“I did NOT have musical relations with that disco band”
Confession can be good for the soul, man
Forgive me Father Elvis, for I have sinned. It’s been thirty-five years — give or take — since my last confession, and as such I can’t really tell you how many times I’ve slipped or exactly what I’ve done. Given the timeframe we’re dealing with here, it’s probably safe to assume I’ve committed all of the seven deadlies at least once, though I’m pleased to report I’ve been almost completely mortal sin-free since we last spoke. True, I’ve been a little lax on the blasphemy front, but otherwise I think I’m pretty solid.
What’s that? Specifics? Well OK, if you insist.
I’d just like to begin by saying that I started out really well. The Sixties were chockablock with great music, and my parents were young and hip. We even had a big old stereo with lots of records – Yourself, the Stones, the Kinks, the Beatles, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, a little soul, a smattering of R&B. The usual. Tasteful, interesting stuff. Hard to say how I strayed from the garden path.
I guess I’d have to say my most frequent transgressions have been the singers who can’t sing. It started innocently enough with Bob Dylan: Mr. Tambourine Man, Blowin’ in the Wind, Highway 61 — you remember, don’t you? He’d scratch that guitar and wheeze into his harmonica and we all thought it sounded, well not exactly good, but cool. By the time we got to Blonde on Blonde, everybody was hooked. From there it wasn’t much of a trip to buying Neil Young records. Hell, after that, Tom Petty sounded just fine, and Bono seemed kind of smooth. I know it looks bad (and sounds even worse), but in my own defense, I’d like to point out that that Robbie Robertson album was a one-shot deal and I never even considered buying anything recorded by Bjork. That’s got to count for something.
What’s that, sir? More? Yeah, there’s more, and since we’re both already here, I guess we should talk about the Eighties. You know, it wasn’t all New Wave pablum. I did go to several Ramones shows, and I saw The Pretenders more than once. I also seem to recall an Eric Clapton/Muddy Waters double bill, but the details from that particular night are a little hazy. I know you’ll understand where I’m coming from on that.
Pardon? Depeche Mode? Aw c’mon man, I was living in England at the time and given the omnipresence of Top of the Pops it could have been a lot worse. You do remember Culture Club? How about Rick Astly? Never even got near either one. No, I think my little flirtation with New Wave hardly even qualifies as venal.
Of course, I can’t say the same for the chick singers. Though I’m more than a little ashamed to admit it, I did buy Sheryl Crow’s first album, but it was a Grammy winner and even though it contains that uber-stinker Strong Enough, there’s also Leaving Las Vegas and a couple of other reasonable efforts, though I can’t really recall them at this point. How was I to know she’d go all save-the-planet and start dating Lance Armstrong? And remember, I have always been a big Patti Smith fan, which I’m thinking should counterbalance that unfortunate Sheryl Crow business.
There is one thing I do need to get off my chest though. That’s right, you guessed it: Stevie. Not Wonder, Nicks. I bought a Stevie Nicks record in college for reasons I still don’t understand. Maybe it was the adenoidal warbling (bad singers — see above) or the platform shoes. Hell it might even have been the twirling. All I can say is I am really really sorry, and I have already repented in my heart and at length, so I hope you’ll go easy on me. I mean, we’ve all got our guilty pleasures, right? Grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches ring any bells? How about In the Ghetto?
Yeah yeah, I know we’re talking about me now. Listen, I realize it looks bad, Sir, but before you hand out penance, I’d just like to remind you that I have a deep and abiding love for the high quality stuff — Nirvana, the Foos, Lenny Kravitz, Elvis (no the other one, Costello. Loved the country album. I know, right? Who’d a thunk?)…Oh, well thanks. I try to stay current.
Act of contrition? Really? I know my record is hardly unblemished, but doesn’t my consumption of tasteful, worthy music count for anything? OK, OK, no need to shout. Let me get a pen. Alright, shoot.
Three Half Breeds — Cher! You don’t fool around, do you?
Three Lost in Loves — Air Supply? I’d hardly have thought they’d be on your radar, but it’ll be good and painful.
Twice all the way through We Built This City — Tough to listen to Grace Slick doing that, but you’re driving this bus. It’s harsh, but I can handle it. Check.
So, we done here?
WHAT?! Piano Man!?! You have got to be kidding me! Quite possibly the worst song from the worst album ever recorded. Just the mention of it gives me an earworm. If I listen to it even once, it’ll be stuck in my brain for a week. C’mon, anything but that. Please?
Alright, alright, I’ll do it — relax. And no, you do not have to assign the entire record. I mean it’s not like I tried roller disco, or bought Guns ‘N Roses tickets or anything.
Pardon? Six weeks from now? Couldn’t we stretch it to six months? I’ve got Punch Brothers tickets coming up and Sir Paul’s supposed to be playing in the City again. Of course, I’ve also heard Fleetwood Mac may be touring…I’ll see you in June.
Posted on April 26, 2012, in Music, The Slattern Speaks and tagged Chuck Berry, Humor, Little Richard, Music, Neil Young, Robbie Robertson, Sheryl Crow, Stevie Nicks, Tambourine Man. Bookmark the permalink. 15 Comments.
great now I have “we built this city” in my head at 5am.. thanks for that! NOT
Ah Grace Slick — how the mighty have fallen. Sad.
Excellent post, although painful to journey with the ghosts of sucky music past.
Sometimes it just hurts so good, though, don’t you think?
I actually think this post is Freshly-Pressable and – depending on what you think of Freshly Pressed – that may be a good or a bad thing.
From your mouth to the God of WordPress’s ear, my friend.
Half breed…that’s all I ever heard. Half breed…how I learned to hate the word. Half breed…she’s no good they warned. Both sides were against me from the day I was boooooorrrrn!
No, I did not google those lyrics. They live inside my head like that earworm you mentioned. Very funny post. Loved it. Back off the Billy Joel. I may have to take you to task for that one. And insinuating that Bono can’t sing. Whoa! Them are fightin’ words. Especially for a woman waxing sentimental about Elvis Costello (whom I also love, but really, truly can’t sing).
I hate Billy Joel. Just the sight of him chaps my ass. We’ll just have to agree to disagree on this one..
Give us a song…
I’d rather have a cyanide pill.
Give us a cyanide pill…
Sorry, it just doesn’t have a ring to it.
I live in a No Disco bubble. It repels all assaults by British art bands and American posers. I’m allergic to polyester, I like LL Bean shoes and wouldn’t be caught dead listening to any Nicks/Buckigham Fleetwood Mac album. I listen to Fleetwood Mac, with Mick Fleetwod, John McVie, Peter Green and Jeremy Spenser. They were a Brit blues band and had their roots in John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers along with another alumnus, Eric Clapton. Not wanting to get all Family Values on you but Boy George is an abomination. I don’t care who he sleeps with, his music sucks. Everyone strays. Try Bonnie Raitt’s new CD Slipstream and go in peace.
Peace be with you, Tom.
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