Monday, January 02, 2006
For the love of bad music
My best friend’s boyfriend is a total music guy. Not only is he a fine musician in his own right, he is also someone with fine musical taste. Their house is music central – seriously, they are constantly educating me on musical trends, history, you name it, and I am thankful for the help. Just this past weekend, I was treated to Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen concert DVD. I can now say with certainly that Joe Cocker always acted like he had Parkinson’s disease when he performed. Before I knew K & D (best friend and boyfriend – identities protected by my hyper-encrypted use of their initials rather than full first names), I thought Brian Jones was one of the Rev. Jim Jones’ illegitimate children. Now I know enough about the Brian Jonestown Massacre/Dandy Warhols epic tale to “get” those not-so-cloaked references on Gilmore Girls.
So, yes, I am learning and evolving (since I was “a surprise” – my parents’ term for unplanned pregnancy – I can’t claim any type of intelligent design) as a musical fan. However, unlike D, I still lay claim to some questionable music. Right now, for example, I am listening to the Psychedelic Furs’ “Love My Way,” which reminds me of being a teenager in the 1980’s and working at Kentucky Fried Chicken. And they say smell is the biggest memory jab! I would argue for sound any day.
Every time I hear Hall & Oates’ “Say it isn’t so” I think about riding around at night with my cousin Jill in her red Capri. Mention the B-52’s, and I have a raft of memories that span the gamut from riding the bus in 9th grade (“Private Idaho”) to the Laser Show at Stone Mountain, GA (“Song for a Future Generation”) to my first “real” job (the whole “Cosmic Thing” album fits here). R.E.M. symbolizes being out on my own for the first time, while Nirvana means getting in touch with my angry side (I’m calmer now, but I still love me some Nevermind).
While I also like a lot of music that the critics like – Alison Krause & Union Station, Lucinda Williams, Steve Earle when he’s not too preachy, and U2 sans that horrible “Pop” period – I find myself drawn to the cheesy, more-than-a-little embarrassing acts that most people don’t like to admit they like.
So I will. I like Cher. I don’t care if you don’t. Cher doesn’t care, either. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Cher will still be a goddess when Brittany Spears et al are dried up old thangs (which should be right about now, I’m thinking). “If I could turn back time” is fabulous. End of story. Also, “Dark Lady” and “Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves.” The thing I love about Cher – okay, I love almost everything about Cher, but I’m focusing on a few particulars – is her sheer resilience. She started out singing along with Sonny Bono, who was a master of marketing if not a great singer (or skier, God rest his Republican soul), then graduated to Variety Show land and proved that she could do comedy and even act. A combined movie and musical career followed. Even now, when Cher is well into her 50’s, I wouldn’t trade her for a container truck full of Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Beyonce, Whitney “my pupils are permanently dilated” Houston, Brittany, Christina Gag-ulara, blah, blah, blah. Because that’s what all these so-called Divas are: a bunch of boring-ass blah, blah, blah. Emphasis on the blah.
Speaking of which, Elton John also bores me to tears these days. I love my mother, but when she starts talking about how much she loves all those Elton John songs in “The Lion King”, I realize exactly what has gone wrong with E.J.’s career. Some of you are probably thinking, “but don’t you like cheesy music?” Of course. “The Lion King” soundtrack isn’t cheesy; it’s just really, really sucky music. Cheesy, to my mind, implies some degree of cleverness, a little self-deprecation – that one line or musical rift that says, “I know this is bullshit. I meant it that way. I’m not a complete moron.” True cheese is postmodern in its too-cool-for-school, I’m-a-step-ahead-of-you wittiness. When Fred Schneider (B-52’s) sings, “I’m in shipping, if you’re receiving!” you know he gets the reference – probably because he has both “shipped” and “received” many times. But do you think Brittany Spears actually knows what chaotic means?
But back to E.J. He kicked butt in the 1970’s with a string of amazing albums (not CD’s, you young studs, actual vinyl). “Funeral for a Friend” still gives me chills, and “Love Lies Bleeding” rocks harder than a million 80’s hair bands competing on Star Search. Even so, a great musician such as E.J. has a cheesy side, and I love his fat, disagreeable self for it. I am speaking about “Rock of the Westies”, of course. This is E.J. at his cheesiest, touring with the ugliest band ever and gleefully belting out some of the most politically-incorrect tunes you’ll never hear on the radio again.
“Island Girl,” for example, is a paean to a Haitian hooker who, apparently, kills her johns when she’s done with them (you go, girl!). With lines like “Island Girl! Black Boy want you in his island world,” Elton isn’t doing anything to help the cause of race relations. Ditto with “Grow Some Funk of Your Own,” in which E.J. whines about not being able to hook up with Mexican hotties because their boyfriends are too protective. “Grow some funk of your own, amigo!” says the Mexican boyfriend in question. He continues: “We no like to with the gringo fight, but there might be a death in Mexico tonight if you don’t grow some funk of your own.” As a feminist, I’m not sure what to do with the whole “grow your own” metaphor, but as a lover of cheesy songs, I have to say (again), “go, girl!” (this time, directed at Elton John).
Gosh, all this talk about music is making me want to go spend that Borders’ gift card my brother and nephew gave me for Xmas. On the musical list? U2’s latest, The Killers, “Hot Fuss”, the best of Mother’s Finest (awesome Atlanta-based Funk Rock group from the late 70’s/early 80’s), and some sort of best-of-Disco compilation.
D, K: you can only do so much with my musical tastes! Just be glad I know that Robbie Robertson played with The Band (and that I know The Band has nothing whatsoever to do with reality show, “Making the Band”).
So, yes, I am learning and evolving (since I was “a surprise” – my parents’ term for unplanned pregnancy – I can’t claim any type of intelligent design) as a musical fan. However, unlike D, I still lay claim to some questionable music. Right now, for example, I am listening to the Psychedelic Furs’ “Love My Way,” which reminds me of being a teenager in the 1980’s and working at Kentucky Fried Chicken. And they say smell is the biggest memory jab! I would argue for sound any day.
Every time I hear Hall & Oates’ “Say it isn’t so” I think about riding around at night with my cousin Jill in her red Capri. Mention the B-52’s, and I have a raft of memories that span the gamut from riding the bus in 9th grade (“Private Idaho”) to the Laser Show at Stone Mountain, GA (“Song for a Future Generation”) to my first “real” job (the whole “Cosmic Thing” album fits here). R.E.M. symbolizes being out on my own for the first time, while Nirvana means getting in touch with my angry side (I’m calmer now, but I still love me some Nevermind).
While I also like a lot of music that the critics like – Alison Krause & Union Station, Lucinda Williams, Steve Earle when he’s not too preachy, and U2 sans that horrible “Pop” period – I find myself drawn to the cheesy, more-than-a-little embarrassing acts that most people don’t like to admit they like.
So I will. I like Cher. I don’t care if you don’t. Cher doesn’t care, either. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Cher will still be a goddess when Brittany Spears et al are dried up old thangs (which should be right about now, I’m thinking). “If I could turn back time” is fabulous. End of story. Also, “Dark Lady” and “Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves.” The thing I love about Cher – okay, I love almost everything about Cher, but I’m focusing on a few particulars – is her sheer resilience. She started out singing along with Sonny Bono, who was a master of marketing if not a great singer (or skier, God rest his Republican soul), then graduated to Variety Show land and proved that she could do comedy and even act. A combined movie and musical career followed. Even now, when Cher is well into her 50’s, I wouldn’t trade her for a container truck full of Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Beyonce, Whitney “my pupils are permanently dilated” Houston, Brittany, Christina Gag-ulara, blah, blah, blah. Because that’s what all these so-called Divas are: a bunch of boring-ass blah, blah, blah. Emphasis on the blah.
Speaking of which, Elton John also bores me to tears these days. I love my mother, but when she starts talking about how much she loves all those Elton John songs in “The Lion King”, I realize exactly what has gone wrong with E.J.’s career. Some of you are probably thinking, “but don’t you like cheesy music?” Of course. “The Lion King” soundtrack isn’t cheesy; it’s just really, really sucky music. Cheesy, to my mind, implies some degree of cleverness, a little self-deprecation – that one line or musical rift that says, “I know this is bullshit. I meant it that way. I’m not a complete moron.” True cheese is postmodern in its too-cool-for-school, I’m-a-step-ahead-of-you wittiness. When Fred Schneider (B-52’s) sings, “I’m in shipping, if you’re receiving!” you know he gets the reference – probably because he has both “shipped” and “received” many times. But do you think Brittany Spears actually knows what chaotic means?
But back to E.J. He kicked butt in the 1970’s with a string of amazing albums (not CD’s, you young studs, actual vinyl). “Funeral for a Friend” still gives me chills, and “Love Lies Bleeding” rocks harder than a million 80’s hair bands competing on Star Search. Even so, a great musician such as E.J. has a cheesy side, and I love his fat, disagreeable self for it. I am speaking about “Rock of the Westies”, of course. This is E.J. at his cheesiest, touring with the ugliest band ever and gleefully belting out some of the most politically-incorrect tunes you’ll never hear on the radio again.
“Island Girl,” for example, is a paean to a Haitian hooker who, apparently, kills her johns when she’s done with them (you go, girl!). With lines like “Island Girl! Black Boy want you in his island world,” Elton isn’t doing anything to help the cause of race relations. Ditto with “Grow Some Funk of Your Own,” in which E.J. whines about not being able to hook up with Mexican hotties because their boyfriends are too protective. “Grow some funk of your own, amigo!” says the Mexican boyfriend in question. He continues: “We no like to with the gringo fight, but there might be a death in Mexico tonight if you don’t grow some funk of your own.” As a feminist, I’m not sure what to do with the whole “grow your own” metaphor, but as a lover of cheesy songs, I have to say (again), “go, girl!” (this time, directed at Elton John).
Gosh, all this talk about music is making me want to go spend that Borders’ gift card my brother and nephew gave me for Xmas. On the musical list? U2’s latest, The Killers, “Hot Fuss”, the best of Mother’s Finest (awesome Atlanta-based Funk Rock group from the late 70’s/early 80’s), and some sort of best-of-Disco compilation.
D, K: you can only do so much with my musical tastes! Just be glad I know that Robbie Robertson played with The Band (and that I know The Band has nothing whatsoever to do with reality show, “Making the Band”).
