Do these glasses distract from my incoherent lyrics?

She’s got electric boobs.  A mohawk too.  Ya know I read it a magazaeeeen! Ya-hooooo, Ba-ba-ba-Benny & the Jets.

And there it is.  Out there for everyone within ear-shot to hear.  The completely unintelligible string of lyrics you ascribed to a song.

Admittedly, I’m fixated on lyrical content and meaning. That might not seem like a heavy statement, but considering the musical era which gained commercial success during my teens (Grunge) it runs counter to what garnered import at the time. Doubt me on this? Two words:  Eddie Vedder. “Lyrics don’t matter.” was a common refrain and rebuttal to the “What the hell are they saying?” queries of tuned out generations (parents who unabashedly embraced that most egregious of genres – 70s Country Rock).

Music often makes wide pendulum swings from one era to the next (Doo-wop followed a decade later by the likes of  Hendrix and Morrison as an extreme example) and so it was between the synthetically quirky, 80s MTV sound to the “slop is it” imperfection of 90s alternative rock.  Someone I respect musically, and otherwise, once said, “There must be a balance somewhere between these two extremes.”

There must be. Yet we persist, seemingly by some unseen force, to stumble and mumble along with strange lyrics of our own creation – regardless of genre. B.G. (before Google) this was a partially defendable mistake. Now, maybe it’s in our genes; the stuff of ridiculous party games, white and nerdy satirists, mildly successful TV shows, and underwhelming blog posts. It’s also the purposeful delight of those who love music and possess an excess of wit.  Or not…

Buff little soldier in the heart of America…

What?  Bob wasn’t wailing about the muscular physiques of army men?

I remember when we used to sit in da cab-a-nit draw in dis town

Nor was he reminiscing days spent stuck in the cupboard?

OK, fine.  Reggae’s maybe the wrong measuring stick for a pale-skinned boy like me to use. So what about these next lyrics? Surely they’re not saying what I think I’m hearing…

Loosely in disguise with diamonds

And I won’t poke my eyes out and surrender

and these…

As I lay me down to sleep (who wants apples?)…

There’s a bathroom on the right

That’s not the type of trip The Beatles were singing of? Is Dido a masochist? Ms. Hawkins’ backup singers weren’t attending a farmer’s market during that recording? Are the members of CCR directing us to the facilities? Perhaps my listening skills do need improvement.

But I still don’t believe the official explanation(s) for what Sophie B.’s backup vocals were singing…

In keeping with my observing and calling out of the fantastical abilities of WordPress analytics, for this post several images of Benny Goodman and at least two of jet planes were suggested – maybe they didn’t really understand Elton either. 

Bravo WordPress, you really got me now.

About Rob Rob writes and sometimes "rights the write" of other writers. View all posts by Rob

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