Songs that Changed the Landscape of Human Thought and Understanding: USA for Africa's "We Are the World"

There has never been a song in the annals of history that has fused egoless philanthropy with pure pop-songwriting chops the way USA for Africa's mega-hit "We Are the World" did in 1985. This supergroup, this X-Men of musical acts, reminded us who "we" are, that WE are "the world," and that it is indeed a heavy burden, literally. According to Wikipedia, the Earth weighs over seven gajillion tons. And that's heavier than two stoned hippies* having a conversation about how "we are the world." So how are we the world exactly? That is the question Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie, the song's composers, set out to ask. And, fortunately for us listeners, they answer the question with ease. They also make us feel good for solving what had previously seemed to be a problem without a remedy: WORLD HUNGER. Through sheer hope, starpower, and the insane amount of cash money generated by the song, the people of Ethiopia were able to forget about an unforgiving climate--which provided the region with a historically devastating drought and subsequent famine--and the long history of European colonization of the African nations surrounding them. I bet you never did anything that cool. Seriously. I know I haven't. Feeling special because I once helped out my grandmother during her walk for Breast Cancer Awareness just makes me feel like a great big jerk in comparison. Perhaps the song's greatest achievement, though, is that it presents a universal, timeless picture of who "we" are.

Who are we, then? Well, we are a bunch of popular musicians from the mid-1980s, that's who! We are Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Bruce Springsteen, Stevie Wonder, Willie Nelson, Hall and Oates, The Pointer Sisters, Kim Carnes, Cyndi Lauper, Huey Lewis and the News, Steve Perry, Sheila E., and James Ingram. We are pop-rock legends Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, Billy Joel, Harry Belafonte, Smokey Robinson, Dionne Warwick, Paul Simon, Kenny Rogers, the living half of The Blues Brothers, and Lindsay Buckingham. I think we can all relate to that. As an added bonus, the presence of the British musician Bob Geldof (the brainchild of Band Aid) on the track lets every listener know that one of the goals of "We Are the World" was to make the world forget about "Don't They Know It's Christmas," the most religiously presumptuous song ever recorded (well, except for Carrie Underwood's "Jesus, Take the Wheel").

The song also speaks generally to the human condition. There are most certainly always times "When we heed a certain call / When the world must come together as one." Since we are the world, we are also "the children" as well as "the ones who make a brigher day." Because, ultimately, this is an existentialist "choice we're making," as we are a part of "God's great big family," there is only one choice: to "[save] our own lives." Cool beans. Most people can't handle the responsibility of their own job, let alone feeding and clothing the entire populace and knowing that their actions are, essentially, the actions of all seven billion people on this planet. Therefore, "We Are the World" is the most reassuring song ever recorded. Whenever we slip up--like, say, we forget to pick up our kid from school because we were deep into a game of World of Warcraft--we can realize that we are just a microcosm of this world that we also are, that for every mistake, we are actually our own lives, and we are curbing world hunger while we're at it. And for those critics who think this message is convoluted, well it's not. You are. Get me? Or, rather, get we? Are the world?

The knowledge that we are all helping goes down so much more smoothly with great vocal performances. And "We Are the World" has 'em by the boatload. The song is highlighted by that most dulcet of crooners, Bob Dylan. When he sings, "There's a choice we're may-can / We're saving aaaahhhh own liiiiives / It's trooooo we make a bedduh day / Just yooooooo and meeeee," you can literally feel that same burning passion in in the pit of your stomach. Similarly, Bruce Springsteen feels so committed to this message that apparently he didn't have a bowel movement for two weeks before he recorded his take. It meant that much to him. And with that kind of focus and determination, USA for Africa's "We Are the World" was and will always be a song that changed the landscape of human thought and understanding.

*-I'm fully aware that the phrase "stoned hippies" is redundant.

Below is the rousing video for the song. Try not to shed a tear for our greatness:

Songs that Changed the Landscape of Human Thought and Understanding: Michael Sembello's "Maniac"

Dancing is our greatest form of cultural expression, without a doubt. For, as Neil Young duly notes, "When you dance," you can, indeed, "really love." This is most definitely a fact, because when I think of dancing, Neil Young is the first person that comes to mind. The popularity of musical theater, Dancing With the Stars, the Riverdance, and Michael Jackson's video for "Thriller" quantifiably prove my thesis. If this weren't proof enough, highly-trained biologists, several of whom have respectable college degrees, have noted that dancing is humanity's primary embodiment of the mating rituals of the animal kingdom, and that the way a person dances provides plenty of information to a prospective suitor about how they, ahem, mate. But is it possible to dance too hard? Can one dance so hard that they neglect their duties as a human and become a detriment to society? Well, yes, if we are to believe--and we should--Michael Sembello's legendary new wave dance epic "Maniac."

In 1983, when "Maniac" was released on the soundtrack album to the classic Adrian Lyne film Flashdance, most listeners had fairly preconceived notions about what a maniac was. Adolf Hitler, Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, or that kid down the street who blew his summer savings playing the Tron video game at the nearby gas station for three straight days in a effort to get inside the game like they do in the movie ... these were maniacs. Michael Sembello changed all this with "Maniac." Previously a session guitar genius who made substantial contributions to Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life, Sembello summoned all of his dynamic powers into the brutal force of nature that is "Maniac," including pulsating synths, decisive beats, and a searing guitar solo that would make Eddie Van Halen jealous, to communicate the tale of the lyric's female protagonist.

"Maniac" tells the tale of a "Steel Town girl on a Saturday night looking for the fight of her life." Clearly she is a maniac, because most people are simply looking for a good time on a Saturday night, not some epic battle with, like, say, the immortal, malfunctioning Mecha monster fueled by raw plutonium and the madcap ideas of competitive spirit practiced by the rogue scientist Dr. Headwound. Part of her charm is that "in the real-time world, no one sees her there." Despite being invisible to mortals, they still sense a priori that "she's crazy." So what's the source of her mania? Doy, it's the Love of the Dance! She dances so hard, in fact, that she enters a "danger zone"--and long before Kenny Loggins traveled on the highway there--where "a dancer becomes the dance." In other words, she has BECOME the dance, LITERALLY. Thank about that for a moment. What is your passion in life? Let's say, hypothetically, that it's fishing. Now imagine that you have fished the fuck out of the watering hole you are at and then you actually became a fish. At that point, not only would you be like Vardaman's mother in William Faulkner's tragicomic novel As I Lay Dying (1930), but you'd also, most definitely, be a maniac. You would also suddenly find yourself completely mesmerized by spinnerbait.

Michael Sembello's hit fundamentally reshaped our societal notions of the maniac. Where once this was the domain of serial killers, genocidal autocrats, and flesh-craving cannibals, now a veritable dance-floor of talented bodies fit comfortably into the category of the maniac. So when we say that Ginger Rogers, Gene Kelly, Lady Gaga, Erin Andrews, and Napoleon Dynamite are maniacs, we don't mean that they are going to make human body suits out of the flesh of our siblings. We mean that they're dancing like they never danced before ...

quite possibly in a moonlighting gig at a strip club.

Here's the saucy video clip to "Maniac":

"We're Not Above Reviewing Leaks": Erykah Badu - "New Amerykah pt. 2: Return of the Ankh"

In a lot of ways, everything we need to know about Erykah Badu's latest, New Amerykah pt. 2: Return of the Ankh, can be found in a brief comparison between the cover of this album, and that of its predecessor, New Amerykah pt. 1: 4th World War. The cover to the previous release was a dark, angry affair. Badu's face was set for battle, her hands raised in fists, and her afro was comprised of images signifying a nation in crisis: factories, handcuffs, a syringe, an SUV, dollar signs, a toilet, chains. Badu's hair, on that album cover, it seemed, was trying to tell us something: we're fucked. But then, once we took a closer look, we saw more: a turntable, flowers, a hand making a peace sign, an open book and...a tuning fork? Badu wasn't just pissed about the state of world and taking aim at all the haters--she was setting out to bring shit into harmony, help us get in tune. While no album has ever had that kind of impact on anything, New Amerykah pt. 1 sure as hell didn't hurt for trying. In fact, as I mentioned in another recent blog post, Badu's last album wasn't just a great soul record, it was the best soul record of the last decade, and probably the decade before it, and maybe even the one before that. Just so we're on the same page, here's that other cover:

Now, looking up at the cover for Badu's latest, we see a very different type of image. The rubbish from Badu's afro is now a junk pile behind her, while the dark colors have been replaced by a brilliant array of flowers, and a lovely purple sky. Also gone is Badu's angry face, replaced by a more serene expression, despite the fact that the singer is now depicted as robotic--the post-human soul singer, having transcended the poison of culture. Even the albums' respective subtitles point to the albums' differences: "4th World War" and "Return of the Ankh."

True to the new album's cover, Return of the Ankh is a gentler, more loving affair than its radical predecessor. And, again, as indicated by the difference in presentation, Badu's latest is more concerned with loving gestures and a serene spirit, a preoccupation that manifests itself in ballads and cool soul grooves as opposed to the urgent pleas for justice and unity on the previous album. "20 Feet Tall" kicks off the album with a gorgeous melody, hopeful lyrics, and some of the warmest electric piano this side of Innervisions. Badu sings, "But if I get off my knees/I may recall/I'm twenty feet tall," an exhortation for individuals to embrace their own abundance of spirit. I know it sounds a little cheesey, but shit, Badu sells it, not just on this song, but through the entire album. Next up is "Window Seat," a piano driven piece bolstered by ?uestlove's slick drumming. The song grapples with independence and longing--the chorus repeats, "Can I get a window seat/Don't want nobody next to me," but by the bridge, over stomps and claps, Badu is singing "I need someone to clap with me . . . come back baby." The song is the kind of thing at which Badu excels--taking tired pop music sentiment and pushing it to someplace fresh and exhilarating.

While the songs on Return of the Ankh seem, at first, more familiar and less urgent than anything on 4th World War, they're full of daring ideas and riveting arrangements. "Agitation" opens with fusion-fueled piano runs and full-bodied bass--hints of Weather Report, or Jaco--before incorporating some kind of synthy, harmonica type sound that feels like it could have been lifted from Stevie's best 70's work. "Love" feels like a spiritual counterpoint to the previous album's "The Healer," opening with a jarring tone and spoken word intro about emotional frequencies before Badu sings, "this one is for Dilla," again, paralleling "The Healer," then settling into a solid groove. "Incense," is an ethereal slow jam, built around harp runs to produce one of the most startlingly gorgeous atmospheres of any of the album's songs. Then there is album closer, "Out My Mind, Just in Time" which exists in movements--a gentle, jazzy piano intro that wouldn't sound out of place in a Billie Holiday set, which evolves into something more like a spaced-out soul jam. Of course, no matter how outre the songs sound, on Return of the Ankh, Badu's insistent humanity is still the root of everything.

Ultimately, Return of the Ankh excels through its production and use of textures. The song writing isn't quite as immediate or daring as its predecessor, but there is something to be said for convention, especially when its wrapped up in analog keyboards, slick beats, and impressive instincts as to when to pile on the sonic layers, and when to scale back to basics. While Badu's career has been built on impressively consistent albums, the New Amerykah records have taken her to a new level. Part Two, by showcasing Badu's versatility and all around soul savvy, finishes the work started by Part One in elevating the singer to Wonder-esque heights. While 4th World War might be the slightly better album, both of the New Amerykah albums have earned their placement among the finest soul albums ever made.

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The album comes out on 3/30. If anyone sees a vinyl copy anywhere in Oklahoma, let me know.