This week In Male Balladeers 05/52

Neil Finn, Eddie Vedder, John Kay, John Oates, James Blake, Graham Nash, Chris Cornell, Elliott Smith, Conor Oberst, Biffy Clyro, Boy George, Anohni, Glen Hansard, Peter Doherty

They are the Male Balladeers selected among the 355 Posts we publish this week.

Here, they are reunited in one glorious playlist. Enjoy!

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Tracklist

1 . Neil Finn & Eddie Vedder . Throw Your Arms Around Me

Neil Finn and Eddie Vedder’s rendition of “Throw Your Arms Around Me” strips the 1984 Hunters & Collectors original down to its emotional essentials.

Released in 2013 as part of a tribute album, their version pairs a minimalist arrangement with raw, unpolished harmonies, creating a sound both fragile and resonant.

The instrumentation leans heavily on understated organ swells and subtle acoustic strums, staying true to the song’s tender core without veering into grandiosity.

Finn’s knack for melodic intimacy and Vedder’s gravelly vocal depth mesh in a way that feels natural yet slightly unpolished, a quality that lends the track an unvarnished authenticity.

Both artists are no strangers to this song, having incorporated it into their respective live sets, but here, the collaboration feels less like a performance and more like a quiet conversation between two seasoned voices.

This particular cover, along with contributions from other big names like the Avalanches remixing tracks from the same band, highlights how Hunters & Collectors remain a quietly enduring influence.

While the song doesn’t reinvent the wheel, it carries the weight of memory and reverence, delivering something understated but effective, neither flashy nor sterile.

The version allows the timeless simplicity of “Throw Your Arms Around Me” to stand on its own, letting the song’s wistful longing take the spotlight without unnecessary embellishment.


Lifted from : On Australian TV today, Neil Finn meets Eddie Vedder (2014)

2 . John Kay . Hoochie Coochie Man (w/ Steppenwolf)

Steppenwolf’s rendition of “Hoochie Coochie Man,” rebranded as “Hootchie Kootchie Man,” snarls onto their 1968 debut album with gritty energy and a rock-hard veneer.

Originally a Willie Dixon-penned blues staple immortalized by Muddy Waters in 1954, the song’s transformation is less homage and more reinvention, complete with volcanic guitar feedback and John Kay’s unrelenting growl cutting through the mix.

The band deploys a lineup well-suited for this aggressive reinterpretation: Michael Monarch’s slash-and-burn guitar treatments skewer through Goldy McJohn’s brooding organ lines, while Rushton Moreve and Jerry Edmonton lay down a rhythm section as muscular as a blacksmith’s anvil.

Where Dixon’s storytelling exuded mythic bravado steeped in blues traditions, Steppenwolf coats it with a sleazy swagger more attuned to late-’60s countercultural restlessness.

The riff is unyielding, a rough gem imbued with tension, occasionally threatening to derail yet holding together with sheer audacity and intent.

Far from the elegiac polish of some of its contemporaries, this track revels in its imperfections, shoving its way into a lineage of covers that includes luminaries like Jimi Hendrix and Motorhead while refusing to cede an inch of originality.

Its live iterations, such as a stormy performance at Louisville’s Waterfront Park in 1999, highlight a sustained rawness, decades removed from its studio inception.

What emerges is a portrait of Steppenwolf not just appropriating the blues, but wresting it into their own snarling, heady brand of rock, ensuring the song remains both vital and volatile.


Lifted from : John Oates performs for Paste Magazine (2018)

3 . John Oates . Miss The Mississippi And You

John Oates leans into his Americana instincts with “Miss the Mississippi and You,” a tender ballad that oozes nostalgia without veering into sentimentality.

Featured on *Arkansas*, his 2018 salute to early American music, the track nods to the 1930s original penned by Bill Halley and popularized by Hank Williams, keeping its wistful waltz tempo intact.

This isn’t just Oates dabbling in roots music—it’s a deliberate, loving excavation of the sounds that shaped American pop before it went electric.

The sparse, carefully arranged instrumentation is a masterclass in restraint, showcasing Nashville heavyweights like Sam Bush on mandolin and Russ Paul on pedal steel, who weave subtle, atmospheric textures rather than overpower the melody.

It’s hard to separate the song’s gentle ache from Oates’ own personal return to the folk-blues world he once inhabited in Philadelphia long before his chart-topping Hall & Oates reign.

“Miss the Mississippi and You” thrives in its simplicity. There’s no bombast here, no overreaching attempts to modernize its sound—just a faithful homage to the faded elegance of pre-war America, shaped more by emotional cadence than overt hooks.

The faint spiritual undertones, while subdued, lend the song a hymn-like quality, blurring the line between personal longing and universal melancholy.

No chart hits or viral moments will spring from this, but that’s the point. Oates isn’t chasing trends; he’s chasing echoes.

Performed live, as it was during his Sweetwater Music Hall set in 2018 alongside guests like Bob Weir, the song feels almost confessional—proof that, even while enjoying the quiet resurgence of Americana, Oates remains very much on his own artistic timeline.


Lifted from : ABC Dunhill publish ‘Steppenwolf’ their eponymous debut album featuring ‘Born to Be Wild’ and ‘The Pusher’ (1968)

4 . James Blake . The Wilhelm Scream

Released on March 3, 2011, James Blake’s “The Wilhelm Scream” emerges as a haunting reinterpretation of “Where to Turn,” a track penned by his father, James Litherland, who once played with prog-rock stalwarts Colosseum.

The song’s delicate layering carries listeners into Blake’s ethereal soundscape, blending sparse electronic textures with his aching falsetto—in equal parts meditative and disorienting.

The track didn’t exactly storm the charts, debuting at a humble 136 in the UK and floating mid-tier across Belgium’s Ultratip rankings, but its influence lingered far beyond these numbers.

Borrowing its title from a stock sound effect famously overused in cinema, “The Wilhelm Scream” almost mocks its origins by unraveling into something deeply intimate, where repetitive lyrics morph into existential musings.

Not just constrained to headphones, the song found a home in pop culture, gracing the end credits of HBO’s *Entourage* and undergoing reinterpretation by The Bamboos with Megan Washington.

Pitchfork’s year-end list placed it at an admirable 11th, while Triple J listeners slid it in at 92 during 2011’s Hottest 100.

Alexander Brown directed its understated music video, a swirling visual representation of the song’s unraveling minimalism, save for the odd splash of full-blown abstraction.

Rapper Big K.R.I.T. saw potential in its haunting resonance, flipping it for his track “REM,” further solidifying the tune’s reach as more than just an indie-electronic curiosity.

There’s an undeniable irony: a cover bereft of conventional commercial success still managed to carve its way into cultural consciousness, aided by Blake’s ability to make fragility sound bold.


Lifted from : ‘James Blake’ releases his eponymous debut album (2011)

5 . Graham Nash . King Midas In Reverse

“King Midas in Reverse” stands as a curious pivot point in the Hollies’ career, accentuating Graham Nash’s restless ambition to break the pop mold while still tethering itself to the band’s harmonic roots.

Released in 1967 at the height of the psychedelic boom, the song blends lush orchestration with a wearier emotional undercurrent, a departure from the group’s typical bright optimism.

Nash’s lyrics offer a cynical inversion of the King Midas myth, casting the protagonist as someone whose touch ruins rather than gilds, a metaphor seemingly aimed at frustrations with conformity and creative stagnation.

The production, handled by Ron Richards, injects a sheen of sophistication into a piece that teeters between baroque pop and brooding introspection, with brass flourishes and melancholic strings giving it both grandeur and gloom.

This wasn’t a chart-topper—it peaked modestly across several regions—but it hinted at Nash’s readiness to move beyond the constraints of pop stardom into less commercial, more artistically liberating realms.

Critics were divided; some praised its ambition and layered vocals as a leap forward, while others found its complexity a bit alienating compared to the infectious simplicity of earlier Hollies hits.

Ultimately, “King Midas in Reverse” feels more like a prophecy of Nash’s trajectory than a reflection of the Hollies themselves, as he would trade English pop for American folk-rock shortly after, aligning himself with Crosby, Stills & Stills.

The track has remained an intriguing artifact of a band at crossroads, and its reinterpretations over the years—from The Posies’ tribute rendition to its placement in “The Limey”—underscore its sly resonance and enduring allure.


Lifted from : Happy Birthday Graham Nash. ‘Nash Flow’

6 . Chris Cornell . When I’m Down

Chris Cornell’s “When I’m Down” doesn’t merely stray from his Soundgarden roots—it practically flees into a smoky lounge corner, dragging along Natasha Shneider’s introspective piano as its sole companion.

It’s a song that dares to wear its heart not just on its sleeve but stitched into every fiber of its being, swapping Cornell’s gritty grunge outbursts for something far more subdued and vulnerable.

From the album initially (and accidentally) christened *Euphoria Morning*, later corrected to *Euphoria Mourning*—because who doesn’t love the occasional existential spellcheck—this track feels like a confessional whispered after last call.

For live audiences, Cornell upped the theatricality, singing over a vinyl recording of the piano track, a move equal parts homage to Shneider and a display of emotional purism.

Stripped of bombast, the focus lands squarely on that unmistakable voice: raw, aching, and occasionally unraveling in its own intensity.

Yet, the approach does risk bordering on heavy-handed melodrama, as if Cornell’s trying a bit too hard to bare his weary soul through a single track.

Still, it’s a fascinating pivot for an artist often associated more with guttural power chords than minimalist elegies, leaving listeners to grapple with its somber beauty—or quietly shuffle to the next song, depending on their mood.


Lifted from : Chris Cornell sings at The Troubadour (2010)

7 . Elliott Smith . A Fond Farewell

Elliott Smith’s “A Fond Farewell” is a hauntingly self-aware track buried deep in the recesses of his struggles, sitting on the edge of introspection and clarity like a man staring into a cracked mirror.

Pulled from the posthumous *From a Basement on the Hill* (2004), the song reads like a letter that was never meant to be read aloud, its resignation more whispered than shouted.

The lyrics weave their way through addiction, despair, and the elusive search for peace, hinting at more than they say directly—Smith’s signature move.

Musically, the melodies float along the line between melancholic folk simplicity and the layered complexities that marked his later work, his guitar work as delicate as a spider’s web after a rainstorm.

The song lacks the polish that some producers might have forced upon it, preserving the raw quality that makes it feel disarmingly personal.

It’s no surprise that artists as disparate as Phoebe Bridgers and Frank Ocean have latched onto Smith’s enigmatic phrasing—Frank even interpolates a fragment of it in “Seigfried.”

As performances go, the January 2003 rendition at the Henry Fonda Theatre lacks any pretense, barely more than Smith, his guitar, and the void he’s grappling with.

While it never clawed its way up any charts or earned accolades, it remains a core artifact for Elliott’s devotees, a confessional that demands you sit in its shadows and listen—whether you want to or not.


Lifted from : Elliott Smith sings in LA (2003)

8 . Conor Oberst . Arienette

“Arienette” feels like the soundtrack to a spiraling existential crisis, delivered with Conor Oberst’s signature trembling vocals and a lyrical intensity that borders on confessional oversharing.

Plucked from the 2000 Bright Eyes album “Fevers and Mirrors,” the song folds neatly into the overarching themes of introspection and disillusionment that saturate the record.

Its 3:45 runtime is a brooding exercise in raw vulnerability, with cryptic lines that provoke more questions than answers—particularly for listeners obsessed with dissecting Oberst’s personal life from his music.

The acoustic strums are tinged with melancholia, but it’s the subtle layering of instrumentation that sticks: a barely-there drumline, a dash of harmonica, and those restless crescendos that Oberst wields like a weapon.

By the time he reaches the refrain, there’s an unshakable impression of someone bleeding out their thoughts in real time, unfiltered and unapologetic.

It’s not a crowd-pleaser so much as an introspective ode—better suited for solitary walks or late-night ruminations than arenas.

While the 2013 Hamburg performance captured on YouTube provides a live rendition faithful to its studio origins, it somewhat lacks the claustrophobic intimacy of the recorded version.

The 2020 companion release, meanwhile, echoes of nostalgia but doesn’t reinvent the wheel, reminding fans why Bright Eyes songs like this burrow into your psyche and refuse to leave.

If there’s a crack in the veneer, it’s the occasional overwrought metaphor, but then again, that’s half the charm of Oberst’s work—teetering on the edge of profundity and precociousness.

In the constellation of Bright Eyes songs, “Arienette” navigates its own orbit, neither the flashiest star nor the faintest, but undeniably magnetic in its quiet chaos.


Lifted from : Conor Oberst sings in Hamburg (2013)

9 . Biffy Clyro . Mountains

Biffy Clyro’s “Mountains” delivers an audacious mix of accessibility and complexity, straddling the line between mainstream appeal and mathematical precision.

Released in 2008, the track eventually found its way onto the band’s 2009 album *Only Revolutions,* but let’s not pretend it’s merely album filler; it boldly redefined their commercial trajectory while keeping their experimental streak alive.

The verses toy with a 15/4 time signature that refuses to pander to lazy listeners, while the post-chorus orchestrations flirt with a rhythmic jigsaw involving sequences of 16, 4, 3, and 4.

This deliberate chaos somehow coalesces into a track that stormed its way to number five on the UK Singles Chart and claimed the top position in Scotland, solidifying its place in their catalog of chart-toppers.

Recorded in the relatively charmless but sonically perfect Sunset Sound Recorders under producer Garth Richardson, the song bears the polish of Hollywood without sacrificing its Glasgow grit.

The lyrics trade poetic opacity for straightforward determination—a mountain metaphor that simultaneously evokes perseverance and stubborn grandeur without tipping into melodrama.

The music video complements this with a surreal juxtaposition of natural and human-made chaos, featuring frontman Simon Neil doggedly holding his ground in bizarre visual scenarios.

True to form, the song found new homes in various pop-culture niches, appearing in video games such as *Colin McRae: DiRT 2* and *Shift 2: Unleashed,* proof that “Mountains” climbed deeper into cultural relevance than some might expect from a rock anthem.

If there’s any gripe to be had, it’s the calculated sheen that might unsettle fans of their scrappier early work, but this feels like splitting hairs when the mere act of combining mass appeal with odd meters proves they’re playing checkers and chess simultaneously.

“Mountains” is a high watermark—not for its conceptual innovations alone but for its efficient conquering of both radio speakers and rhythmic boundaries.


Lifted from : Biffy Clyro go acoustic at Abbey Road Studios (2013)

10 . Boy George & Anohni . You Are My Sister (w/ Antony And The Johnsons)

“You Are My Sister” brings together two distinctive voices—Boy George and Anohni—in a collaboration that feels like a poignant dialogue between kindred spirits. The track, featured on Antony and the Johnsons’ 2005 album *I Am a Bird Now*, acts as a sonic embrace, weaving themes of familial bonds and shared journeys into a tender, almost ethereal composition. Anchored by piano and strings, the instrumentation creates an intimate backdrop for their contrasting yet complementary vocals.

Interestingly, the song’s success isn’t just measured by chart performance, though it cracked respectable positions in the UK and Italy. Its power lies in the vulnerability both artists display, with Boy George delivering one of his most understated vocal performances. His presence feels less like a feature and more like a conversation, aligning perfectly with Anohni’s deeply emotive delivery. The result is magnetic without slipping into melodrama—a rare balance.

The accompanying tracks on the EP, like the haunting “Forest of Love,” explore similarly melancholic terrains, while “Poorest Ear” strips back any pretense, leaving raw, introspective storytelling. “Paddy’s Gone,” closing the EP, evokes a quiet farewell, almost achingly sparse in its arrangement. These tracks don’t aim for grandeur; they linger like afterthoughts, subtle but impactful in their restraint.

The album itself, laden with guest appearances from Rufus Wainwright to Devendra Banhart, is more than a collection of songs—it’s a manifesto. It captures a moment of unfiltered humanity that, unsurprisingly, caught the attention of the Mercury Prize committee and won. And honestly, it’s hard to ignore the cultural imprint this work has left behind. While its aesthetic sensibilities won’t cater to every palate, its layered emotionality and deliberate pacing demand—if not loyalty—at least respect.


Lifted from : Antony . The Johnsons Release ‘I Am . Bird Now,’ Their Second Album Produced By Frontman Anohni (2005)

11 . Glen Hansard . Bird Of Sorrow

“Bird of Sorrow” finds Glen Hansard in a reflective, almost raw state, offering a bruised lament that bares its teeth in subtle defiance.

This track, from his 2012 solo endeavor *Rhythm and Repose*, departs from his collaborations with The Swell Season and The Frames, showcasing a quieter, more personal dimension.

The album, shaped in New York alongside talents like Thomas Bartlett and Brad Albetta, carries a darker timbre, steeped in introspection rather than stadium-reaching anthems.

Hansard’s vocal delivery, an evocative mix of rough-edged vulnerability and a howl that threatens to break free, pairs with the track’s themes of loss and unrelenting pain.

With lyrics like “Tethered to a bird of sorrow / A voice that’s buried in the hollow,” the song doesn’t comfort; it confronts.

Performances of the song, such as on RTÉ’s *The Late Late Show* with Imelda May, reveal its restrained anguish, while live renditions evoke a more urgent emotional pull.

“Bird of Sorrow” sits comfortably in no clean box—it’s a whisper that morphs into a wail, tying the folk traditions Hansard channels to his modern flair.


Lifted from : Glen Hansard sings in London (2013)

12 . Peter Doherty . Back From The Dead

“Back From The Dead” captures Peter Doherty’s affinity for raw, unpolished self-expression, a hallmark of his artistry that has both fans and critics in polarized camps.

A fixture of Babyshambles’ 2005 album “Down in Albion,” the song carries a disheveled charm, reflecting the chaotic fervor of Doherty’s creative process.

The track’s co-writing credit to Peter Wolfe adds a collaborative nuance, but its core remains tethered to Doherty’s introspective, confessional lyrical style.

Lines like “There’s nothing nice about me / And almost everyone agrees” encapsulate the artist’s penchant for brutally candid self-reflection, leaving listeners balancing between sympathy and voyeurism.

Musically, it stumbles with a lo-fi clumsiness that borders on defiance, a deliberate choice echoing the ethos of Babylonian disarray that “Down in Albion” projects.

An acoustic video rendition underscores Doherty’s vulnerability, presenting him as an artist perpetually teetering on the edge of brilliance and disarray.

While his Parisian escapades of 2013 hold no direct link, they’re emblematic of the restless pursuit that defines Doherty’s work, both creatively and personally.

The question remains whether “Back From The Dead” serves as catharsis or performance, but it undeniably mingles fragility and defiance in a way few others dare.

It’s a study in imperfection, much like the man behind it—a snapshot of artistry with edges intact.


Lifted from : Peter Doherty visits Paris (2013)

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