Five Things-Top 5 Worst Songs Edition-Pt. 1: May 4, 2014

The five worst songs. It’s a tall order. We’re talkin’ Sears Tower tall.

I’ve been mulling about writing such a post for a long time. It’s a toughie because there’s so much shitty music out there that’s been poisoning our souls for decades.

Recently, I ran this topic up the flagpole that is Facebook, and received many varied responses. What I hate, others love and what others hate, I love. I toyed with the idea of adding my friends’ responses, but naaaaah … nah … this ain’t about them. If they wanna bitch about music, they can start their own blogs.

Narrowing the list to FIVE isn’t easy which is why I’m working on an installment plan. Stay tuned for more lists like this.

Aaand we’re off!

Oh, and these are in no particular order.

1) “We Built This City” by Starship, or Jefferson Airplane or Jefferson Starship or whatever the entire fuck they were calling themselves back then.

This next tidbit made me wanna hurl: Bernie Taupin CO-WROTE this shit sandwich. Yes, possibly the finest lyricist of any generation co-penned this fucker. I do hope he got paid well because this is embarrassing. And Abraham Lincoln jamming in this video? If he were alive today, he’d go back to the Ford Theater for an encore after learning he lip-synched the lyrics.

 

2) “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman.

Seriously, run the fuck over the person with a big, fast car who thought this was a good song to do. This song makes me wanna hurt myself because it’s such a doggie downer. It’s like “Requiem For A Dream” but the song version. When I’m driving, and I hear the first few guitar licks of this song on the radio, I have to change the channel immediately or I’ll slam head-first into the first cement truck I see just to put me out of my misery.

I couldn’t even find the original video for this and you wanna know why? Because even the folks who did the vid think it sucks, therefore, they didn’t relinquish the rights to let folks watch it on the Internets.

 

3) “What I Am” by Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians.

You know, it physically hurts me to write about this song, but I need to. I gotta get it out…you know..to heal my dark soul.

Let’s take a gander at those bon mots a bit more closely:

I’m not aware of too many things 
I know what I know, if you know what I mean 
Philosophy is the talk on a cereal box 
Religion is the smile on a dog 
I’m not aware of too many things 
I know what I know, if you know what I mean, d-doo yeah 

I remember when this song came out, and she was allll the rage of my generation. “Oh, she’s so deep–she says that philosophy is as simple as what’s written on breakfast food packaging…”

I thought she needed a bath, and a good stylist.

The Paul Simons, in court. (via AP)

The Paul Simons, in court. (via AP)

Now all she needs is a good lawyer. 

Oh, Mrs. Paul Simon… I just can’t.

 

4) “Into the Night” by Benny Mardones

I swear, this is the child rapists’ anthem.

Here’s the convo I just had about this song:

Me: He’s a fucking Pervy McPerversons!

Pal: What? (He starts watching the vid)

After a few seconds…

Pal: It’s not like he wants to bang her! He wants pick her up, and fly her around…in the night!

He keeps watching… 

Pal: I like his shirt though.

Me: SHE’S SIXTEEN!

We continue watching… 

Me: Eww, he’s wearing JAZZ SHOES and they’re on a carpet. She’s wearing nude hose with wedge sandals so I guess it’s ok.

Pal: Why didn’t anyone complain about this when it was originally released?

Me: Dunno. Maybe pervy men weren’t a problem back in the early ’80s.

Pal: Here’s what the lyrics SHOULD be:

She’s not the age of consent
She makes me hard, I say
I’m just a giant perv, mmkay…

Here are some of the lyrics …

She’s just 16 years old
Leave her alone, they say
Separated by fools
Who don’t know what love is yet
But I want you to know

If I could fly
I’d pick you up
I’d take you into the night
And show you a love
Like you’ve never seen, ever seen

This song is quite catchy–if you pay no attention to the lyrics whatsoever.

I’m done.

 

5) “Two Princes” by the Spin Doctors

What woman would send a doofus in a stupid cardigan and wool cap flowers? Who would want to ‘talk for hours’ with someone who probably doesn’t bathe and therefore, smells like ass and patchouli?
This song is a suck-fest on so many levels … the cloying guitar riffs, the unimaginative drum line … the insipid lyrics. Oy vey.

They’re almost as sucky as the Counting Crows.

 

 

 

Suckwad McSuckersons

The gal with the mostest moxy on WordPress, Madame Weebles, had a great post earlier this week. So, whilst I was getting my sweat on during Bikram, I decided to answer the call of this siren and play along.

I blow donk at the following:

Not holding my tongue (shut up, pervs). Now, a little history about yours truly here. I’m a WASP (doormat) and with that pedigree comes learning how to make good conversatin’ at a wee age, a wicked sense of humor, a good edumacation and the ability to hold a lot of liquor and still be a McCrabass.

In other words, I’m a youngish Ouiser Boudreaux.

I wish.

However, when I was younger, the rule was to not talk about yourself (doing so was considered selfish), be polite and not ruffle any feathers (once again=doormat) regardless of what was being uttered to ruffle said feathers. Same goes for the utterer….right. Be polite to that person, then rip them to shreds when you’re with the fam. As I’ve aged, I’ve switched those two rules. Simply put, I don’t suffer fools lightly–and it shows. Now, I don’t immediately jump down someone’s gullet when they start spewing stupid, but I do when what has been said is either a right-out falsehood or an insult to me or mine. When I do say something, it’s usually quick and sharp, and has been known to harbor a certain amount of acidity that was part of my kind and genteel demeanor a few years ago. This is where I get into trouble–and lots of it. But changing my ways would be bad to my mental health so I’ve learned how to take what I dish out at a relatively early age.

My laziness when it comes to taking care of myself. I’m a lazy ass–I just am. I eat well, but if no food is in sight, I won’t eat. I’ll just think about food and hope that it’ll magically appear. On the plus side, I do Bikram yoga, go for long walks and drink copious amounts of water — and that’s about it aside from the occasional box of wine and trough of chocolate.

I can’t play basketball — at all. I’m turrible, turrible at it. What’s real odd is I believe that I should be good at it–why? I grew up playing tennis, riding to the hounds and plunging off of 3 meter springboards at break-neck speeds–where does basketball fit in?

Tally ho!

I don’t even like basketball all that much–same goes for baseball–come to think of it. The sight of me attempting to play can cause blindness so I don’t even try anymore because I do care about my fellow citizens that much.

Even Stanley is better than I am.

Being employed. I’ve been job-free for almost 2 years now and have no idea as to why I’m still not working, and find it odd that I’m persona non grata in the Chicago media world. I don’t want to talk about it though.

Overthinking. Being too cerebral. Too much in my head. This horrid habit tends to paralyze me at times. Instead of just “going for it”, I sit back and think of every possible thing that could go wrong AND right! Then, by the time I decide to go for it, the moment is gone and then there I am–holding my limp dick, or a limp dick. Depends on the situation I guess.

This next one may come as a shock, but I’m not all sweetness & light. I’m a born cynic. I see pictures of fluffy kittehs, puppehs and other woodland creatures, and do they warm the deep, dark parts of my soul? Nah. In fact, they fill me with dread because I know those critters are being pimped out for their cuteness but will soon be put back in some horrid basement or animal shelter somewheres because folks are too fucking stoopid/macho to get their animals fixed. Those animals never had a shot, see, and that sucks.

Pretending to like popular music–both new and old. I can’t stand 90 percent of the music that’s out today. It’s just pure horror produced by no talent shitstains who got lucky–or had someone killed so they could succeed. Same goes for old(er) stuff like Paul McCartney & Wings, Elvis Presley, Edie Brickell, U2, Tracy Chapman, John Mayer, DMB — I could go on and on, but I don’t want this bad juju on my blog. Plus, I wanna see the comments flow in about my audacity of not liking someone’s precious U2 or DMB.

So, to the 3 readers of this blog, what do you absolutely suck at?