A twelve-string guitar states four bars that glitter and then hold, compressed until the note seems to ring in the air of the radio itself, and only then do the voices come in.
A bass guitar enters already angry, sliding, and Alanis Morissette's voice follows it without warming up, mid-sentence, as if the listener had walked into a phone call that should have stayed private.
The groove arrives already smiling, a bass that rolls rather than stabs, a guitar that comments from the side, a chorus that sounds like a pledge written by people who have just got off a bus.
A guitar begins alone, high and almost shy, the kind of figure John Frusciante has said he wrote happier than the words because the words were already sad enough.
A soft drum pattern and a keyboard figure begin like a clock in another room, and Cyndi Lauper's voice enters without costume, lying in bed, listening, already promising to catch someone if they fall.