On his version of Nick Lowe's "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding," my main man faces up to the world, faces it down, ventures out to remake it, to set it to rights, at least in the space of the few minutes of this song. Riding in on wave after wave of slashing guitar, Steve Nieve's keys are grand and stately as they announce the song in the wake of Pete Thomas's machine-gun snare barrage, then garage-y as they swirl around those waves of guitar—oil atop the water. Bruce's muscular, melodic bass and Pete's propulsive drums are a sodden, relentless undertow threatening to pull the singer back under. Yet he beats on, fights his way as the waves crash against him. His voice embodying wounded swagger, he surveys the landscape of the blasted shore, looks for hope and love and peace amidst the ruins, stands his ground as the tide rushes back beneath him, suctioning back around his legs. By the bridge he's surging, and as Pete moves to the ride cymbal the power of the music surges through him (and you): it's the life force, and he's got his second wind, and as the wave builds he's now at its crest; as it breaks he's exulting. Pete's drums are exploding all around him in the sky as he makes it to the beach. Bloodied but unbowed, he emerges gasping on the shore. He's ready for whatever comes next, to greet it defiantly with love and peace and not add to the hatred and violence and ugliness in the world (and so will you be after hearing this). He lunges snapping at that last line of the chorus, bites it off: "WHAT's so funny 'bout peace love and understanding?" Every time I draw this jam while doing the iPod shuffle, I have to replay it over and over.
