Thursday, February 19, 2009
TOE JAM
In a shameless attempt to play to the gallery, I'm going to do a list post in the feeble hope that I'll get more comments than usual. I want to find out what people's least favourite songs are.
Here are three of my own which should inspire you with their gruesomeness, but probably won't. Oh well, tumbleweed, tumbleweed ...
TOGETHER WE ARE BEAUTIFUL - FERN KINNEY. Some bint with severe nasal back drip informs us that "I've gone with better looking guys, he's gone with prettier looking girls" which isn't a good start. No, no, no. Pop music is about imagining very good looking people finding chemistry with each other, not sweaty, cross eyed, pigeon toed ORDINARY people. I don't care if the "chemistry" of being in lerve makes them "beautiful". I wanted to be transported away to a world where people don't sniffle permanently or have grubby fingernails or hairy moles. Being unbearably mawkish is a crime against humanity.
ISN'T SHE LOVELY - STEVIE WONDER. Being unbearably mawkish is a crime against humanity. Look, you could put forward a theory that Stevie Wonder reached a high water mark with his early 1970's albums with Tonto And His Exploding Hair Band, as Barack Obama did, but it would all be cancelled out by this atrocity. I remember that Nick Cave put him on the Death List of the NME's Portrait Of The Artist As A Consumer profile because of this song, and quite rightly so. People who write gooey songs about their new born children should be put through a mincer alive and then fried gently in lard for a week.
SEASONS IN THE SUN - TERRY JACKS. As you see, I can't abide mawkishness. I really hope this song didn't help people "cope" with their own or a loved one's terminal illness. What a load of dreck. I like me a bit of Jacques Brel, but I've not bothered to read the translated "real" lyrics of this, which have been mercilessly "adapted". I bet Jacques wrote something along the lines of "I can see all of you hard faced cunts looking at me around the hospital bed/Hoping I'll give you a cut of the estate/Well fuck off/I need to use the bedpan". Of course, this version was in turn adapted to the "We had joy/We had fun/We had Palace on the run" chant heard around football grounds. So I've been told, anyway.
So, over to you.
Here are three of my own which should inspire you with their gruesomeness, but probably won't. Oh well, tumbleweed, tumbleweed ...
TOGETHER WE ARE BEAUTIFUL - FERN KINNEY. Some bint with severe nasal back drip informs us that "I've gone with better looking guys, he's gone with prettier looking girls" which isn't a good start. No, no, no. Pop music is about imagining very good looking people finding chemistry with each other, not sweaty, cross eyed, pigeon toed ORDINARY people. I don't care if the "chemistry" of being in lerve makes them "beautiful". I wanted to be transported away to a world where people don't sniffle permanently or have grubby fingernails or hairy moles. Being unbearably mawkish is a crime against humanity.
ISN'T SHE LOVELY - STEVIE WONDER. Being unbearably mawkish is a crime against humanity. Look, you could put forward a theory that Stevie Wonder reached a high water mark with his early 1970's albums with Tonto And His Exploding Hair Band, as Barack Obama did, but it would all be cancelled out by this atrocity. I remember that Nick Cave put him on the Death List of the NME's Portrait Of The Artist As A Consumer profile because of this song, and quite rightly so. People who write gooey songs about their new born children should be put through a mincer alive and then fried gently in lard for a week.
SEASONS IN THE SUN - TERRY JACKS. As you see, I can't abide mawkishness. I really hope this song didn't help people "cope" with their own or a loved one's terminal illness. What a load of dreck. I like me a bit of Jacques Brel, but I've not bothered to read the translated "real" lyrics of this, which have been mercilessly "adapted". I bet Jacques wrote something along the lines of "I can see all of you hard faced cunts looking at me around the hospital bed/Hoping I'll give you a cut of the estate/Well fuck off/I need to use the bedpan". Of course, this version was in turn adapted to the "We had joy/We had fun/We had Palace on the run" chant heard around football grounds. So I've been told, anyway.
So, over to you.
Labels: awful music, Barack Obama, Fern Kinney, Stevie Wonder, Terry Jacks
Friday, January 23, 2009
IF YOU WANT TO GET AHEAD, GET A HAT
The scales have fallen from my eyes.
For the last couple of years, I've been under the impression that Barack Obama is in his late thirties.
On the day of his inauguration, I found out that he is in fact forty seven.
How could I have made this mistake? I know I live in my *own little world* but ... really ...
I should have known.
Barack Obama is a Bruce Springsteen fan.
A man who is forty seven would like Bruce Springsteen.
A man in his late thirties, however, would think that Morrissey's new album is a real return to form, from what they've heard of it.
A man who is thirty would be looking forward to Blur's reunion, and they were first in line to get the tickets to see them at Hyde Park.
A man who is fifty five would buy the most recent Neil Young album six months after it came out, inspired by the review in Uncut that says "all in all, not a classic, but a real statement of intent from the grizzled old buzzard."
Anyway, I'm relieved to find out that Barack Obama is older than me. It still lets me cling on to the last vestiges of hope that I'm not actually a grown up.
As I said over at Boz's's's', if the next Pope is younger than me, then I will be very sad indeed.
Labels: Aretha Franklin's hat takes over the world, Barack Obama, being old, grizzled old buzzards, return to form, the Pope, Uncut
