Numba Fo'

11. Blues Traveler - The Hook (1994)
(File under: The Theory Of Alternating Decades: The '70s & '90s)

Fucking hippie music. Everywhere you turned in the early 90s - fucking hippie music. And not even Grateful Dead-level (and how sad is it when the Dead are the held up as the example to which to aspire?) hippie music, either - more like Canned Heat or Hot Tuna (I'm assuming; I don't think I'd recognize a song by either of those bands even if I was lunging to change the radio station). This being the 90s, the production was better; this being fucking hippie music, production values were beside the point. In fact, this being fucking hippie music, everything was beside the point. Oh, it wasn't a formless psychedelicized jack-off jam - it had a hook (which is why the could get away with the title they gave it and not "Formless Psychedelicized Jack-Off Jam", which Phish should steal if they ever hope to win a "Truth in Advertising" award), annoying as it was. But it definitely shared the spirit of all those crappy late 60s/early 70s stoned, middle-class white bands corrupting blues forms and selling the result to other stoned, middle-class white people. And it sold more units than most of the aforementioned, to boot. Think of it: A jam band. In the 90s! With harmonica solos! In heavy rotation on MTV! Somebody fucking shoot me!

And despite the band's name, it wasn't even blues music (thank Jah for small favors). In fact, according to AMG: " "Hook" criticizes the music industry... and follows the chord progression of Pachelbel's Canon". Hey, who gives a shit?




12. Diana Ross - Theme From "Mahogany" (1975)
(File under: That's Barry White Of You: Soul & R&B)

If I owned a record store, I'd make up all kinds of subgenres for my classification system. Styx? They're in the "Hard Atheism" section, because their success is definitive proof that a personal God could not possibly exist. The Moody Blues? Over in the "$200 Albums" section, because you've obviously lost too many brain cells to make any kind of rational decision. And this single would be in the "I Feel Like Slitting My Wrists But I Need That Extra Psychological Nudge" section.

Seriously, this song is the aural equivalent of suicide. Which I guess is some kind of achievement, if you're a glass-is-half-full kind of person. Personally, whenever I see a glass half-filled with water, I don't think of it as half full or half empty; I think, "Goddamn, I hate water", and then dump the vile swill down the sink before busting open a Pepsi. So, theoretically, I suppose I should like this song. And yet, I think it hardly necessary to add, I most vehemently do not.

I'm at a loss to see the line that leads from the Supremes, one of the best, most vibrant Motown groups of the 60s, to anything near as despondent as this. I was tempted to assume heroin was involved, until I thought about all the junkies who managed to produce such exciting work (Lennon '68-'69; Grant Hart in the late 80s; Johnny Thunders Birth-Death). So maybe Diana should have taken heroin. Then perhaps she'd have been able to inject some joy into this performance.

I can't really put into words why this song disturbs me so much (aside from the unnecessary prepositional ending to the first line of the chorus, without which, I realize, she'd have to rhyme everything with "Going" - an exercise I really have no desire to be subjected to [see how you do it correctly?], so I'll give her a pass), but the image it conjures in my mind is some 70s movie filmed in distracting soft focus involving a group of cult disciples dressed in white robes lying down in a field of poppies and merrily drinking hemlock. Which is overly specific, I realize, but is also a pretty apt description of the level of banality mixed with horror this track epitomizes. Holy shit, it's depressing me just writing about it. In fact, this was the only song so far I couldn't actually bring myself to listen to before critiquing. Kind of a shame, because I was ready to go off on a diatribe about the heinous electric piano (the single nastiest-sounding instrument known to man or beast [or Jeremy Piven]) on display; but on reflection, I wasn't sure there actually was an electric piano in the song. And you know what? It doesn't make the slightest difference. This thing sucks so bad, it wouldn't matter if the backing music was done on kazoos and perfectly-pitched farts. It might conceivably serve some purpose to future generations, however: if some social historian ever wants to posit the thesis that human beings in the latter half of the 20th century were dead inside, here's the audio proof.

Warning: In accordance with a reader request, the video of this song is made up of scenes from The Sims video game.



13. Martin Page - In The House Of Stone And Light (1994)
(File under: Days Of Whine & Roses: Singer/Songwriters [Or, Hypersensitivity As A Marketing Ploy])

Looking for info on this guy, I learned that he co-wrote (with Bernie Taupin, no less) both "We Built This City" and Heart's "These Dreams", either one of which (not to mention working with Taupin) would have ensured his reputation as a major player in the All-Time Shit Rock Sweepstakes. Fortunately for me, he also recorded his own music. Which sounds like Oprah magazine transformed into sound: self-satisfied Marin County-style languor seeps out of every note of the smooth MOR-flavored mush that passes for music (this is probably the only artist ever to be profoundly influenced by Mr. Mister), which is married to vaguely "spiritual"/"uplifting" lyrics that probably sound sagacious to listeners who believe in feng shui and the Enneagram - in short, like Sting. To whose voice Page's bears an uncanny resemblance. If only he'd written "Message In A Bottle" or "Can't Stand Losing You" instead of that execrable Starship hit, that might even mean something. Anyway, watch the video if you dare. A dumb song for dummies!



14. Edie Brickell & New Bohemians - What I Am (1989)
(File under: I Ran (So Far Away): The '80s)

See entry #11 if you're wondering what's going on here musically (more fucking hippie music), 'cause that sums it up succinctly (and accurately, as I'm sure even the band would agree), though it is less "jammy" than Blues Traveler. All that means, though, is that it's more sluggish, and when I say "all that means" I'm being literal, because this is quite possibly the most meaningless song in existence. Not meaningless in the good sense (ie. "Wop Bop A Lu Bop"), either. The lyrics are a glorification of shallowness and the utter lack of rigourous thinking. "Philosophy is the talk on a cereal box"? Wish you woulda let me in on that before I wasted my time reading all that fucking Kant (And, since we're name-dropping smart dead guys, I'm pretty sure Wittgenstein would disagree with your assessment as well). And who the hell calls the writing on a cereal box (or anywhere else) "talk" in the first place? The illiterate and the drug-addled, that's who. "Religion is a smile on a dog"? Hey, if it was, I probably wouldn't be an atheist. Then again, I've never seen a dog smile, so maybe she's making the point that it's all just mush-brained mystical bullshit. And maybe a troupe of acrobat monkeys just flamboyantly cartwheeled out of my ass while I was struck by lightning twice clutching my winning lottery ticket.

"What I am is what I am"? That's the kind of tautology that scam "prophets" have been using to con stoned teenagers into believing they had cosmic insights since Siddhartha was a hit. In fact, every single line of this song is worthy of mockery. "I'm not aware of too many things"? No shit. "I know what I know if you know what I mean"? If I know what you mean? That you know what you know? Seems self-evident, but thanks for the concern. "Choke me in the shallow water"? If you insist. "...Before I get too deep"? Frankly, I'd be more worried about catching Avian Flu Virus from the hand soap dispenser at work. You know, the whole song is so perfectly preposterous that I'm tempted to assume it's Andy Kaufman-level satire. Until I check out her other songs and note the suffocating earnestness with which she sings her platitudes, at which point I pull the first Clash album out and try to achieve true Right Mindfulness. In any case, she's Paul Simon's problem now.

Warning: This song is accompanied by a video of somebody's fucking cat pictures as a slideshow.