(Yes, I know I said I was going to talk about America four months ago but you can't
rush these things.)
Specifically, let's talk about American music.
Specifically specifically, let's talk about the funniest song ever written.
Aha! Well, it can't be anything Pythonic since it's supposedly American, and that
takes out The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band and all the stuff Bill
Bailey does on stage too, right? So possibly something from Rich Hall as Otis
Lee Crenshaw? Maybe a Tenacious D track? Karate? Fuck Her Gently, perhaps? Or
maybe Tribute, for the populist choice?
Nay, nay and thrice nay. See, Tribute might still raise a wry smile, but that is
as nothing. The Funniest Song Ever Written is capable of reducing me to helpless
hysterics despite having heard it on average once every couple of months or so for
the last TWENTY YEARS. I kid you not - I'm holding back a chuckle now just thinking
about it. This song has brought more joy into my life than its composers can ever
have imagined, a joy that's only heightened by the fact that to judge by the radio
station playlists encountered while tooling around Florida last winter, some
Americans - not all Americans by any means - still seem to be
labouring under the insane misapprehension that it's any good.
I refer, of course, to the mighty Wanted
Dead Or Alive by everyone's favourite sub-Aerosmith big-permed soft-cock rockers,
Bon Jovi.
Brace yourself, gentle reader. We're going in.
Okay, it's the intro. And I can't help it, I'm smirking already. After all, nothing
evokes rugged independence and the frontier spirit like a twinkling synthesizer,
eh? On the album, Dave Bryan is credited for "All keyboards and various
noises." Fucking A! Gissa job, I could do that!
"It's aaall the same Only the names have chaaaaa-aaaaa-aaaa-aaaaaaanged..."
That's how it GOES! I PROMISE you! May a non-specified patriarchal deity strike
me down if I lie! Nobody this side of Mariah Carey or Axl "Fucking" Rose
can torture a syllable like Jon Bon Jovi.
"Every day It seems we're wasting awa-aa-aay..."
Eat more cake you pasty, chimp-faced little tosspot. Or failing that, did you know
that hair gel is chock-full of protein? No no, no reason, just mentioning it.
"Another place Where the faces are sooo cold..."
The fuck? Alaska? Newcastle? Rhyl on a bank holiday? Aaaah, no, see, he's being
all poetic here, bless him. It's "cold" as in emotionless, unmoved, uncaring.
In which case - well, that's a Bon Jovi gig for you.
"I drive aall niiii-iiiii-iiii-iiiight Just to get back home."
Yeah, I've had commutes like that. Might I suggest finding a job a little closer
to your apartment? Starbuck's, perhaps? Telemarketing? Something, and let me stress
this, as far a-fucking-way from the music industry as humanly possible. Alright,
hang onto something, folks. This is where things start getting really silly.
"I'm a cowboooy!"
Okay. First of all, no. You. Aren't.
Second of all, aren't you from New Jersey? Isn't that, you know, about as far from
the Old West as it's possible to be without getting your feet wet? Third of all,
you're a cowboy in exactly what sense? The sense that a ranch owner employs you
tend cattle? In the sense that you perform horse- and lasso-based tricks as part
of a rodeo show? In the sense that you wear a silly hat (actually, I hope the last
one's true. The only thing funnier than this song might be the sight of a stetson
perched atop Jon Bon Jovi's enormous eighties-era barnet).
"I'm wanted! Dead or aliiiiiiiiiiive! Wanted! Dead or aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!"
Nah, too easy.
"Sometimes I sleep, Sometimes it's not for daaaa-aaa-aaaaaays,
The people I meet Always go their separate waa-aa-aays..."
See, Wanted Dead Or Alive is a prime exhibit in that most loathsome and contemptible
of musical sub-genres - the song whining about being a musician. Oh, the vast quantities
of booze and drugs and recreational sex that nobody forced me to indulge in, maaaaaaaan,
it's all soooooooooo depressing, nobody wants to know me for who I am etcetera and
so on... Jon. Mate. The fact that the people you meet always go their separate ways
has got fuck-all to do with the itinerant nature of your chosen profession, it's
got nothing to do with the weird hours that you keep. Right-minded folk are fleeing
from the sight of you because you're precisely the sort of enormous pillock who
describes himself as a cowboy riding a steel horse.
You're welcome.
"Sometimes you tell the daaaaay By the bottle that you drink..."
I'm coming out and saying it - I reckon this is a barefaced lie. See, there's two
ways I can think of that this might work. The first is that you have different drinks
for each day, and that sometimes you wake up in an alcoholic stupor and go "aaaarg!
What day is it?" then look down at the bottle you were clutching when you passed
out. "Aaaaaah, Dubonnet, it must be Thursday." Frankly, that's a pretty
convoluted way of doing things when, for example, turning the TV news on would give
you the same information. Beyond that, I'm pretty sure it would take more effort
to organise than the sort of person who's inclined toward passing out with a bottle
in their hand is willing to put in. You've got to find seven types of booze that
you'd be happy drinking once a week for the rest of your life, you've got to make
sure that you've got enough of each kind of drink in the house at any given time,
you've got to have the self-discipline to stick to your routine and not decide one
day to, say, skip Martinis altogether and jump straight from White Lightning to
chardonnay - because if you do you'll be thinking it's Tuesday when the world thinks
it's Monday for the rest of your life.
The second way, of course, is counting the empty bottles and using that to work
out how many days you've been drinking. Even taking as read that you always drink
at the same rate and pass out at the same time each night, that plan still relies
on you remembering the last day you went down the shops to buy more booze. Any "I'm
sure it was Friday... or was it Saturday?" shenanigans and the whole scheme's
fallen apart around your ears.
"Sometimes when you're aloooo-oo-oooone All you do is think!"
Good God almighty, this gets more pompous and moronic. I'd almost forgotten.
"I walk these streets A loaded six-string on myyy back!"
And he's still got the nerve to act surprised when the people he meets always go
their separate ways.
"I play for keeps! 'Cause I might not make it baa-aaa-aaack!"
Oooooh, Jon, you're so BUTCH!
"I've been everywheee-eeere..."
Given the infinite nature of three-dimensional space this is obviously a logical
impossibility.
"Still I'm standing taa-aaaa-aaall!"
Jon Bon Jovi is five feet nine inches. "Standing well below average height",
then.
"I've seen a million faces! And I've ROCKED them all!"
Weren't you telling us about three minutes that the faces you see are "so cold"?
So which is it? Cold, or ROCKED? Make up your fucking MIND, you goon!
It's usually at about this stage that I'm laughing too hard to control the car,
crash and die. Usually. But for anyone who actually survives hearing this song first
time through, I heartily recommend seeing the video if you can. It's one of those
moody black-and-white tour/concert rockumentary affairs, and is worth seeing for
a) the hair, and b) how self-consciously cool every single band member acts when
the camera's pointed their way. It looks roughly as natural and unforced as the
Queen did eulogising Princess Di. Plus I defy anyone to watch the opening shot of
Richie Sambora in a silly hat playing that dopy double-necked guitar and not laugh
out loud.
God love you, Bon Jovi. Long may you ROCK.
Join us next week, when we'll be devoting more time to picking apart "Unskinny
Bop" by Poison than anybody spent writing it.
-
And for today's random Top 5... The Top 5 Songs That Sound Like They'd Be Fun To
Sing Live With The Band:
5 - Paradise By The Dashboard Light - Meat
Loaf ("So open up your eyes, I gotta big surprise, it'll feel alright when
I wanna make your motor run...") 4 - Ever Fallen In Love
(With Someone You Shouldn'tve Fallen In Love With)? - The Buzzcocks ("You
spurn my natural emotions, you make me feel like di-ir-ir-irt, and I'm hurt!") 3
- Rake At The Gates Of Hell - The Pogues ("Drag 'em down to be damned with
me, laugh at them as they forgive me!") 2 - Fully Completely
- The Tragically Hip ("Bring me back in shackles and hang me long out in
the sun, exonerate me then forget about me just wait and you'll see just wait and
you'll see... FULLYYYYY, COMPLETELEEEEE-EEE-EEEY!") 1
- Hard To Handle - Otis Redding ("ACTIONS speak louder'n words, an' I'm
a man of great experience, I know y'got you another man, but I can love you better'n
him...")
