Eight Steps to the Outhouse / An ubermullet Garden of Malodorous Song / Page 3

My Humps-Black Eyed Peas

Ten years, I think, is enough time to gain perspective. Like I said earlier, most bad songs will be mercifully forgotten, yanked out only for the occasional chuckle or self-mockery at high school reunions.

This song is about that old. And it's just so pig-ass ugly, in every sense of the word, it has to have a place here.

It's annoying, sure. Got that uber-simple melody, and thin rhythm track. None of the kitchen-sink studio effects thrown into the mix have any contextual underpinning, and only serve to hide how utterly vapid the song is. I have no problem with sampling and similar digital production techniques, but this, rather than using such to present an idea or emotion in compelling or thoughtful fashion, is exhibit A in how such studio trickery can be used to hide a complete absence of talent or coherent message.

Then there are the "vocals", shrill and downright cloying, desperately trying to find the simple melody, and failing to do anything but echo the song's musical emptiness.

But what cements this song as worthy of contempt is the materialistic nature of the ridiculous lyrics, nothing less than a pallid and ignorant celebration of consumerist pimp- and whoredom. It is artlessly delivered, and simply repugnant.

It is a "Saturday Night Live" parody taken way too seriously

 

 

Indian Outlaw-Tim McGraw

What passes these days for "country music", and has for the past two decades or so, is nothing but an old James Taylor rhythm track overlaid with synthetic instrumentation, compressed and processed and adorned with some fuckwit in an oversized cowboy hat and goatee combination. A fuckwit who gargles, in a forced accent, of either the hillbilly or corn-monkey stripe, about the sacred wonderfulness of some trivial bit of trailer park dogma, for the sole purpose of being lapped up mindlessly by the citizens of the Wal-Mart nation.

Tim McGraw is actually a little different. He's a hack, sure, but he's got a little more depth than most, as his later recordings have shown. He can write a decent song, he's not a horrible singer. Mullet aficionados could have done worse in their choice of a troubadour.

Not sure that makes up for this. I mean, it's got the standard "new country" earmarks, mentioned above. But that's just the start.

First of all, what's with the vaguely racist "Indian" drum beat, the kind used in old westerns to herald an attack of Custerian magnitude? That's bad enough.

Then, the lyrics kick in:


 

I'm an Indian outlaw

Half Cherokee and Choctaw

My baby she's a Chippewa

She's one of a kind


 

All my friends call me Bear Claw

The Village Chieftan is my paw-paw

He gets his orders from my maw-maw

She makes him walk the line


 

Translation: I may look like three-toed, knuckle-dragging, cousin-bumpin' cracker, but I'm 1/64 Cherokee, and I'm righteously proud of my heritage. Right down to the pastry-inspired tribal name.

I also love the sloppy rhyming, the way they slip "maw-maw" and "paw-paw" in there to remind you that no matter how loud the battle drums sound, we're all just good ol' boys at heart.


 

I remember the medicine man

He caught runnin' water in my hands

Drug me around by my headband

Said I wasn't her kind

You can find me in my wigwam

I'll be beatin' on my tom-tom

Pull out the pipe and smoke you some

Hey and pass it around


 

I ain't lookin' for trouble

We can ride my pony double

Make your little heart bubble

Lord

I can kill a deer or buffalo

With just my arrow and my hickory bow

From a hundred yards don't you know

I do it all the time


 

They all gather 'round my teepee

Late at night tryin' to catch a peek at me

In nothin' but my buffalo briefs

I got 'em standin' in line.


 

Wow.

Not many song lyrics can make "Achy, Breaky Heart" read like Rumi.

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