“Rock and roll is here to stay, it will never die, it was meant to be that way, though I don’t know why.”
That line, for anyone who doesn’t know, is from, “Rock and Roll is Here to Stay,” by Danny and the Juniors. Very prophetic, except that it never really stayed around. Boomer parents found it hard to accept the music, after relaxing to the likes of Perry Como, Eddie Fisher, Patti Page, Frank Sinatra, and others. Elvis seemed especially offensive at the time, and they said they didn’t like the way Elvis shook his pelvis.
Well, not all rock and roll sounded that offensive in the way of “Get a Job,” by The Silhouettes. Less harsh music made the scene, by the likes of the Everly Brothers, Ricky Nelson. It didn’t take long for even the older people to put the doggie in the window up for adoption and quit dancing to the Tennessee Waltz. They started liking the sounds of “All I Have to do is Dream,” and “Traveling Man.”
My mother loved listening to Al Martino and Patsy Cline, neither of whom could have been accused of dabbling in rock and roll, and she also liked Marty Robbins, another crossover singer with hits, “A White Sport Coat,” “El Paso,” “Devil Woman,” and others, before his untimely death. All of this was easy-listening music, and it slid into the ears quite smoothly. The older generation realized that Como and Crosby had become relegated to TV specials, but Andy Williams came along, providing a spark of hope for the parents of the boomers.
In the early sixties we went through the Hootenanny stage, with quite a bit of folk music, from the Kingston Trio (they started in the fifties), Peter, Paul, and Mary, The Seekers, etc. Almost everybody liked that sound and who couldn’t appreciate, “Walk Right In,” by the Rooftop Singers?
In the mid sixties we saw the British Invasion, with The Beatles dominating the charts, but we had new singers that appealed to both parents and offspring, such as Petula Clark and Dusty Springfield. However, drugs started influencing music, leading to acid rock and heavy metal. I liked neither of them, with only a few exceptions. Some of this I considered little more than a bunch of noise, and an insult to the music world.
My point in all of this rambling is that I simply lack the ability to appreciate much of what the Gen X-ers and Millennials call music these days. I didn’t watch the Grammys, because I never do, but I saw on the news that idiot Kanye West ran up on stage and interrupted Taylor Swift, who had won best video, I guess. He said that Beyonce had the best video of all time, or some such garbage. I say that because her songs are nothing but garbage. They make no sense and are, for the most part, filthy.
A great example is “Drunk in Love,” and I provide only some of the words here:
I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking, I get filthy when that liquor get into me, I’ve been thinking, I’ve been thinking, why can’t I keep my fingers off it, Baby? I want you, na na, why can’t I keep my fingers off it, Baby? I want you, na na. Makes sense to me, I suppose, or maybe not. Let’s continue:
Cigars on ice, cigars on ice, feeling like an animal with these cameras all in my grill. Flashing lights, flashing lights, you got me faded, faded, faded, Baby, I want you, na na, can’t keep your eyes off my fatty, Daddy, I want you, na, na, drunk in love, I want you. So far, so bad.
We woke up in the kitchen saying, “How the Hell did this sh_t happen? Oh, Baby, drunk in love we be all night. Last thing I remember is our beautiful bodies grinding up in the club, drunk in love.
We be all night and everything alright, no complaints from my body, so fluorescent under these lights. Boy I’m drinking, park it in my 7-11, I’m rubbing on it, rub rubbing, if you scared call that reverend. Boy, I’m drinking, get my brain right, Armand de Brignac, gangster wife. Louie Sheets, he sweat it out like wash rags he wear it out. Boy, I’m drinking, I’m singing on the mic to my boy toys. Boy I’m drinking, I’m singing on the mic til my voice hoarse. Then I fill the tub up halfway then ride it with my surfboard, surfboard, surfboard. Graining on that wood, graining, graining on that wood. I’m swerving on that, swerving, swerving on that big body. Been serving all this, swerve, surfing all in this good, good. I admit I’d have a hard time coming up with these lyrics so far, but we’re not done.
I’m nice right now, hold up. That D’USSE is the sh_t if I do say so myself, if I do say so myself, if I do say so myself. Hold up, stumbled all in the house, time to back up all of that mouth that you had in the car, talking ’bout you the baddest bitch thus far. Talking ’bout you be repping that third, I want to see all the sh_t that I heard. Know I sling Clint Eastwood, hope you can handle this curve. Foreplay in the foyer, f_cked up my Warhol. Slip the panties right to the side, ain’t got the time to take draws off, on site. Catch a charge, I might, beat the box up like Mike. In ’97 I bite, I’m Ike, Turner, turn up. Baby, no I don’t play, now eat the cake, Anna Mae. Said, “Eat the cake, Anna Mae.” I’m nice, for y’all to reach these heights, you gonna need G3, 4, 5, 6 flights, sleep tight. We sex again in the morning, your breastases is my breakfast. We going in, we be all night.
I’ll save everyone the agony of the last short verse, but it makes as much sense as the others. For those of you who think “Louie, Louie,” by the Kingsmen, was an off-color song, you would be wrong. The song is a sea shanty, with nary a bad word in it, no matter how the Kingsmen made it sound. I never liked the song, but I could listen to it, unlike some of the trash being spewed out by the likes of Beyonce and others.