Wonder what Barack Obama and John McCain might have on their iPods? Wonder no more, as Blender.com asked the two for their top-10 tracks.

I imagine these to be extremely careful choices, vetted and massaged by no fewer than a half-dozen campaign staffers.

And it amuses me to envision McCain rocking out to “Dancing Queen.”

Summer doesn’t start until next Friday, but I’m in a summery mood so here’s a pre-summer mix.

Some notes:

Heat waves make me think of old people without air conditioning dying alone in their apartments, which is sort of why I included “Marie Provost,” a song about a former star who died alone and was gnawed by her dachshund.

I expect Santogold to be this summer’s M.I.A. in terms of guilty pop pleasure, and I followed her in my mix with the Go-Go’s because to me they sound relative. (Although someone pointed out to me after I’d compiled this mix that a closer comparison is “Voices Carry”-era Aimee Mann.)

Anyway, enjoy.

Bonus: Download the whole mix as a Zipped collection of mp3s or stream it through your browser on Muxtape.

Bonus: Download the whole mix.

For being located in an un-BBQ neighborhood (the Upper East Side) in a city frequently maligned for its BBQ (that’d be New York) while sporting a decor that conjures nothing of what I’ve been trained to believe a BBQ restaurant should look like, the BBQ itself at Smokin’ Q is pretty great. At least the pulled pork sandwich I ate there tonight was. I can’t begin to explain what mad genius it is to top sweet, saucy and smoky shredded pork with a layer of coleslaw. So tantalizing. Their mac-and-cheese is awesome, too, rich and hearty, with that slight grit real cheddar brings to the table.

The music strove to conjure fun BBQ-based times, though the speaker near my table was malfunctioning and the mix was revealed to be iPod-based when someone decided a few seconds into Dick Dale’s surf-guitar version of “Misirlou” that it wasn’t all that great and mashed the skip button.

There were only four other people in the place, probably because Easter doesn’t have all that much to do with barbecue. And although the food was fine, I just couldn’t get over that decor: reedy, woven-back chairs; lots of pastel paint on the walls; plush banquettes; a potted plant on the stairway landing; good lighting. The closest nudge to country-time was a wooden barrel plunked near the front door, on which sat takeout menus and individually wrapped toothpicks. There are at least brick walls and wooden floors, and at each table, the requisite caddy of wet-naps, extra sauce and a whole roll of paper towers in vertical wooden-dowel dispensers. But the framed B&W photos of plumes of smoke are a too arty, even if they are offset by a sad framed poster of Jim Carrey’s character from The Mask, overlaid with his catchphrase “Sssmokin’!”.

I read later, in a New York Times article from late January, that the space for Smokin’ Q was most recently a kosher Japanese steakhouse, so perhaps many of the incongruous design elements are left over from that failed venture. The space just doesn’t seem that comfortable in its new cuisine genre.

Smokin’ Q

• 206 E. 63rd St. (between Second and Third Avenues)
• (212) 355-7000
• Meal 14 of 52: pulled pork sandwich with side of mac and cheese ($10.95).

In 1977, during a fit of poetry, optimism and metallurgy, some nerds at NASA shot into space a phonograph made from copper, plated with gold and jacketed in an aluminum sleeve. They sent up two copies, to be precise, each affixed to the interior of the Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 spacecraft, courses set for infinity. The hope of the nerds was that eons from now, aliens might intercept the record, listen to its 27 songs representing the world’s countries and cultures, and know more about us.¹

The nerds acknowledged they were dealing with a low and particular form of audio technology, so they embossed pictographic operating instructions on the jacket. They also included a spare cartridge and needle, possibly recognizing that by the time of any interception—no earlier than 1990, when the Voyagers would pass Pluto—that even extraterrestrials would have upgraded to at least eight-track tapes.

Never mind the chance, remotely slim in the vastness of space, that any alien would find this object intact and know what to make of it. Never mind that the inhabitants of Earth, despite widely varying levels of intelligence, invariably assume that life beyond our planet will be an awful lot like us, only sporting pajamas and weirder foreheads. Never mind all that; this was a cool idea, to burn a civilization’s Greatest Hits onto a golden disc.

I’ve been skimming through the book Murmurs of Earth: The Voyager Interstellar Record², reading of the wrestling over that 90-minute mix, particularly the pop songs and music from America that were debated for inclusion.

In one instance, the resident conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra in Washington called the Smithsonian’s curator of jazz at 11 p.m. on a Sunday, awakening him to ask whether the Miles Davis version of Gershwin’s “Summertime” would be appropriate to send to the stars. It was rejected. So was the whole of country music, offered as an option because the people who built the spaceships listened to it. Further bickering arose over Elvis, Jefferson Starship (who volunteered music for the record), Bob Dylan (“would the music stand if the words were incomprehensible?” asked Carl Sagan, a model of perfect diction) and the Beatles, of whom Sagan writes:

We wanted to send “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles, and all four Beatles gave their approval. But the Beatles did not own the copyright, and the legal status of the piece seemed too murky to risk.

C’mon, Carl; you should’ve sucked it up and sent it out. What did you have to lose? You’re slinging the song into a void billions and billions of miles from Apple Corps and its pugnacious lawyers.

But no contemporary pop made the cut. The four pieces of American music pressed to disc were a Navajo night chant and three songs by African American musicians: Louis Armstrong’s “Melancholy Blues,” Blind Willie Johnson’s “Dark Was the Night (Cold Was the Ground)” and Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.”

Other than praising Sagan & Co. for sidestepping Armstrong’s most-popular and least-representative track, the sappy “What a Wonderful World”, I’m impressed by the selection of “Dark Was the Night.”³. It’s just Johnson and his guitar, which he played by sliding his pocketknife over the strings; his hums and moans; and his blindness and loneliness. His stepmother blinded him, throwing lye in his face when he was seven. During most of his life, he played on the streets of Texas, “collecting tips in a cup wired to his guitar neck,” writes blues historian Jas Obrecht. Ailing and rejected by the hospital, Johnson died of pneumonia, sleeping on a waterlogged bed covered with newspaper.

For all the American flags waving in slow motion on Earth and those bolted to the moon, for all the space program’s hopeful rhetoric, not as much talk covers the fact that space is big and we’re little, looking for food, water, a dry place to sleep, and company. That’s just what you get—what you feel—with Johnson and his spooky little space-song, mankind’s most appropriate mix-pick.

Bonus mp3: “Dark Was the Night (Cold Was the Ground)” by Blind Willie Johnson, recorded on December 3, 1927, the same version pressed to the Voyager disc.

Related: NASA’s page on the Golden Record.

¹ Also encoded in the audio spectrum of the record are 117 pictures, greetings in 54 human languages and one from the whales (remember, this was the ’70s) and 19 “sounds of Earth,” but for the purposes of this post, I’m only interested in the music. [back]

² It’s out of print. Snaps to the Strand for having a copy. [back]

³ In the middle of writing this post, the internet informed me that The West Wing incorporated this song and its involvement in the Voyager mission as a plot point. I missed that episode. But now I kind of want to see it. [back]

I don’t condone torture, unless it’s enacted against people I just can’t stand, but I’m intrigued by this “Torture Playlist,” published online by Mother Jones yesterday. It’s comprised of songs reportedly used by U.S. military prison guards and interrogators to shock detainees into submission.

Where to start?

First, I love that the list appears to have been assembled by white, 19-year-old males from backwater towns like Orrick, Missouri, using songs that they personally find annoying or have on their iPods as “inspiration” to get them fired up in the morning. That’s great.

I approve of “America,” one of my favorite Neil songs. Need I mention that he sang it during the televised unveiling of the new-and-improved Statue of Liberty? You can’t get served a much more patriotic slice of American cheese than that.

But Prince? If you’re going for white-hot torture, I’d turn to the Purple One’s Batman soundtrack, specifically “Batdance,” a six-minute-plus annoyance larded with drum machines and samples from the movie.

And so much missing. Where’s “Believe” by Cher? No matter breaking the spirit of a terror suspect; her Auto-Tuned warble in that song could blast holes in Formica.

Where’s “Shine” by Collective Soul, reportedly a favorite of Virginia Tech gunman Seung-Hui Cho?

Where’s any classical music, least of which Night on Bald Mountain? It ain’t highfalutin; haven’t these kids seen Fantasia?

And most importantly, where’s the Tuvan throat singing? As Katie will confirm, we used to play this music at closing time over the store-wide sound system at Booksellers, the independent bookstore at which we worked in Cleveland. It effectively drove out straggling customers but had no apparent effect on the homeless guy who would shamble in to wash his hair in the bookstore’s restroom toilet. No music could deter Mr. Ty-D-Dreads.

Related: Read this brief history of annoying songs played by the military that includes a playlist from the army’s boomboxing of Manuel Noriega in 1989, the first instance I remember reading about regarding music as psych-ops.

Japanese engineers have developed a musical surface called “melody roads” that recalls rumble strips except with grooves cut and spaced precisely to recreate notes when a car passes over them at 28 mph.¹

There are three musical strips in central and northern Japan, one of which plays the tune of a Japanese pop song. Notice of an impending musical interlude, which lasts for about 30 seconds, is highlighted by coloured musical notes painted on to the road.

Which reminded me: I needed to get cracking with the on-the-road music-mixes for my Thanksgiving vacation to our nation’s Square States beginning tomorrow. I’d made a mixtape for Dana and I to listen to, but I was already getting bored just looking at it, so I did the next best thing: I solicited mixtapes from two of my coworkers, prescreened for their excellent musical tastes and in-house ability to quickly crank out playlists of driving songs before I fly out of New York tomorrow.

My directives were loose, though I cautioned, “Transitions are important, as is verve. The songs don’t necessarily have to be about travel/driving unless you are some sort of Clever Dan.” I concluded: “I will repay you by either saving your life someday when you least expect it or by giving you a gift-wrapped box of Jell-O brand Pudding Pops. But only the plain kind, not the swirly chocolate-vanilla kind.”

I got S.’s first. She lives for shit like this and admitted as such. I’m a big fan of covers, so I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out the Arcade Fire song is by the Talking Heads, the Nouvelle Vague song is by Tuxedomoon and I think she slyly chose the M. Ward song “Sadie” (originally by Joanna Newsom) because the original version fits the criteria for her Album-Song Name Game. S. was originally going to have “The Passenger” in her mix, then pulled it when she saw it in my own; then she included the same Clap Your Hands Say Yeah song I’d originally been considering for my own mix. Weird.

I nearly didn’t think I’d get one from K., but he passed his disc over at the last moment, scrawled in blue Sharpie with “JaYo’s 2007 Thanx Giving Trip Mix.” Lots of drum-machine beats with bloops and bleeps recalling Postal Service mating with My Bloody Valentine, mixed with some sort of mopey stuff, a wholesale swath of Diamond Dogs, stray weirdness and unexpectedness. Had I mentioned “Against All Odds” was my favorite Phil C. song? Or is that everyone’s favorite Phil C. song?

And here’s mine. I like how all three of us included at least one track from the ’60s/’70s amidst a lion’s share of tracks from the current and previous decade, in order to show our tastes have a range, or something.

¹ Via the article “Japan’s Melody Roads Play Music As You Drive” by Bobbie Johnson, technology correspondent for The Guardian, Tuesday, November 13, 2007. [back]

For a while there, Arcade Fire seemed to favor small and oddball venues like decommissioned churches in which to play their rousing pop-rock and smack themselves on the head with drumsticks. Would their act tonight suffer from being staged at the large outdoor venue of Randall’s Island? It didn’t seem so. It started off slowly with “Black Mirror” but picked up swiftly with religious revival-style choruses, playing of the full pipe organ the band had shipped in, manic drumming and the dramatic unfurling of several banners.

The stage show centered around video projected onto not only the rear curtain on the stage but onto a half-dozen manhole-cover-sized white screens atop tall stands that were positioned on points of an arc across the stage, fed live from perhaps a few dozen tiny cameras secreted around the set, including a few mounted to mike stands that offered intimate close-ups of individual band members performing. The video was shown and cut on the fly, tinged with a variety of color effects, giving it all a vaguely propagandistic air.

The opening acts put on a fine show, too. I unexpectedly liked LCD Soundsystem, which is mostly a pudgy white guy lurching around and shrieking over constant staccato drum lines, rubbery bass guitar, and synths. The music reminded me of an updated Happy Mondays, or songs like “Temptation” from New Order’s club-music heyday, the ones that would go on forever, but in a good way.

Arcade Fire Setlist

1. Black Mirror
2. Keep The Car Running
3. Neighborhood #2 (Laïka)
4. No Cars Go
5. Haiti
6. I’m Sleeping In A Submarine
7. My Body Is A Cage
8. Cold Wind
9. Intervention
10. (Antichrist Television Blues)
11. The Well And The Lighthouse
12. Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)
13. Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)
14. Rebellion (Lies)

Encore

1. Headlights Look Like Diamonds
2. Wake Up

(setlist via brooklynvegan.com)

This mix features slow and sparse piano-driven tunes, good as background for your dinner party, visit from the parents or for that Sunday morning when your mind is still swollen from the previous night’s rambling and alcohol and you can’t yet wrap it around things like drums and guitar solos.

I was aiming for a vodka-tonics-at-the-afterparty vibe with the soft-synth beats and breathy lyrics of this mix. I daresay I succeeded.

I always have fun at karaoke but usually so much fun—also alcohol—that I remember little the next day, when my voice resembles Marge Simpson’s and my head contains fading waves of “Forever in Blue Jeans.” This is bad because karaoke success depends on consistency. Sure, you can go off on a bender from time to time and sing wild songs, but you should at least:

1. Have a signature, well-practiced song or two with which to impress and/or make the audience overlook your shortcomings.
2. Know your weaknesses in terms of song selection and pitch and so on.

So when Samantha and Iggy invited me out tonight for the happy-hour special at Japas 55, I took advantage of the small-group dynamic to whip out my notebook and record what everyone sang. I’ve recreated the playlist below. This is useful, believe me, because looking at it now, I remember much more clearly what worked and what didn’t.

For instance, anyone vaguely familiar with the White Album can sing the first part of “I Will” by the Beatles, but for those such as myself not intimately familiar with it, confusion sets in by the middle-eight. Same thing with Billy Idol’s “Eyes Without a Face,” which has a tricky rapping bit towards the end that I forget exists until it’s too late.

Another problem I recall by this list is my trouble sticking to one style of singing. For instance, “Ziggy Stardust”: Should it be sung with British accent or without? The correct answer is “with” but I couldn’t make up my mind and meandered back and forth. Even worse was Björk’s “Hyper-Ballad.” I kept threatening to select a Björk song (“It’ll be fun, right?”), then I did, thinking either I would receive backup or it would be an amusing trifle, neither fantasy of which came true. For you see, I realized too late that Björk is the only person who can sing Björk songs. The sole constant in my delivery was shifting from cloying falsetto to my “normal” singing voice, bending and cracking as if I was hitting puberty over and over again. I made even myself nauseous and if Björk would have happened by, she would have punched me. And then Matthew Barney would have dumped a bucket of petroleum jelly on my bruised head.

“Here Comes Your Man” was my biggest success, in part because no one ever picks that song and even people who don’t know the Pixies or hate them in general cannot deny the tune is catchy pop greatness. (The lyrics are another story.) In general, too, country is good for me (“Folsom Prison Blues” and “El Paso”) because of the repetition and lower-voiced simplicities therein. And if you wonder why I chose to sing “Thirty-Three,” no one’s favorite Smashing Pumpkins song, it’s because that is my age. Oh, I am clever. Also, Billy Corgan generally sings with a range poor and/or basic enough for anyone to mimic. (I feel the same way about many songs of Bono, which is why I favor U2’s “One.”)

But enough about me. Turning to the people in the room who could really sing, Iggy proved he is a master of style, voice and pitch, sliding seamlessly from Barry White (complete with lusciously deep voice and spoken-word asides) to Michael Jackson (with ad-libbed hoo-hooos). He is king of the soulful oldies: see his choices from the Platters, the Temptations, Stevie Wonder, etc. Ain’t no mountain high enough for Iggy to conquer. For those of you who do not know him, I should point out that, as near as I can see, Iggy is not black. But I feel he should keep holding out for an honorary designation from the NAACP.

Samantha has a repertoire of awesome signature songs, particularly Olivia Newton-John’s “Magic,” which reminds me of The Motels’ “Only the Lonely,” another song she rocks on. She is queen of the strong voice, staying on key and hitting high notes with laserlike accuracy. As special bonuses, she will take requests (her skin-tingling rendition of Cyndi Lauper’s “All Through the Night” is a favorite of mine) and also dance along at no extra charge. For instance, she did the Robert Palmer Video Girl moves at my request during “Simply Irresistible” and, on her own, grooved “She’s a Bad Mama Jama” like a Fly Girl on Red Bull. She’s not too cool to provide backup (the repeated Les yeux sans visage in “Eyes Without a Face”) and graciously sang a Rod Stewart song Iggy accidentally keyed-in (“Love Touch”) even though she thinks Rod is a wanker.

And O those starry-eyed duets: “I Got You Babe” (more cute than corny) and “Groovin’” (self-explanatory). Well done, kids.

For the closer, “Sweet Caroline,” we belatedly activated a feature present on most newer karaoke units that tracks a singer’s key, tempo and portamento. (Portamento? I think that’s what it was.) When the song’s over, you receive an animé bar graph speckled with Japanese characters and a number. Ours was 83, which is good, I guess. We need to investigate this feature further.

As our night of song drew to a conclusion, I proved I hadn’t lost it in matters of quickly forgetting. It wasn’t until I had nearly said my final goodbyes to Sam and Iggy, heading up Eighth Avenue to the subway, before Iggy gently pointed out I hadn’t paid for my share of the festivities. That made me feel like a jerk, but it was not my intention to flee the bill and I explained more or less accurately that I usually have a stranger or someone such as Andie handle delicate financial matters when I’ve been drinking. “Here’s my wallet,” I’ll say, handing it over. “I trust you.”

I was digging through some archived mix-CDs of mine and found this one from circa 2001, a blend of songs I put together as the official soundtrack to my old cartoon, Joe Clipart.

The songs are goofy pop nonsense, all chosen under the guise that they’re ones the cartoon’s protagonist would listen to himself; in fact, many of them are directly referenced in the cartoons.

The mix doubles as a fantastic Spring-weather soundtrack, so I’m presenting the tracks here for those of you with speedy connections, corrupt consciences and a strong stomach for late-’80s early-’90s top-40.

And don’t forget: there ain’t nothin’ wrong if you wanna do “da butt” all night long.

So here’s what Bill Clinton would have on his iPod, if he has/had one and happened to publicize its contents. It’s the recently announced tracklist from The Bill Clinton Collection: Selections from the Clinton Music Room, the first in a series of CDs to be sold at the Clinton Museum Store near the Clinton Library. The store operator reports than when Clinton stopped by earlier this month and picked up a demo copy of the CD, “by the time he got to the golf course, all the windows of the SUV were down and he was blasting it.” (Song title links launch 30-second audio samples in the iTunes Music Store, if iTunes is installed on your computer.)

As for Bush, we already know some of what’s on his iPod thanks to numerous stories earlier this summer (my sources: reports from the BBC, ABC News and Editor & Publisher). These are some of the songs he listens to while he’s mountain biking.

Compare and contrast! In the heady days pre-playlists, I remember when the press would furiously analyize Presidential campaign theme songs for any scrap of hidden meaning. Now the press has whole segments of the presidential iPod to investigate and psychoanalyze, dedicating column inches to ponder whether “Running down the length of my thighs, Sharona” is an appropriately Presidential lyric.

The funny thing is, sidestepping the fun-and-obvious cracks that can be made about specific song choices, I really can imagine each of these guys listening to these songs. Clinton’s selections are established classics from gospel and sax-heavy jazz, with a wild-haired song from the sixties by Judy Collins tossed in for good measure. Bush’s selections are predominantly upbeat country, with “classic rock” favorites and goofy ’80s pop tunes blended in.

Tonight I cooked up a meal of Gypsy Soup from The New Moosewood Cookbook, that mainstay of vegetarian cooking by Mollie Katzen. It’s a superb cold-weather soup that’s exotically spiced, hearty and filling. I paired it with some Santa Cecilia malbec wine, made from a thick-skinned grape that the French have designated the least of the six varieties approved for Bordeaux, but which is enjoying a John Travolta-like resurgence of fame in the Mendoza region of Argentina. It’s a rich, dark and buttery wine, and went great with the soup. I rounded out the dinner with a loaf of crusty bread and a wedge of Asiago Fresco, which I chose from among the 150 or so different cheeses at the Andie-recommended Murray’s Cheese, a small, bustling shop on Bleecker Street that’s been around since the ’40s.

Here’s a link to the original recipe for the soup and I’ve listed my version below with a few clarifications and slight substitutions. I have the sneaking suspicion you could get away with buying canned crushed tomatoes to replace step 1. I’d also like remind myself that, in the future, I can buy my spices really cheap at non-grocery stores. CVS, I discovered after I paid many, many dollars for my spices at Gristedes, had the basil, cinnamon and, oddly enough, the bay leaves, in 1.5-ounce plastic containers that were 99 cents each.

After Andie left for work early this afternoon, Eric and I spent most of the day cleaning and prepping for the New Year’s Eve party. I did much of the last-minute shopping, although the hassle was nobody’s fault but my own, as I've known about this fiesta since November 21. I went to:

• Jack’s 99¢ Store by Penn Station for really cheap plates, cups that turned out to be too small and assemble-them-yourself plastic champagne glasses.
• the Super Kmart at One Penn Plaza for kitchen garbage bags and some cups that were also too small.
• Price Wise Discount for Solo plastic party cups in red and blue. At 18 ounces, they were just the right size; if you’ve been to a college kegger in the past 10 years, you’ve drunk from one of these.
• Citibank for more dough.
• Mitchell’s Wines & Liquors on W. 86th Street between Amsterdam and Broadway for three bottles of wine, including one called Bogle that I bought only because of the name’s proximity to a certain scrambled word game.
• Gristedes for five two-liter bottles of soda.
• back to Mitchell’s for another bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and to check on the Champagne prices.
• that deli across the street from the Raccoon Lodge on Amsterdam, which was the only place in a five block radius selling a copy of today’s New York Times, which I promised Eric I’d buy.
• back to Mitchell’s again, dammit, this time with Eric, to purchase 12 bottles of Korbel Brut California Champagne and lug them home.

Andie made her patented Tasty Salsa and some guacamole that was precarious because we were unsure the avocados were ripe enough. (They were, and the guacamole was polished off by party’s end.) Eric made brownies from scratch, as well as some buttery lace cookies. Then we had the usual spread of exotic cheeses and olives, soda, crackers, cashews and almonds, and tortilla, banana and potato chips. Folks brought cookies, beer and more wine to complement the case of Louis Jadot Beaujolais-Villages (2003) Andie bought.

About 30 people showed up and everyone seemed to have a great time. Conversation was fun and lively, particularly as more of the wine was consumed. Throughout the evening, a few objects were dropped and/or broken, as is required at parties:

• glass flower vase of tulips bumped off windowsill. Result: water spillage, no breakage, no problem.
• Champagne bottle falling on one of Andie’s decorative plates, illustrated with old French beverage ads. Result: one plate badly chipped on the edge.
• Jason’s PowerBook knocked to the floor (the dancing got a little out of hand). Result: another scratch; unfortunate resetting of party playlist; no immediately obvious lasting damage to complement the existing dents from when I knocked it to the floor last weekend.

When the computer was restarted after its spill, it was playing only Andie’s half of the playlist, which accounted for nearly all 50 of her songs being played but only about half of mine. It still ended up a jaunty mix. I was pleased Eric’s one song pick got played (“Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny Cash) as well as my and Andie’s “New Year’s song” picks, “Pretty Good Year” by Tori Among (Andie) and “This Will Be Our Year” by The Zombies (mine). And if “Against All Odds (Take A Look At Me Now)” by Mr. Phil Collins hadn’t made the cut, there would have been a riot—it was the only song that both Andie and I chose when assembling our individual 50-song party playlists. Here are all the tunes that played during the party, along with which of us chose each one:

After Andie decided yesterday that we’ll be throwing a New Year’s Eve party, we got cracking on the most important task: creating the music playlist.

I spent far too much time on it this weekend, choosing the 100 most party-friendly tunes from my 1,360-song iTunes library of mostly moody or angry songs ill-suited for background music. It got really tough after The B-52’s.

All weekend, I kept thinking of slight refinements. “Little T&A” by the Rolling Stones was a bit too obscure and I opted instead for “Sympathy For The Devil.” Similarly, the Beatles’ “Getting Better” was swapped out for “Helter Skelter,” which I imagined would more closely match the character of the party. Hearing “Road To Nowhere” by the Talking Heads while I was at Urban Outfitters convinced me on another addition, and walking home, I had a sudden craving to include “Catch Me (I’m Falling)” by Pretty Poison.

Babbling excitedly about my selections over dinner last night, I was certain Andie thought I had finally gone off the deep end. That is, until she called me at work today just to let me know that she had prepared her own playlist of 50 prime party songs. It was always our intention to include an equal number of songs from each of our collections, so we decided we first need to eliminate any duplicates after which I would halve my list. I may just have to do that at random; it would be too painful otherwise. We also decided that, despite Andie’s scientific expertise at perfecting musical transitions on mix CDs, cleverly sequencing 100 songs would drive anyone nuts. So we’ll probably just play the songs randomly. Probably.

Lest you think this party will be a total disaster, with great music, but no food, drinks or even guests, rest assured that Andie is a party-planning pro and, in fact, whipped up a preliminary guest list this afternoon. You’re invited, too, but you gotta bring some beer. And pretend you like the music.

Andie and I went and saw PJ Harvey tonight at the Hammerstein Ballroom, which is only 2.5 blocks away from where I work. It was a rockin’ good time.

Moris Tepper opened. In retropect, I think some of his songs sounded a bit like early PJ Harvey songs, only sung by a crazy guy with only an amped acoustic guitar. Turns out he’s played guitar for Captain Beefheart, Tom Waits and Frank Black. If you put those three guys and their instruments in a metal trash can and rolled it down a hill, it’d sound like Moris Tepper. I mean that in a good way. Never mind.

The sold-out crowd packed in for PJ and there was an inexplicable rash of guys taller than six feet standing directly in front of us, so there was a lot of head-darting to catch views of the stage. PJ looked great, as always, with her shagged haircut, handbag, sleeveless shirt-blouse thing, and a skirt that appeared to be illustrated with Animal from The Muppet Show. She said very little between songs other than a quiet “thanks” or two, but she really rocked out. No one’s got a voice like hers, where in one moment, she’s singing high and clear with operatic beauty, and then all the sudden her voice swoops down low and she’s growling and you start sweating and reaching for your revolver.

She only played five of the 14 songs from her newest album, which was good because the crowd wanted the classics. Song highlights for me were “Big Exit” and “The Whores Hustle And The Hustlers Whore” from Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea. I also enjoyed “Is This Desire?” (one of her most transcendent songs), as well as the sludgy “Meet Ze Monsta,” for which PJ played police whistle and maracas. Cool.

For the fans, here’s the setlist. If memory serves, the only cover is “Janet Vs. Johnny,” which is by The Fall.

1. Dress
2. Who The Fuck?
3. Big Exit
4. Evol
5. Victory
6. My Beautiful Leah
7. 50ft Queenie
8. Shame
9. It’s You
10. The Life & Death Of Mr. Badmouth
11. Meet Ze Monsta
12. The Whores Hustle And The Hustlers Whore
13. Harder
14. Me-Jane

Encore 1

1. Rid Of Me
2. Taut
3. Catherine
4. Fountain
5. Janet Vs. Johnny
6. Is This Desire?

Encore 2

1. There Will Never Be A Better Time
2. The Darker Days Of Me And Him

Katie, Andie and I went to brunch together at Artie’s Deli today. After Andie left for work, Katie and I sat on the couch the rest of the day, listening to music while she checked her email.

Katie’s home computer has been inoperable for some time and since she only checks email during her occasional visits to our place, it tends to reach critical mass and require a multihour reply session. To pass the time, I was playing selections from my moody hipster collection of mp3s when we started talking about music we really liked around the time of junior high and still had a fondness for, which seemed to be defined as being able to belt out most of the lyrics while sober.

It started with Katie’s remembrance of Glenn Frey’s “You Belong To The City,” replete with smoky sax and pastel visions of Don Johnson, then went on to include several more of her favorites:

She also agreed with some of my picks:

I was able to pull nearly all of these from a DVD-ROM of ‘80s songs that I keep hidden away for reasons of seeming more cool. But we reminisced enough about these songs that we didn’t even scratch the pop metal genre (other than Ratt) from roughly the same timeframe; Poison, Def Leppard, Mötley Crüe, Guns ‘n’ Roses, Warrant, Winger, Whitesnake, Skid Row, Tesla and Vixen will just have to wait until another Saturday.

So if you (yes, you) ever need to make a mix CD for Katie, you’d best include all the songs listed above.

Oh, also They Might Be Giants’ “(She Was A) Hotel Detective.”

And “World Shut Your Mouth” by Julian Cope.

¹ “Just as good as Simon & Garfunkel’s.” [back]

² Is Katie the only person who remembers a video for this song? Help! [back]

Andie and I each own hundreds of CDs and to boast about our individuality, I’ve recently bandied about six as the number of albums we have in common. Turns out I was off by more than a multiple of four. Don’t believe a guy spouting seemingly authoritative facts, even if he’s wearing smart-looking glasses; I’m referring of course to Dick Cheney. Ha ha!

Here’s a selection of albums both Andie and I own:

• Aphex Twin :: Selected Ambient Works Volume II
• Beck :: Midnite Vultures
• Beck :: Odelay
• Belle & Sebastian :: Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like A Peasant
• Belle & Sebastian :: If You’re Feeling Sinister
• Björk :: Debut
• Björk :: Homogenic
• Björk :: Post
• Björk :: Vespertine
• Jimi Hendrix :: The Ultimate Experience
• John Lennon :: The John Lennon Collection
• Kate Bush :: The Whole Story
• Ladytron :: 604
• Madonna :: Ray Of Light
• Moby :: Play
• Pink Floyd :: Wish You Were Here
• Pixies :: Surfer Rosa
• PJ Harvey :: Dry
• PJ Harvey :: Is This Desire?
• PJ Harvey :: Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea
• PJ Harvey :: To Bring You My Love
• Portishead :: Dummy
• R.E.M. :: Lifes Rich Pageant
• Radiohead :: Amnesiac
• Radiohead :: Kid A
• Radiohead :: OK Computer
• Radiohead :: Pablo Honey
• Radiohead :: The Bends
• Sarah McLachlan :: Surfacing
• The Strokes :: Is This It

Compiling lists of songs about New York is not a new thing. You can Google several sites listing dozens and Rhino even released a lousy compilation a few years back. Here are my own top-20 New York songs, in no particular order. You may notice the absence of several obvious tracks by Frank Sinatra, Billy Joel and Don Henley. That’s because Frank Sinatra, Billy Joel and Don Henley suck.

Ace Frehley :: New York Groove (1978)
“Stop at third and forty-three, exit to the night/It’s gonna be ecstasy, this place was meant for me.” Ace busts forth from KISS on his solo debut and cranks out a joyous ode to the city’s nightlife.

Beastie Boys :: An Open Letter To NYC (2004)
“We’re doing fine on the 1 and 9 line.” The Boys’ valentine to tha five boroughs; they still got it. This song gets me all misty and wistful, then I snap out of it when I realize I actually am living here.

Belle & Sebastian :: Piazza, New York Catcher (2003)
“Piazza, New York catcher, are you straight or are you gay?” A silly, bittersweet song on acoustic guitar from those mopey Scots.

Bill Withers :: Harlem (1971)
“Summer night in Harlem/Man, it’s really hot.” It’s true. Ask Jimi sometime about the fun we had hauling an air conditioner all the way up there.

Bob Dylan :: Talkin’ New York (1962)
“I swung on to my old guitar/Grabbed hold of a subway car/And after a rocking, reeling, rolling ride/I landed up on the downtown side; Greenwich Village.” A freewheeling folksong off Dylan’s first album, it fits me to a T with lyrics like: “after weeks and weeks of hangin’ around/I finally got a job in New York town.” And it’s funny, too, particularly the final verse: “So one mornin’ when the sun was warm/I rambled out of New York town/Pulled my cap down over my eyes/And headed out for the western skies/So long, New York/Howdy, East Orange.” Ha ha!

Galaxie 500 :: Fourth Of July (1990)
“I got drunk and looked at the Empire State Building/It was no bigger than a nickel.” The great overlooked NYC song. I listened to this a lot before moving here and even more after because the lyrics seemed so poignant: “I never thought that I would end up here/Maybe I should just change my style/But I feel all right when you smile.”

Harry Nilsson :: I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City (1969)
In December 2003, the last time I visited New York before moving here, I bought a Nilsson greatest hits CD and listened to this track a lot. It’s not as fresh now, but any song with a banjo ends up having that effect on me. Trivia time: This song was supposed to be the theme for Midnight Cowboy, but Schlesinger liked “Everybody’s Talkin’” better, even though it’s a Badfinger cover. Such is life.

Interpol :: NYC (2002)
“New York cares!” You feel as if you’re soaring over the skyscrapers on this one.

Le Tigre :: My My MetroCard (1998)
“Next stop/Christopher Street/Next stop/Transfer to the/Next stop/A, C, or E.” A rockin’ blast of a song about my favorite card in my wallet (sorry, Caruso). And the grrrls even diss Giuliani for boarding up all those strip clubs.

Leonard Cohen :: Chelsea Hotel No. 2 (1974)
“I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel.” A wistful Cohen song about certain illicit activities in said hotel.

M. Doughty :: Thank You, Lord, For Sending Me The F Train (2000)
I think all New Yorkers have felt this way at one time or another about their own subway train, whether the F or not.

Magnetic Fields :: The Luckiest Guy On The Lower East Side (1999)
Downtown gets all the good songs.

PJ Harvey :: You Said Something (2000)
“On a rooftop in Brooklyn/At one in the morning/Watching the lights flash/In Manhattan/I see five bridges/The Empire State Building.” The album this one’s from, Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea, is mostly about New York, but “You Said Something” is the epitome. A beautiful, soaring song.

Prince :: Uptown (1980)
“Everybody’s going/Uptown/It’s where I wanna be/Uptown/U can set your mind free, yeah/Uptown.” I don’t know which city Prince had in mind when he wrote this (Minneapolis?), but I like to think it’s New York. One of the first times I took the NQRW, running late, I accidentally got on an express train and missed my stop at 8th St., only to realize I needed to get back uptown just as the train sped past the Prince St. stop — at the exact moment my iPod started playing “Uptown.” That’s fucked up.

Serge Gainsbourg :: New York-USA (1964)
“Empire State Building, oh cést haut/Rockfeller Center, oh cést haut.” Yes, Serge, they are high, aren’t they. Essentially the French version of TMBG’s “New York City” (see below), containing a list of landmarks as a mighty paean.

Simon & Garfunkel :: The Only Living Boy In New York (1970)
I mainly like this because the multi-tracked chorus harmonies sound like S&G doing their best Beach Boys impression.

Simon & Garfunkel :: Bleeker Street (1964)
“Fog’s rollin’ in off the East River bank/Like a shroud it covers Bleecker Street.” I hope Paul didn’t purposely misspell the name of the street in the song’s title just to be clever. Then again, it was the ‘60s.

They Might Be Giants :: New York City (1996)
“’Cause everyone’s your friend in New York City/And everything looks beautiful when you’re young and pretty.” A cover by a little-known band named Cub. The chorus is more infectious than Ebola.

Tom Waits :: Downtown Train (1985)
“The downtown trains are full/With all those Brooklyn girls/They try so hard to break out of their little worlds.” I’ve always wanted to punch people who like Rod’s version of this song, moreso those who think it’s Rod’s own song. Tom should just cut out the middleman and punch Rod himself.

The Velvet Underground :: I’m Waiting For The Man (1967)
“Up to Lexington, 125/Feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive.” Lou Reed’s adventures scoring smack from East Harlem’s only express stop. One of the first songs I heard in a bar after I moved here. Its constantly pounded piano gets the bodies goin’ on the dance floor.

I went down to the Columbus Circle J. Crew and bought five more button-down work shirts. The weather was warm and sunny, the shirts were all on sale, and my pleasantly chatty salesgirl looked like Maggie Gyllenhaal with blonde hair. In short, life was good, so this relentlessly poppy mix, which randomly played along the way on the iPod, seemed worth preserving.

It’s got a pleasant assortment of genres and styles, yet stays musically lilting. It’s bookended by the Ramones and, in a timely fashion, closes with their bitterly poppy tribute to Reagan’s ill-advised, mid-’80s visit to Germany’s Bitburg cemetery, the site of many Nazi graves.

That was quick! This morning, I received the callback for the second interview for that managing editor position. I scheduled the follow-up interview for Monday morning, so I’ll be spending the weekend familiarizing myself with the magazine’s editorial style and content, and reviewing The New York Times Manual of Style and Usage.

On the subway down to Jimi’s, my iPod attempted to reassure me with the following random playlist:

This is a sad playlist Andie made today. She put a lot of work into the transitions.

An Andie mix-CD for Mario.