Scrubs and Sam Lloyd

 

To refer to Scrubs as just a great comedy is doing the show a disservice. Although most sitcoms, Seinfeld notwithstanding, mix in some heart with the humor, no show covered the emotional spectrum as completely as Scrubs. Goofy, slapstick humor and fantastical cutaway gags existed side-by-side with the kind of true-to-life tragic events you’d see in a medical drama. But despite the occasional heavy subject matter, Scrubs managed to keep an underlying message of optimism, in large part due to main character JD’s trademark ‘lesson of the week’ internal monologues that closed out every episode.

But JD alone was not responsible for making Scrubs great. Aside from its complex emotional tone, the best thing Scrubs had going for it was its host of colorful side characters. From eccentric janitors to banana hammock-clad surgeons to a doctor that resembled a certain West Coast rapper, Scrubs treated any and every character as a source of punchlines. And this investment in character-building had a compounding effect. Any combination of characters on screen could drive a scene, an episode plot, or a multi-season running joke. It also heightened immersion, which was much-needed in a show that used daydreaming as a storytelling device. The personas may have been exaggerated, but the concept of a cast of zany characters at work still felt familiar.

And of course, you can’t talk about Scrubs without mentioning its soundtrack (especially when you’re talking about it on a music blog). From the very first episode, music played a crucial role in the show by setting the tone of the series with the theme song “Superman” by Lazlo Bane. Scrubs also had a devastating knack for picking the perfect song for an emotional scene, like when “Winter” by Joshua Radin plays in this iconic scene. Scrubs even built an entire episode around Colin Hay’s “Overkill,” aptly titled “My Overkill.” I again have to give a lot of credit to JD for this, or at least to the actor who plays him, notorious indiehead Zach Braff. His role in building the soundtrack helped keep music an integral part of Scrubs.

As much as Zach Braff’s indie expertise contributed to the music of Scrubs, there was one man in particular who injected music directly into the lifeblood of the show. That man was Sam Lloyd, who played perpetually nervous lawyer Ted Buckland. Ted is pretty much everything I love about Scrubs distilled into one character. His humor was physical and cartoonish, but it also touched on dark subjects like anxiety and depression. Aside from being a hyper-stressed lawyer, Ted was in an a cappella band, a detail that might have been quickly forgotten in a lesser TV show. In Scrubs that detail was blown up into a recurring plot point, because Sam Lloyd actually was in an a cappella band (The Blanks) that made frequent cameos. The Blanks did everything from providing comic relief with their covers of classic TV themes to playing at the long-awaited wedding between JD and Elliot. They were an instrumental part of the show despite rarely needing to rely on instruments.

Last week, after a months-long battle with cancer, Sam Lloyd passed away at the age of 56. By all accounts, he was just as fantastic of a person off-camera as he was in character. Even though television isn’t typically Off Pitch’s wheelhouse, it would have felt strange not to acknowledge the loss of someone who has brought me and many others so much joy through his music and humor. If you’re a fan of Scrubs, you already knew everything I’ve said here. If you’re not a fan yet, I highly recommend you watch an episode or two so you can witness Sam’s talent. It’s well worth your time.

Lyle B.

 
 
 

The 1001 Albums Challenge: 1956 - 1965

 

If you follow my Twitter, you know that a few weeks ago I started working my way through the 2005 edition of 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die. And I won’t lie, it has been humbling. I thought I knew the classics pretty well, but after going through the list of albums, I realized I had only heard about 75 of them cover-to-cover. Not the stats you’re probably looking for in a guy who writes about music. So to regain my admittedly-small amount of credibility, I’ve been working through the list like it’s my job. Which, if the live music industry stays shut down, might actually become a reality.

Believe it or not, getting through 1001 albums takes a while. So instead of waiting until I’m finished with the list, I’ve decided to write updates for each ten year chunk as I finish them. Because the book’s range spans from 1955 to 2005, those chunks won’t be based on decade, as you might expect. I’m also not going to be covering every single album. There’s a whole book for that. Instead, I’m going to focus on artists that I really should have been familiar with by now. Hopefully, you’ll walk away with a few discoveries yourself. And if not, you can at least have a nice laugh about how musically ignorant I am.

Today’s albums were released between 1956 and 1965.

The Crickets, The “Chirping” Crickets (1957)

Look, I promise I’m not stupid. But for years and years, I never stopped to consider that Buddy Holly was a real person and not just the inspiration for a Weezer song. I mean, I knew he was a real person, I just never made the connection that I could type his name into Spotify and listen to his music.

When I finally did, though, I was pleasantly surprised with how much I enjoyed his music (or in this case, his music with The Crickets). I actually recognized “That’ll Be The Day,” and I particularly enjoyed “Maybe Baby” because I use the phrase “maybe baby” all the time. Most of all, it was just cool as a rock fan to hear the genre in its earliest form.

Favorite Tracks: “That’ll Be The Day,” “Maybe Baby”

Little Richard, Here’s Little Richard (1957)

I had similar thoughts about Little Richard as I did about The Crickets, but I think I liked Little Richard even more. He’s a little (ha) more charismatic, his music is a little higher-energy, and in general the music feels more timeless. Of the two artists, I can see myself revisiting Little Richard more in the future.

Also, I know I have decades more Little Richard material to work through. This is just the tip of the iceberg. But I’ll save that for after the hundreds of albums I still have left on this damn list.

Favorite Tracks: “Tutti Frutti,” “Can’t Believe You Wanna Leave,” “Ready Teddy”

Billie Holiday, Lady in Satin (1958)

For most of these albums, I’ve just been listening through once, saving my favorite tracks, and moving on. Lady in Satin was the first one I felt compelled to come back to. Billie Holiday’s voice, while limited in range, carries a bittersweetness that instantly captures you. The songs on Lady in Satin may have been jazz standards, but Holiday’s emotional delivery makes it hard to believe the words are coming from anyone but her.

Favorite Tracks: “I’m a Fool to Want You,” “Glad to Be Unhappy”

The Sonics, Here Are The Sonics (1965)

Why the hell did no one ever tell me about The Sonics? I am a HUGE fan of Nirvana, the White Stripes, and many of the countless other bands they influenced, but I’d never heard so much as a note from them. It’s almost eerie to listen to The Sonics and hear so clearly the proto-punk characteristics some of my favorite bands would adopt and develop, but it’s by far my favorite moment in the first leg of this musical voyage. If you love the fuzzy, aggressive style of grunge and modern garage rock as much as I do, this is a must-listen.

Favorite Tracks: “The Witch,” “Strychine” 

Bob Dylan, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan (1963), Bringing It All Back Home (1965), Highway 61 Revisited (1965)

Before you pull out the pitchforks: I knew who Bob Dylan was before 1001 Albums. But until now, I had barely listened to him. It wasn’t for any good reason; I’d heard enough Dylan songs to understand why he’s so revered. I just never got around to diving in. But after finishing The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, I was hooked. I was converted to a Dylan disciple for the same reasons everybody is: his humor, his unconventional voice (this one might just be me), and his wisdom. And although his songs run long, which I typically don’t enjoy, I feel more like I’m being taken on a journey than forced to complete a chore. That being said, I might need a little more time before I’m ready to tackle “Murder Most Foul.”

Favorite Tracks: “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right,” “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” “Like a Rolling Stone”

And with that, I’ve officially closed out the first ten year chunk of this Herculean task. Up next is the late 60s and early 70s, the era I’m most excited for. With that excitement comes the knowledge that it’s only going to get more and more embarrassing not knowing albums. Oh well. Pretty soon, I’ll know them all.

Lyle B.

 
 

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In Defense Of - Country Music

 

You’ve all heard it before: “I listen to everything except rap and country.” It’s the age-old adage of the music generalist. But as hip hop has become practically synonymous with pop music over the last decade or so, rap has all but dropped out of the expression. Country, however, stands firm as the most hated mainstream genre.

I can’t say I feel all that differently. Though I’ve voiced my appreciation for country music here and there, it’s not one of my favorite genres. However, I think it’s healthy to question your own beliefs every once in a while, and country gets more than its fair share of criticism. That’s why the first subject of this new article series, “In Defense Of,” is every music lover’s least loved genre: Country.

The Charges

  1. Repetitive Lyrical Subject Matter: This is definitely country’s most heinous offense. Thousands of country songs have been written about drowning one’s sorrows in a few cans of dependable, American-made light beer. Thousands more have been written about grabbing one’s best gal and hopping into a dependable, American-made pickup truck. And God only knows how many songs have mentioned doing both. Country music has re-tread this same lyrical ground many times over, and for some it’s too off-putting to get past.

  2. Twang: People hate Southern accents. I don’t know why, but they just do. That bias applies not only to innocent civilians, but to their musical representatives. One hint of twang in a singer’s voice and it doesn’t matter what they’re singing about, they’re done. Instrumentation can also be an issue. There are plenty of trebly-guitar haters out there, and the banjo is quite possibly the least popular instrument in the world (although the movie Deliverance is partially to blame for that).

  3. Relationship With Women: If I were writing this article five years ago, I would’ve called it “In Defense Of - Bro Country.” Or maybe “God, I hate Bro Country.” But times have changed. Bro country, with its charming blend of classic tropes and blatant misogyny, may have dominated country music in the early 2010s, but the shtick got old. Instead, “boyfriend country,” popularized by artists such as Dan + Shay, dominates the airwaves. It’s certainly less objectifying than bro country, but women are still relegated to the role of object. Even after the death of bro country, women continue to play a supporting role in country music, whether that’s in the lyrics or the industry itself.

The evidence here is pretty damning. Country music has some flaws that even the most die-hard fan would have to at least acknowledge. So why give it a chance?

The Defense

  1. Every Genre Can Be Repetitive: Drinking, materialistic pride, love-- these are universally appreciated parts of life (probably not in that order, but I’m not here to judge). Of course there’s a bunch of songs about them! Every genre from classic rock to bubblegum pop harps on these universal subjects, though the specifics might vary. Country certainly isn’t innocent of this excessive repetitiveness, but we should at least be consistent with our criticism.

  2. The Twang Isn’t So Bad: To be honest, I don’t really have a logical defense for this. If you don’t like a certain timbre, I can’t argue that you actually do. But you should at least consider if your hatred of the twang is genuine, or if it’s just a result of a cultural bias.

  3. Show Me a Genre Free of Sexism: Ok, maybe riot grrrl. But certainly not rock, or pop, or hip hop, or indie, or R&B, or EDM, or any other major genre within the scope of popular music. Again, this doesn’t excuse country music’s guilt, but it’s unfair to classify it as an issue unique to them. Seek out artists that don’t rely on sexist themes instead of writing off the genre as a whole.

Closing Arguments

Country music, like every other popular genre of music, is flawed. And while no amount of blog posts can change anyone’s inherent taste, I think that everyone (myself included) should have an open mind about country music. After all, some of the greatest songwriters of any genre have come from country. Artists like Dolly Parton, or Willie Nelson, or personal favorite Jason Isbell have all penned classic songs that transcend genre. And if you’ve completely written off country, adjacent genres like bluegrass, Americana, and southern rock might warm you up to country’s instrumentation and themes.

So, country haters— grab a beer, find a truck bed to post up in, and join me in giving country music another chance. Worst case scenario, we’ll just get more ammunition for our anti-country rants.

Lyle B.

 

10

 

One week ago, music history was made when Pitchfork gave Fiona Apple’s new album Fetch The Bolt Cutters a perfect 10 rating. The last time Pitchfork gave an album a 10 was a decade ago, when they bestowed the honor upon Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. And in total, Pitchfork has only given twelve perfect scores to albums on initial release. So unsurprisingly, the rating has gotten just as much attention as the album itself.

I myself have a cranky rant some thoughts on Pitchfork’s review. But just to be clear: my issue, and the motivation behind me writing this, is not the album itself. I thought Fetch The Bolt Cutters was fantastic. It had plenty of “tenspirational” moments (I will be copyrighting that word as soon as I’m done writing this, by the way), and I’m not at all surprised Pitchfork rated it so favorably. No, my issue is with the “perfect” 10 rating itself, and the numerical rating scale in general.

The most immediate issue I have with the 10 rating has a lot to do with who I am as a music fan. I tend to be skeptical of Pitchfork and other music reviewing publications. They make their money off of clicks, and head-turning scores attract more clicks. There’s incentive to start drama with a controversial rating. Pitchfork, even compared to other publications, is also very image-conscious. As one of the biggest names in music criticism, especially indie music criticism, Pitchfork is under a lot of pressure to like the right things at the right time. Basically, they’re trying to be the cool kids. And there’s nothing cooler than trying really hard to be cool, right?

Now that I’ve alienated some industry peers, I want to move on to the more philosophical reason why I don’t like the perfect 10. Perfect 10s are certainly the most annoying of the ratings, but I’m not exactly a fan of 1 through 9 either. Or 9.9, if we’re being as obnoxiously precise as Pitchfork. With numerical rating systems, the focus of the conversation too often becomes the number, even when the scores aren’t super low or high. This feeds into another of my pet peeves: when music nerds simply parrot the opinions of their indie overlords. (Not saying I haven’t been guilty of it, but it’s still a pet peeve.) This would happen even without the numerical score, but it’s a lot easier to regurgitate a number than it is a page’s worth of praise. If you’re out here reciting paragraphs, I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to question your dedication.

Whew, ok, that was a lot of negativity. Let me walk it back a bit. I get it. Getting clicks IS Pitchfork’s business. I know it. You know it. They know we know it. There’s no duping here; we see an attention-grabbing number and we click with a crystal-clear idea of what we’re in for. Plus, numerical rating systems are easily digestible, and they allow fans to quickly compare and contrast albums. And while I don’t review albums, I myself rate music via Rate Your Music, as a personal catalogue of the music I’ve listened to.

This convenience factor makes a pretty compelling case for numerical ratings. Unfortunately, this is an ANTI-numerical ratings article! My hands are tied! I guess my question is: why try and make music discussion easy? For me, and I’m sure for plenty of you, the in-depth discussion is the most fun part of being a fan. I love winning arguments, and I find I win waaay more when I’m armed with a well-thought out opinion instead of an arbitrary number. That I based on someone else’s arbitrary number. I don’t want my thoughts to come easy (luckily, they almost never do). I want the discussion to be challenging, and thought-provoking, and ultimately fulfilling. Trying to quantify art into something easily digestible just seems like the opposite of that.

Maybe I’m being too hard on Pitchfork. After all, there is a full review attached to every single one of those numerical ratings. Also, I wrote an entire article about a rating and like three sentences about the album itself. None of us are perfect. I just think music publications should do more to get the reader involved in and excited about music discussion without some frivolous rating. And since my chances of getting hired by Pitchfork just decreased dramatically, Off Pitch is the only place I can make that happen. So let’s make it happen.

Now stop reading and go listen to Fetch The Bolt Cutters.

Lyle B.

 

Pop Picks - "Hey Ya"

 

In the last Pop Pick, I covered “I Took A Pill In Ibiza,” a song on which I made a complete 180 between first hearing it and today. With “Hey Ya,” I made a full 360.

Don’t worry. I know trigonometry. Or at least well enough to write for a music blog. But Outkast has always been an interesting case to me. Since I was still years away from developing my own taste in music when the legendary rap duo was at the height of their popularity, I was introduced to Outkast via Top 40 radio. And I loved them. “Ms. Jackson,” ''Roses,” and “The Way You Move” were always more fun to hear than whatever dad rock or contemporary country my parents would usually put on. “Hey Ya,” of course, was the most fun of them all. At the tender age of seven, I missed the sobering message within Andre 3000’s gleefully delivered vocals. I just enjoyed all the clapping and the Polaroid picture shaking.

But surprisingly, my taste in music did not stop developing at seven years old. And with the advent of the iPod, my listening shifted further and further away from pop radio. I started getting into rock, hip hop, and other standard teen boy genres. Paradoxically, I even found my way back to Outkast through their incredible early albums. I never wrote “Hey Ya” off, but I certainly wasn’t putting it into rotation very often. It just wasn’t the type of thing I chose to listen to.

Here’s where the back half of that 360 comes into play. My taste in music also didn’t stop developing at the age of seventeen. As I expanded the range of music I listened to and cultivated a deeper appreciation of pop songwriting, I wound up revisiting some of the pop classics of my youth. This more recent time around, I think I got it a little better. First of all, the genre-blending in “Hey Ya” is genius. It’s not often that you see a rapper build a pop song around an acoustic guitar loop and a funk bassline. Also, not to get too into music theory (mainly because I do not know music theory), but “Hey Ya” hits an E major chord where it should hit an E minor. It might be “against the rules,” but an all-major chord progression fits the vibe of the song so much better.

Andre 3000 was right about seven-year-old Lyle: I didn’t want to hear him, I just wanted to dance. But once I started listening, I understood why this song deserves such reverence. I’ve jokingly referred to me and my fellow late 90s birthday-havers as the “‘Hey Ya’ Generation,” because so many of us have a similar experience with Outkast (also because we don’t really fit in as Millennials or Gen Z, but that’s another article). That’s a lot of importance to assign to one song. I get it. But hey, there are worse songs to base a generational identity on. Might as well make it a classic.

Lyle B.

P.S. I would also accept being the “‘Yeah!’ Generation.” Either one is fine.