A history of music: No hope

eye candy

eye candy

If you ever stop by my place of employment, you’ll discover an eclectic taste in musical genre.  In the front office, you’ll be greeted with hits from days gone by.  When life was simpler, and the English language just developing, apparently.


1950’s saw hits such as Sh-boom.  Dictionary.com that shit.  I dare you.  It’s not a word.

A sampling:

Sh-boom sh-boom Ya-da-da Da-da-da Da-da-da Da
Sh-boom sh-boom Ya-da-da Da-da-da Da-da-da Da
Sh-boom sh-boom Ya-da-da Da-da-da Da-da-da Da, sh-boom

My dad called this music.  I call it ridiculous.

You would think, that we had nowhere to go but up, and the 60’s were welcomed in a billowing cloud of herbalicious smoke.  Creativity should have been at an all time high.  (Heh, HIGH).  Apparently not.

Shall we jump in the time machine again?

1960’s sample:

Who put the bomp:

Who put the bomp
In the bomp bah bomp bah bomp?
Who put the ram
In the rama lama ding dong?
Who put the bop
In the bop shoo bop shoo bop?
Who put the dip
In the dip da dip da dip? 

Once more, words escape me.  And them, apparently.  Anyone ever use that line on you?  Clearly, they’re just old, and from a generation that was still grappling with the whole idea of communication.

1970’s saw the rise, and fall of disco.  It also saw the introduction of the Muppets.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one:

Mahna mahna
(ba dee bedebe)
mahna mahna
(ba debe dee)
mahna mahna
(ba dee bedebe badebe badebe dee dee de-de de-de-de)

This was the decade that welcomed me into this world.  This was their entertainment.  In my professional opinion, this is why the Surgeon General started issuing warnings about drugs and alcohol consumption while pregnant.

Now, if you wander in to the front part of the warehouse, you’re greeted with classic rock.  We’ve skipped ahead into the glorious genre of hair metal, where the men were prettier than the girls, and the boys strived to be androgynous.  We’ve also clearly moved away from singing in sounds, and have strung words together.  Climbing that evolutionary ladder.

Or not.

Sample: Pour some sugar on me

Love is like a bomb, baby, c’mon get it on
Livin’ like a lover with a radar phone
Lookin’ like a tramp, like a video vamp
Demolition woman, can I be your man?
Razzle ‘n’ a dazzle ‘n’ a flash a little light
Television lover, baby, go all night 

I’d like to stop right there, and just say what in the fuck?  Sure, we’re now stringing words together, no longer banging coconuts, and thumping our chests, but THIS.  This is what is raking in the bucks.  Clearly being a musical genius does not equate to being a lyrical giant.  We have slid even further down the intelligence ladder than I thought possible.  

Need someone to blame?  Dippity-do gel, and CFC’s in the aeresol can.

1990.  We climb.  Nirvana, Pearl Jam.  These sad, plaid wearing mother fuckers have a story to tell.  And they tell it well.  Yay for humanity.  One small step for man, one giant leap for man kind.

Now I know you diehard glam rock fans are still convinced that Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain, killed your youth, but Bon Jovi survived.  He evolved.  Rolled with it.  Do the same.  And for the record, acid wash is passé.

Sidebar: Nickleback is not classic rock.  Please stop classifying it as such.

When you venture further back in the warehouse, receiving end, you get assualted with a variety of crap ranging from some broad desparate to remain young singin’ about her london bridge goin’ down (what? – don’t like fergalicious, what of it) to some asshat, and this is the icing on the cake, singing about Birthday Sex.  Have you heard this steaming load?


It’s yo birthday, so I know you want to ride out
Even if we only go to my house
Sip mo-eezy as we sit upon my couch
Feels good, but I know you want to cry out
You say u want passion, I think you found it
Get ready for action, don’t be astounded
We switching positions, you feel surrounded
Tell me where you want your gift, girl

This just is beyond the pale for me.   Then there’s lady gaga, and taking a ride on a disco stick?  I get it.  Freedom of speech, creative licence and all that jazz, but do you need to be a dirty whore/filthy pimp to sell an album?

Disgusting.  Thanks to lack of censorship, pride, shame or self esteem, we’ve slipped right off the intelligence charts in popular music, and are on a downward spiral to I don’t even know what.  But I’m pretty sure it’s raining locusts.

PS: 1940’s are untouchable, and unarguably the greatest decade for music ever.  ❤ Sinatra


About MsBehavior

I’m a vintage loving, suburban living, book collecting, kitchen destroying, thrifting ninja, single mama of a smart, salty, sassy teenager. Unicorn aficionado. Flamingo enthusiast. Love all things sparkly. Connoisseur of foul language. Insufferable do-gooder. Big mouth. Bigger heart. Biggest backside. Begrudging romantic. Will blog and tweet for money. I make things. You can buy those things. Hey man, I’ve got bills. View all posts by MsBehavior

7 responses to “A history of music: No hope

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