round 1

(2) red hot chili peppers, “higher ground”
STRIPPED
(15) jenny owen youngs, “hot in herre”
237-208
AND WILL PLAY ON IN THE SECOND ROUND

Read the essays, listen to the songs, and vote. Winner is the aggregate of the poll below and the @marchxness twitter poll. Polls closed @ 9am Arizona time on 3/8/22.

ben erwin on red hot chili peppers’ “higher ground”

As ubiquitous as cover songs have become, there’s always risk in recreating someone else’s work. Reimagining a track that’s already connected with audiences is tricky enough, but updating a veritable classic always feels like an imminent recipe for unmitigated disaster. 
I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of covers. The notion of taking an existing composition and turning it into something wildly different—or transposing a tune in an otherwise seemingly antithetical new genre—can reveal aspects of the original while creating something that feels fresh, even if listeners know they’re simply hearing a new rendition of an existing tune. The best cover songs simultaneously accomplish a number of things: 

• Provide new musical perspectives and soundscapes

• Update a tune for a new time or audience

• Celebrate the original artist while managing to create something interesting or innovative through the process of exploring a preexisting piece of music.

And while the music industry has historically released multiple versions of the same track on countless occasions, or promoted bowdlerized versions of underground hits, modern covers are now more likely used to raise a younger artist’s profile than solely pay homage to a classic. 
In fact, one of the surest signs of musical success is other artists covering your catalog. And when discussing the most-frequently covered musicians—and the musicians whose music is most worthy of covering—Stevie Wonder ranks near the top. Wonder’s oeuvre has been recreated and reimagined by everyone from Aretha Franklin and Stevie Ray Vaughn to Patti Smith and Rihanna. But perhaps the best interpretation of Wonder’s music is the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ 1989 recording of “Higher Ground” on Mother’s Milk. 
It might seem to some like musical sacrilege to contend that the Chili Peppers’ rendition is better than the original, per se, but the tune is equal parts tribute and modern update that simultaneously introduced RHCP to mainstream audiences while further proving the timelessness of Wonder’s original. 
In much the same way that Wonder’s Innervisions breathed fresh life into pop music in 1973, Mother’s Milk felt like an innovative anomaly during a period when much of popular music felt stagnant and sterile. The Peppers’ early career was built on cross-pollinating disparate genres and defying typical genre conventions of the time; before the stadium tours, platinum albums, and an induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, “Higher Ground” helped the group establish itself as pioneers and modern rock progenitors. The song’s themes of reincarnation, reinvention, and personal revelations are just as germane now as they were in 1973 and 1989, and the Chili Peppers were the perfect group to update this soul classic right on the cusp of an immense cultural transition in pop music. 

World keeps on turning, ‘cause it won’t be too long

Innervisions was released in the midst of what is now referred to as Wonder’s “classic period,” and “Higher Ground” is a remarkable track on an album full of some of the multi-talented musician’s best work. By 23, Wonder had already released more than a dozen records, but Innervisions signaled a sea change in his career. The jazzy doo-wop of “Too High” fits perfectly alongside the stellar storytelling of “Living for the City” and the simplicity (at least for Stevie) of “All is Fair.” But the real standout is still “Higher Ground”—even all these decades later. From its lyrical themes to Wonder’s vocal tone and instrumentation, the song is synonymous with ‘70s funk and soul; and while it’s easy to compare “Higher Ground” to Wonder’s other clavinet-driven classic, “Superstition,” the song’s 12/8 time signature gives the track a bouncier, sauntering swing. More than that, however, Wonder’s vocal delivery propels the song, particularly as the chorus swells. 
Much has been made of the fact that the track was recorded in a mere three hours, with Wonder playing each instrument and supplying all the vocals. This immensely impressive feat cannot be discounted, but it’s the aforementioned clavinet that dominates and drives the song. Consisting of three separate tracks, clavinet played through an envelope filter can be heard isolated on both the left and the right in the mix, and the instrument propels “Higher Ground.” Beautiful in its simplicity, Wonder interweaves subtle harmonies throughout that, coupled with the unique time signature, give the song such a velvety feel. Verses and choruses highlight both major and minor harmonic characteristics, and those contrasting melodic elements further lend to the track’s intensity. 
Music-nerd musings aside, “Higher Ground” is an encapsulation of everything that makes ‘70s funk and soul resonate on a cellular level. Isolating any individual track would still raise the hairs on the back of listeners’ necks, and the song is a perfect example of something that is—and please pardon the cliché—greater than the sum of its parts. If there’s one criticism I have, it’s that the tune is undeniably dated; that is, it’s instantly identifiable as an early ‘70s Stevie Wonder composition. And, popularity aside, the track could just as easily appear on any of Wonder’s early ‘70s releases. As much as the lyrical themes are universal, the music itself is very clearly of a particular time and place in music history. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, and many a musician would love to be able to capture Wonder’s tone and style here, but it’s this dated quality that also makes the Chili Peppers’ subsequent cover sound so much more modern and progressive. 

I’m so darn glad he let me try it again

I have to admit at this point that I am generally not a fan of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never lived in California, or the fact that I could never pull off a nothing-but-a-tube-sock ensemble, but the band’s music never captured my imagination. But I’ve always loved their take on “Higher Ground.”
First off, that bassline. That big, beautiful rattle-your-organs bassline. Flea’s slap bass bludgeons just as much as it grooves, and it’s the perfect propulsive start to the track. While Wonder’s original builds a slow, swinging rhythm to complement his vocals, there’s zero pretense or climb in the cover version. Instead, that iconic bassline is simply built upon, as Chad Smith’s opening drum fill signals John Frusciante’s jagged guitar riff. Before the vocals even begin, Frusciante layers in wah-inflected guitar until power chords that echo Wonder’s original chord progression signal the start of the first verse. Where Wonder’s vocals are rich and silky, Anthony Kiedis sounds as though he’s issuing declarative commands regarding the state of the world.
A song that sounds like a plea for contemplation and compromise in the hands of Stevie Wonder is suddenly a call to action. By the time the chorus kicks in, it’s clear the Chili Peppers have rightfully opted for a more-is-more aesthetic, with a plethora of voices all gleefully chanting along. Sure, the lyrics get lost in the raucous, singalong chorus, but the pathos remains. What the cover occasionally lacks in precision it more than makes up for with visceral impact that builds and builds until the song crescendos with the tempo escalating to punk rock ferocity. 
As beautiful as the original “Higher Ground” is—and it is quite beautiful—I’ll happily take this modern reimagining every time. Wonder’s version fits perfectly into the soulful elegance of its day, but the instrumentation and recording techniques can’t help but conjure the impression of some dusty relic. What’s clear upon listening to Wonder’s track now is that they definitely don’t make them like that anymore. Conversely, the Chili Peppers version—though recorded more than 30 years ago—still feels fresh; and in the context of its initial release, it’s difficult to listen to the song without thinking about how Mother’s Milk would help usher in a wave of alternative rock that would typify the decade to come. Instead of hearing the song and being reminded of a musical era that no longer exists, the Chili Peppers’ rendition points toward music that has yet to be made. 

God is gonna’ show you the highest ground

In both versions of “Higher Ground,” listeners are afforded a window into two sides of the same spiritual coin: repentance, forgiveness, redemption, rebirth, and growth. The themes of the song are particularly fitting, given both artists’ penchant for reinvention. It’s also no surprise that RHCP included “Higher Ground” in their Hall of Fame induction performance, as the song encapsulates the band’s greatest musical strengths. 
The best cover songs offer up new twists on an original while updating a track for a new era and audience. Moreover, any truly great cover should offer something interesting and innovative while celebrating the original artist. The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ rendition of “Higher Ground” epitomizes these characteristics, and I’m hard- pressed to think of another cover that so adequately stands up against its classic counterpart. 

Ben Erwin is a writing instructor and former music journalist from the Midwest. He hopes to one day fulfill his dream of punching Thom Yorke in the face.

Is it “Hot In Herre?” anna chotlos on jenny owen youngs

Say what you will about the song, but the music video accompanying Jenny Owen Youngs’s cover of “Hot in Herre” is spectacular: Set in an unconvincing igloo, Owen Youngs strums an acoustic guitar while actors in plush polar bear, penguin and wolf costumes, bulbous heads like sports team mascots, bop in the background. Blue balloons are scattered on the floor and colorful plastic champagne glasses dot the tables. Pastel blue and purple moose (or maybe reindeer?) heads, obviously puppeteered by someone’s hands, serve as backup singers. A bartending yeti, several ice fisherpeople, an assortment of folk dancers in elaborate costumes, and a Santa-like older man with a long white beard also populate the club. The scene feels like a nightmare about a children’s birthday party held at a haunted North Pole-themed Chuck E. Cheese. It’s campy as hell. Conspicuously, no one takes off any of their clothes.
I admit that I had never listened to this song or heard of Jenny Owen Youngs before I picked her cover off the March Faxness tournament list. (Jenny, if you happen to read this, I’m sorry I can’t bring the ethos of a long-time fan to this essay, but I’m so glad I found your music. It’s fantastic and you seem really cool.) At first, I figured this cover resonated with me because I am a notoriously cold person. I shiver in rooms where everyone else feels toasty. My family jokes that I am coldblooded—a big, human-shaped lizard. I love layers. I wish it were environmentally conscionable to set my thermostat to 85 degrees. I am very good at keeping my clothes on.  

To fully appreciate the appeal of Owen Youngs’s cover, there are a few important things to know about the original version of the song. Set in a crowded dance club, rapper Nelly is surrounded by slick, undulating bodies, the camera’s gaze fixated on breasts and asses. The singer’s proposal: “It's getting hot in here so take off all your clothes” is answered by a female chorus of eager agreement—“We are getting so hot/We're gonna take our clothes off.” Of course, nobody is wearing very many clothes to begin with: the actors peel off tank tops to reveal triangle bikinis and toned abs. Where do they put the clothing they have taken off? Do they fling everything on the floor? Are they all dancing amid a pile of everybody’s sweaty laundry? How do they find their clothing when it is time to call it a night and go home? (I suspect these questions indicate I am not part of Nelly’s intended audience.) And yet, the music is upbeat and dance-y and earwormy. It’s almost too easy to start humming the chorus at inadvertent moments.
And no, the extra r in “herre” is not a typo. According to dailyrapfacts.com, the superfluous r is intended to emphasize that it is rreally hot. One r is simply not enough to communicate the level of hotness in herre. 
Earworm status aside, the lyrics of “Hot in Herre” narrate a heterosexual male fantasy about dancing with a large group of mostly naked women. The first stanza rhymes “good gracious” with “ass bodacious” and tacks on “flirtatious” for good measure. The song also makes explicit the expectation in our culture that women’s bodies be sexually appealing and available to men at all times: “Give that man what he asking for/'Cause I feel like busting loose and I feel like touching you.”
As I listen to “Hot in Herre” on repeat, I think about “to-be-looked-at-ness,” a term theorist Laura Mulvey coined to describe films’ presentation of women as sexual objects for the pleasure of male viewers in her 1975 essay “Visual Pleasure in Narrative Cinema:”

In a world ordered by sexual imbalance, pleasure in looking has been split between active/male and passive/female. The determining male gaze projects its phantasy on to the female figure which is styled accordingly. In their traditional exhibitionist role women are simultaneously looked at and displayed, with their appearance coded for strong visual and erotic impact so they can be said to connote to-be-looked-at-ness. Women displayed as sexual object is the leit-motiff of erotic spectacle: from pin-ups to strip-tease, to Ziegfeld to Busby Berkeley, she holds the look, plays to and signifies male desire.

Although it might be hot in herre, getting naked (in this song) happens for the pleasure of the male viewer. About halfway through “Hot in Herre,” the speaker demands a specific quality of clothing removal:

So take it off like you're home alone
You know dance in front your mirror while you're on the phone
Checking your reflection and telling your best friend
Like "Girl
I think my butt getting big"

The speaker imagines the object of his desire removing her clothes as freely as she might at home, speaking as if in conversation with a close friend, looking in a mirror, preoccupied with the size of her own butt, relentlessly engaged in the process of being seen as an erotic spectacle, even outside the calculated performance of sexuality in the dance club.
The problem isn’t fun and joyous and consensual nudity. It’s the way the perspective expressed in the song’s lyrics works within patriarchal ideology to reinforce a fucked-up understanding of woman “as bearer of meaning, not maker of meaning” (Mulvey). But as Mulvey notes (in the section excellently titled “Destruction of Pleasure is a Radical Weapon”), one benefit of engaging with media that offers such a limited perspective is that it opens the door to creative opportunities to unseat and unsettle the male gaze: “The alternative is the thrill that comes from leaving the past behind without rejecting it, transcending outworn or oppressive forms or daring to break with normal pleasurable expectations in order to conceive a new language of desire.”

If imitation is indeed the sincerest form of flattery, a cover is perhaps the sincerest form of engagement with another artist’s music. I think the impulse to cover a song (or to write poems after, to arrange lines into centos, to include an epigraph, to write fanfiction, to retell, collage, quote, erase, parody, sample, pay homage) often comes from a place of demonstrating deep love and appreciation by absorbing other art into your own. However, Owen Youngs’s cover of “Hot in Herre” seems neither particularly sincere nor flattering.
Instead of a more straightforward gender-swap to a female singer surrounded by a crowd of glistening, bulging abs and banana hammocks, Owen Youngs performs the song clad in a black winter jacket and hefty sweater, amid creepy puppets and the cast of a low-budget Sesame Street-knockoff kids television show. She keeps the same words and cadence (with a few minor tweaks, like replacing “Nelly fall out” with “Jenny fall out” at the end) but sings in the wistful, forlorn, heartbroken tones of singer-songwriter down on her luck. Her morose exhortations to nakedness are answered by a chorus of faux-taxidermied moose heads in an exhausted monotone. Owen Youngs’s tepid rap lives somewhere between deliberate, ironic misinterpretation and outright parody. She takes an undeniably sexy (from a certain point of view) song and performs it in the most unsexy possible way (See: creepy puppets.) She delivers the polar opposite (forgive the pun) of the erotic spectacle demanded in the lyrics.
In her 1964 essay “Notes on ‘Camp,’” Susan Sontag writes:

Ordinarily we value a work of art because of the seriousness and dignity of what it achieves. We value it because it succeeds—in being what it is, and presumably, in fulfilling the intention that lies behind it. We assume a proper, that is to say, a straightforward relation between intention and performance.

Owen Youngs’s cover is not valuable because it succeeds at fulfilling the intentions (“It’s getting hot in herre, so take off all your clothes”) expressed in the lyrics. It’s brilliant because it flips those intentions the bird and runs away laughing, still fully-clothed. Sontag’s definition of a camp sensibility, characterized by intentional exaggeration or too-muchness, offers a way to understand this divergence between intention and performance:

Camp is to dethrone the serious. Camp is playful, anti-serious. More precisely, Camp involves a new, more complex relation to “the serious.” One can be serious about the frivolous, frivolous about the serious.

In other words: Bad taste can be a vehicle for good art. While the original offers an unabashed celebration of physical pleasure, Owen Youngs’s cover counters with a sophisticated critique of the dominant understanding of hotness.
From an environmental perspective, “Hot in Herre” sounds a dire alarm regarding the state of the planet. Arctic environments, like the one cartoonishly represented in Owen Youngs’ music video, are some of the most vulnerable to climate chaos and catastrophically rapid shifts in temperature. If global climate change continues unabated, it will indeed be hot in herre. What will happen to us when it’s getting so hot, but we have no more clothes to take off?
In terms of the other kind of hotness, a less literal listener might argue that Youngs transforms “Hot in Herre” into an anthem for frigid women. Frigid means cold and metaphorically, describes a person lacking in enthusiasm or warmth, with a formal, stiff, or unfriendly demeanor. Over time, frigid has solidified into a gendered insult describing a woman who is perceived to be unresponsive sexually or lacking in sexual desire. The appeal of Owen Youngs’s cover lies in the way it responds to the enthusiasms of the original song by making space for those of us who don’t really want to participate in all that. It’s getting cold in herre! So put on all the clothes!
     For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me. As a teenager, I watched as most of my friends went boy crazy. I invented a few crushes to fit in. Why wasn’t it hot in herre for me, when it seemed like it was for everyone else? Why didn’t I want to take off all my clothes at the slightest hint of male attention? Turns out, I just needed a different version of the song.
Owen Youngs’s cover of “Hot in Herre” came out in 2007 and she came out in 2013. In a public coming out letter posted on Tumblr, she writes about keeping her sexuality private for many years, grappling with shame leftover from a religious upbringing, being deeply afraid that coming out would harm her career, and the realization that continuing to avoid the subject was itself sending a message— that being gay was something to feel ashamed of. I don’t want to speculate about if or how her sexuality might have informed her cover of “Hot in Herre.” I don't think the music video is trying to offer or imagine a queer alternative to male-gaze-centered heterosexual desire, though it certainly is poking fun at the male gaze. (At least in my experience, winter jackets are hot, but not that kind of hot.) An important part of coming to terms with my own queerness, before I could begin to envision the kind of love and relationships I did want, was realizing that I didn’t have to buy into the images of heterosexual desire I saw and heard around me. Jenny Owen Youngs’s satirical cover of “Hot in Herre” brings all the weirdness and limitations of those images into clearer focus and makes it okay (and even kind of fun) not to settle for anything less than exactly what and who you want.

Anna Chotlos’s writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Split Lip, Hotel America, Sweet Lit, and Quarter After Eight. She is a PhD student in nonfiction at the University of North Texas. Find her online at annachotlos.com.