There’s Only One Song I Know: Sparks’ “When Do I Get To Sing ‘My Way’” (Singled Out)

As I plowed through Sparks’ discography the last few months, one of the albums I loved the most yet said the least about was Gratuitous Sax & Senseless Violins. When a song or album doesn’t work it can be easy to figure out and expound on why, or, at least, easier than trying to pinpoint what makes a great song or album great. There isn’t one set thing that guarantees a piece will be great music, but when you hear greatness, you know it. But I also hate how vague that explanation sounds. Perhaps a better way to explain what I mean is with James Joyce’s concept of aesthetic arrest; the idea is that when all parts of a piece of art work harmoniously the work will have a certain radiance, a glow that will transfix and, well, dumbfound the observer. Basically, in the presence of such enchanting beauty we can only sit in awe – and that’s how I feel about Gratuitous Sax & Senseless Violins. It’s not perfect album, by any stretch, but man, is it exquisite and for me the song the most embodies that is “When Do I Get To Sing ‘My Way.’”

Before diving into Sparks’ song it’s key to dig into “My Way” first. Paul Anka wrote the lyrics while much of the music and melody came from Claude François’ “Comme d'habitude.” At its core “My Way” is a song of triumph, the triumphant swan song of someone who knows without any doubt they kicked life’s ass. They did all they wanted and any regrets pale in the knowledge that even their regrets belong to them. Every action and word was their choice and “not the words of one who kneels.” Anka wrote the song specifically with Frank Sinatra in mind, at times trying to imitate the way Sinatra spoke, and well, no one would ever call the Chairman of the Board a pushover – at least not to his face.

In stark contrast, “When Do I Get To Sing ‘My Way’” drips in regret and desperation after the life of “one who kneels.” Sparks’ narrator has gone through the motions in the hope that attaining all they were told to want would eventually be worth it when, in the end, all they got was a life of screams and “flying plates and shoes.” Unlike Anka’s narrator who blazes their own trail, this narrator decides to “be gracious and wait in the queue.” They put themselves aside to wait their turn, but it never comes. Furthermore, they’re so resigned to a life of passivity that asserting their individuality isn’t a viable option. The song opens with, “No, no use in lecturing them or in threatening them they will just say, ‘Who are you?’ Is that a question or not when you see that the plot is predictable not new?” These lines not only indicate a fear of seemingly inevitable dismissal, but also the fact that the narrator may not even know the answer. This loss of self proves the narrator of “My Way” right when they say, “What is a man? What has he got? If not himself then he has naught.” By far the biggest regret expressed by Sparks’ narrator is the lack of self-assured nature exemplified by a figure like Sinatra; “When do I get to feel like Sinatra felt?”

Over the years so many artists have covered “My Way” that it ranks near the Beatles’ “Yesterday” as one of the most covered of all time. However, of all those covers only one is mentioned in “When Do I Get To Sing ‘My Way,’” that of Sid Vicious. Not only does genre change make the Vicious version notable, but also the fact that he changed the lyrics. He made it his own and spat in the face of pop traditionalists with every sloppy, sneering “fuck” as he did it. While the narrator of “When Do I Get To Sing ‘My Way’” may question tradition to an extent, they certainly don’t do anything to rock the boat. “It’s a tradition, they say, like a bright Christmas day and tradition must go on.  And though I say ‘yes I see,’ no, I really don’t see. Is my smiley face still on?” They engage with the tradition, but not out of genuine attachment or belief in its importance. Those bright Christmas days mean about as much to the narrator as Sinatra appears to have meant to Sid Vicious – not at all. The only difference is that Vicious had no qualms about making his disregard apparent to all, while Sparks’ narrator keeps on a fake smile and secretly envies him. Of course, in reality Vicious is no one to envy; as with Frank Sinatra, the envy is not about the real man, but what he represents – rebellion. The second verse ends with the line, “Sign your name with an X, mow the lawn.” Earlier I noted the narrator’s passivity and loss of self, which run so deeply the narrator can’t even muster up the desire to write their own name before quickly going back to their routine. They may envy rebellion in others, but they have never and can never engage in it.

Sparks have performed an orchestral version of “When Do I Get To Sing ‘My Way’” and though it is very beautiful, I think the original has a desperation to it that gets lost in the rearrangement. (Of course, I’ve always had an affinity for dancing away bleakness and angst with a thumping beat so perhaps that has something to do with it.) The narrator’s desperation really crystallizes in the contrasts between the bridge and the final verse. The bridge feels like dream sequence wherein the narrator fantasizes of the life they want, one where “women seduce me and champagne flows.” Only for reality to come crashing back in during the final verse where they remember they “have no souvenirs of these crackerjack years, not a moment I could choose and not one offer that I could refuse.” They have no good old days to look back on and no bright future to look toward. They don’t even care if they end up “in heaven or hell.” They just have a vain hope that maybe there is a chance that they could turn things around and finally get somewhere on their own terms. Erase their regrets.

But they won’t.

“The plot is predictable.”

"The Molten Veins": Franz Ferdinand’s “40'” (Singled Out - Back Catalog Edition)

One of the marks of a great song is it allows for multiple interpretations that build with listens, over years, and across people. But then there are those songs that staunchly resist any solid interpretation, those songs that move you and mean something to you that you can never quite verbalize and that fact keeps you going back to it. While I’m sure many other songs fill this category, “40’” by Franz Ferdinand is a big one for me. I’ve been trying to get a handle on this song for ages, yet like the foam forty feet beneath the narrator’s feet it’s always out of my reach.

Early on in their collaboration, Nick McCarthy and Alex Kapranos planned to form two bands; a pop group (which became Franz Ferdinand) and a more folk-orientated group (which never really came to be.) However, a vestige of that folk group exists in the work of Franz Ferdinand in the form of “40’.” According to Kapranos, they “thought the other band would probably do that one” as the song’s main riff draws influence from rebetika (Greek folk music.) Kapranos also claims it’s about “trying to catch the emotions you feel when you’re faced with an incredibly immense decision” and I think that comes through in both the lyrics and music. Decisions can be paralyzing, especially when you build them up in your mind. The musical surges in “40’” perfectly encompass how that anxiety feels and the outro is the sweet calm that follows finally taking the leap.

My attempts to glean clear meaning from the song have over the years led to different lines holding most of my focus while obscuring the rest. Personal phobias are the likely reason behind my initial focus on the aspects of height and distance. More recently, though, the line that really grabs me is “Salt scales upon my drying arms.” Scales as a metaphor came up a lot in interviews Kapranos did during the promotion of Franz’ last album, Right Thoughts, Right Words, Right Action. In the context of RTRWRA, the scales mask vulnerability and shedding them can allow one to find strength in that vulnerability. By contrast, “40’” appears to be about building them up, even if only temporarily. The image of salt scales implies that the narrator has been standing at that precipice for an extended period of time, because (and I could very well be wrong) salt would likely make skin raw first and then prolonged exposure would draw out moisture. Skin care and other logistics aside, the larger point is that the narrator waits for these scales to build before he leaps the forty feet (if he leaps) and the scales are protection from what comes after.

Another thing I find interesting about the lyrics are the references to “cold,” “cooling,” and “calm,” which stand in contrast to the surging nature of the music. The narrator says, “Burn my back beneath the sun, but I am cold beneath the burning rays.” One could take that literally, his focus is so concentrated on the impending decision that even the sun can’t affect him. Cold also denotes a lack of emotion, which could be seen as a negative. However, in this case, the “coldest calm” seems to suggest clarity and resolve. He’s stood long enough to know what he wants to do. Perhaps this is projection on my part, but despite my frequent anxiety and tendency to drag my feet, when I do come to a decision I tend to feel that matter-of-fact about it. Clear cut and cold; this is what’s happening.

Franz Ferdinand is loaded with contradictions and “40’” might be one of their starkest with its heightened and calm emotions. I doubt this analysis has fully bridged that gap for me (only time will tell), but I do think it’s been lessened at least a few feet. 

"In Clouded Clues": The Monkees' "Tapioca Tundra" (Singled Out)

With the posts and planning I've done for this blog much of the focus has been on discussing albums. For me, it’s sometimes easier to analyze certain songs in that context than on their own, because whole albums provide a larger framework to analyze their pieces. Sometimes there just isn't much to say about a song outside of how it relates to the others that accompany it and a bigger story can come out of those relationships. Hell, that’s also a big reason why I like the idea of doing artist retrospectives, because you can do the same thing over the course of a career.

But I've never completely counted out the idea of highlighting individual songs. It was only a matter of “when” and “how,” which brings me to this new feature of sorts Singled Out where I will do exactly that. I didn’t want to attach strict rules in terms of era or artist to Singled Out. The song only needs to send me on a long enough ramble to qualify. Simple. From there you can probably tell how it eventually led to other strict rules going out the window and my recent decision to merge Cover to Cover, Ear to Earwith V&B.

Now, I realize that this further interrupts my Franz Ferdinand retrospective, but when an idea strikes I think you just have to run with it. I will find a way to tie today’s discussion and themes with the FF retrospective. I’m hoping to also do a couple Singled Out posts for some Franz songs that don’t make it into the full album posts.

We’ll get there all in good time, I promise.

Okay? Okay! Let’s get to it…

Part of me wants to make a hipster-y joke about how you probably haven’t heard the Monkees’ “Tapioca Tundra,” but I honestly have no idea what counts as an obscure Monkees track. I guess I tend to assume that anything that isn't “Daydream Believer” or “I’m a Believer” counts as such. I could very well be wrong. I could also be wrong in my perception that Tapioca’s one of those songs you either love or hate.  I used to listen to a radio DJ who would proudly proclaim this to be his favorite Monkees song; while others dismiss it, such as a lovely comment on a lyric site that claimed the song is “absurd” and “plagued with unnecessary stupidity.” If anything should be called unnecessary it’s such harshness, because Tapioca’s far deeper and self-aware than one might initially think.

“Tapioca Tundra” (penned by Monkee Mike Nesmith) was initially released as a b-side to the single “Valleri” and eventually made its way onto The Birds, the Bees, & the Monkees released April 22, 1968. The Monkees were certainly not alone in their musical experimentation with much of pop and rock deep in the era of psychedelia; BBM’s release occurred just a few months before The Beatles’ White Album and all its kooky absurdity. The Monkees’ catalog contains many instances of psychedelia and experimentation, such as “Daily Nightly,” “Star Collector,” “Auntie’s Municipal Court.” Not to mention moments of defiance that not only contrasted with their bubblegum image, but frankly, put some so-called “authentic” acts to shame, such as “Zor and Zam” and “Mommy and Daddy.” I can’t help but wonder if the dismissal of Tapioca is born out of an attitude that the Monkees somehow aren't allowed to do such things. Honestly, that’s not really for me to speculate here, but what I can speculate about is the song itself.

Let me be clear, I don’t object to calling “Tapioca Tundra” absurd. I have ears. It is weird. I object to calling it absurd as a pejorative. Too often words like “surreal,” “absurd,” and “nonsense” become synonymous with “bad,” which is just incorrect. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is pure nonsense and one of the most enjoyable reading experiences one can have, I believe. In the realm of music absurdity usually comes in the form of lyrics where the punch found in the rhythm of the words takes precedence over any overarching, coherent meaning. Most artists have a lyric or song this applies to, while others, such as Beck, basically make it part of their Thing. Until recently, I’d pegged “Tapioca Tundra” as such a song due to the (seemingly) deliberately obtuse lyrics and the fact that it came from the same time period as “Daily Nightly,” Nesmith’s other major psychedelic track.

I was wrong, but not off track. One could even say that the lyrics are about writing such a song.

After a slow, whistling introduction, Nesmith sings, ”Reasoned verse, some prose or rhyme lose themselves in other times and waiting hopes cast silent spells that speak in clouded clues.” Allow me a brief moment of fangirl squee, because these opening lines are brilliant. There’s so much to unpack and as someone who thrives on close reading, such lines are my bread and butter. As for the lines themselves, they speak to how lyrics can get lost amid the musical time that surrounds. Even the most well-crafted or thoughtful lyrics can “lose themselves” and their meaning in an arrangement that overwhelms them or distracts the listener’s attention. There are also listeners who ignore the lyrics on purpose (“I don’t care about lyrics, I just like the beat,” etc.), but even so, Nesmith doesn't let himself off the hook. He has “waiting hopes” that he can move others with his “silent spells,” but they may also move in ways that he didn't intend. He acknowledges that expressing himself through metaphor (“clouded clues”) contributes to these misunderstandings as well as making it difficult to connect to the audience and fully express himself.

The second verse begins with the line “Careful plays on fields that seem to vanish when they’re in between,” which could refer to both audience and artist. For the audience, the meaning of a lyric can vanish if too obtuse or indirect. For the artist, no matter how carefully constructed they can still end up feeling as though they just barely missed the mark in getting their point across. The verse continues, “And softly as I walk away in freshly tattered shoes, it cannot be a part of me for now it’s part of you.” Once a piece is complete the artist has gotten all they could out of that particular “field,” it’s worn out and useless to them now. They must move on and let it live as “part of you,” the audience.

“Tapioca Tundra” doesn't have what many may strictly consider a proper chorus or hook, but it does have lyrics that repeat. One such line includes, “Silhouettes and figures stay close to what he had to say and one more time the faded dream is saddened by the news,” which also touches on the idea of an artist barely missing the mark. All the literary technique and musical prowess they possess can come close to expressing what the writer is feeling or thinking and yet the song as they hear it in their head may not come to fruition perfectly. However, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Franz Ferdinand front man Alex Kapranos has made multiple comments about dissatisfaction and how that keeps an artist going. And while I certainly can’t read his mind, Mike Nesmith also seems propelled by similar creative dissatisfaction. In the past he’s recorded multiple reworkings of songs (including “Tapioca Tundra”) and acknowledged his tendency to not let a song just be and “noodle” too long on it.

Often it seems like abstract lyrics such as “Tapioca Tundra” are either seen as alienating or dismissed as pretentious, which while understandable, can sometimes lead to missing out on a real gem. Bizarre, possibly off-putting title aside, the dissatisfaction conveyed in “Tapioca Tundra” never feels directed outward to the audience in an angry way. I don’t think this particular song crosses the line into arrogant you-just-don’t-get-me posturing, because Nesmith recognizes the gaps between intentions, art, and how an audience may perceive it - gaps that always exist, even for the most direct of artists. Sure, there’s the idea that some might miss the point, but the main dissatisfaction lies in the knowledge that not any one song could be enough to fully convey one’s inner thoughts. And maybe, in a way, it’s up to the audience to bridge those gaps, because someone is bound to pick up on those clouded clues and at least attempt to make sense of them.  

In summation, “Tapioca Tundra,” a seemingly obtuse song about obtuse songs and how any song can feel unsatisfactory to the artist, but they must let it go in the hopes that the next will be The One. Yet, even if a song is the magical one to perfectly convey and encapsulate an artist’s feelings once written it no longer belongs to its writer, but to the audience. 

Brilliant.

Just don’t ask me why “midnight looks right.” 

(If you want to hear “Tapioca Tundra” as well as any future Singled Out tracks you can subscribe to this Spotify playlist.)