When Listening is Work

One factor that may have encouraged me to run screaming from respectable music was the time I spent working in a large office in my early twenties. We had the misfortune of having an office manager who insisted that, instead of the glorious cacophony of fifty radios all tuned to different stations playing at the same time, only one radio station should be allowed. She chose the one with the format which at the time was known as Easy-listening.

Back then, the purveyors of Easy Listening music were people like Percy Faith and Mantovani, whose job it was to do lame versions of the recent hits of the day. They could always be counted on to re-make a good record in the worst possible way. Anything that had a beat was rendered beatless (that extra “s” makes all the difference, doesn’t it?), anything with a brain was lobotomized. Forget about anything with genitals.

It was painful to listen to, but it was only when I heard their version of John Lennon’s “Love” (from “Plastic Ono Band”) that I knew that I was my own customized circle of hell. You’d think that such a song would be right up their alley, but alas it’s so fragile and beautiful that it must be handled with care. They, of all people should have known this, but what did they do? They sped it up and made it…snappy. In other words, they tarted it up. It was like finding out that the lovely, shy girl you had a crush on snapped her gum and loved “Three’s Company”.

When enough of us got fed up with this (I’ll admit it’s not a major chapter in labor history), management took the bold step of changing the station to the one with the then-new “Lite” format. Although the decision was universally applauded, it proved to be of only momentary relief to me. The main difference between Easy Listening and Lite was that the former was comprised of lousy versions of decent songs, while the latter was made up of the original versions of awful songs.

It’s hard to remember now, but besides the power ballads and dance music of the day, there existed another genre of which most dare not speak. Remember “Mellow”? Oh, sure you do. It was the early eighties version of Easy Listening. Melissa Manchester, Peabo Bryson, Heinrich Himmler. Okay, maybe not him, but you get the idea. In a way, it was even worse than Easy Listening, which you could at least share a good laugh over. When I ridiculed Lite FM, everyone looked at me like I was nuts. For once, unjustly.

Now, there were an awful lot of middle aged ladies who would sing along wistfully to “Sailing” by Christopher Cross, that is, when they weren’t cursing you out for misfiling something. So there was obviously an audience for this stuff. Middle aged ladies in offices, I guess (which begs the question what the hell was I doing there? That’s a whole other blog.) But to this day there are songs for which I have nothing but revulsion – most of the Lionel Ritchie catalog, Air Supply and others who shall not be named.

And to be fair, this kind of experience isn’t confined to the business setting. Around this time, I was in a wedding party and on the way to the reception when Dan Fogelberg came on the radio. Now I will admit to going through brief non gay (I guess) Dan Fogelberg phase, but his song “Longer” was like a bucket of ice water thrown in my face, and I shipped him off to James Taylor Island where sensitive male singer songwriters have no females to feel sorry for them, and eventually cannibalize each other. (Did I hear someone say reality show?) So on comes “Leader of the Band”, one of his more shameless tear-jerkers, and the female members of the wedding party sang along in unison. Thinking I’d just stumbled onto some kind of cult, I looked to my fey fellow ushers for assistance. They could only shrug and shake their heads.

And then there was the time back before we had a car and had to get a ride home from a weekend at the beach. The driver was the friend of a friend, and although my girlfriend and I appreciated the ride, the two hours it took seemed much longer because of the radio station he had on. He seemed to prefer ‘70s top-40 to 60s. There was an awful, late-period Grass Roots song he sang along with to his girlfriend. For her part, she liked, and felt she needed to explain the moral of the ditty about the woman who had a wild life and then settled down. This seemed like the normal order of events to me, so I didn't know what the big deal was. I think the singer was trying to persuade the listener to skip the wild part. Not bloody likely. (Some basic survival instinct has blocked out the memory of the song titles. Please don’t feel obligated to remind me.) My girlfriend and I spent most of the drive with our eyes thoroughly rolled, which made me almost lose a contact lens. If I wasn’t such a cheapskate, on top of the gas money, I would have given him a few extra bucks to change the station.

And now I find there’s a new format called “Fresh”, which is essentially Easy Listening for the new millennium. I guess it’s what I’m hearing when I go into the local Walgreen’s. And you know, it could be a lot worse. They sometimes even find songs that I like. However, I rarely get to fully enjoy them. They always seem to get interrupted at the best part. (“Hey, Jude…DON’T MISS TODAY’S SPECIAL ON THE EXTRA LARGE TUBE OF PREPARATION H FOR $6.99. …And make it better”, and in a totally different key to boot.) If I were more conspiracy minded, I’d say that they were consciously replacing the hooks with the promos, just so that we get conditioned to enjoy them.

All of these formats are based on the mistaken notion that there is music we all like. Not! And while I can always hang up when I'm on hold, drive my own damned car and listen to what I want in private, workplace music has a captive audience, and is thus a form of musical Fascism. Now you may feel that the use of such a term trivializes the deaths of millions of people, especially when compared to one person’s urge to change a channel. But please bear in mind that I’m that one person.

But seriously, those poor people who work in a place where they are forced to listen to the same music all day long must surely go mad. Whenever there’s a workplace massacre, we re-run our debates about gun control and a culture of violence. But my first question is always What was playing on the radio?

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...