AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: DATE: 4/28/2004 11:23:00 AM ----- BODY:

Nobody Listens to Techno

Do not attempt to adjust your sets. I did just use an Eminem lyric as the title for this blog. Hey, Eminem may affront all I hold dear, but there are a few lyrics here and there that I enjoy. Like the line from "Purple Pills" (which is technically D-12, but Eminem's in that, and says the line of the song):
Cool, calm, just like my mom With a couple of valium inside her palm It's Mr. Mischief with a trick up his sleeve To roll up on you like Christopher Reeve
Yep, Eminem may still sound like Chucky trying to rap to me, but that line right there is just the kind of sick, cruel, twisted thing that makes me laugh. Anyway. The reason I mention techno (and Eminem, come to think of it) is that I am in an extremely weird musical mood these last few days. Y'all know me (still the same old G but I been low key)--I tend to get sudden, sharp, unbearable cravings for certain things like particular songs or tastes or even people I know, and they make me like a pregnant woman on a rampage for some pickles until I hear / eat / see said object of craving. Well, get this one. Lately I've been gripped by the urge to listen to techno. This is just one of the many signs of late that my brain is finally, officially rattling apart, I think. But don't you remember those middle school dances where they'd play those horrible songs like the one that just goes, "La da da dee da DA da da..."? Don't you remember KISS 108 in the early 90's, you'd listen to Matty on your old pink clock radio, the one you'd had since you were 6 but then your roommate broke your freshman year of college when she knocked it off your Tupperware nightstand next to your bunked dorm bed onto the hard formica floor? Don't you remember Jock Jams CDs and MTV Party to Go and Color Me Badd singing vacuously about love? Rythm is a dancer, baby. Oh, yeah. Don't you remember Showboat at the McCarthy Middle School and those girls in those strange ruffle-cuffed shirts that were all the rage then doing their little jerky dances in high tops out under the blue spotlights? And I quote:
Never gonna get it, never gonna get it Never gonna get it, never gonna get it Never gonna get it, never gonna get it Never gonna get it (whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa) Never gonna get it, never gonna get it Never gonna get it, never gonna get it Never gonna get it, never gonna get it Never gonna get it, never get it No, you're never gonna get it (Sweet lovin') Never ever gonna get it (Sweet lovin') No, you're never gonna get it (My lovin') Never ever gonna get it (My lovin') No, you're never gonna get it (Sweet lovin') Never ever gonna get it (My lovin') No, you're never gonna get it (Sweet lovin') Never ever gonna get it (My lovin')...
And now it's time for a breakdown. Have you ever seen that part of the Original Kings of Comedy movie where the guy (tried to find his name and the exact quote, but, sorry, this half-baked spewing is only worth so much searching of the Internet to research) starts talking about older music and how much better it was than newer hip-hop? The guy kind of sounds like an old fogey at first, but then he cues up this Motown classic that sounds like Marvin Gaye, I think, and out in the audience the black people of a certain age leap from their chairs as if pulled by strings? The guy onstage is still talking, but these people aren't listening, they're grooving to the music, hands in the air, swaying back and forth right in the middle of the crowded auditorium. They abandon themselves to that song. Well, that's how your average white child of the 80's / mid-90's feels when they hear "Come on Ride the Train." It's not really about the song. God help us if it's about a song like "This is the Rhythm of the Night". It's about wanting to go back to that dance when you were in seventh grade and you did the Zombie Shuffle with that kid with the really long eyelashes who was also shorter than you to that song "Just to Be the Next to Be With You," by oh shit what was the name of that band? It's about wanting to go back and slip inside your own skin but with your current brain, to take in all the details again knowing what you know now, including and especially that godawful music hanging around you like ugly wallpaper--the kind you grow nostalgic for later. And maybe you'd be so overcome by the absurdity of it all that your 23 year old self would cause your 13 year old self to throw back her head and laugh, and totally freak out the short kid with the long eyelashes. Because all she can hear is, boom boom boom, lemme hear ya say wayy-ohh! Wayy-ohh!!
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