Music is My Radar

Well, if the title of this post doesn’t give away the song I’m apparently a little ashamed to like, nothing will, except perhaps for the video.  Here it is …

Like the past entries in my Guilty Pleasures series, I feel the need to explain the nature of my devotion, however shameful, to this song.  I’ll begin with a trip, earlier this week, to visit my brother and his wife and newborn son (my first nephew) in the great Northwest.  My nephew is just under four months old, and what a wonderful kid he is.  Suffice to say that many of the concerns I had about having a kid and being a parent were greatly allayed by my time spent with the happy couple and their son.  It was a really fun trip, and I already miss the little guy.

So one day we were hanging out in a park not far from their house.  My nephew had just been fed and changed and was not quite ready for his post-prandial nap, so I took the opportunity to play with him for a bit.  For whatever reason, the kid loves to stand up, albeit with considerable grown-up help - not many babies of his age can stand on their own I hear - so I was holding him around his chest and back with his feet on my knees.  We were dancing and playing and making funny faces when it occurred to me to move his feet rapidly up and down while moving his body from side to side, sort of like MC Hammer’s dance moves in the afore-posted video.  This induced gales of laughter from the grown-ups in attendance and reminded me how much I love(d) the song that inspired my nephew’s new dance moves.

After several days of giggling over the episode, and even the composing of new lyrics to the song in question to fit my nephew’s age and lifestyle (”My my my my diaper smells … so bad … look at me cry, I’m so sad!” - God forgive me for that) I began to remember - I can’t believe I’m writing this - the place that MC Hammer had in my musical development.  (That was WAY harder to write than you could ever possibly imagine.)  So here we go …

1. It’s been some time since funk was a frequent visitor to my daily playlist, but, sad as it may be, MC Hammer deserves some credit for introducing me, although without me knowing it at the time, to the classics of funk.  Just listen to his song “Turn This Mutha Out” … the prominent Parliament and Incredible Bongo Band samples, the Oak-town pride, the ridiculous dance moves … I was a rising junior in high school when I first that song, and while it wasn’t my first introduction to hip-hop (that credit goes to many older acts), it did first expose me to sampling and the ability of one performer to create an entirely new experience from the efforts of those gone by.
2. In fact, I remember when I first heard Parliament, and how very familiar their songs sounded, thanks largely to the appropriation of the late-90s rap music scene.  I was at a night club, probably underage, and the house band ripped into what I thought was a medley of the popular rap songs of the day.  I was really impressed - who knew that this band of old guys could be so up on contemporary music?  Later did I realize that the timeline was backward - the old guys at the club new the classics, while the new kids on the block were the ones who were doing the sampling and borrowing.  The song the old guys were playing?  You’ll never guess.
3. Plus, it’s a ridiculously catchy song, and, as I’ve written before, that is often all I need to confess my guilty pleasure.  Not to mention the dance moves, the Hammer pants … seriously, this is good stuff.  And while my soul dies a little when I write that, I cannot deny the truth.

So love it or not, this is my latest guilty pleasure.  Either way, pray that I move on to less shameful songs in the days to come.  Something tells me that my nephew will eventually realize that MC Hammer is best regarded as a relic of the early 90s, and I would be hard pressed to convince him otherwise.

Hi.  Apparently I have a lot to confess these days as this is my second Guilty Pleasures post in a row.  What can I say?  When you have around 23,000 mp3s, plus hundreds of CDs, a few hundred LPs, and handful of 7″s, and even a few cassettes, you’re bound to have a few unpleasant secrets.

This Guilty Pleasure came to me as I was telling my wife about my most recent Guilty Pleasure entry, on “Cuts Like a Knife” by Bryan Adams.  I don’t know what exactly made me think of it … perhaps it’s because I’ve heard that this song is among the least popular within the extensive catalog of the band which first recorded it.  Perhaps it’s the hokey video I remember from way back in the day.  Mostly it’s the unrelenting positivity of the song.  I mean, any chorus that features the lyrics “I will get by” and “I will survive” is trouble.  I can just picture some poor fragged-out hippie kid, riding out a really bad acid trip, repeating the chorus over and over while huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth in the fetal position.

Or not.

Anyway, I’m not doing a good job of being coy about what song I’m writing about, so here it is.  Be gentle.

Pretty bad, huh?  Yes.  Yes it is.  But we here at MiMR are not here to point fingers and laugh or scorn and deride; we want to understand what makes bad bad.  So, let’s be perfectly clear about what makes this song so bloody awful.

1. It is so fucking upbeat it makes me want to eat Morrissey.  Not just listen to him, or hang posters of him all my home, or cut my hair like him, or be sexually ambiguous.  Not enough.  I want Morrissey to physically move in to me.  Occupy my body.  Take up residence and keep the happy thoughts away.
2. It features hippies.  Now, I don’t want to be a hater here (I just can’t help it!), but hippies do kind of annoy me.  Sure, I’m all about peace, love, and understanding (nothing funny about that), I’ve been a committed vegetarian for over 15 years now, I try to maintain a live-and-let-live attitude, blah blah blah.  But something about … something … gahhh, I don’t know.  They just annoy me.
3. Again with the chorus.  Seriously.
4. Profoundly obvious video.

There may be more reasons why the song is awful, but that’s a good start.  Now, here’s what I like about it.

1. It’s catchy as hell.  Have you noticed that with nearly all of my past Guilty Pleasures, this is reason #1 as to why I like the song?  I admit, I’m a sucker for a hook.
2. It’s kind of rare for a band like the Dead to have a Top 40 single, given that their comparative advantages were clearly touring, endless guitar noodling, and synthesizing various traditions in American music into something that smells like patchouli.  Sure, other songs like “Truckin’” and “Casey Jones” couch-surfed their way into the standard AOR radio playlist, but by the 1980s, the Dead had long since stopped making contributions to that genre.  Good for them, reaching out to a new crowd.
3. While I never really bought into the Deadhead lifestyle, I do actually admire the Dead for their longevity, originality, and musicianship.  They really were original and were also profoundly influential on now two generations of other bands.  And I actually regret that I never got to see them in concert before Jerry Garcia died.

You know, I feel better having let that out.  Thanks for listening, reader(s), and stick around for another Guilty Pleasure in the near future.  I guarantee you, it will be a doozy.

I was cleaning the house last weekend when I recalled an evening many years ago, back in my days as a graduate student and barrista.  Most of the details of that evening, as well as many evenings which came before and followed, are lost to the ages, but one memory lingers, and it is that which leads me to write another chapter in my Guilty Pleasures series.

It was a spring night, probably six or seven years ago, a year or two before I met my wife, and I spent the evening hanging out with friends, eating, drinking, and generally making merry.  Those were the halcyon days of my single years, when money was short, dates were easy to come by, and my life was rather carefree.  Or at least that’s how I remember it, being carefree, when in all likelihood I was plagued with near-daily anxiety over my as-yet-unfinished dissertation and the chance that my days in graduate school would be for naught.  No matter though … now is not the time for self-recrimination.  I ultimately finished the PhD, got married, found a job, moved to new city, bought a house, made some really awesome new friends, and am now as happy as my Virgo nature will allow me to be.

Anyway, two of my dear friends were once a couple for a number of years, in college and for a time afterward, and their rented house in Decatur was the location of many dinners, parties, movie nights, and many other activities.  The house was perfect for socializing: large living room/dining room/kitchen area, two bathrooms, large basement, and generous front porch.  If I had a dollar for every brain cell I killed at that house I could retire in a manner of months.

I don’t remember much about this particular night - who was in attendance, what we ate, what music we listened to, what board games we played with drunken fervor.  But I do remember that when it came time for me to leave, I piled in my car, cranked the engine, and settled into the ten-minute-drive home.  (For the kids - don’t drive drunk.)  After turning onto the main road that would take me back to my apartment, a song came on the radio.  Normally, hearing this song would motivate to quickly change the station, if not stab my ears with icepicks, but for some reason I decided to let the song play out.

Perhaps it was the beer, or the other intoxicants, or the feeling of camaraderie from spending time with my people, but something about that night and that song made me feel profoundly nostalgic.  It certainly wasn’t for my younger days, when I first heard the song on the then-fledgling network MTV.  Perhaps it was some earlier time in my life, when life was as simple as the lyrics in a three-minute pop song.  Whatever the case, by the end of the song, the big sing-along chorus that no doubt brings karaoke crowds to their feet, I was singing along too.

So what is this mystery song?  Well, if you can’t tell from the title of this post, here’s the video.

Yep.  Pretty bloody awful, isn’t it?  So in fine Guilty Pleasures form, here is why I am utterly ashamed to like (read: love) that song.

1. It’s a Bryan Adams song.
2. At 0:25 in the video, look at the bass player.  To him I say this: dude, this song does not rock nearly so hard as to justify such posturing.  You = douche.
3. Bryan Adams co-wrote the song.
4. What does ol’ Bry have against apples?  Seriously.  Just peel ‘em and toss ‘em, you apples man.  No wonder that chick dives into an empty pool.  What a douche.
5. Bryan Adams performed the song.
6. The last scene of the video?  When Bryan Adams comes to the door of the changing room and gives his inexplicably-not-dead ex-girlfriend the lady-eyes?  Really, it looks like he should be asking her if she needs that sweater in a different size, then thanking her for visiting The Gap.  Douche.

OK, fine.  I know what you’re saying.  If this song chokes so much dick, then why do you like it?  Simple.

1. It’s catchy as all-fucking get out.  And however catchy that is, it must be really fucking catchy.
2. The big sing-along chorus at the end is unbeatable.  Seriously.  It’s three notes that anyone could hit.  Has Bryan Adams been a musical guest on American Idol yet?  Why the hell not?
3. Admittedly, there is some degree of fond memories of the first songs I heard on MTV, even if I hated them then.

So there you go.  Yet another shameful confession from yours truly.  I hope you enjoy this chapter in the ongoing saga of … Guilty Pleasures.

I noticed today that I hadn’t been to the altar lately to confess my musical sins. Not that I haven’t tried to think of a particularly embarrassing song or group on occasion; I guess I don’t have overly shameful taste in music. (Your bullshit detector should be ringing loudly now. If not, get it recalibrated.) So there I was, sitting at my desk at work, staring at a pile of ungraded assignments, unfinished research, and unreviewed … um … reviews, and it hit me. One of the most ridiculously obscenely bad songs ever to grace my musical library. A relic from the most disgraceful periods in popular music history. What could it be?

The era in question is the hair metal explosion of the 1980s, specifically its latter period. For fans of the genre, late 1970s/early 1980s British metal is among the best metal money can be. Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, early Def Leppard even. Sadly though, the metal of the mid to late 1980s paled in comparison to its progenitors, as style replaced substance and record sales took prominence over riffing. This unfortunate changing of the guard occurred just as my musical preferences were being formed. As a fat, depressed middle school boy, the minimal musicianship, macho posturing, and ridiculous costumes were just what I wanted. (As an aside, you should really question how rebellious and dangerous you actually are if you core audience is pre-pubescent boys. Just sayin’.)

I remember visiting family in Huntsville, Alabama, around this time, where my Uncle Hugh, Aunt Jena, and cousins Leigh (now Nancy), Martin, and Jennifer lived. I’ve always looked fondly on that group of cousins; growing up, they were just old enough to be cool, but not so old that they wouldn’t hang out with my brother and me - or, more accurately, let us hang out with them. Each of them also had a very distinct musical personality, with very little overlap between them. Jennifer, the youngest, very much favored New Wave groups like Duran Duran and OMD. It was through Martin that I first heard about ZZ Top, years before they became unexpected MTV darlings. Leigh, the oldest, was into all things metal, as her mountain of jet black and teased hair would have clearly indicated.

I remember one time in Leigh’s room, she pulled out an album (yes, album, as in LP, 12″, 33 and 1/3, and so on) of some new metal group. The front cover had the group member’s photos and band logo. I remember looking at the pictures thinking, Wow, I didn’t realize that hot chicks could play metal. She then flipped the record over and revealed that the chicks were in fact dudes, leading me to have a brief moment of sexual-orientation horror, as my pre-hormonal genitals shriveled ever so slightly. Anyway, here is the album cover in question.

Oh yeah, it’s Poison. Without a doubt one of the most embarrassing bands ever to pick up a can of Aqua-Net. After hitting it big with the above album, they rapidly began to suck and were soon cast off to the side as grunge and gangsta rap laid early claim on the 1990s.

Beyond seeing the above album cover, my early exposure to Poison was via MTV, which at the time did not suck quite as hard as it does today. Poison’s video for “Talk Dirty to Me” was in heavy rotation for a while, and at the time, I just thought it was the coolest thing. Watch the video after the jump and see for yourself.

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That’s right. It’s time for the second installment in my ongoing series of musical shame, where I bear my soul and my sometimes questionable taste to the world, in the hopes of finding redemption, or at least a good laugh.

Song number two comes to us from way back in 1983, from an artist I otherwise cannot stand: Elton John. I don’t know if it’s the gap in his teeth, the campy costumes, his predilection for ridiculous glasses, or crap like this, but I’ve never liked Elton John. The fact that classic rock radio plays only two or three of his songs (but then they do that with everyone) doesn’t help, nor does this exchange between Sir Elton and Keith Richards.

“His writing is limited to songs for dead blondes.”

- Keith Richards (about Elton John)

“I’m glad I’ve given up drugs and alcohol. It would be awful to be
like Keith Richards. He’s pathetic. It’s like a monkey with
arthritis, trying to go on stage and look young. I have great respect
for the Stones but they would have been better if they had thrown
Keith out 15 years ago.”

- Elton John (about Keith Richards)

It’s one thing to call for someone to tear down the internet, but you better have your dukes up if you want to take on the Stones. I’ll take Keith’s heroin addiction over Elton’s bottle battle anyday.

But I digress. So without any further ado, my guilty pleasure du jour is

“I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues” by Elton John.

The song comes to us from Elton’s 1983 album Too Low for Zero, his first in a number of years with his 1970s backing band and the full employment of his long-time lyricist Bernie Taupin. (If you’re not familiar with the song, you can listen to it here.)

I’ll let you reach your own conclusions about why the song is embarassing; some of you might actually like Elton John. That’s fine - I don’t judge. (Out loud, anyway.) But here’s why I like it.

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No, this isn’t a post about Catholicism, confession, or Catholic-themed rock. This is the first in a series of admissions, er, submissions, about music I own and like, but would not say Hi to if I passed it in the hallway. (You the reader are welcome to submit your own stories of shame. I will laugh at them with smug superiority and if they’re really bad, post them.)

So let’s this series started. Believe me, the first one is a doozy. My inaugural guilty pleasure ….. (drumroll)

“Only Wanna be With You” by Hootie and the Blowfish.

Told you it was bad. I’m sure I need not explain why I am utterly debased and ashamed of my enjoyment of anything related to Hootie, so here’s why I like it.

1. It’s catchy.
2. It’s cheesy - some douche like me singing about his girlfriend.
3. It does make references to Bob Dylan, but that doesn’t impress me. Any hack can with a guitar can sing about Bob Dylan. After all, Hootie is not the only group that made reference to an older, more influential artist in a song or video. (Hint: Look at Jordan’s shirt, the one he’s wearing in the car.  Can you see what band it is?  No! No!! NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!)

And that’s all I got. You can do the math yourself.

Terrible Band + Embarrassing Song = Guilty Pleasure.