by Dave Barry
Anyway, I could not quite believe that, 25 years later, I was really and truly in a band with Al Kooper, and that he was actually asking for my opinion on musical issues. “Do you think,” he would ask, “that you could play in the same key as the rest of us?”
So, OK, skillwise I’m not Eric Clapton. But I was louder than Eric Clapton, as well as many nuclear tests. I had an amplifier large enough to serve as public housing. It had a little foot switch, and when I pressed it, I was able to generate sound waves that will affect the global climate for years to come. We can only hope that Saddam Hussein is not secretly developing a foot switch like this.
We practiced six long hours the first day, and at the end, Al Kooper called us together for an inspirational talk.
“When we started this morning, we stunk,” he said. “But by this afternoon, we stunk much better. Maybe eventually we can be just a faint odor.”
In the evenings we engaged in literary activities such as going to see the movie Alien . I was concerned about this, because when I watch horror movies I tend to whimper and clutch the person sitting next to me, who in this particular case was Stephen King. But as it turned out, the alien didn’t scare me at all; I live in Miami, and we have cockroaches that are at least that size, but more aggressive. The only scary part was when Sigourney Weaver got injected with a hypodermic needle, which on the movie screen was approximately 27 feet long. This caused me to whimper and clutch Stephen King, but I was pleased to note that he was whimpering and clutching his wife, Tabitha.
But the real thrill came when our band finished practicing and actually played. The performance was in a big dance hall called the Cowboy Boogie, where hundreds of booksellers and publishing-industry people had drunk themselves into a highly literary mood. The show went great. The audience whooped and screamed and threw underwear. Granted, some of it was extra-large men’s Jockey briefs, but underwear is underwear. We belted out our songs, singing, with deep concern for literacy in our voices, such lyrics as:
You got to do the Mammer Jammer If you want my love.
Also a group of rock critics got up with us and sang a version of “Louie Louie” so dirty that the U.S. Constitution should, in my opinion, be modified specifically to prohibit it.
Also—so far this is the highlight of my life—I got to play a lead-guitar solo while dancing the Butt Dance with Al Kooper. To get an idea how my solo sounded, press the following paragraph up against your ear:
BWEEEOOOOOAAAAPPPPPP
Ha ha! Isn’t that great? Your ear is bleeding.
Mustang Davey
Recently, I was chosen to serve as a musical consultant to the radio industry.
Actually, it wasn’t the entire industry; it was a woman named Marcy, who called me up at random one morning while I was picking my teeth with a business card as part of an ongoing effort to produce a column.
“I’m not selling anything,” Marcy said.
Of course when callers say this, they usually mean that they ARE selling something, so I was about to say “No thank you” in a polite voice, then bang the receiver down with sufficient force to drive phone shards deep into Marcy’s brain, when she said she was doing a survey for the radio industry about what songs should be played on the air.
That got my attention, because radio music is an issue I care deeply about. I do a lot of singing in the car. You should hear Aretha Franklin and me perform our version of “I Say a little Prayer for You,” especially when our voices swoop way up high for the ending part that goes, “My darling BELIEVE me, for me there is nooo WAHHHHHAAANNNN.” My technique is to grip the steering wheel with both hands and lift myself halfway out of the seat so that I can give full vocal expression to the emotion that Aretha and I are feeling, which is a mixture of joyous hope and bittersweet longing and the horror of realizing that the driver of the cement truck three feet away is staring at me, at which point I pretend that I am having a coughing seizure while Aretha finishes the song on her own.
I think they should play that song more often on the radio, along with “Brown-Eyed Girl,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and of course the Isley Brothers’ version of “Twist and Shout,” which, if you turn it up loud enough, can propel you beyond mere singing into the stage where you have to get out of the car and dance with tollbooth attendants.
On the other hand, it would not trouble me if the radio totally ceased playing ballad-style songs by Neil Diamond. I realize that many of you are huge Neil Diamond fans, so let me stress that in matters of musical taste, everybody is entitled to an opinion, and yours is wrong. Consider the song “I Am, I Said,” wherein Neil, with great emotion, sings:
I am, I said To no one there And no one heard at all Not even the chair.
What kind of line is that? Is Neil telling us he’s surprised that the chair didn’t hear him? Maybe he expected the chair to say, “Whoa, I heard THAT.” My guess is that Neil was really desperate to come up with something to rhyme with “there,” and he had already rejected “So I ate a pear,” “Like Smokey the Bear,” and “There were nits in my hair.”
So we could do without this song. I also believe that we should use whatever means are necessary—and I do not exclude tactical nuclear weapons—to prevent radio stations from ever playing “Honey,” “My Way,” “I Write the Songs,” “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden,” and “Watchin’ Scottie Grow.” I have holes in my car radio from stabbing the station-changing button when these songs come on. Again, you may disagree with me, but if you know so much, how come the radio industry didn’t randomly survey you?
The way the survey worked was, Marcy played two-second snippets from about two dozen songs; after each snippet I was supposed to say whether I liked the song or not. She’d play, for example, “Don’t Worry, Baby” by the Beach Boys and I’d shout “YES! PLAY THE WHOLE THING!” and she’d say, “OK, that’s a ‘like.’ Or she’d play “Don’t You Care” by the Buckinghams, and I’d make a noise like a person barfing up four feet of intestine, and Marcy would say, “OK, that’s a ‘don’t like.’”
The problem was that I wasn’t allowed to suggest songs. I could only react to the generally mediocre candidates that were presented. It was just like the presidential elections. This is too bad, because there are a lot of good songs that never get played. My wife and I are constantly remarking on this. I’ll say, “Do you remember a song called ‘Boys’?” And Beth, instantly, will respond, “Bop shoo-bop, boppa boppa SHOO-bop.” Then both of us, with a depth of emotion that we rarely exhibit when discussing world events, will say, “They NEVER play that!”
I tried suggesting a couple of songs to Marcy. For example, after she played the “Don’t Worry, Baby” snippet, I said, “You know there’s a great Beach Boys song that never gets played called “Custom Machine.” The chorus goes:
Step on the gas, she goes WAA-AAA-AAHH I’ll let you look But don’t touch my custom machine!
I did a good version of this, but Marcy just went “Huh” and played her next snippet, which was “I Go to Pieces” by a group that I believe is called Two British Weenies. I don’t care for that song, and I told Marcy as much, but I still keep hearing it on the radio. Whereas I have yet to hear “Custom Machine.” It makes me wonder if the radio industry really cares what I think,
or if I’m just a lonely voice crying out, and nobody hears me at all. Not even the chair.
The Whammies
In a recent column I noted that certain songs are always getting played on the radio, despite the fact that these songs have been shown, in scientific laboratory tests, to be bad. One example I cited was Neil Diamond’s ballad “I Am, I Said,” in which Nell complains repeatedly that nobody hears him, “not even the chair.” I pointed out that this does not make a ton of sense, unless Neil has unusually intelligent furniture. (“Mr. Diamond, your BarcaLounger is on line two.”)
Well, it turns out there are some major Neil Diamond fans out there in Readerland. They sent me a large pile of hostile mail with mouth froth spewing ou
t of the envelope seams. In the interest of journalistic fairness, I will summarize their main arguments here:
Dear Pukenose: just who the hell do you think you are to blah blah a great artist like Neil blah blah more than 20 gold records blah blah how many gold records do YOU have, you scum-sucking wad of blah blah I personally have attended 1,794 of Neil’s concerts blah blah What about “Love on the Rocks” Huh? What about “Cracklin’ Rosie”? blah blah if you had ONE-TENTH of Neil’s talent blah blah so I listened to “Heart Light” 40 times in a row and the next day the cyst was GONE and the doctor said he had never seen such a rapid blah blah. What about “Play Me”? What about “Song Sung Blah”? Cancel my subscription, if I have one.
So we can clearly see that music is a matter of personal taste. Person A may hate a particular song, such as “Havin’ My Baby” by Paul Anka (who I suspect is also Neil Sedaka), and Person B might love this song. But does this mean that Person B is wrong? Of course not. It simply means that Person B is an idiot. Because some songs are just plain bad, and “Havin’ My Baby” is one of them, and another one is “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”
That’s not merely my opinion: That’s the opinion of many readers who took time out from whatever they do, which I hope does not involve operating machinery, to write letters containing harsh remarks about these and other songs. In fact, to judge from the reader reaction, the public is a lot more concerned about the issue of song badness than about the presidential election campaign (which by the way is over, so you can turn on your TV again).
And it’s not just the public. It’s also the media. I put a message on the Miami Herald’s computer system, asking people to nominate the worst rock song ever, and within minutes I was swamped with passionate responses. And these were from newspaper people, who are legendary for their cold-blooded noninvolvement (“I realize this is a bad time for you, Mrs. Weemer, but could you tell me how you felt when you found Mr. Weemer’s head”). Even the managing editor responded, arguing that the worst rock song ever was “whichever one led to the second one.”
Other popular choices were “A Horse with No Name,” performed by America; “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero,” by Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods; “Kung Fu Fighting,” by Carl Douglas; “Copacabana,” by Barry Manilow; “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo,” by Lobo; “Seasons in the Sun,” by Terry Jacks; “Feelings,” by various weenies; “Precious and Few” by some people who make the weenies who sang “Feelings” sound like Ray Charles; “The Pepsi Song,” by Ray Charles; “Muskrat Love,” by The Captain and Tennille; every song ever recorded by Bobby Goldsboro; and virtually every song recorded since about 1972.
“It’s worse than ever” is how my wife put it.
Anyway, since people feel so strongly about this issue, I’ve decided to conduct a nationwide survey to determine the worst rock song ever. I realize that similar surveys have been done before, but this one will be unique: This will be the first rock-song survey ever, to my knowledge, that I’ll be able to get an easy column out of.
So I’m asking you to consider two categories: Worst Overall Song and Worst lyrics. In the second category, for example, you might want to consider a song I swear I heard back in the late 1950s, which I believe was called “Girls Grow Up Faster Than Boys Do.” I’ve been unable to locate the record, but the chorus went:
Won’t you take a look at me now You’ll be surprised at what you see now I’m everything a girl should be now Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-Five!
I’m sure you can do worse than that.
Send your card today. Be in with the “in” crowd. We’ll have joy, we’ll have fun. So Cracklin’ Rosie, get on board, because Honey, I miss you. AND your dog named Boo.
The Worst Songs Ever Recorded
BAD SONG SURVEY
PART ONE
Before I present the results of the Bad Song Survey, here’s an important BRAIN TAKEOVER ALERT: Be advised that this column names certain songs that you hate and have tried to suppress, but as soon as you read their names your brain will start singing “Yoouunngg girl, get out of my mind; my love for you is way out of line” ... over and over AND YOU CAN’T STOP IT AIEEEEEEE. Thank you.
First, I have NEVER written a column that got a bigger response than the one announcing the Bad Song Survey. Over 10,000 readers voted, with cards still coming in. Also, wherever I went people expressed their views to me, often gripping my shirt to emphasize their points. (“You know that song about
pina coladas? I hate that song. I HATE IT!”) Song badness is an issue that Americans care deeply about. Second, you Neil Diamond fans out there can stop writing irate unsigned letters telling me that I am not worthy to be a dandruff flake on Neil’s head, OK? (Not that I am saying Neil has dandruff.) Because you have convinced me: Neil Diamond is GOD. I no longer see anything but genius in the song where he complains that his chair can’t hear him. Unfortunately, a lot of survey voters are not so crazy about Neil’s work, especially the part of “Play Me” where he sings: ... song she sang to me, song she brang to me ...
Of course I think those lyrics are brilliant; however, they brang out a lot of hostility in the readers. But not as much as “Lovin’ You,” sung by Minnie Riperton, or “Sometimes When We Touch,” sung by Dan Hill, who sounds like he’s having his prostate examined by Captain Hook.
Many people still deeply resent these songs. Many others would not rule out capital punishment for anyone convicted of having had anything to do with Gary Puckett and the Union Gap (“Woman,” “Young Girl,” and “This Girl Is a Man Now,” which some voters argue are all the same song).
Likewise there are boiling pools of animosity out there for Barry “I Write the Songs” Manilow, Olivia “Have You Never Been Mellow” Newton-John, Gilbert “Alone Again, Naturally” O’Sullivan, The Village “YMCA” People, Tony “Knock Three Times” Orlando, and of course Yoko “Every Song I Ever Performed” Ono. And there is no love lost for the Singing Nun.
The voters are ANGRY. A typical postcard states: “The number one worst piece of pus-oozing, vomit-inducing, camel-spitting, cow-phlegm rock song EVER in the history of the solar system is ‘Dreams of the Everyday Housewife.’” (Amazingly, this song was NOT performed by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap.)
Here are some other typical statements:
* “I’d rather chew a jumbo roll of tinfoil than hear ‘Hey Paula’ by Paul and Paula.”
* “Whenever I hear the Four Seasons’ ‘Walk Like a Man,’ I want to scream,
‘Frankie, SING like a man!’”
* “I wholeheartedly believe that ‘Ballerina Girl’ is responsible for 90
percent of the violent crimes in North America today.”
* “I nominate every song ever sung by the Doobie Brothers. Future ones also.”
* “Have you noticed how the hole in the ozone layer has grown progressively larger since rap got popular?”
Sometimes the voters were so angry that they weren’t even sure of the name of the song they hated. There were votes against “These Boots Are Made for Stomping”; the Beach Boys’ classic “Carolina Girls”; “I’m Nothing But a Hound Dog”; and “Ain’t No Woman Like the One-Eyed Gott.” A lot of people voted for “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” offering a variety of interpretations of the chorus, including: “Weem-o-wep,” “Wee-ma-wack,” “Weenawack,” “A-ween-a-wap,” and “Wingle whip.”
Many readers are still very hostile toward the song “Wildfire,” in which singer Michael Murphy wails for what seems like 97 minutes about a lost pony. (As one voter put it: “Break a leg, Wildfire.”) Voter Steele Hinton particularly criticized the verse wherein there came a killing frost, which causes Wildfire to get lost. As Hinton points out: ... ‘killing’ in ‘killing frost’ refers to your flowers and your garden vegetables, and when one is forecast you should cover your tomatoes ... Nobody ever got lost in a killing frost who wouldn’t get lost in July as well.”
There was also a solid vote for Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,�
�� a real fun party song. Several voters singled out the line: “As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most.”
Speaking of bad lyrics, there were votes for:
* Cream’s immortal “I’m So Glad,” which eloquently expresses the feeling of being glad, as follows: “I’m so glad! I’m so glad! I’m glad, I’m glad,
I’m glad!” (Repeat one billion times.)
* “La Bamba,” because the lyrics, translated, are: “I am not a sailor. I am a captain, I am a captain, I am a captain.” And he is probably glad.
* “Johnny Get Angry,” performed by Joanie Sommers, who sings: “Johnny get angry, Johnny get mad; Give me the biggest lecture I ever had; I want a
BRAVE man, I want a CAVE man ...”
* “Take the Money and Run,” in which Steve Miller attempts to rhyme “Texas” with “what the facts is,” not to mention “hassle” with “El Paso.”
* “Torn Between Two lovers.” (Reader comment: “Torn, yes, hopefully on the rack.”)
* “There Ain’t Enough Room in My Fruit of the Looms to Hold All My Love for You.” (This might not be a real song, but I don’t care.)
Certainly these are all very bad songs, but the scary thing is: Not one song I’ve named so far is a winner. I’ll name the winners next week, after your stomach has settled down. Meanwhile, here are some more songs you should NOT think about: “Baby I’m-a Want You,” “Candy Man,” “Disco Duck,” “I Am Woman,” “Itsy-Bitsy Teeny-Weeny Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini,” “Last Kiss,” “Patches,” “The Night Chicago Died,” “My Ding-a-Ling,” and “My Sharona.” Just FORGET these songs. Really.
P.S. Also “Horse with No Name.”
And The Winner Is ...
BAD SONG SURVEY
PART Two
I hope you haven’t had anything to eat recently, because, as promised last week, today I am presenting the winners of the Bad Song Survey.
