i know, i know. you’re expecting another song from 30 years or so ago to be primed for the guilty pleasure monday pump. to be sure, picking on 1970s songs is like shooting fish in a teacup… or something like that. to prove i am an equal opportunity offender, i’ll pick something that i bet 95% of readers will look up from their keyboards and say wtf huh?

let me jog your memory in case you’re experiencing a senior moment prematurely. how many of you saw the wes anderson movie rushmore? (bet you didn’t remember that owen wilson was the co-writer of that screenplay. he’s pretty, he’s suicidal, and he’s very talented. can you say dream date pour moi?) perhaps you’ve lost the plot, but you could not forget the kickass soundtrack. (okay. well, i didn’t forget the soundtrack. BS and i actually wait at the end of every picture we see to read the music credits.)

i get it. you’re still not with me. okay.

the creation was one of the more underrated bands of the sixties. they started out mostly sounding like a cross between the kinks and the who during the mod era. they experimented with making pop art while on stage. eddie phillips, their lead guitarist, experimented with a violin bow and his guitar long before jimmy page made it famous.

unfortunately, they never had tremendous chart-topping success, which is just plain odd to me. if you listen to making time, it just s c r e a m s hit. just goes to show you – if you don’t have the right promotional people behind you, you can be a bloody genius and you still won’t gain financial success.

ah well.

i wonder if the surviving members got royalties from the film?

::scratches head::

::gets depressed thinking about it::

just listen to it, okay?

i’m stuck in the middle of the 1970s in guilty pleasure mondayville. there is SO MUCH fodder from the 1970s that i could cite. i may cite it all yet. (i’m sure you can’t wait.)

in fact, i should probably nominate my brother larry to write a guest column for guilty pleasure mondays. there is no one else who likes really awful 1970s music more. (yes, if there were a museum for bad 1970s music, he’d be the master curator — only he likes most of it.) and besides, y’all need to meet larry. he is the smartest, funniest, and nicest one of we three kids.

now that i think of it, it may even become my mission to make His Laziness Mr. Attila the Hun my beloved middle brother contribute a guilty pleasure one day, if only because it will give me hours of fun. and a day off 😉

in the meantime, i bring you a song i absolutely adore and have done since i first heard it on my friend jeanne’s jukebox: stuck in the middle with you by stealers wheel. i actually had two friends who had jukeboxes in their basements; but as i spent a lot more time in jeanne’s basement, i had a much greater familiarity with her jukebox, filled with lots of 1970s hits — as it was the 1970s at the time — and, much to jeanne’s chagrin, her ballet recital record. yes, a parent in that house had a good sense of humor and stuck the 45 (remember those?) in the last jukebox slot. whenever i wanted to piss jeanne off, i would press it. she’d go spare.

but i digress. per usual.

i don’t think much else happened to this UK band after this hit, which has been covered by at least one jillion different groups; but a few years later, the lead singer, gerry rafferty, ended up with a few hits of his own; but this early 70s group put out a song with an unforgettable guitar riff… so unforgettable that sheryl crow stole it in all i wanna do. (lucky for my girl sheryl, i love that song. and considering her brilliant choice in first names — spelled correctly, no less — it is difficult for me to get too annoyed by the creative ripoff. instead, i will consider it an homage to this earlier work.)

but why, why, WHY did quentin tarantino have to go and ruin it all by using it in a lighthearted scene in that fun, rascally romp known as reservoir dogs?

yeah. i’m definitely asking larry to write a column. i need the time to get certain images out of my brain.

ah, it’s guilty pleasure monday again. all the guilt. all of the pleasure. (at least for me, anyway.) if you’ve heard of this one, then you’re probably my age, or maybe a teensy whit younger or older. it’s a tiny little subset of american humanity, and it’s probably the only group who may actually recall this evanescent blip on the new wave radar.

the producers were an very early staple on very early MTV — you know, the station which formerly played music videos but now shows music videos only at random hours and moments, sandwiched between stupid reality shows and dorky dramas featuring incredibly spoiled people who have no grasp of reality? yeah, that one.

i loveloveloved watching videos on early MTV. didn’t care if people were just standing and faux playing in front of a moving background. loved it anyway. before that, i would watch videos during half-hour shows on my local cable station. i still remember watching split enz and devo being sooooo awed by the direction in which music seemed to be going. finally, something different from the 1970s pap which, while i loved, i had outgrown.

and i adored watching music on TV. i lived for those moments when i could watch videos on don kirschners’ rock concert or even american bandstand (with the ever-so-creepy dorian grey dick clark. he made me nervous, but i wanted to see and hear music, so i made some sacrifices.) so when MTV exploded into my world, i wanted my MTV, and i wanted it bad. at first, my cable carrier didn’t carry it, and i would go to friends’ homes in other towns and hope that they would put it on if they did have it. but soon enough, i had my MTV.

and i loved it. for awhile, anyway. then i got a life. but that’s a whole other story… 😉

so back to the producers. they burst onto MTV as a peppy, adorable new wave group. i think they even hosted an MTV new years eve show, or were on it, anyway. i don’t think much happened for them after that — i often wonder why. but they still tour, playing their brand of peppy pop. and i love pop. i don’t care who is singing it: a good hook is a good hook. it pulls you right in. and what’s he got has one.

it also has a favorite prom memory for me. (shut your eyes, dad. i know you’re reading this.) a fairly well-known jersey shore bar band, bystander, played my prom, a fairly non-memorable evening for me, as my then-boyfriend was away in north carolina or somewhere equally interesting. so, i went with a good friend from out of town whom i adored and who happened to be very, very attractive — just not to me, i had a boyfriend, remember? — and so several girls in my school were practically hanging all over him (poor guy), wondering what the hell he was doing with me.

naturally, i didn’t want to watch the good women of toms river north fawning all over my date (who, i’m sure, was enjoying the attention. and, as a good friend, i didn’t want to ruin his evening.) bo-ring. so, i took off for awhile and hung out with my friend sebouh, a guy who i hope i see again one day, in spite of the fact that he lobbied the entire senior class to vote for me as class pessimist just because he thought that would be hilarious. (i won.) (can you believe it? i can’t.)

bystander suddenly broke into a cover of what’s he got. sebouh and i started to pogo (yes, children, things like that passed for dancing back in those early 80s days). and as they sang:

what’s he got that i ain’t got?

immediately, i yelled out: A DICK!

(well, it’s TRUE! i am a girl, you know. a seriously classy 18 year old girl at that moment, to be exact. dad, i told you to cover your eyes.)

people around us thought that was hilarious. girls and guys began to chant that at the appropriate place in the song.

yep. i don’t remember much about my prom. but i remember that moment, thinking wow, i couldn’t unite these people to do a hell of a lot. but i could unite them into screaming an obscenity.

that, my friends, is power.

(or, perhaps, a lot of kids just dying to rebel.)

i’m really going to get laughed off the internet for this one. or at least sent to hell via a certain river.

no, not the chickenmaster’s lady. not lay lady lay (which makes me want to vomit — what the hell was dylan thinking? was this recorded pre- or post-motorcycle incident?) not even layla, a fantastic ode to patti boyd harrison clapton boyd-again.

we’re talking styx here, people. lady. as sung by dennis de young, maybe vocally separated at birth from my very favourite professional poker player, daniel negreanu.

i love this song. and it ought to be against some law for anyone else to sing it.

i glommed onto this song when i was a wee lass of nine. there was something cool about it — it was slow and pretty, and, at the same time, it was fast and rrrrrockin’. (yeah. for those of you under the age of 40, that’s how people talked in the 1970’s. far out, man!) i remember being reminded of the song one night when i heard it while watching a late, lamented show, freaks and geeks.

and i hearted it all over again, much to the chagrin of my BS, who probably prefers something like, uh, i dunno, mr. roboto.

which just goes to show you. styx, in one way or another, is probably on everyone’s guilty pleasure list.

anyone over 40, that is.