Bad music is abundant. It billows around and underneath the public consciousness, periodically blossoming into a pus-filled zit, one that bursts and allows it's toxicity to deface the soundscape for a few months, before it dries and and slips into the oblivion it deserves.
There are, in the last few years, songs of great popularity so lacking in worth as to be offensive, but, history has shown, they will probably be forgotten, or reycled as reality TV show themes. Forgettable and stupid, they may be be, but less virulent than mildly annoying.
Then there are songs and records so bad they back up on themselves and force you to re-jigger your mind and find a place for it. Outsider music, high camp, whatever you want to call it...sometimes, bad is good.
No, we're looking for the real sucktidtude, music so genuinely unpleasant that hearing it, even by accident, leaves one clamoring for a rusty shard of fiberglass in the eye, a clumsy prostate exam, a slipped dental drill that penetrates the gum and twirls a nerve around, maybe a bubble-gum pubic wax, anything that feels less abrasive than having that goddamn song slip into one’s earhole and worm around like the sandpaper-covered, brain-eating beast it is.
Allow me, and I will show you such sewage. I will give you songs that you will make curse my name for even bringing them into your presence, songs that will make you grab the nearest sharp implement, be it knitting needle, ice pick, or chewed toothpick, and shove it deep enough into your ear canal to release your membrana tympanica from it’s Hell.
Don't Worry, Kyoko (Mummy's Only Looking for her Hand in the Snow)-Yoko Ono
So, you get John Lennon, Eric Clapton, Ringo Starr, and the estimable post-Beatles bassist of choice, Klaus Voorman, in a studio. 1971, so these guys are at or near their peak as musicians. Let 'em jam for awhile. Say, about five minutes. No solos, to speak of, but a nice groove, muscular, if a bit pedestrian.
It's okay. Not a lot happening, just that riff, over and over. Klaus throws in a couple of nice things, Ringo pushes the beat around a bit. It's alright, inoffensive, not bad, really.
So, how do we go from nice, mindless groove jamming to full-blown, ass-wipe awful?
Give a live mike to the boss's screaming harpy of a wife.
Yoko, of course, was John Lennon's wife, a parasitic little beast whose previous claim to fame was as a dada-inspired artist.
"Dada" is apparently Japanese for "bitch can't draw", because her "art" was of the conceptual stripe, and was forgettable, except in certain small circles where sodomizing one's self with a blowtorch while wearing a clown costume and reciting the periodic table while banging on a toy keyboard with one's free hand would be considered "art".
Basically, she was a hack, and a world-class attention whore. Then she met John, and glommed on for all it was worth.
She and her husband decided she was fit to be a musical artist. Never mind that her primary "musical" influence was John Cage (her ex-husband was a composer who studied under him), and she had never worked in such a medium before. Why not? So Lennon set her up in a studio, called some of his more famous friends to help out, and went to work.
Here, she is in full banshee mode. If the shrill chant/whine she emits, which sounds like a howler monkey being given a tonsillectomy with a power drill, doesn't get to you, or the more guttural moan she occasionally employs, which sound like someone trying to power a kazoo by farting through it continuously, doesn't send you running for some Drano to guzzle, then her annoying, pidgin-English stutter of the phrase "don'tworrydon'tworrydon'tworry" will surely bring you homicidal thoughts.
"Hell", thought Mark David Chapman, "that poor bastard has to listen to that all the time?"
The song, ostensibly, is about her forced estrangement from her daughter, and the nasty custody battle that caused it. It became a live staple for the Plastic Ono Band, Lennon's post-Beatles band/jive 'n' hustle, a travelling show that alternated between the old Rock and Roll Lennon loved, some of his post-Beatles songs, and Yoko's "hyena sings the blues" showcase.
Some now look at her as some kind of avant-garde herald, an artist ahead of her time. Total bullshit, that. She was a no-talent poseur, and nothing more. Still, her influence on Lennon was immense, and she has been very active in her philanthropic works since Lennon’s death.
Goddamn least she could have done for expecting us to sit through this shit.