YTAH's Weblog


No You Can’t Take the Fucking Weather With You (Part 3)

Posted in lyrics by YTAH on July 21, 2008
Tags: , , ,

Okay, children, so I was going to do something different today, and take a little break from bashing terrible lyrics, but then the universe took a massive, car-shaped dump on my day, after which it proceeded to force a whole bunch of someone else’s work onto my already overloaded schedule to keep me occupied while I wait for the stench to lift. (Suppose I should’ve known, what with it being Tuesday the 13th.) So instead of racking my brain for something new and exciting with which to torment your fragile little minds, I shall instead stick to what has been a rather productive subject thus far, and continue to malign shitty song-writing.

Now, I realize that there are people who think song lyrics are the new form of poetry. Perhaps – if you consider hastily assembled fridge magnets and the sound of a million bloggers rhyming to be synonymous with “poetry”. Perhaps you prefer your “poetry” written by the kind of people who’d shit in their own hands, take a deep whiff, lick the edges straight, and then hurl it at passers-by. Otherwise, if you are aware of people like Shakespeare, DH Lawrence, and Philip Larkin, or even William “Spade! with which Wilkinson hath toiled his lands!” Wordsworth, you may, like me, consider song lyrics the new petard by which our musicians routinely hoist themselves.

Remember when I told you that all my friends are cunts? Well, apparently, like true cunts, they also have truly shitty tastes in music. I have established beyond all possible doubt that some of them even like Morrissey. Morrissey, for fuck’s sake. So, in the spirit of fairness, and in an attempt to make this more interesting, I have decided to desist from only dissing lyrics by musicians that no sane person could possibly justify liking, and brutally assault the treasured “word palaces” so beloved by my misguided (so-called) friends. After all, if nothing else, writing for africans has taught me that, once you give up any pretence at fairness, it becomes possible to rip a hole through the fabric of any lyrical universe and trample its creator’s face with steel-capped boots of Nazi vigour. And that’s a better fate than some of them deserve. (“Fairness? I’ll give you fairness. I got your fairness right here, beeyatch. Now stop struggling and bend over.” )

Counting CrowsLet’s murder some crows.
Take, for instance, the “lyrical stylings” (AKA drug-fuelled ramblings) of Adam Duritz, the whiney little front-man/front-snot for those fucking proto-emo shitheads, The Counting Crows. What a totally inane (and yet absolutely appropriate) collection of cocaine hallucinations. Don’t believe me? Look at the lyrics. It’s right there in the first verse of “Goodnight LA”: “I’m awake in my room/ I’ve been up for 38 hours/ And it don’t look like sleep’s coming soon…” Um, so, okay, maybe you all are a bit slow or whatnot, but what have we told you about the coke? Put down that spoon, you retard, and maybe you won’t be awake for another 38 hours. But if you’ve been stupid enough to keep snorting that shit, stop bitching about how it keeps you up at night, you whiney, little, fuck. Grow some balls, some brains, and some backbone, because fuck knows we’re tired – legitimately, legally tired – of putting up with your crap. Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you if the “happy powder” is keeping you awake, fuckhead. You paid good money for it, and it seems to be doing it’s job, so you’re either complaining or bragging, and neither makes for good listening. “I am waiting for the telephone to tell me I’m alive” … no offence, you wet git, but you’re going to be waiting some kind of time.

I suppose it’s unsurprising that their other coke-ode, “Up All Night”, is dedicated to someone whose second album’s called “High Life”. Well, excuse me, sonny, but if all that the high life gets you is shitty lyrics, you can keep it. “Get your dreams just right/ Let them slip away,/ I might sleep all day./ Oh, it’s too late to get high now…” Of course it’s too late to get high now, you dumbass; you’re already high. Try and keep up. Again, it would be bad enough if this were just a verse, but it’s the godforsaken chorus. But then, they like their dubious sentiments front and centre, this band. Like, say, in their titles. Like “I’m Not Sleeping”, on their new album, which features the wonderful line, “She comes to me at night when I’m sleeping”. Really, Adam? Sleeping at night? What kind of a rock star are you, anyway? Oh, that’s right, the kind that, instead of bragging about all the poon-tang you score on a regular basis, what with being so famous and all, spends all that free time bitching about your oh-so-miserable life. (And all this in a song called “I’m Not Sleeping”, nogal.) “Well honey I’m just tryin’ to make some sense outta me.” Yeah, you and the rest of us, Duritz.

Prince Harry & James BluntWhich one should be first against the wall?
And yet, there are some hidden truths in the lyrics. Like on “Miami”, where his angel informs him that he’s “too dumb to fuck, too dumb to fight, too dumb to save”. God, yes. Where is this angel, and what’s she doing, because I want to marry her. If only Adam would see the truth in her words. But no, he says, “maybe I don’t need no angel at all” – no, Adam, you don’t; what you need is a gunshot wound to the chest. Maybe, if you really were a “butterfly in reverse”, and we were all somehow to all get really lucky, you’ll get stuck in the fender of a large truck. That would be lucky for us. My favourite bit is where he sings, with hilarious accuracy, about his “Noisily not knowing why”. Never was a truer word reedily whined – at least, not until James Blunt informed us he was out of his mind. (“Judging by the look on the organ-grinder,/ He’ll judge me by the fact that my face don’t fit.” What? “We all need a pantomime to remind us what is real.” No, James, what we all need is a gun to blow out your brains, what little is left of them. Hey, wait, I hear Prince Harry is no longer fighting in Afghanistan. Why don’t you go and take over as poster-boy for the war, get yourself blown up, there’s a good sport. “Will you be a friend of mine to remind me what is real?” No. Sod off. “Hold my heart and see that it bleeds.” I’ll hold your heart, kid, but only to throw it to the ground and stomp on it. So long, Jimmy, we won’t miss you once you’ve gone. None of us wish you wrote that song. But we’re all relieved it’s finally over.)

But let’s leave off the whiners, and start in on the posers, shall we? By “posers”, of course, I mean Muse. I suppose it says something when even the site that’s supposed to punt your albums gives you a bad review. But that’s not surprising, given lyrics like this: “Link it to the world/ Link it to yourself/ Stretch it like a birth squeeze/ The love for what you hide/ The bitterness inside/ Is growing like the new born/ When you’ve seen, seen/ Too much, too young, young/ Soulless is everywhere…” Well I don’t know so much, but if you think this qualifies as “singing for absolution” you need to go back to the drawing-board, mate. You ain’t getting no absolution here.

We are not amused, Matt.
Most of their song titles sound like the names of emo bands: Hysteria. Blackout. Ruled By Secrecy. “Thoughts of a Dying Atheist”? If only. “Thoughts of a self-cutting, suicidal, make-up-wearing jackass jerking off on his deathbed after ingesting several bottles of fruit-flavoured headache pills and his favourite ‘Do-you-hate-me-as-much-as-I-hate-me?’ emo-club badge”, more like. You may think this is all some deep stuff, Matty boy, but it’s all just so much shit, and I’m tired of investing emotional energy in the product of your “Supermassive Black Hole”. (Cunt.) The most appropriately-named Muse song is “Megalomania”, but it’s not meant ironically like the band seems to think. “The good news is, she can’t have babies/ And won’t accept gifts from me/ What are they for?” What are what for, dumbass? Are you talking about the babies or the gifts? Or has the nonexistent baby left you a nonexistent “gift”? If so, this is the first song ever written about phantom baby shit. Appropriately enough, that’s also what it produced; from phantom excrement to lyrical excrement, hooray. Aren’t we the lucky ones. “Useless device, it won’t suffice/ I want a new game to play/ When I am gone/ It won’t be long before I disturb you in the dark.” The only useless “device” here is you, Matt.

“And it’s time we saw a miracle/ Come on it’s time for something biblical/ To pull us through it all/ And pull us through it all” – again with the hidden truth. We all need something to pull us through. At least, to pull us through this fucking album. “Apocalypse Please”? God yes. That’s the first thing you’ve said I agree with. After subjecting myself to your awful lyrics, I too would like my apocalypse now, thanks. At least then we wouldn’t have to listen to your miserable drivel, you whiny little shit. “And this is the last time I’ll forget you/ I wish I could” – ah, that’s sweet. We wish we could forget you, too. But perhaps the best way for us to express ourselves is in your very own words: “Change/ Everything you are/ And everything you were/ Your number has been called/ Fights, battles have begun/ Revenge will surely come/ Your hard times are ahead.” Hallelujah, and bring me my Mauser.

That’s all the lyrics I have time for this week, children. Come back next week, because for my next trick I shall be raping the collective discography of The Beatles, Bob Dylan, and The Rolling Stones. Stay tuned.

(“Say the word and you’ll be free/ Say the word and be like me/ Say the word I’m thinking of/ Have you heard the word is love?” I’m thinking of a word too, guys; can you think what it could be?)

[Originally posted on www.africans.co.za on Tuesday, May 13, 2008.]

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