Archive for category: Personal Lists

Maybe not really the “worst” rock lyrics ever, but here are lines I cringe at whenever I hear them:

“My shavin’ razor’s cold, and it stings…” Whoever says “shavin’ razor”? And what is how a shaving razor feels doing in a love song? (Daydream Believer, The Monkees, courtesy of Neil Diamond)
“Names have been changed, dear, to protect you and I.” There are numerous examples of lyrics that confuse the objective and subjective forms of the first-person pronoun, often, as here, for reasons of rhyme, but this one stands out, coming at the very climax of this heartfelt ballad. (My True Story, The Jive Five)
“Caught between the longing for love and the struggle for the legal tender.” C’mon, who has ever said they struggle “for the legal tender”? Jackson Browne is a great lyricist, but he apparently dug himself too big a hole by needing rhymes for a song titled “The Pretender.” The next one, “the junk man pounds his fender,” isn’t much better. Compare this to another great lyricist, Jimmy Buffett, who came up with “booze in the blender” down in Margaritaville. (The Pretender, Jackson Browne)
“Love is like a stove, burns you when it’s hot.” Perhaps the least romantic description of love on record. What it follows is no more poetic: “Love is like a cloud, holds a lot of rain.” (Love Hurts, Everly Bros.)
“Now I’ve found/that the world is round/and of course, it rains every day.” Early Bee Gees were my favorite group but for their soulful tunes and sweet harmonies, not their simplistic, even absurd, lyrics–e.g., “And the lights all went out in Massachusetts,” “Lemons never do forget,””New York Mining Disaster 1941.” (World, Bee Gees)
“They said you were gonna put me on a shelf.” Don Henley is a wordsmith, Glenn Frey not so much, so this is probably Frey. “Self,” “myself” and “yourself” are all useful words in a love song, but unfortunately their only rhyme is “shelf,” which leads to this tortured locution. (Already Gone, The Eagles)
“She’s giving me excitations.” The only use of this word from physics in rock music, or mainstream prose, in a forced rhyme with “vibrations.” (Good Vibrations, Beach Boys)
“Can’t get no girlie action.” Unintelligible as Mick sings it, my Internet sources alternatively cite the lyric as “girl reaction” and “girl with action.” None of these, however, is a phrase a human has ever uttered. (Satisfaction, Rolling Stones)
“No one heard at all, not even the chair.” Thanks to Dave Barry for this one. Does anyone think a chair can hear? (I Am, I Said, Neil Diamond)

List in progress…

Most of my lists are songs I like. There are also songs I don’t like. And then there are songs–not necessarily bad songs–that grate like chalk on my personal blackboard (remember that cliche?) and lead me to change the station. In no particular order, this list includes…

Good Vibrations, Beach Boys. Yes, it’s a classic; yes it supposedly inspired the Beatles; yes it’s wildly overrated. The Beach Boys are the best when having “fun, fun, fun.” When Brian Wilson goes  operatic, with no danceable beat, no hummable melody, pretentiously silly lyrics (“she’s giving me excitations”) and runs on a minute longer than usual, I don’t get it.

Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This), Eurhythmics. Sickly sweet cotton candy for the ear, this is rock’n’roll goo. Here Comes the Rain Again is basically the same song, with the same effect. Ick.

Ain’t No Sunshine, Bill Withers. Just the sound of Withers’s dreary voice sends me to the radio dial. This number is undoubtedly the one that bothers me the most, although I’m no friend of Lean On Me, either.

My Sharona, The Knack. Aural assault, with no redeeming qualities. How this reached #1 and was named top single of the year is beyond me, marking a fallow period (1979) for rock.

(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction, Rolling Stones. Only slightly more melodic than My Sharona, with equally irrelevant lyrics, this shared the curse of being horribly overplayed; any initial joy was bludgeoned away the thousandth’s time you heard it, with a thousand more to come.

Hound Dog, Elvis Presley. What Sharona was in the ’70s and Satisfaction was in the ’60s, Hound Dog was in the ’50s. Recorded as a B-side joke, it became the King’s biggest-selling single. It has none of the authenticity of early Elvis, deserved Steve Allen’s famous mockery and does not improve upon multiple hearings.

Why Don’t We Get Drunk And Screw, Jimmy Buffett. Recorded as satire, but now played constantly on Radio Margaritaville, it’s no longer cute or funny. By using the Hawaiian Hula Girls to sing background, Jimmy tries to imply that it’s not offensive to women or children in the audience, without success. (Although trying to limit the list to one song per artist, I must add a special shout-out to the live performance of Changes in Latitudes that RM insists on playing. Buffett ruins the perfectly good song by shouting, off-key, the last word or each line, making the song literally unlistenable.)

Hey Jude, The Beatles. This song goes on and on…and on, for more than seven minutes. And unlike, say, Stairway to Heaven (eight minutes), it goes nowhere.

So Into You, Atlanta Rhythm Section. Threatens to put me to sleep before I can get to the channel. A minor drone.

Stuck in the Middle with You, Stealer’s Wheel.

Monday, Monday, Mamas and Papas. This is a dreary song. Try singing it, or just humming

To be continued…