They write the (bad) songs

I am a huge music fan, and I have toyed with the idea of starting a separate blog totally dedicated to it, but I’m too lazy for that. I can barely crank out one entry a week for this one.

Well, you get what you pay for.

I have decided instead to just occasionally post some of my musings about music here. Sometimes I will write about things I really enjoy, and about music that uplifts me and gives me chills and hope for humanity. Today is not one of those times.

I don’t have satellite radio or a CD player in my car, so when I listen to music these days, a lot of the time it’s via some “classic rock” station out of Atlanta, which plays the same Boston and Styx songs five times a day. And it’s made me realize that there are some really bad songwriters out there, so I decide to compile a list of what I consider to be the very worst.

I am aware that a lot of people don’t pay any attention at all to the lyrics in songs. I’m afraid I am a slave to them. My number-one complaint with what they play on country radio stations today is the lyrics are almost 100 percent asinine and stupid.

When I’m talking bad songwriters, I mean bad lyricists. And listen, I understand that not all songs have to be Dylanesque pieces of literature or great poetry. I like “You Shook Me All Night Long” and “Rock And Roll All Night” as much as the next guy. But those are just feel-good party songs that touch on the two parts of the trinity – sex and drugs. It’s OK to be silly when writing about those things.

I had a few qualifications in making my list. I am limiting it to what are considered rock-and-roll artists. Trust me there, there are plenty of bad country songwriters (Kenny Chesney, anybody?), and I can’t claim to understand rap and hip-hip to know what’s good or bad.

Also, I am picking from people who have been successful and have thousands of times more money than me. Yes, I am jealous. But that doesn’t make me wrong.

So here is my partial list of what I consider to be the worst songwriters, and some of the worst examples of their crap – er, craft. I am listing them in alphabetical order, which works out, because the one I consider the worst is at the very end. Here we go.


Jon Bon Jovi
Most egregious example:

We’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got
It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not
We’ve got each other and that’s a lot
For love, we’ll give it a shot
- Living on a Prayer



This guy has made a living between adopting a wannabe-tough guy stance and breaking out the sensitive, love-has-wounded-me pose that still makes soccer moms across America weak in the khoulats.

His piece de resistance has to be “Dead or Alive,” in which he envisions himself as a cowboy, if cowboys wore eye makeup and teased their hair and rode groupies instead of buses. He sings, “Sometimes you tell the day by the bottle that you drink (If this is Hennessy, it must be Tuesday?), and sometimes when you’re alone, all you do is think.” I find it hard to believe that this song was the product of any actual thinking. Dead or Alive? Well, I think you know which way I’d vote.

Phil Collins
Most egregious example:

We had a life, we had a love, But you don't know what you've got 'til you lose it
Well that was then and this is now, And I want you back
You can run, and you can hide, But I'm not leaving less you come with me
We've had our problems but I'm on your side
You're all I need, please believe in me
- Something Happened On the Way to Heaven


First of all, this guy’s a drummer. Need I say more? He is the all-time king of clichés. I believe the song above sets a modern-day rock-and-roll cliché record.

Phil’s most famous song, and one of his worst (and that’s saying something), is “In The Air Tonight.” It features one of my favorite clichés, “I saw it with my own two eyes.” Really? Who else’s eyes could you possibly see something with?

Apparently an urban legend sprouted up that the song was about some tragic or sinister event Phil witnessed, perhaps even done by or to some unnamed prominent person. If only it was that interesting. Phil said himself, in a BBC interview, “I don't know what this song is about.” I know what it’s about. It’s about four minutes of drivel. (rimshot).

Michael McDonald
Most egregious example:

She had a place in his life
He never made her think twice
As he rises to her apology
Anybody else would surely know
He’s watching her go
- What a Fool Believes

A running joke in the movie The 40-Year-Old Virgin is that there’s always a Michael McDonald concert playing on the TVs in the appliance store where many of the characters work, and it’s starting to drive them crazy. I feel that way every time I hear one of his Doobie Brothers’ songs.

“What A Fool Believes” sounds like somebody wrote down a bunch a short sentences, put them on strips of paper and put them in a hat, then pulled them out and sang them in that order. It’s easier to follow James Joyce after taking an Ambien than it is to ferret out what he’s talking about. To be fair, he co-wrote that song with Kenny Loggins. Maybe Kenny’s responsible for all the really stupid lines. How do you rise to one’s apology, anyway?

Steve Miller
Most egregious example:

I feel the magic in your caress
I feel magic when I touch your dress
Silk and satin, leather and lace
Black panties with an angel’s face
Abra-abra-cadabra
I want to reach out and grab ya
- Abracadabra

Ok, dude. Please never use the word “panties” in a song. It makes you seem like a pervert and it makes me uncomfortable. And is he saying there’s a face on the panties? Now that really would creep me out.

This guy wrote so many bad songs it’s hard to list them all. How about “Take the Money and Run”, in which he paints a sympathetic picture of Billy Joe and Bobby Sue, whose redeeming qualities are as follows: they get high, they sit around the house, they watch the tube, they rob people, they shot a man. Hey, I know writers have to give their protagonists a flaw or two, but this goes too far.

Steve Perry
Most egregious example:

She loves to laugh, she loves to sing, she does everything
She loves to move, she loves to groove, she loves the lovin things
- Any Way You Want It

The lovin’ things? Please don’t tell me he means, you know, gadgets.

Steve’s powerhouse voice and those ridiculous videos (“Separate Ways”) sometimes obscured how bad his lyrics truly are. I defy you to explain to me what the hell is going on in “Don’t Stop Believin’”. Apparently, the small-town girl and the city boy happen to get on the same train, admit, heading anywhere. But then they wind up in a smoky room (is this on the train? Like a dining car?), smelling wine and cheap perfume, and for a smile, they can share the night. Sounds more like the kind of place where for $50, they can share the night.

Then we have some strangers on the boulevard, and something called “streetlight people” living just to find emotion. I just found an emotion – boredom. Then in the last verse Steve switches from the third-person, omniscient narrator storytelling style to the first person – he’s working hard to get his fill, everybody wants a thrill, paying anything to roll the dice just one more time. I’d pay anything to never hear this song again.

Sting
Most egregious example:

It’s no use, he sees her
He starts to shake and cough
Just like the old man in
That book by Nabakov

- Don’t Stand so Close to Me

Seriously? You just rhymed “cough” and “Nabakov?”

I don’t know what was worse – the creepy ham-fisted “love songs” like “Every Breath You Take” (Hello, he’s a stalker!) or “Message In A Bottle”, or the pretentious crapola mysticism of songs like “Wrapped Around Your Finger” (Caught between the scylla and charybdis???) or “King of Pain” (There’s a skeleton choking on a crust of bread – I swear that’s the actual lyric). I guess what always bothered me most about Gordon Sumner – er, Sting – was the phony Jamaican accent he used to sing with.

Bernie Taupin
Most egregious examples (he gets two):

Say you don't know me, or recognize my face
Say you don't care who goes to that kind of place
Knee deep in the hoopla, sinking in your fight
Too many runaways eating up the night

Marconi plays the Mamba,
Listen to the radio
Don't you remember?
We built this city
We built this city on rock and roll!

-We Built This City


Mars ain’t no kind of place to raise your kids
In fact, it’s cold as hell
And there’s no one there to raise them
If you did.

- Rocket Man


Taupin, of course, was the lyricist for most of Elton John’s biggest hits, and he also penned the single-worst song in the history of rock and roll, “We Built This City” as performed by Jefferson Starship.

What you have in any Taupin song is a jumble of insipid phrases. It kind of goes to show you how talented Elton John was, in that he was able to disguise the banality and scratch-your-head idiocy of Taupin’s words with his singing voice and beautiful melodies. I mean, have you ever read the words of “Your Song” without the music? “But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song, It's for people like you that keep it turned on.” Try diagramming that sentence.

And he just made up things that sort of sounded like they maybe were real, but they were just figments of his imagination. There was no Crocodile Rock. There was no band named Benny and the Jets. Levon and his father and Alvin Tostig are all made up. Ridiculous.

There are some others who should make the list – Huey Lewis, Geddy Lee, Chris Martin, Dennis DeYoung - but I’m too lazy to go any further at the moment. Paul McCartney has written more than a few stinkers himself, but he was a Beatle and he wrote “For No One” and “You Never Me Give Me Your Money” so he can pretty much do and write what he wants for the rest of his life.

If anybody actually made it this far in the post and has any additions, I’d love to hear. And I promise I’ll do a “best songwriters” list soon.

Ain't no cure for the wintertime blues

I took Lucky for a walk the other night and I noticed a chill in the air, a little bit of fall nipping at my nose, with leaves turning beautiful colors and pumpkins on doorsteps and the sky a smogless blue, the way it gets at only this time of year.

It made me want to throw up. Because you know what fall means? It means winter is coming.

The walk itself was okay, other than the foreboding coolness in the air. Lucky was in fine form - she peed on three mailboxes, took a crap in an overgrown yard and got into a fight with a yappy furball that looked like Don King’s hair. All in all, just your average half-hour with Lucky.

Lucky doesn’t mind the impending cold, as she has a natural sweater, and a big new pile of hay out back that she likes to burrow down in. And of course when it gets cold in the evenings, she’ll come inside to snore and fart all night, for our amusement.

People say stupid stuff like, “I like having different seasons.” Well, I do too, and here are the two seasons I like – early summer and late summer. There’s your seasons, right there.

Some folks enjoy seeing the leaves on trees turning brilliant colors in the fall, and that’s great, except that means they’re about to fall off. I have about 15 trees in my yard, so I’m raking and bagging leaves from Halloween to Thanksgiving. I’m thinking of cutting them all down and replacing them with artificial trees. Might look right nice.

And next weekend, of course, we’re going to turn our clocks back, so it will get dark even earlier. This is not a good idea. I say we turn them forward again, and give us an extra hour of daylight, not one less. Let’s keep doing this until it stays daylight until midnight. Who cares that it will be dark until around noon? I’m not a morning person anyway.

This was bad planning, by the way, on God’s part, to give us less daylight when it’s colder. It’s like he thought, well, they won’t be depressed enough by the freezing cold and all the dead trees and the grey skies. Let me turn out the world’s lightswitch at about 5:30.

(In case God is reading this, I didn’t mean it as a criticism. I’m just funnin’, I swear. I would never imply that you didn’t know what you were doing when you were creating everything, and I would not dare to question it. Though I would like an explanation as to why you created a few things, like fire ants and PMS and the University of Florida).

I suppose that since I live in Georgia, I can’t complain about winter too much, since ours is fairly mild. We get about a half-inch of snow every year, at which time we all go crazy, and it rarely gets below freezing for more than a few hours. But still, winter is winter, which means it ain’t summer, which means I don’t like it.

Yet even if I had a Moses experience and got to talk to God, I don’t think I’d complain about the winter. He’d probably just tell me to move somewhere warmer. He helps those who help themselves….

With no particular place to go

I took my old Ovation guitar down to the Record Heaven music store in Griffin the other day to see if anything could be done to spruce it up. The guitar man there – I didn’t catch his name – shook his head ruefully and said, “Ain’t worth fixing.”

I didn’t expect to hear that. What did that mean?

The guy looked at it and said, “I can fix it, but there ain’t no way I can make it sound worth a toot.” Well, I’ve been playing it for 15 years, and I’ve never been able to make it sound worth a toot, either. But he told me that it would cost $300 to get it into passable playing shape, and even then he made no guarantees, so I decided to pass.

I was a little down after leaving there, so I decided to indulge one of my favorite pastimes – I went riding around.

Riding around is what I spent about 75 percent of my teenage years in Griffin doing. There wasn’t much else to do there besides school, church and work, and I didn’t find any of the three to be fun. So my buddies and I would climb into our cars that got about 20 feet to the gallon and we’d ride around aimlessly, past all the same old places.

The best time of day to ride around is twilight, or in the loaming, as I’ve heard it called. The setting sun casts a softer light on the world, and everything just looks better.

Of course, a key part of riding around is having some good music to listen to. An activity like that needs a good soundtrack. On the day I got the bad news about the guitar, I went with The Allman Brothers’ Eat A Peach album. You can never go wrong with Duane and Dickie. They always sound worth a toot.

I rode past the house I lived in as a small child. I have almost no memory of it, which is just as well, because that whole neighborhood has been taken over by trashy people and the house looks like hell.

Then I just rode around on some country roads, looking at cows and fields and old churches and mobile homes with Rebel flags still flying out front. My reverie was broken when I got a phone call reminding me that I needed to go by Walgreens and the grocery store. Riding around was a lot more fun before cell phones.

When I was a teenager, my mama didn’t like it when I would tell her that I was going to go riding around. Y’all are just going to find trouble out there, running the roads, she said. No, I would think, if we find trouble, then we’ll stop the car. But I never said that to her. She wasn’t the kind of mama you sassed.

In truth, we never got into trouble riding around. We didn’t drink or do drugs, and girls didn’t have much interest in just driving aimlessly. Anyway, if you had a girl in the car, your goal was to park it somewhere, as soon as possible.

Now, I do all of my riding around by myself, and it never lasts as long, but it’s almost always a good time, even with a dying Ovation lying in the back seat.

Flat broke

I was up at the Emory Clinic this morning and I was getting ready to leave. I knew I’d have to pay for parking, so I opened my wallet for some cash or a debit card, and there was nothing there. It was as bare as a cooch dancer’s midriff, to quote Foghorn Leghorn.

Now, just two days ago, in addition to the debit card, there was $30 in cash in my wallet. I had not spent a red cent in the meantime. So, it should have still been there. But it wasn’t.

There are three other people who live at my house, plus my dog Lucky. All three humans have denied taking the money. Lucky was mum on the subject, but I don’t suspect her. She might steal a biscuit out of a grizzly bear’s mouth, but she has no use for money.

Apparently, the $30 just took wings and flew out of my wallet. I hope it found its way to somebody who needs it. As for the debit card, it somehow was in my wife’s possession. My debit card has my photo on it, so I don’t know what good it would do her. She’s never, to my knowledge, even sported a goatee.

Luckily, the nice people at Emory gave me a token for free parking when I explained my predicament. I’m glad they did, because I was going to have to go to Plan B, which was to say, “Wow, the doctor just told me I have two weeks to live, and now this happens.”

I should be used to money flying out of my wallet by now, as I have two kids in high school, and every day I’m shelling out money for something – senior dues, football dues, parking dues. Cheerleading is the worst – last year my daughter was a cheerleader, and it cost approximately $500,000. You could buy a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader for what I spent on cheerleading (trust me, I looked it up, but figured I didn’t have anywhere to put her).

Earlier this year, I had to buy an ad for my son for the football program, then join the booster club, and all this AFTER shelling about $400 just for him to have the privilege to play football. Maybe he’ll get a lot better and bigger and go somewhere where they’ll actually pay HIM to play, like Florida or Alabama.

Now I am told that I need to purchase an ad for the high school yearbook, since my daughter is a senior. This ad costs roughly the same as a new Buick. And I was made to believe that if I didn’t purchase this ad, I would be the worst father this side of MacKenzie Phillips’ dad.

My daughter informed me the other day that she was going shopping. Interesting, I said. For what?

A new outfit, she said.

Then I asked the most important question – with what? So she gave me that “daddy’s little girl” smile, and once again my wallet parted like the Red Sea.

I guess I’ve learned a valuable lesson. From now on, I’m inspecting my wallet before I leave the house, or maybe I’ll just start hiding money in the freezer, like my mom used to do. I always thought that was crazy, but now, I understand.

Sentimental journey

I just got back from the beach, and it made me realize that I have reached a few new stages in my life.

One of those is the “should no longer be seen in public without a shirt” stage. I’ve put on a few pounds since my last trip to the beach. Small children were standing under my stomach for shade. I think I heard somebody say, “You don’t often see humpbacks in the Gulf of Mexico.” Not very nice.

I also realized that I’m getting to be a sentimental old cuss. The older I get, the more nostalgia gets to me. I used to only cry when I watched “Old Yeller,” or when something hit me in the groin. Nowadays, I’ll get teary-eyed at the drop of a hat.

Case in point: As we were packing up the leave Orange Beach Wednesday morning, it got to me. And not because I was leaving an environment of crashing surf, sandy beaches and pleasant breezes to head back to one filled with traffic, unpaid doctors’ bills and nasty letters from credit card companies.

What made me emotional was realizing that it may have been one of our last family vacations together, at least of this kind. We’ve done the same thing for many years – when the kids are out of school for their fall break in September, we go down to the beach and spend a few days to a week.

It is always such a great time, in part because I get to spend time with the kids without all of the distractions that bombard us daily. We go for walks on the beach at night looking for crabs, and we ride the waves in the Gulf, and we go to the tacky arcade-amusement park where we try to win cheap prizes and always have a competitive game of putt-putt (I was dethroned this year for the first time ever, but that didn’t make me sad. I’ll get even). We eat every meal together, and for a few days, the kids even act as if they like each other.

But they are growing up, damn them. This time next year, my daughter will be in college somewhere. My son will be a junior in high school and probably won’t want to miss football practice. And as they get older, their interests in other things and other people will grow, and playing putt-putt and looking for crabs with Dad will just seem stupid. I know that, and I accept that, but it doesn’t mean I have to look forward to it.

I hope that the memories of the family vacations will be as special to the kids as they are for their mom and dad. I hope that someday when they take their families to the beach, or to the mountains, or wherever they go, they’ll smile and remember how much fun they used to have, and they’ll realize how much it meant to old Dad.

I’d better end this now, before somebody walks in on me, and I have to try to convince them that I’ve been watching “Old Yeller” on YouTube.

Welcome to Wal-Mart

You probably read or heard about the story recently concerning the old man here in Georgia who told a woman to make her 2-year-old stop crying or he would, and when she didn’t, he slapped the kid around a little bit.

This happened in a Wal-Mart. Well, of course it did. It is yet another example of why I avoid Wal-Mart like I avoid hard work.

Oh, and here’s another reason.

I refuse to go to Wal-Mart. There are three massive ones within 5 miles of my house. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one. How much cheap stuff can people buy?

I could tell you that my Wal-Mart boycott has to do with how they have ruined small-town America, and they import everything from China and screw American suppliers, and they have questionable employment practices, and their produce tastes like it was grown in the buttcrack of a buffalo.

But I’m not that high-minded. I just can’t stand seeing the people you see in your average Wal-Mart. Most of them look like they came there straight from a meth lab or a Tennessee football game.

Does this make me snotty? Maybe so. But here are a few tips I’d like to give Wal-Mart shoppers before they head to the store:

1. Bathe.
2. Make sure your clothes have been washed within the past month, and don’t have holes you could put a quarter through.
3. Don’t wear your T-shirts with obscene or vulgar words on them. That’s fine for the family reunion at the trailer park, but not for the public.
4. Shoes – wear them. Even your kids. Especially your kids.

I prefer K-Mart to Wal-Mart, but there aren’t many K-Marts left. I used to actually work at K-Mart, and it was fun, because the store was huge and I could hide for almost my entire shift.

I remember once, a guy got busted for crawling up above the ceiling and looking down into the women’s dressing rooms through the security mirror. I thought this was a very sick thing. I mean, at the time, I understood the urge to look at women undressing. But not women who were trying on clothes at K-Mart. It ain’t exactly Victoria’s Secret, is all I’m saying.

K-Mart was cooler, because they had blue-light specials, where they’d put a flashing blue light on somewhere and put something on sale for a limited time. My mother and father both bought a lot of useless junk because they were blue-light specials. Somewhere there’s a 10-pound barrel of cheese popcorn we never ate.

I don’t care if you go to Wal-Mart. If your conscience will let you, and you don’t mind swimming in the shallow end of the gene pool for a while, go right ahead. Just don’t buy me anything.

Rainy days and Fridays always get me down

I got up at 6:30 this morning and it was as dark as Mordor outside and bucketing rain, and I thought to myself (because who else would you think to?), “It should be against the law to have to go to work on a Friday like this.”

Your hear that, President Obama? Screw the health-care reform. You want my vote in 2012, you’ll make this happen.

I got in my car and began the torturous drive to work. As anybody who has driven to work in Atlanta knows, 99 percent of the other drivers act as if they have a closed head injury. This is magnified exponentially when there’s a drop of rain on the road, and today it was like God had out the hosepipe.

I often drive into a work via a route that includes Moreland Avenue, past quaint cute little neighborhoods with names like “Grant Park” and “Kirkwood” and my favorite, “The Ghetto.” There’s not much drainage in this area, perhaps because there are dead bodies clogging the drains, so when it rains hard Moreland Avenue becomes an aqueduct. I thought at any moment I would be sucked into a swirling eddy like Marshall, Will and Holly in “Land of the Lost.” Waves were breaking over the hood of the Impala. Scary stuff.

This marked two days in a row of a testy commute. The day before, I was driving home down a road cleverly named “Boulevard.” (I guess “Street” was taken.) This is a little bit of a shortcut, but it runs right past the federal penitentiary and some housing projects, so you have to know how to navigate this stretch safely. In other words, keep the doors locked, don’t get too close to the car in front of you in case somebody tries to carjack you and you need to make a quick getaway, and avoid making eye contact with the hookers in the parking lot of the convenience store. Do all of that and you’re perfectly safe.

But Thursday, I found the way blocked. I saw police cars and a school bus and flashing lights, so I had to take a detour. I think the street I turned on was called “Crackhouse Lane,” but I was driving too fast to read the signs. I got home and watched the local news and learned that a naked man had climbed on the school bus and some kids had jumped off and finally the bus had run into an empty field. The naked man was subdued, and nobody was hurt or impregnated.

I am hopeful that these misadventures will soon stop. I joined in with about 30 co-workers and we pooled together to buy a bunch of lottery tickets for tonight’s $325 million drawing. The odds of winning this are about 1 in 175 million. We have 150 chances to win, which increases our odds to about 1 in 174.99999 million.

Let me tell you something, if we win, this department will be a ghost town Monday morning, especially in the area of my cube. I’m never coming back. They can keep all my stuff, though I would like the Elvis magnet, for sentimental reasons. Everything else I can replace, and I will never get out of bed on a rainy Friday ever again.