I know, I know, there are plenty of women who visit this site with absolutely excellent taste in music. And some of the best music blogs out there are written by women. But the title of this post is not to criticise all women, it is aimed at a very particular sort whose relationship with music makes me want to set fire to cute little bunny rabbits, and in particular a song that, no matter how incognito they try and remain, always roots the old boots out in any situation.
Specifically, it’s women whose response to ‘that song is fucking dreadful and makes me want to burst my eardrums with knitting needles’ is invariably ‘oh don’t be so boooring’. Or ‘just relax and have fun’. Or something equally deserving of punishment by breast cancer. ‘Having a good cry, sweetheart? Chemo getting you down? Fuck’s sake cheer up – don’t be so boooring.’ Just relaxing and having fun is not an option when this shitty Radio 1 Party Mix is playing. No amount of relaxation, even to the point of a coma, is going to be sufficient to not fucking detest Dancing in the Moonlight by that curly-headed cunt and his baldy-dwarf-shagging cohorts.
Why so bitter about this in particular? Well there is a very specific reason. Firstly, the ‘don’t be so boooring’ defense has irked me since school. People always used to respond with this stinker when you didn’t want to dance, and they had things completely fucking backwards. Having a pleasant conversation with one’s friends is not boring. What is boring is spastically hopping about to some fucking woeful Glenn Medeiros number in a desperate attempt to assert your social conformity. How the fuck is choosing not to do something I don’t particularly enjoy boring, you silly tart? And why is it always, always the most unimaginative, lifeless, one-dimensional, ultra-conventional dullards who use this particular gambit? Sometimes I like to dance, sometimes I don’t. Go. The Fuck. Away.
But more specifically this is about that one song: Dancing in the cunting Moonlight. Unspeakably awful it is in the first place, but the sort of vapid, bovine old slappers who embraced the bloody thing back in about 2001 or whenever it was made it even worse. You’d be in a bar and that teeth-grindingly awful intro would play: doodn-do-DO-DO-DOO! and whilst you tried to find a door in which to slam your penis in hope that the pain might distract you from the song, invariably the most depressing, largely unattractive, not as young as they pretend they still are, slightly overweight old heifers in the place would give an incoherent little shriek of delight and start, in the unusually large herds in which they tended to move, doing that little epileptic black woman’s Jerry Springer head movement, whilst stepping back and forth in the exaggerated style that is meant to say to everyone ‘Yeah, I can move.. yeah, I’m out with my friends… yeah, I’ve actually got friends, despite what you may think… yeah, in my herd I can gain some tiny measure of fucking self-esteem back from my completely unstimulating existence and comfort myself with the fact that however much I disappoint myself my friends are all equally mediocre and in this dismal company I don’t feel quite as inadequate as I do when I compare myself with the rest of the world. Yeah!’
‘Oh can’t you just relaaax and enjoy yourself. Don’t be so boooring.’
‘Do not tell me to FUCKING RELAX! No amount of fucking relaxation can make this festering, white-boy cod-soul by one of the most punchable cockmonkeys on the fucking planet anything less than three minutes of brain-melting, utterly inhumane mental fucking anguish. Boring? BORING? If your capacity to appreciate art is so FUCKING STILLBORN that you are capable of anything other than pathological loathing for this steaming, god-punishing excrement then it is very much not myself who needs to fucking well consider whether or not they might be a little boring.’
The depth of the bile represents the hatred of the song, I hope, rather than any particular misanthropy on my part. *Cough cough*
Anyway, can you imagine my horror when, at my housewarming party in Cambridge, I heard that unspeakable doodn-do-DO-DO-DOO! emanating from my fucking stereo and all the spastics started to twitch so immediately that I couldn’t even turn it off, although I did consider jamming one of their kids’ fingers in an electrical socket – power failure or poignant punishment: a win-win situation really. Not only that but one of these tired old mares even had the temerity to say, on hearing this aural abomination in a pub six months later: “I’ll always associate this song with your lovely housewarming party”. Is there a statement in the world more likely to drive me to suicide? Or spontaneous combustion? I doubt it. That fucking song. My House. Please god, no!
I hate that fucking song. Can you tell?
The music I do associate with that house would be far more along these sorts of lines:
Howe Gelb – Pontiac Slipsteam
The Pernice Brothers – Our Time Has Passed So Quickly
Badly Drawn Boy – Stone on the Water I don’t care how shit the rest of it’s been, this is still a good album.
Doves – Here it Comes
Grandaddy – Miner at the Dial-A-View
Lambchop – Nashville Parent
So, finally some more sessions happening – this week we have Edinburgh’s most tippediest new band The Last Battle popping in. There are something like seven of them, I think, so I hope they’ve either limited their numbers for this evening or I suddenly develop into a technical genius, because recording seven musicians with two microphones might prove to be somewhat tricky.
