22./23. Queen - We Will Rock You/We Are The Champions (1977)
(File under: The Theory Of Alternating Decades: The '70s & '90s)

I've always had a soft spot for Queen - by which I mean a literal physical soft spot, right on my brain, because what else could explain it? Still, I make no apologies (though I will admit I pretty much abandoned ship about the same time the rest of America did, around '82 and Hot Space), because unlike pretty much every other band of the era who dealt in bombast and overweening pomposity (Led Zeppelin, the dreaded Styx, pretty much every prog rock act ever), Queen always seemed to do it with a sly wink, as if they were smart enough to realize what a joke it was and also smart enough to enjoy it strictly as camp. Until 1977 and News of the World.

There's no sly wink in these songs (grouped together since they were always played back-to-back on the radio upon initial release), which leaves merely bombast and overweening pomposity, a fact that no doubt accounts for their huge success (especially in America, where cleverness and wit have always been qualities viewed with extreme suspicion). If, as some critic whose name I can't recall claimed, "We Are The Champions" was written as a gay anthem, it would indeed add a layer to the song; but if that was the intention it utterly failed, since everything about it sounds like exactly what it's been taken for these past 3+ decades: something to blast over the P.A. at the end of sporting events. And when that's the function of a piece of music, it's not just a case of lowest common denominator - it means you're actually aiming for the outliers on the wrong side of the bell curve. If there is anything more brutally stupid and antithetical to art than an enormous drunken mob shouting inanities and waving homemade banners at a stadium sporting event, it's the same bunch of dipshits singing a victory song in unison. And that is what "We Are The Champions" (as well as "We Will Rock You") is really "about", especially at this remove. Hell, I'm not even necessarily against football chants - plenty of '77 punk could qualify, and New Order's World Cup anthem is pretty damned good - but this stuff seems to have been market researched to fit the bill a little too neatly.

"We Will Rock You" barely qualifies as a song at all - except for Brian May's patented dime-as-a-guitar-pick bit at the end, the whole thing is yobbish bellowing over foot stomps and handclaps, kind of a distant cousin to The Mekons's "The Building", except 90 times more stupid. Besides, everybody with half the brains God gave a donkey knows you don't tell people you're going to rock them, you just do it - otherwise you come off looking like either a smug asshole or a delusional fucking fool (in other words: Jeremy Piven). Also, the verses have nothing to do with the chorus. In its way, as lazy as any Eric Clapton solo album.

"We Are The Champions", for those who just returned from a long vacation on Saturn, is the queen mother (no pun intended) of power ballads, and I bet Bono's pissed that somebody beat him to it. The verses are basically "I Am Woman" for lunkheaded soccer fans, and the chorus is the kind of doggerel that's supposed to be rousing and empowering, and might even succeed if it had any connection to reality as most people live it. But then, we don't value our rock stars for being in touch with the concerns of normal human beings, do we? No, we prefer them elevated to God-like status, which mitigates the sense of shame and despair we feel after sucking their cocks backstage and being summarily tossed out into the alley afterwards. Believe me, I understand this. I just resent being told what Gods they are by the performers themselves. Especially in song. Especially especially when that song tops the charts. It's usually a mistake to believe a song somehow speaks to your particular circumstances; in this case, the ego is so much a part of the music it should get a composing credit. The epitome of why it was known as the "Me Decade".

More uses of the word "fart"

21. Eddie Money - Take Me Home Tonight (1986)
(File under: I Ran (So Far Away): The '80s)

Oh, corporate rock. Not since "Trout Mask Replica" has a term so aptly described the music it referred to, motherfuckers (not that I think whoever's reading this is a motherfucker; I just hate to end my sentences with prepositions). Hell, you don't even have to hear songs by Journey, Boston, Loverboy, etc. etc. when you can refer to the handy "corporate rock" label - you can just use your imagination (remember that? It's a part of the mind people accessed before videos and the internet) and arrive at a fairly accurate approximation (probably come up with better melodies, too, unless you're a tone-deaf retarded farm hand). But for every hopelessly middle-of-the-road genre, there's an artist who stands squarely in the middle of that road, and in this case, that artist is Eddie Money.

The schlub's so blandly nondescript he was bound to have a few hits on U.S. radio, and I'll say this for the guy: Better him than Styx. Faint praise, to be sure, but when your stock in trade is mediocrity, praise is a commodity (and I use that word advisedly in this case) measured not in quality but in quantity. I bet Eddie's got every not-so-negative press clipping ever written about him in some dusty, musty photo album somewhere, and why not? It's probably more healthy than saving the horrible reviews and keeping a revenge list. Then again, Elvis Costello had a revenge list, and his music of the period blew this guy's stuff out of the water. I guess what I'm trying to say is: cliche though it may sound, great art is, more often than not, the product of people who are seriously fucked up in some profound way, or at the very least excessively neurotic and twitchy (Human Chihuahua Syndrome). How many well-adjusted, self-actualized Zen masters have put out albums that make you want to jump up and down and smash the walls? I rest my case.

So the guy's boring; that's not a crime (in the strict legal sense). In fact, he's boring right down to his "image" - with his basset hound visage, he looks like an ordinary slob; more like the manager of an Arby's in Manhattan, Kansas than a bona fide rock star. Normally, I find this look endearing; unfortunately, he adopts all the poses of a rock star, which make them appear even more comical than usual, especially with his shaggy, feathered 'do and doughy features that make his head look like a possum gnawing on a partially spoiled ham. Say what you will about David Lee Roth - and he does seem like the Platonic ideal of a big ol' dick - but he's got the presence to pull off the cock-rock bullshit moves without making you snigger more than rules of propriety demand.

His music, in case you just started reading at this paragraph, is as boring as his "personality". In fact, it's so ho-hum he can't even achieve true wretchedness, which is at least worth writing about. So why include him? Simple, mein freund: because on this song he shit all over the memory of The Ronettes' "Be My Baby", arguably the best Girl Group song of all time, as well as the song that introduced the opening drum riff that's been used more times (and in better songs) than Bo Diddley's patented rhythm. Not only did he commit this act of musical necrophilia, he actually got Ronnie Spector to sing that song's chorus. Such acts of cultural piracy are but one more reason half of the wolrd wants to drop bombs on New York, and should accordingly not go unpunished. I don't blame Ronnie for taking part - everybody's gotta pay rent, especially when their ex-husband's idea of alimony involves pistol-whipping - but Eddie was just thieving to add novelty to a(nother) weak-ass song, and it shows. Nothing about the rest of the song makes you think, "You know what would fit in perfectly right here? The chorus from an old Phil Spector pop tune!". And if it does, that probably means you're eating your meat loaf through a tube in your arm.

There are plenty of ways to ruin great songs - using them in commercials or crappy TV shows/films - but inserting a (re-recorded) snippet of it into your own horrific travesty of a radio-ready single has got to be the most underhanded. Then again, how many times can you insert a saxophone solo into your "hard rock" before you become a laughing stock? As gimmicks go, I suppose giving work to and reigniting interest in an underappreciated oldies singer is somewhat noble (heap big thanks, white man!). I just wish it had been done in the service of a song that wasn't a complete pile of bleh. It's enough to make you fart out a Hyundai.

20. The Scorpions - Rock You Like A Hurricane (1984)
(File under: Heavy Metal Blunder: Hell's Jukebox)


If you're even a moderately reasonable human being who spent any time existing in the past 100 years, the very concept of German heavy metal should fill you with profound dread. What happens when you marry a subculture and a culture that have both been guilty of flirting with fascism (or at the very least, domination)? Why, stupid generic hard rock (merely) competently played, of course. You were expecting maybe brutally downbeat pneumatic drill noise performed by Aryans in stormtrooper outfits? If so, you obviously possess only the most tenuous understanding of the level of humor generally displayed by metalheads (not to mention Germans).

So, musically, this is hardly threatening - "slick" would be the adjective I'd use, sound-wise. As far as physical presence, I doubt anybody'd cross the street if they saw these guys coming, either - not with a midget lead singer who sports a balding-Richard-Simmons-on-a-commune 'fro and a bunch of blandly Teutonic-looking featherweights with the de rigeur "Look at my circumcision scar" tight-beyond-fuck spandex trousers of the period. Well, the drummer's a bit chunky, I guess, but what do you expect? He's a heavy metal drummer. Probably forgets he's already eaten breakfast by 11:00 and stops by the nearest 7-11 for some nachos (mit jalapenos!) on a near-daily basis. And that one guitarist even has a moustache! In 1984! Just like he's in Toto or REO Speedwagon or something. I ask you, is that rock and roll? Shirley knot.

What's it sound like? Well, in case you've spent the last 25 years in a submarine deep beneath the briny depths and haven't had the incredible opportunity to hear it yourself, it sounds pretty much like Free or Bad Company speeded up a couple BPM and produced to within an inch of its (already flatlining) life. Not much here to compel you to take up arms against the government, or even pop in a Fritz Lang DVD. But of course, it also has lyrics. Turns out - shock of shocks! - The Scorpions are of a somewhat sexist bent, albeit with a decidedly Germanic twist: reverse-anthropomorphizing women. In one line, diminutive singer Klaus Meine refers to the object of his pig-lust as a cat, in the next, a "bitch" (and in the next, for all I know, a ring-tailed lemur - I can barely decipher his heavily-accented English when he's not screeching, which is never). He further advises that, when dealing with said "bitch", you "give her inches and feed her well" ('cause she's hungry, see? You get it? Oh, these hard rockers and their sly innuendo). Will do, Klaus! Sounds like a smashing good course of action. The sad thing is, when you consider all this in light of 20th century German history, this actually amounts to progress.

In any event, one day in the not-so-distant future we'll all be dead, and none of this will matter in the least. Now - who's up for some pudding?



21. Jethro Tull - Thick As A Brick (1972)
(File Under: Bach Don't Rock: Prog)

Holy Jesus on a giraffe, Jethro Tull. First off, this song was the length of the entire album - which meant, in 1972, that you had to get up and flip it over after 22 minutes, utterly fucking up the flow (and your high - I refuse to believe anybody listened to this shit sober), an asshole move if ever there was one. Second, this ponderous muck sold millions of copies, proof positive that the hippie movement had reduced people's brains to soggy pencil shavings. Third, Ian Anderson's (main somgwriter/frontperson; Jethro Tull was a band name, like Blondie) brilliant contribution to rock was adding flute solos to his songs. Fourth, the band was known, at the time, as a heavy metal act (covered by Iron Maiden and beating out Metallica for a Grammy in that category), probably because they mixed sludgy blooze riffs in with their rancid olio of fey English folk, plodding chugga-boogie, madrigals, stoner freak-outs and ersatz classical - all of which is on display in this selection. Fifth, some sample lyrics: "The legends (worded in the ancient tribal hymn) lie cradled in the seagull's call/And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall". Reads like some magnetic poetry jumble of Bob Dylan lyrics and Tolkein prose. Sixth: fucking flute sols? Are you goddamn shitting me?

I'm sorry, but if you can stomach even the 8-minute snippet included here without the benefit of a morphine drip, you should probably go join a cult or something. This is one of those cases where mere words are insufficient to convey the unbeleivable, unrelievable suckitude that is this "song". Is it the worst thing they ever did? Crap if I know. Arguing about which of Tull's songs is the most loathsome is like arguing about who's got the worst case of gonorrhea after a fraternity outing to a Tijuana brothel: not only is it beside the point, it actually adds to the sum total of human suffering by trivializing a painful experience. I did mention the flute solos, right?

Urgh!: A Music War

19. Tom Cochrane - Life Is A Highway (1992)
(File under: The Theory Of Alternating Decades: The '70s & '90s)

Or, as I like to call it, "This Song Is A Shitty Metaphor". Even granting that the titular phrase might sound good when sung (though not by this fool), the second half of the line - "I Want to ride it all night long" - makes absolutely no sense whatso-motherfucking-ever. Perhaps it's because my gift for interpreting symbolism sucks the proverbial fat one - for instance, I thought Moby-Dick was just a boring yarn about some neurotic blue collar schmoe assigning all kinds of unrealistic motives to a frigging whale - but I have yet to hear anyone offer a plausible explanation as to what "ride" is supposed to signify in this instance (though, to be fair, I haven't really brought it up much in conversation). And even discounting this glaring example of lazy lyric writing (and it's by no means the only offender here), why would you only want to "ride it" for one night? Am I to deduce from this that you desire to be dead in the morning? Because I can get behind you on that one. In fact, I wished you were dead about two bars into this steaming lump of festering songcraft.

It begins, as required by the laws of Junior High Poetry Writing, with "Life's like a road that you travel on", not so egregious itself I suppose, until it is followed (foreshadowing the chorus) by the idiotic non sequitur "When there's one day here and the next day gone". How exactly is that like a road, Tom? I think you're confusing space and time, no doubt a result of your extensive readings of Superstring Theory. Or perhaps you're merely functionally retarded. This is then followed by "Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand". What the bloody fuck? Is this guy banana crackers? I can't tell if he's talking about traveling with a carnival freakshow or taking a whiz in a ditch. Can't say as I much care, either.

I could go on, but really, what's the point? The guy crams as many unrelated cliches into his lyrics as fellow Canadian Bryan Adams (and when you consider those two, Loverboy, Triumph and Celine Dion, doesn't it seem we'd have pretty good cause for startinga war of aggression with our neighbors to the north? If only they weren't so maddeningly polite), and he manages to convey them in a voice even more annoyingly generic than that douchebag.

What about the music, you ask? Your basic run-of-the-mill late 80s/early 90s corporate shit rock, played with what people who know more about horrible music than I do would likely describe as a "boogie" beat. Just think second-rate bar-band Van Halen (which is at least 4 different insults in one phrase) and you get the picture. Or, if you're feeling particularly masochistic, just download the thing. But don't blame me when it lodges itself into your brain, forever rendering that particular section of your memory useless for recording more important information, such as who played Flo on Alice or what you ate for dinner last Tuesday.

18. Black Eyed Peas - My Humps (2005)
(File under: Meet The New Boss: The 2000s)

Goddamn, this song is 57 varieties of stupid. You know, whenever I hear some (usually right-wing) pundit whining about how our civilization's going down the crapper, I tend to roll my eyes - right-wing pundits and similar assholes have been making that claim for eons now. Then I hear something like this blasting from every speaker for months at a time, and I begin to think they have a point. And you've got to be dispensing some plutonium-grade stupidity when it's enough to make normally reasonable people agree with dick-whackers like Pat Robertson.

The great thing about pop music is that it's democratic - anybody can do it, whether they have a shred of talent or not. All it requires is one catchy hook - even eternal hacks like Phil Collins and Billy Joel have been able to squeeze out the occasional decent song. Sometimes, though - as is the case here - the whole concept backfires. "Catchy" is not always a virtue; often, it's downright fucking annoying (think "Who Let The Dogs Out?" or even "By Mennen!"). It's no big deal to write a shitty unmemorable song - it becomes a problem when you're able to write a shitty instantly memorable song that becomes the kind of earworm that causes you to walk around all day at work complaining that you've got the worst song ever stuck in your head and you can't get it out. "My Humps" is undeniably catchy (repeating the chorus a million times in a composition is a pretty surefire way to guarantee such a result). Guess which category it falls under?

When I first heard the Peas, they reminded me somewhat of Dee-Lite - kind of blanded-out, (even more) dumbed-up dance music for Wal-Mart shoppers; multi-racial (they even had an Asian guy whose musical role was somewhat ill-defined) - except there was nothing near as must-hear as "Groove Is In The Heart" among their offerings (Like I said, all it takes is one good hook), and instead of offering a good time to anybody who listened, as Dee-Lite did, they seemed interested solely in their own pleasure.

Really, I can barely bring myself to write about this. If you go to the Youtube video and read the (barely literate, "OMFG dis songz OTH!!1 Whoz got sum lady lumps they wanna share wit dis hot stud!!!") comments, they pretty much say it all. Just like Ted Nugent-era cock-rock, it's a Cro-Mag male fantasy set to a beat; unlike Ted Nugent, these guys got an actual female to go along with it (at least, I think Fergie's a female). The lyrics are beyond (by which I mean below) analysis; the chorus you know, but seriously: "They say I'm really sexy/The boys they wanna sex me"? That's the kind of lazy rhyme I would've written in junior high (and Lenny Kravitz would have written well into his 30s). And it's nowhere near the most egregious example. The most charitable thing that can be said about any of it is that they managed to come up with a descriptive term no one else in their right mind would have even considered without the aid of at least a case of generic beer and a few solid blows to the head.

They don't even get points for phrase-coining, though, since "humps" (not to mention "lady lumps") is so anti-erotic it'll never catch on. In fact, I'd venture it's probably best for society as a whole that you don't go around bragging about your "humps" unless you're either an extraordinarily confident hunchback or a camel. Our Fergie, whatever else may be said of her, is no hunchback. And she's damn sure not a camel, as no self-respecting camel would ever inflict anything this downright fucking annoying on an unsuspecting public. Listen and cringe.

The Titans, Part 2: U2 & The Beatles

16. U2 - Discotheque (1997)
(File under: You Broke My Heart, Fredo: When Our Musical Heroes Betray Us)

I was somewhat shocked, when researching this, to learn that this single made the top 10 (#1 in the UK), and its parent album went to the top of the charts on both sides of the Atlantic. Obviously it's not just the Boomers who are guilty of keeping well-past-their-peak artists viable in the marketplace.

Confession time: I am (or, more accurately, was) a U2 fan. I realize this destroys any hipster cachet I may have hoped to cultivate, but one of the nice things about getting old is I no longer worry about hiding the uncool aspects of my obsessions for fear of being mocked by the more image-conscious geeks of which I'm a subset. Which also means I no longer feel it necessary to invest time and money trying to appreciate acts like Modest Mouse or The Decemberists or The Mountain Goats or The Hold Steady or whoever the latest overhyped indie-flavor-of-the-month is, and instead am free to write them off based on my initial impressions (I'm pretty catholic in my tastes, and though I may be missing out on some things I'd conceivably enjoy, there aren't that many albums that require excessive time to reveal their charms - in other words, albums that will "grow on you".). Anyway, we all know that the music you listened to during your teens will always have a special place in your heart - this is how The Spice Girls were able to recently mount a successful stadium tour - and, at 14, "Pride (In The Name Of Love)" and "Sunday Bloody Sunday" possessed the kind of moral certainty and constructive anger I needed as something positive to cling to amid the melodramatic confusion of early adolescence (melodrama also being a key to why I related to U2's music so strongly at the time). And though now I'd rather actually be tortured than listen to Bono preach about its evil as a practice, the guy (and the rest of the band) got me through some rough times, so I can't ever completely turn my back on him, no matter how banal the music gets. And it's gotten pretty banal. Case in point:

I remember, right before this album was released, a lot of press about how it was going to be their "dance/electronic/techno" move (which they'd said about the previous 2 albums as well - why I continued listening this late in the game is surely a testament to my loyalty), and then the first single was called "Discotheque", so I was intrigued. The intrigue quickly turned to boredom and the feeling I'd been gypped (again), however, upon hearing it. U2 could never be a disco band, of course, for a couple reasons: first, dance music requires an absolutely kick-ass rhythm section, and, though they're fine for rock, Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen, Jr. don't have the chops for disco. Second, dance music is fun, and U2 never showed any facility for stepping outside their personae as saviors and simply getting down mindlessly. Not that I doubt they sincerely admired those who could or that they sincerely tried - they did everything sincerely, which was part of the problem. In the end, the entire album came off as a hopeless mess. For those who care, this was near the end of their "ironic" period, which went over about as well as a big wet fart during a eulogy. Unfortunately for them and us, the only irony on display here is the fact that this came from an album called Pop, which was filled with songs you couldn't remember 30 seconds after the CD (mercifully) ended. A rote guitar riff, a half-thought-out hook that never sinks in, and Bono's suffocatingly self-important vocal style add up to a song tailored for Top 40 radio that ends up being even more monumentally inconsequential than the dumb pop surrounding it. At least Madonna was able to give and experience simple pleasure (dance music's raison d'etre) without being hamstrung by Christian guilt.



17. The Beatles - All You Need Is Love (1967)
(File under: When Good People Do Bad Things: The Worst Of The Best)

Let's be clear: Every artist has their share of worthless filler scattered throughout their albums. If I wanted to write about lame album tracks rather than singles, I could easily expand this list to 50,000 entries. But I'm more interested in writing about the hits (or at least songs that were popular among the artist's fans), because they occupy a loftier position in the culture at large, and are therefore more "meaningful", sociologically speaking. So while this is by no stretch the worst Beatles song in existence - with Ringo having contributed 2 of his very own compositions to the canon, this would automatically be at least their third-worst by default - it is the worst of their #1 singles ("Love Me Do" doesn't count, as it didn't top the charts upon initial release, and only hit in America after Beatlemania was in full swing and their U.S. label(s) were exploiting their back catalogue for all it was worth). Had Lennon written it a mere two years previously, his tone of sneering mockery would have been evident to even the most guileless teenybopper. Instead, perhaps because he was in the grip of heroin addiction (I feel duty-bound to search for any excuse, since he's probably my favorite all-around musician ever, if push comes to shove), he plays it straight, to the detriment of the song and the disappointment of any listener not a casualty of blissed-out mush-brained hippie ideology.

I'm not a musician - I play drums (rim shot) - but it seems to me even the melodic composition here is lazy (the laziness of the lyrics should be obvious to anyone who's able to walk upright). What is the verse - like, one chord? Strip away the excessive instrumental ornamentation they couldn't refrain from employing on every track during the period - the overbearing strings and brass and harpsichords and whatever else that ruined Magical Mystery Tour - and you've barely got a song here at all. It doesn't help that the verses consist of what I'm sure were intended to be "deep" insights that were in reality tautologies that failed to put across anything more meaningful than "Drugs aren't always conducive to creativity" and the chorus is a kind of sing-along chant that sounds like a nice, humane, "brotherhood-of-man" sentiment until you think about it for two seconds and realize how hollow it is, especially when coming out of the mouths of obscenely wealthy pop stars who likely wouldn't have the time to listen to you gush about how brilliant they were if you ran into them on the street (which you wouldn't). It's sad, because they had the opportunity (as well as the ability - and, I don't doubt, the desire) to use their platform (this song was performed as Britain's entry for Our World, the first global television broadcast) to make a statement on what was truly beautiful about modern life and humanity, as they had, directly and indirectly, so often in previous songs. As it stands, the song's got about as much to say about love in the real world as a commercial for Kay Jewelers. Only Lennon takes about 6 times as long to say it.

The Titans, Part 1: Dylan

15. Bob Dylan - Blowin' In The Wind (1963)
(File under: Hope I Buy Before I Get Sold: Baby Boomer Bullshit & (The Myth Of) The '60s)

All right, let's get this out of the way: I don't hate Bob Dylan. I'd even go so far as to say he's got, in his catalogue, at least a CD's worth of really good-to-great songs, which is more than can be said of 95% of recording artists. But he's not somebody I'd ever want to have a conversation with. And it annoys me to no end to hear the "genius" label applied to him, when, near as I can reckon, he never did anything remotely groundbreaking his entire career, unless you consider lazy vocalizing in a tuneless nasal whine and never bothering to play your instrument(s) above a rudimentary level revolutionary. I sure as hell don't. But, remember, I don't hate Bob Dylan. He can't help the fact that so many people projected so much onto him that wasn't always there. Though he should be held accountable for coasting on his rep for damn near 4 decades now. Not that he will be, with the stranglehold the Love Generation has on the perception of what signifies as cultural currency in the popular imagination. Sure, every new "youth" trend in music has its criminally overrated contingent. But how many critical exegeses have been written about Nick Cave's lyrics? I trust you see my point.

Anyway, early Dylan, to me, is the worst (except for post-60s Dylan, of course - I'm dealing mainly with the legend here, not the "survivor"). In my opinion, he did his most valuable work when he went electric - I'm talking the '65-'66 stuff (and, no matter what Dylanologists will have to believe, he got more from the Beatles [if not necessarily the Byrds] than they got from him). On his first albums, he wanted to be Woody Guthrie more than even Woody Guthrie wanted to, and he succeeded somewhat - albeit minus the humor and big heart. And I think that's what grates on me more than the voice (yeah, I've read plenty of critics yammer on about how he was a "real" slash "honest" singer, untrained [code for "can't sing worth a fuck"], blah blah blah, but there have been hundreds of better "honest" singers, from Lou Reed to Brian Eno to Joey Ramone to Paul Westerberg to Peter Garrett of Midnight Oil - who, by the by, was a much more dynamic stage presence, as well as a much more dynamic protest-song writer) or the crap lyrics (which I'll get to in a moment, but special dumb-shit award has to go to "Masters Of War", which is almost entirely stupid, but deserves special mention for the line "You that turn and run farther when the fast bullets fly" - yep, no point in anybody running from slow bullets, I guess, is there, Bob?) or the musical ineptitude, which are all qualities I'm happy to overlook in others: the guy has no sense of joy. He comes off as hopelessly bitter - ever notice how he seems to save all his passion for putting people down? - and also, like most joyless beings, smug: what really translates in these songs (and in his voice) is not his concern for humanity and its pain, but his conviction that he is absolutely right about everything, and hence smarter than us fools in the audience (never mind that we're there to listen to him in the first place) and, especially, those fools not in the audience. It's the perfect psychological recipe for a born-again Christian (which he later became) or any other type of zealot, and it also goes a way toward explaining his unwillingness to put much effort into his singing or playing, and also his aforementioned coasting on his reputation for so long. Of course, he was smart enough that he managed to overcome these limitations on many occasions anyway. This is not an example of one of those occasions, however.

This is basic old-timey protest folk of no discernible consequence, the title being the answer to a string of mostly naive and/or idiotic rhetorical questions (some of which aren't as rhetorical as he thinks - it's just that their answers don't fit into his worldview, and therefore can't exist). It's supposed to be deep, I assume, but the depth it aspires to is undercut by the lyric's utter obviousness. At least he left the jokers and queens and thieves out of this one (maybe he was so popular because nerds didn't have heavy metal at the time to help them indulge in their medieval fantasies), but he did include another Lenny Kravitz-level bonehead line: "How many times must the cannonballs fly before they are forever banned?". Hey, I didn't know there were still any cannonballs flying in '63, Bob! Why will critics put up with this guy's anachronisms while dismissing Iron Maiden et al. for doing something similar? Oh, oh, and there's also "How many times must a man look up before he can see the sky?". I'm gonna go with one, Bob. A man has to look up one time to see the sky. That is my final answer. Oh, wait - unless he's indoors. Then he'll have to look out the window. You have to get up a lot earlier than that to put one over on me, Zimmy.



In any case, if you want some good old-time folk music, stick with Woody Guthrie. Or Pete Seeger. Or the Anthology of American Folk Music box set. If you want some good electric folk music, however - well, still search out something else before digging into his work. The first Clash album, perhaps. Or Entertainment! by Gang Of Four. Really, there's way more vital stuff in the genre out there than this guy's records, and you've probably heard the best of Dylan's songs a billion times by now anyway. And if, like me, you didn't get the big deal, maybe that's because it wasn't really there to be gotten in the first place.

Still, I don't hate Bob Dylan.