This song might not be at the top of “catchiest songs in the world” lists, but it really should be a contender. It’s been stuck in my head off and on pretty much ever since I first heard it. Part of it is because the song is 90% repetition: “’cause it’s you and me and all of the people with nothing to do/Nothing to lose” (or “nothing to prove” in other verses) and then it jumps into the rest of the chorus. The chord progression is slow and meditative before it bursts into the chorus, which makes it easy fodder for an ear worm.
This song also instantly takes me back to high school. (Hence why it’s on the Throwback Thursday list.) Now that I’m older and a writer myself, I pay more attention to the lyrics from a structural standpoint than an angsty, am I that girl perspective. “This clock never seemed so alive” is a great line, as is the pair “I can’t keep up and I can’t back down/I’ve been losing so much time.” It’s that pair in particular that’s been stuck in my head of late, and the reason why I sat down to write this post.
Did you ever listen to this song? If so, do you grab onto the lyrics or the melody? Are there any memories you associate with it?
Cold War Kids have a band name that (to me at least) instantly brings to mind slouchy Converse and a disaffected vibe. I’m suddenly looking at the world through ’00s eyes, which means that it’s, you guessed it, time for a Throwback Thursday. Cold War Kids weren’t on heavy rotation for me back then until I watched Gossip Girl. Look: I freely admit my spectrum of high-low pop culture experience. And besides, the show, aside from its incredibly trashy viral marketing campaign and bad plot lines, really did have great music.
The song kicks off with slow and jangly guitar. Honestly, I had forgotten how deep “Hang Me Up to Dry” sounds, if that makes sense: the vocals are pitched low and, paired with the rhythm section, move only a little bit faster than molasses. It’s a little bit like “Float On” by Modest Mouse. Things shift with the chorus. Here, our lead singer’s voice gets a higher pitch. Now it’s reminiscent of Foster the People, if Foster the People wasn’t obscured by noisy, Passion Pit-esque punches of brilliant sound. That whole cluster of bands feels borrowed from each other; then again, that’s what music is, isn’t it? Cold War Kids, though, is distinct in that their songs have a looser feel, and this is particularly evident on “Hang Me Up to Dry.” The drums keep us steady, but as the song progresses, discordant piano gets sprinkled in. Towards the end, there’s an odd noise like a bicycle wheel spinning backwards.
Man, relistening to this song for this post made me remember how much I like this song. It’s a true jam and the laundry metaphor is very clever. I scrolled through the YouTube comments briefly, which is usually a mistake, but here it was mostly people reminiscing about their own connections to the song. Do you remember “Hang Me Up to Dry”? If so, what are your memories of hearing it?
Like many of the songs in my Throwback Thursday series, I think of this one as suspended in amber. I haven’t listened to it in years, and unlike other mid-’00s hits, it doesn’t seem to appear on nostalgia playlists.
Speaking of nostalgia playlists, the last time I remember hearing it is at an ’80s throwback party in a bar in 2015. Talk about suspended in amber. But it’s telling, too, because even though this song is obviously not from the ’80s, its beat echoes The Human League or Eurythmics with its tight, controlled electronics. This sound would later blur out into the static of bands like The Midnight and ~aesthetic YouTube channels.
Because I hadn’t listened to this song in so long, I actually had to look up the lyrics. “Bulletproof” is a neat kiss-off without complicated metaphors. I like the line “Do your dirty words/Come out to play when you are hurt?” It’s simple and direct: “All you do is fill me up with doubt.”
Sometimes simple is really all you need: no frills or fancy production tricks, just androgyny and self-confidence.
This one’s been on my to-blog list for a while. It’s one of those songs that randomly runs through my head as I think about that particular time in my life. I think “1901” is another good example of hipster music; vocally, they’re very similar to Vampire Weekend, and have that crunchy, blistering sound that you’d also hear in, say, Passion Pit or Foster the People.
What I like about “1901” is the fizzy drop of it. Like Alka-Seltzer in water, the song opens with suspended guitar before descending into something stronger that’s bolstered by electronica. Very reminiscent of “Little Secrets.”
Usually with these posts, I talk about the lyrics, too, but honestly, I don’t think the lyrics are really the point of the song here. In hipster-ville, lyrics tend to be secondary. They’re either obscured by double or even triple meanings and intellectuallism, layered with references to the past or drama about the future. Often, too, they’re also just plain obscured by what’s going on technically, and that’s definitely the case with “1901.”
Another thing I like about “1901” is how danceable it is. In another life, I was a dancer, so I’m drawn to songs that urge you to move, especially if they’re unique like this one. In that way, “1901” reminds me of another indie song that has a great drop, “Dance Yrself Clean” by LCD Soundsystem.
Now, if you need me, I’ll be lacing up my Converse and finding my American Apparel hoodie…
I feel like Contra was one of the hipster albums, up there with The Black Keys or Tame Impala. This status was confirmed with the Pitchfork stamp of approval as a best new album. Vampire Weekend both leaned into and calcified the hipster world. One of their biggest songs from their debut album, “Oxford Comma,” is pretentious in title and content: who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma indeed. The band has that sensitive, slouchy feel typical of the era that was sometimes described as “metrosexual.” As Matty Healy once said, “I thought that you were straight/Now I’m wondering.”
“Giving Up the Gun” is my favorite song of theirs. It has the hallmarks of that era of indie music: lightly bruising synthesizer, disaffected vocals, and lyrics that describe the futility of trying. I remember being surprised when Joe Jonas appeared as a guest star in the music video. There was always that tension between pop and indie, and when a band or song became a hit, the lines blurred. Does that mean that “Giving Up the Gun” is an ironic comment on the glory days? If so, that makes it the most hipster of all.
I did say that I was going to talk about this album eventually, and now here we are! Pure Heroine came out in 2013 and felt new, experimental; like Lady Gaga before her, Lorde was rewriting the pop rules. In Lorde’s hands, pop became sonically darker and thematically emptier: torn-up towns, hollow bottles. Yet the aimlessness of Lorde’s protagonists is intentional. She captured the #aesthetic of driving with the windows down, clean teeth and tennis whites, both riding the wave of Tumblr moodboards and inspiring them.
It’s a cohesive album, and though Lorde definitely likes a droning beat, it never feels like too much. Part of that is the neat production; another part is because Lorde has a throatier voice than her contemporaries, which provides nice depth. She has incredible confidence right out of the gate.
I didn’t immediately connect with this album when it came out, but “400 Lux” definitely holds memories. Although “Royals” was obviously inescapable, I’m always one to look for the deeper cuts.
I debated about writing this, because part of me is often thinking in the Serious Music Blogger persona where I have an “image” to maintain, and listening to Top 40 isn’t necessarily part of that.
The other part of me remembers my common thread about guilty pleasures and how much this song truly is a perfect fit for a Throwback Thursday feature. It captures a certain era of celebrity, where dating a Playboy bunny and/or being on MTV’s Cribs was the height of fame.
Funnily enough, the lyrics actually are something of a rich text. Lead singer Chad Kroeger describes what it takes to be a rockstar – “I’d even cut my hair and change my name” – while at the same illuminating just how vapid that life is, where you “live in hilltop houses driving fifteen cars.” He wants to become a rockstar, no matter the emptiness. There’s an added bonus of irony, too: by the time the song came out, Nickelback already were headliners; “Rockstar” further catapulted them into the spotlight.
The song also explores the tension between the narrator’s dreams and what the other side of the story looks like. There are the “washed up singers” who write their hits, maybe uncredited. There’s the reference to Elvis and what his decline brought him: those tassels and crooning in Vegas. And there are the people who are totally plugged in and can get you anything you want – for a price.
Meanwhile, some parts of the song I don’t really get. Who is the suggestive voice that the narrator is talking to? (“So how you gonna do it?”) Is it his own internal monologue? Why did Nickelback decide to use sound effects when, for example, he talks about getting the “front door key to the Playboy mansion”?
The nature of celebrity remains essentially the same, as does the type of person you’ll encounter in that lifestyle. Ultimately, though, “Rockstar” feels like a time capsule, a relic of bleach-blonde bimboland and the People pages she lived in. It’s surreal somehow to go back and listen to it.
“Hey, is this thing on?” To use a phrase from my time in radio, there was a lot of dead air here on the blog. But today I’m mixing metaphors, dusting off the cobwebs (see what I did there?), and taking a trip back to high school with Sum41. Some might classify this song as a guilty pleasure; honestly, I almost surprise myself with how much I still enjoy it all these years later.
The lead singer used to be married to Avril Lavigne, which seems like a kind of perfect emo-pop pairing. Other than that claim to fame, and this single, the band seems like they aren’t as big as they were back in the day. Still making music, though, which – major props. The pop side of punk has a shelf life if you aren’t Green Day or their ilk.
“With Me” does a great job of oscillating between that screaming angst and a delicate love song. The opening is just strumming chords, all quiet: “I don’t want this moment to ever end/Where everything’s nothing without you.” Sweet, right? Then we get to the classic emo imagery: “I’ll hold onto this moment you know/As I bleed my heart out to show…” It reminds me of “Iris” by The Goo Goo Dolls: “When everything feels like the movies/Yeah, you bleed just to know you’re alive.” That visceral feeling, of raw aliveness, is very consistent in this genre.
I don’t feel the urge to sing along the same way I might with other songs in this series. It’s more of a transportation vehicle because the memory associations are so vivid. Lace up your Converse and give it a listen:
Ah, yes, an angst anthem! Gary Lightbody’s voice carries this song so effectively. It’s higher and thinner than most male lead singers tend to be, but here it works in his favor. The beginning of “Chasing Cars” is spare; the lyrics are one punch after another: “We’ll do it all/Everything/On our own.”
But it’s the chorus that really sells the song, and I think is what makes “Chasing Cars” so iconic. “If I lay here/If I just lay here/Would you lie with me and just forget the world?” There’s such a simple earnestness there. Isn’t that what we all really want in the end? To lie down with someone and not think about anything. Lightbody continues, “Those three words/Are said too much.” It seems that “those three words” both encompass and limit what he’s looking for.
The sparseness of the song is undercut when the guitars kick in towards the middle. Although they threaten to overwhelm the body, and the message, of “Chasing Cars,” where the central relationship is everything, we’re spared from the blistering tones that were all over the airwaves back then. It’s Lightbody’s voice that anchors the listener.
The cover art here is very of that era. It’s an abstract collage of a couple embracing. The colors are muted beiges, and we have alt-rock stamped font up top to complete the aesthetic. Back when the single came out, I thought the art was odd, but now I see it as part of the package that made “Chasing Cars” so famous.
This song is one of the more visceral memory access points for me. Every time I listen to it, it takes me back to a time when I was living in another city and was just beginning to settle in. I picture the house I had and the friends I spent time with; how we’d walk those streets together. Maybe that’s one reason why this song will always be bittersweet to me. It’s a reminder of a time gone by. The lead singer’s voice is also high and plaintive, reflective, and it makes me reflect, too. “A moment, a love, a dream aloud.” The lyrics are full of the passion of youth: “Songs of desperation/I played them for you.”
In all honesty, what really makes the song stand out, for me at least, is the urgency of the beat. It blends perfectly with the lyrics. They’re like a heartbeat that starts out slow and then just hits at the chorus: “Won’t stop ’til it’s over.” And those lines repeat, over and over, until the fadeout of the song. Yet you’re left with the feeling that you want to keep running. The beat carries you forward.
The title itself is also interesting: “disposition” means what your mood, your nature, usually is. What is the importance of it being “sweet”? Maybe it’s the way the narrator feels about their love interest. Whenever they’re together, that sweetness and love suffuses them. And that’s the joy of the song, too. It lifts you up and urges you to belt the lyrics as loud as you can.