To paraphrase Oscar Wilde (I think), the first duty in public conversation is to be as boring as possible. Nobody has figured out what the second duty is yet.
I can't remember the last time I overheard people talking--in a coffee shop, in a bar, in a restaurant, without wishing I could stop overhearing it. The stories people tell go on forever, seemingly without end, with details that go on forever without adding to the story. A story about someone else's camping trip unfolds in what feels like real time. A cat that lived at the campsite came into their tent. A girl in the tent was allergic to cats. Sniffling occurred. The cat kept coming in. The night passed. Morning arrived. The group went hiking. A list of things they saw is recited, in order, without any real elaboration or poetry. We saw this. And then we saw that. As if all life were prosaic.
I'll stop there. I can't help wondering if the past 15-20 years of living in what is, essentially, a surveillance state, has created a society where we have internalized the idea that we need to watch what we say in public. Americans have, in the words of Bush Press Secretary, Ari Fleischer "watch what they say, watch what they do" in the wake of 9/11. Maybe it would be more accurate, and more fair, to talk about people's fear, rather than their boredom. The fear of being exposed--as a social/political/cultural deviant--creates the need to be as bland as possible. We live in outwardly bland, conformist times, surrounded by bland architecture, bland fashions, bland culture, bland language. And yet our private lives are marked by deviance. Consider the ubiquity of internet porn, or drug use. I live in a town of approx. 125,000 people, and this town has more sex shops than book stores, more paraphernalia shops than record stores, but nobody talks about sex or drugs in public spaces. We can hear people talk endlessly about Game of Thrones (well, I can't, not a fan), but we can't hear them talk about all the fucking in Game of Thrones, or all the violence. That kind of talk isn't fit for public consumption. I don't know. Maybe it's the cultural gentrification, bougie people wanting to participate in music/film/art/etc. that they used to look down on.
I just think any time there's a profound disconnect between your private self (hedonistic, freer) and your public self (repressed, polite to a fault) you're creating a conflict that's going to be hard to resolve, a split consciousness of the self that becomes a hyper-self-consciousness which can only breed anxiety when one ventures out into a public space.
You can feel free to draw your own conclusions about the need for medication, self, prescription, and otherwise that would be necessary in order to live such a life.
Tuesday, March 19, 2019
Friday, March 15, 2019
The Number Fortys: The Icicle Works - "Birds Fly (Whisper to a Scream)"
In The Number Fortys, we review every song that was sitting at #40 on the Billboard chats, starting in the first week of January 1984, right around the time this writer became cognizant/obsessive about music. The seeds for the idea came from Tom Breihan's Number Ones column over at Stereogum. However, we here at k-postpunk believe that the bottom is more interesting than the top (and obscurity is more interesting than either).
This song was all over the alternative radio station near where I lived from 1985-1998 (my teenage years and early 20s), and understandably so. It's great.
My favorite thing about this song is how the intro part is perfectly fine and beautiful, and sets us up for a song that's going to be a UK version of, I don't know, early REM or something, before going off in this postpunk-ish direction that obliterates (in melody, if not in mood) Echo & the Bunnymen.
Like Echo (and, I guess, Ringo Starr), The Icicle Works were from Liverpool. Also like Echo, they weren't afraid to, in the process of striving for poetic profundity, risk embarrassing themselves in their lyrics. Still, I can at least appreciate the originality of lines like feathered books the colors of the bright elation. And yes, I had to look them up. I've spent god knows how many years hearing this song and never had any real confidence at all, as I sang along to it, that what I was singing were the actual lyrics (they weren't).
But what makes this song is the drums. Or maybe the dynamics. Actually, it's both. The verse is impossibly spare, nothing but vocals and drums, and you barely notice because the drum part is so enthralling. Great bassline too.
This was their only US song to reach the charts. It would rise to #37 before leaving forever. I've never heard any other songs by The Icicle Works. Maybe one day I will. As for this song, it's an 8.
That's not good football. It's barely even good dancing.
The Footloose soundtrack has sold 9 million copies to date, so I guess it's no surprise we keep running into it here. I've always thought of 1984 (the year we began this column in--we're up to May btw) as the year of Cyndi Lauper, Prince, Springsteen, Madonna, et. al., but yeah, I guess it was the year of Footloose too.
This anthem of women empowering men to be the best men they can be--that's a charitable reading. I think of it more like overlooking all of his flaws, which include poverty, periods of long silence, an inability to properly dress one's self, a lack of romance, and a singing voice that makes you want to cover your ears (basically every aspiring male musician in Athens, Georgia), because he is adequate enough to help her achieve an orgasm once in a while, so, you know, let's give the boy a hand, I guess.
The melody is peppy enough, and bounces its way up and down the scale in a way that's easy on the ears. Williams, who spent most of the 1970's singing backup for people like Stevie Wonder, does a fine job with it. It's a 5.
This song was all over the alternative radio station near where I lived from 1985-1998 (my teenage years and early 20s), and understandably so. It's great.
My favorite thing about this song is how the intro part is perfectly fine and beautiful, and sets us up for a song that's going to be a UK version of, I don't know, early REM or something, before going off in this postpunk-ish direction that obliterates (in melody, if not in mood) Echo & the Bunnymen.
Like Echo (and, I guess, Ringo Starr), The Icicle Works were from Liverpool. Also like Echo, they weren't afraid to, in the process of striving for poetic profundity, risk embarrassing themselves in their lyrics. Still, I can at least appreciate the originality of lines like feathered books the colors of the bright elation. And yes, I had to look them up. I've spent god knows how many years hearing this song and never had any real confidence at all, as I sang along to it, that what I was singing were the actual lyrics (they weren't).
But what makes this song is the drums. Or maybe the dynamics. Actually, it's both. The verse is impossibly spare, nothing but vocals and drums, and you barely notice because the drum part is so enthralling. Great bassline too.
This was their only US song to reach the charts. It would rise to #37 before leaving forever. I've never heard any other songs by The Icicle Works. Maybe one day I will. As for this song, it's an 8.
THE NUMBER ONE
That's not good football. It's barely even good dancing.
The Footloose soundtrack has sold 9 million copies to date, so I guess it's no surprise we keep running into it here. I've always thought of 1984 (the year we began this column in--we're up to May btw) as the year of Cyndi Lauper, Prince, Springsteen, Madonna, et. al., but yeah, I guess it was the year of Footloose too.
This anthem of women empowering men to be the best men they can be--that's a charitable reading. I think of it more like overlooking all of his flaws, which include poverty, periods of long silence, an inability to properly dress one's self, a lack of romance, and a singing voice that makes you want to cover your ears (basically every aspiring male musician in Athens, Georgia), because he is adequate enough to help her achieve an orgasm once in a while, so, you know, let's give the boy a hand, I guess.
The melody is peppy enough, and bounces its way up and down the scale in a way that's easy on the ears. Williams, who spent most of the 1970's singing backup for people like Stevie Wonder, does a fine job with it. It's a 5.
Thursday, March 14, 2019
The Number Fortys: Mike Reno and Ann Wilson - "Almost Paradise...Love Theme From Footloose"
sIn The Number Fortys, we review every song that was sitting at #40 on the Billboard chats, starting in the first week of January 1984, right around the time this writer became cognizant/obsessive about music. The seeds for the idea came from Tom Breihan's Number Ones column over at Stereogum. However, we here at k-postpunk believe that the bottom is more interesting than the top (and obscurity is more interesting than either).
We meet again Footloose. First it was Kenny Loggins at the top spot. Now it's this power ballad dreck at the bottom (it would eventually reach #8 though).
Mike Reno was the singer for Loverboy; their entire recorded output is a 2. Ann Wilson was the singer for Heart; their entire recorded output is a 3. Tthey both may still be the singers for those bands, they might not be, they might both be dead, or alive, or one dead and the other alive, I don't care. Loverboy was from Vancouver, Canada. Heart was from Seattle, which isn't far from Canada, or Vancouver. So let's just consider the song a bit of international longing, a border love song for our times.
Or not. I think the worst songs in this column are the ballads because they drag on for what feels like forever. This song is so slow it feels like it has negative beats per minute. The melody resembles a church hymn, taking it one note at a time as it moves up the scale, and then down the scale. The beat sounds like someone in rehab slowly learning to walk, to the point where halfway through the song I start coaching the drummer. First this step. Okay, now another step. Good. Now another. Excellent. You're getting there. We're almost to the end of the song. One more step. You can do it.
It's a 1.
THE NUMBER ONE
Lionel's incel anthem holds on for another week. We went deep on it last week, so go read that if you're interested. The two songs in this column definitely make for the worst music we've encountered top to bottom since we began, and the sooner we end this installment, the sooner we'll be on to something else. It gets better (the music gets better, not the column--the column already rules). I promise.
We meet again Footloose. First it was Kenny Loggins at the top spot. Now it's this power ballad dreck at the bottom (it would eventually reach #8 though).
Mike Reno was the singer for Loverboy; their entire recorded output is a 2. Ann Wilson was the singer for Heart; their entire recorded output is a 3. Tthey both may still be the singers for those bands, they might not be, they might both be dead, or alive, or one dead and the other alive, I don't care. Loverboy was from Vancouver, Canada. Heart was from Seattle, which isn't far from Canada, or Vancouver. So let's just consider the song a bit of international longing, a border love song for our times.
Or not. I think the worst songs in this column are the ballads because they drag on for what feels like forever. This song is so slow it feels like it has negative beats per minute. The melody resembles a church hymn, taking it one note at a time as it moves up the scale, and then down the scale. The beat sounds like someone in rehab slowly learning to walk, to the point where halfway through the song I start coaching the drummer. First this step. Okay, now another step. Good. Now another. Excellent. You're getting there. We're almost to the end of the song. One more step. You can do it.
It's a 1.
THE NUMBER ONE
Lionel's incel anthem holds on for another week. We went deep on it last week, so go read that if you're interested. The two songs in this column definitely make for the worst music we've encountered top to bottom since we began, and the sooner we end this installment, the sooner we'll be on to something else. It gets better (the music gets better, not the column--the column already rules). I promise.
The Number Fortys: Van Stephenson - "Modern Day Delilah"
In The Number Fortys, we review every song that was sitting at #40 on the Billboard chats, starting in the first week of January 1984, right around the time this writer became cognizant/obsessive about music. The seeds for the idea came from Tom Breihan's Number Ones column over at Stereogum. However, we here at k-postpunk believe that the bottom is more interesting than the top (and obscurity is more interesting than either).
Back when the internet was fun, and we all made jokes and argued about whether a hot dog is a sandwich, you know, before baby boomers started using it, there was this thing called literal videos, where the words of the song are changed to reflect what's going on in the video. This one was my favorite. The original is a 9 by the way.
So years before the concept, Van Stephenson, who is ostensibly the subject of this post, practically made a literal video of his own, in which his song about a hairdresser features a video of a hairdresser cutting his hair.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Biblical story--and why would you be, have you read the Bible? I have. All the way through. Trust me, it's, uh, not exactly a page turner. That's why Christians hire a priest to read it for them and tell them the important parts. Church is just like a live action of Cliff Notes when you really think about it.
Anyway, Samson was this really strong guy until he fell in love with Delilah and she cut all his hair off, robbing him of his power (It's a metaphor! A misogynist metaphor too!). So in this song, Van Stephenson, an actual graduate from an actual seminary school, updates the misogynist metaphor for our times, though the song's lyrics are so literal as to obliterate any sort of symbolism or deeper meaning. In Stephenson's song, this song is literally about a girl who cuts hair. Let's point out the line all the darlings and the dears in the first verse, because that's definitely the only time that phrase has ever been used in human speech.
So it's a pretty straightforward song about a talented woman...UNTIL WE GET TO THE CHORUS when it turns out our hairdresser will apparently use her scissors TO KILL YOU (true fact: you're way more likely to be murdered by a man than a woman, and the Delilah of this song is statistically more likely to die because her boyfriend/husband kills her than to die of breast cancer). At this point, the song goes off the rails, psychologically speaking. The hairdresser loves you like a lion / leaves you like a lamb. So she's not only stabbing Van in the heart, she's also fucking him? And how exactly does one leave anyone "like a lamb"? Is there a trail of lamb shit following behind. Does a pungent lamb smell linger in the room?
The song continues. She slips things into your shampoo (huh?). You wake up on the floor (after being stabbed in the heart?) with a bad hair cut (take a mirror from the drawer / the damage is done) or did she cut something else off? Van goes on to call her "a mistress of lies." And basically the whole song turns into a poorly written gynophobic piece of garbage that suggests Van either has an irrational fear of women or thought it would be a cool idea to write a song about an irrational fear of women. Given his seminary school background, I'm going to go with both.
Musically insipid, lyrically confused, this shitty song reached #22. It's a 0..
Some post WWII philosopher, I don't remember who, theorized that because an event like the Holocaust had never happened before, now that it had happened, it meant there would likely be more Holocausts in the future. I don't necessarily agree with all of that--go ask the native US population how they feel about that "never before in history" shit--but I will say that in 2009, Kiss, yes that Kiss, wrote their own song called "Modern Day Delilah." I listened to it long enough to determine whether or not it was a cover (it's not), but if you can listen to it all the way through you're a stronger person than I am. By the way, the entire recorded output of Kiss is 1. As human beings, they are 0's. Their fans rate a solid 2 only because I pity them so much.
THE NUMBER ONE
First off, that is some seriously bad acting in the beginning of the video, and I hope Professor Lionel gives them all C-minuses.
Now let me answer that question in the chorus. I'm pretty sure, based on their complete disinterest in you, that, despite your obsession and fixation with this person, that no, it is not you they are looking for. This isn't a reflection on you, or your ability to be a human being capable of giving and receiving love. We can't help who we're attracted to. The human heart is a mystery, human sexual urges even more so. The idea that you need advice on how to win this person's heart suggests to me that maybe this isn't the right person for you. In my experience, the best relationships I've been in had a natural momentum of their own. You didn't have to think about it. It just seemed to happen. That's the magic of falling in love.
Conversely, I've been in relationships that, even though they made sense on paper, similar interests, person looked attractive, etc., it just didn't click. It felt like work. Those relationships never got any better. I guess what I'm saying, narrator of this song, is that this probably isn't the person for you. And to Lionel Richie, I would say that writing a song that romanticizes the stalking of, and obsession with, an idealized woman, was not a good idea. In your music video, it ends with the object of your obsession carving a laughably bad sculpture of you (it turns out she was obsessed to!), but in the real world these things all too often end in terror and death. I know that you were just writing a song about longing, but as I would explain to my three year old son, actions have consequences, and you are responsible for those consequences. And while I appreciate a minor key melody, this song is a musical dirge laced with lyrical poison. It gets a 2.
Back when the internet was fun, and we all made jokes and argued about whether a hot dog is a sandwich, you know, before baby boomers started using it, there was this thing called literal videos, where the words of the song are changed to reflect what's going on in the video. This one was my favorite. The original is a 9 by the way.
So years before the concept, Van Stephenson, who is ostensibly the subject of this post, practically made a literal video of his own, in which his song about a hairdresser features a video of a hairdresser cutting his hair.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Biblical story--and why would you be, have you read the Bible? I have. All the way through. Trust me, it's, uh, not exactly a page turner. That's why Christians hire a priest to read it for them and tell them the important parts. Church is just like a live action of Cliff Notes when you really think about it.
Anyway, Samson was this really strong guy until he fell in love with Delilah and she cut all his hair off, robbing him of his power (It's a metaphor! A misogynist metaphor too!). So in this song, Van Stephenson, an actual graduate from an actual seminary school, updates the misogynist metaphor for our times, though the song's lyrics are so literal as to obliterate any sort of symbolism or deeper meaning. In Stephenson's song, this song is literally about a girl who cuts hair. Let's point out the line all the darlings and the dears in the first verse, because that's definitely the only time that phrase has ever been used in human speech.
So it's a pretty straightforward song about a talented woman...UNTIL WE GET TO THE CHORUS when it turns out our hairdresser will apparently use her scissors TO KILL YOU (true fact: you're way more likely to be murdered by a man than a woman, and the Delilah of this song is statistically more likely to die because her boyfriend/husband kills her than to die of breast cancer). At this point, the song goes off the rails, psychologically speaking. The hairdresser loves you like a lion / leaves you like a lamb. So she's not only stabbing Van in the heart, she's also fucking him? And how exactly does one leave anyone "like a lamb"? Is there a trail of lamb shit following behind. Does a pungent lamb smell linger in the room?
The song continues. She slips things into your shampoo (huh?). You wake up on the floor (after being stabbed in the heart?) with a bad hair cut (take a mirror from the drawer / the damage is done) or did she cut something else off? Van goes on to call her "a mistress of lies." And basically the whole song turns into a poorly written gynophobic piece of garbage that suggests Van either has an irrational fear of women or thought it would be a cool idea to write a song about an irrational fear of women. Given his seminary school background, I'm going to go with both.
Musically insipid, lyrically confused, this shitty song reached #22. It's a 0..
Some post WWII philosopher, I don't remember who, theorized that because an event like the Holocaust had never happened before, now that it had happened, it meant there would likely be more Holocausts in the future. I don't necessarily agree with all of that--go ask the native US population how they feel about that "never before in history" shit--but I will say that in 2009, Kiss, yes that Kiss, wrote their own song called "Modern Day Delilah." I listened to it long enough to determine whether or not it was a cover (it's not), but if you can listen to it all the way through you're a stronger person than I am. By the way, the entire recorded output of Kiss is 1. As human beings, they are 0's. Their fans rate a solid 2 only because I pity them so much.
THE NUMBER ONE
First off, that is some seriously bad acting in the beginning of the video, and I hope Professor Lionel gives them all C-minuses.
Now let me answer that question in the chorus. I'm pretty sure, based on their complete disinterest in you, that, despite your obsession and fixation with this person, that no, it is not you they are looking for. This isn't a reflection on you, or your ability to be a human being capable of giving and receiving love. We can't help who we're attracted to. The human heart is a mystery, human sexual urges even more so. The idea that you need advice on how to win this person's heart suggests to me that maybe this isn't the right person for you. In my experience, the best relationships I've been in had a natural momentum of their own. You didn't have to think about it. It just seemed to happen. That's the magic of falling in love.
Conversely, I've been in relationships that, even though they made sense on paper, similar interests, person looked attractive, etc., it just didn't click. It felt like work. Those relationships never got any better. I guess what I'm saying, narrator of this song, is that this probably isn't the person for you. And to Lionel Richie, I would say that writing a song that romanticizes the stalking of, and obsession with, an idealized woman, was not a good idea. In your music video, it ends with the object of your obsession carving a laughably bad sculpture of you (it turns out she was obsessed to!), but in the real world these things all too often end in terror and death. I know that you were just writing a song about longing, but as I would explain to my three year old son, actions have consequences, and you are responsible for those consequences. And while I appreciate a minor key melody, this song is a musical dirge laced with lyrical poison. It gets a 2.
Wednesday, March 13, 2019
The Number Fortys: Real Life - "Catch Me I'm Falling"
In The Number Fortys, we review every song that was sitting at #40 on the Billboard chats, starting in the first week of January 1984, right around the time this writer became cognizant/obsessive about music. The seeds for the idea came from Tom Breihan's Number Ones column over at Stereogum. However, we here at k-postpunk believe that the bottom is more interesting than the top (and obscurity is more interesting than either).
Jesus. When we started this column a couple of months ago, it didn't occur to us that we might encounter the same artists over and over again. But here we are not even halfway through 1984 (in the column--that wasn't meant to be some kind of Orwell reference about our current surveillance state existence) and we've bumped into Billy Joel and Huey Lewis twice already. Which I guess makes sense. They were two of the bigger acts around this time. But what are the odds of Real Life entering the charts at #40 twice? They only had two songs reach the US Top 40, and if you're following this column, congratulations. You've now heard both of them (a remix of "Send Me an Angel" called "Send Me an Angel '89"hit #26 in 1989, but that's still the same song--not fooling me Real Life). Anyway, here's the song.
This song has slowly grown on me. I can always appreciate a song that holds one chord throughout the verse, building up tension, and then releases it with a perfect change to the next chord. The song also has a nice wistful, ephemeral, ethereal, empirical?, no not empirical?, that was probably too many adjectives anyway. What I was talking about? Oh yeah, the chorus. Nice chorus. Probably a little too airy to go rampaging up the charts in 1984. In fact, the following week it left the Top 40, never to return. As we've said before, a lot of strong stuff up there. I mean, this song was at #11 that week (after having gone as high as #8). It's Tracey Ullman. Written by Kirsty Maccoll (Morrissey suggested she go to Mexico and she got hit by a boat and died--one more reason to hate Morrissey I guess), with that guitar solo, that moment of silence broken by that cry of Baby, it's a 10
As for Real Life. "Catch Me I'm Falling" is a 4. If this column makes it into 1987, we may get to hear another song called "Catch Me I'm Falling." If you needed a reason to keep living, what Poison, at their most emotionally desperate, referred to as "Something to Believe In."
THE NUMBER ONE
Phil me once, shame on you. Phil me twice.... Anyway, three weeks at #1 for Phil is enough. Bye-bye Phil.
The 25 Songs That Matter Right Now According to The New York Times
I guess they don't matter anymore. A more accurate headline would read "The 25 Songs That Mattered Last Sunday." Our house has a Sunday subscription to The New York Times. We were caught up in a sentimental moment, presumably on a day that Bret Stephens was on vacation, or maybe when they announced they were adding Michelle Alexander as an Op-Ed columnist. Anyway, we wanted to support journalism, and on most days we don't regret it.
This Sunday's Magazine was devoted entirely to music, 25 songs written about by 25 music writers. When I saw the cover, I felt this mix of excitement and cynicism. I bet there's at least one song in here that's going to be great that I haven't heard before, but man I bet there's going to be some bullshit too. Something like that. Perusing the list, I saw Weezer (oh my god, fuck no), The 1975 (oh fuck no, and written about by Steven Hyden), Lady Gaga (not my favorite) written about by Wesley Morris (probably my favorite writer about culture today on the planet--he also played a role in our subscription), Tierra Whack (hell yes). And so on. But this is the story of music in 2019, and so like any good story we started at the beginning. Bruce Springsteen's "Born In The U.S.A. (2018) by Hanif Abdurraqib. Let's being, shall we?
I don't know if Bruce Springsteen thinks about death as much as I think about the inevitability of his dying.
Damn. It sounds like Hanif's not much of a Bruce fan. Neither am I--I defer to R. Meltzer who called him the Fonz of rock and roll in this epic rant--but I can't say I spend a lot of time thinking about his death. I bet Hanif's going to go off some riff about all the different ways he imagines Bruce dying. I'm guessing heart attack on stage as he heads into hour three of his shtick.
I've lived an entire life as a fan of Bruce Springsteen, which means I have already imagined the world without him in it--
Well that went in a completely different direction. And does he really mean his entire life. Like from birth to the present he has always been a fan? 3rd grade, on the playground humming "The Rising" to himself as he plays kickball? If I could remove two things from contemporary journalism, and esp. music journalism, it would be headlines written as questions (Can We Still Listen to Michael Jackson?) and the use of hyperbole. I'm just going to go on the record here and say that there has never been a single artist that I've been a fan of my entire life. I can go years, sometimes a decade, without listening to an artist I love. But, you know, hyperbole just comes with the territory.
--and I have mourned that world.
Oh fuck off.
This Sunday's Magazine was devoted entirely to music, 25 songs written about by 25 music writers. When I saw the cover, I felt this mix of excitement and cynicism. I bet there's at least one song in here that's going to be great that I haven't heard before, but man I bet there's going to be some bullshit too. Something like that. Perusing the list, I saw Weezer (oh my god, fuck no), The 1975 (oh fuck no, and written about by Steven Hyden), Lady Gaga (not my favorite) written about by Wesley Morris (probably my favorite writer about culture today on the planet--he also played a role in our subscription), Tierra Whack (hell yes). And so on. But this is the story of music in 2019, and so like any good story we started at the beginning. Bruce Springsteen's "Born In The U.S.A. (2018) by Hanif Abdurraqib. Let's being, shall we?
I don't know if Bruce Springsteen thinks about death as much as I think about the inevitability of his dying.
Damn. It sounds like Hanif's not much of a Bruce fan. Neither am I--I defer to R. Meltzer who called him the Fonz of rock and roll in this epic rant--but I can't say I spend a lot of time thinking about his death. I bet Hanif's going to go off some riff about all the different ways he imagines Bruce dying. I'm guessing heart attack on stage as he heads into hour three of his shtick.
I've lived an entire life as a fan of Bruce Springsteen, which means I have already imagined the world without him in it--
Well that went in a completely different direction. And does he really mean his entire life. Like from birth to the present he has always been a fan? 3rd grade, on the playground humming "The Rising" to himself as he plays kickball? If I could remove two things from contemporary journalism, and esp. music journalism, it would be headlines written as questions (Can We Still Listen to Michael Jackson?) and the use of hyperbole. I'm just going to go on the record here and say that there has never been a single artist that I've been a fan of my entire life. I can go years, sometimes a decade, without listening to an artist I love. But, you know, hyperbole just comes with the territory.
--and I have mourned that world.
Oh fuck off.
Friday, March 8, 2019
The Number Fortys: Huey Lewis & the News "The Heart of Rock & Roll"
In The Number Fortys, we review every song that was sitting at #40 on the Billboard chats, starting in the first week of January 1984, right around the time this writer became cognizant/obsessive about music. The seeds for the idea came from Tom Breihan's Number Ones column over at Stereogum. However, we here at k-postpunk believe that the bottom is more interesting than the top (and obscurity is more interesting than either).
Wait. What's that? Chalk Circle never had anything released on Dischord despite being friends with all those guys and part of the same scene? That's weird, because this is better than 90% of the shaved head proto-boot camp jock jams that label put out in the 80s. I wonder what Chalk Circle didn't have that those other bands had....Hm....
Anyway, Huey does mention Seattle a full two years before the formation of Sub Pop. To continue the ‘heart’ metaphor, maybe he had his finger on the pulse of something.
THE NUMBER ONE
A mean-spirited UK music writer, Julie Burchill, I think, once referred to Phil Collins as the ugliest man in pop. If I remember right, she said he looked like George Orwell. Ouch. I have no strong feelings about Phil Collins' physical appearance either way. But I think it is worth mentioning that a song about how there's no way in fuck, statistically speaking, that Phil's loved one is coming back--it is quite literally against all odds--I think it's interesting that the first line in the chorus is 'take a look at me now,' as if Phil has internalized Burchill's criticism. This is a song about a guy who has no chance, knows he has no chance, and when he says 'take a look at me now,' he isn't saying it because he thinks she (most likely a she, in Phil's case) is going to change her mind when she sees how straight-up hot he is, the way Robert Plant or Kanye or someone would. He's saying it because he believes he looks pathetic. And looking pathetic is the only power he has left in the relationship, the power to hopefully making his departing loved one feel as bad as he does. It's something to think about when you listen to this dreck, I guess.
American cities with thriving music scenes in 1984 not mentioned in this song about all the places where the heart of rock and roll (whatever the fuck that means) was still beating (whatever the fuck that means too):
Athens, GA.
Minneapolis
Olympia
Chicago
Nashville
Providence
And cities where, according to this song, the heart was ‘still beating’:
San Antonio
Baton Rouge
Tulsa
Oklahoma City (pre-Flaming Lips)
Philadelphia (pre-Dead Milkmen) — referred to in the song as, bizarrely, ‘The Liberty Town’
Philadelphia (pre-Dead Milkmen) — referred to in the song as, bizarrely, ‘The Liberty Town’
Cleveland also gets mentioned, owing to the band’s overt Pere Ubu influence (I know, it's more likely they were thinking of WKRP In Cincinnati and got their Ohio cities confused). So does Washington D.C., because, sure HL&TN’s music might have sounded like a bunch of dads playing softball, but apparently these guys were way into Dischord and Go-Go. This gives me a chance to post a video by D.C. band Chalk Circle, my favorite Dischord band.
Anyway, Huey does mention Seattle a full two years before the formation of Sub Pop. To continue the ‘heart’ metaphor, maybe he had his finger on the pulse of something.
But forgetting Minneapolis? In the year of Purple Rain, Let It Be, and Zen Arcade? Inexcusable.
Note: Special versions were recorded for different markets. So people in Arizona would get a ‘Phoenix’, or a ‘Tucson’ at the end of the song when they heard on the radio. Those versions don’t count. This version gets a 3.
THE NUMBER ONE
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