Despite various challenges and niggles, it’s gone well overall. But I noticed this morning that there are some things I haven’t acclimatized to, which surprised and delights me. I hope I never do.

We’ve had a lot of rain lately: a few steady, soaking showers, but more often, thunderstorms that roll through, energizing both of us as they do. The varying sounds of rain still captures my attention1, which is almost certainly why the title of today’s MotD came to mind.

Yeah, it was just “The Rain Song,” which puzzled me. I’m much more familiar with Led Zeppelin’s other song about rain2, and until I listened to this one closely, I was certain I liked that later song better.

“The Rain Song” is from Led Zep’s 1973 album Houses of the Holy. I think I remember hearing it occasionally on the radio several years later, mostly because when I bought the band’s 1992 box set compilation, the song seemed familiar. Perhaps that’s just because it stands out from most of their songs that got airplay; it’s certainly one of Zep’s proggiest pieces.

Sitting with the song over a few repeats has revealed a lot. I adore the music, especially its pace as the song unfolds. Apparently bassist John Paul Jones’ performance on the Mellotron wasn’t welcomed by everyone, but it adds depth to the song’s tenderness. Robert Plant’s vocals are fairly restrained but no less powerful for it; they remind me of the little I know of his solo work post-Zep.

Listening to the lyrics for probably the first time ever reveals why the radio station in my mind probably recovered “The Rain Song” from the depths today. August is birthday month for my kids, and this is the first year that I won’t have an opportunity to see my son on his birthday. “A little rain must fall,” indeed.

I’m sure that I knew back then that “Brick House” was by the Commodores, but at some point it was overshadowed by the other hit on the band’s eponymous 1977 album. As I watched the vid above, I was wondering when Lionel Richie had joined the group, when he popped up on the sax in the background!

Percussionist Walter Orange is the lead vocalist for “Brick House,” and I mean no disrespect to Richie, but I far prefer Orange in that role. It’s been decades since I’ve knowingly heard anything by the Commodores and everything I’ve heard was via the radio, so I can’t apportion my preference precisely among variables such as music style, vocal timbre, etc. That said, I’ve never cared much for Richie’s smoother style and fondness for ballads, so I guess that’s the most precise answer we’ll get.

The other band members for Commodores are: Milan Williams (keys); Thomas McClary (lead guitar and vocals); Ronald LaPread (bass and vocals); and William King (trumpet, percussion, and vocals). They all contribute to the fire on this track, and I’m glad I chose this video first: they look like they’re having so much fun. I think I’ll check out the full album later this week; my funk levels seem to be running low.

So what makes today the day to feature it?

A confluence of things that are mostly personal, by which I mean a specific news item or event didn’t trigger it. Rather, I’ve been thinking about elements that relate to it while working on another music project; revealing myself publicly as a feminist set me thinking about other blind spots I’ve had; ’s very intimate article “Confessions of a ‘Difficult Leader’” put me in an even more ruminative mood4 last night; and a video by NYT columnist Jamelle Bouie 5 brought some respite from current concerns.

Out of that stew emerged today’s MotD, almost as soon as I woke today.

I’d be astonished if anyone reading this isn’t familiar with Living Colour’s classic song, “Cult of Personality.” I’d be equally astonished if more than a handful know the phrase’s origin.

Given that “Cult” was released just a couple of weeks after my mom’s death in 1988, I’m not surprised that I have no memories of hearing it from that time. My first clear memories link it with “Epic,” another funk metal classic that was released in 1990. I knew the songs were by different bands, but the raw power of each stood out from most of the music my favorite radio stations were serving.

That said, I hasten to add that “Cult”’s lyrics and video steal most of my focus. Prying myself away from the vid and hearing the song through good earbuds has revealed a lot I’d overlooked. From band founder Vernon Reid’s opening guitar riff, the music is rich with depth and complexity—so much so that I wondered if Living Colour was influenced by my beloved Rush. Yep!

The other musicians on the band’s debut album Vivid are: percussionist Will Calhoun; singer and actor Corey Glover; and bassist Muzz Skillings. Maybe it’s my personal ignorance—and if it is, please tell me—but I think in large part because Living Colour is underappreciated, they are too. Most of what I heard about the band back then was how remarkable it was that all its members are Black. That struck me as odd, because rock and roll originated in Black music… but I didn’t take the time to think more deeply about what those comments signified.

I think that’s a good thing to reflect on while I listen to all of Vivid today. At the very least, I need to hear the song that was chosen as its lead single, ahead of “Cult of Personality.”

It was too long coming and I’m not sure why I’ve not commented publicly in this space before now,3 but back in March I came out to my good friend D. I’m a feminist, thanks in part to some male former friends whose casual misogyny I glossed over until I couldn’t any longer, and in large part to the explicit misogyny driving federal policies and dragging USian culture back to a dark time.

When I woke craving a specific type of song, I didn’t need an explanation—and I knew exactly what band could deliver it.

All I did was plug “Halestorm” into the search box on YouTube; “I Am the Fire” was the top result. Lzzy Hale and song cowriters Joe Hottinger and Scott Stevens bring the heat with this track. Every element works for me, including the video. Sure, a headbanging band backlit by fire is a common trope, but the great lyrics, stellar music, and the sight of Lzzy slinging that double neck like it ain’t no thang as she sings make the vid just as potent as the song.

I was so taken by it all that I didn’t even recognize that it’s from the same album—Into the Wild Life—as my first Halestorm MotD. Halestorm’s other musicians on this 2015 release are cofounder Arejay Hale (drums), Joe Hottinger (lead guitar), and Josh Smith (bass guitar). I really need to explore their music more; and you’d best believe I want to see them live.

For me, Martha and the Vandellas delivered the canonical version of “Dancing in the Street,” but that isn’t hitting the mark today. “Quicksand,” with its soaring vocals, handclaps, and tasty bari sax is right on the target and utterly irresistible to me.

“Quicksand” is the band’s second single to reach the top 10 of Billboard’s Hot 100 chart. Most readers are likely familiar with the first—a little ditty called “Heat Wave,” which topped the Billboard Hot R&B chart in 1963 and made it into the top five of the Hot 100.

So it’s likely that I heard “Quicksand” as a toddler—I do remember hearing “Heat Wave” as a young child—and just don’t remember it. But all that doesn’t matter today. Its energy is so infectious that I’m not only willing, I’m totally content to ignore a few potentially problematic elements in the lyrics.

The legendary songwriting trio Holland–Dozier–Holland wrote “Quicksand”; notable Funk Brothers musicians on the track include drummer Benny Benjamin, bassist James Jamerson, and Mike Terry blowing that bari sax. It’s a great lineup that capably supports these Motown women delivering the power.

And it’s exactly the energy I needed this morning. I hope it starts your day off on a good note too.

For those unfamiliar with Silver Streak,2 the joke of that line is Gene Wilder’s character’s name is George, not Steve. For whatever reason, Rita Babtree3 ignores his introduction and calls him Steve throughout their brief time together.

Not only is Silver Streak absolutely stuffed with great actors4 and some solid running gags, the music’s pretty good too.

How could it not be with the incomparable Henry Mancini composing it? “Silver Streak Soundtrack Suite” is a very nice compilation of the movie’s score, but I’m unlikely to return to it. First, some of the tempos in it are slower than in the movie and thus those pieces feel like they’re dragging. Second and most important, I have the movie and can watch it whenever I wish. I’m definitely going to indulge today, as it’s been a rough week and I want a bit of escapism.

And then did it yesterday, right here. It took enough time that I thought I was safe, but no. Last night the earworm started up, and it gave a little “ayy YI” this morning as I was rousing from sleep.

Behold the only Fleetwood Mac song I’ve really liked. I instantly liked “Tusk” when I first heard it back in late ‘79 because it was just so damn different from anything the mighty Mac2 had released prior—and from everything on the radio.

If I knew anything about the song’s provenance back then, I’d forgotten it prior to reading its Wiki page today. And only hearing “Tusk” on the radio, I missed so many of the subtleties that make it such a potent earworm for me. Headphones are an absolute necessity for this song.

The drumming intro drew me in, and now that I’ve heard that bass drop in at around 1:00, I adore it even more. It’s really the drums that do it for me—that chaotic breakdown around the 2:00 mark still sends shivers down my spine.

One of the several earworms that “Tusk” can generate was plaguing me a few decades back, and I realized that the song was almost certainly on YouTube. When I saw the video, I thought Fleetwood Mac was pranking everyone; but then I realized that the marching band sounds I’d barely made out back in the day were an actual marching band.3 Mad respect.

Stevie Nicks is credited with just backing vocals on this song, but that’s enough to keep the Steve run4 alive. And honestly, her baton twirling skills in the video—in a dress and high heels, no less!—are most impressive to this marching band kid.

A few days ago, I began to suspect that the toothpaste1 I’d switched to was doing a lot more than cleaning my teeth—and not in a good way. I’ll spare everyone a litany of symptoms and just say that after two days of using my daughter’s toothpaste,2 many of them are gone.

When I first started thinking about my recent change in health, I rejected the toothpaste connection as being a case of post hoc ergo propter hoc: “after this, therefore because of this.” But that’s exactly how causality works! And thus, how one can attempt to suss out which is in play is to experiment in as controlled a way as possible.3

Anyway, while reflecting on my self-research activities, a great song from the ‘70s started playing on the radio station in my mind. It added a third dimension to the observations above, and I had to laugh.

Since I grew up hearing Stevie Wonder’s music, I have no idea which of his great songs I heard first. But “Superstition” may have been the first to dominate my attention—and not just because it was hard to make out all the lyrics. That funky clavinet riff! I hadn’t heard anything like it, and instead of fading as other instruments entered, it kept driving the song. And the horns! Whew!

It’s widely known that Stevie Wonder often plays several of the instruments in his music; that’s true of this tune and the 1972 Talking Book album, from which “Superstition” was the first single. He performed the drumming for this track; his cymbal work in particular masterfully supports the other instruments. Additional personnel are Trevor Lawrence on tenor sax and Steve4 Madaio on trumpet.

Checking the lyrics today, I realized that I likely misheard and thus misremembered the chorus: I thought it was “superstition in the way.” It’s actually “ain’t the way”—but either is a valuable message.

I know I heard “On and On” a lot back in 1977; it was the biggest hit2 from Stephen Bishop’s debut album, Careless. But I don’t think I ever liked it much. Bishop’s voice is fine overall, but thinking about it now, I’m having a difficult time coming up with any instances where it has some heft to it.

The track is also emblematic of my challenges with tagging MotDs as “country.” The theme of being crossed in love is common in that genre, and “On and On” serves it up in pleasant music that includes steel guitar. But the percussion and shimmery vibraphone give me pause. Listening to it again with the intent of trying to definitively categorize the song, I simply can’t: it firmly straddles the soft rock3–country line even though something in my rational mind says it shouldn’t.

Before researching Bishop, I was thinking he’d join yesterday’s Steve in my antipathy pile, but a quick skim of his Wiki page (linked above) stopped that. Whatever he may lack as a singer for me is more than offset by his songwriting prowess. I’m sure that I saw that he wrote a lovely song that I featured over a year ago, but my focus drifted from the music to the great movie4 it was in. Among his other movie credits are writing and performing5 a few songs for Animal House.

So now I’m tempted to explore some of Stephen Bishop’s discography—especially his final studio album, Thimk, which was released a year ago. I was initially interested in seeing what his most recent music is like, but then I saw the list of contributing musicians. What a way to exit.

At some point, I started thinking of the songs served up in my mind as signals or portents—as if my internal radio station straddles my conscious and not-conscious1 thoughts and awareness. All this came into my awareness this morning after today’s MotD had come into mind for a completely different reason.

Despite immediately knowing who the artist is, it took a bit of time to find “While You See a Chance,” because I remembered it as “when you see a chance, take it,” and I generally search first by title when I know it. I didn’t like the song well enough back in the ‘80s to give it sufficient attention to correct the first word.

You see, in my 20s I decided I didn’t like Steve Winwood, mostly on the basis of three syllables2. His early success in the Spencer Davis Group, Traffic, and Blind Faith happened before I became interested in learning about and keeping up with musical artists rather than just songs, and I don’t recall hearing in the ‘80s about him being in them.

Mea culpa for dissing him all these years. And before I heard “While You See a Chance” this morning, I was prepared to revisit my antipathy toward his solo work. I hold no grudge because the song’s focus is more romantic3 than I’d remembered; it works well enough for the context in which it came into my mind. But that Minimoog intro is still a huge miss. I get that it makes the song stand out, but for me it’s the auditory equivalent of chewing on aluminum.

I looked in my music library to see if I have anything by Winwood et. al. I do: Blind Faith’s eponymous album; two by Traffic; and two solo albums (one studio release and a compilation). Figures that I don’t have anything by the group I’m most interested in!

Probably just as well. I need to take the chances that I see available to me before they end.

So of course I started at Wikipedia—and damn near shut down my entire browser when I saw how long the article is. But then I told myself, “You made it through grad school; you can make it through this,” and decided to ignore reading about subsidiary labels and all that1 for now. We’ll likely explore at least some of Motown’s intricacies along the way, but my focus will primarily be what it always is here: the music.

Yesterday as my daughter and I were enjoying a walk, we heard a bit of today’s featured song. It was distant enough that at first I thought it was a different artist’s version—a group I don’t much care for—but I recognized it when the Prince of Motown’s voice came in.

Soooooo satisfying. I’m pretty sure that I’ve only heard “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” via radio; and while that was good enough to hear the undercurrent of background vocals, I’ve never heard the drums, which add a luscious, ominous low-end portent.

Learning today that Marvin Gaye had some early success as a session drummer, I can’t help but suspect he had a hand in that sound. Alas, the album’s personnel credits don’t address that issue,2 but they do reveal the massive talent behind his performance of this Norman Whitfield–Barrett Strong classic. No wonder it’s my preferred version.3

“Grapevine” was on Gaye’s eighth studio album, In the Groove, which was released in 1968. It surprised me to learn that two other singles preceded “Grapevine”; perhaps part of that calculation was that two other Motown acts had recorded and released “I Heard It Through the Grapevine”: Gladys Knight & the Pips, and The Miracles. Gaye’s other singles from the album did well, but it was “Grapevine” that was a massive hit, boosting his career as a solo singer. It has rightly gone on to become a soul classic that was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame.

Once I get some tasks accomplished, I’ll be listening to all of In the Groove. My music library is woefully lacking in Motown and soul music in general—for now. I foresee that Motown Monday will help correct this shameful oversight.4

My best guess is that ’s post today provided a topic, and the radio station in my mind took me way back to the first instance of sexual innuendo directed at me that I recall, and which wasn’t an obvious joke.

Now, before anyone who knows enough details about me to start protesting at what their mental math is revealing, rest your sphincters2: it didn’t happen in late 1974 when “Lady Marmalade” was released as a single from Labelle’s album Nightbirds.

I very likely had heard the song that year, as it topped the Billboard Hot 100 chart, but I have no memories tied to that time.3 The Event occurred about 2.5 years later, when the guy I’d recently met who became my boyfriend not long thereafter and ultimately my wasband popped that question to me in front of a couple of my closest friends.4 I still didn’t understand French, but one or both of them did, and explained. Most likely, I blushed and equivocated, but there were stirrings.

Nightbirds was Labelle’s fourth studio album and is the band’s best seller to date. The singers are Sarah Dash, Nona Hendryx, and Patti LaBelle.5 It’s a testament to everyone’s talents that I’m not just willing, but am happy to listen to “Lady Marmalade” on repeat, even though I still need the lyrics to make out all the words.

Turns out that my penchant for tagging articles was actually useful! Some of you may have noticed a couple of new items in the menu bar on the MotD home page, viz. “Playlists” and “Rush”. I created the links simply by inserting the appropriate tag into the homepage URL, e.g.: musicoftheday.substack.com/t/rush ; and musicoftheday.substack.com/t/playlists.1

I chose to link to those tags in the menu bar because I thought they’d be ones readers would be most interested in. Obviously it would be unwieldy to add a link for every tag there2, so instead I’ll describe my process for creating and using tags to aid in finding niche subgenres, and will link to a few major categories at the end.

Tagging is even more imprecise than trying to label a specific piece of music, as reasonable people will disagree, especially when subgenres enter the picture.3 So, with some exceptions, I try to keep higher-level categories separated. For example, there’s a “rock” tag and a separate “prog” tag. “Pop” and “rock” are separate tags with substantial overlap, since the concept categories also do.

However, “gothic rock” is its own tag: /t/gothic-rock.4 Whenever there are multiple words in a tag, in the URL the space is represented as a hyphen. That’s important to know for those wanting to explore MotD’s many tags. Nonexistent tags return a “page not found” error and the archive page.

Despite being both much too white and too nerdy to understand the distinctions between hip-hop and rap, each has its own tag5: /t/hip-hop and /t/rap. There’s overlap, but it probably isn’t accurate.

Currently, Rush is the only band with its own tag—and that isn’t because it’s my favorite band. I seem to have gotten a bit of a reputation here as a Rush superfan and as of this date, the band has appeared in 31 MotDs, so the special focus is warranted, particularly since a search on “rush” returns all instances of the word. (The next-closest musicians are tied at 15 each; they’re Queen and Yes.)

If this PSA is useful to you, it can be bookmarked. But—of course!—it has its own tags: /t/psa and /t/tags. And it’s in the nav menu too, under “PSAs.”

That’s more than enough yammering: anyone interested in exploring MotD via the tags should be pretty well set for the journey.6 If you’re having trouble finding something that you think should be a tag here, feel free to start a private chat with me to get assistance.

Higher-Level Tags

• alternative

• blues

• classical

• comedy

• country 7

• folk

• funk

• hip-hop

• instrumental (irrespective of genre)

• metal

• Motown

• new age

• new wave

• pop

• prog

• punk

• R&B

• rap

• rock

• soul

• show tunes, soundtrack pieces, and TV music

If you have questions, thoughts, and/or ideas you’d like to share, please do so! For example, Rush is currently the only musician with its own tag, as I had to manually add it to all extant MotDs because I stupidly didn’t think there’d be any value in those tags. Would it be useful to tag all MotDs with the musician/s?

I’ll consider each suggestion; but please keep in mind this is a passion, not a paying gig. MotD will never be monetized, so despite how much I love being here, it has to be balanced with my obligations and responsibilities.

Now back to our intermittently scheduled MotDs, always in progress. One might appear later today: Supertramp has been battling an entire subgenre for control of the radio station in my mind, and one may yet win.

And just in case anyone’s wondering: yes, of course the best rock public service announcement—with guitar!—has appeared here.

I wanted something related to beauty; and I wanted it to be something new to me.

You know how it sometimes seems that life wants to deliver a message to you and it simply will not brook your efforts to evade it?1 That’s how my music library treated me during my search today. I didn’t have the fortitude to push through, to force it to supply what I wanted. Instead, I got a brutal truth that I needed, wrapped in a beautiful, emotive voice.

“Hard Love” is my introduction2 to June Tabor, at least that I’m aware of. Courtesy of several folky–filky friends, it’s possible I heard her a couple of decades ago as part of Silly Sisters or Fairport Convention. But my friends gave nearly all their flowers to another great British female folk singer—Sandy Denny—and at the time, her music provided more than I desired in the niche.

Maybe it’s all for the best. If I’d discovered June Tabor back then, I may not have sought out others. Her rich voice combined with the insightful lyrics of “Hard Love” pierces me through with each repetition. Mark Emerson on piano and Mark Lockhart’s saxophone perfectly accompany Tabor.3

Her voice is gorgeous in terms of pitch and timbre; it’s how Tabor wields it that really delivers. She seems fairly restrained in terms of volume, which makes her occasional bite or push on a word all the more emphatic. Anyone who says that a woman’s voice can’t be as powerful as a man’s should listen to June Tabor singing “Hard Love.” I feel so much subtext and emotion underneath the words and music.

Even though the song sketches a story, the theme is universal for those willing to acknowledge it. All love is hard at times. Most couples who claim they never argue or disagree are essentially confessing that they rarely communicate fully openly and honestly. Perhaps the best one can do in their loving relationships is to try to minimize choosing to deliver hard love.

“Hard Love” is the opening track on Tabor’s 1992 album Angel Tiger. In addition to her solo albums, I have one by Silly Sisters, and a few by other bands she performed with; I’ll have to see if she’s on any of those. I’m almost afraid to start exploring even though I’m sure it will be a worthwhile investment of my time and attention.

Then, the morning that I thought would be a leisurely start to my day turned into a sequence of Urgent Things That Demanded Too Much Damn Time. Before that started, a song title came to mind, and I’d listened to the version in my music library while considering it for today’s MotD.

I adore its composer and songwriter. I disliked the song. So I thought that was that—and then the cavalcade commenced.

The song has been interspersed between it all. Ugh. So here we go.

I’d remembered correctly that “Days of Wine and Roses” was a Henry Mancini composition with Johnny Mercer writing the lyrics1; the only version I have in my music library is from Mancini’s 1963 album Our Man in Hollywood. The singers are credited as the Henry Mancini chorus and between all those voices and the syrupy strings, I couldn’t understand most of the lyrics.

So when I capitulated to it, the first order of business was to find a better performance, which turned out to be easy. I’m pretty sure that I heard Andy Williams’ lovely take on AM radio and at least one album by him; I think my Mom had a few.

The image the song title conjured was of halcyon summer days, brimming with good things and possibilities of only more good things. It was quite the jolt to discover that Days of Wine and Roses was originally a televised play and then a movie that was anything but halcyon. Its theme is the destructiveness of alcoholism. Wow.

Dare I hope that writing all this will get the earworm out of my head and stop the crap? I dare, I dare! And since I’m calling my workday done, I think that’ll put me halfway there.

I learned from her Wiki page that in addition to being the band’s bassist, she also wrote music and was in John Waters’ movie Serial Mom. As I wrote in my first L7 MotD, even though I’ve had three of their early albums for decades, I’ve only listened to one all the way through. So I can’t in all honesty call myself a fan, even though I adore that album.2

Wanting to find a song written by Finch to honor her today didn’t expand my exposure much, as I didn’t think I could find a better one than the first one I listened to.

Wow, what a track! From Finch’s fantastic bass intro to its abrupt end, “(Right On) Thru” delivers what I enjoy most about L7’s music: unrelenting energy, powerful music, and unique and thought-provoking lyrics.

Well, I know what I’m going to be doing this afternoon.3

Hail the traveler, Jennifer Finch.

When I read it yesterday afternoon, I still wasn’t exactly ready, which partly explains the rather tangential comment I made.

You see, I’m not like most cognitive psychologists. I grew up thinking about how we perceive and remember things, and how individual those activities4 must be. When I finally got to university and became a psych major, I was happy but also confused and a bit disappointed. Relatively little of what I was learning seemed to be relevant to how people function5 in their daily lives.

Long story short: it wasn’t until graduate school that I was taught a theoretical perspective6 that originated in that question. It validated my youthful musings and changed not only my professional thinking, but how I live. Most cognitive psychologists misunderstand and/or reject it in favor of the status quo, which is built on rickety assumptions that at some point became accepted as fact.

Most of the time I’m able to corral these thoughts on my website, but something in Taz’s essay prompted me to bring up a couple of issues at her place. And clearly I can’t let go of it, because I’ve yammered on interminably already and haven’t so much as fucking mentioned any music!

Since I was a kid and foolishly shared some of my deeper thoughts with family members and friends, I’ve been told I think too much—and not just in the sense of overthinking. I still get that sometimes, and it’s still a sensitive spot.

So I decided to search my music library for “think,” hoping to get a decent haul of songs to consider. Turns out I could have started with “thinking,” because that yielded way more pieces than I could listen to. I listened to two or three before I found today’s winner.

This pattern has played out before: not having a topical tune come to mind, I’ve searched my music library, and Jethro Tull has nicely filled my need. Unlike that time, I know I’ve not heard “Thinking Round Corners” before. It’s from the band’s 1991 album Catfish Rising, which has been lurking in the depths of my library7 all this time.

Since I’m off in the weeds already, why not a linguistic diversion as well? Once upon a time, the title phrase would have been written as “thinking ’round corners,”8 to disambiguate the contraction of “around” from the word “round.” Apostrophes are important!9

The idea of thinking nonlinearly is exactly what Jethro Tull is considering, although I haven’t decided if Ian Anderson is being sarcastic in his lyrics. The third verse in particular harks back to a theme he’s addressed before: the false promises progress often offers.

Tull personnel for this song are: Doane Perry on drums and percussion; Dave Pegg on bass guitars (acoustic and electric); Martin Barre on electric guitar; and Ian Anderson on vocals, flute, keys, percussion, guitars, and acoustic and electric mandolin. Based on the sound in this track, I’m willing to give the entire album a listen.

Wiki categorizes it as prog, hard, and blues rock. To my ear, “Corners” is more prog than the other two; it opens with a bit of a country feel that only breaks at the chorus. I’m not a fan of some of the vocal ornaments Anderson uses in the chorus10, as they detract from the lyrics. Barre’s guitar solo in the bridge is an unexpected treat.

Thinking (and seeing) around corners refers to breaking out of accustomed views and approaches to problems in order to find better answers and solutions. Counseling11 has advanced by recognizing that an individual’s problems can be, at the very least, influenced by their social and cultural contexts. I hope cognitive psychology will catch up soon.12

It took me a while to select one song to feature today—which led me to realize why no specific songs by the group came to mind.

Ahhhhh, the Spinners.2 They’ve been around longer than I have and were a staple on my parents’ AM radio station. I’ve already featured my favorite song by the Spinners; I was chagrined to see that’s the only appearance for this great band prior to today.

“I’ll Be Around” is emblematic of why I’ve adored the Spinners for decades. Solid songcraft and intelligent lyrics are beautifully melded, so it’s no surprise that it was the band’s first top-ten hit on both the soul and pop charts in 1972. What did surprise me was the song was originally the B-side for the Spinners’ first single, “How Could I Let You Get Away.” If I ever heard that one, I’ve no memory of it.

“I’ll Be Around” is very smooth, yet there are interesting layers in the music. The congas add an understated urgency, which a repeated organ riff nicely supports. Strings, horns, and maybe a flute add tasty texture too. For me, the star is the funky bass riff hiding after the last line of the chorus—how I wish it were more prominent in the mix! Methinks that would throw off the song’s balance, though.

Thom Bell3 and Phil Hurtt cowrote “I’ll Be Around.” Personnel credits are rather sparse: Bobby Smith performed lead and backup vocals; the other background vocalists in the band are Philippé Wynne, Pervis Jackson, Billy Henderson, and Henry Fambrough. Female supporting vocalists are Carla Benson, Evette Benton, Linda Creed, and Barbara Ingram. The only instrument credit is for MSFB, a pool of 30 studio musicians that often worked with Bell and supported other great soul musicians and bands; it includes a nod to Ronnie Baker for that bass line.

Now I want to dive into the Spinners’ full discography. Alas and alack, I don’t have the time this morning; and I’m embarrassed to report that I have nothing by the Spinners in my music library. Gotta correct that!

But that encapsulates my current musical quandary: I’m interested in discovering new music across many genres, as I’ve unintentionally not kept up for decades, while I’m equally interested in exploring the discographies of musicians I heard long before I understood that one could purchase albums and thus enjoy their songs at home whenever one wished.

So, while I wish I could promise “Motown Monday” as a regular MotD feature, today’s wandering contents show why it wouldn’t be wise. The music and music-related ideas in my mind are too numerous and too diverse for any one thing to dominate my attention for long.

If you have thoughts on “Motown Monday” or something similar for this space, please leave a comment. Can’t promise anything beyond reading and considering each one, of course.

The song that immediately came to mind is one I knew I’d featured before, so I turned to the world of covers to see if something would suit. So many choices!

This normally isn’t my kind of thing, but it fits today in ways I can’t fully explain because I’m no longer five years old and spending the night in a house both familiar and a little frightening; nor am I a preteen getting a taste of harder rock music and hungering for more.

Yeah, I didn’t have a medieval take on “Iron Man” on my bingo card either; and initially I wasn’t sure if I liked it. Once it was clear it’s an instrumental and once I noticed that “the band” is Algal2 the Bard on all instruments, it began to charm me. Busted: I’ve long been a sucker for the hurdy gurdy.

Back to the olfactory mystery: the missing odor was iron. Their house was3 out in the sticks of southwestern Ohio; the only utility it had was electricity4. The well water was full of iron. It couldn’t be used for laundry; Grandma had to have someone drive her to the nearest village to do laundry. It stained the bathtub and wrecked the toilet’s workings and probably wasn’t very healthy to drink. Washing one of my cast iron skillets brought back that familiar smell and completed my memory of the smell of their house.

Oh, and if you’re curious about the song’s original appearance here, I featured the original “Iron Man” on my son’s birthday.

I’d expected the supermarket to be busy with others whose minds work similarly, so it was a pleasant surprise to see a largely empty parking lot. That was a nice bump to my already good mood—I’ve been making steady progress on a few important projects1 and have a few new ideas in mind.

The radio station in my mind put all this into its algorithm and presented me with an upbeat mid ‘80s classic. I appreciated it back in the day because it fit my feelings about being in grad school; but it got overplayed and fell out of my favor. Thinking about all this,2 I rejected it as a candidate for today’s MotD.

As I was heading to the checkout, it started playing on the store’s music system. I took that as a sign not to be ignored.

I knew that “Walking on Sunshine” was a love song, but it’s never been linked to it for me—perhaps because the lyrics are a little wishy-washy on the permanence of said love. Today my attention focused on the fantastic horn riffs bolstering the band, and of course the handclaps.

“Walking” is likely the only song by Katrina and the Waves that I ever heard. Part of that is due to timing; a majority is probably because my musical interests were moving toward harder rock and metal. That’s why the murky history of both the album and the single were completely unknown to me. Even though I’m happy to have been reminded of the song, I’m content to remain ignorant on those matters.

As I was driving home and reflecting on the slim odds of having a song in my mind popping up on Muzak or whatever, I realized that even with its heat and humidity and our lack of air conditioning, this has been my most contented summer in several years. So maybe I don’t have summer SAD, as I once surmised. Perhaps I was just much more unhappy in New Mexico than I allowed myself to know.

It isn’t important to me to try to puzzle that out.3 I’d much rather keep the good vibes going and get things accomplished.