I should begin this by admitting that I like the Eagles. Lots of their tunes rock, and the Eagles will forever have geek street cred as the authors of “Journey of the Sorcerer” which served as the theme song to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I’ll now try to get back in the good graces of my fellow Dudeists by saying that I dig Creedence way more than the Eagles. However, the first time I saw The Big Lebowski I was puzzled by the fact that one of The Dude’s strongest emotional reactions is to the fuckin’ Eagles, man. The Eagles literally wrote the tune telling us to “Take It Easy.” So why doesn’t The Dude dig what they do?

Upfront it can seem baffling that Creedence would get the place of honor in The Dude’s car’s tape deck and the Eagles are so offensive as to warrant a protest that gets you ccr1kicked out of a cab. Both bands can fairly being accused of being, as Holden Caulfield would put it, phonies. John Fogerty was definitely not born on the bayou, and I seriously doubt that Glenn Frey ever stood on a corner in Winslow, Arizona with seven women on his mind. Both bands broke up due to personal conflict and creative control issues. So what’s the big difference between the two?

Quite a lot, it turns out.

Band origins were the first giveaway. The Eagles have an unapologetically polished studio sound. They were really more of a supergroup of seasoned session artists with specific business goals, much in the same way that Led Zeppelin was when they started out. It’s not that the Eagles’ decision to quit playing second fiddle and create their own band isn’t admirable, but the origins of Creedence feel more Dudely because the band began with friendship, not a business plan.

Fogerty wasn’t from the bayou, but he was from Berkeley, California, a place that was the epicenter of political thought in the sixties. (Now it’s populated by trust fund hipsters sitting at Starbucks using their iPhones to tweet about The Corporations, Man. Bummer.) The members of Creedence grew up in the same town and went to high school together. Every member of the original Eagles lineup was from a different state and didn’t meet until their careers as hired guns were well underway.

Like The Dude, John Fogerty was on the wrong side of authority figures. Creedence’s old record label ripped off record proceeds for years from Fogerty, even though he wrote almost every song the band ever recorded. They even sued him for playing his own song, claiming it sounded too much like one of his old songs. Which he wrote. Fucking fascists. For this exact reason, I’ll openly admit that I won’t pay for Creedence songs. As a method of protest I’ve ripped every one of them from a friend’s CD. If Fogerty ain’t getting paid then neither should the record company, as far as I’m concerned. And I’d like to think that The Dude would approve of principled digital piracy.

The Eagles, on the other hand, had an arsenal of lawyers at their disposal and never lost control of their music due to the naive belief that their record labels wouldn’t screw them over with bogus contracts. When they broke up they were still able to fulfill their contract obligations by releasing an album without ever being in the same studio together. That takes business acumen that a conscientious objector like Fogerty wouldn’t have wasted time on.

Most importantly to the themes of The Big Lebowski, Fogerty narrowly escaped being sent to ‘Nam by joining the National Guard. So when he wrote “Fortunate Son” he knew what the fuck he was talking about. “Ramble Tamble” gripes about fucking fascists of the sort that run Malibu. “Who’ll Stop the Rain” celebrated the power of numbers in the counterculture movement, and “Run Through the Jungle” protested the proliferation of guns in urban neighborhoods.

The Eagles didn’t write protest music. They wrote really great studio-polished pop songs performed in a rock style. While the members of Creedence were steeped in the political revolution of the late sixties, the Eagles weren’t around for any of it. Before 1971 they were touring as hired guns for Bob Seger and Linda Ronstadt. When they got together, they recorded their first three albums in Britain. They were making art, not politics, going so far as to compare their rock star lifestyles to that of Old West outlaws on their second album Desperado. Creedence stayed right at home in California, laying down every one of their tracks in San Francisco and Los Angeles.

I theorize that The Dude’s hatred of the fuckin’ Eagles is not overt. It’s more that their music offers nothing to The Dude’s ethos. Everything The Dude is just jives a little better with Creedence and isn’t reflected in the Eagles. Music can do a helluva lot more than a rug to tie the room together. The Dude didn’t steal the Big Lebowski’s rug and then go home and lie on it in silence. He put on his headphones. Sure, maybe he listened to the sound of the 1987 Venice Beach League Playoffs, but that’s got to be music to The Dude’s ears. Likewise, if I’m gonna light some candles and have a nice relaxing bubble bath, I’m definitely cranking up “Long as I Can See the Light” and not “Hotel California.”

I don’t think that Dudeists are required to share The Dude’s dislike of the Eagles. That would be, like, dogma and stuff, which is super un-Dudely. But I believe we can all appreciate and respect the reasons behind his taste in tunes, and keep a special place in our tape decks for Creedence.

I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment
I could be you
Yes, I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
You’d know what a drag it is
To see you

Kapow. I can’t think of a better song to listen to while trying to exorcise memories of a former flame. The companion piece that you should listen to just before this song is “It Ain’t Me Babe,” because it makes dumping someone a true work of art. I know you want the hero, the unfailing support, the lighthouse, the lady on the pedestal. Aaaaand . . . that’s not me. Sorry. You should be looking elsewhere. This song, for good reason, was wildly popular and was covered in quick succession over the next few years. Although I’ve always been intrigued by the different versions that have been put out there.

Whenever Johnny Cash and June Carter performed this song, they omit the most powerful chunk of lyrics from the beginning of the third verse:

Go melt back into the night, babe,
Everything inside is made of stone.
There’s nothing in here moving
An’ anyway I’m not alone.

I’ve never been able to find a copy of this song where I got to hear Johnny and June snarl out those words, and that’s sad. The Rule of Three applies as much to music as it does to comedy, and removing that bit from the third verse saps the strength of the song. The first verse says, “Don’t show up at my house like this. I’m not going to shelter you.” The second verse continues, “Not trying to hurt you, but just so you know I can’t provide the permanence you want.” The third verse brings it home with a sucker punch: “Not only am I not what you want, but I’m kinda busy right now, if you know what I mean . . .” It’s the ultimate in rejection. I don’t want you, and I already have someone else.

Cash isn’t the only one to make this edit, which may presumably be because it sounds too racy. When The Turtles covered the song, they eliminated the third verse altogether. It’s a short song, so the omission can’t be in the interest of time – it had to have been deliberate. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the “anti-marriage” version by Joan Baez contained the full text. The Cash version had a ripple effect. It was replicated by Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon in the soundtrack for Walk the Line, which was very strong except for this number. Likewise when New Found Glory put out their album From the Screen to Your Stereo Part II, a compilation of punk covers of movie songs from 2007, they replicated not only the editing but also the female vocalist’s use of major instead of minor thirds.

Though it’s interesting listening to the baton being handed off — Dylan originally played the song solo. He later performed it as a duet, and Johnny and June picked that up. Their versions were well performed, with the exception of the regrettable lyrics omission. June wouldn’t quite slide up to a major third, and the minor chord gives the song just the right tiredness. Nobody likes rejecting someone with a crush, and the steady freight train pace of the Tennessee Three and Johnny’s growling baritone give this song just the right mixture of exhaustion and exasperation.

When Witherspoon and Phoenix covered the song, it was okay but the producer didn’t get it right. It’s too fast. It’s too clean sounding. It’s too peppy. It gets turned into a pop song, and Witherspoon sounds downright cheery. Her biggest mistake was singing her line in a major key, which is not only unfaithful to June Carter’s interpretation, but crosses the duet versions Dylan performed himself. But I guess that’s what happens when Hollywood gets ahold of a folk song. They’ve got to dress it up and make it fancy and sparkly. Bah humbug. The New Found Glory version recovers some of the angst. Part of the strength of Orange County style punk is that it can make anything sound pretty and angry at the same time, so although the female vocalist keeps it major, she doesn’t sound like a breakup cheerleader.

So few artists have had this kind of effect, and it’s one of the reasons I’m incredibly grateful for Bob Dylan. I wish more musicians would follow his example and promote this kind of folk heritage within commercial music.

Episode 2: Millions of robots die. The whiny human fights Saruman and loses a limb, meaning he gets a shiny new robot arm, making him slightly less lame. In act of flagrant ingratitude, the ninja hobbit fights Saruman and loses (thank goodness).

Episode 3: Millions of robots die. The whiny human loses three of his limbs, his face catches fire, and his skin melts, making the previous which was the best part so far. His suspiciously Oedipal love interest dies at the hands of a robot midwife, who proves how dumb the Jedi are when they believe an excuse as lame as “loss of will to live” as a cause of death. The whiny human becomes a cyborg. We can no longer see his face, his voice now sounds like that of James Earl Jones, he’s mostly robot, and can choke people with telekinesis, proving that even the most annoying of characters can develop redeeming qualities. Except Jar Jar. Fuck that guy.

Episode 4: Billions of humans die. (A more satisfactory turn of events.) A robot couple goes on vacation and find the cyborg’s whiny offspring participating in the institutional capture, enslavement and sale of otherwise autonomous robots. (The lack of evidence that there was any sort of robot rights organization anywhere in the galaxy almost made me eject the DVD to use for target practice.) The awesome robot and the shiny robot figure everything out for the humans, who blow up a perfectly good bowling ball. Then everybody gets rewarded with shiny medals except the robots, who get repairs and a cleaning, which they should have been getting in the first place.

Episode 5: Lots of slimy organic things make life difficult for the whiny human looking for the ninja hobbit. He finds the ninja hobbit by crashing his spaceship into his septic tank. After losing a fight with a cyborg (duh, what did he expect), the whiny human gets a robot hand, making him slightly less lame. The awesome robot de-bugs the space ship, saving the day. Nobody thanks him.

Episode 6: The ninja hobbit dies. (Finally.) A furrier tribe of hobbits prove that they are the most intelligent species in the galaxy by worshiping the shiny robot. The awesome robot keeps de-bugging everything with no thanks or credit offered by his ungrateful overlords. The humans kill each other and blow up another perfectly good bowling ball. A few dead humans come back to haunt their buddies at the barbecue.

• slightly expressed introvert
• distinctively expressed intuitive personality
• slightly expressed feeling personality
• moderately expressed judging personality

Normally I don’t put much stock in an assessment taken in a quiz that is completed online in a few minutes, except it’s hard to deny it was spot on with my recommended careers: Literature/Writer, Humanities, Web Design, Philosphy, Archaeology, Religious Education, Counseling. Oo! I’m special! Only one percent of the population is like me. Though on second thought, being special is rarely a good thing. It usually means you wear a helmet and ride the short bus to school. Or you work in software.

Maybe quizzes like this can be helpful in becoming self-aware, but I often worry that the downside of cogito, ergo sum is that we lose the ability to enjoy anything. I’ve read papers that reduce love down to a mere combination of pheromone reaction and evolutionary biology. Gee, how romantic. I also feel that being coldly self-analytical can suck the joy out of relationships and happiness in general. After all, if every time I feel happy all I do is think “well, this is merely the result of the proper balance of endorphins and serotonin in my brain goo” I can’t really feel happy any more. I feel like a lab rat. Likewise, attributing all of my behavior to irrevocable programming parameters borders dangerously close on predestination to me. And I’m just a little more Hobbes than Calvin.

I don’t want a quiz to tell me who I am or what my limitations are. I don’t really see the function of something like that. Self-reflection is healthy; self-labeling is not. So much of the work we do in daily life is centered around the abolition of arbitrary labels that confine rather than define. So while I enjoyed the quiz and felt rather flattered by the personality description I allegedly have, I think I’ll just keep on truckin’ with my current modus operandi: try to do the right thing for the right reason, apologize and make amends when I screw up, and constantly look for opportunities to learn.

“The Worst Hangover Ever” by The Offspring
“Foreplay/Long Time” by Boston
“The Hallelujiah Chorus” by George Friedrich Handel
“Mr. Brightside” by The Killers
“R-E-S-P-E-C-T” by Aretha Franklin
“Hotel California” by The Eagles
“Waterfall” by Jon Schmidt
“Murmaider” by Dethklok
“This Pub that We Call Home” by Stu Venable
“Good People” by Jack Johnson
“Cotton Tail” by Ella Fitzgerald
“Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen
“Midnight Hour” by Wilson Pickett
“Good Riddance” by Green Day
“It’s Not Easy Being Green” by Kermit the Frog
“Code Monkey” by Jonathan Coulton
“Bron-Yr-Aur” by Led Zeppelin
“Adam Lay I-Bounden” by Benjamin Britten
“Good Vibrations” by The Beach Boys
“A Change of Mind” by Marc Ford
“Mercedes Benz” by Janis Joplin
“Honky Tonk Women” by The Rolling Stones
“Positively Fourth Street” by Bob Dylan

Some of these songs are famous; others are relatively minor stars in the musical universe. But a truly perfect song has to be catchy, memorable, compelling, and inspire spontaneous air guitar, head banging, or singing along in the car.

I’m a big fan of terraced instrumentation, such as in “Foreplay/Long Time,” and every time I hear “Layla” I have Epic Slow Hand Lust. I still get the tingles of anticipation whenever I hear the opening riff of “You Shook Me All Night Long.”

It’s not just musical arrangement, though; lyrics are key to song perfection. There are delicious turns of phrases that hit my ears with the delightful tickle I usually ascribe to Jane Austen: “With the raging of aging, when my last breath I crave please pull up the floorboards and dig me a grave. As you rouse and carouse pour an ale on the floor. If you listen with care you may hear my cry more.” or “Where’d all the good people go? I keep changing channels. I don’t see them on the TV show?” but the one that gets me every time is “I’m never gonna drink again . . . I’ll probably never drink again . . . I may not ever drink again . . . at least not ’till next weekend I’m never gonna drink again.”

But I’m still pickier than that; good lyrics aren’t enough. They’ve got to be delivered. After all, only Ella Fitzgerald can make Keats sound like an idiot child with a marathon scat topped off with “That’s Cotton Tail!” And when Janis Joplin screeches out with all of her angsty, destiny-laden hippie self-righteousness, you know she means it.

Some songwriters are prolifically perfect; Offspring’s “Spare Me the Details,” “Original Prankster,” “Hit That,” and pretty much half of what Dexter Holland has ever written is structurally perfect, with his batting average improving with age.

My criteria aren’t uniform or even really definable. I don’t think songs should be too long. “Too Long” means that my attention drifts or I just plain stop paying attention. I’ve found that three minutes tends to be the average length of a truly great song with two and a half as an ideal, although there are some proggy epics that can still make the cut. Vocals are usually required, but not always; “Journey of the Sorcerer” by The Eagles counts as perfect in my book, as does Mozart’s Piano Concerto no.21, and “The Kiss” from the Last of the Mohicans soundtrack puts me in an amorous mood like nobody’s business.

Variation is key, but must serve a purpose. Tempo changes should intrigue, not trip. Vocal layering should build somewhere, not just build pointlessly like yet another phallic obelisk. And threes — threes are the key to comedy, memory, and structure. The triangle is the most stable geometric structure in the universe, and this applies to music. Build layers in a song, and you’ve done well. Build in threes, and you have a hit. To return to “Foreplay/Long Time” the funky little acoustic guitar breakdown rocks the house twice, but when the magic number three rolls around, it’s amped up, distorted, and ready to rock it home. Tell a joke twice, and the audience will laugh. Tell it a third time with a twist, and they’ll roll in the aisles.

There are more rules, I’m sure. I’ll just have to keep listening to find them all. Oh, darn.