“Barrytown”—fourth song, side one of Pretzel Logic (1974)

If you want to read something funny, look up this song on the internet and find Steely Dan fans arguing about whether it refers to the “Moonies” or not, as that once notorious “cult” was partially based in upstate New York town, Barrytown—which is near Bard College, where Becker and Fagen went to school. Moonies are what people eventually called the followers of the Unification Church, and we heard a lot about them in the Seventies—though they’d been around for decades. I would never have put that together with this song if I hadn’t read speculation claiming that’s what (or is not what) the song was about—but once you get it in your mind, it’s hard to hear it without thinking that’s what it’s referring to. On the other hand, it also kind of sounds like the singer is a “square” who is referring to hippies. Either way, there are some lines I can make no real sense of, but it’s okay—this is such a likable pop song it would be forgivable if the lyrics were inane or completely nonsense. I always loved this song—it’s got a great piano part, and it just moves along without needing to take a breath. It should have been the number one hit of 1974. It’s kind of crazy that “Rikki” was the hit off this record (great song, but I’d have never predicted it would be a radio hit).

Actually, it does take a breath—which is the two-line bridge, which is the spot in the song that sounds like a TV show theme song. And there should have been a TV show about Barrytown—why not? I love the structure of this song—two lines that rhyme, then three lines that rhyme, then two, and then the one line chorus with an internal rhyme—it’s really compelling. This will always be a song that, when it comes on, I stop and listen—and I’d gone for years never thinking about it any deeper than it was about a place (which I knew was north of NYC). I don’t mind the speculation about it being about the Moonies, actually—I like the images of “flower children” and lost, searching people in those decades, trying to find meaning and find themselves. It’s not always about cults that are sordid and depraved—pretty much every group there is, of all time, is somewhat of a cult. And all religions are about recruiting—some just use sexual desire a little more aggressively than others. Which reminds me of a story about when I was visiting Salt Lake City… but I’m not going to get into that right now. I’m trying to keep these brief articles brief. Ask me over coffee. Anyway… great song.

—Randy Russell 11.24.20

“Negative Girl”—eighth song on Two Against Nature (2000)

I don’t know what I thought, twenty years ago, when Steely Dan released an album after twenty years without a studio album. To someone who’s twenty years old, this might all sound crazy, but after having spent twenty years working on a single project, I’m kind of at the point where time and numbers mean very little. Just a couple of years ago, I would have either hated this song or just let it slip by, which is worse, but now I guess I’ve crossed over some kind of threshold, because I dig this song. On first, casual listen, there are elements that can be off-putting, such as when Donald Fagen sings, “More of the same more of the same,” at one point, with no punctuation. Also, if you’re feeling cranky, a possible take on the entire presentation might be that it reminds you of a “spoken word” performance with wanky accompaniment. But you have to listen a little more carefully, which I’m doing now, because it’s anything but wanky—it’s brilliant and beautiful, and all those b-words. When you get to the vibe solo, it’s like a revelation. It’s about thirty seconds long, almost cruel in its brevity. I could listen to that extended for an entire album.

This is timeless music—it could have come out this summer. The first line is about a woman “zooming on a couch”—but since this is ten years prior to the communication company by that name, “zooming” must mean something else—I’m guessing it’s drug related. The title is odd—I might have tried to say it another way, but I suppose all options have been taken—and most of them by the Rolling Stones. Or, say, “Evil Woman”—if you’re Jeff Lynne, or “Questionable Lady”—that sounds like a song Leon Russell or Kris Kristofferson might have been high enough to come up with. And just all those pop (not to mention country) songs by men, whining about a woman—and there’re a few billion—and none of them are quite this one. This song gets pretty specific—to the point that I’m guessing the flesh and blood inspiration for it is out there, knows who she is, and may be amused by it. I hope so, anyway. Who could argue with being called “deliciously toxic” and “exquisitely limpid” and “exhausting and luscious?” You could put that on your resume.

—Randy Russell 10.17.20

“God’s Eye View”—eleventh song on Circus Money (Walter Becker) (2008)

Now that I’m using my random system to pick among all the Steely Dan, Fagen, and Becker releases, sure enough, it immediately fell on a song I wasn’t familiar with. I was kind of avoiding the Becker and Fagen solo stuff, for no good reason—just because I always wanted them just to keep making Steely Dan records—and with Walter Becker, you don’t have that “comforting” Fagen singing voice. And the cover of that Circus Money album—I am pretty sure that same mask is on the cover of a Hardy Boys book (though now I’m not sure—I remember seeing it on the cover of some book, and it’s driving me crazy). The song surprised me right off, since it’s kind of a laid-back reggae style—I mean, even more laid back than reggae generally is. I immediately liked it—there’s lots of backup vocals, a really nice bass part, and this crazy sounding horn, throughout, and taking the instrumental break solo. I had to look that up—it’s a bass clarinet—you don’t hear one of those every day—played by Roger Rosenberg—it’s really quite beautiful. This song is really fun—extra fun because it’s kind of bizarre. Which is to some degree, the essence of why I like Steely Dan—a mixture of the smooth, the inexplicable, and the just plain weird.

As odd and pleasing as the song is musically, you could almost ignore the lyrics—but you can’t really ignore them—they’re crystal clear, and you just want to know, what is this about? I love the structure of the song—the verses all start with the backup singers chanting a single phrase—in most cases it’s two words, but none of these is repeated. And after each one, then there’s the lyric, sung by Walter Becker, answering each one. It sounds great. First of all, these sung phrases just sound so striking. Here’s an example of a few, from the second verse: “Trash talk,” and “Chump change,” and “Goose chase,” and “Jump cut.” Each time, with a line sung after—so you almost get the feeling of individual titles, with one-line poems. Or perhaps accusations, followed by explanations. I’m not really doing it justice, trying to explain it here. I’m assuming anyone reading this knows the song… or will listen to it now—and you’ll see what I mean. What’s it about, overall?—I suppose it’s relationship stuff. A little sad, a little sleazy, kind of world-weary and resigned, but also laughing at the situation, laughing at itself.

—Randy Russell 9.13.20

“Show Biz Kids”—first song, side two of Countdown to Ecstasy (1973)

After a break, for no reason and lots of reasons, I decided to get back to writing about Steely Dan songs, picking what to write about using a random system, but now including their later records, and Fagen and Becker solo records. As luck would have it, the first song I landed on was “Show Biz Kids,” which at one time I considered my favorite of all Steely Dan songs. As an exercise, a few years back, I ranked all songs in order—and while I’ve abandoned trying to do that, I still consider this song one of my very favorites. It’s from their second LP, when they seemed very much like a band, didn’t have as many guest musicians, but weren’t yet the most Steely Dan version of Steely Dan. Either you know what I’m talking about or you don’t, and if you don’t I’d like to try to explain over coffee, sometime.

There is a very notable guest musician on this song, Rick Derringer, who had, and as I write this still has, a long career as a rock’n’roll guitarist. He’s a guitar maniac from Ohio, and I always thought of him as “Joe Walsh from the other side of the tracks” (even though Joe Walsh is already from the other side of the tracks—but there’s a lot tracks, you know?) He had some hit songs, like “Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo,” that gets under your skin like an untreatable parasite. I’m going to guess he’s a swell guy, too—until someone tells me otherwise—I’m not picking on him. I’m guessing Skunk Baxter could have played the slide guitar on this song (that guy can play anything)—but maybe not—maybe you needed to grow up where there’s meth in your water supply. Anyway, it’s the thing you hear first and foremost on this song (at least until the “bad word” in the third verse). Maybe, for some people, it’s all you hear, that guitar. This being Steely Dan, though, of course, the more you listen, the deeper you can go, and the deeper you go, the weirder it gets.

This might qualify for strangest SD song ever. It’s experimental, it’s punk, it’s weird. I went several decades not having a clue what the backup singers were singing throughout the song, and why it otherwise is so odd, but finally they invented the internet and I read some things which might or might not be true, but I’ll go with it. Apparently, they are repeating the line: “Go to Lost Wages,” which is allegedly from a Lenny Bruce joke referring to Las Vegas as “Lost Wages.” Then, I also read that this song is built on a tape loop, which is why it sounds contemporary, in a way. But this was back when you had to actually make the loop with audio tape and get it to run through the machine. Since it was a physical loop, it was long, and they had to run it out of the studio, down the stairs, into the deli, and around the meat slicer. I’m exaggerating, but barely—also, I was not there—but listen to it. It’s got a crazy sound.

There is a bit of self-referential nonsense (“Steely Dan T-shirt”)—and this was back before “merch” became one of pop culture’s 10 Most Annoying Words. My favorite part of the song is after the guitar break, essentially the third verse, and the guitar drops out, and the tambourine doubles, and the verse is only one line: “Show business kids making movies of themselves you know they don’t give a f— about anybody else.” It doesn’t really clear up all the obscure references earlier in the song, but it makes everything make sense, somehow. It makes the song. And it’s not like they try to obscure the “f-word”—it’s spit in your face with angry confrontation. And this was the first single from the record! What the fuck were they thinking? It’s like anti-payola. And then… the end of the song piles up the percussion, the guitar melts down, there’s tape loops of voices, conversation, harmonica—it sounds like a traffic jam at rush hour on the first day of the apocalypse.

—Randy Russell 9.2.20

“Chain Lightning”—third song, side two of Katy Lied (1975)

I always kind of ignored this one, since it's a blues guitar song with a lot of guitar—in my mind, I almost remembered it being an instrumental. The guitar is pleasant enough, somewhat restrained (as far as guitar playing goes)—it's just that, sometimes—guitar—all you can do is shake your head in resignation. Just a few years before I was born, very few people had guitars, and now, as you know, everyone has a guitar. Relatively inexpensive, portable, relatively easy to learn, and cool—I don't know whether to see the guitar thing as amazing or tragic—I guess both. Also, you can practice at a low volume, so there are just generations of hyperactive, OCD, and otherwise fucked up kids locked in their bedroom just “practicing” all night. And eventually, when everyone is a virtuoso, no one is. I read somewhere that Rick Derringer played on this song, and unfortunately I only remember him from that hit song (you know) he had, but I looked him up, and his real name is almost Derringer (Zehringer) (I'm not making that up), and he's from Ohio, one of those small towns I haven't been through, near Indiana, built on a foundation of genocide, revolution, and agriculture, I guess. Growing up practicing guitar, at least, has to be an improvement on being a virtuoso at killing.

The lyrics are obscure enough to be indecipherable, but there are enough clues to get pretty creeped out by it (“brotherhood,” “little man,” and stuff about looking the other way). Not to mention, chain lightning, which, if you're not referring to weather, usually represents some kind of killing. When I think about it, now, this song strikes me as kind of funny, because it's so laid back, jazzy, easy going—which echos the lyrics on the surface, but contrasts with the underlying feeling, which, even if you don't know what it's about, is undeniable. So, after listening to this song a few more times, and thinking about all this, I've gotten to like it much, much more (which is kind of the point of all this). One thing I realized is really attractive to me is the rhyme scheme, which I guess you'd say goes “AAAABB”—essentially a four line verse with all lines rhyming, and then a two line course with those two rhyming. It's probably pretty common, but I can't think of a song exactly like that, offhand. It's very simple, but also very effective. Pretty much the whole song, as a whole, you could say, presents itself as fairly minimal, simple, not much there—but if you step back and take it in, there's a lot going on. Kind of a great song, after all.

—Randy Russell 5.24.20

“Haitian Divorce”—second song, side two of The Royal Scam (1976)

This is a straight up story song, about “Babs and Clean Willy” (introduced in the first four words) that follows the fairly logical progression of a breakup—I'm not going to paraphrase a plot summary here—you can listen to it and make out every line clear as day, because Donald Fagen annunciates like he's chiseling into marble. “She drinks the zombie from the cocoa shell”—wow. The story, somewhat convoluted as it is, is all there in black and white, so to speak. It's a very, very catchy quasi-reggae song that, as it progresses, is increasingly dominated by a strange instrumental noise that, if you had never heard it before, you might be concerned that some animal was harmed to produce. Since I was one of the four billion people who bought “Frampton Comes Alive!” in 1976, however, I recognized it as some kind of a “talk box”—so I resorted to the internet to see who was playing it. I don't usually go in for this kind of gimmick, but it actually works in this song—maybe because there's the mention of a “baby” and subliminally you might connect this sound to a pre-language form of expression. Anyway, interestingly, I read that the sound is a guitar, played by Dean Parks, then altered via “talk box” by Walter Becker. How, exactly, I don't know, but I'm sure there are stories. But what this made me think of, more than anything else, was that Speed Racer episode where somehow Speed goes blind, and Racer X fakes broken legs so that he can ride with Speed, providing visual instructions while Speed works the car's controls, and they're able to then defeat Snake Oiler (who kind of sounds like a Steely Dan song character). I hold up this animated cultural moment as the beginning of this “teamwork” nonsense we're now mired in. Whether Steely Dan was directly influenced by Speed Racer or not is a matter of conjecture, but I wanted to be the first one in the wide world web to suggest it.

—Randy Russell 5.10.20

“Glamour Profession”—last song, side one of Gaucho (1980)

This is maybe the strangest Steely Dan song ever, now that I focus on it. It almost feels like you're not supposed to focus on it—like it's just this interlude between the first songs on the record and the rest of the songs. But that's crazy—and if that was the case, I'd have nothing else to write. So I'm going to see what happens when I try to make sense of it. Most of it is pretty literal, even detailed, with LA and drug references—but then there's the chorus: “Local boys will spend a quarter just to shine the silver bowl”—which sounds like drugs, as well, in the context—but why those words, exactly? Followed by “Living hard will take its toll.” Is there a more banal line than that in the English language? I really feel like I'm missing something. But maybe the whole song is like a catalog of things I don't get. It's eight seconds longer than “MacArthur Park” but makes even less sense. Then—disco, or in particular, disco drums, which sound machine-like, and bass, which sounds high (as in the bass player is high). Unpleasant synthesizer—I mean in a song where you have piano and electric piano, already. Noodly jazz guitar—well, that's where I start to come around to it, actually. I like that guitar. And the backup vocals are fine. Maybe—this just occurred to me—the music (including the lyrically limp though pleasant bridge), most of the playing, and about half the lyrics—all serve as kind of a blank canvas—so it's kind of like gessoing a canvas—for the very specific, colorful, downright weird, and often hilarious details. 6:05 (the time—oddly exact, though in the morning or evening?—“outside the stadium”). Hoops McCann (no basketball player would ever have that name). Brut (the aftershave). Carib Cannibal (is that a boat you'd set foot on?) And: “Celluloid bikers/Is Friday's theme/I drove the Chrysler”—that's actually fairly brilliant. And finally, my favorite: “At Mr. Chow/Szechuan dumplings/after the deal has been done.” Now I'm hungry.

—Randy Russell 5.3.20

“The Nightfly”—second song, side two of The Nightfly (Donald Fagen) (1982)

The cover of The Nightfly LP is a theatrical photo of Donald Fagen as a late-night radio DJ, in front of his mic, smoking, crumpled Chesterfield pack, full ashtray, a record on the turntable (I can't tell what it is, though the cover is visible). There's a clipboard with possible ad copy, or station protocol. A large clock says 4:09, which we presume is A.M. The back cover shows a suburban house, lit by what could only be moonlight. A light is on in an upstairs bedroom, that you have to assume, because of a brief biographical note, belongs to the young Donald Fagen, who is listening to a late-night jazz radio station. “The Nightfly” is a funny song, beginning with such specifics, “I'm Lester the Nightfly,” followed by some radio DJ talk, all kind of unfocused, then leading into this beautiful chorus, with the backup singers: “An independent station/WJAZ”—sounding exactly like a radio call sign jingle from yesteryear. In the second verse, then, he says he's got “plenty of java and Chesterfield Kings”—but feels like crying and wishes he had a heart like ice. But then he goes into ad copy for a beauty product. By the third verse, though, it's all broken-hearted confessional, ending with “Tonight you're still on my mind.” So this song really does get that feeling, with the music wavering from kind of jittery, jazzy formlessness to the friendly, nostalgic jingle, and the DJ going from business as usual to melancholy confessional. It's nearing the end of his shift (the Bourbon's no doubt in a hidden pint somewhere), and his ex-flame is certainly not listening. Maybe no one's listening, except for, of course, those lonely insomniacs and young romantics, jazz fans, the radio volume low, so they don't wake their parents.

—Randy Russell 4.26.20

“Rikki Don't Lose That Number”—first song, side one of Pretzel Logic (1974)

Though this song could be about drugs, gambling, or something even more metaphorically buried, on the surface it's about a phone number—specifically the narrator of the song giving his phone number to a woman named Rikki, as kind of an invitation to a relationship which might be about friendship, romance, or possibly backup singing. There is a long tradition of pop songs about phone numbers and telephone calls (some of them titled as a number itself!) and I'm not generally crazy about the idea. I even wrote one myself—and sadly, it's one of my better songs—even though in a time not long from now, the general audience will have no idea what it's about. (It's about an “answering machine.”) In fact, Telephone is one of the “Three T's of Pop Music”—the others being, Trains, and Tomorrow (Mañana)—based lyric-wise, at least, in the realm of the blues. They all tend to be love songs, of course, but have their specifics colored in by laments about leaving (saying goodbye), waiting (for things to get better), and yearning (for the phone to ring—which both requires an independent being, quite out of your control, to make a decision, at some point, to reach out to you via this technology that most of us still find kind of alienating, and requires a Herculean effort to both have your number and to get it correct while dialing).

This very well could have been the first Steely Dan song I was aware of, as it was, I believe, their biggest hit single, and I very definitely remember it when I was 14, eating breakfast before school, playing on the AM radio my parents' always had on in the kitchen in the morning. To this day, I am nostalgic for AM radio in the kitchen, but also horrified by being forced to hear the same songs over and over while I'm preparing for something I'd rather not do. I think, at the time, I thought it was ultimate “Squaresville”—and also, it occurs to me now that a single word choice, the first word in the song, “We hear you're leaving” (instead of “I hear you're leaving”), roots the song in a kind of queasy frat-boy/bro world that has always turned me off. Listening to the song now, however, just makes me happy. Is it because the memory of the horror of breakfast cereal, local radio, and catching the school bus has now turned to nostalgia? Or is it because this radio pop song sounds really unlike any other radio pop song of the time, or since? I suppose at that time, in spite of not wanting to grow up (I still haven't), I also was getting really interested in adult things—and this song was as adult as anything in my life—even if I didn't like it. Maybe there was part of me that knew I'd love it some day.

—Randy Russell 4.19.20

“Midnite Cruiser”—fourth song, side one of Can't Buy a Thrill (1972)

In a parallel universe, Steely Dan might have only released one album: this one—an intriguing pop-rock country and jazz influenced collection of hits that people might still be discovering. In yet another parallel universe, Steely Dan would have just kept this band together throughout their career, with three lead singers, much like The Band, including drummer Jim Hodder who sang on this song. He's a good singer, and he was also the best looking guy in the band. His drumming is also very good—he might have been their drummer throughout the decade—if they hadn't kept getting better and insanely better drummers. I'm one of those people who think that drums are the key instrument to any band, and the most important instrument in rock'n'roll, and that the drummers were the most irreplaceable members of many bands (I don't mean, of course, from a songwriting perspective, but from an instrumental perspective—for example: the Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Who, The Band, Led Zeppelin). The drums are where it begins, with me, and sometimes where it ends, too.

In yet another parallel universe, “Midnite Cruiser” could have been this band's biggest hit. It's a great song, solid and catchy. It's one of those songs that kind of fades in your memory, but always sounds better when you actually hear it. It's got a sing-along chorus. It's probably only my fifth favorite song on this record, but that's not bad, since there are some amazing songs on this record, and no weak ones. It's kind of a sad song, full of regret, a bit world-weary—it sounds like a song from much older people—it's easy to forget that these guys were very young at this time. But I think in 1972 a lot of people felt the weariness, after the explosion and then implosion of the Sixties—the assassinations, the early drug deaths, Vietnam, optimism crushed by cynicism. I was only 12, and I felt it—that's about the time I started drinking, started my first band, began writing my memoirs, and pretty much gave up on romance. I was lucky enough to have more second chances than a cat. One of them, punk rock, was just around the corner. And then I was also lucky enough to have the time to reexamine all this stuff and rediscover fun.

—Randy Russell 4.12.20

“Charlie Freak”—fifth song, side two of Pretzel Logic (1974)

This was never one of my favorite Steely Dan songs, if only because musically I find it a bit alienating—it's kind of a rigid march, like something you'd listen to on your way to die. Which is appropriate, I guess, for the lyrics. It also makes me think of a song you'd hear in church, or maybe because of the sleigh-bells that come in for the last verse, a Christmas song. Of course, I don't know in what church you'll hear a song celebrating a junkie named “Charlie Freak”—my kind of church, I guess. I really came around to this song once I paid attention the the lyrics—I guess it's also my kind of Christmas carol. It's a story song, told in a relentless fashion which I guess matches the music. The narrator runs into a strung-out “friend” and gives him some money in exchange for a valuable gold ring, essentially ripping him off. Charlie then scores, OD's, and dies, and the narrator, hearing about this, gives the ring back to the dead man. When I first took in this story, I thought, a lot of good that's going to do. This song is just a huge bummer—one guy dies and the other is wracked with guilt. But there can be a positive side. By telling this story—whether it be at church, his Narcotics Anonymous meeting, a poetry open mic, or as a song by a band named “Steely Dan”—something positive does come of it. A lesson learned by one person, then passed down in a compelling way, is an example of spiritual advancement—the hope is that each person who comes along doesn't have to learn everything the hard way. Sometimes learning can come in the form of something pleasurable—a story, a song.

—Randy Russell 4.5.20

“Doctor Wu”—last song, side one of Katy Lied (1975)

The key to the depth of my love for this song comes from the cover version by the Minutemen, from Double Nickels on the Dime (1984), because it's so much the perfect approach (regardless of if their intention is loving or irreverent). I feel like it must be the best cover of a Steely Dan song—though I haven't heard all that are out there, the good ones (which might be harder to find, now that I think of it, than love in a Cracker Jack box). It's funny to picture someone who'd never heard the original, trying to imagine what they thought of this weird Minutemen song. Of course, it was already one of my favorite Steely Dan numbers, but when I eventually heard the cover, it made me love it even more—kind of like when you mix two euphoric substances for exponential results (cigarettes and coffee, bourbon and beer, weed and Pink Floyd, love and sex). On its surface, it's another sordid number about a troubled romance, an addictive drug (likely opiate in nature), and a mysterious character with a colorful name. But could I have (just now) stumbled onto the real meaning of this song? Rather than the tearing apart, caused by the lust/love for the drug, and the love/lust for the lady, perhaps both relationships are, in this case, enhanced. Maybe “Doctor Wu” is the alchemist.

Probably not, but I'm going to try to gently blanket my mind with that idea on next listening because I feel like, in this case, to pursue a narrative is to belittle this song. For me, any specifics you ascribe to these words are a distraction—they work much better as instrumental notes and percussion—just those three-syllable first lines to each section of the verse (Katy tried/You walked in/All night long/Don't seem right/Biscayne Bay/Katy lies)—or the rhymes in the chorus (Are you crazy are you high/or just an ordinary guy). The words in this song work so beautifully as sounds and rhythms, and stand-alone images, I would argue that to get hung up on narrative, here, is like using a manual while having sex. For most ears, that sax solo, in the perfect dead middle of the song, is a standout, and it is kind of like a French omlette or the Brooklyn Bridge. But it's sad to single anything out. I don't know if that's the most melancholy piano I've ever heard, or it's just the song that is incredibly sad. It really is sad. I've never cried during it, but I don't know, after this writing business is done, I might. And finally, my true love, drums, are so fine on this song, they balance on the razor's edge between ruination and immortality. Listen to that restraint, and when they change to the full snare part, two-thirds of the way through the first verse—that just kills me.

—Randy Russell 3.8.20

“Gaucho”—first song, side two of Gaucho (1980)

I've only just started to try to come around to the Gaucho LP, but at this point it feels sad, sleazy, and mostly about drugs and saying goodbye. It was, in some respects, the last Steely Dan album, after an amazing streak of great music—but to put things in perspective, Walter Becker, at the time, was half the age I am now—which is kind of weird—seeing how they always seemed old, and I've always felt young. This song seems to be about drug addiction tearing apart a relationship. Trying to interpret songs and stories, people get confused because something can be both autobiographical and fiction at the same time—in fact, most everything is, to one degree or another. I've always felt like this record, and this song in particular, sounded like a vapid TV show, but now that I'm focusing on the lyrics, I'm hearing the aching melancholy in it, which is what might help me come around to it. Supposedly, Becker was using heroin around this time, not real surprising for a successful 30 year old NYC/LA musician who worshiped Charlie Parker and named his band after a William S. Burroughs reference. I guess for many of us, heroin has had a stigma—it's the drug on the other side of the street—and even to this day I'm sure many garden-variety chocaholic, porn-addicts still think of the heroin addict as a scab-covered, hollow-eyed ghost—when in reality, theres a good chance that your some of your friends, your neighbor, the person in the next cubicle are addicted to some kind of opiates or opioids. Anyway, The Gaucho is heroin, the obvious, cheap lover who becomes the unwelcome house-guest of this remarkably successful (six fine LPs in six years) marriage. This is what you write about if you're Steely Dan; honestly, this is what any of us would write about. So what's the Custerdome? It's essentially a MacGuffin, and you can come up with your own interpretation (though, I'd be the most skeptical about any interview answer from Becker or Fagen). In a general sense, I feel like it's love—and maybe this is the purest expression of love of any Steely Dan song. But then, in its most literal (and thus meaningless) sense, I'm guessing the Custerdome is simply Walter Becker's head.

—Randy Russell 3.1.20

“The Fez”—last song, side one of The Royal Scam (1976)

This was never one of my favorite Steely Dan songs, though now, listening to it closely, I do appreciate the groove—I especially love the bass—and as someone who never played bass, and generally listens to music with the bass response turned way down from what the kids like, and rarely listens through headphones—bass is often the last thing I hear. I guess this would be considered a “disco” song, and was released (I believe as a single, too) in the disco era—so I wonder if it was playing in the clubs? I'm sure plenty of people danced to it. Thinking about it now, it occurs to me what I don't like about this song is consistent to what I never liked about disco, which is, in some songs, that simple, repetitive synthesizer melody that is to some degree the song's hook—it's what a general audience would first latch onto, and remember, and perhaps like. For me, it's the very thing that makes the song suck. I would love to hear a version of the song with the synth part mixed out of it—I really think I'd like it much better. Another thing this song makes me think of is that Lou Reed song, “Disco Mystic,” which is similar to this song, I think, in spirit. That's actually a fairly insane song (it sounded pretty insane coming from Lou Reed in 1979). I also kind of loved it, and it just occurred to me that if I get a little stale on Steely Dan, I might go back to Lou Reed, one of my favorite songwriters of all time, and do a similar re-listening to and close examination of his songs.

As far as the lyrics go, this song is very minimal, repeating a variation on the line, “I'm never gonna do it without the fez on”—which is finally followed by: “That's what I am/please understand/I want to be your holy man.” A fez is one of those cylindrical red hats, usually with a tassel, associated with Eastern and Persian culture, etc., but also appropriated for use by odd American organizations like the Shriners, and hipster lounge acts. Not much a practical hat, it's one you'd probably rather sport in some kind of formal ritual. If I hadn't read a few things here and there on the internet (where, surprise, a lot of SD fans have opinions), it would never have occurred to me that fez is slang for condom—because I've never heard that, and didn't hear it growing up, and I was a young man, too, in the Seventies. Now I realize that “condom” has thousands of slang words assigned to it, so I can't deny that someone called a condom a fez at one time another, but still, I think this is one of those things that some wiseguy came up with and now everyone thinks it's the truth. Maybe Becker of Fagen even mentioned it in an interview, in which case I believe it even less, since they loved to fuck with journalists and their dumb questions. I realize “do it” often means sex, and “I want to be your man” means “I want to have sex with you”—and putting the “Holy” in there makes a fine joke on the condom/fez connection, so maybe it is true. Regardless of what they intended (and it's allowable for them to only half-intend things), that's what it seems like the consensus is, but for me it's always been a song about weird sexual practices. (Is there a word for wearing a hat during sex?) I don't want to get gross here, and I'd appreciate it if no one contacted anyone who I've been in an intimate relationship with in the past, but I have to admit a fondness for cowboy hats—and though I've never attempted intercourse while wearing a fez, a sombrero, or a shtreimel, I do admit to, once, the highly kinky implementation of a local sports team ball cap worn backwards. I'm kidding, of course.

—Randy Russell 2.16.20

“The Caves of Altamira”—second song, side one of The Royal Scam (1976)

How much would I have to pay to buy this song? Do really rich people do that? Buy songs, just for their own personal use? I don't think they (“Steely Dan”) would sell, even if I did offer a lot of money. The messed up thing, of course, is that I don't need to own it—I can listen for free—and I can almost do with it what I would do with it if I did own it. It's an odd world. But why this song? It's one of my favorite songs—but I can't offer a good reason why—it just has this incredibly compelling forward drive to it like nothing else (I mean, among songs that still feel relaxed and still have a groove). So if you were to, say, present your life as a TV show, which is something I think we all fantasize about doing, this would be my title song. It's about, literally, a person viewing the cave paintings of Altamira, but, of course, using that as an allegory for all, say, cultural things, and the stuff that turned on the singer of the song, from childhood to present day. Kind of the ultimate version of cranky old guy finding more value in the things that first inspired him than the current, watered-down versions. I mean, it's a matter of opinion, but it's something every generation feels, or at least those of us who are critically minded, well-versed, and maintain a sense of history.

Musically, I often find that horn parts dilute the power of a song, I mean for me—but here it's the opposite. And the way the piano hits those three forceful chords after each line of the verse, and then how there's that progression of like 11 notes after each chorus—that's something I never get tired of. And as with all Steely Dan songs, it starts with the drums, and the bass, and seeing as they're played here by, as far as I can tell from research, Bernard Purdie and Chuck Rainey, it makes perfect sense—seeing how those guys are pretty much the best—that the love I have for this song is based on a foundation of bold yet subtle, viscerally deep excellence. That sax solo, too, is just kind of perfect for what it is. Oh, and the way Fagen sings “worldly wonder” just kills me. I think that will be the name of my TV show: “Randy Russell's Worldly Wonder.” And then the horns on the fadeout, that's going to play over—in the title credits of my TV show—about a dozen repeated jump cuts of me getting out of my Lamborghini, with a wink to the camera and an acknowledging point of my finger to either God, or you, the viewer.

—Randy Russell 2.2.20

“New Frontier”—first song, side two of The Nightfly (Donald Fagen) (1982)

I made the executive decision to write something about songs on other than the first seven Steely Dan albums, if acquired on vinyl—that's the important thing—so I got this record, Donald Fagen's first solo record, The Nightfly—which I was kind of surprised to see was from way back in 1982 (which I hold out as personally being the craziest year of my life, aside from all the MTV I watched). I happened to be listening to it, not for the first time, but damn near, while I was picking a SD song using my random system—which happened to pick the song that had just ended, called “New Frontier.” Seems appropriate. This song is a bit of a goof about having a party in a bomb shelter. The dude character in the song would seem to be pretty young, living at his parents' house in the suburbs, looking at moving out, to the city, going to school, going to Europe. He also has his eye on this woman because she reminds him of Tuesday Weld and likes Dave Brubeck—he's no doubt a bit out of her league—so I think the whole thing is a fantasy, including his proposition in the final verse. I picture him as that kind of young guy who wears a tie, dress shoes, and old-man glasses, on purpose. I think we can both relate to him, make fun of him, and a little bit feel sorry for him.

Musically, this is a song I'm never going to come around to. It chugs along like no human was invited to the rhythm section, and there's nothing particularity compelling here, except for maybe how the chorus ends and runs right into the next verse without a breath in between. But both are just so wishy-washy—it's beyond me how anyone can find anything moving about it. What's worse is there is some insipid harmonica both at the beginning and the ending of the song, just to ensure that watered-down Jimmy Buffett vibe. And then there's a little guitar noodling, stopping off here and there, sounding like nothing so much as gastric disturbances. I hate this song. Just to, I don't know, try to find something I am missing, I watched the video, back from the bad ole' days of MTV, which has some nice nostalgia-soaked animation in it, as well as a couple of live actors (the guy looks like the character I envisioned, above). The shocking thing is that the shortened, single version is actually—aside from cutting out that dreaded harmonica at the end—is actually worse, because it cuts out the fourth verse, when they fuck.

—Randy Russell 1.26.20

“Bodhisattva”—first song, side one of Countdown to Ecstasy (1973)

This very well might be the first Steely Dan song I ever dropped a needle on, because as I recall, I picked up Countdown to Ecstasy from the mall record store cut-out bin, probably having heard Tom Seiler's brother Bill's recording of this and also their first LP. Seeing how I didn't then, and never have, liked this song, it was an inauspicious introduction—which is probably very Steely Dan, if I think about it now—and only adds richness to my obsession. Likely, for years, I was so put off by this song that I only ever put on side two—so it took me decades to “rediscover” two of my favorite songs, the two immediately following this one: “Razor Boy” and “The Boston Rag.” The second biggest problem with this song is that the minimal lyrics, which are pretty much a wise-ass smirk about the trendy Western embrace of Buddhism, aren't nearly cutting enough, and so are almost certainly misunderstood, and thus enjoyed like an enlitened ice cream cone by the majority of people hearing the song. The bigger problem is that it's jaunty and wanky—you can just picture wide-eyed band nerds in matching leisure suits performing lame choreographed R&B moves before getting off on their solos. That said, I'm complaining within the context of Steely Dan songs (not rock music, in general) for which my standards are impossibly high—and if you listen to this song thinking about oceans of rock wank excess, you might think my criticisms of these guitar parts are insane. I love Denny Dias and Jeff Baxter like they were the sons from my first marriage. But guitar—I love and hate guitar—if one is to ever give or take lessons, the first, and then every odd, subsequent lesson, should be about restraint. I realize the rest of the world loves virtuosity, straight-up rhythm, high energy, a driving beat, lightning fast picking... as well as really ugly synthesizer, and lyrical dumbness. So there isn't a day that goes by that I don't thank my parents, peers, and whatever other influences are responsible for putting me at extreme odds with the rest of the world. One funny story I read about recording this song is that the crappy synth was such a pain in the ass to use that when the song was over, Fagen threw it out the door of the studio, down the stairs, and then they set it on fire. It's too bad they didn't give the same treatment to the song.

—Randy Russell 1.12.20

“Brooklyn (Owes the Charmer Under Me)”—third song, side two of Can't Buy a Thrill (1972)

The reason I don't research much on Steely Dan song lyrics is that there will be one offhand remark made way back (such as, this song was about Becker or Fagen's downstairs neighbor in Park Slope), and then thousands of articles on the internet will site that as if it's set in stone. And I don't know, that one's just a bit literal. “Under,” as in physically? More likely is the case that it's actually “Brooklyn knows the charmer under me”—and is based both on a specific person, but more about a “Brooklyn” type—that crude and blustery loudmouth who has a heart of gold (or at least thinks he does). But more on the lyrics later. The closest thing to being set in stone, SD-wise, is the information on the actual album cover—though in the case of many artists—and Steely Dan in particular—you can't believe that, either. Notice the liner notes, by “Dan Steele,” on the back of this, their first album. It's meant to be humorous, and it is. It refers to the band as “The Dan” with such an obvious sense of irony—that is why I don't seriously refer to them by that nickname (though if you do, I'll think no less of you—irony often softens into fondness). The one thing I do believe here is that the steel guitar wizardry is performed by Jeff “Skunk” Baxter (as well as on the previous song on the side), and it's a real standout in this song, mysterious and soulful. Also, the backup singers, Clydie King, Shirley Mathews, Vanetta Fields, really elevate this song. Could this be the most beautiful of all Steely Dan songs? And the lead vocal is by David Palmer (as with “Dirty Work”) and is lovely. Steely Dan wouldn't really be “The Dan” if he had sung the majority of songs on this record, and their next six, but it is these oddities that give richness to the whole, as oddities often do.

You could love this song if the words were sung in French, or a language you didn't understand, but as they are made up of words I know, sung clearly (plus, lyrics are printed on the inside album cover), I can't help taking note of the words, though I won't even attempt to decipher the meaning of them. The chorus (identical to the title), “Brooklyn owes the charmer under me,” is sung with such conviction that I feel like there is meaning there (even if it's actually knows, not owes). These guys were New Yorkers, of course, and maybe they did live in Brooklyn, for a time—though the Brooklyn of the very early Seventies was incredibly different than Brooklyn now—or when I lived there five years ago. Of course, it's one of those places where you could say, “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” There is some weird force there, like it's embedded in the history, and even though it's young by world standards, I felt, in my explorations, that there was this feeling like you might get from a very old European country. I could never really figure the place out, and that's something I really appreciated about it. Every once in awhile you'll talk to an old-timer who is still seething with anger about the Dodgers moving to LA in the late Fifties. Calling someone a “Charmer” has a double meaning, of course, and this song, about Brooklyn, which is infinite in its identity as any place on Earth, while still being “Capital B” Brooklyn, you could say has a double meaning, too. The song is very much the best poetry, filled with specifics that expand, rather than nail down, what it might mean. The song opens with: “A race of angels, bound with one another”—which sets the scene with sweeping, spiritual yet sad, feeling about the people, in question, before us. And then the last line: “The whole of time we gain or lose, and power enough to choose”—that's fairly general, as well, and could mean a lot of different things, but it works well as a hopeful ending of this song, and a feeling that is simultaneously about vast limitlessness, along with claustrophobic and comically tragic dead ends—which is to say, ultimately, all of our lives.

—Randy Russell 1.5.20

“Rose Darling”—third song, side one of Katy Lied (1975)

There's no shortage of pop songs about masturbation, but this one is my favorite, as it's also one of my favorites of Steely Dan's straightforward “love” songs—it's just quite lovely—so much so, in fact, that I've always kind of ignored the lyrics, and glossed over that first, somewhat arresting image: “Snake Mary.” I believe Fagen had Jewish parents, not sure about Becker, but not being a hardwired Catholic helps you spotlight the weirdness of imagery like the Virgin Mary stepping on a snake, that represents Satan—and I don't think: Satan, snake, sexually aroused male, here, is a stretch for anybody. As masturbation is the major social topic among young boys, it's rather eyeopening to discover that the undeniable act is considered a mortal sin for some of your peers (and as complicated as that is, it's nothing compared to the convoluted dynamics you later discover, that the entire foundation of the church is built around the oppression of women). The character in this song has come to terms with his love affair with “Rosy Palm (and her five sisters)” by recognizing that Snake Mary is merely human, too—and that he's freed of her watchful eye late at night, when Mary dreams of “Detroit, with lots of money in the bank.” That's just an amazing, weird image, which I'm no doubt getting wrong, but love anyway (which is why I love Steely Dan). (By the way, there are a couple other notable odes to Rosy Palm a few years later—Jackson Browne, Toto, and I'm sure, others.) Of course, then, a line like: “The spore is on the wind tonight/You won't feel it 'til it grows” gets a bit literal, but I'm okay with them spelling it out, because musically the song is so perfect. It's a beautiful piano song, what all jazz pop should aspire to, this one—and it sounds like it wants to be a radio hit, rushing in at three minutes, which also mimics the sexual frenzy. There is literally no breath taken between first and second verse, nor even between the chorus and the third verse and chorus—which is then followed by a guitar solo that is so perfunctory (for a SD song) and effortless sounding, I'm convinced it was conceived to express sexual release and ejaculation, without being gross about it (like, for example, Los Marauders' hilarious “You Make Me Cum In My Pants!”). You can just hear the character's heavy breathing then, followed by the slowing of the heartbeat, calm, relaxation, and untroubled sleep.

—Randy Russell 12.22.19

“Fire in the Hole”—second song, side two of Can't Buy a Thrill (1972)

This is just one of my favorite Steely Dan songs of all, one I totally overlooked in the Seventies when I bought their first album (probably the third of their records I obtained)—it's subtle, doesn't jump out like the hits, and is pretty mellow and jazzy. After all those decades, when I came back to SD, this is one the songs that killed me. On the back of the album cover there are minimal clues and credits about each song (including who sang it, since there were three singers on this record). This one says: “Steel guitar by the Skunk.” It's some fine playing, understated and beautiful—I'm not sure when I became a huge fan of Jeff “Skunk” Baxter—but at first it probably had to do with his name, look, and persona, before I realized he's the guy you want playing on your record. It's mainly a piano song, very much jazz sounding, like one that would be more prominent a few records later. It's a very simple song, two verses and a chorus, with a nice piano solo in the middle, and then a lovely steel guitar solo at the end. Lyrically, you can just kind of let it go and be satisfied, in that it sounds at once very personal and also totally ambiguous. Of course, I can't just let it go, seeing how pretty much every SD song intrigues me. I remember the expression, “fire in the hole” from Apocalypse Now (1979), I think when a live shell goes into a boat cabin, something like that... it's a military phrase, I guess, probably in every war movie ever made. Here, as a metaphor, it sounds like it's about the point in a relationship where things have gone bad, from the point of view of the man who doesn't have the courage to end things, even though he knows that's the right, and inevitable, conclusion. Another happy one! The best couple lines are: “With a cough, I shake it off, and work around my yellow stripe. Should I hide, and eat my pride, or wait until it's good and ripe?” That's just an inspired bit of lyric writing—and it only took me 45 years to notice it.

—Randy Russell 12.15.19