the tombstone blues."

32. John Lee Hooker, "Boogie Chillen." Covered in tape hiss, nothing but a guitar strumming along so starkly you can almost see the straining strings, it's like a voice from a time machine. You can hear his foot tapping to keep the beat, and imagine the dusty long-gone room it was recorded in. Hooker's 1948 iconic tune is right there at the birth of rock 'n' roll as we know it, a loose, ecstatic celebration of the joys of music. Hooker was working as a janitor to support himself, imagining the big time, and this tune features keenly observed little moments of the Detroit black community that lend it a kind of vibrant life. It's almost like he's making it up as he goes along – name-dropping the Henry Swing Club and the people of the streets. Still spontaneous and delightful 60 years on. "I heard papa tell mama, let that boy boogie-woogie / it's in him, and it got to come out."

33. Ryan Adams, "Magnolia Mountain." I never really got into the Grateful Dead, but I can see their appeal. They're a tie-dyed take on the American dream, all optimism and groove and confidence. I don't hate 'em, but I never quite dug their scene, to use the lingo. So why should Ryan Adams' "Magnolia Mountain," a song crafted wholesale out of Deadhead ideas, ring so true with me? I guess it's a song that dreams wholeheartedly of the magic moment lurking, the sunshine around the corner – but the difference between the Dead and the Adams is that Adams' resigned, older-than-he-should-be voice tells us it's a beautiful scene that's never going to quite happen. Gorgeous imagery of bluebirds singing, love blooming counter with the repeated refrain of "Lie to me," and the dirty morning after. Musically, it's a fantastic song, full of soaring choruses and anthemic guitar. It's only when you eyeball it closer that you see the ache under every cliche, and that's what makes this Deadhead tribute so acute a summation of the promise and the impossibility of the American dream itself. Trippy, eh? "There ain't nothing but the truth up on the Magnolia Mountain/ Where nobody ever dies."

(*To recap: parts one, two, three, four; five; six; seven, eight, nine and egad, ten.)

The Perfect Songs, Part X

Time for another installment – the tenth! – in my never-ending series* of occasional looks at songs I would gift with the label "perfect" – whatever that means in my wacky little cerebrum. They're "perfect" because they manage to combine beat and words and emotional ballast into whatever it is that makes songs matter to us. Here's three more to groove to:

28. The White Stripes, "The Hardest Button To Button." I love Meg White. She may be the object of disdain among lots of drumming afficionados, but what she might lack in polish she provides in pure thudding stomp, and this track is a marvelous showcase for the rhythm and racket a band can make with just two people. The Stripes excel at serving up a post-millennial stew of the blues – an unbeatable wild mercury groove, Jack White's greasy lyrics and delivery are redolent of the juke joint, his guitar chords combine Muddy Waters with a hint of Ramones, and Meg – well, I just love Meg's sturdy drumbeat. And she drums barefoot. I find that oddly appealing. As marvelous an ode to the unforgettable stomp of the Delta blues as we've had since the Stones' heyday. And there's Meg, banging along with all her heart. "Now it's easy when you don't know better / You think it's sleazy? Then put it in a short letter."

29. Elvis Presley, "Mystery Train." For way too many folks, Elvis is a joke these days. I'll admit, he was to me too; even though I lived within spitting distance from Graceland for years the King was mainly a source of played-out humor for me. It wasn't till I actually visited Graceland a year or so before I moved away from the South that I started to develop a sense of what the man meant, who he was and his tragic little story. "Mystery Train" is one of the early Sun singles – Elvis at his most unpolished, honest and open-hearted, I think – and its bluesy little shuffle may not be terribly profound, but it's the rail line that opened up a whole genre of music. In the hollow echo of its swing, you can see that train, the baby comin' round the bend. Here's where it all begins. "Train I ride, sixteen coaches long..."

30. Journey, "Don't Stop Believin'" It's an accepted truism among the cultured that Journey suck. But in fact they do not always suck. They do what they do extremely well – it's just that their ultra-sappy, heart-on-my-sleeve power rock kinda went out of fashion post-1985 or so. But I will gladly confess that sometimes, a Journey song is all you need in life, and this one sums up their approach perfectly, from Steve Perry's broad-but-universal lyrics ("Just a small town girl / living in a lonely world") to the sprinklings of power ballad guitar riffs. It builds into a life-affirming anthem that is so cheesy it somehow goes beyond cheesy and into something true again – then again, maybe you just had to be there in 1983 to have it stick. (And would you believe someone out there on the Internets has done an awesome academic analysis of the lyrics? Of course you would.) Journey: Deeper than you thought? "Some will win, some will lose, some were born to sing the blues."

(*To recap: parts one, two, three, four; five; six; seven, eight and nine.)

The Perfect Songs, Part IX

...Number nine, number nine, number nine, in my surprisingly enduring* (I've been doing this for a year and a half!?!) ongoing tally of the songs in my life that have grabbed me long and hard with illicit intent, the ones I can listen to again and again and never tire of, the ones that in my wee self-centered way, I might just call... "perfect." This time – three songs loosely related by love and faith.

(*So far: parts one, two, three, four; five; six; seven and eight!)

25. Prince, "When Doves Cry." That bizarre, robotic drum machine beat, elongated by stripped, raw heavy metal guitar lines, then an oddly poppy synthesizer melody – anyone who grew up in the '80s knows this song before the singer opens his mouth. In 1984, "When Doves Cry" freaked me out, burning out of the radio like static from another planet, Prince's insectoid voice buzzing about animals striking curious poses. It sounded like nothing else on the FM radio station I usually listened to. I didn't realize until just the other day that this song has no bassline – perhaps that gives it some of its creepy-crawly allure. Twenty-plus years on, the sheer rattling strangeness of it stays with me. Prince's main lyrical topic is doin' it, but here, his usual slinky sex talk morphs halfway through into an anguished conversation with someone – God? — and anyone that's ever wronged him in his life. It's the sound of a breakdown. How could you just leave me standing, indeed? The #1 selling single of 1984, which shows popular sometimes can be good for you. "Dig if you will the picture / of you and I engaged in a kiss"

26. Cheap Trick, "The Flame." Oh man, my street cred just went out the window. Not everyone loves Cheap Trick, and even those that do probably consider this 1988 ultra-sappy ballad among their lowest moments. But this almost absurdly over-the-top love song I submit to you as among the finest achievements of that maligned genre, the power ballad. The power ballad has as its one and only goal the notion of making your love affair seem like the greatest thing that's ever happened to anyone in the world, of capturing that sensation that your romance is the center of the universe, "whatever you want, I'll give it to you." It's a manipulative track, of course, but Cheap Trick's ace performance and Robin Zander's utterly sincere vocals sell the sugar. Here's the power ballad for the ages. And shoot, it brings back lovelorn memories of high school proms to me. So there you go. (And I won't even tell you how Peter Cetera's "The Glory of Love" almost won the power ballad spot on the list.) "After the fire, after all the rain / I will be the flame."

27. Sufjan Stevens, "Chicago." Let's keep this from being the all-1980s chapter of this never-ending saga. Here's something from this decade that I so far never tire of. This beautiful song, with a message like a calming mantra, evokes hope in the moment when it's darkest. "Illinoise," Sufjan's lush 2005 concept album about Illinois and life in general uses this as its emotional centerpiece – an effortlessly epic, heartfelt tune about taking a chance and asking for forgiveness. Sufjan's childlike voice, sweeping orchestration and sturdy backup singers craft a sincere anthem in an age overflowing with insincere chart-toppers. It's vague enough that it can apply to anyone who's ever felt down and out, specific enough that you can see the corn fields as the song's narrator drives to Chicago, "I made a lot of mistakes, in my mind, in my mind." Sufjan's music contains a lot of nods to his Christian faith, and this track can certainly be seen in that vein – surrendering to God for your sins – but in my kinda agnostic sort of way, I just like it as the sound of a man in trouble pausing for breath, gathering courage to examine his life and starting over again. "All things grow, all things grow."

The Perfect Songs, Part VIII

Peter and I wrote a song last night! Here's the lyrics:
"Rock 'n' roll band / rock 'n' roll band!
We're in a rock 'n 'roll band!" (Repeat as many times as toddler deems necessary. Accompany with random percussion on drums.)
"Headbang!" (Throw head back and forth until one of you gets dizzy. Repeat.)
(C) 2007 Three-Year-Old Songs Inc.

Anyway, here are three more of the ongoing, occasionally updated list of songs that I think are pretty darned close to musical perfection in this life. (Parts one, two, three, four; five; six; seven!)

Today's focus: Songs that may not be particularly lyrically deep, but have a heck of a punch in the gut where it counts. We're in a rock 'n' roll band!

22. James Brown, "Get On Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine, Pt. 1." Whenever someone who's had an earthshaking effect on the landscape dies, I always regret not knowing enough about their work. My sole James Brown album is his "20 All Time Greatest Hits," which is a small sampling of a lengthy career, but it's 20 slabs of solid booty-shaking funk, and this tune has always been my favorite. It's the one I first had go through my head when I heard about his passing last week. The stop-and-start punch of the JB horns, Brown's preacher-at-the-revival exhortations, his slightly wacky helium-clown voice – it all just moves, doesn't it? If you can sit utterly still while this song play, you got no booty. "Should I take 'em to the bridge? / Take 'em to the bridge!"
And if you live on Venus and haven't heard this song, dig this live performance with the swanky French subtitles! Rest in peace, Mr. B.

23. Yeah Yeah Yeahs, "Black Tongue." This song is pure punk rock sex, nothing but thrusting motion and carnal lust, but damn if it doesn't make me want to hop up and down like a fool every time I hear it. From this NYC punk-pop band's awesome debut album, it's lead singer Karen O grunting and moaning her way through 2 minutes, 59 seconds of orgasmic joy (the chorus basically consists of O squealing and gasping in a ridiculously lusty fashion.) Utterly rock 'n' roll, buy which I mean no redeeming value besides the kick and pulse it creates. But dang it's fun. "Boy you're just a stupid bitch / and girl you're just a no-good dick."

24. Led Zeppelin, "When The Levee Breaks." I have a curious relationship to Led Zeppelin. I missed out on them when most dudes got into them, between the ages of 15-18, and didn't really know of them other than a vague presence on AM radio until I was in my mid-20s. Even then, I've never been a raving super-fan, but I do own and dig Led Zeppelin IV, the soundtrack to beer bashes since time immemorial. This song, a loose remake of an old blues chestnut, throbs with a primal power, anchored by John Bonham's slamming triple drumbeat and Jimmy Page's airplane-taking-off pchhowwwwww guitar licks. I listened to it as we drove over the Rocky Mountains last summer, passing through the Eisenhower Tunnel as we scaled the highest peaks, and it roared like a hurricane. Epic rock at its finest, creating something indefinable at its crashing peak. "If it keeps on raining / levee's going to break."

MUSIC: The Perfect Songs, Part VII

Really, I meant to do this a little more often (I last did it in May, you say?!) but I am in the midst of being unemployed, moving 6,000 miles away and taking epic road trips after all. And chasing around a willful toddler. Anyway, here's another installment of songs that make it onto my personal mix CD for a desert island, songs that I never tire of no matter how many times I hear there. As always, my view, nobody else's, I may have terrible taste and so forth. Continuing the count with today's special "all 1990s version":

19. "Nothing Compares 2 U," Sinead O'Connor. Great pipes, crazy mind – that pretty much sums up my view of O'Connor, who blazed like a comet through the early 1990s with two great albums, then kind of dissolved into a muddle of controversy and half-hearted albums. This one song was the mega-hit that gave her stardom, but yet its hushed intimacy and unfettered honesty still are startling nearly 20 years on. When too many pop breakup songs these days sound like they were recorded by "American Idol" robots in a factory somewhere, there's still something sincere about Sinead's cover of this Prince song, in her voice breaks and fragile demeanor. It's a tough song to listen to because it reminds me of a different time and place, but then again all the good songs do, don't they? "It's been seven hours and fifteen days..."

20. "Couldn't Call It Unexpected No. 4," Elvis Costello. Admittedly, this is an obscure choice, hardly one of Costello's best-known songs and from one of his less-regarded albums, 1991's "Mighty Like A Rose." Yet there's something in this kaleidoscopic romp of a tune that really spoke to me back in '91, when I was a spastic college freshman. With this album EC tried every style of music he could in a frenzied wall of sound, from baroque Beach Boys pop to hushed ballads to fuzz-drenched rants. It may not be his best CD, but it's perhaps his most adventurous. This tune closes out the album, and it's a beautiful lament about the passing of time and keeping a little bit of hope in the face of it. It begins as a song of a fairy-tale girl in a castle, but Costello abruptly parts the curtains to take center stage – "Well you can laugh at this sentimental story / but in time you'll have to make amends" – before ducking back behind the scenes to continue his thoughts. Backed by a merry-go-round of calliope and accordion sounds, it's like the closing anthem at the end of a carnival, bittersweet and searching for truth. Dissonant and unbalanced, but yet heartfelt, it's the song of how things are never as they were. "Please don't let me fear anything I cannot explain / I can't believe, I'll never believe in anything again."

21. "Heart-Shaped Box," Nirvana. Nirvana are kind of in a funny place in music history, I think. They were underrated, overrated, just plain "rated," and now it's still not quite clear what their music's legacy is – does the sad fate of Kurt Cobain still color how we think about the music? We critics love 'em, but does Joe Public still? Heck if I know. All I know is that even when Mr. Cobain was still with us, this jagged barbed-wire tangle of a love song was a favorite of mine – with its angular chords, shout-and-response chorus, and some of Cobain's darkest lyrics ever ("I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black"). With a title like "Heart-Shaped Box," it might be a typical love song, but Cobain's burning intensity nearly sears a hole right through the music. It's still a riveting testimony of self-destructive obsession, of a love so deep it's nearly indistinguishable from hate. It is, of course, a story of lost potential too. Aren't they all? "Hey! Wait! I've got a new complaint / Forever in debt to your priceless advice."

MUSIC: The Perfect Songs, Part VI

MUSIC: The Perfect Songs, Part VI

Man, it's been a while since I did this, eh? Well, anyway, this is the ongoing list of the songs I think are as close to perfect as a song can be – songs I never tire of, no matter how many times I hear them, songs that put it all together and spit it out in a sonic stew. As always, it's in the eyes of the beholder, caveat emptor, warranty not valid in Minnesota, etc.
The latest three:

16. "Let's Dance," David Bowie. Yeah, for hardcore Bowie-philes like myself, this pop hit is often called where "it all went wrong," leading to his mediocre slide through the 1980s and early 1990s. Bowie "sold out," "went pop," had the biggest hit of his career, and wouldn't Ziggy Stardust be ashamed? Nonsense. This is one of the finest pure pop songs you'll ever hear, love and lust given a Bowie skew. It may be romantic clichés, but man – does Bowie ever sell it all. Listen to this song like you haven't heard it a million times and you'll be astonished. There's that slinky horn-pulse riff, the slashing guitar licks of Stevie Ray Vaughn, the debauched club bassline from producer Nile Rodgers, and lording over it all, Bowie's anguished, overwrought vocals, wringing every syllable out of the lyrics. Bowie puts a slightly dark, haunted spin on it all – "let's dance / for fear tonight is all." Serious moonlight" – seriously, what a turn of phrase. It's no sell-out. Rather, it's Bowie showing he can do Top 40 pop as well as anyone in the business if he wants. The song's available in multiple versions – a nearly 7 1/2 minute jam on the "Let's Dance" CD, some quirky remixes on the rare "Club Bowie" CD, and a particularly strong "slowed-down" version Bowie did live for a while, captured on the "Bowie at the Beeb" CD set bonus disc. "If you say run, I'll run with you."

17. "Bad Reputation," Freedy Johnston. Freedy is a never-quite-was, a tremendously talented singer/songwriter from the early 1990s who had a passionate, quirky vision, who crafted glittering little songs like Raymond Carver short stories. "Bad Reputation" is perhaps his only real "hit," a minor success from the summer of 1994, when I discovered Freedy. It's a gorgeous, bittersweet lament, a tale of missed chances and too-short perfect moments, just a man singing his sad sad song. He sees the girl in a crowd, the girl he once knew better than anyone, and before he can react she melts away into the faces. Like all the best songs, it's heartache made palatable by a beautiful turn of phrase, a haunting melody. Yet Freedy never quite surpassed that song. He had two A+ albums – 1992's "Can You Fly" and 1994's "This Perfect World" (which "Bad Reputation" came from); then a half-great album, "Never Home," followed by two increasingly bland, mediocre albums and nothing since 2001 or so. But for a couple albums, this man had the voice of an angel and the stories of a journeyman. Hunt them down. "I know I got a bad reputation / and it isn't just talk, talk, talk."

18. "Monkey Gone To Heaven," The Pixies. Crunching down from the ionosphere, this song's just here visiting from another planet – huge sparkling guitar riffs, Black Francis's cool and self-assured lyrics, Kim Deal's sweet floating backup mantra. It's a song where all the pieces just come together – Black's deadpan voice, Deal's throbbing bass, David Loverling's steady drumbeat, "rock me Joe" Santiago's ace guitar lines propelling the song. It's not the most representative Pixies song ever, objectively – "Debaser" is more pure anarchy, "Gouge Away" more sinister, "Here Comes Your Man" cuter, "Gigantic" sexier – but most fans will say it's one of their best. The lyrics have a kind of jaded ease that'll make teenage potheads shiver at how "deep" they are, yet even stone-cold sober they have a kind of universal echo – "If man is five / then the devil is six." There's an unfathomable sadness at the core of "Monkey" that makes this song cut hard and fast, a buildup and explosion that makes the song never seem old to me. And you get that Black Francis scream at the end. What more does a Pixies fan need? Two minutes, 58 seconds of pure ecstasy. "…Then God is seven / then God is seven / then God is seven."

MUSIC: The Perfect Songs, Part V

MUSIC: The Perfect Songs, Part V

Click it, roll it. Part five of the ongoing series on The Perfect Songs (rewind: part one, two, three, four). For this installment, something a bit different: Perfect Songs that jump-started my interest in a band. One song can act like lightning, inspire you to check out a musician's album, then to obsessively pick up as many other albums as you can until the world ends and you realize you have 600 CDs to move to New Zealand somehow. But I digress. Here's three more of the songs that make the world a sunshiney place:

13. "My Impression Now" by Guided By Voices. The impossibly prolific band released about a zillion CDs before calling it quits in 2004; back in 1994, yours truly was a humble intern for Billboard magazine in New York City, working in an ivory tower in the heart of Times Square, riding the subway every day and generally a tiny cog in a big machine, but having a blast. Working at the music industry's biggest trade magazine, it goes without saying I got lots of free stuff from the promo pile. This one short EP by this band I'd never heard of caught my eye. I put it on back in my dorm room cubbyhole, and heard the song "My Impression Now," which sounds like a pop song from another planet beaming through space dust to faraway earth, a greatest hit that never was. Hooky, happy and sad together and just darned fun to listen to, "My Impression Now" got me hooked on GBV, following the ups and downs of their career through a cascade of great albums. It's low-fi silly pop song goodness and one of the many things I took back from New York with me at the end of that strange humid summer. "My impression now / Stand on the edge of the ledge / Jump off cause nobody cares"

14. "I Feel So Good" by Richard Thompson. This venerable British folk/rock guitar whiz has been crafting smart songcraft since the 1960s, but he's always been more or less a cult figure. I first heard this tune back around my freshman year of college circa 1990 or 1991, one of Thompson's few songs to break through to the radio market. And what a song it is, a raging breakup song anchored by Thompson's dazzling guitar work. It's all cocky bravado, a grin full of malice, about the guy who's over his girl and ready to head out and cause some pain to someone else to get even. Somehow Thompson's gleeful singing of the song makes it an anthem for all of us who've been hurt and want to just dish a little out every once in a while. Listen to it full-blast driving southbound on the interstate at sunset with the window rolled down and your head sticking halfway out. "Well I feel so good I'm going to / Break somebody's heart tonight..."

15. "Sister Jack" by Spoon. And here's a more recent find. I wrote about discovering my first CD by this Austin, Texas band last year, and months on it's still a genre-twisting delight of a record. Here's the song that kicked it off for me when I downloaded it; three minutes or so of blissful bop that recalls early tunes by the Who, with Beatlesy (I'm not using the word Beatles-esque, dammit) harmonies, handclaps, and more. It may not mean much of anything – after reading the lyrics, I'm even less certain what it's about ("I was sold for suspect drawings / Underneath a makeshift awning"??) but like all good pop songs, it's whatever you want it to be. I picture a van leaving town, saying goodbye to friends on a fine autumn day, and hitting the highway to see what's next. It was a good run. "Always on the outside always looking in / I was in this drop D metal band we called Requiem"

Special bonus round! Because it's almost Valentine's Day and I forgot to buy you any candy, the first three people who post comments below I'll mail you a copy of my nifty Nik's Perfect Songs Vol. 1 CD which contains all 15 of the songs listed so far in this series plus a secret bonus track. Shazam!

MUSIC: The Perfect Songs, Part IV

MUSIC: The Perfect Songs, Part IV

Cue up the mix CD, once again, here we go, three more of the songs I deem in my mild-mannered way to be as perfect to my ear as a song can get. And to review, here's Part I, Part II, Part III. Onwards:

10. "Sweet Jane," by the Velvet Underground. The VU were one of the all-time greats, the missing link between Beatles and Bowie, the slinky, leather-clad, smoky underside to 1960s hippie pop. They were odd and kind of creepy, but man, could they play a tune. And maybe none of their drug-and-debasement-obsessed songs was any more cheerful than this dreamy sing-along, with its snap-your-fingers beat, Lou Reed's nonchalant croon and that can't-ignore-it chorus. It's sunny pop... except if you actually listen close to the lyrics, and then you realize it's all a lot more complicated than that. Is the singer making fun of sweet, innocent Jim and Jane? Or is he envious? Like everything the Velvet Underground did, it's several things at once, but you can't help nodding your head to this one. "You know that women never really faint / and that villains always blink their eyes."

11. "Tomorrow Never Knows," The Beatles. You could make a list of Perfect Songs with nothing but The Beatles on there, of course. This is one of just a couple dozen that could spring off the top of my head, but I thought it'd be an interesting one to include because it's not one of their most heralded. But it's a fascinating track from "Revolver" that almost precisely marks the dividing line between "yeah yeah yeah" Beatles and "I am the walrus" Beatles, John Lennon's psychedelic ode to... well, not sure exactly, but it's a hazy red apocalypse of a song, full of doomsday imagery and a feeling like a merry-go-round slowly running out of steam. For some reason, I always imagine seagulls flying over a deserted beach in a blood-red sky when I hear the opening (And I just learned from this wiki that seagull noise is actually Paul McCartney laughing playing backwards. Freaky, man.) Anyway, it's one of the best album closers ever, in my mind. "Turn off your mind, relax / and float downstream / It is not dying"

12. "In Your Eyes," by Peter Gabriel. Is it obvious? Oh yes, it's obvious, the backbone of every romantic lad and lass's mix tape in the past 20 years. We're the Lloyd Dobler Generation, grew up watching John Cusack hold that boombox in "Say Anything" and realized hey, that's the way to be. Romantic but not a wuss (he kickboxes, for cryin' out loud), Lloyd was a stone-cold player. And "In Your Eyes" is one hell of a song, Gabriel's yearning, religious ode to love as an ideal. It's not the way the world is, but how it ought to be in some ideal universe. After a particularly rocky high school love affair, I must have played this song 4,219 times. In fact, if I had to be pinned down, I might have played this song more than any other song in my life. I don't listen to it as much these days, but it's still that Lloyd Dobler anthem that cuts into the heart of truth. "Love I get so lost, sometimes / Days pass and this emptiness fills my heart"