Tag Archives: I Can’t Get No Satisfaction

Devo – Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! – Classic Music Review

Since the human species appears to be careening headlong down the path of devolution, I thought it was a good time to engage with Devo and see if they got it right when they released Are We Not Men? almost forty years ago.

First, let’s clarify what we’re talking about. Devolution is the notion that a species can revert to more primitive forms over time. The flaw in the theory of devolution is that it presupposes that the intent of evolution is progress. Evolution has no intent—it just happens as species respond to environmental challenges. The belief in a purpose to evolution is closely tied to the belief that the human species represents the evolutionary peak, an anthropomorphic view oddly similar to the belief of creationists that a god created humans in his or her own image. Under that theory, human beings are god’s gift to the universe—and if that’s the case, god needs some training in gift-giving etiquette, as it is entirely rude to give gifts that are so vile and offensive.

In a strange twist that could have only come from the many still-to-be-corrected defects in the human brain, many religious wackos who styled themselves keepers of the wisdom attacked evolution by arguing for a form of devolution, based on the silly belief that a fictitious couple named Adam and Eve represented perfection until Eve fucked everything up by wanting to learn more than god was willing to dish out.

Now you know why Trump and Betsy DeVos are so intent on dumbing down the American populace, ESPECIALLY those pesky, inquisitive women.

By eating the apple, so the fairytale goes, Eve sent us down the path of devolution. Given that one of her kids murdered another, devolution got off to a roaring start. As the connection to Adam and Eve has dissipated over the centuries, we have naturally de-evolved into the imperfect beings we are today. Or so say the Evangelical Lunatics.

Anyway, most biologists think devolution is bullshit, but Devo really wasn’t all that concerned with the biological aspects of evolution. Mark Mothersbaugh and Gerald Casale saw a planet going madly backwards in the early 1970’s. They were students at one of the epicenters of the madness, Kent State University, when the National Guard gunned down four of their classmates. That madness was ignited by the madness of the Cambodia invasion, which came out of the madness of Vietnam that came out of the madness of the Cold War that came out of the madness of the atomic bomb . . . Mothersbaugh and Casale had lived their entire lives in a world that had gone mad. Devolution was as logical an explanation as any for the seemingly insatiable desire of the human race to destroy itself.

The theme of devolution that runs through Are We Not Men? is more of a creative device than a dogma. Devo doesn’t really take one side or another, but the more nuanced position that when it comes to knowledge of how we got here and why, we’re all as dumb as rocks, and we’d be a helluva lot better off if we’d just admit how fucking ignorant we are instead of elevating ourselves to honored status in the animal kingdom. Our ability to create fantasies far outpaces our ability to make genuine improvements to the human condition. Gerald Casale put it succinctly in a December 2003 interview with Songfacts:

That was kind of our position statement. It was our mission statement saying, ‘Hey look, humans are making up stories about why we’re here and how we got here and who we are and what our importance is and it’s all basically rubbish, it’s absurd. You don’t know what’s going on, and that’s OK. In fact, if you admit you don’t know what’s going on and you admit there are alternative explanations for things, then you’re already better off, and there’s a lot of things you won’t do because you’d quit believing in ridiculous things that drive you to actions that cause more pain and suffering in the world.’ It was kind of a Dada, self-effacing kind of statement, like, ‘Look, we’re all pinheads here on this planet together.'”

Curiosity never killed a cat or anything else for that matter. Curiosity is the quality most likely to ensure growth and survival.

So much for philosophy. Devo shared their philosophy through music, and music is what we’re here to discuss. Devo’s approach to music was as controversial as their denial of human progress. I’ve heard their music described as “robotic,” “android-like,” and “emotionless.” When Are We Not Men? came out, Rolling Stone opined, “There’s not an ounce of feeling anywhere . . . the music here is utterly impersonal.” Robert Christgau liked the album but classified it as “novelty music,” the backhand put-down par excellence.

What I hear is a very tight band with a clear sense of purpose. They don’t gush with emotion but their music has tremendous emotional impact, a clear sign of artistic discipline. You can’t listen to Devo and not appreciate the intensity they bring to a performance, so don’t try to tell me that these guys have no feeling. David Bowie and Brian Eno clearly saw the power and the potential, and engaged in sort of a ping-pong match on the production and mixing of Are We Not Men? Despite the conflicts with Eno and the late appearance of Bowie on the scene, the result is a very compelling album that sometimes makes me laugh and sometimes frightens me so much I want to get the fuck off this crazy-ass planet as soon as I can locate a transporter.

After a drumstick count-in, the first sounds you hear are chords eerily similar to the pattern that opened “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” but instead of jumping into the vocals immediately after the build, Devo uses a few measures of stop time to change chord patterns, signal the end of the stop time with a tension-enhancing rising slide and extend the instrumental introduction. Continuing the tease, the band delays the appearance of the first verse with a few extra measures of bass-heavy double-time drive. At this point, I am positively dripping with anticipation.

Then Mark Mothersbaugh steps up to the mike and sends me into a state of pure ecstasy:

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!

Whether it’s the result of the terribly exciting introduction or the manic commitment in Mark’s voice, those opening lines make me shout, giggle and shift my ass into high gear. The opening to “Uncontrollable Urge” is one of my absolute favorite opening passages, a masterpiece of tension and release—a truly thrilling experience.

Getting back to Mark, well . . . he can’t help himself, you know, with that uncontrollable urge and all. Most interpretations link the urge to masturbation, and you can certainly interpret the lyrics through that lens (“Got an urge, got a surge and it’s outta control/Got an urge I want to purge ’cause I’m losing control”). Then again, he describes the urge as something relatively civilized and refined—“It’s got style, it’s got class”—and that would eliminate male masturbation with all its sticky mess. Only women can jack off with class and discretion! My take is the uncontrollable urge is generic, a common condition in a puritanic society that represses many urges, whether sexual or those that are simply unpleasant to people who don’t have a life and don’t want anyone else to have one.

One thing is certain—in “Uncontrollable Urge,” Devo establishes themselves as one helluva band. The song shifts tempo several times, alternating double-time drive with straight-time bash and dropping to half-speed in the opening lines of the chorus. The frequent drum fills from Alan Myers that signal an upcoming rhythmic shift keep you on the edge of your seat, but when you step back and consider what just happened, you realize that this is a goddamned tight band with an outstanding command of rhythm. The call-and-response in the chorus dissolves into cascade of harmonic background vocals that are really quite striking, giving the song a nice melodic touch. Still, I repeatedly find myself waiting for the next rendition of “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” so I can feel that ecstasy all over again. “Uncontrollable Urge” is a manically addictive experience.

Next up is Devo’s cover of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” Those accustomed to either the iconic Stones’ version or the Otis Redding cover probably experienced shock and outrage when they heard Devo’s herky-jerky translation of the rock-soul classic. The beat patterns in Devo’s version sound like the music that might accompany the falling ball in a Rube Goldberg contraption—mechanical sounds built in a factory in an attempt to mimic human rhythm, perhaps something a band of robots might create. Mark Mothersbaugh’s lead vocal follows suit—awkward, stiff, almost Data-like (she said in a nod to TNG fans). After dismissing the “android-like” criticism of Devo in the introduction to this review, you may think I’ve gone total blonde and am guilty of contradicting my own argument. Pas si! I think Devo’s take is not only brilliant, but adds a dimension completely absent from the more popular renditions.

Look. Do you really believe that Mick Fucking Jagger “can’t get no satisfaction?” Of course not. The guy had his choice of hundreds of women at every stop on the tour. Do you really believe he experienced the existential angst of the average Joe trapped in a shit job, oppressed by overwhelming pressure to conform with the norm? Fuck, no! I think the Jagger-Richard composition as performed by The Stones is a brilliant social critique, but Devo’s version tells the story from the point of view of devolved modern man—the loser with zero sense of rhythm and not one ounce of soul who really can’t get no satisfaction because he has no idea who the fuck he is or what he’s supposed to be. The guy who starts blathering “baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby . . .” when he’s confronted with a real live woman. The guy who tries to be hip and fails miserably because he’s completely out of his league in the messy, uncertain world of romantic connection. Devo’s rendition has the virtue of demonstrating the real damage caused not by a lack of satisfaction but the complete inability to understand what could truly satisfy—all this guy knows is what he’s been told . . . there is no there there.

Continuing the theme of mindless conformity, the Gerald Casale-Mark Mothersbaugh composition “Praying Hands” manages to link several variations of unthinking, unquestioned compliance, demonstrating the fundamental silliness of the conformist mindset as manifested in parental advice, personal hygiene, sexual expectations and religious ritual. That’s poetic fucking economy, people! The music is modernistic Gilbert & Sullivan, with conformist mottos delivered in semi-operatic style:

Wash your hands three times a day
Always do what your mom and dad say
Brush your teeth in the following way
Wash your hands three times a day

On closer inspection, some of the conformist advice described in the song holds up with experience—if you don’t brush your teeth in the proper way, you’re virtually guaranteeing a root canal in your future. The point isn’t that all conformist advice is automatically bad, but what is bad is the failure to question the alleged wisdom and validate its usefulness through experience.

Religious ritual clearly fails the test, for the results are based on something called “faith,” the silliest concept ever invented by human beings. The “praying hands” in the song are described as more useful for masturbation than prayer—even if “you got praying hands,” the truth is “they pray for no man.” Casale and Mothersbaugh then cleverly connect religious and sexual rituals, exposing the absurdity that mindless rituals can lead to either spiritual bliss or sexual satisfaction.  The instructions that follow in the bridge tell you, “Okay, relax and assume the position/Go into doggie submission,” lines that can be interpreted as a description of learning how to fuck with The Joy of Sex open to the backdoor bliss page, or an echo of the rituals in a Catholic mass (stand, sit, kneel, roll over, play dead). I thought of the themes in “Praying Hands” when considering the sickeningly repetitive chorus of religious blather after the mass shootings in Las Vegas and Sutherland Springs: “Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families.” Yeah, putting your hands together will really make a fucking difference. Since mass shootings in the United States take place with appalling regularity, you would have thought god or Jesus or someone up there would have intervened by now with all that fucking praying sent in their direction.

In the spirit of questioning everything, I visited the Live Science website to answer the question, “Spock, what are the odds that I could get wiped out by a piece of space junk falling from the sky?” Here’s what I learned:

According to Mark Matney, a scientist in the Orbital Debris Program Office at NASA’s Johnson Space Center in Houston, the odds that any of the 7 billion people on Earth will be struck by a piece of the soon-to-fall satellite is 1 in 3,200. “The odds that youwill be hit … are 1 in several trillion,” Matney said. “So, quite low for any particular person.”

Compared to a once-in-a-lifetime lightning strike (1 in 12,000), getting eaten by a shark (1 in 11.5 million) or being killed by a vending machine (1 in 112 million), I like my chances when it comes to avoiding death-by-space-junk.

Which I believe is the point of “Space Junk.” As Joe Strummer so memorably demonstrated in “London Calling,” it seems like the media’s job is to scare the living shit out of us. Fear increases TV ratings because the genetic imprint of Homo sapiens contains centuries of memories of disasters that befell individual members of the species. Our dumb ancestors also made some really stupid conclusions about what constituted danger (superficial differences in appearance, for example), so in addition to the real reasons for fear, we have learned to respond to the slightest hint of danger with paranoid overreaction (google “9/11” for a contemporary example). Over a background of rather happy-go-lucky music, the lead character describes how his girlfriend (Sally) was walking down the alley when WHAM—she was wiped out by a piece of space junk. Rather than bothering to grieve for his lover, he turns weird and spends all of his time researching incidents where humanoids found themselves splattered by falling space debris. In a stirring passage where the music darkens with increasingly intense beats and edgy riffs, he recites several spots around the world that have been victimized by former orbital garbage. This part is a hoot, especially when he shifts to nasal twang for “Tex-ass” and “Kans-ass.” We leave the character a victim of his own paranoia, frozen by the contradictions spinning inside his head:

And now I’m mad about space junk
I’m all burned out about space junk
Walk and talk about space junk
It smashed my baby’s head, space junk
And now my Sally’s dead, space junk

“Mongoloid” apparently led to a minor controversy with a London-based teacher’s organization when a combination of superficial listening and misapplied political correctness led them to accuse Devo of making fun of people with Down Syndrome. There’s certainly no evidence of disrespect in the lyrics, and when you translate the song’s meaning within the context of a musical work built on the theme of devolution, the charge becomes even more ridiculous. Gerald Casale met with the teachers and recalled, “I convinced them that I was not making fun of Mongoloids but rather making fun of ‘normal’ people who do make fun of Mongoloids!” The teachers accepted his explanation and life moved on.

The song is terribly catchy, with the loose supporting vocals encouraging the listener to join in. Musically, the foundation is built on Casale’s always-spot-on bass and enhanced to the nth degree by a disciplined but extraordinarily effective use of the mini-moog in providing swoops and bends that feel like the musical equivalent of a fun house mirror. That feeling of distorted reality is crucial to understanding the point the song is trying to make: that we have dumbed down our culture to the point where a person with the average IQ of 50 could master the essentials—and for the “normals” to poke fun at those folks who were unlucky enough to wind up with an extra chromosome is the height of humanoid arrogance.

The album’s centerpiece is “Jocko Homo.” The Wiki Devo fan site provides us with the essential context:

  • The title is taken from a 32-page anti-evolution tract published in 1924 by F. W. Alden [1]called Jocko-Homo Heavenbound. (“Jocko Homo” being a now obsolete euphemism for “man ape”[2].)
  • The inspiration for the song came directly from the movie Island Of Lost Souls, which is based around the “Island Of Doctor Moreau” story, in which animals are forced into advanced evolution and then begin de-evolving. In an attempt to maintain order and humanity, the doctor cracks a whip and barks “Are we not men!?” to some unruly subjects.

Now we’ll turn to Mr. Casale for the artistic intent:

We were kind of poetically explaining what it meant to be Devo, and what de-evolution was. We didn’t see any evidence that man was the result of some never-ending linear progress and everything was getting better. When we were growing up, the magazines would show the world in 1999, and it’d be this beautiful, futuristic, domed city with everybody going around in jets and space-cars. Everybody was fed and everybody was groomed and everybody seemed to have tons of money. It’s such a joke, what really happened was: the planet got more and more overrun by population, greater gaps between the rich and the poor, more new diseases, decimation of the environment. It seemed like even though people were getting more ‘free’ information from television and newspapers, they were actually less informed, less thoughtful, and acting dumber. So we saw de-evolution. The fact that a bad actor could be elected president was more proof to us. Things have just gone downhill from there. We didn’t really want it to all be true, instead it looks like de-evolution was clearly real. In retrospect, compared to what’s going on today, Reagan looks like a serious guy.

And at that time, Trump was just a twinkle in some Nazi pedophile’s eye.

The Gilbert & Sullivan analogy certainly applies to “Jocko Homo,” an outlandish theatrical piece that works exceptionally well live. The musical structure is essentially a chromatic twist on F#minor featuring half-step declines in the interval riff before resolving on the truncated F#-G#-A dominant figure. Minor chords and their diminished partners always create a sense of eeriness, and the stiffness of the execution adds to the sense of displacement. This other-worldly environment is the perfect setting for a science-fiction tale where a defective, easily-manipulated species like Homo sapiens, encouraged by an insane leader, conform to the notion of inferiority:

We’re pinheads now
We are not whole
We’re pinheads all
Jocko Homo
Q: Are we not men?
A: We are Devo
Q: Are we not men?
A: D-E-V-O
Q: Are we not pins?
A: We are Devo

Q: Why is there Donald Trump? A: We are DEVO.

“Too Much Paranoias” expands on the consumerist themes in “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” within a manic context of dissonance heightened by the disturbing siren-like guitar riff from Bob Mothersbaugh that peaks on the evil flatted sixth. Most of the imagery concerns the contemporary war between McDonalds (if you want a special order, please step to the side and wait half-an-hour) and Burger King (“have it your way”), the latter providing the last thing a devolved consumer wants—a choice! Devo explores this theme in full on Freedom of Choice, but the sheer terror of having to deal with newly-invented debilitating conditions like static cling is beautifully captured here. The dissonant, decaying instrumental break sounds like a brain gone haywire in response to both increasing complexity and the ability of advertisers to plant phony needs like Big Mac attacks into your psyche.

By contrast, the opening passage to “Gut Feeling/Slap Your Mama” sounds surprisingly conventional: a cleanly-picked arpeggiated guitar pattern with an accessible Em-G-C-A-D pattern. That pattern repeats itself throughout “Gut Feeling,” eventually enhanced by full instrumentation and gradual acceleration in tempo. As an expression of partner rejection, the opening lines “Something about the way you taste/Makes me wanna clear my throat” is certainly more original than “you broke my heart in two,” but beyond that the song doesn’t really go anywhere—and the insertion of “Slap Your Mama” at the end seems superfluous (eventually Devo dropped the appendage in live performances). In the context of the themes on Are We Not Men?, the theme of “Gut Feeling” feels too small to bother with.

According to the Wiki Devo piece on “Come Back Jonee,” the song is about “John F. Kennedy, using the metaphor of a dead rock musician.” The primary evidence is a picture of JFK on the cover of the single version. Well, they’ve built JFK conspiracies on more evidence than that, but still, I struggle with the image of the most elegant of all presidents jumping into a Datsun. Certainly the lines “You gotta love ’em and leave ’em/Sometimes you deceive ’em” could be a reference to JFK’s many dalliances, but I think the stronger connection involves linking JFK to Buddy Holly or other rock stars who died too young. Actually, I think the song’s a lot funnier if interpreted as the story of a wannabe musician who gets squashed by a semi, but I do have a wicked sense of humor. Musically, the song is an absolute hoot, integrating strong rock drive with corny hillbilly guitar strumming that makes me laugh every time I hear it. The faux female singers begging for “Jonee, Jonee” in the fade are a bonus delight.

“Sloppy (I Saw My Baby Gettin’)” doesn’t add much to the album except to remind us that Casale is a great bass player and Devo put a lot of work into their arrangements. I do like the album closer, “Shrivel Up,” a “cool-rock” piece accented by reverb-heavy guitar that stretches the meaning of “god-given fact” to include consumerist wisdom from White Castle (“it’s a god-given fact you gotta buy ’em by the sack”) and the sad inevitability that all dicks must shrivel up (whether in response to cold, hemorrhoids or recent ejaculation). Casale’s vocal is delivered in the creepy-nice-guy voice of a commercial announcer, the guy who wants to come across as your friend but really thinks you’re a dumb piece of shit. The most chilling lines appear at the start of the closing verse:

It’s at the top of the list
That you can’t get pissed
It’s rule number one: living right isn’t fun
Living right isn’t fun

I can’t believe this record came out in the 1970’s, long before the appearance of anger management classes and health nazis. Both are conformist responses from people who are unable to handle strong emotions and are terrified of people who do naughty things like smoke cigarettes and have kinky sex (yes, I’m taking this personally). Living right ISN’T FUN, and if you’re not angry about Donald Trump, racism, sexism and the decline in the quality of music, there’s something seriously fucking wrong with YOU.

Although Devo was dismissed at the time by those who heard their music as a passing fad and saw their outrageous get-ups and choreography as evidence of temporary insanity, Are We Not Menis a timeless album about vital issues that still concern us today. What the fuck is going on with the human race, anyway? For every step forward, we seem to take two giant steps backward; for all our extensive networks of communication we still can’t communicate; and for all our advanced knowledge we still can’t figure out how to eliminate poverty or come up with an economic system that doesn’t require people to work at jobs they abhor. And why is the human race filled with so many people who never want to make progress? While progress may not be the pre-determined outcome of evolution, human beings have both the consciousness and free will to make the world a better place, and it’s damned mystifying why we would choose not do so so.

The only possible explanation is . . . WE ARE DEVO!

The Rolling Stones – Out of Our Heads (U. S. Version) – Classic Music Review

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I decided to begin my exploration of the Rolling Stones by skipping their first three albums, which consisted largely of cover songs and Jagger-Richards/Nanker Phelge compositions that sounded like cover songs of cover songs.

That’s not to imply they weren’t good from the get-go, because The Stones were a great cover band. They made a few unfortunate choices over the years (“My Girl” is one they should have left in the can, and “Good Times” on this album really doesn’t hit their sweet spot or mine), but they usually picked great songs from the Chess and Atlantic catalogs that played to Jagger’s vocal strengths and the R&B foundation of the band. Later, they would do one of the few covers of Robert Johnson that I actually like (“Love in Vain” on Let It Bleed). Still, they really didn’t become The Stones until the Jagger-Richards and Nanker Phelge originals started appearing with more frequency and originality.

The Jagger-Richards songwriting team rarely gets the kudos they deserve, especially in comparison to contemporaries such as Lennon-McCartney and Ray Davies. I find that strange, because their great songs about the absurdity of modern life are every bit as good as Ray Davies’ work in that field. Songs like “Get Off My Cloud, “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” “Mother’s Little Helper” and “19th Nervous Breakdown” dealt what people experienced every day as they swam in and out of the unconsciousness of the rat race of the “corporate man” period and the disintegration of human relations into sales pitches. They showed us that things had become so absurd that people were coping with their neuroses by starring in their own personal dramas, a topic Ray Davies would have fun with in Soap Opera. While others protested war, modernization, poverty and civil rights, The Stones problematized daily existence, with incisive observations and snarky humor. Two of my favorite opening lines of all time are pungent and powerful Jagger-Richards lines: “What a drag it is getting old,” and the all time classic, “You’re the kind of person you meet at certain dismal, dull affairs.” Jagger and Richards called attention to the absurdity of the system and the irony that people were beginning to deal with the system by becoming absurd themselves.

Of course, they also wrote some of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll songs ever created, no small achievement in itself.

Out of Our Heads marks the beginning of the transition from cover band to something more. Interestingly, they open with two covers, the first being Don Covay’s “Mercy, Mercy.” The Stones’ version features a heavier, boozier background than the more laid-back support in the original. Covay’s vocal tends to fluctuate and sometimes crosses the line into overdoing it; Jagger’s vocal is steady, soulful and in command. You tap your feet to the original; you move to The Stones’ version. Marvin Gaye’s “Hitch Hike” comes next, a rather pedestrian performance at best. On “Mercy, Mercy,” they feel it; here they’re going through the motions.

Finally we get to an original . . . sort of. Based on a Staples Singers song, “The Last Time” features the first of many killer opening riffs that characterized Stones hits throughout their career, a relentless beat, a bluesy garage lead solo and solid harmonies on the chorus. Jagger’s performance is brilliant, starting out in an almost grimly serious, scolding tone that builds up to the “I’ve had it with your bullshit” vocal in the last verse. The Stones’ demonstrate they’ve already mastered the dramatic aspects of music with that slow, steady build leading to that scorching final verse and the sudden disappearance of everyone but Charlie Watts following the final chorus. Every time I hear that passage, I get the chills. I also love the fade out, where Jagger really, really lets it go.

We go back to covers with Roosevelt Jamison’s “That’s How Strong My Love Is,” most famously covered by Otis Redding. Mick doesn’t quite get to the level of Otis’ performance, but that would be a pretty high bar for anyone. Still, it’s a solid performance that’s light years better than The Hollies’ version, a rendition that tells you only that The Hollies had absolutely no business recording this song. On the flip side, The Stones had no business recording Sam Cooke’s “Good Times,” which comes next. The song is simply too light for them, and Jagger lacks the genuine sense of joy and hope that Sam Cooke imparted to some of his greatest songs. At this juncture, the live performance of Bo Diddley’s  “I’m Alright” appears; not the greatest live performance I’ve ever heard but a good reminder that The Stones were (and miraculously still are) a working band that knows how to stimulate a crowd.

At this point, the ratio of covers to originals has been overwhelming; from here on the ratio flips, beginning with the iconic, “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” I had to laugh when I saw the following in the Wikipedia article on this song:

The title line is an example of a negative concord when the article of the noun (no) becomes negative under the influence of the standard negation (-n’t), a common usage in colloquial English and not to confuse with double negation (which would be “I can’t get not satisfaction”).

Talk about sucking the life out of the music! I’d never fuck the person who wrote that! Who the hell doesn’t intuitively understand that the double negative in this song = dissatisfaction squared?

Later in the article, the author makes a very good point that is lost to us when we listen to the song in the 21st Century: “In its day the song was perceived as disturbing because of both its sexual connotations and the negative view of commercialism and other aspects of modern culture; critic Paul Gambaccini stated: ‘The lyrics to this were truly threatening to an older audience. This song was perceived as an attack on the status quo.’” While I think that opinion is dead on, what must have been equally shocking to the average person tuned into the AM radio back in 1965 was that glorious fuzz tone coming through their tinny little speakers. Our ears desensitized to years of distorted rock guitar, it’s hard to appreciate that there was a time when the average listener had never heard anything like that before! It’s interesting that Keith Richards used the fuzz tone only as a filler to be replaced later by horns, a decision that would have ranked as the second worst decision in musical history (the first being the detachment of “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “Penny Lane” from Sgt. Pepper).

Recently I had the good fortune of hearing the backing track of “Satisfaction,” (thank you, M. C.) and realized that I’d really never heard Brian Jones’ acoustic guitar backing and how much it fills the space, making the sound so full and rich. Even more amazing is that Jagger and Richards, at a relatively early stage in their songwriting efforts, were able to produce a song that not only combined exceptional cultural insight with a kick-ass rock performance but resonated so strongly with the satisfaction-starved public. The song is only very indirectly influenced by Muddy Waters’ “I Can’t Be Satisfied,” an influence limited entirely to the concept of sensual and relational dissatisfaction, so Mick and Keith deserve some serious kudos for crafting this timeless classic.

 

“Cry to Me,” originally recorded by gospel-soul stylist Solomon Burke, is one of my favorite Stones covers. You can tell from Jagger’s delivery, Keith’s lovely riffs and Bill Wyman’s attack that The Stones didn’t just adopt R&B as a convenient source of cover material. They really loved this stuff! “Cry to Me” is a challenging song, because its structure and emotional content provide the singer with opportunities and pitfalls; finding the right level of passion is difficult. Personally, I think Mick does a better job than either Solomon Burke or Betty Harris, both of whom tended to jump too far, too fast between the gentle parts and the explosive parts. Jagger sings the song as if he’s shepherding the passion carefully and with great discipline, making the buildup much more impactful.

I love The Stones when they get snarky about pompous asses, and “The Under Assistant West Coast Promotion Man” is a shining example. They have a great time poking fun at this self-styled “necessary talent behind every rock ‘n’ roll band” who spends his time “thinkin’ just how sharp I am.” As always, rhythm is tight and Brian Jones does a great job with the harmonica backing, giving Jagger the opportunity to do this thing. The opening lines of the fadeout, “I sure do earn my pay/Sittin’ on the beach every day,” are emphasized with Jagger’s intensive “Yeah” that follows the lines, proving that a single word beautifully delivered at the right time can say it all.

“Play with Fire” is in many ways the important song on the album from a development perspective. They’d already given the exquisite “As Tears Go By” to Marianne Faithfull (though it would appear on their next American album), so “Play with Fire,” the B-side for “The Last Time,” gave them the opportunity to show the listening public that they were more than R&B/Rock band. The relatively simple structure allows for the creation of a haunting and compelling background to Jagger’s no-frills vocal; you can imagine him saying these words in a dark corner of a cafe as he looks with sad wonderment at the society girl trying to impress him with her family’s riches. The harpsichord helps create a dark environment that reflects the depth of the social divide, and Keith Richards’ gentle acoustic guitar demonstrates style flexibility beyond anything they’d done before.

“The Spider and the Fly” is a clean roots number about boredom and the search for sexual stimulation on the road. The singer isn’t looking for love; shit, he isn’t even looking for a good time. He’s just looking for a way to fill the hours, and the “rinsed out blonde on my left” will do as well as anything else, even if “she was common, flirty, she looked about thirty.” The interwoven leads from Richards and Jones are a highlight, as is Jagger’s appropriately bored vocal. The album ends with the often overlooked “One More Try,” an unusually bouncy and upbeat number for The Stones but still grounded in R&B and enhanced by solid harmonica.

As an album, Out of Our Heads is often ranked too high on the Best Album lists, but it is still an important album. Perhaps we need a new list of “Best Examples of a Band Finding Themselves,” or “Best Albums to Establish Artistic Direction.” Out of Our Heads proved beyond a shadow of doubt that Mick Jagger and Keith Richards had serious songwriting gifts, and more than anything else, that’s what would move the band to even greater heights.

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