In the light of the unsavoury accusations that were levelled against Michael Jackson, which have assumed Schroedinger-esque dimensions, eternally both true and false, it is hard to convey just how massive he was during the 1980s. The release of the 'Thriller' album was a cultural event in a way that, incumbent queen bee, Taylor Swift, can only dream of. This is an album where seven of the nine songs were solid hit singles and the two that weren't – 'Baby Be Mine' and 'The Lady in my Life' – certainly had it in them to scale the upper reaches of the Top 40, had they been allowed off the leash.
If you think that you can't escape the yelping spectre of Michael Jackson in 2024, try going back to the 1980s and having your accident then.
Jackson's career eventually devolved into insipid ballads; songs that embody the same grasp of global events as a junior school play about the plight of polar bears, albeit with the unnuanced production values of a Jerry Bruckheimer movie; and a palilalium of vocal tics and stray, groinally-focused choreography.
These days I think of 'Thriller' as a club album. It is a record that was made to be danced to. The escalating, high-energy coda to 'Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' that plateaus into African chanting, appropriated from Manu Dibango without his permission (he was later paid an undisclosed sum) feels like it belongs in a bigger and more socially diverse space than any that can be provided by a bedroom or a living room.
How does one battle George Formby and his boorish window cleaning emissaries? To lock horns with these masters of ladders, at even a low altitude, is a grand folly. One must scare them down to ground level, out of their natural environment, where they will be on the back foot, but with what?
Perhaps some black metal would do the trick. My brother's ex-wife (who was unusually tolerant of the genre) banned him from playing any albums by the Swedish band – Bathory – in the car.
Lets see how Formby and his chamois leather deals with the VomitChapel song, Vaginal Sepulchre, which I always imagine being introduced in the amiable Liverpudlian tones of the late John Peel.
'At six, six, six, I do defer
from their Vaginal Sepulchre
I'd rather scrub my own, not hers
when I'm cleaning windows,' etc.
If I ever meet a woman who is able to share my deep appreciation of Prison – a spoken word album recorded by Steven Jesse Bernstein, a few months before his suicide, then I will attempt to marry her. We can descend into heroin addiction and serious mental illness together (Bernstein's brain was unfortunately too large for his skull). There was a period of several years when I used to listen to that record daily, though few share my love of it.
On the irritant scale, I imagine the PuddiPuddi song, that advertised a Japanese dessert called Giga Pudding, and that was embedded on the 4chan website for an entire day, would make even the biggest of arseholes reconsider his ringtone. It certainly drove me mad. You can relive this landmark twenty-fours hours of meme-tier Internet history through a YouTube video that plays PuddiPuddi continuously for ten hours and one second.
If you want to go slightly more highbrow, you could do as former Vice writer, Timothy Faust did in his article - 'I Played 'The Boys Are Back in Town' on a Bar Jukebox Until I Got Kicked Out'. You know it's quality journalism because it opens with an italicised quote from Enrique Iglesias, The Spotify playlist accompanying his account is 'The Boys Are Back in Town' by Thin Lizzy, cued up to play an arbitrary 83 times.
Hearing anything over and over can quickly turn a favorite song into torture. It's worse when it's a song you are already tired of, though. My husband refers to me as the World's Worst Jukebox because I often wake up with a song in my head and it's some terrible song from the 1970s like "Playgrounds in My Mind" or "Billy Don't Be a Hero" that has wormed its way into my brain. For what it's worth, I can't stand ABBA either.
Sounds as though you have found a perfect antidote to the constant Michael Jackson; glad you've found yourself back to music again.
And however good the song. My next door neighbour in Uni that first year played ‘the day the music died’ all day EVERY day from 8am until 11pm. It was YEARS before I could bear to hear it again.
Being Irish, of whom it was said by G.K.Chesterton I think ( too lazy to google it) “the great Gaels of Ireland and the people God made mad, for all their wars were merry, and all their songs were sad” the uplifting melancholic music I get. Thank you for introducing me to Cat Power. I had not heard of her before ( but took the time to Google her) I love music and will enjoy listening to her. Thanks, Paul
You'll be even more upset to know that many Bob Dylan songs, such as Subterranean Homesick Blues, were in fact actually originally written by George Formby.
Attention nonfiction writers, journalists, critics! The @silversfound is now accepting applications for the 2024 Silvers Grants for Work in Progress. Apply for support of up to $10,000. For more info, please visit our website www.silversfoundation.org/grants/
I too am pleased you have found your way back to music.
When I was going through a crisis a couple of months ago and my sleep was very erratic, I discovered an artist called Bridget St John. I found her lyrics and acoustic sound amazing, and many of the songs at that time, resonated. I found music and poetry were/are great healers.
Paul, The Greatest is one of my favourite songs! I hadn't realised how niche she was.
Anyhow, it feels awkward to finally comment on something relatively trivial, but I suppose this helps me breaking the ice. I just wanted you to know I read your every post, and think of you often. This is a bit soppy, but it seems to me that with these posts you are continuing to do what have always done best: lucidly telling people how things really are.
It was pretty heartbreaking to read you were finding it impossible to enjoy music a few months back. It's lovely to hear that this is changing, not least because I still want to bring the guitar next time I make it down south to hang out
In the light of the unsavoury accusations that were levelled against Michael Jackson, which have assumed Schroedinger-esque dimensions, eternally both true and false, it is hard to convey just how massive he was during the 1980s. The release of the 'Thriller' album was a cultural event in a way that, incumbent queen bee, Taylor Swift, can only dream of. This is an album where seven of the nine songs were solid hit singles and the two that weren't – 'Baby Be Mine' and 'The Lady in my Life' – certainly had it in them to scale the upper reaches of the Top 40, had they been allowed off the leash.
If you think that you can't escape the yelping spectre of Michael Jackson in 2024, try going back to the 1980s and having your accident then.
Jackson's career eventually devolved into insipid ballads; songs that embody the same grasp of global events as a junior school play about the plight of polar bears, albeit with the unnuanced production values of a Jerry Bruckheimer movie; and a palilalium of vocal tics and stray, groinally-focused choreography.
These days I think of 'Thriller' as a club album. It is a record that was made to be danced to. The escalating, high-energy coda to 'Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' that plateaus into African chanting, appropriated from Manu Dibango without his permission (he was later paid an undisclosed sum) feels like it belongs in a bigger and more socially diverse space than any that can be provided by a bedroom or a living room.
How does one battle George Formby and his boorish window cleaning emissaries? To lock horns with these masters of ladders, at even a low altitude, is a grand folly. One must scare them down to ground level, out of their natural environment, where they will be on the back foot, but with what?
Perhaps some black metal would do the trick. My brother's ex-wife (who was unusually tolerant of the genre) banned him from playing any albums by the Swedish band – Bathory – in the car.
Lets see how Formby and his chamois leather deals with the VomitChapel song, Vaginal Sepulchre, which I always imagine being introduced in the amiable Liverpudlian tones of the late John Peel.
'At six, six, six, I do defer
from their Vaginal Sepulchre
I'd rather scrub my own, not hers
when I'm cleaning windows,' etc.
If I ever meet a woman who is able to share my deep appreciation of Prison – a spoken word album recorded by Steven Jesse Bernstein, a few months before his suicide, then I will attempt to marry her. We can descend into heroin addiction and serious mental illness together (Bernstein's brain was unfortunately too large for his skull). There was a period of several years when I used to listen to that record daily, though few share my love of it.
On the irritant scale, I imagine the PuddiPuddi song, that advertised a Japanese dessert called Giga Pudding, and that was embedded on the 4chan website for an entire day, would make even the biggest of arseholes reconsider his ringtone. It certainly drove me mad. You can relive this landmark twenty-fours hours of meme-tier Internet history through a YouTube video that plays PuddiPuddi continuously for ten hours and one second.
If you want to go slightly more highbrow, you could do as former Vice writer, Timothy Faust did in his article - 'I Played 'The Boys Are Back in Town' on a Bar Jukebox Until I Got Kicked Out'. You know it's quality journalism because it opens with an italicised quote from Enrique Iglesias, The Spotify playlist accompanying his account is 'The Boys Are Back in Town' by Thin Lizzy, cued up to play an arbitrary 83 times.
Hearing anything over and over can quickly turn a favorite song into torture. It's worse when it's a song you are already tired of, though. My husband refers to me as the World's Worst Jukebox because I often wake up with a song in my head and it's some terrible song from the 1970s like "Playgrounds in My Mind" or "Billy Don't Be a Hero" that has wormed its way into my brain. For what it's worth, I can't stand ABBA either.
Sounds as though you have found a perfect antidote to the constant Michael Jackson; glad you've found yourself back to music again.
And however good the song. My next door neighbour in Uni that first year played ‘the day the music died’ all day EVERY day from 8am until 11pm. It was YEARS before I could bear to hear it again.
Being Irish, of whom it was said by G.K.Chesterton I think ( too lazy to google it) “the great Gaels of Ireland and the people God made mad, for all their wars were merry, and all their songs were sad” the uplifting melancholic music I get. Thank you for introducing me to Cat Power. I had not heard of her before ( but took the time to Google her) I love music and will enjoy listening to her. Thanks, Paul
You'll be even more upset to know that many Bob Dylan songs, such as Subterranean Homesick Blues, were in fact actually originally written by George Formby.
Attention nonfiction writers, journalists, critics! The @silversfound is now accepting applications for the 2024 Silvers Grants for Work in Progress. Apply for support of up to $10,000. For more info, please visit our website www.silversfoundation.org/grants/
I too am pleased you have found your way back to music.
When I was going through a crisis a couple of months ago and my sleep was very erratic, I discovered an artist called Bridget St John. I found her lyrics and acoustic sound amazing, and many of the songs at that time, resonated. I found music and poetry were/are great healers.
Paul, The Greatest is one of my favourite songs! I hadn't realised how niche she was.
Anyhow, it feels awkward to finally comment on something relatively trivial, but I suppose this helps me breaking the ice. I just wanted you to know I read your every post, and think of you often. This is a bit soppy, but it seems to me that with these posts you are continuing to do what have always done best: lucidly telling people how things really are.
It was pretty heartbreaking to read you were finding it impossible to enjoy music a few months back. It's lovely to hear that this is changing, not least because I still want to bring the guitar next time I make it down south to hang out
“straight edge vegan hardcore punk” ha! Being of a similar persuasion I was surprised to find solace in Mahler. I also hate window cleaners.
Love reading everything you write, but this really hit home.