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July 31, 2009

Numerology: Wondering About Sevens in the World

As I mentioned previously, Prof. Klein is a bit of a stickler about getting these Numerology pieces right beyond a shadow of a doubt. Instead of chalking early attempts up to the blogging learning curve like the rest of us, he stays awake at night, shaking with regret that low hanging fruit like the number 7 was not given its proper due. So today, before the 7th month bids farewell for another 12, we continue to rewrite history. (JK)

“A movement is accomplished in six stages
And the seventh brings return.
The seven is the number of the young light
It forms when darkness is increased by one.”
--Pink Floyd, “Chapter 24” (based on the I Ching)

A few years ago on 7-7-07, the world experienced a huge matrimonial upsurge, a phenomenon that highlighted just how strong is the belief that 7 is a blessed number that brings about good fortune. The reasons for this run across religions, nationalities, and centuries. In all the major religions, 7 is associated with perfection and completeness (see the Old Testament, the Kabbalah, the Pixies’ “Monkey Gone To Heaven,” and other holy texts). This even holds true for not-so-major religions (Zorastrianism anyone?) Then again, according to the New Testament, there are seven signs of the apocalypse, while according to Seven Mary Three, I have become cumbersome to my girl.

The seven deadly sins—lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride—have been around in various forms since the 4th century, and have made their way into canonical works by Dante and Chaucer, paintings by the likes of Hieronymous Bosch, a “sung ballet” by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht, and a concept album by Joe Jackson. (Oddly enough, the seven Cardinal virtues—faith, hope, charity, etc.—have inspired nothing approaching the creative outpouring unleashed by the sins, although “Charity, Chastity, Prudence and Hope” by Hüsker Dü is pretty cool.) And while the Traveling Wilburys, Simple Minds, Flogging Molly, Gene Loves Jezebel, and many others have written songs called “Seven Deadly Sins,” the debut single by Brian Eno, fresh from jettisoning himself from Roxy Music in 1974, beats them all. OK, “7 Deadly Finns” is just a punning reference to the Sins, but it’s miles ahead of the competition. In the words of noted rock aesthete Jeff Klingman, in this “blissful song about Finnish sailors thrilling bored French women, Eno gives each sailor a specific attribute: there’s the masochistic freak, the treed kitten, the outgoing cross-dresser, the Eno impersonator, the distrustful hat enthusiast, the indoors sunglasses type, and the skinny outcast.” The giddy enthusiasm of a song is so joyous, he writes, “the only logical conclusion is to erupt into yodels.” I heartily concur; there is no finer instance of yodeling in a rock song (with the possible exception of “Hocus Pocus” by Focus.)

Brian Eno - "Seven Deadly Finns"

Seven-related phenomena come so thick and fast that one reference often builds upon another. “The Magnificent Seven,” the Clash’s first foray into rap, took its name from the classic 1960 Western, which was modeled on Kurosawa’s seminal Seven Samurai. “The Seventh Seal” by Scott Walker takes its title from a Bergman film, which takes its title from a passage in the Book of Revelation: “And when the Lamb had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.” (Clocking in at well under a half hour is the cult classic “7 Screaming Dizbusters”—if by cult you mean Blue Oyster with an umlaut—from the seminal Tyranny & Mutation LP.)

Muddy Waters - "Hoochie Coochie Man"

On the seventh hour/On the seventh day/On the seventh month/The seven doctors say
He was born for good luck/And that you'll see
I got seven hundred dollars/Don't you mess with me.

According to legend, the seventh son of a seventh son is destined for greatness. Somewhat ironically, real-life seventh sons of seventh sons include human sleeping pill Perry Como. But the blues is filled with references to 7, in lines like the above-quoted passage from Muddy Waters’ “Hoochie Coochie Man.” Willie Dixon’s “The Seventh Son” is the quintessential song of the genre. (Fellow Chicago blues man Willie Mabon did a lovely version of this oft-covered track.) Like “Sixty Minute Man,” it’s one of music’s great boasts—not only is the title son a lover beyond compare, he can also heal the sick and raise the dead. The protagonist in Iron Maiden’s “Seventh Son of a Seventh Son” is also a healer type, but his sexual prowess goes unmentioned. A line in Dylan’s “Highway 61 Revisited,” “But the second mother was with the seventh son” is believed by some Dylanologists to be an incest reference, but to paraphrase Bill Clinton, it all depends on what the meaning of “with” is.

Willie Dixon - "The Seventh Son"

Willie Dixon - "The Seventh Son"

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, All good children go to heaven
—The Beatles, “You Never Give Me Your Money”

An aspect of 7 that has been manna to songwriters over the years is that it rhymes with heaven. In Islam, the heavens number seven. While it’s unclear if the term “seventh heaven” has an Islamic origin, that the association is well ingrained cannot be denied; even as kids, many of us learned to associate seven and heaven from that old chestnut “This Old Man,” a catchy little ditty in which the title bloke plays knick-knack up there. The term has provided song titles for heavy acts like Deep Purple and Prodigy, and Gwen Guthrie of “Aint Nothin’ Goin on But the Rent” fame. More generally, it’s tough to find instances of 7 that aren’t rhymed with “heaven.” I’m partial to the twee but somehow haunting “Tram Number #7 to Heaven” by the preternaturally wistful Jens Lekman, which channels a bit of “This Old Man” (“Tram number five/I’m still alive/Tram number six/I think I’m fixed”) in its gradual ascension to the title phrase, while also incorporating a left-field reference to a “banana from 7-Eleven.” Seven-eleven, a winning combination in dice games, appears frequently in blues and cowboy songs, while the Ramones made good use of the term’s convenience-store connotation in a song whose refrain goes, “I met her at the 7-Eleven/Now I’m in seventh heaven.” Undoubtedly the worst of the many seven-heaven songs is the uber-melted-cheesy “Heaven on the Seventh Floor,” a 1977 hit for actor/singer Paul Nicholas, whose varied career includes stints as Jesus (as in, Christ Superstar) on the London stage, Cousin Kevin in Ken Russell’s Tommy, and TV pitchman for the dubious Rougemont Castle wine, which is, to borrow a phrase from a beloved Monty Python routine, “an appellation contrôlée specially grown for those keen on regurgitation.”

You say you’ve seen seven wonders/and your bird is green… .
—The Beatles, “And Your Bird Can Sing”

Oddly enough, the seven wonders of the world have not inspired any truly wondrous songs. “Seven Wonders” is the title of an inessential late-period Fleetwood Mac single, a pretty but precious ditty by Nickel Creek, and an overwrought offering by Peter Hammill. “Seven Wonders of the World” by doo-wop practitioners the Keystones is like a poor man’s “Ten Commandments of Love,” with the expected numerical listing and rhyming of “seven” with “heaven.” Meanwhile, Prince Buster’s instrumental “Seven Wonders of the World”—easily the best of the lot—is pretty obviously the basis of the Specials’ “Ghost Town.” (Watch here.)

“Number seven 
on the chump list
/Playing stooge
/Eatin’ shit"
—The Minutemen, “Toadies”

A number this ubiquitous yields a bevy of tracks named simply “Seven” (or “7”), and an accomplished roster it is. There’s “Seven” by David Bowie (uncharacteristically subdued) “Seven” by Dave Matthews Band (uncharacteristically heavy) “Seven” by James (characteristically earnest), “Seven” by Scott Walker (uncharacteristically generic), “Seven” by Arctic Monkeys (characteristically dissatisfied), and “Seven” by They Might Be Giants (characteristically adenoidal). Two lesser-known acts on the Merge label, Wwax (“Seven”) and Ashley Stove (“To #7”) round out the pack, although there are many more, like “Funky #7 by Hot Tuna (uncharacteristically funky). OK. I’ll stop. Two songs strike me as the finest of this subcategory: “7” by Prince, a groovy, gospel-tinged sing-along featuring lapidary production touches, which seems to be about the eventual demise of the seven deadly sins, and a more recent offering: the utterly gorgeous “Seven” by Fever Ray, the solo project of the Knife’s Karin Dreijer Andersson, whose otherworldly voice seems to emanate from an uncharted celestial realm and yet never loses its humanity.

Prince - "7"
Fever Ray - "Seven"

“Seven years went under the bridge/like time was standing still…”
–OMD, “If You Leave”

“And on the seventh day He rested,” a paraphrased Bible quote, is responsible for the seven-day week, which, in turn, has given us a slew of songs combining 7 with various periods of time. To wit, I give you, in ascending order of length: “7 Seconds,” a collaboration between Senegalese singing sensation Youssou N’Dour and NYC-born Neneh Cherry (who lost the 1990 Best New Artist Grammy to Milli Vanilli—oh, the irony), which was a top 10 hit all over Europe in 1994; and the spooky, minimal “7 Minutes” by Vancouver electronic dance trio Circlesquare. Obviously, seven days (or nights) is the big enchilada in this category. Bob Dylan’s “Seven Days,” a non-LP track that ended up on his first Bootleg collection and which was adeptly covered by Ron Wood on his solo effort Gimme Some Neck, is a lean rocker in which the desperate singer awaits the arrival of a woman whose face could outshine the sun in the sky—all he has to do is survive. (Dylan’s “Seven Curses” also appeared on that same three-disc Bootleg collection.) A similar sentiment of longing pervades Chuck Wood’s “Seven Days Too Long,” a Northern Soul barn-burner covered by Dexy’s Midnight Runners in the heady pre-“Come On, Eileen” days. Can’s abstract instrumental “Seven Days Awake” should not be confused with “Seven Days a Week” by TMBG, while “Seven Nights to Rock,” which has been covered by the Boss, Nick Lowe and Stray Cats, is a thumping proto-rocker by Moon Mullican, who claimed he took up the piano “because the beer kept sliding off my fiddle.” The Dubliners’ “Seven Drunken Nights” celebrates whisky-soaked abandon, while “Seven Months” is a lonely lament by Portishead told in typically cinematic terms. “Seven Years” by Watermelon Men is a fine example of ‘60s-era Swedish garage rock, while “Seven Years in Tibet,” one of the better tracks from David Bowie’s electronica exercise, Earthling (which coincidentally opened with the seven dwarfs-referencing “Little Wonder”) takes its name from an account of an Eastern journey by an Austrian mountaineer who didn’t find Shangri-La. Speaking of which:

“Time goes by and he pays off his debts/Got a TV set and a radio/For seven shillings a week…”
–The Kinks, “Shangri-La”

If it hasn’t become abundantly clear, there are more 7 songs out there than you can shake a stick at, from the corny ‘50s novelty number “(Seven Little Girls) Sitting in the Backseat” to corny ‘00s teen queen Miley Cyrus (“7 Things”). There are ponderous, artsy offerings from Teardrop Expodes (“Seven Views of Jerusalem”), Jane Siberry (“Seven Steps to the Wall”), and Aphrodite’s Child (“Seven Trumpets”), proggy things from Genesis (“Seven Stones”) and Adrian Belew (“Seven E-Flat Elephants”). The Temptations’ “Seven Rooms of Gloom” features a tour de force vocal by the peerless Levi Stubbs, while Liz Phair’s “Dance of the Seven Veils” contains one of indie rock’s finest instances of the C-word. Sting’s “Love is the Seventh Wave” was an overly optimistic forecast from Dream of the Blue Turtles, while Smashing Pumpkins’ “7 Shades of Black” finds Billy Corgan entreating someone to “fall in hate with me.” Billy, you had me at “shades.” And to round out the pack, I’ll menton “7Rain,” by Front 242, “Song Seven” by Swell, "7 Souls" by Ponytail, “Return of the Los Palmas 7” by Madness, “7:30” by Pernice Brothers, and “Seven-Mile Island” by Jason Isbell.

The White Stripes - "Seven Nation Army"
R.E.M. - "7 Chinese Brothers"

But getting down to brass tacks, I can only point out the finest of the fine, briefly sing their praises, offer a totally subjective opinion of the best one, and get out before I overstay my welcome. Truly a “Smoke on the Water” for the new century, “Seven Nation Army” by White Stripes (the title based on a mishearing of “Salvation Army” by youthful John Anthony Gillis, before he adopted a tri-colored wardrobe and changed his name to Jack White) builds up such a mighty head of steam it threatens to overshadow much of this beloved duo’s recorded work. And it has spawned tributes: a dub version by Hard-Fi, an electro remix by JAS-3, and a monolithic workout by Metallica, all serving to highlight the versatility and perfection of a short succession of well-chosen notes. It hasn’t existed that long, but you can still imagine in a hundred years it’ll still sound like all hell breaking loose. I can imagine the young John Gillis reading The Five Chinese Brothers by Claire Huchet Bishop, a top-selling children’s book for many years but no longer a staple in grammar school bookshelves due to its brazen stereotypes and, frankly, grisly subject matter. This tale of a Chinese man wrongly accused of murder who escapes various methods of execution by having of his identical brothers—each with a different super power—take his place in turn, is the kind of book you can never quite forget once you’ve read it. I’m sure it haunted young Michael Stipe and REM, whose “7 Chinese Brothers” (they added two siblings, presumably for reasons of cadence) is a reminder of just how distinct indistinctness can be. Like most of early REM, the song is melodically memorable and lyrically impenetrable, yet Michael Stipe’s vocals, the solid ensemble playing, and the slowly unfolding sonic layers of Mitch Easter’s detailed production cast a powerful spell, making one yearn for the autumnal glory of early REM.

You can take all the tea in china
Put it in a big brown bag for me
Sail right around the seven oceans
Drop it straight into the deep blue sea
--Van Morrison, “Tupelo Honey”

Thousands of years old, the phrase “the seven seas” can refer to any number of bodies of water. It has inspired a range of artistic expression, from the sublime (a collection of poetry by Rudyard Kipling) to the, if not ridiculous, certainly unnecessary (the last song on the last album by Flock of Seagulls). With apologies to OMD’s quite good “Sailing on the Seven Seas” and Queen’s “Seven Seas of Rhye,” which makes abundantly clear just how integral Freddie & Co. were to the birth of Metallica, the only song that really matters here is “Seven Seas” by Echo & the Bunnymen. A standout from the group’s most fully realized record, Ocean Rain, “Seven Seas” is pure seduction, a monument of lushly produced orchestral pop topped with a rich, confident vocal by Ian McCulloch, who manages to turn kissing a tortoise into an act of transcendence. It’s both grand and grandiose, perfectly embodying how to get away with making an outsized gesture in the context of a rock record.

Echo & the Bunnymen - "Seven Seas"

My allegiances have shifted since I first wrestled with conferring top-song status in this category. I’m currently inclined to bestow the prize on “7 and 7 is,” a 1966 single by Love and the band’s only hit, which reached #33 on the Billboard chart during the summer of that year. Led by Arthur Lee, Love briefly ruled the LA rock scene, only to be supplanted by the Doors, with whom Love shared a producer, an engineer, and a record label. A two-minute sprint culminating in the sound of a nuclear explosion (replete with a countdown), “7 and 7 is” has been rightly called proto-punk. Subsequent covers by the Ramones, Alice Cooper and others speak to the song’s primitive perfection). The amphetamine pace, hit-the-ground running intensity and raw, barely contained singing could not have been more out of step with the burgeoning psychedelic ethos of the day, but Lee’s contrarian streak is well documented; this was, after all, the band that turned Bacharach-David’s “My Little Red Book” into a punk song, turned down an invitation to play at the Monterey Pop Festival, and always wore its Flower Power-ready moniker with a thick layer of irony. If Lee had played his cards right, Love would be remembered as one of the great bands of the ‘60s, instead of one cherished exclusively by rock’s most discerning contingent of listeners. But Lee never wanted your pity:

“If I don’t start cryin’ it’s because that I have got no eyes
My bible’s in the fireplace and my dog lies hypnotized
Through a crack of light I was unable to find my way
Trapped inside a night but I’m a day and I go
Boo-bip-bip Boo-bip-bip YEEAAH!”

Love - "7 and 7 is"

Endnote: “7 and 7 is” is used to great effect in Wes Anderson’s Bottle Rocket. The song’s B-side,” “Number 14,” a response to the sum inherent in the A-side’s title, was described by rock scribe Chuck Eddy as “perhaps the only Band-style Civil War rebel-nostalgia ever sung by a descendant of slaves.”

Numerology is our pal Dave's ill-advised quest to find the definitive song for every number from one to a hundred. We hear 60 is the new 40, and now we're not even that impressed by his progress.

Previously: No. 1, 2 (redux), 3, 4 (redux), 5-7, 5 (redux),6 (redux), 6.4, 7 (counterpoint), 8, 9, 10/11, 12/13. 13 (counterpoint), 14/15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26/27, 28 , 29 , 30, 30 (counterpoint), 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, Footnotes, 57, 58, 59 , 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66

Posted by David Klein at July 31, 2009 08:15 AM

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Posted by: Merry Swankster at July 31, 2009 06:05 PM

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