Songs I Could Do Without

^This is the most disturbing photo I've used on this blog since I wrote that one about Jerry Sandusky.^

I sat in a folding chair beside a poker table with my friend Fred and his dad, Mr. Ferg, flanking me. As I folded my lousy cards, the CD player shuffled to a new song. It was “Arco Arena,” an instrumental from a mix of Cake tunes I put together and burned for the Fergs.


“This one's damn good, too,” Mr. Ferg said.

Fending off the undue conceit that comes with assembling a well-received mix, I just nodded in agreement. Fred quipped that Jay-Z sampled “Arco Arena” for a track he rapped over. Taken aback and flummoxed, Mr. Ferg asked, “What's sampling?”

Without scoffing, for I had a hunch I was about to break some grim news to Mr. Ferg, I gave him a rough definition of sampling.

“Basically, rappers or their labels pay royalties to musicians so they can use their beats or riffs for their own songs. The producers blend these samples with the rappers' rhymes...” (Here I gathered that I was losing him but I nonetheless blundered on.) “You know The Police? Well, they had a hit song that was sampled by Puff Daddy...that's one example.”

The crinkles in Mr. Ferg's brow squeezed and deepened and I could almost see molecules being crushed between the creases. Name-dropping The Police was rare and perhaps eccentric to Mr. Ferg, who had opted to turn a deaf ear to most of the bands that made it in the 1980s. And more concretely, I gathered that devout fans of Buddy Holly and Johnny Cash clearly aren't part of the Puff Daddy demographic. For a beat, Mr. Ferg glowered at me as though I was the offspring of a Beastie Boy and DJ Spinderella. Before we dropped the subject and returned our focus to the card game, he took a swig of beer and tartly grumbled...

“Rap crap.”

###

The upshot of that little story is that passionate listeners are so often bipolar in their tastes; they have intense likes and dislikes of certain bands and genres. I'm the same as Mr. Ferg in that regard, and the fact that I'm enthralled with the sampling mastery of the Dust Brothers whereas he'd consider shooting a deejay in Encino just to watch him die doesn't change anything.

When his son mentioned to him that he saw Huey Lewis perform at Summercamp, Mr. Ferg replied, “I wouldn't walk across the street to see Huey Lewis.” I felt the same way about the jam bands who typically play at that annual show. In college, I once turned to the bubbly hippie hostess at a party after she put on O.A.R.'s “Crazy Game of Poker” and said, “You know what I'd rather listen to? Anything but this.”

We make feisty overstatements because we care. And because everybody is trapped in the vacuum of subjectivity, anyway, I prefer to voice my opinion—provided I don't mistake it for absolute truth.

Tunes can inundate me with joy, goosebumps of melancholy, or rump-shakin' grooves, but they can also make me cranky, resentful, and unpleasant.

Before I crucify the songs I could do without, I'd like to pass along the ones that are among my favorites so that those who enjoy shit like Paula Cole and One Republic can vengefully crucify them if they so choose.


“In My Life” by the Beatles, “Jack-ass” by Beck, “Paranoid Android” by Radiohead, “Modern Love” by David Bowie, and “Lookin' Out My Back Door” by CCR.

If you feel like it, go nuts with hatred for these songs! You're entitled to that.

And with fuck yous to further ados, to me, the following songs are sonic poison.

“Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?”--Paula Cole

This debacle of estrogen-fueled balladry stands as convincing proof that women are in fact impossible to please. Once I get past the staggering unlikelihood that this armpit-hairy lady never thought to tour Texas—where modern-day dudes don't even wait until Halloween to dress like cowboys—I realize she's blubbering a critique about diminished masculinity. She uses a personal narrative that leads to a broader commentary on how men simply aren't as manly as their cowboy forefathers, which leaves women unsatisfied.

Let me tell you something about these cowboys you yearn for, Paula Cole: They mostly treated women as inferiors. They frequented whorehouses, amassed and spread VDs, and shot and killed people in whiskey stupors because they lost a fucking poker game. They raped and beat women without consequence and denied women the right to vote. If their saving grace was manliness, it follows that mankind is doomed—and women enabled such a grim fate. Men had to give up some power so that women could have more power—and a woman who condemns that compromise is basically saying, “I sure miss that oppression.” "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?" is maddening bullshit.

At one point, Paula desperately pleads, “Where is my happy ending?”

Here is my answer: It's unattainable because the progressive movement toward gender equality doesn't jibe with your standards of what constitutes an ideal man in the 21st century—the century we're living in. And if you can't understand that, you don't deserve to be happy, but if there's a silver lining, it's that you're allowed to pollute millions of eardrums with annoying drivel. You can do this, ironically, because of the freedoms women have fought for and gained since the bygone days of those asshole cowboys that make you all hot and bothered.

“Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?” has at least inspired in me a ballad in response. Its working title is, “Where Have All the Submissive Brothel Whores Gone?”

Now, Paula, ladies everywhere, honestly...does that seem fair to you?

“Apologize”--One Republic

These d-bags have yet to apologize for raping so many eardrums, which leads me to believe that just one republic is entirely too many. The bed of music beneath the words is a stale wasteland. The guest singer on this God-awful ballad is Timbaland, who can be heard on the chorus, grunting, “Huh-huh!” That's all Timbaland had to do to earn another hefty paycheck. For the hook of “Apologize,” a vain male model whines about a woman who cheated on him before he found a rebound-lay the next day, coddles his own damaged ego, and then an over-hyped producer who sounds like a mental invalid moaning in his sleep tacks on, “Huh-huh!” As of 2008, that has become a winning formula for a hit song.

Before launching into the tawdry chorus, the singer from One Republic states he's afraid...and so am I.

“Dreamlover”--Mariah Carey

This would actually be a passable song for me to ignore at the dentist office if only Mariah refrained from showing off for the overdubs of the chorus. “Dreamlover" is a tame and catchy and accomplishes exactly what fans of pop-music crave...until Mariah tries to dazzle listeners by making an unholy, high-pitched and ascending shrill with her voice. Why? Because she can—not because she should.

I gotta call bullshit on someone named Jozen Cummings whose glowing review of “Dreamlover” is featured on Wikipedia.

“Truth is, she is never crass in the use of her amazing instrument. She keeps a close, tasteful rein on the acrobatics.”

That's not the truth. Mariah is crass in the use of her voice, which does not count as an instrument. She does the polar opposite of keeping a close, tasteful rein on the acrobatics. She sounds like a torture victim who thoroughly enjoys it. When Mariah hits those rarefied notes, she inflicts suffering on those with hangovers, terrifies dogs, and ruins what could have been a solid hit to tune out while roaming the aisles of Pick 'n' Save. When she flaunts that unholy shriek, she becomes an evil mutant hellbent on splitting the skulls of the innocent.

On “Dreamlover,” Mariah's voice is not an instrument. It's a sinister weapon.

“Back on the Train”--Phish

Fond du Lac, WI, has a cult problem. The one in question doesn't condone mass-suicides nor anarchy like other, more nefarious cults, but if you simply don't care for hippie music that emphasizes the jam more so than the song itself, Phish-heads can be a real nuisance.

Similar to the Stonecutters, that chauvinistic club from Springfield, when Phish-heads congregate in private, they address each other by numbers that correspond to how many shows they've attended. These numbers determine their hierarchy in the group.

“Pass me that bong, number 36.”

“Anything you say, number 42.”

These people never get tired of marveling at the Bittersweet Motel DVD or scrutinizing and discussing every single set-list Phish have played. They feed dollars into jukeboxes at bars and monopolize two songs about possums and fluff that collectively go on and on for a half-hour.

And to a fault, perhaps, I'm thrilled to be apart from that cult, happy to bash that unhealthy obsession with four great musicians who write dismal lyrics, sing poorly, and jam and solo for waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, waaaaaaaaaaay, way too long.

For today's exercise in Phish-trashing, I have opted not to criticize the songs that are like rejected ideas for Dr. Seuss books (“Gotta Jiboo”), nor the ones that are like humorless Weird Al parodies (“The Wolfman's Brother”). Today I will focus on a Phish song that shoots for deep intellect and flounders: “Back on the Train.”

Key lines: "When I jumped off, I had a bucket full of thoughts...Ideas that would take me all around the world...It took me a long time to get back on the train."

If we are to accept the lyrical premise of a wanderer traveling along a figurative and literal train of thoughts, we have to question why such a wanderer would carry his thoughts in a bucket. (As well as accept the absurdity of storing intangible things in a tangible object.) An adventurous tramp like that would not employ a bucket for such a purpose. He would use a bindle—one of those makeshift, hobo knapsacks that connects a heap of belongings to a stick. “Bindle,” like “bucket,” starts with a “b” and both words count two syllables, and so the fitting word left unused wouldn't disrupt the lyrical structure. With song-writing, every word is magnified, every mistake is costlier. Whereas novels are composed of tens of thousands of words, songs typically have mere dozens. There is less margin for error in song-writing, and Phish phucks up in the phirst line of “Back on the Train.”

Furthermore, Trey Phish-man lied when he claimed he had ideas to take him all around the world. That guy barely has enough ideas to get him to the nearest Indian Weavings. If he had such an abundance of ideas, he'd have thought to find a real singer for his band. The only thing his bucket is good for is crapping in because that's where most of his ideas belong, anyway.


Anything by Nickelback

Too easy. Let's move on to a challenge.

“Mr. Roboto”--Styx

In the early-80s, a love-child of the Who's Tommy and the more effeminate Queen was conceived, but the ugly baby was dropped onto the hard porcelain floor and it flailed and knocked over a tray of sharp scalpels that rained down on the poor thing. The baby didn't fare too well, which leads me to believe that “was” is the tragically key word in the Styx concept album Kilroy WAS Here.

“Mr. Roboto” was the first song and single from this debacle. I'm too confounded by this cut to badmouth it much, but with a handful of few questions, I will try.

How long did Styx ponder a name for this song's namesake—a hybrid of man and robot, I guess—before they settled for “Mr. Roboto”? Is “Mr. Roboto” meant to be a novelty song? And if so, why isn't it funny? Did Styx aim to invent a genre of incisive, hard-hitting novelty music? Amidst all the ridiculousness, were they trying to be serious? Do their fans really obsess over the mythology of this Kilroy character and Mr. Roboto? Does it enrich their lives when they ponder a dystopian future contrived by the likes of Styx?

The answers, my friends, are blowing in the binary code of a computer simulation of wind.

The ballads on The Ballads—REO Speedwagon

I'm fully capable of digging “Roll with the Changes” at wedding receptions held in rural towns. REO ballads are toxic, though. The singer sounds like a hackneyed Cary Grant impersonator and his words and mushy delivery are embarrassing. The absolute shittiest REO ballad is probably “Keep on Loving You.” The singer claims the one thing he wants to do is maintain his love for his woman, but that's untrue; he also wants to SING about his about his love for his woman. And that's where I take umbrage. If that bozo's only goal in life is to romance Lucile or Dotty or whatever the hell her name is, I'm OK with that...but he shouldn't in good conscience blubber about it into a microphone, too.

And sarcastic-kudos for rhyming “do” with “you” in the chorus for the billionth time in rock history, ya sappy bonehead.

“A Horse with No Name”--America

Again, the issue here is butchered lyrics. Let's read:

“On the first part of the journey/ I was looking at all the life/ There were birds and rocks and things.”

If you're trying to describe the imagery of a given setting, “things” is the absolute worst word to use. There is no vividness in “things.” Without context, “things” conveys nothing—and artists should try to do more than that. Staplers, despair, and the National Football League all count as things. Birds and rocks? Fine. Things? Horrible. When you tell an audience to picture THINGS, you'll induce a thousand random thought-bubbles that are all vague and unsatisfying. Please narrow it the fuck down, pseudo-folksy guy.

The following phrases likewise drive me bonkers. 1.) “The heat was hot.” No shit?! Thanks for explaining that the heat was hot. In tropical rain forests, I wonder if the moisture is moist... 2.) “'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain.” That sentence is an abomination for multiple reasons. It is an indefensible mangling of the English language.

This was a chart-topping single, though—just like most of the others that made the list. Too many Americans will overlook shoddy songwriting and gush about a tune just as long as the singer tacks on some “La-la-la-la's.” The success of America is one of the downfalls of America.

"Harden My Heart"--Quarterflash

I don't want to repeat myself too much...

http://fistpumpsandbeyond.blogspot.com/2012/03/activism.html


That country hit about how getting Cancer is sad

The owner of the place where I used to work favored country music, and so when he was in the store, his employees typically listened to country as well. I could tolerate the upbeat tunes in which horny cowboys gush about how country girls are so damn hot and I actually heard a Toby Keith tune that I kind of liked (“Red Solo Cup”), but I was beset by miserable loathing whenever we were subjected to that country hit about how getting cancer is sad.

I've stated this before: I'm anti-Cancer. I'm opposed to genocide, earthquakes, starvation, and the shingles, too. I'm a noble humanitarian in those regards.

At a place of business, however, where I am merely working an undesirable job for the purpose of self-reliance, it is distasteful and depressing to overhear the words, “Cancer don't discriminate/ Don't care if you're just 38.”

With the exasperation of a dozen failed lifetimes, I groaned whenever this ballad came on the radio. And that is not because I disagree with the singer that Cancer sure can be a bummer; it's because she plays the part of Debbie Downer in public places that in no way require an extra dose of sadness.

Cancer don't (sic) discriminate, but I do--and this sonic travesty is banned from my airspace. Ironically, those twangy Southerners taught me a thing or two about segregation.

That stupid club hit where the rapper screams “Shots” a thousand times

As with the previous entry, I don't know who the guilty party is and I won't bother with a Google-search. Here's a transcript I've contrived of the meeting between the rapper in question and a head honcho at his record label.

Head Honcho: “Rapper, your belligerent barks and primal lack of thought could very well become the new voice of a generation. What do you have planned for your next single?”

Rapper: “SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS-SHOTS!”

Head Honcho: “Outstanding. If I could hazard a suggestion, could you perhaps throw in a 'Shotty-shots' or two?”

Rapper: “SHOTS!”

Head Honcho: “OK, I see your point. It works much better without the 'Shotty-shots.' Congratulations, rapper, here's a check for two-million dollars. There will be a statue of you built in Brooklyn by Friday.”

Rapper: “SHOTS! SHOTS!”

Head Honcho: “All right, we'll have the statue bumped up to Thursday.”

Rapper: “Shots.”

Head Honcho: “You're welcome.”


***

Those are the songs I could do without. I'm not going to opt for the easy ending and quip “You're welcome” as a cheap tie-in to the previous joke. If you've made it this far, there is but one way to express my gratitude...

Shots.