Jimi Hendrix, "Angel"

Naming "Angel" as your favorite Hendrix song is a little like saying that Paul McCartney is your favorite Beatle. It's not as popular as John or "Purple Haze," nor is it as cool as George or "1983... (A Merman I Should Turn to Be)." But judging on songcraft alone, it stands above the rest.



Why is that? There's nothing particularly flashy about it, which might be why Jimi never released it in his lifetime. But for an artist whose songs are pretty much universally loved, Hendrix never seems to get enough credit as a composer. Sure, everyone admirers the guitar playing, but he also had an impeccable sense of melody, knowing when to use a good, subtle progression and give it breathing room, the way that he does here. Jeff Beck would have probably gussied it up until it was lost in a nine-minute jam, and Clapton would need outside songwriting help to come up with anything like it. If I believed in angels, I'd thank them that Jimi gave this song the structure and lyrics that it deserves.

Something about this magic little song transcends arrangements and performances. I love the orchestrated version, performed here by Gil Evans' band in the 70s.



Fiona Apple's rendition on MTV Unplugged is as lovely as anything I can think of (starts around 10:43).



Even Rod Stewart and the Faces could stop being silly on Top of the Pops long enough to show some reverence.



Songs usually don't get covered this often unless a) Everyone likes them, and/or b) People assume they can sing it better than the original performer (see "Blowin' in the Wind" or "Hallelujah.") With "Angel," I wonder if it's a little of both--people like it, and most people think of Jimi as the Guitar God and leave it at that. But most likely, Hendrix just created a mood that everyone wants to be a part of. Fly on, my sweet angel.

Derek and the Dominos, "Layla"

Emma is a (literally, I fear) sleepless humanitarian. I won't hear from her for months, or even years at a time, but sometimes she'll call me when she's 15 minutes away from my home, stopping by New York for a quick UN Conference in between ecology work and community organizing in South America. She's one of the most accomplished people that I know, but she's never heard "Layla."



With the restless energy of a pixie, Emma was gushing to me about listening to Eric Clapton's Unplugged record on the way to New York, which includes a popular version of "Layla" more in tune with blue-eyed blues and and soft rock that Clapton is currently akin to. I grumbled something about the original being better, and her reaction was the musical equivalent of when someone finds out that a movie they cherish was originally a book.

Who dares talk about "Layla" anymore? Who talks about "Smells Like Teen Spirit" or "Satisfaction?" There's not much that I can say that hasn't been said better (I like Robert Christgau's 1970 review and Chuck Klosterman's "The Ninth Day" chapter in Killing Yourself to Live). But today I'll write that I love both how innovative and how traditional "Layla" is. It's a proto-metal song that's catchy enough for Beach Boys fans, a plugged-in, blues-based shuffle with Duane Allman on guitar and a sonata's worth of movements. When Martin Scorsese uses Jim Gordon's piano segment to emphasize a montage in Goodfellas, its closest companion is the use of Mascagni in Raging Bull.



That blend of classical and anti-establishment sensibilities has been distinguishing metal for decades. Years after he praised "Layla," Robert Christgau trashed Metallica's Master of Puppets in his Consumer Guide, writing that the band's "stock in trade is compositions not songs" and that he was "no more likely to invoke their strength of my own free will than I am The 1812 Overture's." Eric Clapton should be as proud as James Hetfield and Tchaikovsky.