Oh Dear God, Bryan Adams

Yeah, sorry to disappoint you, but I am afraid that this post is heading exactly where you feared it might from the headline.

I think most of the truly embarrassing skeletons are out of the closet by now when it comes to my youthful music taste. I’ve been writing this damn blog for over ten years now, and most stuff has ended up spilling out and one time or another: Hootie and the Blowfish, Erasure, Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley (and sadly not ironically), The fucking Dave fucking Matthews fucking Band, the first couple of Meat Loaf albums, hell I think I’ve even mentioned an shameful partiality to a bit of Phil Collins from time to time.

But until now I haven’t quite had the flaps to mention Bryan Adams*.

And no, don’t be ridiculous, of course not that Robin Hood abomination song, fuck me, I’m not a monster.

It’s pretty much impossible to overstate quite how bad every single thing about this video is. There’s not even a fabulously malevolent Alan Rickman to save the day.

Anyhow, my local coffee shop has, by way of music provision, a ghetto blaster (and what a gloriously eighties term that is!) and a pile of tapes about as old as you would imagine, given when mainstream artists finally stopped releasing things on cassette. I was in this morning and Bryan Adams was playing, and of course my mind went right back to when I was twelve or thirteen living in Singapore and only just starting to develop a music collection of my own, but generally spending most of my time listening to my parents’ records. And Reckless, Cuts Like a Knife and Into the Fire by Bryan Adams were amongst them.

I’ve said before that I don’t really care about whether it’s nostalgia or indoctrination which casts such a warm glow over music you might otherwise consider toe-curlingly awful if you hadn’t listened to it an awful lot when young. It doesn’t really matter, does it. Embarrassing as some of it is, for whatever reason you like it, and that’s about all that needs to be said.

Maybe we’d like more utterly embarrassing shit if we didn’t have our ideas of what is good, bad, indifferent or apocalyptically horrendous so strongly shaped by our peer groups. Who knows. Given what we’ll dance to in a club when shit-faced, I reckon our tastes would be broader than we think if we didn’t use music as such an important tribal identifier.

And there we go: I’ve fallen into the trap of using long words in a Bryan Adams post, probably just to give the impression that this is some sort of serious, scholarly piece, when in actual fact it’s really just ‘holy shit, I forgot how much I used to like Bryan Adams as a kid! Thank fuck no-one on the internet know about that, or they’d have a fucking field day.’

*Or the balls, if you prefer, you big old sexist you.