Hootie and the Blowfish, "Can't Find the Time"

At last, we complete our exploration of a too-forgotten oldie. Over the years, a few obscure bands took cracks at recording "Can't Find the Time." The members of the Orpheus Rising incarnation of the band have archived a few snippets by groups with names like Wasabi and Wits End. But the one notable rendition in the past decade was by a very unlikely act: Hootie and the Blowfish, who had just begun their exit from the national stage but placed their cover of "Can't Find the Time" on the soundtrack of 2000's Me, Myself and Irene, a typically manic Jim Carrey comedy. Directors the Farrelly Brothers, or whoever was responsible for the soundtrack, peculiarly opted for mostly newly recorded covers of Steely Dan songs. What the Dan had to do with multiple-personality Carrey was anybody's guess, much less why Hootie and the Blowfish would chime in with a non-Dan cover.

(There is a connection of which the Farrellys were probably unaware, though: Chevy Chase, who was a drummer before he was a comic actor, played in an early version of Steely Dan as well as in a Boston-area band that impersonated Orpheus on a handful of tour dates.)

Darius Rucker and the boys didn't make much of an impression with their languid and faintly countrified take on the chestnut, but it did return the song to the public eye for a short period of time, and in hindsight, it makes a bit more sense of Rucker's country moves to come.

Wilco, "Any Major Dude Will Tell You"

Someone I know is presiding over the dissolution of a relationship this week. The relationship in all but name ended some months ago; the only difference is that now the separation will be physical as well.

I'm not an unbiased observer, and I don't know the whole story - which makes me the worst person to chime in, except to say that I considered posting for today's entry a number of kiss-off songs on my friend's behalf, motivated by a bitter need to pitch a snit: Teddy Pendergrass's "I Don't Love You Anymore" (nah, too vindictive); Elton John's "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" (too melodramatic, and no Sugar Bear in the storyline); New York City's "I'm Doin' Fine Now" (close, but too many differences in the details). I considered "I'll Be Alright Without You," Journey's last good single, and an appropriate sentiment (but holy period hair, Batman!).

But instead of snapping at a third party second-hand and making a tough situation worse, I'll offer some words of consolation for someone who once sent me the same words when I underwent a rough patch years ago. "Any major dude with half a heart surely will tell you, my friend / Any minor world that breaks apart falls together again." We undergo changes. Maybe we melt down, dissolve; but even if so, from that salt and water and our essence we rebuild. At least, that's the optimism I pull from Becker and Fagen's logic on one of their prettiest tracks. But since I assume you've heard the Steely Dan original plenty of times, let me give a spotlight to Wilco's gentle cover of "Any Major Dude Will Tell You." It appears, along with a number of other Dan covers of wildly varying quality, on the soundtrack to Me, Myself and Irene, a Farrelly Brothers comedy I've never been the least bit curious to see. But I bought the soundtrack, since it has the aforementioned Dan covers, and what else should it have but Hootie and the Fricking Blowfish doing a cover of one of my all-time favorite songs, and a true obscurity at that, "Can't Find the Time." But that's a story for another day.

Poe, "Haunted"

Way back in 1996, an ingenue calling herself Poe scored a modern-rock hit with "Angry Johnny," a delicious revenge fantasy in which a self-described "Jezebel in hell" details the various ways she could kill the title character. Hell hath no fury, etc. The densely produced song couldn't have been better timed; Alanis Morissette (and to a lesser degree, Meredith Brooks) had confirmed an audience for fiery female fulminations, we hadn't yet exited the golden era of alt-women (Juliana Hatfield, Tanya Donnelly, et al.), and 1997's last great burst of modern pop was just around the corner.

Problem was, Poe was not prolific. Indeed, she's only released one album since that bright debut. But what an album it was: Haunted, issued appropriately on Halloween in 2000, was an audacious artistic statement, a concept album of sorts (Poe's found some old recordings of her deceased father and uses them to communicate with him and put some ghosts to rest) that both rocked and danced hard. Alas, it flopped since it didn't have The Hit Single (tm), she lost her record deal, and she's remained silent ever since.

But listen to the title track and tell me this isn't some of the more vital music of the 2000s - spooky yet spacious, vibrant and vivid, honest, melodic, possessed of both brains and heart. Perhaps this album could have fared better under the new media distribution of the late '00s. But without that viral kick, Haunted exists as a cult classic - in my mind if no one else's.