The Byrds' "So You Want to Be a Rock and Roll Star":
This step-by-step guide to mega-stardom has been covered by acts from Pearl Jam to Patti Smith. It's an appealingly simple formula. Step 1: Buy guitar. Step 2: Practice. Step 3: Wear tight pants. Step 4: Get an agent. Step 5: Sell your soul. It'll work, too, McGuinn promises. "In a week or two if you make the charts, the girls'll tear you apart." So, you're saying, the problem would be? Oh, yeah, integrity. Next.

L7's "Mr. Integrity":
No one in his or her right mind would accuse Donita Sparks of selling out. For one thing, they'd probably get their asses kicked. For another, any idiot can hear that the machine-gun roar on this track is as pure as the driven sludge. Still, we know what she's saying to the first pasty-faced indie kid who accused L7 of commercialism. "Don't preach to me, Mr. Integrity." Maybe she should loosen up, because after all, it's...

The Minutemen's "Sell or Be Sold":
It's sell or be sold. It's what you're all told. It's what you'll hold. Notice we're not really talking about music anymore. Like all good punks, Boon and Watt say that we all sell out, in all ways all the time. Which should either make you feel better or worse about songs like...

Queens of the Stone Age's "Feel Good Hit of the Summer":
The band that made me believe in metal again asks what it takes to write a really popular song. Is it lyrics? Viciously smooth guitars? Pounding bass? Regular deliveries of "Nicotine, valium, vicodin, marijuana, ecstasy, alcohol, c-c-c-cocaine?" Is that all you need to deliver a...

Nirvana's "Radio Friendly Unit Shifter":
Shocked and repulsed by the mainstream success of "Smells Like Teen Spirit", Cobain and company hold their heads, pull their hair and skreech out a blinding wall of feedback. They might be kidding about the title, but not about the agony of unexpected pop stardom. "What is wrong with me?" indeed.

Matthew Sweet's "Write Your Own Song":
Here's what happened. A couple of years ago Matthew Sweet wrote a whole album full of Phil Spector-esque pop, every track shimmering with good intentions and musicianship and craft. Most of them, even the ones about suicide, were prime candidates for radio play on the station in the sky we all want to listen to on the way to the beach. The suits gave it a spin, and decided it wasn't pop enough. Matthew Sweet, being who he is, told them to write their own song, damn it. So they did, and that's how we got N*SYNC.

Quasi's "A Fable with No Moral":
I love everything about this song, from the extended wordless voice and guitar intro to the twisted lyrics, to the organ and drums ending, which reminds me of "Whiter Shade of Pale" without really sounding like it. Unfortunately, I can't just slap it on and watch expectantly to see if you love it, too, so I'll try to do it justice. It's a literal take on the selling-your-soul-to-the-devil concept, an updated version in which Satan has an answering machine and the check is, of course, several weeks late. The singer needs the money now, so he ends hawking his eternal being on a street corner, which leads into the best lines of the song. "A Land Rover drove right by with Satan at the wheel. Saw what I was doing and said, 'That's not yours to sell. You'll get your check tomorrow, and I'll see your ass in hell, so you'd better spend it well.'"

Fugazi's "Merchandise":
No one is questioning Fugazi's purity. They're the best, as far as I'm concerned, at undiluted activist punk, and they not only sing but live the idea that "you are not what you own." Still, if anyone ever does see Ian MacKaye action figures or foam-rubber Fugazi drink holders for sale, pick up a couple for me, okay? From 1990's ultra-pure Repeater + 3 Songs.

P.J. Harvey's "The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore":
I'm glad she's happy. I have no problem with the uncontainable joy on Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea. An upbeat take on corruption, this song is like a beautiful morning on the Chelsea Piers. You see the transvestite prostitutes wandering home, and yes, those are needles catching the early sunshine, but the Hudson River is glorious and blue, the rent is paid, and it's all good.

Alex Chilton's "All I Really Want Is Money":
Between the Box Tops and Big Star, Alex Chilton made a solo album called 1970, in which we learn exactly what motivated the godfather of power pop. Still star-struck, he covers the Archies ("Sugar Sugar" made impossibly sexy), the Stones ("Jumpin' Jack Flash") and tells us "I Wish I Could Meet Elvis". It's the green that calls him, though, in a bluesy-stomp that makes compromise sound fun.

O'Jays' "For the Love of Money":
It's fun -- until you have to pay the piper, that is. This classic Philly soul track uses creepy harmonies and slinky bass to remind you that the love of money is, indeed, the root of all evil.

Big Boss Man's "Sell Your Soul":
A ripe groove of retro funk from a surprisingly recent album (2001) delivers wah-wah guitars, big drum breaks and "Louie-Louie" level lyrical clarity. I did manage to decipher "You're the lady that Mercedes is grieving. Can I have some of that for me?" which, along with the title and the "I'm gonna sell my soul" chorus, seem to qualify it for inclusion. You wouldn't think Big Boss Man would have to sell out, though. I'm half-way out the door to buy the CD on the strength of this one track.