Oops. I knew there was something familiar about my playlist about half-way through. My time was limited today, so I did what I normally do: went into my “Daily Playlists” folder on Tidal, selected the latest playlist, and hit shuffle. By the time I got to Peter Brown’s “Dance with Me,” I knew I had started a playlist that I had already listened to a couple of weeks earlier. Poo. Well, even though I’ve already listened to it, I did not write about it, so no worries—there is some good stuff on here anyway.
While not the first to play, Genesis’ “Counting Out Time” off of The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway has been a favorite for a while. Sandwiched between moments of surrealism, mythology, and heavy symbolism, this track is like the comic relief that unexpectedly deepens the tragedy. On the surface, it’s a pretty funny song: the antihero Rael, in all his brash, Bronx-y glory, recounts his attempt at seduction based entirely on a how-to sex manual. “Erogenous zones I love you / Without you, what would a poor boy do?” sings Gabriel with a mix of swagger and shame, tongue firmly in cheek. The music has this vaudevillian, almost Zappa-esque bounce—Steve Hackett’s sprightly guitar runs and Tony Banks’ zippy keyboard work reinforce the awkward energy of a young man trying way too hard to be suave.
But dig deeper, and it’s a pretty bleak moment in the story. Rael isn’t just fumbling in bed—he’s fumbling in life, trying to force control over something he doesn’t understand. It’s a painful collision of theory and reality, desire and detachment. Sex becomes one more thing he tries to master with logic and technique, only to be met with emotional failure. “I got unexpected distress from my mistress,” he sighs at the end. No redemption, no catharsis—just loneliness, dressed up in clown shoes.
The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway is Peter Gabriel’s baby. While Genesis as a whole co-wrote much of the music—in typical democratic fashion for the band at that time—Gabriel took the lead on the concept, the lyrics, and the narrative structure. This was his Sgt. Pepper, his The Wall, his chance to tell a story that was weird and gritty and deeply personal.
He was reading Carl Jung, watching Pasolini films, wrestling with identity and fame and fatherhood (his first daughter had just been born), and it all went into Rael—a Puerto Rican punk rock antihero wandering a dreamscape of fear and memory. Gabriel’s writing on Lamb is packed with psychological tension and metaphor, and “Counting Out Time” is a perfect microcosm of that blend: goofy on the outside, hollow on the inside, and bitterly honest at its core.
The irony? This album that was so much Gabriel’s vision was also the one that broke the band. The rest of Genesis—Banks, Rutherford, Hackett, Collins—weren’t entirely sold on the concept, and tensions flared. By the time the tour wrapped, Gabriel was out the door. But what a door to go out of. “Counting Out Time” might not be the song people think of first when they remember Lamb, but it’s a vital, humanizing piece of Rael’s puzzle—and a reminder of how much Gabriel could say by making us laugh. I look forward to revisiting the entirety Lamb when the Sound Shed is finished.
And speaking of great music from the ’70s, Roger Waters’ re-envisioning of Dark Side is a sonic gem, though, of course, I still prefer the original. Waters’ version is even more moody, which is entirely part of his musical ethos. Both an act of reflection and rebellion, Redux is a solo séance—Waters, alone in the dark, conjuring ghosts and speaking them into a tape recorder. Sonically, it is superior, and “Breathe” here is less a song and more a sermon. Gone is David Gilmour’s dreamy lap-steel guitar and that lush, floating groove that made the original feel like a weightless exhale. In its place: minimalist piano, low synth pads like fog rolling in over the Thames, and Waters’ voice—cracked, intimate, almost whispered at times, like he’s reading from a diary no one was meant to hear.
The lyrics are (mostly) the same, but the delivery changes everything. On the 1973 version, “Breathe” feels like cosmic advice from a celestial guide: Live in the moment, don’t chase the clock, trust the flow. In the Redux, it’s like hearing that same message from a man who’s exhausted, who did chase the clock, who’s now sitting in the smoking wreckage of time and muttering, “Told you so.”
And then there’s the monologue—Waters doesn’t sing all the lyrics. Instead, he sometimes speaks them, or paraphrases, or adds his own commentary between the lines, turning “Breathe” into a kind of spoken-word piece. It’s like listening to an old revolutionary explain to you, over a drink at closing time, what the revolution was supposed to mean. In the end, his version of “Breathe” isn't there to lull you into dreaming. It’s there to make sure you wake up.
Other standouts were “Where the River Goes” (atmospheric, contemporary jazz), Ben Folds’ “Landed,” and Cake’s “Italian Leather Sofa.”
Ben Folds has always had this uncanny ability to take the mundane and make it feel operatic, to wrap emotional devastation in melody so catchy you don’t even notice your heart breaking. “Landed,” from his 2005 solo album Songs for Silverman, might be one of his finest heartbreakers—equal parts confessional, cathartic, and quietly triumphant. “Landed” is a song about escape. About finally cutting ties with someone toxic. About returning to yourself after being in a relationship that swallowed your voice.
Folds has said the song was inspired by a friend who got out of an emotionally manipulative relationship, but it’s hard not to hear his own story in there too. Around this time, he was going through big changes—divorce, the shift from band to solo artist, becoming a dad—and all of that ache and wisdom is baked into the song.
The piano work is classic Folds: rolling chords with that percussive flair, gentle but always pushing forward. And when the chorus hits—“If you wrote me off / I’d understand it / ’Cause I’ve been on / Some other planet”—it’s just devastating. That’s a lyric that punches with both hands: there’s the regret for how he’s acted, and then the quiet, wounded plea for another chance. He knows he hasn’t been himself. He’s just hoping someone will still be there when he touches back down.
The title, “Landed,” is deceptively simple—it’s not just about getting off a plane. It’s about surviving the turbulence, escaping orbit, and getting back on solid ground, even if the ground looks unfamiliar now. It’s a song for anyone who’s ever made it out of something heavy and had to face the silence afterward. It doesn’t scream. It doesn’t throw blame. It just stands there, shoulders slumped, suitcase in hand, saying: I’m here. I made it. I’m sorry. What now?
Off of Cake’s 1996 album Fashion Nugget (when I started listening to the band), “Italian Leather Sofa” is a sleazy, swaggering, and strangely seductive—like a cocktail of surf rock, lounge lizard sleaze, and Gen X nihilism, served with a twist of smirk. It’s like if Steely Dan and The Ventures had a cynical little love child who smoked clove cigarettes and ghosted you on purpose. A perfect example of Cake’s style: lo-fi production, tight musicianship, bone-dry wit, and just enough darkness to leave a bruise.
This song *grooves*. That’s Cake’s secret weapon: their music is so minimal, yet so precise. The drums are dry and tight, locked into a rhythm that’s just a hair behind the beat, giving it this lazy, sarcastic strut. The bassline walks with purpose, but never runs. Then there’s that spaghetti-western guitar tone: twangy, reverby, echoing out like gunshots across a desert. You can practically see the tumbleweeds. And of course—the trumpet. That lonely, ironic little horn line that punctuates the mix like an eyebrow raise. It doesn’t soar, it comments. Cake has always used brass the way other bands use sarcasm: not to embellish, but to underline the joke.
Lyrically, it’s pure Cake snark. It’s about a woman who’s got the money, the looks, the Italian leather sofa, and zero time for emotional nonsense. It’s decadent, but hollow—a catalog of designer alienation. “She doesn’t care whether or not he’s an island”—I mean, come on. That’s such a weird, wonderful line. So much said with so little. It's got the cheese of an infomercial, like someone who’s drifted so far into comfort, luxury, and disconnection that emotion becomes irrelevant. The Italian leather sofa is just the most obvious symbol—a trophy for someone who doesn’t need people, just things. Perhaps we all sit on that sofa. Yet, beneath all that deadpan cool, there’s a weird kind of melancholy. The song knows this world is shallow. It just chooses to raise a glass to it instead of crying in the corner.