July 24th, 2001


Stuff you love to hate

Inspired by an IM conversation with Ian yesterday and Bob White’s reply to his post about classic rock, a certain type of song is, much to my chagrin, brought to the forefront of my mind. There are songs out there that you are supposed to love. Whenever they are played, the world is theoretically supposed to transform into some sort of global county fair where all attendees revel with one another, dancing in beloved harmony, unified by this song that they all love. Brown Eyed Girl, for one. Paradise By The Dashboard Light; Bad To The Bone; Smells Like Teen Spirit; Money For Nothing; Sweet Home Alabama. They’re classics. We’re supposed to love them. I’m not talking about how you’re supposed to love a pop song that’s in now that’s just overplayed (read: Allstar by Smashmouth, et. al.), I’m talking about songs that have lasted through time to become part of the American Vernacular.

We may very well love them as much as we are supposed to. But from time to time, a song comes along that you know you are culturally obliged to just crank up, belt out, and love, but you don’t. You hate it.

I, for one, know that my disdain for songs-everyone-loves is rather specific. You may say that I’m a dreamer, but I don’t want to Imagine a place where there is no heaven, no hell, no possessions, and I certainly don’t want to live in a place where all the people their life in peace. I would rather pull each and every one of the hairs out of my body with a penknife than hear Hotel California again, and I hope it’s The End Of The World As I Know It every time that one comes on.

But my full, most rancorous hatred is reserved for Hey Jude. It’s one thing that this song is god-awful, but it is entirely another to have to endure it almost every day. Not a single Vh1 Top Such and Such Songs of Rock and Roll has gone by without fellating this song. Both the Classic Rock station and the Oldies station seem to consider this little ditty in their eras of airplay, so if it’s not on one, it’s on the other. Sweet sentiment, Paul, but you think you could have just written him a poem and slipped it in a birthday card? Why do we have to endure this torture? THE DAMN THING NEVER ENDS just hour after hour of na-na-na-na-n-na-na. You could easily shave seven minutes off that bad boy and still have all of the same stuff get across. The only person to ever do anything worthwhile with it was Weird Al when he included an excerpt of it in the song Polkas on 45 on his In 3-D album, but maybe that’s because he only used maybe 35 seconds of it. I think that’s all anyone should have to take.

A Bloody Addendum

In addition to Americans never saying "bloody", don't fake accents, ever. Most especially, do not try to fake British accents. Unless you've been classically trained in linguistics and spent seven years overseas, you don't do it well. It doesn't make you sound clever. It doesn't make you sound more helpful on the phone. It will not compensate for a shoddy appearance. It will, believe it or not, make you look worse.

Needless to say, the same person inspired this post. What you may glean from that is that this a-hole not only says "bloody" but from time to time fakes accents. As Bob White would say, he needs to be sent to Detroit.
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