Music – Page 10 – I Don't Get It

4th Annual Readers’ Poll April 1988

Today we delve into the bowels of one of my former teen mag subscriptions, “Star Hits,” for the 4th Annual Readers’ Poll Results. The cover reveals the top stars of April 1988. Check out who’s included in the Most Promising New Acts.

Curiosity must have serious killed the cat.

Duran Squared’s own John Taylor topped the list of most desirables, with those pouty lips and bedroom eyes.

Don't worry; Johnny Rotten was not desirable in the least; he was #2 for "Hairdo From Hell." — Don’t worry; Johnny Rotten was not desirable in the least; he was #2 for “Hairdo From Hell.”

George Michael’s video was voted the 4th best video of 1987. As it turned out, the limelit half of Wham! (Bam, thank you, Sir, may I have another?) actually did NOT want pretty Asian model’s sex. Not remotely. Not even in a filthy public restroom with e-coli-covered stalls.

Maybe George should be the one blindfolded.

The lyrics should have given us a clue:

There’s things that you guess and things that you know
There’s boys that you can trust and girls that you don’t

Girls are untrustworthy, huh? Perhaps that should have been included on the Bummer of the Year. Michael Jackson’s comeback was determined to be the biggest bummer. And Iran/Contra was number four??

But the most interesting reads are what the stars themselves chose. Siouxsie Sioux’s most desirable pick was Yul Brynner. The King and I? At least she didn’t have the nerve to list herself, as Andy Fletcher did.

And note the difference in ~~tone~~ maturity level between the choices of former GoGo’s singer Belinda Carlisle and the Beastie Boys (R.I.P. MCA).

Who knew Belinda was so mad about Fred Astaire, and so rocked by the PTL scandal?(R.I.P. Tammy Faye Bakker.) And The Beastie Boys chose Sssss-Samantha Fox as the BEST female singer? Is that because she sang from her diaphragm so well? I won’t hate on her; naughty girls need love, too.

The Only Rhianna I Like

Just saw this hilarious video on the Fresh 102.5 blog, but it’s much easier to just watch on YouTube. If you like funny 80s movie references, it will delight you to no end. It did for me!

Dream Big, They Said

Fred's Lounge, Mamou, LA, 1977 — Fred’s Lounge, Mamou, LA, 1977

Here it is in a nutshell: the reality of 1:30am bar life. Verbena sees the 2:00am last call on the horizon. Semisonic will play “Closing Time,” and the jukebox will stop, the lights will come up, and the illusion will shatter. But in this brief moment, with Lloyd’s arm around her, his warm bourbony breath on her cheeks, and fiery hot nuts so accessible and so amazingly affordable, life is good.

This is one of the most telling portraits from Henry Horenstein’s book HonkyTonk, a book of fascinating black and white portraits he took mostly from the country and western scene in the 1970s. It’s hard to narrow a brief selection down, but there are sites that showcase many of them, such as http://clampart.com/2012/07/honky-tonk-portraits-of-country-music-2/#/13. However, I prefer to leaf through the book itself and create my own back stories.

Is Earl waxing nostalgic for his salad days, missing the boys in his high school rockabilly band, before the tattoos and the Kool habit? Before Arlene cheated with Vernon, his supposed best friend, and then a twister took Vernon to his maker, and isn’t that sweet justice?

Lookin’ for love in all the right places.

Tootsies Orchid Lounge, Nashville, TN 1975

Last call indeed.

Tootsies Orchid Lounge, Nashville, TN 1974

Superfly Media Pie Chart

Just click to watch 30 years of music sales by media. Feel old yet?

Teen Dreamy

I didn’t watch The Hardy Boys, but I listened to my Shaun Cassidy Born Late album until the vinyl wore thin. And “Teen Dream” was my favorite song. He sang about a “generation younger than rock ‘n’ roll,” which meant a generation born after 1955, which seemed HELLA old, since that was like my parent’s age. Ick. These were the people still weeping about Elvis falling dead on his toilet a few months ago. Why couldn’t they just listen to all of Shaun’s awesome songs and cheer up? Even a first grader could see that clearly.

I was going to marry Shaun Cassidy. That’s all there was to it. When you’re pre-pubescent, it’s the pretty boys, the non-threatening (read: effeminate) ones that do you in. And Shaun had everything; big doe eyes, smooth, feathered hair (not altogether unlike the hair of my best friend, who was a female), and a lovely vocal range, enabling him to hit the Teen Dream lyric “hurri-CANE” with skill. And you just know that if you were dating, and there was a misunderstanding, he would look into your eyes and hold your hands and you would discuss your feelings and never let the sun go down on your anger. Shaun Cassidy would never go all Chris Brown on you.

And if that wasn’t enough, watch how he brings his elbow down all butch at the end of the song. Work that stage, Hardy Boy!

We Always Wish For Money; We Always Wish For Fame

So I was jogging today on the hike and bike trail, to firm up my tush and increase my endurance. I listen to an MP3 player that contains every song I own, so there’s no telling what song is going to come on next, and that’s how I like it.

It’s actually pretty hard to find songs that match precisely the rhythm of the pace you desire. Most drumbeats are too slow. So when “Change” by John Waite came on, I was happily surprised that it matched my stride perfectly.

Now most people think of “Missing You” when I say John Waite. And that’s all well and good, except that I contend that “Change” is a far superior song, insofar as getting one motivated to jog. From the second the guitar riff starts, and John starts in, “People talkin’, and they’re sayin’ that you’re leaving,” the beat is contagious. It makes me want to juice up on Shasta and race Camaros around empty lots.

The single was released in 1982 with a vexing video that raises more questions than it answers, then re-released as part of 1985’s Vision Quest movie soundtrack. You can see parts of that one here:

Sweet half-sweatshirts on strapping wrestlers, Matthew Modine jumping rope, a punked out Michael Schoeffling (aka Jake Ryan) as a “half-Indian” motorcycle-riding hottie with daddy issues, Madonna before her pretentious British accent, all skank and lace. What’s not to love?

So Not Feeling 22

She’s on TV right this second, dancing in her new video, singing, “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22.” And that’s great because she is 22. She doesn’t seem to DATE 22, but whatevs. It’s a free country.

Now, I’m not 22, so I don’t feel remotely 22. But here’s the thing I don’t get: I don’t feel the age that I am. I feel more like quadruple 22. Like a good solid 88. What’s up with that? It’s like middle age plus interest.

Now if I were 22, I might spin around dizzily and gloat about it as well. I graduated college at 22, so yay–one dream accomplished. Has it benefited me in any way? Well, that’s another post. I own a video of me at 22, tanned and fit, doing front handsprings in a blue gingham bikini on the back lawn of a lake house. So, yeah, 22 was pretty freaking great. Nicole Brown Simpson didn’t fare so well that year, but sometimes life sucks.

Taylor starts the song with these words:

It feels like a perfect night to dress up like hipsters
And make fun of our exes, uh uh uh uh
It feels like a perfect night for breakfast at midnight
To fall in love with strangers

Yeah, not so much for me. I have some reading glasses so that I can read the size 4 font on the Advil bottle, but I don’t possess any horn rim glasses, so I’m out on the hipster thing. And exes? Exes are something you bury deep in the recesses of the past, raised like Lazarus at the sound of arena rock songs, then quickly repressed again. Highway run… And breakfast at midnight? Well, that’s a good possibility, due to a decade of insomnia. But it won’t be eggs. Gotta watch my cholesterol. Hello, shredded wheat. And mercy, girl, don’t fall in love with strangers. Keep your knees together or you’ll find TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE.

In the chorus, she sings, Everything will be alright if we just keep dancing like we’re 22. I did a lot of dancing at 22, but it wasn’t to pop country, Miss Swift. In fact, Shania Twain hadn’t even been invented yet. Back then, they showed videos on MTV. It was a very Gin Blossoms and Warren G time in history. When Tom Petty came on the radio, singing the verse, “Oh, my my, oh, hell, yes, honey, put on that party dress,” it was a joy. Pure joy. But you can’t dance to Mary Jane’s Last Dance. There was also a hit called Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm. No lie. That was depressing. Can’t dance to that. And then there was this weird totally instrumental song that sounded like monks or something called Return to Innocence by Enigma. Can’t even sing to that. And lastly, the omnipresent little Lisa Loeb and all her nine stories, with her cat’s eye glasses, staring into the camera, singing Stay. Poutable, but not danceable.

So forgive me if I can’t dance like I’m 22. Or 32. But I have degenerative discs now, including torn and bulging ones. So I don’t know about you, but I should probably just sit this one out. Maybe in the new plush recliner. With a glass of moscato in my hand. Yes, that sounds like a plan.

Manly Mane O’ Glory

Three months into blogging, clearly there is plenty that I don’t get. My inability to grasp things may allow endless blogging fodder for years to come. Here’s one such item: The site http://www.menwholooklikekennyrogers.com/ has existed since I was in my TWENTIES. It was a hoot back then, if for nothing more than the sheer volume of men who actually did resemble Kenny Rogers. Please tell me how this site can remain up for soooo long, and yet there is no site yet devoted to Barry Gibb’s glorious lionesque mane?

If you don’t know who Barry Gibb is, I forgive you. I do resent, however, having to explain that he was the eldest of the three Brothers Gibb, which consisted of his twin brothers, Robin & Maurice, now both deceased. They peaked with the disco soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever, gracing the cover in tight white suits. Say what you will about disco (R.I.P.), but they sold a crapload of records, over 220 million. That’s more books than any of us can hope to publish. Combined. And they wrote all their own songs, as well as hits by other artists, including “Grease” and “Islands In The Stream.” No kidding.

But it’s not their tight three part harmonies that deserve a website; it’s the tresses of the elder brother. Barry’s hair was glorious from the get-go. Even in the late 60s, he was rocking Elvis sideburns with style (and a white suit).

Like Samson and his strength, so, too, was Barry’s sexiness connected to his lovely locks. Here he is all Farrah Fawcett, minus the Mexican blanket.

Is it any wonder children purchased these lunchboxes in droves?

Note the halo effect, as though he were the archangel Barry. Perhaps that’s just the heat generated from his Saturday Night Fever.

And just when you thought he couldn’t feather it anymore–BAM!–superultrafeathered. In combination with the brooding bedtime eyes, gold chain, and chest hair, you can almost imagine the puddles of testosterone seeping out of his pores.

And this? This is how Grizzly Adams saw himself in dreams.

Here we see the Bee Gees with younger brother, Andy, a solo artist in his own right, also deceased. Even with Andy’s good looks, his hair was still no match for the wild and woolly Barry Gibb. You can see it in Barry’s stance; he knows he is the alpha Gibb.

You know, this pic has got me wondering–if men receive their hair pattern gene from their maternal grandfather, how could one brother be bald and one brother be blessed with a thickness and volume of crown otherwise unknown to man? Don’t they all have the same maternal grandfather? I am vexed.

Time has thinned his mane and turned it silver, but a trace of its glory exists. Not enough for me to add it to this fine collection of pictures, but you get the point. You had a good run, Barry. Longer than most of us could ever dream of. And that’s no Jive Talkin’.

I’ve Got My Back Against The Record Machine

I can’t even begin to dissect the awesomeness of this picture. All the elements together blow my mind.

The Levy Was Dry

I still don’t get this, either. R.I.P., you guys.

Now is ze time on Sprockets vhen ve dance!

Well, it’s day two of creepy album covers, and, oh, the things one discovers when perusing cover art! Today’s artist is a hammerhead shark/Andy Warhol named Heino. Again, musical ignorance has prevented me from being familiar with his extensive collection, which includes his 1980 hit, “Bier, Bier, Bier” (not to be confused with “Beers, Steers, and Queers”).

The best translations I could find for the title, Liebe mutter ein blumenstrauß der nie verwelkt, were, “Love mother a flower that never fades consuming,” and “Dear mother of one bouquet never.” I don’t get it. Is it Mother’s Day in Berlin?

And no, he’s not an albino, and no, he’s not Corey Hart. Heino suffers from exophthalmos due to Grave’s disease. But the Lord blessed him with a rich baritone, capable of belting out beer barrel polkas, so it all balanced out.

Once you really dig into the essence of Heino, you sense a cynophilic trend. He rather fancies poodles.

I mean, REALLY fancies them.

And German Shepherds (because he IS German, after all…)

Now that I look at it–this looks more like seeing-eye dogs leading him up the stairway to heaven. Clearly, he does not discriminate each time he visits the Humane Society.

And what is that badge in the hound’s mouth? A license to ill? The point is, the blonde Roy Orbison loves dogs. Even corn dogs!

Sorry–that’s not a corn dog; it’s a microphone.

After his stylist gave him a saucy Steve McQueen ‘do, he took it down to the farm and chilled with the animals. I believe this LP was later titled, “WARHORSE!!”

Months passed by, and when his mane grew into more of a Jean Seberg ‘do, he revisited his periwinkle farm friends.

As music and trends evolved, so did he. Here he is frisky and fresh from the leather bar, doing his Tae Bo jabs.

In case you’re wondering, tanless Heino is still going strong at 74, married to his third wife, with no trace of male pattern baldness in sight. And don’t even try to get your hands on that album; “das verbotene” means “the forbidden,” and Germans mean business.

In the words of Mike Myers’ Dieter himself, I say, “You have disturbed me almost to the point of insanity…There. I am insane now.”

Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina Coral. Your Eyeliner Will Run.

Just take a moment to really take in all that is Argentina Coral. That’s it. Deep breath. Before noon today, I had never heard of her, nor seen her. But now I have. Now we both have.

I hope she had an endorsement deal with Nike, because she painted Nike swooshes across her eyebrows and beyond the natural borders of a human eyelid. Just do it, Argentina! And while you’re at it, smear some Avon coral lipstick beyond the borders of your natural lipline. You cannot be contained. You cannot be “corraled.”

The name of this LP is Cante Gitano, which means Gypsy Singing. A looser translation might mean “emitting a fetid smell,” because her facial expression reveals something putrid this way comes, and it’s not just flamenco music.

Now I consider myself fairly musically-savvy, and I have seen enough of Stevie Nicks singing “Gypsy” to know that it entails white lace and prairie skirts, along with dizzy spinning in front of a mirror to catch one’s reflection, perhaps reassess one’s perm. But just to be sure, I rewatched the video. I was correct, but had failed to remember the ring-around-the-rosie scenes in a nymph-filled forest while it rained sequins and Tinkerbell dust. Nonetheless, this is not what Cante Gitano offers. Far from it.

Translated as only Google can, one of the songs says:

In this bar I first saw you, and without thinking I gave you my whole life. This offer bar with beer, amid sadness and pain. This bar opened our souls, and delicious phrases said. In this bar so many things happened, so I always come to this corner. Pour me a glass of rum and drink your beer with my heart, you are the steward of my love ..

(And if you don’t pour me a glass of rum, I will park my smoking hot body on the hood of your car like some exotic Tawny Kitaen and glare at you through your windshield as though I am Cher’s evil twin.) Case in point:

Hell hath no fury like Argentina scorned. But time passed, and it softened her. She traded her swoosh eyebrows for thin arcs, her turquoise blouse for a raincoat adorned with upside-down birds.

Alas, we all grow old.

Now fly like your inverted flamingos and go to that corner of your favorite bar and drink rum with the steward of your love and say delicious phrases. Sing “Amor Hablame Dulcemente,” and he will sing sweetly to you and your mole. And maybe, just maybe, he will buy you another cubic zirconia pinky ring for the other hand to deflect bullets like you are some sort of Latina Wonder Woman. Adios, Argentina. Adios.

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