Deliberate Cruelty Is Unforgivable (Songs I F*cking Hate Write-off)Oct 15 '03 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line Honestly, I'm a nice guy with nary a misanthropic bone in my body, but these songs make me want to hate people and break the law... I love music. I always have. As long as I can remember I’ve had a music collection of some sort or another – first it consisted of a few stray LP records (Andy Gibb, Captain & Tennille, Shaun Cassidy) purchased for me by my mother; then it was the “favorites” tapes I would compile from my sister Natalie’s record collection, or from gluing myself to WRKR out of Milwaukee or WBBM out of Chicago in an effort to capture those songs that I couldn’t live without. As one song would end, my fingers would leap to the “play” and “record” buttons so that they would be at the ready if, for instance, the dj suddenly decided to play the “long” version of Chicago’s “Hard to Say I’m Sorry”, or that new song about “Forget Me Nots”. It was a great day when I was able to tape a full version of “Billie Jean” with no dj talk over the introductory bassline. Even songs that I hated at first – like “Straight from the Heart” by Bryan Adams or “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler – the more I heard them, the more I liked them, and I soon became obsessed with them. Then I started collecting 45’s, and then tapes, and then CD’s, and the one big constant is that I’ll give anything a chance, and while there are lots of songs, styles, and artists I don’t particularly like, there are very few that I hate. I generally don’t like Mariah Carey, but I get a deliciously sleazy feeling every time I hear “Vision of Love.” I disdained the New Kids on the Block in high school in favor of Front 242 and Sisters of Mercy, but my heart would leap with joy every time I heard their song “Tonight”. I generally consider Michael Bolton to be the physical embodiment of all earthly evil, and yet… umm, well, that’s not a very good example. The point is that my general philosophy of life extends to my taste in music. I try not to reach any level of absolute certitude about anything. Yes, I have opinions, and yes, I express them, but yes, all of my many loudly and sometimes obnoxiously articulated opinions are subject to revision, addendum, amendment, and outright reversal. 15 years ago, I scoffed at hair metal, and now I find myself anxiously awaiting the release of the Autograph remasters. Still, despite my best efforts to keep a totally open mind, I hold some truths to be self-evident, and immutable. No matter how you slice it, limburger cheese smells like a fart, and it always will. Though my inner new age hippie tells me to “love all things”, there are some songs that no matter what context, invariably turn my stomach. They make me seethe with anger. They make me think violent thoughts at diametric opposition to my generally easy-rolling, taking-nothing-too-seriously, celebrating-the-inherent-divinity-in-all-people-and-all-works-of-art approach to the world. But, as Blanche duBois once said, “Some things are unforgivable. Deliberate cruelty is unforgivable!” So are these songs: Love of My Life - Jim Brickman w/ Michael W. Smith There are few voices in this world that sandpaper my nerves more than Michael W. Smith’s. It’s not that I’m an atheist and he’s all into Jesus, though both statements are true. I happen to think Amy Grant was a helluva lot better way back when she was singing Hallelujahs instead of Baby Baby’s. What I’m talking about here is Michael W. Smith’s voice. Yes, I tremble when I hear him sing, but it’s not with religious fervor, it’s not the power of Lord come over me like Pentecostal tongues of flame. It’s that I’m helpless to stop Michael W. Smith’s infernal voice. It gets piped in over the Muzak, and it’s out of my hands. I have no one to strangle. I have no nob to turn to change the station. I am left to suffer and stew in it. Add some banal lyrics concerning the beauty of marital stasis, and gentle Jim Brickman’s middle-class-Christmas-party-ivory-tinkling and you’ve got the musical equivalent of Chinese water torture. If, in fact, there is a God, and if, in fact, that God is a vengeful God, then “Love of My Life” could quite rightfully be considered the eleventh plague of Egypt. Friends in Low Places – Garth Brooks September 1991. I’m a freshman in college. I’m gay. I’m closeted. I’m an art major. Every other guy on my floor is a football player and/or wrestler. And every night, they gather in the room next to mine at 2:00 a.m. for a singalong. And “Friends in Low Places” is apparently the only song that any of them know. So they have the stereo set to “repeat track”. “Friend in Low Places” ad infinitum. It's Raining Men - Weather Girls From the “Every Damn Time I Step Into a Gay Bar I Hear This Stupid F*cking Song” Files. Granted, this isn’t the only annoyingly ubiquitous song in the Canon of Pre-AIDS Disco. There’s the much more heavily licensed “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor which shows up in Every Damn Gay Movie I’ve ever seen in some form or another. But, at least “I Will Survive” has high campy drama (no matter how many times I hear it, I still love hearing that exasperated sigh - aoowwwh - before she once again regains her clarity and sense of raging purpose for that last chorus). No such luck with “It’s Raining Men”. Yes, it’s campy, but it’s also really really really really really really really really really really dumb! “It’s Raining Men, Hallelujah, It’s Raining Men, Amen!” It's like someone who tells you the same knock-knock joke every time you see them, and still thinks it’s the funniest damn thing he’s ever heard. Only God Knows Why - Kid Rock Boy. Kid Rock sure is world-weary and wise. This song is really deep, man. American Pie - Don McLean From the “Karaoke Death” file. I admit it. When I’m scrubbing my parts in the shower every morning, I can’t fight the urge to sing Bacharach & David. I’m a rock star in my car, and I play killer steering wheel drums. And I live for karaoke. But as any karaoke superstar can tell you, there are some very strict rules you must follow to avoid what I call karaoke death. Rule #1: Have some sort of clue as to what you’re singing. If you don’t at least know all the words to the chorus of the song, if you can’t hum at least part of the verse, find another song. Rule #2: Consider your audience. It’s probably not wise to sing an Erasure song for the good folks at the local tavern in Bumblef*ck, West Virginia. Rule #3: Know your limitations. You are not Frank Sinatra. Or Elvis. But you might be Neil Diamond. Rule #4: Avoid songs with extended guitar solos. You may like “Jeremy”, but you’re gonna look like a dork when you’re standing there microphone in hand, while the monitor displays the words “Instrumental Break – 116 measures”. Rule #5: Keep it brief. There’s a whole audience of people waiting for their own chance at karaoke glory. They will resent you and possibly plot your assassination if you sign up to do “American Pie” by Don McLean. You may think that your selection of this 70s singer-songwriter opus will make you and the fifteen friends who will inevitably join you on stage look like a cool group of people to hang out with. You may imagine your audience reveling in your drunken camaraderie as the whole flock of you mumble through the myriad verses, obliviously giggling and grabassing as everyone else in the room checks their watches (“Why, God, Why?”), only to sing the chorus with sonorous off-key bravado. Drunken musical ineptitude is only funny for about 30 seconds, and only remotely tolerable for two minutes (tops). Unless you are Don McLean, you are not allowed to sing this song on karaoke night. And even if you are Don McLean, you probably shouldn’t. Werewolves in London - Warren Zevon Okay, so it’s not nice to be hating on the recently deceased, but I have to get this off my chest. I just can’t stand this song. It conjures up too many ugly images from my teenage years in Paddock Lake, when I would hang out with my dad at the Log Cabin Bar. Just as today, I can’t go into a gay bar without hearing “It’s Raining Men”, the image of a half-dozen flannel-clad rednecks circled around a pool table, cue in one hand, beer in the other, howling along to the chorus of Zevon’s only hit song is inextricably linked to my mnemonic experience of the Log Cabin. Kiss the Rain - Billie Myers / What's Up - 4 Non Blondes Isn’t the tuneless, feline-in-heat caterwauling of Billie Myers or Linda Perry enough? Isn’t it enough that these songs, despite the inexplicability of their popularity (I don’t know anyone who actually likes either of these songs), were huge hits, and still get all sorts of airplay? Isn’t all that enough? Why, why, why do we need dance remixes of them? O Great God of Mystery, why? Sweet Home Alabama - Lynyrd Skynyrd You know, I love Wisconsin. I grew up here. I’ve lived here my entire life, except for three months I spent in Georgia as a grad student. I really didn’t like living in Georgia, but it gave me a newfound appreciation of Wisconsin. I haven’t traveled much, but when people ask me where I would live if I could choose from anyplace in the world, I say Wisconsin. I’m proud to say I’m from Wisconsin. On the other hand, I recognize that other people don’t think as highly of Wisconsin. It’s a recurring punchline on Saturday Night Live. And that’s all okay. Wisconsin isn’t perfect. I know that. And if I were to write a song called “Sweet Home Wisconsin”, it would be about what I love about Wisconsin. It would not be a vengeful, reactionary rant against Saturday Night Live for making jokes about Wisconsin. Let’s Roll – Neil Young In which a well-respected singer-songwriter proves he can be just as calculating, just as tactless, cynical and disrespectful as the propagandists of our Superhero-in-Chief. “Let’s roll for freedom, let’s roll for love, goin’ after Satan, on the wings of a dove.” Some dove. - - - - - This is my entry into fartzarellah’s brilliant “Song I @#*$^% Hate” write-off. Look for entries by these other fine folks: DrFaustus Kristinafh MattA75 Plorentz Sadgit Shilmafone Speeddemon531 Teamfreak16 Thevoid99 Vanwarp  |
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