i don’t know about any of you, but i don’t want to turn on the radio to hear another couple kvetching about their relationship. (i tune in to Dr. Phil went i want that nonsense. and i tune into springer when i want to see lower class people fist-fighting with their partners. cos nothing says lovin’ like a roundhouse punch.) this song practically SCREAMS bad soap opera. it’s pure melodrama from an earlier time. how it became a hit record in 1978? well, barbra was probably still riding high from a star is born, and neil, well, let’s just say that neil did well when other people recorded his songs.
break out the turkey and give me some schmaltz. schmaltzity-schmaltz schmaltz!
seriously, what really happened is that both barbra and neil recorded the song (in the same key, natch) on two separate albums. some clever dj, probably bucking for a promotion for his creativity, sliced the two versions together for his audience’s listening pleasure. babs and neils got wind of it and decided, hell, let’s get the royalties for this suckah. and VOILA! a new star was born.
on the bright side, they never got to make the feature film that was planned based on this song, as neil got busy with his remake of the jazz singer. (see? there IS a G-d!) can you imagine the movie? (no. try not to. it will wreck your day.)
okay, okay. i can’t be completely mean on a holiday. here’s the one version of the song that you might enjoy. ice-t and tupac, a marriage made in heaven. it’s definitely not a turkey.
canadian terry jacks had his one and only hit with seasons in the sun, a song adapted from french treasure jacques brel’s song le moribond (in english, the moribund.) (is it me, or does he have a chia pet growing on his head?) while jack’s sanitized version doesn’t feature little facts like the wife’s infidelity (or even the existence of the priest), it certainly jerks enough tears out of anyone within earshot. is he singing to his wife? his daughter? his bank manager? who knows.
the beach boys covered this lovely ditty but, probably in a moment of sanity, never released it. that freed our friend terry, who sang on the beach boys version, to release his version with his soon-to-be-ex-wife susan in 1974. (earlier, the two had been part of a group the poppy family. a group with an equally awful song that became a hit, which way you goin’, billy. however, as the song is from 1969, we can’t officially include it. but rest assured: it, too, bites.)
of course, it can, and does, get worse. witness nirvana singing this timeless classic. my secret boyfriend, dave grohl, is being tortured singing, to use the word loosely:
see, it’s an evil song. it disintegrates with every additional cover of it.
yep, jacques brel may be alive and well. but thanks to seasons in the sun, i bet he’s also mad as hell.
imagine the sound of me trying to hit an extremely high note here. a sound not unlike a cat screaming for help.
the talented, multi-octave ms. riperton left this world all-too-soon after a fight with breast cancer. i have absolutely no quarrel whatsoever with her, and i know the world lost an amazing talent when she passed.
that being said, loving you is not a song i remember fondly. at age 10, i didn’t like anything mushy. this song is all bells and flowers. birds sing; angels take wing; all that sappy crap that i’ve never bought into. (i was pretty much dumbfounded when my 1st rutgers roommate, jean jean the dancing machine, played depeche mode’s somebody for me. now THAT hit my ideas about love a lot more closely. jean. wherever you may be, you were right.) all that jingly, magical bell-like sounds in the background — it sounded to me like something the muppets might sing. and the birds?? who trained the birds to chirp on cue??
moreover, i didn’t appreciate the sound of a person screaming in my ears. riperton may have had a whistle-octave virtuouso voice, but when i was 10, i thought that someone was having their fingernails pulled out during the song. or maybe she was screaming because a bird crapped on her? in any event, someone kindly put together a bunch of her whistle-octave moments in case you want to break a few windows or annoy your dog. (or even fish. as i play this, Hellboy’s fish is literally beating himself against his fishbowl. do fish have ears?)
so for me, the song is a juxtaposition of moods — mushy gushy or screetchingly excruciating. it just didn’t compute for me. and the la la la la la‘s drove me over the edge.
i will say, though, that now that i’m a mother, i can appreciate one part of the song. it’s hard to hear, but riperton is singing to her little daughter, maya, who is there with her during the recording. maya, for you trivia fans, would be SNL comedian maya rudolph.
in 1974, the anti-war billy, don’t be a hero was a huge hit in the US for bo donaldson and the heywoods. strange, considering the song had been a monster hit in the UK earlier for the band paper lace, whose version didn’t chart well here. (don’t cry for them, argentina. they later gave us the ear-bleeder the night chicago died, a song i’d write novels about if november had more than 30 days. lord, that one sucks worse.) i think they had another minor hit, and then, bo went buh-bye!
for a time, every sunday (or so it seemed), we would pile into the car at dinner and meet our friends, the weiners, at Sizzler in Brick (or Bricktown, or Brick Township — no one ever knew what the place was really called; my old biology teacher, who drove through there every day on his way to school merely referred to it as land of the free and home of the truck driver. may he rest in peace.) i really hated sizzler — i don’t care for steak, so i pretty much was relegated to the salad bar and the texas toast. but i loved having dinner with these folks — there was my BTD’s best friend as well as his younger brother, who was a year older than i. so there i was with two 15 year old guys, a 12 year old, and an 11 year old. (nevermind that two of those boys were my brothers, BTD and the now-dubbed middlebro, so they didn’t count as guys.)
sometimes, they’d even talk to 9-year-old moi.
one time, we went back to the weiner’s house. for reasons i cannot fathom, i recall all of us kids in the older son’s room, listening to the single of billy don’t be a hero, and lip synching the whole thing. i remember we had to organize ourselves into parts (i suspect BTD was behind that) — who was singing, who was playing guitar. because i had taken up the flute, i was the person who played that flute-y-fife-y part that runs through the song, over and over, like a demented pennywhistle. and oh! i felt special. they. were. talking. to. me.
later, i’d thank them by eavesdropping on their conversation when the oldest son came and slept over with BTD. [note to all 9 year old little siblings out there: don’t eavesdrop by leaning into the bedroom door. it’s probably not closed, and when you fall in, there will be hell to pay. promise.]
middlebro seems to remember us seeing bo donaldson and the heywoods perform this at disneyworld. maybe he’ll chime in on the comments, as i don’t somehow remember that.
muskrat susie, muskrat sam, do the jitterbug with some purloined ham. i guess dancing rats are less magical than some muskrats jamming to glenn miller. i mean, when i think of romance, i always think that muskrats truly capture the imagination in a way that, well, gerbils just cannot.
[note to any gerbils out there: don’t flame me. and while you’re at it, leave richard gere alone, too, you furry little bastards.]
in all fairness, captain and tennille didn’t write this mellow song about romantic rodents; they, like their soft rock compadres america were merely covering a song written in 1972 by whatcha talkin’ boutwillis alan ramsey (the original title: muskrat candlelight. no. not making that one up, either.) as an english major, i am compelled to find the metaphorical meaning in everything. however, i am sad to report that this song is actually about muskrats in love. and no, it apparently was not written for a cute little cartoon, either.
we may never know what inspired this song. i don’t want to think too hard about it myself. i think it could be too disturbing.
but one does wonder: with all the choices out there to cover, why on EARTH did they choose this one? with their connections to the beach boys, to elton john, to pink freakin’ floyd for cryin’ out loud, why did they choose this clunker? and what did the american public find it so charming?
escape (the pina colada song) is the last hit of the 1970s and the first hit of the 1980s. (if i had realized this at the dawn of that decade, i would have crawled into a cave and waited for the 1990s to come.) it didn’t start out as a monster hit; most people didn’t get it when it was simply called escape. but hell — they knew the pina colada part, so some smart record company stiff added (the pina colada song) and the song went like gangbusters.
i couldn’t drink (legally) at age 14 when this song came out. i didn’t like wussy songs that talked about getting caught in the rain or some froo-froo coconut concoction. i liked the cars; i liked blondie; i liked the police; i liked tom petty and the heartbreakers. in short, i liked things that either rocked or gave me new wave chills. this song did none of the above; it merely seemed like a monotonous radio death march, accessible for married people over 40.
now that i am a married person over 40, i come to this song with a new appreciation. well, maybe appreciation is not quite the word i’m after. annoyance, i suppose. i mean, think about it: if i was dissatisfied with my beloved spouse (AKA BS) and i put a classified out there in the world looking for Mr-Right-Take-Two (in the manner that the singer, a passive-aggressive bastard who can’t actually talk to his girlfriend about their relationship, did); and if i went to that smoky bar and found out that the ad had been answered by BS, would i be laughing with BS about the fact that we have so very much in common? would i be thrilled that the classified had brought us together?
hell, no. i’d be calling up a lawyer.
gee whiz, if i were writing a classified ad to this song, i think it would go something like this:
well, i’m not having anybody’s baby at the moment, but i am probably in surgery having my gallbladder removed. (ah, the glamorous life.) so instead of blathering on about how bad this song is (and i defy any of you to tell me, in 50 words or less, why this song rocks your world), i am linking to jason hare’s adventures through the mines of mellow gold. he explains, so much better than i ever could, why this song is awful piled atop awful.
read it. it will make you lose control of your bladder. in a good way.
props to college pal and indie musicologist mike for the suggestion.
and don’t be a hater. i had to write this in advance.
cheaterpants, cheaterpants, i know! originally released in 1977, it didn’t become a monster hit until 1982. and still, it’s here, nestled among the 70s freaks, as i feel it’s the ultimate 1970s trainwreck of a song, and, by gum, it’s the ultimate assault on the ears.
let’s break down this lovely song, shall we?
Hey lady, you lady, cursing at your life
You’re a discontented mother and a regimented wife
I’ve no doubt you dream about the things you’ll never do
But, I wish someone had talked to me
Like I wanna talk to you…..
yeah, cos i’m about to rub in all the insane things i’ve had the chance to do while you spent your 20s or 30s barefoot and pregnant with that boring guy with the 9-to-5 down at the hardware store. hang on to your milk of magnesia, sister, cos your life really blows in comparison.
Oh, I’ve been to Georgia and California and anywhere I could run
I took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun
But I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free
I’ve been to paradise but I’ve never been to me
remember that miniseries, thornbirds? yeah, that was me, and sheee-yit, i was hot. only the guy wanted to get married. what a bourgeois bore. i made like a priest and got the hell out of there. pity. those religious sorts are the freakiest, i tell ya.
Please lady, please lady, don’t just walk away ‘Cause I have this need to tell you why I’m all alone today
I can see so much of me still living in your eyes
Won’t you share a part of a weary heart that has lived million lies….
wait. i’m not done belittling you yet.
Oh, I’ve been to Nice and the Isle of Greece while I’ve sipped champagne on a yacht
I’ve moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed ’em what I’ve got
I’ve been undressed by kings and I’ve seen some things that a woman ain’t supposed to see
I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me
have you been to europe? oh, it’s lovely. the mediterranean is just delightful during the warmer seasons. and i’ve gotten men to buy me all sorts of things. designer clothes. fine wines. amazing times. oh, sure, i had to compromise a little and go out with some of the old, rich farts, but still. they are so grateful, you know?
[spoken]
Hey, you know what paradise is?
It’s a lie, a fantasy we create about people and places as we’d like them to be
But you know what truth is?
It’s that little baby you’re holding, it’s that man you fought with this morning
The same one you’re going to make love with tonight
That’s truth, that’s love……
oh, i’m sorry. did i upset you while regaling you with my glamorous life? really, your life is good, too. i hear your husband is up for promotion as assistant clerk at the hardware store. that’s really great. uh, really great.
oh. you’ve got baby spit on your shoulder.
Sometimes I’ve been to crying for unborn children that might have made me complete
But I took the sweet life, I never knew I’d be bitter from the sweet
I’ve spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that costs too much to be free
Hey lady……
I’ve been to paradise, (I’ve been to paradise)
But I’ve never been to me
yeah, i could have chosen your path, but i’m just not cut out for that daily grind of normalcy. oh sure, i am sorry i don’t have kids, i’m sorry i don’t have a steady paycheckmealticket, er, husband. Dog forbid i go out and support myself. why do that when there’s an army of men out there who can do it for me. of course, i’m not getting any younger…
(I’ve been to Georgia and California, and anywhere I could run)
I’ve been to paradise, never been to me
(I’ve been to Nice and the isle of Greece while I’ve sipped champagne on a yacht)
I’ve been to paradise, never been to me
(I’ve been to cryin’ for unborn children that might have made me complete)
I’ve been to paradise, never been to me
(I’ve been to Georgia and California, and anywhere I could run)
I’ve been to paradise, never been to me
damn. i think it’s time i looked into plastic surgery.
bet you thought i was going to talk about modest mouse. psyche!
one-hit wonders the floaters enjoyed the sweet smell of success with float on, a song that came to singer james mitchell in a dream. you know, lots of things come to me in dreams, but you don’t see me inflicting that crap on anyone other than my husband, now, do you?
does anyone else think the song sounds like it could be background music in a porno?
anyway, lucky us, we got the chance to familiarize ourselves with each member of the group — and their astrology. i especially loved to make fun of my brother, who shares the name with the last singing member of that group:
Cancer and my name is Larry, huh
And I like a woman
That loves everything and everybody
Because I love everybody and everything
And you know what, ladies,
If you feel that this is you
Then this is what I want you to do
yeah, i see the big gold necklace, too.
tell me, what woman in her right mind would want to hook up with a guy who talks about astrology? where i come from, that sets off your gaydar, or at least an alan alda alert. hmph. a man who loves everybody and everything? does that include animals?
happy birthday, BS. this one’s for you, you all-american guy.
C. W. McCall (Bill Fries) made truckers cool (an oxymoron if ever there was one) and started a huge citizens band (CB) radio craze in the mid-1970s, all because of his novelty hit convoy. yes, children, the 70s were full of novelty hits, some dumb, some dumber, and some incredibly moronic. my favorites were the type made by the late, great dickie goodman, like mr. jaws, where goodman would interlace a story with snippets of popular songs. i would spend my days writing my own versions of mr. jaws — i turned one in to my music teacher as an assignment. i’m sure i got a pat on the head and a note in my permanent record.
but convoy is a classic piece of white trash. i blame it for things like the popularity of the dukes of hazzard, for one thing. yay! let’s sing about burly men who probably think cracker barrel is the height of american cuisine! i admit, the lyrics are sheer poetry. how to pick favorite parts of the song? like trying to pick out which cousin i would rather marry which child is my favorite.
but i’m game.
There ‘as armored cars, and tanks, and Jeeps
An’ rigs of every size
Yeah them chicken coops ‘as full a bears
An’ choppers filled the skies
Well we shot the line, an’ we went for broke
With a thousand screamin’ trucks
And eleven long-haired friends of Jesus
In a chartreuse microbus
chartreuse? wow. that’s a .50 word right there, mr. trucker.
the song was absolutely HUGE in christmas of 1975 when my family drove on down to florida for our semi-annual holiday visit to the grandparents. and kids, since this was years before we had tape players in our cars (dad didn’t get a tape player in a car until the 1980s showed up), we were at the very mercy of local radio stations. (and all this in an era when I-95 was not exactly completed.) oh yes, there were moments when we could get musicradio WABC, all the way from NYC, in the middle of the night in the middle of the carolinas; but mostly, we were at the mercy of deep south local radio. which, at that time, seemed to be heavy on country and revivals and local chatter.
we would pray to get some top 40 station (this was before we ended up listening, nonstop, to FM and the glories of album-oriented rock.) and no matter where we were in our travels, we would hear CONVOY screaming from the little tinny radio. at one point, when we were driving over some florida bridge, someone thought they saw a condor, and then, the song became CONDOR to my family. to this day, i am not entirely sure whether it’s about a truck or a bird.
a few summers later, a friend’s family took me on vacation. we drove from NJ to NC. her dad had a CB radio in the car, and there we were, two nice jewish young teens, attempting to talk CB to truckers all over the south. i’m not exactly certain, but i think there were a few truckers out there that were pretty annoyed by our pathetic attempts to talk on the air. in short, nice jewish girls should not be on CB radios talking to truckers.
later on, i believe there was a convoy christmas song released. nothing says christmas like a song about truck drivers because everyone knows deep-down that santa is a redneck. just look at the suit!
(oh santa baby, if you’re out there: just kidding.)
