Interestingly enough, two of my favorite songs this summer share the same song title..."Suzanne". Normally I wouldn't find this of any importance, and neither should you really. I would be more thrilled if the name wasn't as common...perhaps something along the lines of "Ethel" or "Josephine" or "Derek" or "LaToya"..but sadly that's not the case. Nevertheless, I am submitting for your approval or post-modern scowl mp3s of both incidents, culled straight outta my CD collection. These will be up for a limited time and for your observation only. It's encoded at a low bitrate intentionally. If you want full dynamics (and I know you will)... go buy the CDs.
The first piece of evidence which we'll gently call exhibit A is from everyone's favorite bay area arena rock band which sang about a boy raised in a non existent South Detroit. If you can't get the band from that hint, you'll most certainly know the band by hearing the signature croak of the lead singer's voice. I played this track for someone recently, and they declared that something was horribly amiss with me:
Either I'm listening to this music to deny the existence of an outside world filled with pain and strife... thereby finding comfort in the sugar coated galaxy proto-emo synth melodies...OR I've totally ascended to a new realm of music enlightenment, and I'm on some next level shit ...a plane which few others have transcended to. I'd like to hope for the former than the latter, but one can never be sure of self-examination. Regardless, here's that band's interpretation of "Suzanne" from their most excellent 1986 album Raised on Radio.
Even if you hate this tune? Flip towards the end..right around 3:05...feel the melodrama of those keyboards resonating against those perfectly faux-reverbed electronic snare hits. Listen as the gods summon the muse named Molly Ringwald for that hysterically horrible synth-horn-duck sound, perfect for the call and respond session with the prom-chorused keyboard. Feel it damnit. FEEL IT.
The second Suzanne in my life is penned by the immortal Leonard Cohen. Sounding like a proper music critic or person who may or may not own a Volkswagen: "that man can do no wrong in my book". Combined with the haunting, hippie way Judy Collins plays guitar and croons, I've had many a moment where this song has been the last thing I remember falling asleep, and the first sounds in my head when I shut my alarm off. Those who think Ben Gibbard is the be all end all of lyrics should turn their Death Cab CDs off and check Cohen's work out stat.
ps. There's a third Suzanne by Weezer that kicks ass, but I haven't been listening to that alot this summer. I highly endorse it though.