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John Hiatt “Lipstick Sunset” Bring the Family, 1987 If you’ve got a minute, step back with me to a hot, sticky and stormy July night in 1995.  I was a cashier at Hickory Hills Cinema, a modest six-screen complex in Florence, Alabama.  And by “cashier”, I mean someone who is very good at both shoveling popcorn and encouraging people to buy more of it.  The film Apollo 13 was the big summer hit and damned if John Hiatt didn’t walk right in and pay to see it.  I must have recognized him from the cover of Bring the Family.  So, that was that.  I got to meet a musician that I liked.  End scene. But then, re-open scene.  The thunderstorm that had been brewing during the evening had fully come to bear (I later learned that it had become a tornado warning).  The resulting power outages would have tried anyone’s patience. But, add the fact that our theater’s particular copy of Apollo 13 had already become damaged and been repaired too many times and we get John Hiatt angrily marching out of the theater on a few occasions to complain to anyone who would listen, which was me as I was the only fan he had there and then. The storm passed, but we continued to experience power outages.  With every outage, the theaters were emptied, leaving everyone to pile up in the lobby (lit with those hazy, emergency lights) to wait until the power returned and they could return to whatever movie they had been watching. During one of these occasions, I looked up to see Mr. Hiatt standing alone and looking out of the large windows.  It was the worst possible scenario for a fan to try to get an autograph, but I was young and oblivious.  I cautiously approached him and held up a popcorn bag for him to sign, if he wouldn’t mind, please, Mr. Hiatt, sir, thank you.  He did a slow turn and looked at me for a few seconds, then signed the bag.  While he did, I told him that I thought “Lipstick Sunset” was such a beautiful and sad song.  He grumbled in reply, perhaps seeing the irony of the cloudy sky that eavesdropped our conversation.  While he may have had a bad night, I was still very happy to have met him. —Evan

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Midnight Oil "Back on the Borderline" Best of Both Worlds: Oils on the Water, 2004/1985 Midnight Oil seem lost in the tar sands of time. While still mostly treasured in their homeland, the Oils disappeared off the radar in North America after the comparably middling sales of 1993's Earth and Sun and Moon (the followup, 1996's Breathe, came nowhere near to cracking the top 100). When the band broke up at the end of 2002, the news didn't even register. I'm not going to go into how a band with platinum and gold records in the United States, as well as modern rock and mainstream rock chart-topping singles and a massive MTV presence, disappears without a trace (mainly because I don't understand it at all). I'll just note that it's a shame, for Midnight Oil were a special band. Perhaps the greatest document of what made them so special is Oils on the Water , the name given to a televised concert from Goat Island in Sydney Harbor. This show, from January 13, 1985, is peak Oils, with frontman Peter Garrett at his most strident and the band at their finest balance of pop hooks and punk fury. The setlist is mostly from their best album, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and it's only slightly lesser follow-up, Red Sails in the Sunset. It's a veritable pre-Diesel and Dust greatest hits; "Best of Both Worlds", "When the Generals Talk", Kosciuszko", U.S. Forces", "Power and the Passion", "Don't Wanna Be the One", "Read About It", "Short Memory", and "Back on the Borderline" all made it onto 2012's Essential Oils. Picking a track from that killer line-up was incredibly difficult. "Short Memory" is one of my all-time favorite Oils tunes, it's constant pulse and haunting keyboard line the perfect amplifier to the horror of Peter Garrett's litany of mankind's atrocities. Pairing similar moods of music and lyrics was one of Midnight Oil's common approaches; the other was not to amplify their screed but to contrast the sweetness of the music against Garrett's polemics. for example, the sweet and catchy music is a fine foil to the imperialist message of "U.S. Forces". Regardless of the compositional style they chose to employ, the common thread of Midnight Oil's music is that they almost always get the head bobbing or the body moving. Rare is the artist that makes you want to dance while the world burns. Nowhere does this record do that more than with a fiery, swinging, version of "Back on the Borderline". Big clean guitars grab my ears, the hooks rich and memorable. The shuffle of the beat gets my head bobbing just thinking about it, and as I type my toes are tapping beneath my desk. I want to jump around and do my best Kevin Bacon in Footloose; that head-swinging jump and bob, the whitest of 80s dance moves (despite all my efforts, I can't escape my roots). Now all of that is there in the studio version from 1979's Head Injuries, but it seems antiseptic when compared to this live performance. The Oils were always a better live than studio band, as anyone who was lucky enough to see them can attest (unluckily for me, I have only audio and video to make that call. Alas, as with so many of my favorite artists, I never got to see them). Listen to the music. Move your feet. Think about the message. And by all means, watch the whole Oils on the Water set on youtube. —Erik

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Stereolab “Refractions in the Plastic Pulse” Dots and Loops, 1997 Seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds.  Almost six times the length of the average song played by radio stations (I remember those!).  That might seem excessively long, but in the hands of the Stereolab crew, it feels just right.  Often “long” songs (anything over five minutes) feel even longer than they are, because of extreme repetition (see “Freebird”).  “Refractions...” doesn’t feel so much like a song as it feels like a mini concept album:  several different melodic and sonic themes expertly woven in a way that sounds like several different songs in one. And just what would this concept be?  I have a hard enough time deciphering a song’s meaning when it’s in my native language, much less when it’s in French. The lyrics seem to playfully echo the songs loopy, meandering idea.  (I believe that my translation is accurate.)

What is, isn't closed In the most essential point of view, What is open, is to be In a non-ending action, Without trophy and without glory A creation without bottom, Without profit nor victory

After all of these years, I’m still not sure that this isn’t just bad French poetry.  But, it doesn’t matter.  The way the voices of Laetitia Sadier and Mary Hansen blended was otherworldly.  Their sense of harmony and vocal balance shines through on all of their recordings; this is just the longest. —Evan

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Dio "The Last in Line" Dio at Donington UK: Live 1983 & 1987, 2010 Released six months after Ronnie James Dio's death, Dio at Donington seemed to get lost in the shuffle. Few fans or critics took notice of it, and a gem of a double album came and went with little fanfare. However, these two shows from the Monsters of Rock festival are prime Dio, a distilled essence of his tiny majesty. The first thing you notice is that the 1983 show is much harder sounding than Holy Diver, their debut and then current album. Guitarist Vivian Campbell is at his most shredding, tearing through songs like Rainbow's "Man on the Silver Mountain" as if it were a speed metal tune. It's a fiery, amped up performance, and a fitting one to announce that Dio the band was a force to be reckoned with in the 80s. It's Ronnie and co. staking a claim to both the rich legacy he built with Rainbow and Black Sabbath, and heralding the band Dio's arrival. By 1987, Dio was well established, headlining arenas throughout the world. There is less to prove for everyone involved, and the need for the legacy songs to carry the weight of the set has changed. This is ably illustrated by Dio cutting Sabbath's "Children of the Sea" from a six-minute crowd-pleaser to a minute long intro to a hits medley; likewise, "Heaven and Hell" moves from the 11-minute centerpiece of audience call and response to a three-minute part of that same medley. This is about Dio, and while the nods to the past the present is the focal point. The band's latest album, Dream Evil, had been released a few months prior to this Donington appearance, and Dio opened that August night with the title track. It's a great version, close to the original recording but with a bit of added heft. In fact, the entire show is heavier and more forceful, but unlike in 1983, the tempos stay close to home instead of racing towards oblivion. I can't recommend this set enough; to hear Dio wail on "Neon Knights" and strut through "Naked in the Rain" is an absolute joy. Though for me, the song I keep returning to is "The Last in Line". This version keeps the "Solsbury Hill"-meets-"Stairway to Heaven" intro, as well as the build-up to its trademark Dio stomp; but unlike the 1984 studio version, Dio isn't propped up by double-tracked vocals, and Vinny Appice isn't pushed back in the mix. His pummeling style is punctuation to Dio's delivery, a hard stop that keeps Dio snarling instead of histrionic. And I hate to say it, but Craig Goldy's soloing style fits better than Vivian Campbell's did on the studio album. It's so good it's supplanted the original in my mind and my heart. —Erik

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Cathy Dennis "Touch Me (All Night Long)" Move to This, 1990 When “Touch Me (All Night Long)” was released as a single early in 1991, I was a high school junior with an already keen sense of what kind of music I liked and what kind of music I could not possibly allow myself to like under any circumstances. With my head buried in shoegaze and grunge, pop house was the enemy. It was for not-serious people who cared about frivolous things and just liked whatever they were hearing on the radio. Now that 23 years that have passed, I look back in embarrassment on my snob days. Of course this music had worth—it does still—but because I was listening to music alone in my room and not going to parties, it was repellent. It was what those people liked. (To be honest, I had friends in all the social groups, but I was also a judgmental sourpuss.) So what was my “in” for this Cathy Dennis song? Finding out that it's a moderately rewritten update of a song from 1984 by Fonda Rae. The original “Tuch Me” sounds much more like post-disco proto-freestyle pop run through a Brooklyn neighborhood on a Saturday night. It's very much of its time. Of course post-disco music from NYC is extraordinarily easy to get into now that DFA Records has been trafficking in that vibe for over ten years. Yes, it's true. A**holes like me needed a hip “in” to find Fonda Rae, and I needed Fonda Rae to help me reassess Cathy Dennis. So much of the music that sounds like “Touch Me (All Night Long)” has been forgotten and left behind in the last 23 years, but this song truly endures. It carries the baggage of 1991 with it and will do so forever, but that's not to its detriment anymore. At least not to me. I can enjoy it openly now without thinking less of anyone else who likes it and without thinking less of myself. God, I was a turd. —Paul

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The Kin “Nowhere to Now Here” Rise and Fall, 2007 When Phil Everly died in January of this year, I re-visited some of the Everly Brothers’ hits and I quickly began to see a few similarities between them and The Kin. The Everly Brothers:  Isaac Donald (“Don”) and Phillip (“Phil") Everly. The Kin: Isaac and Thorald Koren.  The Everlys both played guitar; Thorald Koren plays guitar, while his brother Isaac plays keyboards. Despite the fact that exactly fifty years separate “Bye Bye Love” from “Nowhere to Now Here”, I cannot avoid connecting these two songs.  Two voices harmonizing is one thing, but when two people from the same family do it, it becomes something even more magical.  If I were more scientifically-minded, perhaps I could dive into the science of the human voice and how members of the same family can produce such beautiful sound together.  But, I am not.  I’ll just continue to listen and be amazed, as will anyone who manages to see them perform live. —Evan

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Lambchop "What Else Could It Be Today?" Live at XX Merge, 2009 I've been saying for years that Lambchop has been on arguably the best and most consistent run of any artist since the turn of this century. While the paired 2004 albums Aw Cmon and No You Cmon would be better served as a single mind-blowing record, there is nary a misstep or anything below essential since the release of Nixon (which, if you're interested, I wrote about at length for PopMatters). This essential run includes the oft-overlooked and little heard Live at XX Merge, recorded at the label's 20th birthday celebration in July of 2009. For that show, Lambchop expanded their lineup from their then usual five or so musicians to a generous eleven, making the countrypolitan pop of songs like "Grumpus" and "Up With People" burst to life in a way they hadn't since the Nixon tour in 2000. It also helps that it was recorded in the confines of Carrboro, North Carolina's Cat's Cradle, whose venerable walls add an intimacy and fire missing from Lambchop's more regular small theater gigs (or at least the ones I've heard on tour releases and bootlegs. Alas, I've yet to see one of my favorite bands). Lambchop has been described as many things, but rarely have they been called rollicking. But that's exactly the word I'd use for this version of "What Else Could It Be Today?", with it's horn stabs and barreling jangle, it's percussive piano, and soulful and heartfelt lead vocal from Kurt Wagner. The Nashville Nightcrawler (the comic book nerd in me has always wanted to call him that) is at his most emotive; breaking as he pleads, dropping low and cracking high. It sounds like he's stalking the stage, eyes closed, as he throws his whole body into line after line. But the whole arrangement is that way, a full body charge that careens nearly out of control. In contrast to the reserved studio coolness of the Nixon version it sounds almost like another band. Live at XX Merge was a limited release on physical media, but has had a long and inexpensive life as a download, and even includes the video of the show (he's not actually throwing himself around the stage, by the way, but he sure moves a lot for a guy sitting down). If the recording tickles your fancy, the video is a must; to see them tear it up is an absolute pleasure. Head over to Merge's website and grab yourself a copy. —Erik

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Jimi Hendrix "Power of Soul" Band of Gypsys, 1970 By now we’ve listened to Jimi Hendrix’s music, heard his eclectic catalogue of bluesy rock ‘n’ roll that changed the way that the electric guitar is played, and crowned him with all of the appropriate accolades.  What is not as commonly celebrated is Band of Gypsys, the live album Hendrix recorded with Billy Cox and Buddy Miles after dissolving the Jimi Hendrix Experience. What you hear on the album is basically a Fillmore East concert from January 1, 1970, a mere nine months before his death.  Band of Gypsys is a delicious mix of funk, soul, rock and jazz. When I was younger, I didn’t like to hear live concert recordings from my favorite artists.  Between crowd noise and song interpretations that differed from their recorded counterparts, I preferred to hear the song the way I could hear it on the radio, the officially released version. It wasn’t until I had grown a little older that I not only began to appreciate the subtle differences between live and recorded tunes, but to actively seek out those differences and see them for what they are: sonic evidence of art and humanity interwoven. At the 5:21 mark in "Power of Soul," I believe that one of these moments occurs.  The group slowly builds steam and comes crashing out of a relatively quiet section to return to the main riff, but it sounds to me like the drummer hits an off-beat cymbal crash. He gets back into the proper groove by doing a slow snare roll to get back in sync with the other guys, while Hendrix scats along with his guitar part, seemingly as a reminder of the song’s unusual rhythm.  The song is more interesting and alive because of this moment. —Evan

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Phantoms "Do Yer Thang" Phantoms EP, 2013 "Do Yer Thang" is a massive blast of funk with deep house grooves. It's a fresh sound in the dance music scene that has seemed more electronic focused and synthetic sounding. Bass heavy, repetitive, and with tribal influences, Phantoms' closest comparison is Black Devil Disco Club. That combination of sounds translates into something really primal. I can just picture the club this is played in: fogged out from the heat rising from the dancing bodies in the crowd; people wriggling out of clothes left and right. I don't know much about Phantoms, other than they're two guys from Los Angeles in their 20s that have been touring with Com Truise. With that tour under their belt, and undeniable bangers like this track, I'm guessing - and hoping - that funk-laden dance music is coming back in full force. —Thea

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Little Feat "That's Her, She's Mine (edit)" Live at Electric Lady Studios bootleg, 1990 Few bands get a second act. Little Feat were – at least according to public perception – Lowell George's band, and when he died the band died with him. Only it never died in the heart of Bill Payne, Little Feat's other co-founder. In the mid-1980s, Payne reformed the band, with singer/guitarist Craig Fuller of Pure Prairie League stepping into Lowell's sailing shoes. In a strange twist of fate, the first record with this lineup, Let It Roll, went gold in under a year, and gave a huge sales bump to their back catalog as well. A second album with this lineup, Representing the Mambo, was released in 1990 to a more muted response from fans and critics. Despite "Texas Twister" following "Hate To Lose Your Lovin'" to the top of the rock charts, it would prove to be their last album on Warner Brothers, their home since 1971. That release from a major label, and the subsequent label jumping from one indie to another in the 1990s, was still in the future on the October night they played for a select audience at Electric Lady Studios. It was a classic radio promotion; gather friends and some lucky winners as an audience, and broadcast the exclusive show out to the general public. And while the short set leant heavily on the classic hits, a few of the newer singles were played, and they burst to life when stripped of studio sheen. "That's Her, She's Mine" is one such cut that blossomed in the live setting. The studio version on Representing the Mambo is buried under a thick gloss, the sound of 1989-90 in all it's horrific glory; stripped and clean, it fits comfortably in with the classic songs from the Lowell George era (in fact, it segues directly into 1973's "Fat Man in the Bathtub", hence the edit). Hits like "Texas Twister" and "Let It Roll" are likewise transformed, and the separation of eras is virtually inaudible in their talented hands.

I was lucky enough to see the reconstituted Little Feat a few months before this recording. I was still in high school, and the only local shows from touring acts that came through my neck of the woods were whomever Dartmouth College booked to play. So a few times a year, either a classic act or medium-sized new artist would make the track to semi-rural New Hampshire. Every time, a huge swathe of locals would pad out the student body and get a decent audience for the gig. In high school, I saw The Kinks and Little Feat; other friends saw Ziggy Marley and I think Tracy Chapman (neither was really my scene). Both shows I caught were excellent, but Little Feat was something special. Like on this Electric Lady recording, they played as if they had something to prove to both themselves and the audience. I think those first few years of touring without Lowell were incredibly hard for them. Even now, after 27 years of shows and recordings without their departed friend, they still get questioned about the decision to carry on. That was almost all one read about back then, despite the resounding commercial success of the new records. Last week, Rhino released a new box set collecting all of their Warner Brothers recordings. I was of two minds; how often do I dig out Little Feat? And how often is it I want to hear a studio recording instead of a live one? I don't own any of the Little Feat records besides their 1978 live album Waiting For Columbus, partly because it's the only record that's been remastered since the initial 80s cd releases. Like many of the discs released i that era, the Little Feat records have always sounded surprisingly thin and tinny. With a rhythm section as hot as bassist Kenny Gradney and drummer Richie Hayward, it's absolutely criminal not to be able to hear what they were doing. Sadly, none of Rhino's press information indicated whether this was a simple repackaging or new masters. Thankfully, the internet exists and communication is as simple as tweeting out a question. I saw that Stephen Thomas Erlewine had written the AllMusic review, so I asked him if they were remastered. He took the time to compare them directly with the prior releases and told me the new ones had better definition and low-end presence, but that no mention of it is on the set packaging or the discs themselves. After some back and forth, we came to the conclusion that in all likelihood, the records were remastered in the process of putting together the excellent 2000 compilation Hotcakes & Outtakes, but were never re-issued as standalone discs. This was enough for me; I ordered it that afternoon, and look forward to diving back into Little Feat when it arrives. —Erik

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Barkmarket "Fresh Kills" L Ron, 1996 I find myself periodically revisiting L Ron, the last album by Barkmarket, because I sometimes need to hear the combination of sounds that only Dave Sardy (singer, guitarist, and producer) could bring to life, with the help of bassist John Nowlin and drummer Rock Savage, of course.   (Could there be a cooler name than Rock Savage?) All of the accolades that D. Sardy has received for his production work pale in comparison to what he did with this band. Sardy has a knack for capturing a group’s sound in its most honest, live interpretation and "Fresh Kills" is a good example of what they were like as a live band: precise, seemingly chaotic, and bone-crushingly ferocious.  (How were there only three people in this group?!) The intensity of this record transcends any "noise rock" label I could saddle them with and makes the listener take notice of Sardy’s screamed appeals amidst the melee. Each and every song on L Ron is a little, hard rockin' work of art; "Fresh Kills" is special among them. I generally don’t scratch the Barkmarket itch for the lyrics.  Though they’re often fun and fitting, Sardy’s words can certainly flirt with the dark and dire. A line like "I’m an island that’s covered in shit" would seem to imply a less-than-positive outlook on life, but listening to it loud, for me, is very cathartic.  (NOTE: The line is sung twice between 3:20 and 3:30 of the song, in case you’re blasting this song in a room full of children.) —Evan

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Scorpions "Speedy's Coming" Tokyo Tapes, 1978 A band is often defined by your introduction to them. Like many folks my age, my introduction to Scorpions was the ubiquitous "Rock You Like A Hurricane" in the spring of 1984. It was in the midst of my burgeoning interest in metal and hard rock, and became a staple of my listening for several years. I never owned the album, for my best friend had it and we did our best to never buy the same thing so as to maximize our extremely limited purchasing power. But Love at First Sting sort of defined Scorpions for me for decades; a solid b-level band with some great big hits and that hideous dreck that was "Winds of Change". It wasn't until the mid-00s that I went back further than 1982's Blackout and heard the albums with lead guitarist Uli Jon Roth. I kick myself for waiting so long to find out that the mid-70s Scorpions are one of the greatest bands to ever walk the earth. The four albums they released with Roth between 1974 and 1978 are all very good to the greatest thing ever, with 1975's In Trance now firmly one of my favorite albums of all time. I wish there were more than that handful of records from this amazing group, but alas, it was not to be. After the release of Taken By Force in late 1977, Uli Jon Roth announced he was leaving Scorpions at the end of the subsequent tour. The band decided to record the last few dates of the Japanese leg to document the full force of this incarnation; the result was the album Tokyo Tapes, taped at Nakano Sun Plaza in late April of 1978. After listening to Tokyo Tapes and comparing it to bootlegs taped earlier on that Japanese tour, it sounds like the album is pretty much a warts-and-all live record with minimal studio sweetening. Levels are tweaked in the mix, but there are bum notes played here and there, and singer Klaus Meine is all over the place, his voice dropping at points to a barely audible slur of sound. I respect the band for releasing a record so true to the actual experience, but it also means I end up playing the studio records more often. Despite it's faults, what Tokyo Tapes does is capture how much fun both band and audience had at their shows. "Speedy's Coming" is a perfect example of all that is both wonderful and regrettable about the album. Roth's sound effect guitar lead-in firmly stamps his place as the missing link between Hendrix and Van Halen, as do his soaring, bluesy leads and smoldering solo.Klaus Meine does his best to sound like someone who learned his English pronunciation from lip-reading a deaf mute, a trait he has endearingly kept through 40+ years of singing and conducting interviews in the language. No one else pronounces the word "poster" like he does (that's the word at the end of the first line. Listen again and be befuddled).The rhythm section is a rock; though they're starting to lose the swing and replace it with a more metal-edged power and punch, they've got enough shuffle left to keep the song at a fast lope instead of a gallop. It's not a recording that will change the world. It's not technically anything to write home about, or worth all the words I'm throwing at it. Yet, mere minutes into the record, I have a huge smile on my face. This sounds like so much fun. The enthusiasm the band has is apparent, and infectious. "Speedy's Coming" is second rate Ziggy Stardust, but it doesn't matter to the band or the crowd or the listener. The band is happy to play it, the fans happy to hear it, and I'm glad I get the chance to share it 36 years down the road. —Erik

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The Warlocks "Moving Mountains" Heavy Deavy Skull Lover, 2007 Aside from stockpiling as much cash as I can muster for gas, records, and beer, preparing for Austin Psych Fest (you should really go) also means revisiting the records I love of the bands I'm dying to see. But it also means doing some very intentional discoveries, i.e. sifting through the roster to find bands new to me that I'll want to see. It's a large list, so it's been taking a while. One on the list is The Warlocks. I've thankfully gotten to sooner rather than later, based on the glowing recommendation of one of my APF companions, and his playing of this track during a recent hangout. Admittedly, "Moving Mountains" was a bit of a slow sell at first. The first six minutes (yes, SIX) are a hazy fever dream that only seem to intensify in dreariness. I fear that if heard in a fragile state of mind, it'd pick at your psyche until you were nothing but a sad, chain-smoking heap. Conversely, if heard in a relaxed state of mind (as I would obviously recommend here) it's rather soothing, like a hazy fade out at the end of the night as you sink into your bed. Eventually the fog of psychedelic sludge lifts to reveal a sexy, dark groove. Cue my eyes glazing over completely the first time I heard this shift; I actually think all my thoughts ceased momentarily. The transition is definitive enough that the sections could be separate songs, despite the aimless structure of the first part. Repetitive still, a feeling of vague satisfaction develops as the building becomes more obvious, though never glaringly. "Moving Mountains" is a testament to the slow build, stringing the listener along for a total of 11 minutes, never to fully reach a climax. Teasing builds and haunting repetition are the unsettling and sensual factors of "Moving Mountains" that have set my interest in The Warlocks in stone, and make me want Austin Psych Fest to get here just that much sooner. —Thea

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Guv'ner "Coitus City" Screwed: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack, 1996 "Coitus City" was originally issued as the b-side of a split single with Melvins in 1995 for a lead-up to the documentary on the porn industry originally titled Porn but renamed Screwed by the time of its release. I've not ever seen the film, and despite being somewhat of a Guv'ner partisan in the nineties, I'd not heard this track until just a couple years ago. In typical Guv'ner fashion, at least in their formative years, they romp around like a more playful (dare I say "youthful") Sonic Youth. The subject matter really elevates "Coitus City," though, as does the ping-pong vocal performance by Pumpkin Wentzel and Charles Gansa. It perfectly encapsulates that mood of killing time with someone you like, jokingly suggesting you watch some porn together because there's the tiniest hope you might get laid.

What d'ya wanna do tonight? Hey, how 'bout some "puerno".

...it seems to work as intended.

Gotta laugh at the sexy tunes. Must admit that I'm not immune...do me soon!

From there, Pumpkin goes into free-form detail about the NSFW events that transpire, all the while seeming both above what's happening and pleased that it actually is. I can't think of any other song that perfectly captures the mood of a situation like this one—the progression from boredom to a hail mary suggestion of watching porn to the act of actually getting busy with your object of desire—it's so direct and real it feels more like sitting across from Guv'ner in a diner hearing them tell you about their Saturday night than it does any kind of "written" song, and it's all the better for it. —Paul

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Yo-Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer and Mark O'Connor "Cloverfoot Reel" Appalachian Journey, 2000 Anytime a virtuoso, a person who has absolute mastery over their instrument, records her or his music for all posterity, it’s a wonderful thing.  A record of our music is a record of…well, us.  However, when three virtuosos got together—as was the case with Yo-Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer and Mark O’Connor—to record their second album Appalachian Journey, something special/cool happened. Appalachian Journey possesses a fresh, but still very classic American sound. Old-school American.  Aaron Copland in a pure, stripped-down form with some classic fiddling tradition thrown in. The epic scope of some of these songs is compounded by the fact that they are performed by just three people (with the limited exceptions of Alison Krauss and James Taylor on two tracks). Sometimes, it’s not just a musician’s proficiency with his instrument that is key, but that musician’s ability to hear and understand the other instruments with which he is playing, and then to compose music that highlights the beauty of those instruments and the souls of their players. That understanding was enriched after the three spent a few months working on the compositions and arrangements for the album. For a long time, the ol’ "Cloverfoot Reel" felt less accessible than all of the other tracks.  What does that even mean: less accessible?  I guess there was something off-kilter to me about the rhythm or just some indescribable irregularity that would make me skip past this gem.  I’m so glad I came around. The opening double bass solo displays the range this instrument can achieve with someone like Edgar at the bow. But all three players shine in their own time and at the same time; intricate, heart-wrenching solos perfectly supported by the other two instruments. "Cloverfoot Reel" goes through a few twists and turns before building to a resolution that is unexpected, ominous and beautiful all at once. —Evan

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Rush "YYZ" Rush In Rio, 2003 Few bands have as many live records as Rush, and few fan bases argue about their merits as vociferously. Unlike every other Rush fan I know, Rush in Rio is not only my favorite live Rush album but my favorite Rush album, period. Recorded in front of 40,000 rabid Rush devotees in Rio de Janeiro on the last night of the Vapor Trails tour, Rush in Rio is a single night's performance instead of a compilation drawn from several shows. I'm fond of such documents; every concert has a singular energy, and though some songs may not be peak performances, there is a thread that ties a night together that no compilation can capture. Based on all visual and audio evidence, this was quite a night. In their then 30 year career (29 of them with "the new guy", drummer Neil Peart), Rush had never before toured in South America. As this night showed, that had not stopped them from achieving immense popularity and a fervent fan base. Every band that reaches stadium status can expect a crowd to sing along to their favorite songs, and to answer every call and response. It's no surprise to hear the Brazilian crowd sing along to "Tom Sawyer" or "Closer to the Heart" or "Freewill". It is a surprise to hear them sing along to "YYZ", because even though it;s been a fan favorite and live staple since appearing on 1981's Moving Pictures, it's an instrumental. The massive crowd is singing along to the riffs. Listening to this gives me the chills. The crowd recognizes and reacts to the first struck bells, and by halfway through the opening verse section they're starting to echo the guitar line. By the first chorus, the crowd is in sync with the band: duh-duh-duh-dun/duh-duh-da-dun-dun. Goosebumps. And the crowd never stops, but sings and moves as one. The video shows both the crowd's engagement and Alex and Geddy loving their reaction to the song. It's not the best performance of "YYZ" I've ever heard. It's neither as technically perfect as the version on Exit…Stage Left (nor does it incorporate Peart's amazing drum solo), nor is it as powerful as the one on Snakes & Arrows Live. Like all of Rush in Rio, the fans made that one night something more than just about the band, or how well they played. They made it a moment that stays etched in the minds of fans worldwide. Never before or since have I heard of 40,000 people singing along to an instrumental. —Erik

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Jesse Aycock "Out to Space" Out to Space 7", 2013 "Out to Space" was the A-side of a Record Store Day 7" single Jesse Aycock released last year—it reappears on his 2014 album Flowers & Wounds—and it's the best Neil Finn song that Neil Finn hasn't written for quite some time. Aycock is a troubadour in the truest sense. He never stops working, collaborating with musicians far and wide, and writing an endless stream of fantastic country-rock material. It's not just putting on a costume for him. He's dead center of wherever it was that inspired the songwriting of Gram Parsons and Poco and J.D. Souther forty years ago. "Out to Space" is a little bit different, though. It's melodically sharper, more cleverly constructed, than much of his writing. That's why I liken it to Neil Finn. Where plenty of songwriters are descended from the Lennon/McCartney school of inspired creation, Finn seems to have a direct line and a gift for melody that's almost peerless in the present day. Not to diminish Aycock's obvious talent, but he's stumbled into that rarified air with this one...and he probably knows it. "Out to Space" is a real gift from the universe to Aycock and from Aycock to us all. —Paul