In nine weeks, I have a big exam, so I'm combing the city for places to knock some sense into my head. Yesterday, my venue was Starbucks, which was utterly unfortunate, because unbeknownst to me they had indentured themselves to Paul McCartney's latest colon smear of an album. On rotation. All day.
How could I have missed it? When I opened that glass door, I should have noticed Sir Paul slammed against it, making that too-fun! moue! he seems to have contracted from his ex-wife, in a rougishly rumpled tux. Then there was the CD at the counter, a picture with an upholstered chair, and an empty card holder -- These limited edition cards went fast. Ask your barrista for more! How could I have missed the ten stickers along the espresso dispensing machine thing, "Memory Almost Full" logo plastered across it? Is that a pun? Do old people like puns? I don't. Nor do I like moues, although I have nothing against finely upholstered chairs.
So there I was, having made a requisite purchase (americano, which means "cheapskate" in Italian), opening my 562 page study guide, and setting my timer for three hours.
At about question 32, I started noticing the music.
Lead singer: You make me feel fine.
Backup elves: Fine, Fine.
And
Lead singer: We wear vintage clothes.
Backup elves: Vintage clothes.
Or
Lead singer: At my funeral, I hope there'll be songs hung out like blanketsNo need to cry for me because there's better place...
Or whatever, because I had earplugs in. I was also playing a Spanish-language CD.
To be clear, I'm no music critic. I don't own an iPod. The only vinyl I've ever owned was a bunch of "When the Chime Rings, Turn the Page" Disney stories. And later, one Weird Al Yankovic album in 5th grade. We're not talking high standards here.
As far as the music part - meh, sounded ok to me. The beat's not very ambitious, a bit slow for pop, slightly upbeat of muzak, maybe because he's getting old and old people like that stuff. Like the perfume older ladies wear -- cloying floral, with undernotes of death. Maybe your parts start to go at that age, though I must say the older ladies I know are dear and charming, despite their presance. As far as the album goes though, the beat hinders the emotion prescience this album can have; like a sock puppet show at the public library, no matter what story you're trying to tell, be it the Aenied, Death of a Salesman, or Bambi, your medium will always give you away -- the Wigwams, the Hanes, the creepy nylons.
Which brings me to the stories this music is trying to carry. The lyrics are absolutely cigarette-burned-underpants, with-skidmarks-floating-in-the-public-toilet-at-the-gas-station-and-I-am-the-gas-station-attendant godawful.
Despite my earplugs, I could tell the CD was all about Paul. Clearly, it's about him. What sad is he's 60, 70 years old. Shouldn't he have something to say by now? At my funeral, don't cry because there's a better place? Thanks. I know he's a public figure, but his death will fill the same emotional space that all celebrities occupy; at death, he can expect to yeild as much emotional nutria as Don Ho. And he could have tidily put all that crap in his will. Vintage clothes? Gratitude? You'd think the fact that he's 60, 70 and has a two year-old daughter might make an interesting song, or maybe some of the hobbies rich people have. Rich people get to die doing their hobbies, skiing or wrapping their Spyders around trees. Instead, at 60, 70, Sir Paul's still attempting to slum in his songs, pretending to be one of the volk. Perhaps it's time to tell him we have more interesting lives now. And then there's a war on.
Maybe that's the problem of having succeeded as an artist. Sir Paul is either too-well adjusted, taking too few (or too many?) drugs now, or really needed cab fare and sold his soul to a toothless beggar by the side of the road, who wrapped the soul up with a few guilders and a pigeon heart and tossed it over the bridge to cure his 'roids -- and if so, Paul should've written a song about it, what it's like to have a big empty cavity in the middle of his chest, because he's got nothing to work with in this album. It's a greeting card. The kind they sell in hospitals.
Back at the Starbucks, on the fourth rotation (question number 245), I finally went over to the barrista and asked her as kindly as I could if she could change the album.
"We can't."
"But it's crap!"
"I know."
Somewhere out there is a very talented musician who doesn't have the stamina to make him or herself known to the public because people with nothing to say are moue-ing up the airwaves. A tree falls in the woods, soudlessly because there are no ears there to hear it, and then that bear that always craps in the woods lumbers in, and loudly drops scat on that silent fallen tree.
Unknown musician, I wish I were listening to you.
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