I’m no Bob Dylan but I know a thing or two about music; I was an assistant manager in a music store for two years after all and if that time served one purpose it was that I now possess an uncanny knack to pick a shit song when I hear one.
The problem is that in this digital age one mans shit song is another mans anthem for his gay life. Gone are the days when somebody learnt to play an instrument for a few years, toured dives playing said instrument for a couple more before finally making it ‘big’.
Back then artists learnt their craft and it showed in their playing and their construction of songs. It’s no coincidence that a lot of these songs still get played on iPods, radio stations and car stereos all over the place. Some will even bring back vivid memories, like ‘We Built This City’ which reminds me of lonely days spent in my bedroom, the wireless on, playing with my G.I.Joes.
And no, that’s not a euphemism for having a wank. Why would I need to even use one? Sadly, making music these days is as easy as having one and don’t we all suffer for it.
Incidentally I had some good times working in the music store. It was a great time to be a part of ‘the scene’ with the Warehouse only just starting down the path of sucking the life out of retail CD sales. This was during the Alanis Morrisette / Spice Girls years which meant girls; always lots of girls in the store.
It was there that my mate and colleague at the time Adi Dick – now a semi successful local artist himself – taught me how to play guitar. That was almost 15 years ago now and I’m sure he’d be disappointed to learn that my playing hasn’t really progressed much further than three chords and the truth. But I only really wanted to learn to play to score chicks at parties so that’s what you get for impure motivations I guess. Either that or a visit from Internal Affairs but lets not go into that.
My mate Caro works there and I know she sees the good stuff even if she doesn’t let on that she does. Passports and Birth Certificates my arse.
One can of course avoid shit music if you cut about 90% of every outside influence, in your life, right now. I manage about 60% by avoiding all music channels except MTV Classic, not listening to the radio ever and resisting the urge, no matter how strong, to walk into Glassons or Supre stores. That last one is a toughie of course; it’s just that their range does wonderful things for my goal in life of only wearing things that fall into the category of ‘tight’, ‘revealing’ or both.
The other 40% is somewhat unavoidable and often the most suicidal times of the day for me. Like the wireless on at work which is only ever at the volume where some of the things I’m about to list can be heard in all their excruciating annoyingness.
Other times include the periods where the missus complains that my iPod play list is so depressing she’s contemplating exiting the car whilst it’s moving and as tempting as that might be, I will usually switch on some station where three muppets spend most of their time talking about how much cooler they are than each other.
So please, allow me to share some of my worldly experience with you so that you too may avoid losing three or four minute blocks of your life that you’ll never get back. Shit songs can be best identified by the following:
1. Constant references about wanting to know the strange girls in clubs. That’s called stalking and besides, if they really are a ‘strange girl’ then chances are they’re easy. No need to write a song about easy girls.
2. Songs by guys that proclaim they ‘want to do everything to you all night long’. The inference being that this is only a ‘in the dark thing’ because you’re ugly. And probably easy. Refer to the above.
3. Songs about clubs in general. You want your song about being in a club to be played in a club. We get it. That doesn’t mean it has to be played anywhere else.
4. Promises to ‘take you higher than ever before’. Um, isn’t that illegal? Maybe the dude meant legal highs like Kronic but hey, even that’s illegal now, so stiff shit there matey.
5. Anything that contains a sample, or lyric, from a classic song that should never have been allowed to be fingered by the Black Eyed Peas or Taio Cruz, no matter how much they were prepared to pay for it.
6. And finally, any song where the actual music sounds like it’s been played by a fella with a trumpet, using his anus. Case in point the song – and I use that term very loosely – ‘Bounce’ by somebody pointless and Kellis, the women who’s milkshake bought all the boys to the yard*.
*Which has always reminded me of the day I asked the amply bosomed girl in the school canteen if I could have a glass of warm milk, shaken not stirred? It went over her head.
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