“Medical Science”— (bonus track) 11 Tracks of Whack (Walter Becker) (1994)

Apparently, this song is a “bonus track” on the Japanese release of Walter Becker’s 1994 album, 11 Tracks of Whack (which already contained 12 tracks—not sure which one wasn’t “of Whack”). In other words, obscure—but it’s not really, because you can find the song instantly on the internet and listen to it—and on a website called “Walter Becker Media” there are even demos and notebook pages of lyrics—so there you go—a pretty fun song to check out. His handwriting looks a lot like mine—i.e., borderline illegible. To me, it sounds as good as anything on the record—so I wonder why it didn’t make it on the record. It’s a pretty good song, actually. Actually, a great song. Well, I guess that’s why someone made a point to add it as a “bonus track,” and someone else put it on the YouTube (etc.)—and Steely Dan and Walter Becker fans are happy to hear the song. Walter Becker’s solo stuff is growing on me, as time goes on, and his sleepy hipster style of singing is also growing on me. It shouldn’t surprise me that I like a lot of his songs. This one has a nice groove, a good bass part, and a cool, minimal stripped-down sound. The lyrics lament the troubles of some less fortunate characters, I guess. The title refers to the chorus, which ends: “Because medical science is helpless/ helpless in a case like this.” Which is a pretty useful expression, one that could easily be apt in quite a lot of situations in which a cool head and an understated sense of humor might certainly come in handy.

—Randy Russell 5.12.24

“I Got the News”—third song, side two of Aja (1977)

A song I’ve listened to a million times (Side Two of Aja, a million times) without paying much attention to it—why? One reason is because Side Two of Aja is like a sandwich where the Peg and Josie bread is slightly more tasty than the meat and condiments in-between. Secondly, there’s the title—a bit of a turnoff—in that I’ve never liked the mention of “the news” in any rock or pop music format. The third reason may be because of the upbeat jauntiness of this tune—something that often initially turns me off—even when that’s far from fair. (What’s fair? We’re talking about cranky codgers’ opinions about pop music!) Fourth (and hopefully last)—might be—a superficial perusement of the lyrics reveals some slightly moist love mush—never my first choice when it comes to focused listening. But, however, now is the time for a closer assessment—that’s why I’m doing this, after all! Exactly what is going on here? Over time (and there’s been 47 years since I bought this record with my own 17-year-old working man’s money) bread—no matter how tasty—becomes stale (never mind what happens to meat and condiments—the metaphor stops with the bread).

The place I always like to start, with this record, is the hilarious liner notes by “Michael Phalen”—and this one is no less: “…a Manhattan-jukebox thump-along, serves as the vehicle for the coy pianistics of Victor Feldman, whose labors are capriciously undermined by Walter Becker’s odd, Djangoesque guitar and a pointlessly obscene lyric.” Well, first of all, I like to listen to a song in context of the entire album. Is that just an excuse to listen to this record for the one millionth time? That’s what my wife thinks. I don’t care—it’s important. Also, it’s 5 p.m. on Sunday and there’s nothing on TV but the news. There is no wife. It’s hard—because there is no greater recurring moment in life than dropping the needle on “Black Cow”—how in the world is that Side B bit of bologna and mayonnaise ever supposed to hold up? As I’ve said before, the real key to my full appreciation of SD records is a close reading of lyrics with the music, as I’m not necessarily a hearer of lyrics—I often let the songs go by, uninformed (I’m no better in conversation). This one is no different—I may not finally “get” the song (though, some sticky, sultry rhymes persist) but now, at least, I see it, IN COLOR (as they used to say) even 3-D. For one thing, the drums and bass parts are insane. After that, it’s all a bonus. Piano and vibes, odd synth, almost imperceptible noodling guitars (and nice solos, of course). Also, you’ll want to pay particular attention to that part of the song I sometimes call (sometimes incorrectly?) “the bridge”—which, in Steely Dan songs, is often such a bonus as to seem, even, like the point of the song. This one is no exception.

—Randy Russell 4.7.24

“The Night Belongs to Mona”—seventh song on Morph the Cat (Donald Fagen) (2006)

If this album had originally been released on vinyl, I wonder if the song order would be different? Maybe this one would have been the 2nd song on Side 2—which is a good place to hide a song meant to sneak up on you. As it is, it’s between two other songs with women’s names in the titles—between the funniest song on the record and (one of) the scariest. It definitely snuck up on me. For the first many, many listenings I heard the smoothest of the smooth, the prettiest song on the album—about a glamorous woman, dressed in black (it’s New York), romantically dark, romantically alone. The chorus softens you up, for sure: “CDs spinnin’/AC hummin’/Feelin’ pretty.” Like an idiot, I asked for her phone number. But that was before I listened more closely and worked my way past the veneer.

Well… I was perfectly happy to just understand this as a song about this person who is in a different league, essentially—we all know her. Even I’ve been called on the phone at “some unholy hour” to talk about “all of this grim and funny stuff.” It’s exciting—but maybe you want to keep her at an arm’s length. And then the bridge comes along, and like all good bridges, it takes you somewhere entirely else. From then on, if you listen carefully, it’s like, “what is happening here?” It goes from present to past tense—I wanted to believe “the fire downtown” was referring to the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, 1911, and not 9/11—but seeing how this record came out in 2006—9/11 still felt like yesterday (for some, it still does). “We try not to see the writing on the wall,” then, moves us into the future. Now she’s not merely 40 floors above the city, but miles. And it asks a big question: “Will she fall hard? Or float softly to the street?” First listening to this song, I swear he said: “float softly through the street”—which helps that question make more sense. Because with that question, “fall hard” means fail—or at least, come back down to earth—not in a literal sense. “Floating softly through the street” is what we all aspire to. But the printed lyrics (online) contradict that. “Will she fall hard/or float softly to the street?” That is something else altogether. With that question, neither option is good. And it might not make a lot of sense. But you know what else doesn’t? Death.

—Randy Russell 12.17.23

“Trans-Island Skyway”—first song on Kamakiriad (Donald Fagen) (1993)

It’s interesting that this album came out the year after I made a point of going back to some old Steely Dan records with a new appreciation—but I didn’t hear this at the time—nor would I for a couple more decades. I don’t know what I would have thought about this song back then—maybe too jaunty, too breezy, for me—but if I would have heard the lyrics, I think I might have been into it. Now, of course, this extended funky jazz pop is exactly what I want to hear—and when I finally heard this record, I loved it. It took me awhile to isolate the lyrics on this opening number, though, besides the words in the title—which simply evoked driving on an overcrowded elevated highway with large body of water visible out the window. I’m a bit lazy about focusing on lyrics, anyway, generally, but with this song, you’d never be able to make them out without reading along. They are too much a mixture of science fiction, made-up slang, nonsense, and blues slang—all melded together.

It starts out describing his car (a “Kamakiri”) which sounds like an internationally engineered steampunk marvel—complete with onboard hydroponic garden! Of course, there’s a beautiful, young woman involved, who he picks up after a highway wreck—the verse ending in: “Strap in tight ’cause it’s a long, sweet ride.” Could this, of all things, be a reference to The Sweet Ride (1968), the surfer, biker exploitation movie where Jacqueline Bisset hooks up with some beach bums? (I am overly excited by the possibility because it’s my all-time favorite movie—which I even named a zine after!)

The song has unambiguous climate change references, for sure, as well as a dig (“Let’s talk about the good times, honey”) on “MAGA”—that would be Reagan’s version—racist and disgusting enough, long before Trump zombized it. And maybe the only time I’ve heard, in a song: “I’ll brew up some decaf.” It’s classic Donald Fagen/Steely Dan humor—dry, droll, a little off, and funnier because of it. At one point, there’s the line: “Come on Daddy, get in let’s go”—repeated several times, with backup singers—but the line that comes just before that is: “Is that my father mowin’ the lawn?” Some subtly hilarious shit. And there’s probably a lot I’m not even picking up on, this go-round. My favorite line is at the end of the chorus—a perfect blend of science fiction, pop slang, and metaphor—“We’ll be deep in the Zone by cryin’ time.

—Randy Russell 10.29.23

“Door Number Two”—first song on Circus Money (Walter Becker) (2008)

A great song to start a record, and a great way to start the song—the chorus sung by background singers before Walter Becker’s minimal vocals come in. The whole song is sparse, slow, quiet, and has a jazzy, slightly sleazy, dark cocktail lounge feeing. Not that you’d ever hear anything this excellent in a cocktail lounge—or if you did, you’d have hit the neighborhood jackpot. After about four minutes, it just kind of fades away more than fades out. The high point is the sax solo in the middle, nothing like a rock-song sax—it’s more like out-there jazz, nothing expected, disorienting and very pleasing—played by, Chris Potter, I guess. The title sounds like a reference to one of those game shows I spent thousands of hours watching in my youth—and am pleased to say I can remember nothing about. Besides game shows, there are nods to casino gambling, Las Vegas, The City, The Islands—no characters specifically, just the universal schmo, looking for the magic ticket to happiness, whether it be high or low. There’s even a reference to the guess your weight game. There’s a refence to the “college girl,” and he uses the word “assignation”—don’t hear that every day in a pop song. The drink of choice is “gin and tonic on the veranda.” Anyway, it got me thinking about the way I have cataloged my accomplishments, hoping for a dependable reserve of happiness that I can withdraw at will, as if from an ATM. I suppose most people do some version of that. But what if I was Walter Becker, a guy responsible for those nine Steely Dan records (not to mention whatever else in life)? I can’t even imagine it, not even close. Yet, somehow, I am able to imagine happiness.

—Randy Russell 9.3.23

“Parker’s Band”—first song, side two of Pretzel Logic (1974)

Never one of my favorite Steely Dan songs—as big a fan of Charlie Parker as I am—because in my mind it was always a hopped up two-and-a-half-minute sprint crammed full of pretty obvious Bird references. But listening to it more closely, it comes off better. It really does. It’s the perfect side two opener, too. It just sounds like a title song, and in this case, it’s the title song for side two of Pretzel Logic (and side one, again, once you start the record over). It occurs to me now that this also comes across like another one of their jingle songs, or movie/TV show title songs, which they’re really good at. So, I’m imaging a TV show called “Parker’s Band,” which could be a comedy/drama about Charlie Parker. Each week he lands gigs, gets arrested, grapples with relationships, hocks his sax to buy drugs, cleans up a bit, gets his horn back, plays a triumphant show. I’d watch that on TV, for sure, depending, of course, on the writing—and who they cast. I’m joking, but really, that could be something—as long as they were respectful to Charlie Parker and his circle, why not. It would be a way to share his music with people who would otherwise never hear it, as each episode could end with a dramatization featuring a vintage Parker performance. This song would be the opening theme—it really does sound like that kind of number, in part because of the wacky bridge in the middle that implies that each week’s episode will always take you to somewhere unexpected before getting you back to the gig. And the way the song ends with the crazy dueling saxes—and then puts on the brakes and stops on a dime—that’s pure TV theme song.

—Randy Russell 7.30.23

“Time Out of Mind”—second song, side two of Gaucho (1980)

The phrase “time out of mind” has always bored me, though once I considered it more closely, it confused me, which I guess is better. A time before people remember—does such a thing exist? Unless you’re talking about history in general, which we do seem doomed to repeat. It’s also the name of that Bob Dylan record from 1997—not sure what he had in (or out of) mind. That’s an odd one for me because I loved it when it came out, but now I can barely listen to it. Who knows why you turn on a record like that. As far as this record, Gaucho, goes, I’m still in the long process of coming around to it—and in that arduous journey, this song is one of the last to fall. My longtime one-word review would have been: “insipid.” Of course, those diehard “Dan” fans are more likely to say: “sublime”—and I’ve got to respect their opinions—after all, we share the love of our favorite band! Is there something wrong with me? (Please don’t answer that.) Is there something I’m not hearing? I’ve got to listen harder. (Or, maybe, less hard?)

Still… no. If this was a movie, it would be the montage scene where a fresh-faced, blond, yuppie couple spends Sunday afternoon laughing at the antics of ducklings, riding rented bicycles, and eating frozen yogurt. Could it be ironic? To try to understand, I must turn to the lyrics. (The ones other than the chorus, “Time out of miiiiiind…”) Which is something I was going to do anyway. It’s absolute gibberish. Short of possibly being anther song about masturbation, I have no idea—so I have to resort to the internet, where there are people much more versed in drug slang and references than I am. And the consensus seems to be a compelling argument for this being an unambiguous love letter to “smoking heroin.” In movies, I’ve watched way too many “shocking” scenes of junkies shooting up, which was always supposed to have been one level more shocking than seeing someone shot with a bullet. But smoking heroin, no (though I do recall some opium smoking). Anyway, knowing that that’s what “Tonight when I chase the dragon” refers to, I suppose it all falls into place—including the title—as it seems to be the particular charm of opioid drugs to allow you to forget time just previous to the mess you would find yourself in (if you could remember how you got there).

It’s impossible to consider any song on this record without considering it being a “breakup record”—that is, the band breaking up, or more specifically, the partnership of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker (who were approximately 32 and 30 when it came out—kids! But feeling as old as the hills). I’m to understand that they wrote together—but who primarily came up with lyrics, I have no idea, but maybe that’s not important. Whether just one of them or both were enjoying/struggling with heroin around this time, is also not important in understanding the song. Plus, they both had life experiences to draw from, not to mention those of acquaintances, not to mention they both watched movies and read books. Is there irony in writing a happy-go-lucky, breezy tune about smoking heroin? Maybe, or maybe it’s just a sunny snapshot of what must be a relatively awesome drug experience. (Why else would one endure the expense, danger, stigma, etc.?) And can “chasing the dragon” still operate metaphorically beyond its initial metaphor? That is, could it also be referring, in this song, to something as equally as wonderful feeling and potentially destructive and dangerous? Desperately trying to replicate the highs of something such as success, love, or a creative partnership operating at the highest levels of creativity and inspiration? Of course it could.

—Randy Russell 7.16.23

“Any World (That I’m Welcome To)”—fourth song, side two of Katy Lied (1975)

I was in a foul mood, but since I decided to write about a Steely Dan song (using, as usual, my random system to pick the song) I decided to listen to this whole record, Katy Lied, rather than just the song I picked (second to last on the album). It instantly put me in a good mood. Even this trashed copy, with a trashed needle, and my cheapo system—it sounds better than a digital version. A notable thing about this song (which I only know because I read it somewhere) is that it’s the only SD song that Hal Blaine played drums on. I would have never noticed, probably, but knowing that, I hear a difference, say, from the other songs on the record, all of which the drummer was Jeff Porcaro (he even has his picture on back). Not better, not worse, but different. Like every great band, the songs start with the drums, and on every SD song there are excellent drum performances. But now that I think of it—there is something else different about this song from the rest of the songs on the record—and from the rest of SD songs. I’ve never been able to put my finger on what exactly—though maybe that’s the reason I—now—like it so much.

I might have said before, somewhere, that this was a song that made no impression on me for the longest time (I bought this record when it came out, when I was 15). I probably mostly played Side One. But then I heard (in the last few years) something I liked in this song. The lyrics are weird—they’re a little too general, and they slither away when you try to pin them down. Taken at face value, it almost sounds like a Christian song—and the only reason you wouldn’t take it at face value is because it’s Steely Dan—so you’re expecting some deep irony somewhere, possibly hidden. I don’t know if anyone’s covered this one (maybe some obscure ones)—it would be an odd choice. I can almost imagine it as a Carpenters song written by Paul Williams—but not really, either—I don’t know, it’s confusing. I read somewhere else that it’s actually one of the very early songs Becker and Fagen wrote—perhaps they had first intended it for other artists—so I guess that kind of makes sense. It makes me think of a TV show, like the opening theme—maybe because of that bridge, and the last chorus with a key change. I can imagine one of those late-Sixties shows where a loner travels from town to town—on the run from something—but touching the lives of the people he meets, helping them, changing their destinies. Do they still make shows like that? Let’s hope not!

—Randy Russell 7.2.23

“The Last Mall”—first song on Everything Must Go (2003)

It’s a jarringly “lite” song, which directs you to take the lyrics in their breezily literal sense rather than the many doom-heavy metaphorical possibilities. It’s barely over three minutes long and feels like more of an intro—to set up what is a surprisingly excellent album. I say “surprisingly” because, when a band records a record after 20 years of retirement, it’s usually not great—though, that was their previous record, Two Against Nature, which was also surprisingly good—and this one is better. I didn’t expect that. In fact, I admit, I didn’t listen to them when they came out. (It seems crazy that this record is now 20 years old.) Anyway, Everything Must Go certainly announces the end—whether or not that was intended as a gallows humor joke—but the fact that there wasn’t another one, and won’t be (at least with Walter Becker)—well, who knows. Anyway, this song sounds lite, to me, with the noodley guitar throughout, and the horns—and I’m sure that’s intentional. So that you think, ha, funny song about the weird phenomenon of malls ceasing to exist. So you overlook the metaphorical meaning about the song setting up an album about the end of a band (“The Big Adios”). And which you can take further (and probably should—“tools for survival,” and “when the going gets tough,” and “beneath the blood orange sky”). If you’re so inclined. As in, the end of consumerism, capitalism, Los Angeles, America, the Empire, the human race. And… old white guys. Like I said, lite.

—Randy Russell 6.18.23

“Cringemaker”—seventh song on 11 Tracks of Whack (Walter Becker) (1994)

The opening lines of this song sum it up completely: “Whatever happened to my college belle/When did she turn into the wife from hell?” “Cringemaker” isn’t a word, I don’t think, but you know exactly what it means. The weird thing here is that it seems like the wrong word for what he’s describing in this song—a relationship that has run its course—but maybe that just points out our different ways of seeing things when it comes to long-term relationships. That’s okay, because I’m happy to go along for a weird five-minute ride every once in a while. I can’t say I love this song, or even like it, though—besides its chilly portrait of disaffection. The sound is a lethargic blues—it reminds me of nothing so much as way later (maybe around this time, 1994) Rolling Stones—after the point they had written all the songs, and songwriting seemed to be about not repeating the songs that they already wrote. I could be wrong, I haven’t actually listened to any Stones past Steel Wheels. That was bad enough. I still love them, though, and I still love Walter Becker—and I’m glad I’ve got a couple of well-made solo LPs, even if it’s not always enjoyable. There are more than 11 tracks on this one, actually, and I have no idea if they’re all “whack”—though some of them, like this one, are “wack.” Fortunately, there are better ones coming up, and I’ll get to them.

—Randy Russell 1.8.23

“Florida Room”—sixth song on Kamakiriad (Donald Fagen) (1993)

First of all, what does “Florida Room” mean to you—I mean, without listening to the lyrics or doing any research? I love questions like this. Presuming you don’t live in Florida, and let’s say in a colder climate, you might have a room in your house where you replicate the balmy, tropical, exoticism of the “Sunshine State.” In the house where I grew up, in northern Ohio, we had a room that was between the living room and the attached garage, that was essentially a family room that had jalousie windows covering the front and back walls (facing east and west), so that on warm days we could allow the breeze to blow through. We called it the “breezeway.” We didn’t take a lot of trips to Florida, but on one in 1972, we brought back a lot of decorations—like fishnets, glass buoys, cork, starfish, etc. And the best, a dried pufferfish made into a hanging lamp. We also picked up similar, exotic, “Oriental” items at the Kon-Tiki, a famous Tiki bar and restaurant, in Cleveland, and the Kahiki, a similar (but even better) Polynesian restaurant, in Columbus. Eventually our breezeway looked like something between an old-school Chinese restaurant and Matt Helm’s bachelor pad. We didn’t, however, call it the Florida Room—and the internet tells me it’s more like an enclosed patio or sunroom—though I suppose the definition could be quite broad.

The song starts off with an odd, tad unsettling intro that sounds nothing like the rest of the song—but cleverly sets it up to settle into an extremely mellow, soul groove, with super smooth horns and backing vocals. The music perfectly complements the evocative images of hanging out in the tropics during the cold months up north—maybe nothing more complicated than that—though you could possibly, metaphorically, interpret some hot sex—and why not. It’s a nice song. It’s interesting, looking at the years these Becker, Fagen, and later SD records came out—spread out as they were—even though the music sounds as fresh as yesterday. While this one (Kamakiriad) was being recorded, I was just getting back to (after years away) appreciating old Steely Dan stuff, and I also made my last trip in Florida, in the midst of a bitterly cold Midwest winter. I rented a car, drove through the Everglades and down to Key West, and generally felt like this song sounds. It was right before I quit drinking, too, so I’m sure I enjoyed some rum, coconut milk, and pineapple juice as I walked around at night in the balmy air, taking in the exotic sounds and smells. I suppose I was already feeling old—years away from those earlier Florida visits. If I would have been smart, I might have bought this record when it came out and really appreciated it then—but it takes years and years, sometimes, to come around to things—so consider yourself lucky if it eventually happens.

—Randy Russell 7.31.22

“Morph the Cat”—first song on Morph the Cat (Donald Fagen) (2006)

I’m including both the song, “Morph the Cat,” the first song on the 2006 album, Morph the Cat, as well as “Morph the Cat (Reprise),” the last song on the album—though they should never be played end to end—but always played with the seven songs on the album between them, played between them. The song starts out as a pleasant, somewhat funky groove—exactly as I’d imagine a musical attempt to capture the unique and mysterious movements of a cat. By the end of both the song and reprise, there are enough horn and guitar explorations to justify the “Morph” part of the title. There are a couple of horns sounding like they’re each taking their own way around, and a guitar solo that sounds like pure maple syrup poured over shaved ice. As a whole, it’s both soothing and intellectually stimulating, as well as disturbing, trance-inducing, and even—if you allow your imagination to run free—anxiety producing. The other thing that came to my mind is that this could the theme song of a TV show called “Morph the Cat”—well, at least from an era where theme songs were extraordinary.

The oddball lyrics reinforce all of this—first with a vision of a giant cat floating above Manhattan, and then lines like, “He oozes down the heating duct,” and “It’s kind of like an Arctic mind bath.” My very favorite verse of all goes: “Like you heard an Arlen tune / or bought yourself a crazy hat / like you had a mango cooler / Morph the Cat.”

The song makes me think of many more things. One is that story I’ve heard—I don’t know if there’s any truth to it—about something in cat poop or pee that affects the human brain and renders you their humble servant. I don’t know about that—it might have been from one of those racy Batman and Catwoman romance episodes (in the Sixties, with Julie Newmar). I prefer the more practical theory that cats can hypnotize you with their purring and affection. Also, I can’t help thinking about 9/11, of course, which leads me to think about the floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade—how truly creepy they are. Which also makes me think of the “Airborne Toxic Event” in Don DeLillo’s 1985 novel, White Noise. Which leads me to thinking about the song “Drugs,” from Talking Heads 1979 album, Fear of Music. Which leads me to thinking of Jonathan Lethem’s 2009 novel, Chronic City—and some of the more disturbing and fun stuff from that book—for which this song could work as a theme song. I would love to see all of the above collaborating on a TV show, or limited series, called Morph the Cat. I’d watch that show. No, I wouldn’t, actually. I prefer to keep it here.

—Randy Russell 6.5.22

“Josie”—last song, side two of Aja (1977)

Never my favorite Steely Dan number—still, Josie is a very good song, which I appreciate more in retrospect—even though it’s one of their more overplayed ones. Being the last song on Aja, from 1977, it was the last I paid attention to Steely Dan until the early Nineties when I became a fan once again (and that’s a long story). But as a senior in high school, I was pretty much through with them by the time this record came out. I mean, I liked it—I remember putting some of the songs on my recordable 8-Track tapes, for my car. But I was onto new things—punk rock, mostly. Even so, there was something about the Aja album cover, and the whole presentation, that fascinated me, stuck with me. I guess it felt like a jazz album cover—even though I knew nothing about jazz. It wasn’t as audacious as “Never Mind the Bollocks” (Sex Pistols), but it felt in some ways as frightening. These were adults—and even though they weren’t that much older than me, at the time, I was not going to cross over into their world.

In retrospect, the opening “secret agent” guitar part always struck me as a bit obvious and a little lame—maybe the weak point of the entire album. I suppose, though, at the time, it was the hook it was supposed to be. To put things in perspective, as impossible as that is—for me, back then, “Deacon Blues” felt like the soft spot—I found it annoying. Now it’s my favorite song from the record—a song I can’t seem to get tired of. It’s funny how those things change. On “Josie,” as with the rest of this record, all the elements—the playing, the instruments—are as good as it gets. The electric piano sounds particularly sublime. It’s well-documented who plays what on each song—but I’m not relating those details here—but every so often I take notice, and one interesting thing I read is that it’s the only Steely Dan song the great drummer, Jim Keltner, played on. Lyrically, it’s a bit ho-hum—I mean, “Josie” returns to the neighborhood… and they party. Of course, the bit in the chorus, “She prays like a Roman with her eyes on fire,” is a standout—I mean, who else would write a line like that? There’s also a reference to a “battle apple,” which you don’t hear every day—which I’m pretty sure I’ve seen in a museum—essentially a mace. And finally, as referred to in the always hilarious SD liner notes (this credited to “Michael Phalen”), “…this sociopathic jump tune is sure to become a classic zebra in the annals of Punkadelia.”

—Randy Russell 5.8.22

“Planet D’Rhonda”—last song on Sunken Condos (Donald Fagen) (2012)

It’s been a while since I wrote about a Steely Dan song, which makes no sense, since it’s maybe the most pleasurable activity I partake in. But I’m only human, I suppose—and thus seek out misery like it’s the Holy Grail. Anyway, seeing how I’ll never get to them all, I pick out songs by using a random system, and this time it landed on “Planet D’Rhonda,” which happens to be the last song on Donald Fagen’s last album, Sunken Condos, which came out in 2012. That’s ten years ago now. Seeing how there has sometimes been over ten years between records, in the past, that doesn’t mean Fagen is retired. I have read rumors that he’s going to record a new album, and even though he has a way of misleading journalists, I remain hopeful. For most of us, writing songs gets harder as we get older. Getting out of bed gets harder, but songwriting—I mean for most—it seems to get more challenging as time goes on. And Donald Fagen has always held himself to ridiculously high standards. So I’m thankful there is so much that exists to listen to, and if ever managed to write about it all, I would just start over and, I’m sure, hear it all differently. But that doesn’t mean I don’t pray for more.

The singular pleasure of Donald Fagen’s recorded songs is listening to them closely while reading along with the lyrics. That might go for all songs with lyrics, to a certain degree—except with the majority of pop music, you’re better off ignoring the lyrics. I suppose I’m someone who has trouble hearing lyrics in a song and has traditionally been happy to enjoy music without knowing what they are saying—they may as well be in a language I don’t speak. But that’s why I’m devoting time, effort, and a page on this website to Steely Dan, Donald Fagen, and in some cases Walter Becker songs—because there is a payoff—because it’s so pleasurable for me. Listening to the songs carefully while following along with the written lyrics is like mixing two drugs that are just fine on their own, but when combined, work tenfold, may cause excitability, heart palpitations, incredulousness, and in extreme cases, death and rainbows.

“Planet D’Rhonda” is an affectionate and hilarious portrait of either a real-life or fictional (or more than likely, some combination of the two) woman, who is very likely much younger (though not necessarily so) than the narrator, who is ether fictional or Donald Fagen (or more than likely, some combination of the two). Presumedly her name is “Rhonda,” and “Planet D’Rhonda” is a pet name for her particular universe (like “Rhonda-World”)—though he does refer to her as “D”—so who knows… if I ever meet a person named “D’Rhonda” you can bet I will ask them if they know this song, and if they don’t, I will quite enjoy introducing it to them! Anyway, we all know someone like the person in this song. Or have known someone—often those relationships don’t last, because the D’Rhonda’s of the world tend to take some amount of energy to keep up with. They are often referred to as “a little much” or “a full course meal” or “a malfunctioning amusement park ride while on drugs in your nightmares from hell.” That last is my own, and admittedly a little much.

The song is, musically, a little bit happy for me, in that it has a jaunty-rating of .876—and anything over .667 or so tends to make me either very tired or somewhat irritated—so I kind of just let this one slide by until I focused on the lyrics. It is almost willfully unimpressive, pop-hook-wise, like it’s saying: “I don’t care—come ’round when you’re ready.” It does have a nice feeling, some lovely vibraphone sounds, and a rather impressive lead guitar, and solo. I don’t know who’s playing the guitar, but they’re one of those people who hear things a bit differently than mere mortals. As far as the lyrics, it’s really worth your time to find them written out and follow along. Like describing a dream, it always seems underwhelming when you excerpt a few, but just to get a little idea: “When we go out dancin’ baby, she’s always the star / When she does the Philly Dog, I gotta have CPR.” And: “Sometimes she’s vicious, sometimes rude / You got to be a mind reader to guess her mood.” And the short chorus: “My friends say, Jim, you’re on a deadly spree / They just can’t understand that D’s my Vitamin XYX.” You get the picture.

—Randy Russell 1.30.22

“Shanghai Confidential”—non-album release – Donald Fagen

This song is apparently a B-side of the single, “Century’s End” from 1988—and it only came to my attention because it’s on YouTube—but that’s why I like using a random system to pick songs to focus on—I would have never gotten around to this one. It’s a rare Donald Fagen instrumental—so I’m a little sad at having no lyrics to grapple with—but it’s good song to get back on track with writing about Steely Dan songs.  There’s a kind of subtly Asian sounding synthesizer part—a little annoying to me—a little obvious for a song with “Shanghai” in the title—and a little on the cheesy side of noirish for a song with “Confidential” in the title—but that’s okay—it’s an instrumental B-side. But then there’s this guitar part that just goes right into outer space—it’s this style of jazz guitar that I find intriguing, in that it somehow makes sense to me, but not in any obvious way. Like I could never predict where the next note is going to go—yet it’s pleasing, and even exciting. That really makes the song for me. I read on the dependable internet that it’s Steve Khan on guitar, and I know he played on later Steely Dan recordings, and with Donald Fagen, a bit. Steve Khan is an interesting character, and I might look for some of his solo stuff. He’s the son of Gloria Franks and the famous lyricist Sammy Cahn (who was originally named Cohen—and who wrote some of Sinatra’s best stuff). Steve, however, changed his name from Cahn to Khan. He’s played with a lot of people, including Michael Franks and Chaka Khan, but I’m reasonably sure he’s not related to either of them. Nor the first partner at the second law firm I worked at, nor Khan Noonien Singh.

—Randy Russell 10.27.21

“Lunch with Gina”—eighth song on Everything Must Go (2003)

One of my favorite songs from the “later,” (final two) Steely Dan albums—it’s energetic, funky, danceable—good playing all around, horn section—and I even like the synth solo. And lyrically, it’s especially up my alley. Depending on how you interpret it, it’s either pretty funny or pretty disturbing. But like I said before, song lyrics, or any other piece of writing, do not have to mean exclusively one thing—they can comfortably mean two, or countless things. That complexity is what separates us from the beasts—and I’m probably underestimating the beasts. On one hand, this song is the sad tale of an annoying woman named Gina, who the narrator finally comes around to, once he has sex with her. On the other, it’s a valentine to the drug GHB (which both “Gina” and “Lunch Money” are slang terms for). I’m figuring it’s metaphorically around half about one and 50% about the other. And why not, they kind of go together like a Fez and a penis.

I’m not exactly a drug guy, so I only know the drug slang by reading about it—but my second-hand and incomplete understanding of GHB (often known as the “date rape drug”) is that it’s sometimes used to heighten sexual arousal, sometimes unbeknownst to the drugged, or sometimes (arguably in the case of this song) self-administered and very much on purpose. Personally, I don’t particularly need something to make me want to have sex—it’s just kind of always there, like a floating bikini bar in a tropical pool. Not totally true—but let’s just say a half-my-age, fictional version of myself. The idea of manipulating either one’s, or someone’s, sex drive is nothing if not problematic. Though—it strikes me what a funny expression that is: “Sex Drive” – it makes me think of membership drive, or paper drive. Do kids still do that? Organize a paper drive to raise money, where you collect people’s old newspapers and recycle them? It’s a quaint blast from the past. Idea for a screenplay: A bunch of enterprising kids get together and organize a paper drive, and then, against all odds, they raise enough money to buy new uniforms for their high school marching band and majorette battalion. Why aren’t I in Hollywood? But I digress, sorry—what’s the name of that drug that’s supposed to keep you “on point?” I suppose they could have named this song “Sex Drive”—but prefer the approach taken here. I suppose if your song is kind of built on a pun that engages a sex drug that goes by a woman’s name, and that drug is also a date rape drug, it’s advisable to have a backdoor where the song is also about a woman named Gina and some less problematic activity, like, say, lunch.

—Randy Russell 5.12.21

“Mary Shut the Garden Door” – eighth song on Morph the Cat (Donald Fagen) (2006)

I will make a bold prediction, since going out on a limb is my business. People will soon be talking about a TV series called Mary Shut the Garden Door, which will be a reimagining of the world we live in (New York City/Los Angeles) had Donald Trump been reelected President and completed his project of transforming the Presidency into a strongman style dictatorship, enforced with an army of shadowy secret police/pod people/the undead. This will be the show everyone is talking about, though I won’t be able to see it, since it’s on MCN. At least I have the song. I do like to think that a movie or a book or a TV series can evolve from a single song, which will then be its theme song and, naturally, take on a life of its own. It’s not one of those old Bob Dylan epics—just a few good images do the trick, here, because then your brain is more than willing to run with it. They come: “In a fleet of Lincoln Town Cars”—“Headlights through the blinds.” There’s nothing more terrifying than: “Those voices in the kitchen.” And my favorite, which says it all more concisely than a 55-page teleplay: “We pounded Rachel’s radio / For reports about the bridge / There was nothing on but static / Nothing in the fridge.” For me, that’s perfect because it’s also funny—because amidst it all, we still laugh—because sometimes that’s all you can do.

The show’s soundtrack will no doubt feature some expressive meanderings of the dreaded “Melodica”—an instrument that, by its very nature, to me, says something you can’t put in words—so naturally I’m not going to be able to explain. I’m not even sure if that’s what I’m hearing—I’m guessing—but I recall seeing Donald Fagen play one on the internet, so… you know. I have to say, as much as I despise the instrument, he plays it with a sense of ironic restrain that I find acceptable, in service of the song. It’s a great song, very cool and understated, kind of moody and a little melancholy. It really does have the feeling of an episodic, weekly adventure series, each episode proposing a dilemma seemingly impossible to overcome, but of course, through ingenuity, courage, and an unforeseeable plot twist, we live to see another week, another season—at least until the ultimately inevitable final straw: cancellation/death.

If you’ve read this far you’re probably tearing your hair out, ready to cancel your subscription, about to burst, thinking out loud: “That sounds exactly like [     ] (insert “your” show—the one that I’m describing perfectly). I realize this. I am not really making a bold prediction—I’m just acting out the part of a person writing an article in which they preface the article that way. I have no idea what is going to be on TV in the distant, or near, future, because I have no idea what’s currently on TV—which consists of, I suppose, shows that are being broadcast week after week, and shows that are on “cable,” and shows that are “streaming.” The reason I don’t watch any of these is both because if I did, they would seriously depress me, and because I don’t care. I suppose this whole approach of writing about this song was one big mistake. I wish I could say that this mistake at least says something that a diabolical mental jump could relate to the song at hand… but it doesn’t. Still… excellent song.

—Randy Russell 4.14.21

“Jack of Speed”—sixth song on Two Against Nature (2000)

I’m not going to try to figure out the literal meaning of this song—maybe there isn’t one—and if there is one, you could argue that the feeling you get from it is enough. Right off the bat, the title, and last line of each verse, “Jack of Speed,” seems to refer to a slippery human condition of sorts—maybe we’ve all been there, to a degree, or potentially could find ourselves there—it’s a bit of a warning. What’s funny is that it made me think about the word “speed”—interesting word—an old word that historically meant only good things, but in more recent times came with dire warnings. I remember the TV ads from my childhood—not sure what years, but maybe late Sixties or so—that warned, “Speed Kills.” This was around the time of increasing awareness of automobile safety, and also the time of public awareness of drug abuse—so, of course, we all learned that Methamphetamine was known as “speed.” My mother had been a mild addict, as it had been freely prescribed by doctors to patients for diet and mood, and of course was used to work tirelessly. She told me about how all the women in her church were using it, which had a lot to do with the impossible standards of housecleaning established by the 1950s middle class. Speed was for “Keeping up with the Joneses”—the problem being, it was addictive, and therefore gave way to keeping up with the joneses. Many people of that era were decimated by its destructive side effects, before it was eventually banned. The funny point to all this is that I never did know if the “Speed Kills” ads were referring to automobiles or drugs—I still don’t know—maybe both. And in contemporary times, it could be a general warning about everything moving too fast—our fast-track to oblivion.

But back to the song—it’s an extremely catchy pop number, the primary hook, for me, being the clever lyrical structure, which might have a name, but I don’t know, so I’ll describe it. Each verse starts with a couple of rhyming lines, setting the scene, followed by a two-word description (“He’s changed,” in the first verse, “He’s gone,” in the second), which is then followed by a phrase modifying that, followed by the two-word description again, and then another phrase which will ultimately rhyme with “Jack of Speed” at the end of the verse. That’s complicated, so to illustrate—my favorite of the three (second verse) we get: “He’s gone—he walks through the old routines / but he’s gone—guaranteed / He may be sittin’ in the kitchen but he’s steppin’ out with the Jack of Speed.” Nice. And yes, there is a bridge, which refers to the “shriek express”—and I don’t need to know exactly what that is to get the gist. Musically, this is an impossibly infectious, cool funk groove, with subtle horns, restrained guitars (the guitar solo is subtle—very nice), and my favorite sound in there, like many Steely Dan songs, is some beautiful electric piano. Great backup vocals, just enough. Most subtle of all—I actually never noticed this until now—after the refrain, during the final instrumental minute and a half—some kind of percussion instrument comes in that sounds a bit like sleighbells—and makes me think of a similar sound in “Charlie Freak” (from Pretzel Logic)—another song that, in part, refers to these things we are no match for—you know, like addiction, and death. I’m probably projecting a bit here, but I had to wonder if the two songs are connected, kind of like sister songs.

—Randy Russell 3.7.21

“Kid Charlemagne”—first song, side one of The Royal Scam (1976)

Maybe the most catchy, funky, danceable Steely Dan song ever—why wasn’t it the biggest hit of 1976? Could it have something to do with the rock record buying audience finding European political history from the Early Middle Ages somewhat dry—as I did, as a 16-year-old? I wanted to drive around and party, not try to decipher lyrics—too bad, though, because the drug references are right there. I was afraid of microdot, blotter, etc.—acid, where I grew up—Bumfuck, Iowa/Ohio/Idaho—as well as the more pedestrian drugs (pot, PCP, Quaaludes, jimsonweed). Personally, I was good with beer. What I’m saying, though—if the song had been titled “Party On Down” it probably would have been a bigger hit—but ultimately Steely Dan’s weakness for being literary is what makes them interesting. It was years later before I heard that the song was about Owsley Stanley, the legendary audio technician and LSD manufacturer. By that time I had come to realize the synonymous nature of “soundman” and “drug dealer.” I knew nothing about Owsley at the time, but he was an interesting character, who incidentally shares a birthday with Janis Joplin, Edgar Allan Poe, and me! Anyway, it’s a great song—music and lyrics. It’s a great example of good writing that you could use in teaching. In the fourth verse, when things get hot (“people down the hall know who you are”)—rather than using that most overused bit of movie dialogue—“Let’s get out of here!”—the lyric goes: “Is there gas in the car? Yes, there’s gas in the car.” I love that.

—Randy Russell 1.31.21

“Maxine”—last song, side one of The Nightfly (Donald Fagen) (1982)

I really like how this song has a brief piano intro, that then just disappears into the song. This is a really pretty ballad, with piano and jazz guitar, and then subtle horns. There’s a really nice sax solo. Also—you kind of have to listen for it—a bit of cocktail lounge organ. You can really imagine, actually, stopping in for a drink at a dark lounge with all single people in the shadows, and an old-timer band off in a corner. Of course, that would be your lucky evening, to stumble across a band that sounded this good, and a place that let them play. The story in this song sounds like an earlier era, when young people were discouraged from “getting too serious”—meaning, of course, having babies while still working at the department store. They’re young, and they have big dreams of travel, and a “place in Manhattan,” while they meet at “Lincoln Mall” and “try to make sense of the suburban sprawl.” It’s a simple song with a simple sentiment, but naturally, coming from Donald Fagen, it all takes on a slightly off, subtly bizarre flavor—which I really like, because that’s the way I see the world, too. Nothing, really, is simple—not all all—not when you look at it closely enough.

—Randy Russell 12.31.20