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 Time of Your Life

When I was about 13, an older friend – he was about 17 - turned me on to a lot of great music: Cream, Jimi Hendrix and a whole lot of other stuff. Then we lost touch for a while - actually we stopped speaking. The next time I ran into him, he must have been in his mid-twenties. He told me he had sold all of his old records, and that now he liked Neil Diamond.

Since this was in the late 1970s, we’re not talking about Neil Diamond, the young turk out of Brooklyn who wrote “Cherry Cherry” and “I’m a Believer”. I mean the one who forgot where he came from, and began wearing wide collars and big hair - the one who considered himself an Artist. I’m sure my old friend is listening to those records a lot these days.

Meanwhile, I just picked up “Are You Experienced?” on CD because my son kept asking me about Jimi Hendrix, who is doing a better job of uniting the generations through his music than any artist of my parents era. My point isn’t that I have better taste than my friend (though I do). And it isn’t quite that rock and roll has stood the test of time (though it has).

I guess my friend felt that he had to put aside childish things. I went through a similar crisis at age 15 regarding clothing (contemporary observers might conclude that the crisis has not yet passed…). I had noticed that the older boys – the seventeen year olds - were starting to wear “grown up” clothing. So, when I turned sixteen, I thought I should wear shoes instead of sneakers, and slacks instead of jeans. Well, that lasted about two days. Thank god I’ve never been very decisive.

Speaking of clothing, when I was around twenty five, another friend tried to get me to go with him to see Shirley Bassey. (This was 1982. I’m not that old.) I guess he figured that we were adults now, and so we should do something that required dressing up and stuff. I really owed it to him, too, since I’d dragged him to see everyone from the Ramones and Talking Heads to Warren Zevon. I must admit that part of the problem was that I didn’t even own a suit, let alone want to wear one. I don’t think my friend ended up going, and he has me to thank for that. Now, I have nothing against Ms. Bassey. All I had to go on was “Goldfinger”, so I wasn’t betting on enjoying the show.

This same friend once complained that he liked the song “It’s You, Babe” by Styx, because “at least you can hear the words”. One of my great regrets was not thinking of replying that some words aren’t worth hearing. Come to think of it, I’m not talking to this guy, either.

So, finally, my point is that you shouldn’t listen to - or not listen to - a certain type of music simply because of your age (or any other demographic for that matter.) If you’re afraid that people will laugh at you, I say let ‘em. They probably do anyway, and if they live with you, they’ve probably earned the right. My Monkees albums won’t make my all time greatest list, but if I feel like hearing them – and I do sometimes - they’re going on. (The problem arises when all you play are those same old Monkees albums, or when you buy the new one every time one comes out.)

I think some people deprived themselves of good music because they thought they were too old for it. I can’t say for sure how that first guy feels now. I do hope he’s enjoying the music he’s listening to, whatever it is. But I also hope it’s because he really wants to listen to it in the first place.

By now the second guy has probably opted for the type of pop music that "mature" people ought to be listening to. And he probably likes it, too. But I’ll bet he doesn’t love it.