THE REPLACEMENTS – Alex Chilton, Pleased To Meet Me (1987)

Did THE REPLACEMENTS sink those fifteen beers apiece, engage in a bit of mutual blindfolding and proceed to run around the studio clubbing each other with fortuitously tuned guitars, somehow producing the most pristine pop melody this side of 'Here, There And Everywhere'? Quite possibly, considering the tossed-off-inbetween-tossing-back vibe of the seemingly first-take-only-take lead riff, boyishly spontaneous lyrical paean to rock'n'roll's archetypal Eternal Boy (BIG STAR's frontman, natch) courtesy of Sir Westerberg, and irresistible incitement to syncopated hand-clapping, hands above head, looking ridiculous and loving it.

SHOES – Okay, Black Vinyl Shoes (1977)

The last word in bedroom-pop; if drawing the curtains, not having a girlfriend, reading Kafka and listening to Please Please Me while sipping breakfast tea means that you get the deliriously melodic jump on PAVEMENT, BELLE & SEBASTIAN and other fey flop-tops by a decade and a half, perhaps there is something to be said for people not buying your records. Then again, money for thicker curtains, earlier editions of Kafka, scratch-free copies of Please Please Me and broadband porn would be nice.

THE MONKEES – I'm A Believer, More Of The Monkees (1967)

The fair folk of 1967 didn't need BRIGHT EYES or PHARRELL WILLIAMS—because in addition to better drugs, better hair and better melodies, they had better songwriters. Like NEIL DIAMOND. That said, 'I'm A Believer' is greater than 'Drive My Car' and 'Nowhere Man', on a level with 'Eleanor Rigby' and 'With A Little Help From My Friends' – it's that intimidating. An English/Lit. lecturer once said to me of The Great Gatsby: 'It's like some kind of exquisite confection. You wonder how it's put together.' This is the aural equivalent.

THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS – The Laws Have Changed, Electric Version (2003)

The best single of last year; game over. Forget its disappointingly mediocre album-shaped home, Electric Version, and concentrate wholly on this too-small slice of pop Elysium, a world of endlessly spiralling do-do-do's and la-la-la's, of sighing duels between boy-girl vocals, of harmonies so sweet that something illicit seems to be seeping with intent from one's speakers. As asserted in the associated filmclip, this is a desperately beautiful cure-all infusion guaranteed to unlock the dancing, candy-mouthed buffoon in even the most tight-lipped, lacquer-haired, cigarette-holder-holding INTERPOL fan.

NEW ORDER – Bizarre Love Triangle, Brotherhood (1986)

Forget all that guff about NEW ORDER being serious tech-head dancefloor pioneers who made a Casio go 'tsk' or 'bomp' in ways no-one had before. This is about the notes, man. The starry-eyed melody of this, their greatest single ('Zwounds! It serves 'Blue Monday' its ass on a plate!) is a creation of such ironclad pop-wizardry that it works as a solo piano ballad, and works brilliantly. I know this because I have played it as a solo piano ballad to an unappreciative audience. I recognized that it worked, though, so: a) fuck them; b) seek this out, even if you heard it piped from a cheesy retro club or cheesy retro station 47 times last year; c) sing along; d) realize that you are happier than if you'd snorted a truckful of Revolver vinyls ground to powder.

THE MAGNETIC FIELDS – Busby Berkeley Dreams, 69 Love Songs (1999)

'The tears have stained all the pages / Of my True Romance magazines / We still dance in my outrageously beautiful / Busby Berkeley dreams', pines FIELDS mastermind STEPHIN MERRITT. Seduced by the melody, I believe him. His melodies are so good, in fact, that he can preach into my subconscious just like JIMI HENDRIX. When I ask him what Satan bids me, he waves a hand and proceeds to talk about girls and order me interminable gin slings. As he sings elsewhere in this 'Staggeringly Good—Consistently, Even' three-CD collection, 'A melody is like a pretty girl / Who cares if it's the dumbest in the world?', or even 'A pretty girl in her underwear / If there's anything better in this world / Who cares?' Oh, Stephin. You jest. You know your melodies are law. And the rest of the world should, too.

WILCO – My Darling, Summerteeth (1999)

This is forty percent SCOTT JOPLIN-style spiritual, fifty percent LENNON-esque lullaby a la 'Beautiful Boy', and sixty percent JEFF TWEEDY's deliciously soporific vocal shot through with pinpoint 'bop-bop-bop' harmonies from the other WILCO boys. All adding up to one hundred and fifty percent poppy-veined loveliness. Is it country? Is it blues? Is it power-pop slowed down to 30 BPM? Is it beautiful? Well, yeah—all of those things. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was only gravy; WILCO had already started pissing from a great height onto most pop music since SCOTT JOPLIN with this album. May they urinate forever.

WEEZER – Buddy Holly, Weezer [blue album] (1994)

Remember the title track from the Tom Hanks-directed paean to sixties rawk, THAT THING YOU DO? It was a calculated throwback—all arched eyebrows and arch-er smiles, and also a blindingly good pop song. WEEZER's 'Buddy Holly', then, is the real deal. Intrinsically of-the-nineties, frontman RIVERS CUOMO and cohorts set about writing melodies and singing harmonies that could have been written and sung in the sixties, had people in the sixties been granted access to dirtier pedals, larger amplifiers, thicker glasses, and a highschool education at the close of the century. Yes, I know the related filmclip is set inside a HAPPY DAYS episode. But, in 1994, this was the most unashamedly pretty/snotty/geetar-adoring pop since, well… ever. With TEENAGE FANCLUB for company, it still is.

CUTTING CREW – (I Just) Died In Your Arms, Broadcast (1986)

You've probably cut a swathe of blood and neon through the streets of GTA: Vice City to these strains, but did you ever pull over to the side of the road and watch the evening's first hookers back their Corvettes screaming into the Miami sunset while CUTTING CREW serenaded an entire pixelated world gorged on the acrid liqueur of its own day-glo debauchery? This song is the eighties—or at least the eighties as glimpsed over 2004's shoulder. Simultaneously intimate and getting-off-on-everyone-watching-me histrionic, it sleekly embodies both the technicolour now of throwaway hedonism and the sickly sepia of nostalgia for something that hasn't happened yet. Dazzled, wistful, and—hey!—pretty. Discover this one anew.

CROWDED HOUSE – Private Universe, Together Alone (1993)

This band produced so many perfect pop songs (yes, 'perfect' without the inverted commas—they're that good), that elimination becomes a process of blindfolded finger-pointing, and 'Private Universe' is where my whim has chosen to reside for these precious seconds. Hard to say whether it's the two-seater-solipsism sentiment of the lyric, the immediate artlessness and yet seemingly note-for-note logarithmic construction of the melody, the accompanying choral washes stumbling to their knees in syrup, or the agitated tribal drumming underscoring what is essentially a spotlit-boy-and-his-guitar piece. CROWDED HOUSE at their peak were like a McCartney-centric BEATLES with all impurities (backwards tape loops, sitars, acid, girlfriends) burned out, leaving only a spoonful of audial ambrosia, promising entry to private universes galore. All this and they played stadiums. Bless 'em.

Australian Idol auditions take place next week. Still undecided as to my selection. I'm considering a drawling, knuckle-dragging, monotone rendition of "Heroin."

"I [uncomfortable pause] don't knooooooooooooow / [uncomfortable pause] Just where I'm gooooo-iiiing…"

Beautiful.

Send love, mix tapes and long-stemmed roses to shadowrain@hotmail.com.

© Reuben Ham

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