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If the undertaking of this four part series hasn't made it abundantly clear from the onset, I'm currently on what you might call a serious Smiths kick at present. For the last decade or so this has become sort of a quarterly tradition, wherein which my moderate Smiths consumption elevates to something of a mania, until eventually I can hardly listen to anything else. And though the escalation of these jags typically reaches an absurd and irrational level on little more than their own self-consuming fuel, the Smiths kick is always inspired by something close to what one might call tangible: a previously unheard bootleg or demo; a new appreciation for a lesser song; a lyric circumstantially shone in a new light, or that had somehow escaped my ears altogether for these many years. Obsession festers best in the smallest spaces.

Case in point: this particular period of consumption was spurred by something as simple as a lyrical incongruity previously overlooked between two versions of a relatively obscure B-side. Because of the Smiths' penchant for anthologizing their works while the band was still active, there's a tremendous amount of overlap between their three pre-break-up collections. This is especially true between the latter two, Louder Than Bombs and The World Won't Listen, as they were designed to serve the same purpose, just on opposite sides of the Atlantic. Besides the inclusion of one of Marr's well titled, but otherwise forgettable instrumentals ("Money Changes Everything"), the later record appears to offer nothing not otherwise available on the considerable longer Louder Than Bombs, and as such I've never found much reason to pursue it. But the devil, of course, is in the details: as it turns out, World actually features an alternate, lyrically superior version of "Stretch Out and Wait," a customarily strong b-side for which I hold particular reverence. Only two lines differ (On the high rise estate/what's at the back of your mind?/Oh, the three day debate on a high rise estate/what's at the back of your mind?" becomes "All the Lies that you make up/what's at the back of your mind/your face i can see, and it's desperately kind/but what's at the back of your mind?"), but that was enough—obsession is hardly a logical mistress. It's this sort of minutia that has kept me returning endlessly to Morrissey over the years as numerous other heroes of my adolescence have taken their place in the annuls of my history: the effortless density of Morrissey's lyrical work—self-absorbed, plagaristic, romantic, and ridiculous as it usually is (telling?)—offers me a seemingly inexhaustible well upon which to percolate... through new angles, new interpretations, new perspectives. Yes, I'm being sincere about this. No, I'm not entirely proud of it.

Now that I've throughly alienated everyone, let me quickly redirect your attention to the topic of episode two: the Meat Is Murder era. As the band grew less and less enchanted with the promotional abilities of Rough Trade, the label decided to make their big American single push by promoting "How Soon Is Now?" to A-side status, to surprisingly little fanfare. In retrospect, it seems sort of unfathomable that such a clearly classic song—as evidenced by its continued rotation on American "modern rock" stations—barely pushed it's way into the top 200, even with the backing of their American major, Sire. With one of the most instantly recognizable intros of all time, "How Soon Is Now?" is probably the clearest single example of Morrissey/Marr's sheer force at that or any period of their working relationship—and despite it's near 7-minute running time, captures the Smiths at the height of their commercial potential. The "How Soon Is Now?" single was backed by the restrained beauty of "Well I Wonder"—only Morrissey could make lines like "Gasping, dying, but somehow still alive/this is the fierce last stand of all I am" and "Do you see me when we pass?/I half-die" sound understated.

That same month, the band released Meat Is Murder—an album that represented a somewhat startling shift in tone from their first record—which promptly shot to number one on the albums chart. The self-defined singles band that somehow couldn't manage a runaway hit song was now in the uncomfortable position of being an album band. Ironically, Meat Is Murder is the Smiths at their least effective in album format. Though Marr's studio technique had clearly made vast improvements over the self-titled debut, Morrissey's heavy-handed politicking ages sourly—and despite the anger and conviction in tone, his words undermine the music here in a way that's not really seen anywhere in the Smiths catalog. By this point, Morrissey had become an outspoken media manipulator—casually supporting violent extremists in both the IRA and Animal Liberation, and openly calling for the immediate death of Margaret Thatcher. An album awash in strong societal violence, Meat Is Murder kicks off appropriately with "The Headmaster Ritual," a memorable addition to the long history of pop indictments of corporeal punishment in the British school system (see also: Pink Floyd, Radiohead, etc), and ends with "Barbarism Begins At Home" and "Meat Is Murder," two needlessly long, terribly heavy-handed attacks on child abuse and carnivorism, respectively. "Meat Is Murder" is the particularly disappointing—with its ridiculously ham-fisted (pardon the pun) slaughterhouse samples, and flawed assessment that "death for no reason is MURDER," "Meat..." failed move even those sympathetic to the cause. The Smiths got political on wax for the first time, and the results left much to be desired.

There are, however, considerable joys to be found on Meat Is Murder, primarily in the records more understated songs. Inspired by the riff to Elvis' "Marie's the Name (of His Latest Flame)," "Rusholme Ruffians" is a particularly perfect Smiths moment, a brutal, superbly visceral retelling of Morrissey's adolescence at spent being "educated" at the yearly local Boxing Day fairgrounds. (For a period, Marr took to introing the song live with a brief cover of "Marie...," as documented on the live album Rank.) Also totally brilliant is the painfully brief "What She Said"—one of the band's most aggressive songs, and following a familiarly suicidal theme, Moz again struggles with the importance of mind over body and vice versa—and despite all of the "Heady books" the titular character read, concludes that it "took a tattooed by from Birkenhead/to really really open her eyes."

The other glory of Meat Is Murder is proof that even in lesser songs, Morrissey is miraculously equipped to save sinking ships with the power of one well-placed line. A prime example is the relatively unremarkable "Nowhere Fast," another of Morrissey's cheekily (pun intended) ridiculous songs saved from drowning with the perfect "And when I'm lying in my bed/I think about life and I think about death/and neither one particularly appeals to me". (incidentally, "Nowhere Fast" is from whence the Slender Means Society finds its namesake.)

In spite of the hit record they had in Meat, the Smiths chose to immediately release a non-album track as their next single—the solid, if somewhat underwhelming suicide script, "Shakespeare's Sister." Backed by the aforementioned "Stretch Out and Wait," "Shakespeare's Sister" did surprisingly poor business—reaching a lowly number 26 on the pop charts, and further straining their relationship with Rough Trade. It was also roughly about this time that bassist Andy Rourke was handed his first ultimatum regarding his increasing dependancy on heroin.

Some four months later, the Smiths would release their first proper single from Meat Is Murder, making the bizarre decision to go with the powerfully uncommercial "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore." It's fate was unsurprisingly similar to that of "Shakespeare's Sister." The band was quick to add the singles' plight to the laundry list of complaints they already harbored against Rough Trade (not to mention Morrissey's paranoid theory about a radio conspiracy against the Smiths), but just two months later released another single on the label, "The Boy With the Thorn In His Side." "Thorn" was standard early Smiths fair which could have fit comfortably on either Hatful Of Hollow or their debut, but what was particularly notable about the single was its flipside, again featuring a pair of the Smiths' greatest compositions: "Rubber Ring" and "Asleep."

Brilliantly played, "Rubber Ring" is Morrissey at his most powerfully self-referential—a song that begins by mourning the death of personal reverence for pop songs "that saved your life" as you grow older, "Rubber Ring" twists into Morrissey's own clever plea for pop immortality: "I'm here with the cause/I'm holding the torch/In the corner of your room/can you hear me/and when you dancing, and laughing, and finally living/Hear my voice in your head and think of me kindly". There is scarcely a more perfectly Morrissey moment.

In spite of minor flirtations with other songs now and again, "Asleep" will forever remain my very favorite Smiths song, and quite probably my second favorite song ever. It's suicidal resignation is perhaps the bleakest of Morrissey's songs—humorless, whispering, desolate, and utterly miserable, but free of the absurd melodrama that often weighs down his more heavy-handed sentiments. Asleep is, quite simply, a perfect song—and as such, understandably difficult for me to do justice in blog form.

Following another belly up single ("The Boy With the Thorn In His Side" stalled at 26), the Smiths were openly frustrated about their relationship with Rough Trade, and suggested that they planned to part ways with the label. Rough Trade secured a high court injunction to block the group from recording for another label under the stipulations of their contract, with the red tape momentarily suspending the release of the band's just completed masterpiece, The Queen Is Dead.

Although it might be a difficult matter for some people to wrap their heads around, the idea of being both pop music-obsessed and a discerning music fan aren't always mutually exclusive. Like many other self-conscious music fans before me, I've suffered a great deal of self-flagellation over my affection for perfect, pristine pop songs--never totally comprehending the joys discerning music fans are supposed to find in tuneless walls of noise and jazz music. In recent years, however, I've sort of resolved myself to my fate--but all is not necessarily lost in my pursuit of erudite music snobbery. And I have people like Jens Lekman to thank for it.

At 23, Jens Lekman is a bonafide pop star in his homeland of Sweden--a nation that knows a thing or two about cloyingly perfect pop music--where he recently scored a number two hit on the Swedish pop charts, and picked up three Swedish Grammy nominations. Here in the States, Lekman is a slightly less familiar name--recently releasing his Stateside debut, When I Said I Wanted To Be Your Dog, on Secretly Canadian to decidedly less acclaim. Clearly a card-carrying pop music obsessive, Lekman culls his pop palette from only the finest of sources--a well that includes the likes of Bacharach, Momus, Stephen Merritt, and (a lot of) Jonathan Richman, and that's without even scratching the surface. Fusing baroque pop affectations, a syrupy AM radio baritone, and, appropriately, the occasional well-placed string sample, Lekman's music is something of an experiment in impeccable pop taste--a thoughtful, charmingly light-hearted songwriter of impressive intention. Sure, his lyrics--borrowing Richman's sense of goof, minus the loveably wide-eyed naivety--can get a little cloying, but you've really got to hand it to a guy who can make name-checking Warren G's "Regulate" sound perfectly nostalgic without so much as a hint of irony. Because that guy might just be the Great Band of All Time.

In 1991, the biggest album of the decade was released, Nirvana's Nevermind, as well the endlessly lauded Loveless by My Bloody Valentine and also big albums from The Pixies, REM, Slint. So, what album did Spin Magazine pick for its best album of 1991? Teenage Fanclub's Bandwagonesque. It's true. Look it up. They were this mega buzz band. They performed on SNL with Jason Priestly hosting. Magazines called them the next big thing. Pitchfork would've said they were "Best new Music" if Pitchfork would've existed. Alas, Pitchfork didn't exist, and alas Teenage Fanclub was not the next big thing. They continued to make albums that I loved, but critics didn't. They sorta slowly faded away like a old photograph. They put out a quality record every few years, and each time it features at least a few brilliant pop songs. I think that critics sometimes get bitter at dudes who are dependable and not rock'n'roll enough.

It pisses me off, though. Teenage Fanclub is such a special band. It features 3 songwriters who all provide at least 3 tracks per album of amazingly crafted pop music. They are like the Scottish Crosby Stills and Nash but less burnt out and lesbian impregnating and TFC actually have more good albums that CSN. The thing is, if you don't pay very very close attention you wouldn't realize that it is 3 different people penning the music and 3 different people singing the songs. In other cases like Pavement or Guided by Voices where the songwriting was shared, the difference between the writers is very obvious and there is quite a quality difference between the songwriters, but in Fanclub all three dudes (Gerard Love, Norman Blake, Raymond McGinley) are incredible pop music craftsmen. Flat out, there has never been a more ignored and underrated band ever.

They started in Glasgow in the extremely late 80s as the Boy Hairdressers, becoming Teenage Fanclub in 1989. They released their amazing pre grunge debut disc A Catholic Education in 1990. It put every one into a tizzy with its thick guitars, swirling sludge mixed with pop sensibilities. The band was almost immediately scooped up by a major label. Within a year they released the best album of 1991, Bandwagonesque. It was a perfect album, sad and sharp and a little snotty but also forlorn and beautiful. The album opener, "The Concept" absolutely sounds like the early 90s. It's a song about being cool, which sounds trite, but really that's all what we want to hear sometimes. These first two albums Teenage Fanclub was truly "cool." It's really bizarre and intangible, but it exists there in those albums, and ever since then they haven't had that cool....only the amazing songs.

Two years later TFC released Thirteen, which is named after a Big Star song. It was panned and dismissed immediately by the critics. I don't get it. I think it is my favorite TFC album. The emotion on Thirteen run deeper. They lost that snot (which is maybe what made them "cool" but certainly not what made them "good") and brought a deeper sincerity and heaviness. Grand Prix was released in '95 and was met slightly more warmly than Thirteen and was hailed with terms like "concise." It, of course, has a few mind blowing perfect pop songs, but it's second half is a little lacking.

Like the dependable fellows they are, TFC retruned exactly 2 years later with Songs From Northern Britain an album that saw TFC lose the crunchy guitars for the most part, and they showed their 60s pop influence much more than before, especially in production. The album is a beautfiul tribute to their homeland of Scotland, and the art for the album was filled with beautiful pictures the band took of rural Scotland. Another brilliant looked over album that without fail makes me feel so good by just listening to its very precise and personal pop music.

Howdy! was released in 2000 after much label difficulty, and it was an album that never stood out to me, but listening to it now it sounds better than it ever did. TIMELESS MUSIC, PEOPLE! I'm telling you. Just this year the Fannies have released their 7th proper studio album, Man-Made, and it is another very enjoyable album. It's remarkable how they keep doing it. I'm sure the band has been pressured to make some drastic change to their sound to get the critics buzzing. People thought that due to the fact that they were recording with Tortoise's John McEntire that Man-Made would sound like Stereolab or post rock or whatever, but it doesn't, it sounds like Teenage Fanclub. McEntire did a great job and there are a few touches that you can tell are McEntire, but he did not alter the band. It's also not that TFC sounds stale at all, the sound slowly changes. All the records do sound different, but in the fickle world of independent rock music people want to see artists make bold moves that are possible genius or career killers. It's just people wanting a good drama/trajedy and not being happy with amazing music.

I might have missed my chance. I have seen lots of shows, and I have seen almost all my favorite bands. I feel pretty fulfilled as a music fan, but just last week I missed a show by Teenage Fanclub which was only 3 hours away. I feel stupid. I have never seen them play. TFC and Willie Nelson are the only two bands that I still need to see to feel like I have seen everything I need to see in my musical life. I BLEW IT! I blew my chance of seeing a band that has so many great pop songs in the last 15 years I'm giving you a full albums worth today (sorry for the overwhelming amount, I just can't say no to sharing these beauties). I blew my chance at seeing the Greatest Band of All Time.

There are bands whose genius inspires me to want to create something lasting and great and moving and relevant and personal and beautiful--one perfect thing that will make all of my futile toiling on this planet seem remotely worthwhile. There are other bands whose greatness just infuriates me to the point that I never want to touch an instrument again. And then there are bands like The Curtains, who walk a line between these two extremes so thin that only the Greatest Band In the World could possibly traverse it. Because Curtains--at their best--create the music of my dreams, and that I could never dream to make.

Initially a partnership between Californians Chris Cohen and Trevor Shimizu (then called Dynathought Imagination Band), The Curtains took shape in earnest sometime between 2000-2001 when the duo absorbed drummer Jamie Peterson into the fold. This line-up dissolved almost entirely following the limited release of the LP Fast Talks, leaving Cohen--then also a member of Natural Dreamers--alone to his own devices in pursuit of the project. It was roughly around this same time that Cohen was asked to join a little band by the name of Deerhoof--this immediately following the release of that band's critically acclaimed breakthrough, Reveille. It's at this point, of course, that--in spite of chronology--Curtains immediately became relegated to the status of Deerhoof side project, an appraisal only aided by Deerhoof founder Greg Saunier's new-found membership in the band.

With drummer Andrew Maxwell (L.A.'s Open City), the new lineup recorded "Flybys"--a 23 song LP of jumpy, playful, largely instrumental half-thoughts that clocks in at just over a half hour; nine songs not even cresting the nine-minute mark. "Flybys"--which seems to limit the band largely to Cohen's single guitar, Maxwell's stammering percussion, and Saunier's hiccuped blurts from a Radioshack Moog--is stuffed painfully full of dissonant, careful conceptualism that, in spite of a great number of overall successes, never seems to gel quite right.

Following the release of "Flybys", Curtains took a brief West Coast jaunt with Japan's brilliant Maher Shalal Hash Baz (which, by the way, was one of the most inspiring shows I've ever had the fortune of attending), whose joyful pop experimentalism seemed to have a profound effect on the band's creative process. Following the release of Deerhoof's stellar Apple'O, the band cranked out Vehicles of Travel--an absolutely brilliant record which finds Curtains diving headlong into pop waters in 23 beautifully melodic vignettes. As far as experimentalists go, Curtains had always been surprisingly buoyant, but with Vehicles, the band hits a virtually perfect semblance of intentionally clunky experimental composition and nostalgic pop craft. Contextually, the songs often ring with a sort of wistful PBS jingle purity, with singing on roughly half of the songs--perhaps a turn off to fans of the band's previous, more challenging work, but a boon for bored pop obsessives like myself. Vehicles is a great deal more of a proper album that the band's previous recordings--unlike it's predecessors, who were mostly just recorded representations of the way the songs were performed live, the album's textures and layers a composed in large part during the recording process--a working method that, though apparently very taxing on the band, works to great effect.

At last I checked in with Chris, Curtains are on an indefinite hiatus as Deerhoof continues to dominate the free world--but if Vehicles is any indication, I can only pray that it's not the last we hear from the Greatest Band Of All Time.

Beneath all of the schizophrenic song structures, expansive membership, and mountains of instrumentation, Architecture in Helsinki is not a neo-psyche band, an experimental folk collective, or even a chamber pop orchestra. No, what Architecture in Helsinki is, at heart, is a twee pop band. Let me repeat that for accurate emphasis: Architecture in Helsinki is a twee pop band. Got it? Cool.

Now that all the assholes have stopped reading, the rest of us can get down to brass tacks: An Australian band composed of eight regular members and countless contributors, Architecture in Helsinki twist twee pop conventions in ways that completely transcend the genre's preconceptions--a ploy that essentially amounts to dragging twee's quaint, antiquated corpse of a sound into the 21st. Like any pop band paying airfare for eight bodies, it's fair to expect that Architecture in Helsinki would cover a pretty wide sonic palette, but most would hardly anticipate the kind of stagger-stopped saccharine sensitivity the Aussies deliver. The band has released two masterful records to date--the first, Fingers Crossed, is a radiant debut that somehow makes eight voices and dozens of instruments sound like a whispered lullaby, with a sound that's modern, precise, and precious without feeling a lick cloying. Fingers Crossed is deceptively simple, but with enough clutter to nearly justify the amount of stage space they take up.

After a debut stuffed with enough subtle manipulation to fill out the 7" discographies of a dozen lesser bands, Architecture dropped this year's In Case We Die, a 12-song prog-pop opus that's as bloated as it is concise. Though still perhaps a little behind the experimental curve, In Case We Die feels like some serious next level shit in terms of twee-pop--with ground covered including confident dance pop, touches of playschool Morricone, an Anglo-island sound occasionally reminiscent of Orange Juice, a triumphant war cry chorus now and again, and maybe even a touch of off-Broadway musical--all with an average running time of about three and a half minutes. Fact is, AIH effortlessly shoves as many ideas into three and a half minutes as it takes the Fiery Furnaces a clunky nine (which, I guess makes sense--there are only two of them)--a sugar-high sort of pace that though occasionally oppressive in its theatricality, never feels forced or contrived. There is certainly precedence for this sort of elaborate, mega-faceted pop palette (Of Montreal come to mind), but few do so with either the sincerity or subtlety seen throughout In Case We Die--a record that, unlike a lot of Technicolor pop, feels thoroughly modern in it's fiber. That said, Architecture in Helsinki's blissful bombast certainly isn't for everyone--its cute and cluttered compositions are enough to give the dourest among us a crippling sugar migraine. For the rest, Architecture in Helsinki might just enliven the hope we've long since abandoned: Twee-pop for those convinced we have outgrown twee-pop. And with In Case We Die, they've succeeded in an undertaking adventurous enough to make twee-pop seem relevant again. A feat only the Greatest Band In the World could possible accomplish these days.

The Sopwith Camel. The Yellow Balloon. Four Jacks and a Jill. Harper's Bizarre. Spanky and Our Gang. The Buckinghams. The Cherry People. Eternity's Children. The Neon Philharmonic. The Peppermint Rainbow. If you are already familiar with these names, then feel free to disregard the next few paragraphs. If these appear at all foreign to you, and I imagine at least half of them do, then pay attention, because what you don't know is that Curt Boettcher is the Greatest Band of All Time.

All of the aforementioned bands were part of the late sixties' sunshine pop movement, of which Curt Boettcher was a principle architect, through his involvement with The Association, The Millennium, and Sagittarius, and various production work for other artists. Sunshine pop, a close cousin of bubblegum, featured somewhat psychedelic production and a heavy emphasis on smooth melodic vocals, with rich harmonies. For more famous artists, think the Mamas and the Papas, The Turtles, and some Smile-era Beach Boys.

Curt Boettcher (pronounced "Betcher") first came to national attention when he produced the Association's debut album And Then Along Comes the Association, which featured the hits "Along Comes Mary" and "Cherish," two mainstays of oldies radio. At that point, a familiar story began, whereby his artistic advances were greeted with critical acclaim and public disregard.

Before his production work for the Association, Boettcher had released two folk records with the group Goldbriars. Despite being a folk group, he was even at that time using very unusual vocal arrangements, something he employed throughout his career.

After the success of the Association, Boettcher split his time between producing for others, such as Tommy Roe ("Sweet Pea") and Lee Mallory ("Take My Hand," which Brian Wilson was a big fan of), and his own studio-based bands. The first was The Ballroom, which recorded an album around 1966. It was never released, however, and some of the songs were re-recorded by the Millennium. A few years ago, the Ballroom album was finally released on CD, under the title Preparing for the Millennium.

While recording the Ballroom album, Boettcher befriended Gary Usher, who was producing the Byrds' Younger Than Yesterday in a neighboring studio. Usher was mostly a surf-rock producer, who had co-written the Beach Boys' "In My Room." Apparently when Brian Wilson, who was also at the studio, heard the sounds coming from Boettcher's session, he exclaimed, "What is that?" Boettcher and Usher's friendship led to their pet project Sagittarius. The first album, Present Tense, came out in 1968, and features the psychedelic pop gem "My World Fell Down," released as a single in 1967 and shortened substantially for the album. A technically and artistically ambitious album, it only sold 50,000 copies. A somewhat disappointing second album, mostly made by Usher, was released in 1969, titled The Blue Marble. Between the two Sagittarius records, though, Boettcher and Usher created their masterpiece, as The Millennium.

With the Millennium's debut album, Boettcher ran up the largest bill ever for Columbia. It was only the second album recorded using the new 16-track technology, and he spent a year meticulously crafting it. Essentially a producer's wet dream, Begin was, ironically, the only album the Millennium would release, mostly due to poor sales. Unable to withstand the consistent commercial failures, Boettcher quit music, and pursued a career in advertising. He came back to music now and then, releasing a solo album, There's an Innocent Face, in 1973, producing off and on for The Beach Boys, Emitt Rhodes, and others until his death in 1987 (including The Association's reportedly horrible 1982 electro-pop cover of fellow GBoAT-ers The Left Banke's classic "Walk Away Renee," but I can forgive him for that). I'm not sure what it says on his gravestone, but if you ask me, it should read, "Curt Boettcher. 1/7/1944 – 6/14/1987. The Greatest Band of All Time."

Preface: I spent the better part of my late teenage years doing my absolute best to emulate Jarvis Cocker. An anglophile since my early double-digits, the release of Different Class in my sophomore year of high school escalated my obsession with all things bland, pasty, and arrogant to the point of consumption. I liked British bands before them, but none had so pinpointed direct relationship I had with the notion of Britain quite like Pulp did. Pulp put a name, a face, and a soundtrack to my mania. When I cut my hair--gone grey for a full year after one and a half weeks of blueness--for the first time since in utero, it was because of Jarvis Cocker. Pulp changed my life. Pulp changed everything.

First there was Arabicus Pulp: a band that began in Sheffield (sex city) in 1978 when Jarvis was 16 years old. in 1981, Pulp pass on a demo to John Peel, who invited the band on for a Peel Session. No labels called. Every member of the band quit for university. Everyone except Jarvis. Over the next two years, Jarvis reformed the band and recorded It, the band's debut full-length, in 1984. Then everybody quit. Everyone except Jarvis. Within the year, Pulp was salvaged once again (this time with one member, Time Allcard, on just to read poetry) in time to sign a contract with Fire Records in 1985. That same year, Jarvis took a 30 foot fall out of a window whilst trying to impress a girl, breaking his pelvis. He played shows in a wheelchair for two months. Then they released Freaks. Then everyone quit. Everyone except Jarvis (and another guy named Russell Senior, who had since become a full-fledged collaborator).

Two more years went by, and Jarvis decided to begin attended St. Martin's College in pursuit of a career in filmmaking. A year later, Pulp recorded the Acid House-infused (and totally awesome) Separations, a record that sat shelved for three years before its eventual release. Jarvis readied for a film career when suddenly the record's first single, "My Legendary Girlfriend," became a surprise hit. Within two years (and 16 years after the band started), the new Pulp signed to Island--and then shit got heavy.

His 'n' Hers became a huge British hit, Jarvis--perfecting his swinging London frontman persona for 16 years--became an omnipresent pop/sex/rock star (ed. note: J.C. famously rushed the stage during one of Michael Jackson's award show appearances to protest Jacko's early 90's pedophilia)... and then came "Common People."

"Common People,"--a simple sex story about a privileged art student slumming with the commoners-turned stirring rally cry for a nation perpetually haunted by class division--not only skyrocketed Pulp into crazed fame in there homeland and abroad, but was the greatest single released in 1995... and arguably the decade. And then they dropped Different Class. And then they became the Greatest Band in the World.

As the stuffy gutter sophistication of Brit-pop began to over-take my alt-rock obsessions, I spent most of my quasi-remedial sophomore English class escaping into the low class, desperate romanticism of Different Class. It was a perfect sort of escapism--a culture born of boredom, frustration, and tedium of lower middle class living--a world simultaneously of and apart from everything that I perceived my own to be. And goddamn if they can't write an anthem for the anguished.

When Pulp followed DIfferent Class with This Is Hardcore, I was already sold... and yet, it seemed at first just to solidify the Pulp image--sex, desperation, monologue, repeat. in the years since, it has revealed itself as Pulp's definitive work: Jarvis' fame fixation realized in full, yet to no further satisfaction. Now age obsessed (now a handsome 36), no longer one of the "common people," terrified of following up one of the most beloved records of the decade, and deep, deep into coke, Jarvis and Co. create one of the most paranoid, claustrophobic records of their career--bookending a lifetime of star-gazing as an unsatisfied celebrity. How could it get any better than that?!?!

Pulp finished their career with We Love Life, a Scott Walker-produced LP and an intense shift away from everything that had preceded--it was their first major flub. It flopped. they got dropped.

The band is currently on hiatus, which seems to mean that they are no longer. Jarvis briefly worked under the pseudonym Darren Spooner for a weird project with Richard Hawley called Relaxed Muscle. Trust me: don't ask. It's reported that dude's gonna be in the new Harry Potter movie. Which I will not be seeing.

I pray that someday I will still get to see Pulp live. I pray that Pulp will someday release another record. I say this with no touch of our perpetual GBoAT exaggerations: Pulp may honestly be the Greatest Band of All Time. Period.

In these most uncertain and dissapointing times I give you something from the heart.
This is one that I haven't been looking forward to writing. There are some bands that I just feel so intensely about that I could never write about it in an according way. It's so weird. I totally haven't written about my most special bands. Scared to do a dis-service to the band, to my memories, and also worried that my opportunity to get people pumped on something I care about so much would be wasted. What are you gonna do, though? The time has come. Spill your guts, Schrodo.

After a pretty crappy freshman year of high school where I floundered trying to find new friends in my new overwhelming hometown of Los Angeles, I entered my sophmore year with some more confidence. I decided that the drama scene was a much better vibe for me than some of the other scenes I flirted with freshman year (namely football). Those drama dudes were totally nice and didn't mind my incredibly awkward style. This one dude, Brandon, and I had totally being sorta flirting with a good friendship. You know that awesome time when you think you may really enjoy this person's company and then there is like usually one moment or topic or thing that makes you break the outer layers and gets you deep into awesome friendship?? It totally happened for my high school best friend, Brandon and I, because of Erasure. One day after school in the totally weird drama building across the school parking lot with no windows we both found ourselves belting out "Oh Lamour" by Erasure with wild abandon. So freeing and so pure! From that day on we were totally BFF!!! The love for Erasure for us went deep, seriously deep. We had this very awesome fictional band that was completely modeled after Erasure, called Cork where his name was Brandon Bell and I was Vince Schroeder (the members of Erasure are Andy Bell and Vince Clarke) involving us interviewing each other with full on British accents and Erasure rip off songs. Super special.

Vince Clarke has to be the greatest synth man in the history of synth men or women. Clarke was a founding member of Depeche Mode and the principal songwriter for their underappreciated first album Speak and Spell. Clarke then left the Depeche dudes to make two awesome records as Yaz with Alison Moyet. Yaz could certainly use their own GBoAT entry due to their amazing classics like "Only You" and "Don't Go," but we don't have the time for that now. Moyet left to do her solo thing, and Clarke was left without a project. He put adds in the paper looking for a vocalist, and he hit the jackpot with one Andy Bell. Andy Bell has a great voice, is a tad outlandish, and flat out lovable. Bell became one of their first truly visible openly gay performers when Erasure hit the scene in 1986, and therefore Erasure has always been a huge favorite in gay communities. Erasure certainly doesn't need any "angles" or "hooks" to be admired though, as they have been creating the best music that has ever been made. Erasure has been incredibly stable since their inception--no breakups (that we know of), no huge flops, or weird drugs problems(that we know of)--releasing 10 full albums and a mind boggling amount of singles and eps over the years. The album highlights have to be the Mercury award (British grammy) winning '88 release The Innocents, '94's undeniably joyful I Say I Say I Say which is Erasure absolutely perfecting their synth pop formula, and '95s more experiemental in terms of atmospherics and ever so slightly proggy eponymous album Erasure. Clarke and Bell have put out a few albums that weren't really up to snuff but there is always at least a couple songs that are amazing pop songs. It's an incredibly satisfying brand of relationship to have with a band.

Brandon and I saw Erasure perform live in '97 and it was amazing. Vince Clarke has this huge two story structure to house all of the electronics that they use. Clarke for some songs would just sit and stare at the audience away from his bohemoth structure and occasionally get up and walk over to the structure and adjust something. Bell was vibrant and sounded wonderful. The show was at the Universal Ampitheatre in LA (@ Universal Studios), and I have this amazing memory of just basking in the post show glow sitting outside the venue in the weird outdoor mall that surrounds the venue smoking the gayest cigarettes imaginable (Saratoga Menthol 120s). It was a sublime moment. It was maybe the pinnacle of Brandon and I's friendship. I've been away for years. I haven't seen him for a couple years. I miss my old friend, but at least I will always have Erasure, The Greatest Band of All Time.

The vast myth of Van Dyke Parks is a difficult one to summarize. Historically speaking, Parks has been a child actor, classical composer, record producer, famed lyricist, pop musician, arranger, film scorer, and--very briefly--an adult actor. Despite his sweeping accomplishments, Parks is largely acknowledged in the annuls of pop history for one of his failed works, the Beach Boys' unfinished masterpiece, Smile. With Brian Wilson's "finished" version of Smile released last month, a good deal of attention has been cast upon Van Dyke Parks' relationship with Wilson and the eventual reworking of the project--and though an important part of the Parks mythos, Smile is only really the beginning.

In 1966, after a few years working nebulously in L.A.'s music industry (his first paying job was arranging "The Bear Necessities" for Disney's the Jungle Book, and work with Harper's Bizzare) Van Dyke Parks was introduced to Brian Wilson who--impressed with little more than Parks' wit and intelligence--decided he would make an apt lyricist for the album Dennis Wilson claimed would make Pet Sounds "stink." The pair only properly "finished" one complete production at that time--the epic "heroes & villains"--along with a number of other fragments in various stages of completion. The story of Smile has been incredibly well-documented (check out this short history, for example)--but shorthand, the usual Beach Boys subjects (read: Mike Love and Al Jardine) began to voice their dissent, attacking the project's lyrics, and so Van Dyke Parks bailed.

Two years later, Warner Brothers took an unbelievably ridiculous gamble, producing the then-most expensive record of all time (over 48 thousand dollars) for a largely unknown artist whom they banked would be on par with the Beatles' recent Sgt. Pepper's success. Van Dyke Parks' Song Cycle was an unprecedented success. Artistically. Some months after the record was released, Warner Brothers began running ads suggesting that they "lost $35,509 on the album of the year"--encouraging people to send in their copies of Song Cycle to Warner Brothers in return for a second copy--"one to educate a friend with."

Song Cycle is an amazing web of Americana--a densely integrated vision of hundreds of years of the nation's song craft. With nearly 40 years of retrospect, the relationship between Parks and Wilson makes a good deal of sense: Parks an Americana obsessive, Wilson the voice of what would become the new Americana. Not too many hooks, of course, but as one of the most intellectually challenging pop records of all time, Song Cycle runs scholastic laps around anything the Beach Boys ever touched--which, admittedly, wouldn't take a rocket scientist.

After Song Cycle, Van Dyke spent five-years time working on other people's records (sessions with the Byrds and Judy Collins, and producing Randy Newman's first album) before recording his sophomore record, the considerably more accessible Discover America. Another stroll through 19th and 20th century Americana--this time through the, um... music of Trinidad of the 1940s--Discover might be more sonically accessible, but no less far reaching. With tomes to Jack Palance, Bing Crosby, Franklin Roosevelt the Mills Brothers, and J. Edgar Hoover, the record is both manic and manically focused--a cross-cultural weave of collegiate wit and brilliant arrangement.

Another four years brought Clang of the Yankee Reaper, a disappointing collection of songs largely not written by Parks, and gill-stuffed with sickly sonics. In the twenty-eight years since, Van Dyke Parks has released five additional records (including Orange Crate Art with Brian Wilson), none really measuring up to the first couple. His day job has also proved quite fruitful however, playing, producing, and arranging for countless musicians (Harry Nilsson, U2, Rufus Wainwright, Fiona Apple) and composing for film and television (Popeye, Brave Little Toaster, Bastard Out of Carolina). And, of course, that whole Smile thing.

For a lifetime of relative obscurity, Van Dyke Parks spent his twenties making what should have been the most important records of the 60s and 70s--shelved or otherwise. Instead, Van Dyke "I had a cameo on Twin Peaks" Parks will have to settle for his place as the Greatest Band of All Time.

Easily the greatest christian synth pop band of all time. Joy Electric is head and shoulders above the competition. Head and shoulders is a totally funny joke. What would one say....legs and feet below the rest? Ha.

My very awesome cousin, Nathan, introduced me to Joy Electric in 96, I think. They were immediately an epiphany for me. Erasure and their amazing synth pop had been a favorite of mine for years and Joy Electric was like the synth pop of Erasure (maybe minus some of the super dramatic vibes) mixed with more of an indie vibe with deeper creative themes for their lyrics. Since our very special introduction Joy Electric and I have spent a very rewarding 8 years together going through that kind of relationship where I spent a lot of money on Joy Electric buying everything they release, which is above average, and we go through good times, mediocre times, times where we take each other for advantage, and times where it feels brand new and so amazing like nothing in the world could be better. Oh, Joy Electric, there was that one time where we almost broke up. It just felt so stale, and I thought there it may be better if we just didn't talk for awhile, and then it got so good again. Now we are in a really familiar place, not the best it could be, but we just know each other so well, and we really love each other. Man, I love Joy Electric.

Joy Electric has been strutting it's stuff for about a decade now. Joy Electric is the work of one man, Ronnie Martin, or as he is sometimes known as Count Ronald Martin. There have been other members of the band for live shows, but in the studio it's all Ronnie. Joy Electric rose out of the ashes of Ronnie's previous band, Dance House Children, which also prominently featured Ronnie's brother Jason who went onto be the main dude in Starflyer 59. There is this album called Rainbow Rider or maybe the band is called Rainbow Rider that happened between Dance House Children's last official album and Joy Electric's first album and it's totally controversial because Ronnie has claimed that it's really the last Dance House Children album but most perceieve Rainbow Rider as a seperate band because of how the artwork is presented and because there was another Rainbow Rider 7" released later. Anyway, let's for this article's sake call Rainbow Rider a band and the album Beautiful Dazzling Music No. 1. The album is really crazy using synthesizers and samplers and changing tempos so often. It was a wacky sign of things to come.

The first Joy Electric album, Melody, is this wonderfully naive record. With simplistic beats and sweet synthesizers, Melody makes you feel like this would be your favorite music ever if you heard it when you were 8 years old. The lyrics about candy cane carriages, boys and girls falling in love just are the best at giving the warm fuzzies. The album's only fault is that it is too long and can lose your attention from time to time, but what a fun fresh breath in 1994 in the midst of grunge and alt rock.

In a shocking turn of events, Joy Electric then took the vibe to a dark place. 1995's follow up EP Five Star For Failure gets super moody and brings the tempo down. The second Joy Electric album, 1996's We Are The Music Makers, the theme was totally medievil which totally fit with the Joy Electric tones and vibes so well. We Are The Music Makers is one of Joy Electric's finest moments. On Music Makers Ronnie stopped using all samples and loops and limited himself to only analogue. Ronnie over the years continued to limit himself as a way of making himself be more creative. In early 97, Joy dropped the Old Wives Tales EP which is maybe my favorite Joy release of all time. The theme got updated a little bit to like maybe a 1700s vibe and more of a peasant vibe with amazing songs like "The Cobbler," "And It Feels Like Old Times," and "Old Wives Tales." A slow and brooding perfect set of songs with some brilliant remix updates of songs from We Are The Music Makers and Melody.

Later in 97 came the next full length called Robot Rock, a big departure from the moody old timey area of the previous 3 releases. Ronnie simplyfied the instrumentation, sped up the songs, and made them much more aggressive making Robot Rock Joy Electric's punk rock recorrd. It is also Joy's most successful record and started to get Joy a lot of secular fans. It has some really rad songs, but I don't think it holds up to some of the records. Somewhat in response to the bigger fan base, Ronnie's next record was the not so subtly titled, ChristiansSongs(yes it's true Joy Electric is not only of those super easy palatteable indie christian bands like Sufjan Stevens or Danielson Famille), bringing his convictions to the forefront of the lyrics for the first time.

Taking a few years between records, Ronnie returned in 2001 with his most complex and ambititious record, Legacy Vol.1 The White Songbook. Originally intended to be the first in a trilogy (an idea which I believe has been scrapped) the album is presented in chapters and is supposedly to be viewed like a book. The White Songbook is a heavily layered affair with the longest songs in Joy Electric's career. The songs have many different parts and moods and bring together all the strengths of Ronnie's music for the first time. The complexity is even more impressive because Ronnie recorded this album completely monophonically, meaning he didn't play chords at all just single notes while recording after dropping using drum machines a couple albums previously, Ronnie is only left to use analogue synthesizer for all sounds of the albums. I hope Ronnie attempts more albums like this in the future.

In the two albums since The White Songbook Ronnie has stuck to very strict moods and concepts for each record. Last years', The Tick Tock Treasury is an upbeat record which music focusing on a more 70s style minimal experimental synth vibe. Just released is Hello, Mannequin a cold and marching record that speaks of robots is steeped heavily in the 70s and 80s Kraftwerk vibe. So much material, and I left out 4 eps, an "unelectric" record, and a 2 disc best of and unreleased compilation.

Oh, Joy Electric, you give me so much to deal with, it's almost too much, but almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades and it's not too much. I'm still need you Joy Electric, because you've given me some of the best treasures I've encountered in this world. I love you Joy Electric and you are The Greatest Band of All Time.