Songs About Puppies!

The Beauty Myth

I’m very suspicious of beauty. When it’s right there on the surface I immediately suspect it’s only on the surface, and my BS detector goes on high alert.

I also despise music that tries to make me feel like I’m supposed to like it. You know the type I mean. The ones with a big orchestras, like “My Heart Will Go On” from “Titanic” (which I don’t actually hate, but you get the idea). It’s like they’re telling me to buy the record so they can cover the cost of  orchestra’s tuxedo rentals.

Another one of my musical pet peeves involves singers who brag about how much they love someone (Then why are you hear singing to me, I think?).

Any song with puppies should be treated with utmost suspicion.

And then there are those artists who sing about virtue and spirituality after having clawed their way to the top. Yeah you, Madonna. But to be fair, I liked Ray of Light.

Okay, I’m not even convincing myself here. But I’d like to think I’m predisposed to dislike anything “solemn”.

But once I’m convinced the beauty goes deeper, then I’m beauty’s little bitch. And I end up liking even the most shamefully manipulative songs. The bridge from "Lost in Love" by Air Supply is one of the more embarrassing examples of this. Just ten seconds, but I'll forever live in shame.

And this will come to explain a big chunk of what will eventually end up on my Top One Or Two Hundred Whatevers.  

Beck: Suspected Singer of Puppies

Which brings me to Beck. Not Jeff Beck you old geezer you! Beck Hansen. C’mon! You know who I mean!

He started out as one of the coolest people on earth and then slowly (d)evolved into a boring person, just like the rest of us.

The first Beck was the guy who threw everything AND the kitchen sink onto a record. He sampled, he rapped, he even played guitar. He was good at it, and I was good with it. I came to love his first record, Mellow Gold

even though the first time I heard it I though the neighbors from hell had just moved in next door.

Unlike the rest of the world, I didn’t love the even noisier “classic”, Odelay. It was a case of lots of sounds, but none of them sounding great. I’m right, and the world is wrong, of course.

But he got me good with the weird left turn of Mutations. The music was laid back, bluesy and otherworldly. I’d say it was out of character for him, but I wasn’t sure he had any. And it was barely out before he was calling it an anomaly, signaling a quick reversal back to where he was before, wherever that was.

He was clearly a hit or miss kind of guy, and anyway there were plenty of other artists worth checking out, so I figured we were done. I skipped Midnite Vultures.  

But then came Sea Change, which I only caught up with a year or two back, where the young smart aleck was now thirty and heart-broken. The music is spare, sometimes enervated, hinting at substance abuse as a means of dealing with the pain.

And everybody - well the old folks with the money anyway - loved it, and he started getting played on Americana stations. But then he was gone yet again, and so was I.

It must have been tempting to replicate the success of Sea Change. So it shouldn’t have come as too much of a surprise when he announced that he was making a companion record for it. Plus, he was getting older, and after all the genre experiments and noise, didn’t he deserve to make a killing?

Or, to be less cynical about it, maybe he’s just older and wiser, and sees the value in just going for beauty.

On a purely practical level, it sounded promising. But after four CDs I wasn’t sure I’d bite.

Beck: Morning Phase

Well, my son did it for me, giving it to me for Father’s Day. And I’m glad he did.

Not gritty, not overwhelmingly sad, and with less pain, less need for numbing it. In other words, real  pretty.

So what’s wrong with that? Not a whole lot.

But gone is the razor sharp wit. (No lines like “She’s got tofu the size of Texas”)

And when he dispenses with all the noise, you notice he’s got a surprisingly narrow bag of tricks.

And dissonant strings are getting a bit tired. Thankfully he limits them to the short theme cuts. “Wave” does get a little out of hand, though.

And you can’t help but notice that the first song begins exactly the same way as the first one on Sea Change, so you prepare for the worst.

But it doesn’t come. It’s almost as if he’s telling you that although he could be starting from the same point as Sea Change, this time he wants to go in a different direction.

And I have to admit, he’s good at deploying those limited tricks - a banjo, pedal steel, piano and especially those echoey Buffalo Springfield guitar chords - where they’re needed..

Hard core Beck fans who didn’t care for Sea Change, won’t like this even more conservative work. Beck should be re-inventing music, they say. Well, maybe he should, but I’ll take what I can get.

So I won’t judge this record on what Beck is “supposed” to be doing. If I did, Morning Phase comes up way short in that it's nothing new under the sun other than Beck being happy.

If I simply judge it on it's own merits, I have to conclude it's a beautiful record from an unexpected source. Although with Beck I should know by now to expect the unexpected.

Does it really matter that he used to be an innovative twenty-year old? Why can’t he just make a pretty record? It is what it is. Like Nashville Skyline.

So let the young folk scoff. They probably have the time to hunt down more adventurous music than this, but I don’t.

On a weird side note, it wasn’t a great summer fun-wise, but I had all these beautiful songs to go with my malaise. The effect was not unlike the deep bittersweet painful days of Push Barman to Open Old Wounds.

Thanks a lot Beck!  

But, seriously, thank you. A-

“Blackbird Chain”

Most Awful Bands, or, It’s Not You, It’s Me

Up until now, I’ve studiously avoided taking cheap shots at anyone, unless I thought there was a good laugh in it. But my wife tells me that it’s time I learned to direct my natural negativity outward, and, instead of just gracing my own family, share it with the rest of the world. There is something to this. We all have a role in life, and mine appears to be to make those around me miserable. Why not use modern technology to reach my full potential?

And it serves a higher - or at least more practical - purpose. It may not be enough for you to know who I like. Also knowing who I hate completes the picture, and it ain’t pretty.

And if you find that we have the same lists, but that yours is titled “Greatest Bands Ever”, maybe I don’t have that much to say to you. Better that we both know this sooner rather than later. Let’s at least save one of us some time.

Now mind you, these are not artists that I’m merely lukewarm about. There are plenty of those, and it’s nobody’s fault - we’ve agreed to be just friends. I’m talking about artists I despise - artists that have so thoroughly gotten under my skin that I simply must say something or explode. When one of their songs comes on I cannot be held responsible for my actions. These are the Susquehanna Hat Companies of music.

Plus, these guys have all made a ton of money, so really who cares what I think? It’s not like my bashing them means a damned thing. They’ve made many people happy, and have thus made the world a better place. But they sorely challenge my egalitarian instincts and tempt me to conclude that people (not you, of course) have no taste. (This coming from the guy who likes the Flaming Lips…) When I reveal my true feelings for these bands to my friends, I get the looks that are usually reserved for that guy on the train who shouts that the CIA is controlling his thoughts.

And there are easier targets. I could mention Barry Manilow, Celine Dion, Michael Bolton, etc, but they get under other people’s skin, too, so my comments are unnecessary. Not liking them is like saying that you don’t like root canal. Just get in line.

So here goes a short list of artists I can’t stand. If I go to hell, this is what’s on the jukebox:

Journey:

First off, I can never forgive Steve Perry for “Oh, Sherrie”, which I first heard when my clock radio alarm went off at six am one morning. And yes, I had to go to work that day anyway, but the very first sound to rouse me from my slumber was Steve Perry shouting in my ear “Shoulda been gone!” What is this, “Full Metal Jacket”?

I know it’s really a Steve Perry record, but it may as well be a Journey record. Same melodramatic keyboards, same overwrought guitar licks. Journey is the epitome of the “rock (but not “‘n roll”) band”. They probably consider themselves too cool for country music, but will try to sound like a symphony orchestra for cheap melodrama if they can. They’re hardly the only ones in this regard, but I wish they’d just come out and admit that they’re a Vegas act at heart.

And just how high was Steve Perry’s voice before he hit puberty, anyway? In the last episode of “The Sopranos”, I was rooting for Tony to get shot, if only so that a stray bullet might hit the jukebox.

Asia:

These guys did their damnedest to prove that the type of music I loved just didn’t exist anymore. They represent the absolute nadir of early 80s rock, which is really saying something. They chased me from commercial rock stations, for which perhaps I should be grateful. They rocked like John Phillip Sousa and swung like Emerson Lake and Palmer. The singer should have gone into opera. At least they had the decency to go away in record time.

Rush:

I can’t fault the musicianship, but I have never heard anything even remotely enjoyable by these guys. It may be because Geddy Lee sounds like Elvis Costello played at 78 rpm, which can be fun, but only when it’s my thumb on the turntable.

I know a few people who love these guys but I…just…don’t…get it.

Meatloaf:

Not powerful, just loud. And the tunes just aren’t as good as the singer thinks they are. And at the risk of sounding prudish, I find “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” to be incredibly vulgar. He seems like a nice enough guy, though. I wish him great success in his acting career.

Foreigner:

I will admit to the existence of two decent songs by this band, but the singing is strained to the point of constipation. They are without a doubt the blandest rock and roll band in history. If you like these guys, let’s just talk about sports.

REO Speedwagon:

We were having a barbeque a few years ago, and I had “Elastica” playing in the back yard. Not real loud, mind you, but it was there. The next door neighbor, who was about a decade younger than me, must have taken offense, and started blasting REO Speedwagon in response. I found this more hilarious than annoying, since the young ladies from Elastica played with more testicular fortitude than los speedwagoneros. When they placed an ad for a singer, it must have read: “WANTED: Really lame white guy.”

Styx:

Another alarm clock incident, but this time I was pleasantly awoken to the sound of a folk duo playing “Come Sail Away”. Not bad at all. No Dennis DeYoung freaking me out with his high voice. No over the top climax. What a relief. Another band that would get its ass kicked by the Monkees in a street fight.

Boston:

Take a scoop of each of the above mentioned ingredients, add extra bombast, be sure to remove any soul that may have accidentally gotten mixed in. Place it all in a blender. Throw blender away.

Lionel Ritchie:

Nice sweater.

I could complain about hair bands, I suppose but perhaps that’s because I have less of it than I used to. I’m sure that there is some good music in there somewhere, but to me it’s the aural equivalent of a bunch of guys looking at themselves in the mirror. I’m obviously not the target audience, though.

There. I’ve gotten it off my chest. I feel better now.

Now stop looking at me like I pushed Mother Theresa down a flight of stairs...

The Evil That Men Do, Part 3 - Drive Bys

During the coldest days of January, the prospect of summer will elicit a momentary nostalgia for open windows and soft breezes, but I am rudely disabused from any such reverie - usually in late March - by a much grimmer reality: drive bys. You know what I mean - the practice of blasting one’s car stereo, for the supposed benefit of home owners and passer-bys. It’s the equivalent of me living in my car, and driving through your neighborhood all the time.

Now my neighborhood is more likely to build a statue venerating, say, Franki Valli rather than John Lennon. Over time this preference has evolved to the current dance music, and the drive-bys here tend to reflect that.

The problem was recently exacerbated with the installation of a traffic light at the corner nearest to my house. I should be thankful that the neighborhood children are safer, but then again, aren’t they the ones who will just grow up to do the driving by in a few years? The true impact of this (meaning how it affects me personally) is that now the cars are no longer just driving by. They are stopping to wait for the light to change. I suppose that the increased amount of exhaust fumes ought to be of concern to me, but I’ll leave that to someone whose priorities are straight. I now get to hear entire verses of the hits of the day, right through my front window. I’m missing the upside to this.

And yet, there’s an even worse variation on this theme. Some of my fellow fifty year olds – with their tastes frozen in time – are now participating in this practice. I recently had the misfortune of sharing the road with the driver of a 1985 Cadillac with Jersey plates. He was tailgating and blasting his radio even more than I usually do. Rather than retaliate in some way, I felt the need to learn more about this man, so I tried to keep up. About an hour later, I finally got a glimpse and a listen. He was about my age, with his graying hair combed into a pompadour, and the song was Billy Joel’s “Movin’ Out”. I concluded that he was still living with his mom. (Shouldn’t you only play “Movin’ Out” if you’ve actually moved out?)

Of course, there are those who still play Barry Manilow or Celine Dion in this manner, but let’s face it - they’re beyond our help right now.

In my neighborhood’s first bid for cultural diversity, the guy across the street has started to blast his radio when working on his motorbike. It’s usually “Take it Easy” or “China Grove”. I tell myself that it could be worse. It could be “Free Bird”. (Oh wait, there it is…)

Of course, when I’m out there driving myself, I feel I must do my part to offset the bad affects of what I’ve had to hear, by adding my own preferred music to the mix. I realize that this might appear hypocritical of me, bur really, the only other alternative would be for me to build an automatic egg-thrower that targets sources of noise near the house - itself a toned down version of another revenge fantasy deemed even more anti-social by family members who’d like me to stay out of jail.

So when you see me driving by, blasting some ungodly noise that I feel you need to hear, just think about all the eggs I’m saving.

We Like Our Guitars

The following is meant to explain why you’ve hated my recommendations or violently disagreed with my opinions up to this point. I’m concerned that you might be losing some sleep over this, so I feel it necessary to assure you that there’s nothing wrong with you.

It’s not you, it’s me. I (still) like guitars.

A friend and I were talking music the other night. I was saying how my son liked a lot of the music that I liked when I was growing up. Thanks to Guitar Hero, it was easy for him to get “classic rock”. Young people – well, white fourteen year old boys, let’s say – seem much more open than we ever were to music that isn’t from their own time period.

You’d think people who grew up in the sixties would be very open, but I’ve come to the conclusion that we never had to be open to anything. It all came right to us. It helped that AM radio was amazing. Just turn it on and feel the love! It spoiled us, so by the time the seventies rolled around, we really didn’t like anything else. And radio also began to get more and more rigid about what it would play.

It didn’t help that I reacted to the disdain people had for rock and roll by being disdainful right back. So the music my parents liked was out. The Beatles ruined just about everything else for me, so I found “oldies” music to be totally lame. My friend agreed. We liked what was happening at the time, and not much else.

Then he told me that he never really got Elvis. This came as somewhat of a relief, because I felt the same way for a long time. It was only as an adult (and I use that term loosely) that I got into “The Sun Sessions”, “Elvis’ Gold”, the “comeback” special. The rest of it just reeked of Vegas to me. My favorite was “The Sun Sessions”. Why? Well, there are a lot of reasons, but the one that’s most pertinent at the moment is Scotty Moore’s guitar.

So it came to me - we like our guitars. All the other stuff is nice – a pretty melody, an energetic beat, a good vocal, smart or funny lyrics (assuming I even get them, being that I’m obtuse and hard of hearing). But guitars are king. Horns are fine, but there’s just no comparison. Thank you Les Paul, Beatles, Stones, Who etc. You ruined me for anything else.

A childhood friend of mine liked Slade (“Mama, We’re All Crazy Now”) a lot. At the time, my problem with them was that all of their songs sounded the same. He replied, “You know there’s only so many different sounds you’re going to be able to get out of an electric guitar.” Well, that worried me for quite a while. But after thirty five years, I’ve gotten over it. Every time I think that the whole form is played out, somebody comes along to point out the limits of my imagination. It’s great to have your expectations trashed like that.

So, even though I’m fifty years old, my tastes have not grown up in a conventional way. Just when I was succumbing to mid-seventies singer-songwriters, which would have led to a natural progression to MOR, I suddenly got interested in punk rock and its variants. This setback to my musical (and emotional) maturity has never been fully corrected.

Okay, so that gets me to the age of forty. What’s my excuse for the next ten years? The answer lies in not getting stuck in a rut. I’ve been dabbling in other genres for quite a while. This not only brings me in contact with new types of music, it makes my familiarity with rock and roll avoid breeding contempt. I can get away from rock and roll long enough to miss it again.

I don’t like music that is meant to act as a background. It should be my option to use it that way, but it must be able to bear more attention than that. So I don’t find Easy Listening easy to listen to at all. And the overly emotive singers and huge orchestrations just don’t do it for me. To me, Bonnie Raitt’s simple “I Can’t Make You Love Me” or “Feels Like Home” blow away anything by Celine Dion. Maybe I just don’t like having emotions conveyed like the national anthem. Let’s not even discuss Michael Bolton…

So, for better or worse, that’s where my taste lies, which should tell you if I have anything to say to you or not.

So I hope this helps explain where I’m coming from: the inside of Pete Townsend’s Marshall amp.

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Now playing: Elvis Presley - That's Allright (Mama)
via FoxyTunes

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Now playing: The Who - Summertime Blues
via FoxyTunes