Bear with me here, folks. I've given this a lot of consideration.
I take these custom track orders seriously, and am very critical about how things are arranged. My goal with Songs Of Innocence is twofold: to make sure the songs flow sonically from one to next as much as possible, but also to chart a specific progression through the mostly autobiographical material.
One quick note: I have not removed any songs from the tracklist. Unlike No Line On The Horizon, there isn’t anything that bothers me enough to jettison it completely, and I try to avoid drastic moves like this unless I find them completely necessary.
I’ve divided the album into several different sections thematically, and then attempted to maintain natural transitions between the songs that fit into those sections. What seemed the most logical to me was to begin the album with songs about “firsts”, about various awakenings.
While I certainly flirted with having Invisible lead off the album (especially with the longer intro of the full version), the main reason I refrained from doing so was because its Kraftwek-inspired vibe and overall atmosphere isn’t really representative of what follows, which for the most part is a direct pop album. To me, the energy and the lyric of The Miracle (seeing the band that changed your life) is too fitting to substitute with anything else. From there, we go right into Invisible, which describes a moment of self-actualization and the liberation of leaving home. If I had the “RED edit” in a higher quality version, I would possibly use that as the extended intro might be a bit odd for a #2 track but for now the longer take works well enough. It also has an anthemic chorus that gives it something in common with The Miracle.
The major move I’ve made here is substituting Song For Someone as the early ballad in place of Every Breaking Wave. The main reason is that I think a song about losing your viriginity makes more sense near the beginning of the album than a darker breakup song. Also, Invisible’s closing refrain of “there is no them/there’s only us” is a great lead-in to an intimate song about two lovers. The longer fadeout of the new version of Invisible makes a good transition to the delicate acoustic guitar opening of SFS.
From here, we go to another first: the band’s trip to California. We’ve already covered the band’s musical genesis, their independence from home life, first loves, and now they're exploring the larger world outside. On a sonic level, the abrupt “there is a light/don’t let it go out” of SFS followed by the opening chimes of California work really well because the silence isn’t harshly interrupted by a guitar, drums, etc.
Now we begin the next section: Loss. The coastal setting of California is a good segue into the water/nautical imagery of Every Breaking Wave, but on a personal level, this is where we explore the previous song’s assertion that “there’s no end to grief”, as the breakdown of a relationship is explored. And then we come to the great tragedy of Bono losing his mother. To me, putting these two songs together is a no-brainer. They really complement each other. And the ending keyboard work of EBW flows perfectly into the processed choirish vocals at the beginning of Iris. Bono has stated in interviews that Volcano is his explosive reaction to the pent-up energy of this loss, and so I think keeping this after Iris makes the most sense. Sound-wise it’s a little jarring in that you’re going from a fairly ethereal song to a rougher, more energetic one, but with the subject matter that harsh reaction is arguably appropriate.
At the risk of sounding too on-the-nose, I’m matching Bono’s “explosion” in Volcano with the bombing that inspired Raised By Wolves. Again, I’ve stuck with the original album order here and it’s preferable to me to maintain it when possible—it’s not like the band screwed up the entire sequencing. Both songs are punchy and recall their War-era sound. And we have two songs that deal with political issues, which I feel should be paired together. First, the wreckage and horrific imagery of Raised By Wolves, but then we see how the artists react to the world they’ve inherited. Which is why RBW feeds right into This Is Where You Can Reach Me Now, where the band’s political awareness manifests itself into a clear direction and purpose, a call to arms. Sonically, the stark, early 80s-reminiscent piano notes at the end of RBV are echoed in the piano at the beginning of TIWYCRMN.
Next I rely more on a sonic transition than the thematic one. The very danceable post-punk of This Is Where… gets paired with the disco-esque beat of The Crystal Ballroom, and both share a broader 70s sound. Conceptually, we can say that that the band is no longer naïve, they have found their sound and their raison d’être, and now they have the distance to fantasize and reflect. Bono imagining his father dancing with his deceased mother at a ballroom-turned-rock club is not something that makes sense earlier in the album (and the drugged-out club sound is certainly second-half material), so it fits here the best. Some have argued it doesn’t fit on the album at all sonically, but I don’t find much common ground between This Is Where… and Song For Someone, for example, and they’re both on the same album.
The conclusion gets a little trickier: Sleep Like A Baby Tonight is a bit of an outlier in its atmosphere, and the subject matter of an abuser’s POV makes it hard to fit in with the autobiographical narrator we’ve seen in the rest of the album. But we continue looking homeward and explore the abuse of children by local clergymen, and in addition the description of the abuser’s daily activity is a twisted portrait of domestic mundanity. Musically, the pulsating keyboards and bass that conclude The Crystal Ballroom naturally go into the opening keyboards of Sleep, and it’s one of the more obvious transitions once you hear it.
Domestic issues continue with Cedarwood Road, where the narrator describes his old home, but it’s not simple nostalgia. It actually serves as a summation of much of what we’ve heard before: the family disagreements that made him leave home, the violence in the streets, and even a reference to the clergy. Penultimate songs on U2 albums tend to be big “showstopping” numbers both musically and lyrically (Please, Acrobat, Breathe, Exit), and as much as I love This Is Where…, I believe Cedarwood to have more gravitas, because for one it’s not as “fun” and it’s a heavier track in general, and the vocal is more emotional and passionate. Plus, the final section builds to a crescendo that seems really fitting for this placement as the album's climax, as well as the clear thesis line of “you can’t return to where you’ve never left”, which to me could be the motto of the entire album.
U2 albums are known for their downbeat, moodier codas after a powerhouse number: Mothers Of The Disappeared, MLK, Wake Up Dead Man, Love Is Blindness, Grace, Cedars Of Lebanon. The Troubles fits the description easily. And it also continues the subject of home life in its depiction of domestic violence. But keep in mind, it’s about surviving that ordeal, and the metaphor of the title’s reference to Ireland’s political struggle works here as well. By ending the album with a survivor’s sentiment (perhaps taking a cue from the previous song's "a heart that is broken/is a heart that is open"), it suggests new life, new paths, a light at the end of the tunnel. And that’s a good place to end this stage of the journey before Songs Of Experience.
Thanks for your patience, I hope some of you will give this one a try.
1. The Miracle
2. Invisible
3. Song For Someone
4. California
5. Every Breaking Wave
6. Iris
7. Volcano
8. Raised By Wolves
9. This Is Where You Can Reach Me Now
10. The Crystal Ballroom
11. Sleep Like A Baby
12. Cedarwood Road
13. The Troubles
