“Oh, how happy we will be/ if we keep the ten commandments of love.”

the Moonglows

“One of a thousand pities that you can’t categorize

There are ten commandments of love”

Elvis Costello, “Pidjin English”

“She’s got the ten commandments tattooed on her arm.”

MC5, “Sister Anne”

Not nine. Not eleven. Ten commandments. No wonder ten-named songs are a solid lot: they are linked inextricably to the very basis of Judeo-Christian morality. Use 10 right, and you have a powerful weapon. Granted, it’s a heavy a subject to tackle head-on in a pop song, but in “The Ten Commandments of Love,” a valentine to fidelity and deep, abiding romance, the legendary doo-wop practitioners the Moonglows stirringly suggest a concept the average 1950s teenager could get cozy with. (True, the ˜Glows only enumerate nine commandments of love, but the background vocals cunningly fool the ear into thinking it’s heard the full decalogue.)

Harry Nilsson, no stranger to numerically titled songs (see “One” and “1941″), used the Ten Commandments as the basis for his “Ten Little Indians,” which he derived from the short poem-turned-schoolyard jingle that Agatha Christie borrowed for the title of one of her most popular mysteries. (The original title, published in the UK in 1939, used an appalling racial epithet instead of Indians, but the U.S. edition carried the title “And Then There Were None.”) Unlike the original poem, in which each little Indian dies from one form of random misadventure or another, in Nilsson’s version, which the Yardbirds covered, each one dies by breaking a commandment. The Beach Boys’ “Ten Little Indians,” one of their least successful singles, and deservedly so, uses the traditional sing-song melody of the playground to tell the story of a fickle “squaw” who resists nine eager suitors and their offers of moccasins, feathers and the like before settling on “the tenth little Indian boy.” Certainly a low point for a great group. Much more uplifting is “Ten Little Kids” by the Jayhawks, a joyful stomp that really is about kids, from their sublime Tomorrow the Green Grass. The densely churning “Ten Little Girls” by Curve (heck, all their songs are densely churning) diverts from the poem, dispatching the girls in question in one fell swoop.

“Ten silver saxes, a bass with a bow/the drummer relaxes and waits between shows for his cinnamon girl”- - Neil Young, “Cinnamon Girl”

The nation’s oldest college athletics conference is the Big Ten, but R&B sax master Bull Moose Jackson had a far different, far from officially sanctioned kind of sport in mind on his signature “Big Ten Inch Record.” The caesura that follows “ten-inch” is all that’s needed to make Jackson’s song a classic of the double entendre, and it’s obvious why Aerosmith covered it in 1976, much to the delight of their male teenage fan base. Motley Crue’s premature ejaculation ode, “Ten Seconds to Love,” speaks to that same hormonally addled populace, only 1983-style: with phallus-as-loaded gun imagery and the assurance that it’s ok to be bad in bed and brag about it afterward. (Alice Cooper’s “10 Minutes to the Worm” has nothing to do with sex whatsoever, while Jefferson Airplane’s “3/5 of a Mile in 10 Seconds” is a hard-charging complaint song that takes issue with “people laughing at my hair” and overpriced dope, among other things.)

Bull Moose Jackson – “Big Ten Inch”
XTC – “Ten Feet Tall”
the Stone Roses – “10 Storey Love Song”

We live in a base 10 world, so we lop things off in sets of ten. Ten’s a significant demarcation: it’s a ten-foot pole we wouldn’t touch something with; a deep breath we take before counting to 10. We make top 10 lists, rate people’s looks on a scale of 1 to 10 (the corn-rowed Bo Derek was the feminine ideal in 1977, so she was a “10,” a concept explored in Rich Creamy Paint’s “You’re a 10″). When we feel fantastic, larger than life, how do we feel? We feel 10 feet tall. Which brings me to XTC’s “Ten Feet Tall,” a scintillating and understated gem from the band’s watershed Drums & Wires that features as concise a four-bar guitar solo as has ever been attempted. It perfectly embodies the otherworldly sensation of dumbstruck rapture, while marking new creative territory for this endlessly inventive combo. The acoustic, jazz-chord-laden single was Colin Moulding’s attempt to subvert the band’s MO up to that point, what he called “Quirk, Jerk, Spiky, Crikey, Start, Stop,” and offer up something altogether smoother and sexier. The result speaks for itself: “Ten Feet Tall” remains one of XTC’s most delightful and understated creations. The Stone Roses’ “10 Storey Love Song” amps the love- as-height imagery to gargantuan proportions, from mere feet to stories. The hyperbole inherent in the song’s title is right in line with the over-the-top ambitions of Second Coming, the Stone Roses’ swan song, which was little more than a bevy of bloated blooze riffs utterly lacking the magic that characterized the band’s self-titled debut. That record, many contend, belongs among the greatest ever, while the pompously titled Second Coming is all but universally reviled, or at least characterized as a monumental disappointment. That said, “Ten Storey Love Song” is one of the record’s few standouts, imbued with a strong melody and a sense of proportion, even with its outsize emotions.

Footnote: the Velvet Underground voiced a similar sentiment with the also-ran “Love Makes You Feel Ten Foot Tall,” which ended up on Loaded: The Fully Loaded Edition.

Before attaining a brief ubiquity with their big-beat cover of the Stones’ “I’m Free,” the Soup Dragons were an enjoyably twee English indie band whose “Hang-Ten!” was a fizzy little thing that went pop, like Buzzcocks Lite. The song takes its title from the ‘60s surf term for riding a wave with all ten toes hanging off the board. Bowling never became the craze that surfing did, nor did it inspire tons of songs, but Raleigh, N.C., troubadours the Connells did refer to the strangely addictive pastime in “Ten Pins Down.” The title of “Box 10,” Jim Croce’s concise, affecting ditty of hard times in New York, refers to the address of the Sunday mission where he ends up after losing his earthly possessions to naivete and a cold-hearted woman. That Sunday mission might plausibly be in the vicinity of 10th Avenue, the site of Bruce Springsteen’s “10th Avenue Freeze-Out,” a staple of the band’s oeuvre that traces the origins of the E. Street Band in colorful if decidedly abstruse fashion. Clarence Clemons recently admitted he had no idea what it meant. Speaking of freezing, “10 Degrees and Getting Colder” by Gordon Lightfoot tells the tale of a down-on-his-luck musician trying to hitch a ride near Boulder Dam.

Fun 10 Fact: “Ten Bob Twist: (obs.) A portion of drugs, usually cannabis, bought for ten shillings sterling; half a quid deal.” – Rockspeak: The Dictionary of Rock Terms, compiled by Tom Hibbert.

“And if a 10-ton truck crashes into us, to die by your side what a heavenly way to die…” The Smiths, “There is a Light That Never Goes Out”

Yeah Yeah Yeahs – “10 X 10″
(live @ Glasslands Gallery, Williamsburg, Brooklyn)

Kleenex- “DC -10″
Blonde Redhead – “10″
Yeah Yeah Yeahs – “10 x 10″
Beach House – “10 Mile Stereo”

Heavier and far more potentially lethal than a 10-ton truck, the DC-10 aircraft was taken out of production in 1989, roughly a decade after it was saluted with “DC-10″ by Kleenex. This unheralded all-female Swiss band (actually, they’re all unheralded) were forced to change their name (to Liliput) when leaned upon by tissue-industry thugs. The tough gals behind “DC-10″ would have likely appreciated Blonde Redhead’s caustic “10,” featuring yelped, half-spoken Sonically Youthful vocals. If you’re making a mixtape at home, I would suggest following “10″ with the sexy, strutting “10 x 10″ by Yeah Yeah Yeahs from the Is Is EP, and then, to take things down a notch, “10 Mile Stereo” by Beach House, a slice of elusive dream pop that shimmers like rainbows in a puddle.

M.I.A. – “$10″

Ten has turned up in a many an album title, and while these are not eligible for the top spot, they do merit mention. First and foremost, Ten is the title of the debut outing by Pearl Jam, which, more than any other record, including Nevermind, brought grunge into America’s living rooms. 10 the number is even more popular as an album title: L.L. Cool J, the Smithereens, the Guess Who, the Stranglers, Enuff Z’Nuff, Wet Wet Wet, and Asleep at the Wheel are just some of the acts that have all used it, and the second discrete semiprime also fits into Sting’s Ten Summoner’s Tales, the Elvis Costello best-of Ten Bloody Marys & Ten How’s Your Fathers, and countless others.

A $10 bill used to be called a sawbuck because of the roman numeral X’s resemblance to a certain wood-holding device, but no one calls it that anymore; maybe that’s because it buys so little these days it doesn’t seem to deserve a jazzy nickname. Of course, M.I.A. wouldn’t agree with me: in “$10,” she sings “What can I get for $10? Anything you want,” a sentiment that would go down well with the protagonist of ZZ Top’s “Ten Dollar Man” from the less-than-essential Tejas LP (1977). Essential advice comes in the form of the Monochrome Set’s “Ten Don’ts For Honeymooners,” which begins with the sage declaration, “Don’t ski naked down Mount Everest/With lilies up your nose”

Don’t dance the polka in a dhoti
And whistle The Rite of Spring
Don’t recite Hamlet’s soliloquy
While munching onion rings

The Monochrome Set – “Ten Don’t For Honeymooners”

“It’s 10:00. Do you know where your children are?” Once a staple of the average Joe’s viewing habits, the 10:00 news inspired songs like “News at Ten” by the Vapors (of “Turning Japanese” fame.) Still, there’s probably no better song celebrating 10:00 than “Clock Strikes Ten” by Cheap Trick, the final track from the monumental At Budokan. “10 A.M. Automatic” by the Black Keys certainly owns the morning slot, while the Verlaines “All Joed Out” looks like the only song in existence to mention the rarified time of “10:00 in the afternoon.”

Something about 10 just seems to go with “years.” Warren Zevon (“After 10 long years they let him out of the home/ Excitable boy they all said”), The Who (“Ten years old with thoughts as bold as thoughts can be”) and the good old Grateful Dead (“I’ve been gambling hereabouts/ for 10 good solid years”) provide a few examples of this sturdy construction, while 10-years-titled songs abound, including the stately “Ten Years Ahead” by Swedish psych-pop prodigies The Soundtrack of Our Lives and Game Theory’s “Andy in 10 Years.” But the very best of this subset have a common denominator in the form of guitar legend Jimmy Page. One of them is “Happenings Ten Years Time Ago,” a song recorded by The Yardbirds for 1967′s Roger the Engineer, when Page shared lead guitar duties with Jeff Beck. Although the song was one of the band’s less successful singles, it stands as one of those rare songs from the psychedelic era that carries the hallmark sounds–the vaguely Middle Eastern modalities, mystical lyrics, like those referring to “sinking deep into the well of time,” disembodied voices and creepy laughter–but doesn’t sound at all dated. With its nifty structure and bevy of guitar sounds–stabbing, discordant, feedback-laden, explosive bursts–amid the songs’s juddering rhythms, “Happenings” just grabs you by the lapels, pins you against the wall, and slaps you into submission.

Yardbirds – “Happenings Ten Years Time Ago”
Dusty Springfield – “I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten”

Before discussing top dog, it seems wise to heed Dusty Springfield’s advice when she sang, “I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten.” Because it’s a heady topic. When I first began brainstorming song ideas for this list, my “10″ song came to me right away. While there are several excellent contenders (the Yardbirds song in particular is certainly epic enough to take the crown), I am still inclined to stick with my original choice: “Ten Years Gone” by Led Zeppelin, off their monolithic Physical Graffiti. It encapsulates all that is great about Led Zeppelin: the sense of space, the majesty, the indelible melodies, guitar lines that fly too close to the sun, drums that shake you to your very foundation, and the whole thing filled with urgency, yearning, and, in this case, something like 14 separate guitar tracks during one especially rich sequence.

For the converted among you there will be no argument. For those who never got into the band–or simply never got their appeal, for those who hated “Stairway” or who were born too late for the band to truly enter your soul, etc., I say unto you only this: This one might make a believer out of you, at least a believer in the sublimity of the song itself. All you have to do is pretend you’ve never heard of Led Zeppelin or Robert Plant or that fish in the hotel room with the groupie in LA. Just pretend your friend brought this over and slapped it on your iPod, told you it was an outtake from Tool’s latest, and I defy you not to be moved.

Led Zeppelin – “Ten Years Gone”

Like any great Zep song, “Ten Years Gone” is an amazing feat, a miniature movie consisting only of sound. Every melodic excursion and turn within its six-minute confines sounds like it was written into the song, and yet there is a certain organic looseness that keeps it from sounding like the labored-over creation it clearly was. “Ten Years Gone” starts hushed and builds elegantly upon an insistent, Moebius strip kind of a lick, one that sounds better as all the melodic permutations of it are writ large, strategically, in the most perfect places. And Robert Plant delivers one of his most modulated performances, in this paean to a lover from the past who demanded he choose her or his music and lost the bet. When Plant finally wails a couple of “woo-woo, yeah-yeahs” like the banshee incarnate, it’s the perfect, the only sound that will do.

Led Zeppelin – “Ten Years Gone”
(live, 1976)

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, 67, 68

On the morning of December 7, 1941, the United States naval base at Pearl Harbor was attacked by Japan, precipitating America’s entry into World War II and marking one of the pivotal dates of the 20th century. In an odd numerological coincidence, exactly 68 years after what President Franklin Delano Roosevelt famously called “a date which will live in infamy,” we probe the depths of #68 songs–more proof that despite all the heavy lifting entailed by this quest, we are fully in sync with the universe and doing exactly what needs to be done…

“She’s sixty-eight, but she says she’s twenty-four.¨

I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s ma no more.” Bob Dylan, “Maggie’s Farm”

Slangily, 68 is an unreciprocated sexual act — a 69, only, “I’ll owe you one.” But the far more pervasive meaning of 68-titled songs follows an emerging trend in recent numerological surveys: namely, that as the numbers get higher, they start to coincide with critical years of the 20th century. Thus, 68 is firmly associated with 1968, a year marked by assassinations and war, civil unrest and violent upheaval the world over. 1967 had its Summer of Love, but by the time the summer of ’68 was over, the worm had turned: Kennedy and King were dead, Paris was burning, Soviet tanks had crushed resistance in Czechoslovakia. Not that these tragic events killed off the sense of giddiness stirred up by the countercultural revolution, but flower power had gone mainstream. Exhibit A: Happening ’68, a rock ‘n’ roll variety show overseen by Dick Clark, which ran for two seasons starting in 1968 and featured a mix of musical talent (James Brown, the Beach Boys, the Nazz) and Hollywood biggies like Don Rickles, Leonard Nimoy, and Sal Mineo. The show’s theme song, sung by Paul Revere & the Raiders, is not without its charms, with vocalist (and the show’s co-host) Mark Lindsay gruffly declaring that “something’s happening,” even if at that point most of it had already happened, and now it was being packaged for mass consumption.

Andy Timmons – “Happening ’68″

Desmond Dekker & the Aces – “Intensified Festival 68 (Music Like Dirt)”

The percolating “Intensified Festival 68 (Music Like Dirt)” by Desmond Dekker & the Aces beat out Toots & the Maytals to win the song competition of the third annual Jamaica Independence Festival in 1968. The following year, Dekker gave many people in the U.S. and the UK their first taste of reggae with his immortal single “The Israelites,” but he never repeated his success. Although the world would soon see the rise of reggae stars with names like Marley, Cliff, and Tosh, Dekker never took his proper place among them, giving credence to a quote I’ve heard attributed to David Bowie: “It doesn’t matter who does it first; it matters who does it second.” On “’68 Aka Only Time” Lemon Jelly samples a schmaltzy UK hit by New Zealand crooner John Rowles from, when else, 1968, taking the song’s title phrase and slowing it down till it spreads like syrup over the song’s brisk beats.

Lemon Jelly – “68 AKA Only Time”

Jawbox – “68″

Other key ingredients in the 68 stew include “68,” a taut churner from Jawbox, who came out of the Washington D.C., hardcore scene that spawned Fugazi and Minor Threat and earned the antipathy of purists by signing with a major label. Decades later, it’s hard to see what all the fuss was about. Like the Jawbox song, the following are united by their seemingly arbitrary use of 68: “68 State,” the ominous opener of Gorillaz D Sides, a collection of unreleased songs and remixes; “68″ by synth-poppers Iris; “Peaceblaster ’68″ by the proggy jam band STS9; “68″ by the seriously 68-obsessed roots-rockers known as ’68 Comeback, from the delightfully named A Bridge Too Fuckin’ Far, and no list would be complete (well, this one wouldn’t) without “Sixty-Eight” by — are you ready for this? — Clay Polysorbate Masquerade Band Green.

The top contenders for the 68 spot come from opposite ends of the spectrum: one of these acts melded earnest rebellion, martial beats, and chant-like hooks, the other wafted sci-fi epics in special-effects-laden enormo-dome spectacles. Pink Floyd’s ascendancy to the status of Monolithic Rock Act was nothing like a done deal in the years after founder Syd Barrett wandered off into the acid mist. With David Gilmour picking up guitar duties, the band continued with the long-form compositions that would mark their later work. But before the breakthrough of Dark Side of the Moon, Floyd had yet to hit upon a sound that could claim the masses. Atom Heart Mother (1970) is very much in keeping with Floyd stylings to come, a mix of sighing pastoral and sprawling psychedelic commingling in suite-like formations, only at this stage the results weren’t buffed to the polished sheen. To hear “Summer ’68″ is to find the band in transition. Keyboardist Richard Wright, who would end up being virtually invisible, was at this point still allowed to sing lead vocals. (On Saucerful of Secrets, the band’s second LP, Wright sang more leads than Waters or Gilmour.) Nevertheless, Wright’s keyboard colorations are essential elements of many of the band’s best-known songs, and several of his compositions belong right there at the top, including “Us and Them.”

A confused or unoriginal You Tuber’s mash-up of “Summer ’68″ and Wizard of Oz footage

Pink Floyd – “Summer ’68″

“Summer ’68″ starts in sighing pastoral mode, with just Wright’s keyboards and his hushed vocals. The singer speaks directly to the girl he’s just spent the night with, in decidedly unsentimental fashion: “Would you like to say something before you leave?” Soon things shift, rather jarringly, into a swirling section with Beach Boys-like interlocking vocals intoning, “How do you feel?” In comes a bombastic brass theme that feels nautical, only instead of suggesting a graceful sloop a  la “John B” this feels like a foundering ship taking on water under a roiling sky. The song alternates between these sections, culminating with the declaration, “I’ve had enough for one day.” If the “Summer ’68″ can be read as a kiss-off to the excesses of the late ’60s, a rejection of the rock-star scene as a whole (“the music was too loud”) and the false intimacy of free love (“I hardly even like you”), history shows us the band had not yet been fully welcomed to the machine. What’s most notable about this fanciful collision of musical parts is that, lyrically, it’s uncharacteristically direct, eschewing the psychodrama and heady themes of later work and sticking close to a straightforward narrative.

A similarly titled song by the Charlie Daniels Band, “Summer of ’68,” takes a dim view of all that counterculture stuff. What starts out as a slightly bitter look back at “flower children” who tried to change the world (“Some folks blew their minds so bad/they couldn’t even concentrate”) ends up on a starkly jingoistic note (he sums up liberal politics with the line “save the whales and kill the babies”) before bringing it all home with a 9/11 reference that somehow connects to the summer of ’68. And to think that Daniels’ first national hit, “Uneasy Rider,” was a sympathetic story song about a long-haired, pot-smoking hippie who gets hassled by some good ol’ boys in a Mississippi watering hole.

The Welsh foursome known as the Alarm never broke through in the U.S., but in the UK the band had an impressive number of hits and an army of loyal fans. Critics called them a second-tier U2, incorporating the most bombastic, chest-beating elements of the Irish quartet while lacking any of its musical invention, sonic detail or lyrical prowess. Joe Strummer was characteristically blunt in his assessment: “The Alarm? The wrapping on a chocolate bar. They’re the imitation of a shadow of the Clash.” Joe probably had similar sentiments about Big Country, the Waterboys, and the scads of other earnestly keening bands that his band spawned. Even those who like the band acknowledge that every Alarm song is an anthem, a call to arms, a battle cry. Such a strategy is ultimately extremely limiting, but “Sixty-Eight Guns” is one of the band’s best anthems, with a compelling melody, pleasantly twangy guitar, flavorsome spaghetti-western-style brass accompaniment, and an inspired vocal by Mike Peters, all adding up to a rousing track, as long as you don’t examine it too closely.

The Alarm – “Sixty-Eight Guns”

After going back and forth considering the relative merits of “Sixty-Eight Guns” and “Summer ’68,” in the final analysis I feel more taken with the Alarm track, for a few reasons. For one, it’s a full-fledged band effort, and, in the spirit of the no. 51 contest, which pitted the best work of a pretty good band (New Model Army) against a lesser track by one of the greats (Jimi Hendrix), I’m inclined to go with the former. And on numerical merits, the Alarm wins hands-down: 68 is front and center; it refers to 68 actual things, rather than serving merely as an appendage in the title, and the number is essential to the chorus. With these high numbers, we often have to take what we can get, but this plenitude of sixty-eight-ness is most welcome. More generally, the Alarm earns points for true numerical inspiration: not only do they also perform a song called “Spirit of ’76,” the band itself arose from an earlier group called Seventeen, named after the Sex Pistols song of the same name. And I don’t have to tell you what 17 x 4 is, do I?

That’s right: 68 … our battle cry.

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, 67

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 8 was not given its proper due. So today, as we all hold our breaths waiting to know if we’ll ever know how bad the U2-scored Spiderman musical can possibly suck, Dave gives the mark of the arachnids its due, and continues to rewrite history. (JK)

A few years ago, on 8-8-08, to be exact, the Times published an excellent tribute to the number 8, titled “Crazy Eights.” Readers learned about the “deranged Roman Emperor Elagabalus,” who held octal-themed dinners to which he’d invite eight very tall men, eight men with gout, eight men with hooked noses, and so on. Mary Queen of Scots decreed that no one with a rank lower than an earl or archbishop could eat more than eight dishes at one meal. Rather than try to compete with such erudition, I just tip my eight-cornered hat, offer up a toast (V-8, naturally) and proffer my own list of associations, which, as is my wont, is a lot less high-minded and a lot more contemporary: “Eight Arms to Hold You” was the original title of the Beatles’ Help. The 8-track, an endless loop of 1/4″ magnetic recording tape, is a low-fidelity icon invented by Bill Lear of Learjet fame. The boogie-woogie bugle boy of Company B played his horn “eight to the bar,” and Tobor the Eighth Man was an American adaptation of 8-Man, a Japanese cartoon from the mid-’60s starring what’s considered the first robotic manga character. Tobor (“robot” spelled backwards) derived extra strength by smoking “energy cigarettes.” Of course, these days, any purveyor of children’s entertainment who suggested such a plot point would be declared a Section 8, the Army term for a soldier who is too mentally addled to participate in war, as in this line from Full Metal Jacket: “I don’t think Leonard can hack it anymore. I think Leonard’s a Section 8.”

(more…)

What comes to mind when you think of 67? The number of throws in judo? “Jailhouse Rock?” (Rolling Stone calls it the 67th greatest song of all time.) The 67 seconds it took Elliot Spitzer to announce he was resigning from office? Your local mathematician will tell you that 67 is what’s known as a lazy caterer’s number, meaning it’s part of the so-called lazy caterer sequence, which has to do with the number of pieces of a round object — say, a pizza — that can be made with a specific number of straight cuts. For example, if you make three straight cuts that meet in the middle of the pie, you get 6 slices, but you can make 7 if they don’t meet in the middle. Thus, a lazy caterer who knows what he’s doing can make 11 strategic cuts in an enormous pizza (imagine he’s catering a wedding) and make 67 slices. But you don’t have to be a math whiz to know that the lazy caterer’s sequence doesn’t exactly speak to songwriters.

“Have you seen her hair/it’s a style from heaven

Ah! She’s nowhere/she thinking this is 1967?

She’s so square, she’s nowhere” -XTC, “She’s So Square”

(more…)

Nine-tentacled octapus, chillin’.

A quickly dropped note to direct MS readers towards this piece of familiar numeromusical musings from our homeboy (homeman?), Dave Klein. Dave, a New Yorker relocated to the greener pastures of North Carolina, is now dropping a few pearls of his unquestioned number song wisdom on the readers of Chapel Hill’s fine alternative rag, The Independent Weekly. You can read Dave’s picks for the nine greatest “9″ songs in the rock canon here.

Please also peruse the Numerology archives, for exhaustive takes on numbers far beyond the one that makes up the current date.

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 Husker Du 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 controlee 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 and 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