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

A handsomely curved configuration resembling two amply nostriled noses in profile or two spoons poised to dig into some steaming porridge, the no. 66 casts a long shadow on the numerical landscape. On the dark side, it’s two-thirds of the number of the Beast, according to the Book of Revelations, and it’s the number of miles that made up the hell-on-earth route that was the Bataan Death March. It also has a special importance in the history of Great Britain, what with the Norman Conquest (1066), the Great Fire of London (1666), and the last year the Brits took the World Cup (1966). But to those of us with a sense of musical perspective, 66 is the name of a historic U.S. highway and a classic song. Like the Beatles’ “When I’m Sixty-Four,” which seems to have scared off sensible songwriters from writing another 64 song, “Route 66″ is a colossus that dominates its slot all but completely. The always reliable All Music Guide lists over 900 releases on which the song appears, by everyone from Ray Charles to Anita Bryant.

Photographs of fancy tricks


To get your kicks at sixty-six

He thinks of all the lips that he licks

And all the girls that he’s going to fix

– Elvis Costello, “I Don’t Want to Go to Chelsea”

Its writer, Bobby Troup, was akin to a journeyman pitcher in baseball, a guy with the goods to make it to the majors but lacking the X factor to ascend to the level of the greats or near-greats. Nevertheless, Troup was a man of many talents. An able pianist and a recording artist in his own right, he was also a record producer, TV show host, and an actor. (He portrayed bandleader Tommy Dorsey in The Gene Krupa Story, among other movie roles.) But Troup seems to have had a good sense of his own limitations; though he wasn’t quite leading-man material, it didn’t stop him from acting. He found steady employment on shows like Mannix and Dragnet, and most notably, had a featured role as Dr. Joe Early on Emergency, where he worked alongside his wife, the blonde-tressed torch singer Julie London, who played hot nurse Dixie McCall. But let’s face it: by the time he was well ensconced on the tube in the early ’70s, Troup probably could have retired on the royalties from the song he wrote in 1946, during a pit stop on a cross-country car trip. In the invaluable 1001 Songs, author Toby Cresswell supplies Troup’s account of the song’s genesis:

“My wife and I were eating in a Howard Johnson’s and looking at a road map…She said, ‘Why don’t you write about Route 40.’ I said, ‘That’s silly, because we’re going to pick up Route 66 outside of Chicago and take it all the way to Los Angeles.’ She said, ‘Get your kicks on Route 66.’ I said, ‘God, that’s a marvelous idea for a song.’” Troup finished the song in the car. (His marriage to Cynthia didn’t last, but he was gracious enough to give credit where it was due.) When he arrived in L.A., Troup played the song for Nat “King” Cole, who seized on it immediately, and his version went to the upper reaches of both the R&B and pop charts. It was by far Troup’s greatest contribution to American culture — but he was no one-hit wonder. He also penned “The Girl Can’t Help It,” a Little Richard screamer that served as the title to a seminal ’50s rock ‘n’ roll movie, as well as “Their Hearts Were Full of Spring,” which the Beach Boys recorded, and “The Meaning of the Blues,” recorded by Miles Davis during his golden age.

Nat “King” Cole – “(Get Your Kicks On) Route 66″

Some history: The route in question was first laid out as a wagon trail, with delegation of camels in tow, in 1857. Designated no. 66 in 1926, it became a key route for the westward migration of Dust Bowl refugees, a process chronicled in The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, who dubbed it “the Mother Road.” Over the next few decades, Route 66 became a critical cross-country thoroughfare, much loved by an America still in the throes of its love affair with the automobile, as well as a breeding ground for the development of the modern filling station. Perhaps inevitably, though, Route 66 was not cut out for America’s post-war prosperity; the four-lane interstates were better equipped to handle heavy-duty trucking, and the road swiftly deteriorated physically as it shrank in importance. By the ’70s it was a shadow of its former self, with major stretches shut down, and in 1986 it was officially decommissioned as a U.S. highway. Today there is a movement afoot to preserve parts of the road for its cultural importance. But, in its heyday, Bobby Troup’s song helped to cement Route 66′s status as an American icon in the public consciousness.

The Cramps – “Route 66 (Get Your Kicks On)”
Depeche Mode – “Route 66 (Beatmasters Mix)”

“Route 66″ is an amazingly versatile song; it works in just about any genre, from bossa nova to a primitive electric stomp. Troup’s jazzy original showed off his keyboard chops and sly scat singing. Nat Cole ran with it, adding his mellifluous phrasing and rich rasp to Troup’s gorgeous syllables and kicking the thing into the stratosphere. Numerous versions followed: big band style (Harry James, Bing Crosby, etc.) and lighter takes in the spirit of Cole’s approach (Mel Torme, Louis Prima, Louis Jordan). Chuck Berry’s 1961 version is perhaps the earliest straight-up rock version of the song. Given his deep influence on the Rolling Stones, it would make sense to surmise that it was Chuck who inspired them to make their audacious cover. But, according to several accounts, it was actually the rendition done by soporific crooner Perry Como that the lads studied. Nevertheless, the Stones transformed this slinky concoction into a fierce, groovy rocker on the strength of Keith Richards’ Berryesque rhythm and lead lines, the tight, brisk rhythm section, urged on by handclaps, and Mick Jagger’s brash vocal. (He stumbles a bit on “don’t forget Winona” but obviously couldn’t care less.) The start-stops in the bridge amp up the tension and release, while the chunky guitar lick that anchors the song has been incorporated into practically every subsequent cover, from garage/pub rock offerings by the Count Bishops and the Eyes to faithfully Stones-y versions by the Pretty Things and Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, the Replacements and R.E.M. The Cramps’ hushed, deconstruction is an exception, but even covers by goth proponents like Depeche Mode and Lords of the New Church owe a great deal to the Stones take. A country version by Asleep at the Wheel, Buckwheat Zydeco’s N’awlins-flavored version, and the UK Subs hardcore bash-o-rama demonstrate the infinite variations the song can withstand. Amazingly, given the visceral, trip-off-the-tongue nature of the lyrics, which border on poetry, no one has seen fit to do a rap version (although Public Enemy did touch on 66-ness in “Incident at 66.6 FM,” a brief collage made up of racist comments to a radio call-in show). So, while Nat “King” Cole’s is the definitive version of Troup’s original, the Stones turned “Route 66″ into a lean, mean slice of visceral rock ‘n’ roll. Thus, with all due respect to the sophistication and subtlety of Mr. Cole, my deep-seated propensity to rock compels me to confer top ranking on track 2 of the 1964 debut LP by the future world’s greatest rock band: “Route 66.”

The Rolling Stones – “Route 66″
(live @ Knebworth, 1976)

Well if you ever plan to motor west

Travel my way/take the highway that’s the best

Get your kicks on Route 66

Well it winds from Chicago to LA

More than two-thousand miles all the way.

Get your kicks on Route 66.

Well it goes through St. Louie down to Missouri

Oklahoma City looks oh so pretty.

You’ll see Amarillo, Gallup, New Mexico

Flagstaff, Arizona, don’t forget Winona,

Kingsman, Barstow, San Bernardino.

Won’t you get hip to this timely tip

When you make that California trip

Get your kicks on Route 66

The Rolling Stones – “Route 66″

Endnote: Along with the hundreds of versions of the song, the highway itself has not lost its hold on American pop culture. It was the name of a TV series in the early ’60s, as well as the working title of the Pixar hit Cars, which is set there. It also serves as the name of a film festival, a vintage diner, a clothing line, a theater company, a literacy program, a motor speedway, and a novel series.

Final Endnote:”66″ by Afghan Whigs contains these unsettling lines: “Come on little rabbit/ Show me where you got it / ‘Cuz I know you got a habit.” Whether this has anything to do with the Jack Rabbit Trading Post on Route 66 cannot be confirmed at press time.

Endnote III: A New Beginning: I have just discovered “66″ by Danish electro-rockers Spleen United (I wonder if they were influenced by the Stomach Mouths of Stockholm), a standout track from the band’s second LP, Neanderthal (2008).

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

Our man Prof. Klein is currently jet-setting glamorously from No. Carolina to deepest upstate New York, but a pocket of airport wifi was all he needed to pass on a few 6.4.09 words on a related decimal numeral of unique interest. The song is a scizophrenic favorite of mine from way back, so I of course I obliged. The song’s from my man Gary Wilson, who, as you may remember, rocks the most…(JK)

I didn’t intentionally exclude Gary Wilson’s “6.4 Equals Make Out” from my recent survey of six songs for any arcane numerological reasons — it simply got lost in an avalanche of worthy options. And I’m not alleging that it would have beaten Hendrix’s “If Six Was Nine” for top honors, but make no mistake; this track, by the outlandish cult musician and favorite of Beck (he gets a shout-out on “Where it’s At”) is the greatest, weirdest 6.4 song in existence. (And, as far as I can tell, the only 6.4 song in existence.) At first it could pass for a laid-back Beck B-side, but it takes a hard turn into Bizarro Land after a couple of repetitions of the title phrase, when Wilson abandons melody altogether and starts delivering desperate entreaties. “How old did you say you were?” he asks, only to be met with “16!” Wilson reaches a greater height of self-delusion with the phrase, “She’s a real groovy girl, and she’s got red lips,” which he repeats with a growing edge of desperation, finally adding, “Can’t cha hear me, God??” At this point, “6.4 Make Out” resembles nothing so much as a love song to a blowup doll. “She’s real!” he wails, “She’s real!!” When the thing finally fades out, you kind of want to take a shower. (And deflate that blowup doll once and for all.)

Gary Wilson – “6.4 = Make Out”

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), 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

Sixty-five is a number that might well suffer from self-esteem issues. As the U.S. speed limit and the age at which you join the ranks of the elderly, 65 comes off as a scold, a cut-off point — in short, nothing much to celebrate. Country great Merle Haggard addressed this on the recent “Come On, Sixty-Five,” a musical wish to hasten the arrival of his 65th birthday so he can get his gold watch, kick back, and perhaps enjoy some warm evenings sipping bourbon and branch on his porch (after pawning that watch). The song is summed up in the line, “I’ve heard it said that hard work never did a body’s body any harm. Well they were wrong.” Neil Young echoes this point in “Southern Pacific,” wherein an aging train engineer reports: “I rode the Highball/I fired the Daylight/When I turned sixty-five/I couldn’t see right.” A further echo of this lonesome-train feeling can be heard on “Sixty-Five Days,” a reverb-y instrumental by the rootsy Knoxville Girls, named after a chilling murder ballad popularized by the Louvin Brothers.

The doo-wop era began in the early ’50s and was buried under an avalanche of Beatlemania some ten years later, which is why Paul Davis’s egregiously sunny hit “’65 Love Affair” is such a historical travesty. For those of you who somehow missed out on this staple of rock radio circa 1981 (it was a favorite of Dick Clark), the song is heaven for those who consider “doo-wop-diddy” the most joyous sound in creation. But by 1965, when the Who sang “My Generation” and the Byrds recorded “Eight Miles High,” this kind of ditty was already gathering dust. (True, Manfred Mann hit number #1 with “Do Wah Diddy Diddy” a year earlier, but its spirit was far more early-’60s pop than ’50s doo-wop.) Originally titled “’55 Love Affair,” Davis’s song got a name change when some clever A&R people decided that ’55 sounded dated, not that the radio-listening youth of America were sticklers for historical accuracy. The spin doctors got it right, though: it ascended to the Top 10, and the Jesus of Nazareth look-alike Paul Davis had a giant hit on his hands.

If there were any justice in the world, Josh Rouse would have had at least one hit on his hands by now. In the course of 10 years or so, Rouse, a Nebraska native who later settled in Nashville, has put out a record a year, all of which are marked by gorgeous highpoints but also a tendency to get a little same-y. “65″ from the EP Chester, a collaboration with Kurt Wagner of Lambchop, is one of the lesser tracks on this collection. Despite some interesting non-sequitur lyrics (“The good things they proceed to rot/The uselessness of smoking pot”) and an easy mid-tempo cadence, it lacks the strong chorus or wry punch of Rouse’s best. (The meaning of 65 is ambiguous here; there’s a mention of the Berlin Wall, but 65 is also the name of the highway that runs through Nashville, the city where Chester was recorded.) The meaning of 65 is similarly vague in “Rainy Night 65″ by New Model Army, the venerable British trio that garnered top honors for no. 51 slot. This stark dirge would break Eddie Rabbit’s “I Love a Rainy Night” over its knee, if such a thing were possible, while the ponderous “Paris 65,” by French art rockers Etron Fou Leloublan, is a knotty melange of keyboard lines in search of a melody, sprinkled with some barked vocals — a head-scratcher in any language. “65 Doesn’t Understand You” by 65 Days of Static is not much easier to get. A series of intricate, caustic sections that mix Sonic Youth-style spiky guitar work with prog intricacy and industrial keyboard textures, the song somehow coheres, producing a sonic picture that is at once disorienting and strangely alluring.

Etron Fou Leloublan – “Paris 65″

While we’re on the subject of heavy, White Zombie’s commercial breakthrough, “Thunder Kiss ’65,” would make a perfect anthem for an army of marauding huns, with Rob Zombie’s brawny vocals leading the way over turgid bass-heavy riffing. In the midst of the maelstrom, which incorporates film samples (“I never try anything; I just do it. Wanna try me?”), police sirens, and shredding axe work, it’s easy to miss the similarity to Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.” It’s also easy to miss what it has to do with 1965, but a lyric sheet proves that “What’s New Pussycat” and “Satisfaction” — both produced in 1965, are both name-checked. But this is not a song for study; it’s meant for head-banging or pole-dancing, and on that front, it is highly recommended.

Gene Chandler never topped “Duke of Earl,” his 1962 hit that has earned a rightful place among the great singles of the early rock era, but the Chicago native, born Eugene Dixon, had a subsequent string of Top 40 hits produced by the great Curtis Mayfield, including “Rainbow,” aka “Rainbow ’65.” Consisting of Chandler’s adlibbed vocals over a trilling piano and simple drumbeat, the song served as a trusty encore in live shows. In the version recorded at the long-gone Regal Theater in Chicago, titled “Rainbow ’65 (Parts 1 and 2),” the crowd exhorts Mr. Chandler throughout with impromptu screams, including the immortal cry, “You GO, dad!” And after he confesses that “I gonna reach out and-uh bite-cha,” he is met with palpable delirium. They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Striking a more upbeat note is “65 Bars and a Taste of Soul” by Charles Wright & the 103rd Street Rhythm Band,” a sizzling funk outfit that got some early support from Bill Cosby and whose members went on to work with Earth Wind & Fire and Bill Withers. Their biggest hit, the oft-sampled “Express Yourself,” (1970) is a perfect a slab of ’70s R&B that seems to combine the best elements of “Cool Jerk,” “It’s Your Thing,” and “Mr. Bigstuff” into one irresistible, hip-shaking package.

Charles Wright & the 103rd Street Rhythm Band – “65 Bars and a Taste of Soul”

Other 65s worth noting:

* The Beatles fifth U.S. release for Capitol, Beatles ’65, cobbled together songs from two previous British releases, much to the consternation of purists, although subsequent recordings by Frank Sinatra (Sinatra ’65) and Duke Ellington (Ellington ’65) indicated that some folks didn’t mind.
* The pensive “65 and Sunny” by Travels, a Massachusetts duo who were aptly described in Performer magazine as “full-hearted yet half-hearted”
* “’65 Mustang” a tuneful tribute to an automobile with a complicated past by Five For Fighting
* “65 Directory” by Tomlin, an unsung‘70s Australian outfit
* The title weather system in Neko Case’s “This Tornado Loves You” is “65 miles wide.”
* Wall of Voodoo’s front-man Stan Ridgeway had a European hit in 1986 with “Camouflage, which was set “…in the jungle wars of ’65.”
* “55 in the waist /65 in the hips,/55 in the waist/a long lean gal ain’t worth doodly squat.” — Sugarboy Crawford, in his paean to feminine amplitude, “She Got to Wobble When She Walk”
* “65 Roses,” titled after a boy’s mispronunciation of his sister’s cystic fibrosis, belongs in the pantheon of “tragedy” songs, right up there with Henry Gross’s dead-dog lament, “Shannon,” “Last Kiss” by J. Frank Wilson & the Cavaliers, and “Christmas Shoes” by Newsong. The mispronunciation was tapped for Songs for 65 Roses, a well-intentioned comp featuring North Carolina’s finest, including the dB’s, Let’s Active, Superchunk, and Fetchin’ Bones.
* “65%” by Tuomas Tolvonen, a proponent of Finnish electronica music (known as “suomiaundi”), provides the intriguing if physiologically incorrect notion that “65% of us is water and the rest of dust”
* “65 Pushups” by guitar wiz Prashant Aswani, is a funky fusion of hot riffing that recalls Jeff Beck’s collaborations with Jan Hammer.

Travels – “Sixty Five and Sunny”

“I’m looking for the treason that I knew in ’65″

-David Bowie, “1984″

“In the winter of ’65/we were hungry, just barely alive”

The Band, “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”

To Bowie and the Band, ’65 was a mythical year. True, the Band’s Civil War-themed lamentation takes place a century before the ’65 that Bowie refers to, but both years were marked by conflict. So, perhaps it’s fitting that our winning song refers to a year, as opposed to the speed limit or the retirement age, even though the reference is more of a glancing blow than a straight shot. “Circa ’65″ is a spare and haunting number by Darling Downs, an Australian duo comprised of two mainstays of Sydney’s indie rock scene: vocalist Ron Peno, former lead singer of Died Pretty, and Kim Salmon, who is credited with forming one of the first punk bands in Australia as well as predating the sound of Seattle in the early ’90s with his band the Scientists. (This is not hyperbole: the sound of the band has a marked similarity to the ’90s Seattle aesthetic, and in a documentary on the Australian rock scene that aired when Kurt Cobain was still in school, Salmon used the term “grunge” to describe the sound of his band.)

The Darling Downs – “Circa ’65″

While Peno and Salmon have spent most of their lives playing music influenced by the Stooges, Velvet Underground, and others of that ilk, the sound they make together is rooted in Americana, an acoustic mixture featuring Salmon’s banjo and guitar, Peno’s rich and resonant vocals, along with harmonica and the occasional shake of a tambourine.

“Circa ’65″ resulted from the duo’s idiosyncratic method of songwriting. As Salmon explained to me, he begins by laying down an instrumental groove, and Peno free-associates over the top in order to come up with a melody. “The stuff he sings is random and tends to borrow from rock’s rich tapestry. One of the lines for this song ended with the phrase “back in 1965″ because, as your essays testify, there is a history of numbers, particularly dates, in rock lyrics. For example Jonathan Richman’s “She Cracked” has the lines “Well she was sensitive/She understood me/She understood the European things of 1943.” This is definitely the type of feel that Ron was looking for. As he never writes any lyrics down, he tends to improv lyrics rather than learn them. He’s lazy, and he thinks this is easier. When recording, he put down a guide vocal, and I went back and wrote it all down, basically trying to decipher. Neither Ron or I knew exactly what had been sung, so translating it in itself made the end results even more surreal, e.g., “I had to have the halo, when I hit the floor, I’ve been on a timeless journey since 1964.” (Yes, a different date than the title.) It was like Ron was on the couch and I was his analyst, and then William Burroughs got the results and cut it up!”

And in the spirit of William Burroughs and his cut-up technique, the randomness of the process produces something with a resonance all its own. “I have found working with Ron that even though what he does is somewhat random, it does tend to take on a huge amount of meaning simply because he doesn’t allow himself the chance to contrive. Everything he sings comes straight out of his psyche. By its sheer meaninglessness, 1965 has become full of mystery and spiritual significance.”

The Darling Downs – “Circa ’65″

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), 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