Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Poor Writing: An Examination
It was more than a year ago that my cousin Dan and I took our annual trip to Atomic Records, a neat little music store on Milwaukee's trendy east side. While, yes, it's one of those places in which you are ripe for subjection to a snooty, High Fidelity-music-store-clerk-attitude moment, it's blessed me with countless hours of great, hard-to-find music.
While I was waiting for Dan (whose musical tastes include everything), who was sampling just about anything he had an interest in, I thought I'd go for one of my "chance buys". Ah, yes, the "chance buy". Just like the "Chance" card in Monopoly, the "chance buy" -- as it was based only on the cover art -- could be wonderful or wonderfully disappointing.
It was at this moment I spied the cd in front of the "A" stack. It had a cardboard cover with a glowing quotation from an indie music publication that was stickered to the plastic packaging. "OK, good." It contained a free bonus disc, full of recordings from the obscure label's other undiscovered bands. "All right, free stuff." The band only had two members, one of whom played guitars, drums, keyboards, and "programming". "OK, I've enjoyed some "programmed" music lately. I've enjoyed the two-man band before. Good." And the name -- it seemed rather punchy, rebellious, self-aware, and, dare I say -- post-punk? "OK. Worth a 'chance buy'."
That's how I apologize to myself for purchasing The All-American Rejects' self-titled debut album.
I've been wrestling with this idea of "quality" for a while now. I always will. With the lyrical evidence, courtesy of TA-AR, I hope to illustrate just what I mean when I say something is "poor". I hope this will be clear.
Note: the author wishes the reader NOT to assume the obvious. Namely, do not assume that the author believes what he posts to be "excellent" writing. DO, however, assume that what the author has previously posted and attributed to other writers, to be his opinion of (and evidence presented as) "excellent" writing. Clear?
I turn on the stereo to song 1: "My Paper Heart". Their words, not mine:
My lips, are sealed for her,
My tongue is,
Tied to, a dream of being with you.
Oh boy. I remember telling myself, "Wait! Give it a chance! You gotta give it a chance." So I did:
Summer time, the nights are so long
The leaves fall down, and so do I
into the arms of a friend.
Winter nights,
My bedside is cold, for I am gone,
And spring blossoms you to me.
Oh boy. Aside from the utter sappiness inherent in all this -- it's nonsense. "My bedside is cold" . . . because "I" am gone? Huh?
So things weren't looking too good as song 2 -- "Your Star" -- came on. Again, their words, not mine:
You wish for love,
You pushed me away,
Your love for me was everything I need.
The air I breath.
I think my thoughts at this moment were: "Oh, fuck."
I usually pride myself on being "first" to a band -- you know, "beating" the radio and video programmers to a band. I did that with Pearl Jam, the Toadies, and several other bands that never really did take off. In this instance, to my horror, I beat the crowd to TA-AR. See, I never really thought I would hear them again; I just assumed they would never be discovered, played, listened to, you name it. They would be just a memory buried in my cd stack (under better cds). But it was a mere few weeks later that I heard the third song, "Swing, Swing", on the radio. Maybe you, too, have heard this pop ditty:
Days swiftly come and go.
I'm dreaming of her.
She's seeing other guys.
Emotions they stir.
The sun is gone.
The nights are long.
And I am left while the tears fall.
We're three songs in, and twice the "nights are long"!
Song 4: "Time Stands Still". Not to ruin the suspense, but this song chronicles yet another painful chapter in the tough world of relationships:
He walks, her, home,
Now he walks a-lone,
The days they turn into years.
The eyes they drown in tears.
Can you hear me scream?
Better question: can you hear me scream? Speak these words aloud, if there's no one around. Go ahead, make sure no one's around. There. Now say them aloud. "The eyes they drown in tears." Uh-uh. You gotta say them with feeling, like they sing them. Go ahead, belt them out. Feel like an idiot yet?
Song 5: "One More Sad Song".
What can I do, I cannot breath.
My heart is torn, for all to see.
Let's skip ahead a bit. Song 7: "Don't Leave Me".
You're sweet just like the sun.
But what happens when the sun doesn't stay?
The night reminds me when you went away.
Now my mind was pacing, heart is racing contemplating things that I lack.
Even though you left me by myself, do I want you back?
OK, I've titled this "An Examination", so I guess I better "examine", instead of just sitting back and marveling at how utterly crappy this writing is. This is the best I can do, as far as "examining":
• All they sing about is "love".
• They only use large, cliched descriptions, similes, and analogies, such as weather/seasonal patterns and comparing them to emotions.
• They shamelessly repeat these themes and phrasings, leaving the impression that all they do is break up with girls and then cry about it.
So now you're probably wondering: "What does the cd look like?" Glad you asked.
So on the cardboard cover, what I saw as I spied the "A" rack of Atomic, is a close-up picture of a little scooter, or mobile-thing of some kind. Impossible to tell what kind of music it would be, I tell myself. Then on the cover, there they are -- the two responsible for taking my money and hurting my ears. They're all dolled-up, with make-up and big overcoats. One wears a "Kiss" T-shirt underneath his jacket; it's barely exposed, but exposed nonetheless, so that we know they've got some "real rock cred". Yeah.
So now I open up the booklet to find, yes a full book of lyrics. (No, I didn't listen and type.) They're that brazen -- they wanted everyone to read their songs. My God. On page four Cryboy #1 stares into the camera with a pained look that probably came to him after 30 or so takes. Cryboy #2, on the facing page, gazes at his bandmate with all the chic homoerotic curiosity he can muster. On pages six and seven they lost all sense of self-control, as the both pages are an orange blur, save for the "Kiss" slogan on #1's T-shirt which is now in-focus, and prominently displayed . . . . Guess they had to make sure that we knew what he was wearing.
This music, according to Spin magazine, a self-important publication if there have ever been publications, is an "emo" band. Spin loves this "genre" of rock (if there can be such a thing) so much, that it mentions it at least a dozen times each issue. What is "emo-rock"? According to Spin, it's "new" rock with a liberal bent in which the singer openly bares his deepest emotions to all. According to me, you can call dog shit a cheesesteak sandwich, but it's still dog shit.
This cd is so bad, so pathetic, so obvious, it embarrasses me to be a part of the same culture. That's what bad art -- not just stuff that misses the mark, but the really, really terrible stuff -- does to you. It embarrasses you. It shames the whole culture. It's a flaming cross of self-indictment.
Incidentally, my TA-AR cd is for sale if anyone's interested. All offers accepted.
While I was waiting for Dan (whose musical tastes include everything), who was sampling just about anything he had an interest in, I thought I'd go for one of my "chance buys". Ah, yes, the "chance buy". Just like the "Chance" card in Monopoly, the "chance buy" -- as it was based only on the cover art -- could be wonderful or wonderfully disappointing.
It was at this moment I spied the cd in front of the "A" stack. It had a cardboard cover with a glowing quotation from an indie music publication that was stickered to the plastic packaging. "OK, good." It contained a free bonus disc, full of recordings from the obscure label's other undiscovered bands. "All right, free stuff." The band only had two members, one of whom played guitars, drums, keyboards, and "programming". "OK, I've enjoyed some "programmed" music lately. I've enjoyed the two-man band before. Good." And the name -- it seemed rather punchy, rebellious, self-aware, and, dare I say -- post-punk? "OK. Worth a 'chance buy'."
That's how I apologize to myself for purchasing The All-American Rejects' self-titled debut album.
I've been wrestling with this idea of "quality" for a while now. I always will. With the lyrical evidence, courtesy of TA-AR, I hope to illustrate just what I mean when I say something is "poor". I hope this will be clear.
Note: the author wishes the reader NOT to assume the obvious. Namely, do not assume that the author believes what he posts to be "excellent" writing. DO, however, assume that what the author has previously posted and attributed to other writers, to be his opinion of (and evidence presented as) "excellent" writing. Clear?
I turn on the stereo to song 1: "My Paper Heart". Their words, not mine:
My lips, are sealed for her,
My tongue is,
Tied to, a dream of being with you.
Oh boy. I remember telling myself, "Wait! Give it a chance! You gotta give it a chance." So I did:
Summer time, the nights are so long
The leaves fall down, and so do I
into the arms of a friend.
Winter nights,
My bedside is cold, for I am gone,
And spring blossoms you to me.
Oh boy. Aside from the utter sappiness inherent in all this -- it's nonsense. "My bedside is cold" . . . because "I" am gone? Huh?
So things weren't looking too good as song 2 -- "Your Star" -- came on. Again, their words, not mine:
You wish for love,
You pushed me away,
Your love for me was everything I need.
The air I breath.
I think my thoughts at this moment were: "Oh, fuck."
I usually pride myself on being "first" to a band -- you know, "beating" the radio and video programmers to a band. I did that with Pearl Jam, the Toadies, and several other bands that never really did take off. In this instance, to my horror, I beat the crowd to TA-AR. See, I never really thought I would hear them again; I just assumed they would never be discovered, played, listened to, you name it. They would be just a memory buried in my cd stack (under better cds). But it was a mere few weeks later that I heard the third song, "Swing, Swing", on the radio. Maybe you, too, have heard this pop ditty:
Days swiftly come and go.
I'm dreaming of her.
She's seeing other guys.
Emotions they stir.
The sun is gone.
The nights are long.
And I am left while the tears fall.
We're three songs in, and twice the "nights are long"!
Song 4: "Time Stands Still". Not to ruin the suspense, but this song chronicles yet another painful chapter in the tough world of relationships:
He walks, her, home,
Now he walks a-lone,
The days they turn into years.
The eyes they drown in tears.
Can you hear me scream?
Better question: can you hear me scream? Speak these words aloud, if there's no one around. Go ahead, make sure no one's around. There. Now say them aloud. "The eyes they drown in tears." Uh-uh. You gotta say them with feeling, like they sing them. Go ahead, belt them out. Feel like an idiot yet?
Song 5: "One More Sad Song".
What can I do, I cannot breath.
My heart is torn, for all to see.
Let's skip ahead a bit. Song 7: "Don't Leave Me".
You're sweet just like the sun.
But what happens when the sun doesn't stay?
The night reminds me when you went away.
Now my mind was pacing, heart is racing contemplating things that I lack.
Even though you left me by myself, do I want you back?
OK, I've titled this "An Examination", so I guess I better "examine", instead of just sitting back and marveling at how utterly crappy this writing is. This is the best I can do, as far as "examining":
• All they sing about is "love".
• They only use large, cliched descriptions, similes, and analogies, such as weather/seasonal patterns and comparing them to emotions.
• They shamelessly repeat these themes and phrasings, leaving the impression that all they do is break up with girls and then cry about it.
So now you're probably wondering: "What does the cd look like?" Glad you asked.
So on the cardboard cover, what I saw as I spied the "A" rack of Atomic, is a close-up picture of a little scooter, or mobile-thing of some kind. Impossible to tell what kind of music it would be, I tell myself. Then on the cover, there they are -- the two responsible for taking my money and hurting my ears. They're all dolled-up, with make-up and big overcoats. One wears a "Kiss" T-shirt underneath his jacket; it's barely exposed, but exposed nonetheless, so that we know they've got some "real rock cred". Yeah.
So now I open up the booklet to find, yes a full book of lyrics. (No, I didn't listen and type.) They're that brazen -- they wanted everyone to read their songs. My God. On page four Cryboy #1 stares into the camera with a pained look that probably came to him after 30 or so takes. Cryboy #2, on the facing page, gazes at his bandmate with all the chic homoerotic curiosity he can muster. On pages six and seven they lost all sense of self-control, as the both pages are an orange blur, save for the "Kiss" slogan on #1's T-shirt which is now in-focus, and prominently displayed . . . . Guess they had to make sure that we knew what he was wearing.
This music, according to Spin magazine, a self-important publication if there have ever been publications, is an "emo" band. Spin loves this "genre" of rock (if there can be such a thing) so much, that it mentions it at least a dozen times each issue. What is "emo-rock"? According to Spin, it's "new" rock with a liberal bent in which the singer openly bares his deepest emotions to all. According to me, you can call dog shit a cheesesteak sandwich, but it's still dog shit.
This cd is so bad, so pathetic, so obvious, it embarrasses me to be a part of the same culture. That's what bad art -- not just stuff that misses the mark, but the really, really terrible stuff -- does to you. It embarrasses you. It shames the whole culture. It's a flaming cross of self-indictment.
Incidentally, my TA-AR cd is for sale if anyone's interested. All offers accepted.
