As this series heads towards the end of 1984, it's worth noting here that a 1983 Gallup Poll of people between the ages of 13 and 25 named Journey as their favorite rock band. I wasn't in that demographic yet, but my favorite cassette was Purple Rain at this time, followed closely by Def Leppard's Pyromania. I was living at my aunt's house in Brockton, Massachusetts; she had MTV and two daughters a few years older than me. The oldest one was a talented artist, and the Little Red Corvette she had absent-mindedly drawn on one of my book covers got me serious cool points in my new elementary school.
We don't usually do auto-bio stuff in this blog, but I've got some space to fill because the song I'm supposed to write about here is bland trash. I'm not being a snob. Mr. Perry's previous solo single, "Oh Sherrie" is great (it's a 7), my favorite thing he ever did, including his work with Journey, a band who's induction in the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame Inc., as far as I'm concerned, pretty much invalidates the existence of a Rock N Roll Hall of Fame Inc.
Strung Out isn't a song about heroin addiction, or is it? (it isn't). It's unmemorable light-rock, so unmemorable I feel weird giving it a score. How do you score something that barely exists? How do you score a piece of music that feels like it wasn't made to do anything? It's like giving a reading assessment test to a pig. Like, what's the fucking point?
But this column aspires to revel in, and subvert, the idea of quantifiable data, so the premise requires us to give a score. Strung Out is a 1.
THE NUMBER ONE
Stevie holds on for a third straight week (one week longer than Let's Go Crazy so fuck everyone in America in 1984). This brings us back to an idea this column has provoked: Which is worse, a shitty song that you can't remember (like S. Perry's), or a shitty song that you can't get out of your head (like S. Wonder's).
We've already approached the awfulness of this song from a couple of different angles. This week let's do they lyrics. The verses list reasons why Stevie did not call the person, which implies that these are reasons why you would normally call someone. The song's premise is, in a hacky songwriter way, playing a romantic game that goes back as far as Shakespeare. It's the old, people normally woo in overly romantic ways, but I am going to pitch my woo without any romantic adornment at all, thus signifying the steadfastness and authenticity of my love, a love that, by not being tied to any occasion, will show indirectly that it can weather the passing of time better than those other extravagant woo-pitchers, which actually makes ME the romantic one.
It's bullshit of course. Because, as pro music critics have been falling over themselves for the past decade-plus to triumphantly point out, people can, being aware of what authenticity looks like, actually perform it. Of course, most pro music critics, being the kind of straightforward simple people they are, then conclude there must not be any such thing as authenticity, or at the very least, it isn't relevant in evaluating a piece of music. Which is a stupid idea of course. There is a difference between Leadbelly's blues music and the blues music of, say, New York Knicks owner James Dolan. Or, to continue the Leadbelly connection, there's a difference between Nirvana's version of In The Pines and this one.
Because this blog sometimes aspires to be, on occasion, a kind of corrective to contemporary pro-music-crit, I'll go ahead and explain the difference. It isn't authenticity on a simple, objective level. Neither Kurt or John Sprocket explicitly lived the experiences they sing about (neither's daddy was a railroad man killed a mile-and-a-half from here being the most obvious example). A work of art can't be authentic, it can only feel authentic or not feel authentic. And because that is totally, completely subjective, it means that we can argue about it. The problem comes when we argue about the first part (Bob Dylan was actually a middle-class jewish kid from Minnesota, and not a rail-hopping hobo--therefore his entire musical output is a LIE) when it's only the second part that's important (Blind Willie McTell is one of the most powerful, moving songs about slavery and its perpetual stain upon the American landscape and consciousness). The first conversation is boring. The second conversation is...well it's a little less boring.
So Stevie Wonder. Yeah. Here are things that, in the context of the song, are considered totally normal reasons why you would call someone:
- It's the first day of spring.
- To sing someone a song.
- To announce their "wedding saturday within the month of june" (this is known in the poetry world as trainwreck of forced meter).
- I am high and it's summertime (to be fair, I would love to receive this phone call).
- Because there is a "harvest moon to light one tender August night."
- Autumn breeze.
- Falling leaves.
- Libra sun (whatever that means).
- It's time for birds to fly to southern skies.
Compared to those things, I think calling to say "I love you" makes way more sense. That seems like a totally normal, sane, not-at-all-disturbing reason to call someone. The others, not so much. I suggest you call someone (or I guess text them, or DM them, b/c it's not okay to call people on the phone anymore) today and tell them "I just called to tell you about the Libra sun," and see where that takes you.
Score: 2. I decided to add a point this week on account of the bizarre lyrics. It gives me something pleasurable to focus on next time I hear it.
No comments:
Post a Comment