I was never much for love songs. I have never really written any, or at least anything remotely conventional. Nonetheless, I am not completely immune. Although looking at the handful I repeatedly listen to, they all share one thing in common: a certain underlying tone of sadness, reflected in either the performance or the lyric, or in some subtle quality not easily described. Melancholy, which my dictionary describes as “inspiring a soft sadness” is probably the feeling I am seeking.  These songs either contain it, or even better, inspire it.

The Velvet Underground were one of those bands everyone claims to love, although like the Ramones, you would never know it from their sales. I am not much for the Lou Reed stuff, but I love the few songs they did with Nico. Nico was a German model, who’s life ebbed away at the hands of serious drug problems. Not really a singer, her presence in the band seemed to be more of an affectation than anything else. Still, her small contribution goes a long way towards softening Reed’s bitterness and cynicism. My favourite is ‘I’ll Be Your Mirror’, a small confection from their debut album. Everything is out of tune, and the whole song drags, but there is a poignant beauty in Nico’s delivery that makes the song wonderful. Whatever her technical limitations, you really believe her message, that love can make the inner person real. It’s a nice thought, and knowing Nico’s ultimate fate makes it bittersweet indeed.

The Stereophonics are probably too English for America, though they have a small and steadfast following here in the colonies. Like many Welsh bands, they are fond of Canadian heroes the Tragically Hip, which always goes down well here in the colonies. ‘Step On My Old Size Nines’ is typical of their softer side. It is the kind of song I wish I was capable of writing. Lead singer Kelly Jones takes a tiny moment, watching an old couple still very much in love dancing together, and spins a small poem of hope out of it. His world-weary tone should belie the message, but instead it enhances it. Jones’ throttled voice sounds like he just came off a massive bender, but unlike most of us on such mornings, it seems he has actually learned something. Confronting your own mortality is a common  feature of such mornings, and the Stereophonics perfectly capture the melancholia that goes with it.

The late Kirsty MacColl is much loved by folk fans for her duet with Shane MacGowan on ‘Fairytale of New York’, but she wrote some beautiful songs as well. Her best, in my opinion, was ‘They Don’t Know’, a song made into a massive hit by comedian Tracey Ullman. Whoever produced Ullman’s track is a genius; the faux Motown sound perfectly captures the songs’ defiant call for independence. Still, when you listen to it a few hundred times, you discover that Ullman has found an odd tone for such a supposedly joyous song. He ebullient voice seems to hover somewhere between hope and despair. The lyrics are all about how she has found true love on the wrong side of the tracks. For a while you totally believe her. Then you start to wonder, just whom is the song addressed to, anyway? Then you realize how sad it really is. The song is not a declaration of independence in Ullman’s hands. Instead it turns into the sort of speech you might make to yourself in the mirror, when you are trying to convince yourself that the wrong course of action will somehow work out, despite the odds. And like all such speeches, the figure in the mirror clearly understands what you may not quite yet have grasped - that you are completely full of shit. A complex idea for a frothy song, but one that should make it live forever. At least for fans of melancholia, anyway.