There are many reasons to dislike the iTunes hegemony in the distribution of music. Now, I must admit to enabling the reach of its virtual tentacles. I’ve largely made nice with the commercial behemoth, as evidenced by my own habitual usage of iTunes at home and in the office. But one thing we (30-something) old timers should lament, in addition to the compressed dynamic range of mp3 files, is the death of the album.

No longer do we have to purchase music as entire albums; we can simply download the best tunes from them, with “the best” being conveniently decided for us by the “popularity” bar that accompanies each track. In fact, the very notion of the album is almost without meaning today. No longer do most people listen to entire albums; we listen to playlists, songs, or even fragments of songs. But I shall save my rant on the death of the album for another time. Here it is worth considering the potential benefits of such selectivity. And I have one benefit particularly in mind: removing the wart that blemishes an otherwise great album. Let’s call it an “album wart.”

We all have our own examples album warts. It’s a fairly subjective judgment, to be sure, and any example I provide here will raise all kinds of serious objections. For example, if I say that “Money” is a wart on Dark Side of the Moon, many will find reasons to disagree. Yes, I know it’s got a great hook. (In fact too good – it’s provided me with earworms for years.) And, yes, we should all stand up and cheer when a tune in 7/8 gets significant radio airplay. But none of these reasons – or any others I can think of – will prevent me from hurriedly hitting the “forward” button when the annoying sound of those cash registers fade in after “The Great Gig in the Sky.” Granted, when the album was first produced, it came out on vinyl, with “Money” opening up side B; and thus, if you were already standing up to flip the record over – and, no doubt, you were lying down on your back starring at the gold-flecked ceiling while the first half played – you could just as easily drop the needle on “Us and Them.” Still, “Money” just seems too jarring, too angular and jangly for an album that otherwise floats by like so much mellifluous ooze. I wish it were(n’t) here. “Money” = album wart.

“Yellow Submarine” is probably a less debatable example. Not only does it constitute the worst kind of earworm (you can never get that thing out of your head once infested), it seriously disfigures an otherwise very great album, The Beatles’ Revolver. As far as I’m concerned, anything sung by Ringo Starr is dermatologically disagreeable for a Beatles’ album. “Octopus’s Garden” does not help Abbey Road one bit. And “With a Little Help from My Friends” is, for me, a low point in Sgt. Peppers. Still, these latter tunes are tolerable compared to “Yellow Submarine.” I can’t even imagine why this song exists, so offensive it is to any reasonable standard of listening enjoyment. “Yellow Submarine” = major album wart.

Now that we have two examples on the table, it’s important to sharpen our definition of an album wart. It can’t be a song you skip just because you don’t like it all that much. We’re not talking about a simple lull in an album. No, we’re talking about a great album that would fully instantiate its platonic form if it weren’t for that errant piece that should have remained on the studio’s cutting floor. The offending song need not be egregious in itself. It might actually be an average song for an average album by an average band. The album wart makes the album almost perfect. It is the album which, if you could pluck off just one blemish, only one, what would remain would be something pure and definitive, wholly consistent from opening to close, as though the whole album had been conceived and flawlessly realized in a single, glorious instant. But as it is, the album wart reminds the listener that, while still a very great album, there remains that annoying hanger-on, that pesky and almost willful little tune that should always have its box unchecked when the album plays on iTunes.

There are a few other contenders that more or less fulfill the criteria of an album wart – for me anyway. “The Alabama Song (Whiskey Song)” on The Doors’ brilliant debut album qualifies. Though one cannot but admire the attempt to transform a traditional foxtrot into psychedelic circus music, I’m afraid that one listen to this drinking song is more than enough (very filling, and doesn’t taste so great). Then there’s “Mother” on The Police’s Synchronicity. Really, it’s hard to fathom why the one bone Sting threw to Andy Summers on this album would be this wretched little piece. Or consider U2’s truly inspired Achtung Baby, and then isolate for a moment the lusterless “Whose Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses.” Goofy tune, really. To quote the uninspired lyrics, it is “an accident waiting to happen.” I could have waited a little longer. And how about “Who Dunnit” on Genesis’ Abacab? Maybe Abacab wouldn’t register as a great album for many, but I consider it an extra special outing for the band. I’d feel even more comfortable in my assessment if the band hadn’t dunnit.

One more, and one I’ve long debated with a long-time friend. We both consider Yes’ 90125 to be a nearly perfect album. Sure, many Yes fans will point to half a dozen or more albums by Yes that are better than 90125. But for me, as well as my friend Michael (and for Tom, I think) this album stands out as a great, great album, even among the remarkable and much more classic Yes albums. But is “Our Song” an album wart? This is a crucial question, my friends.

Granted, I cannot imagine hearing the beginning of “City of Love” without the decaying final chord of “Our Song.” But, it must be admitted, had “Our Song” never appeared on the album, or was instead replaced by a song that achieves the glories of “Changes” or “It Can Happen,” this album would reach such “stylistic audacity, such platonic eye” (to quote “Hold On” from the same album) that it would remain beyond all reproach. I find “Our Song” passable, whereas my buddy finds it downright wartish. Maybe it is an album wart after all. But this marginal example raises a most crucial question: should 90125 exist without it? If somehow we could will the song into non-existence, would we desire to do so? After all, neither my buddy nor I could imagine the album without it.

Upon reflection, once you’ve identified all the album warts in your music collection — assuming you still listen to albums — would you really wish the offending pieces away? If you were granted the powers to let the little buggers pass from all memory, would you? Haven’t you grown kind of fond of them over time? Don’t they now seem necessary in some way, if only because of habitual listening? Having played the album so many times over the years, doesn’t the protruding tune now seem indispensable to the way it has molded itself in your memory? Wouldn’t the album lose its integrity, and fatally so, if you ripped from it even one iota?

Even more, haven’t you grown to like, maybe even love, a song that at an earlier time suffered the indignity of being an “album wart”? Didn’t you ever feel sorry for it? Didn’t you ever feel just a little bit guilty for unchecking its little box? And maybe you’ve checked it again, not soley out of pity, but because you thought it just might reveal something new to you. Is there a tune that now discloses unsuspected riches and depths? Did a tune ever sneak up on you? Didn’t you just need to give it time, a little loving attention, a chance to prove that, in the end, it could be as indispensable as its more heralded siblings? Sure, you still might typically skip it, and occasionally bicker with it. But you’ve come to love the whole album – warts and all. Perhaps maybe that’s just what this near perfect album needed after all: a minor aesthetic offense that endears you to the album’s greatness all the more.

Since affection is the love of the familiar, and since the “long play” (LP) listening experience tends to make songs that might seem initially objectionable or uninteresting at least familiar, the listener has a greater chance to learn to love, to give that album wart a repeated chance to prove itself, to adapt itself to your ever changing tastes – in a word, to love imperfection.

In the spirit of affirming such blessed imperfections, and really to give myself the chance to remain hospitable to the possibilities of learning to love, I draw attention to and celebrate that wartiest of album warts (a limit case, really), and now begin to sing, perhaps with you, “In a town where I was born / Lived a man who sailed to sea . . .”

Brian Robinette — Saint Louis, Missouri

2 Comments »

1. 

   Great article!! You nailed it!! I love the album “wart”!! I don’t know about the Whiskey Song. We used to call them turkeys. I like warts. Good job!!

   Gregg

   Comment by Gregg — April 26, 2010 @ 8:50 pm

2. 

   Beautifully written piece.

   I have to say I have struggled with “Money” for years, because DSOTM is my all-time favorite album. More than any other track on DSOTM, it is not only a standalone tune, but also more pop-radio oriented. I have felt for years that musically, it sticks out like a sore thumb from the rest of this masterpiece. It did not help my attitude that radio, to this day, kills this song by overplaying it. Of course, that’s why I got an iPod – so I would never have to listen to radio again.

   Gradually, though, I have come to appreciate “Money” both as a standalone song and as an integral part of the album. For myself, I define the theme of the album as “those things that rob life of its positive meaning”. In that personal context, “Money” is a good fit, although it is still an interruption in the overall flow of the album – what you so perfectly called “mellifluous ooze”. I wonder how Waters & Co. would have done “Money” differently had DSOTM been recorded in the post vinyl-flippin’ era.

   Thanks for the great read. I came here for the 90125 album cover and found a cool site!

   Comment by GumbyTheCat — April 30, 2010 @ 3:06 pm

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