A few years ago, on Christmas Eve, I was finishing up my Christmas shopping. I stepped into a store that was playing a then-new Pink album. This track came on. I felt, even then, that I was in the presence of a shit stink so awesome that a thousand showers would not wash it away.
Pink is a silly little minx. She's got a powerful voice, and, by all accounts, puts on a pretty entertaining show, if you're into hanging out at glitzy, Vegas style reviews with a bunch of gals who outgrew the Indigo Girls.
But she doesn't write (not really, anyway, though she always seems to glom onto a credit or two per album), and tends to pick crappy songs. Or pair up with writer/producer types who can't write. Either way, her catalog is a monument to mediocre songcraft, and she simply isn't facile enough as a vocalist to rescue any of them.
This one is damn awful. Aside from the lame melody (derivative of every nursery rhyme in history), the lyrics are the most lazy kind of tripe. To force a rhyme by dropping a syllable off of someone's last name, and slipping it in a line, is strictly amateur hour stuff, and insulting to the listener, to boot.
Nobody really buys her silly badass persona, nor should they. It's not empowering, and it's not a statement of purpose; it's a goofy pose, and one that only grows in insipidity when attached to the sub-Casio instrumental track.
Frankly, I figure it was written more as the soundtrack for the video, rather than with any real inspiration. Gives her a chance to shake around and dress outrageously, which seems to be her stock in trade.
You're Beautiful-James Blunt
In which this poor sap forces his throat through his nose to give us a whine or two about longing, female pulchritude, and just plain being a pussy.
If the sudden jump into ball-pinching falsetto doesn't convince you of it's worthiness here, then check out this live version, in which he sings with his eyes wide open to highlight that full-on Ted Bundyian grin.
My Ding-a-Ling-Chuck Berry
If Rock and Roll ever has a Mount Rushmore, Chuck Berry's place is assured. Only Elvis has more historical swag, and even he can't match the holistic influence of the Chuck Berry catalog.
So what was Chuck's only number one hit? "Johnny B.Goode"? "Roll Over, Beethoven"? "Maybelline"?
Not, it was this off-color nursery rhyme, in which Rock and Roll's first poet sashays his way through weak-kneed chorus and verse of wink and nudge references to his pecker. Not particularly well, either...as artful dirty wordplay goes, it's an entendre and half, and no more.
Given the rumors about this guy's sexual proclivities, ranging from creepy bathroom peeking to more advanced scat festivities, the whole thing seems unsavory.
This live version became his biggest hit, in terms of units moved (ahem).
There is a studio version, but it doesn’t have the complicit depravity the audience here seems to share.
Congregation! Say "ew".
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