The Worley Gig - A Column by Gail Worley

I love that scene in the film, High Fidelity, where John Cusack's character, Rob, rearranges his vinyl collection from alphabetical to chronological order, or rather, his version of chronological order. When Rob wants to hear a particular record, he simply thinks of the identifying memory sound-tracked by that song. This scene gets big laughs because it so fully captures any music geek's obsession with his or her record collection as a vehicle for recapturing the subtle nuances of personal history. Music -- and smell memory -- are unequalled for their awesome power of full transportation to the past. I mean, hearing Jimi Hendrix ask "Are You Experienced?" takes me back to that first acid trip every time.

Nobody loves to get all freaked-out and nostalgic more then me, but to really provoke an "I remember what kind of trouble I was getting into when I heard that song" kind of reverie you gotta go back farther than the first Third Eye Blind record. You have to crank up the Way Back machine and talk about a time when radio wasn't a half-assed, barely-thought-out effort of tortuous novelty songs strung together by random acts of screaming, misogyny and retardation. It's hardly a mystery why, when the Village Voice Pazz & Jop critics poll arrives in my mailbox every year, I can't think of anything to file under Ten Favorite Singles of the year. This past year it was a real stretch to come up with two, "Lit Up" and "No Scrubs." For someone who grew up with a radio almost literally attached to my head, this is a pretty sad and forgettable time for memorable music.

Being obviously hip to this timing-is-everything issue, the enlightened folks at Buddha records and Entertainment Weekly magazine have jointly executed a brilliant idea: collecting the Top Hits of every year, from 1970 through to 1995, making millions of dollars off everyone's addiction to nostalgia! Just imagine it: "What the country was listening to in 1985"! They are probably counting their cash as I speak. A few weeks back I received a dozen of these CDs for random years between 1970 and 1990 and I haven't been able to get them off my stereo since. Each collection is crammed with a dozen chart topping hits, and boy, it really takes you back. Some of the selections are by nature, ephemeral; built to capture a reflection of the immediate times and then fade into evanescence. Others are stone solid classics that absolutely refuse to date. Elsewhere, the popular-does-not-equal-good hypothesis shows up, and what topped the charts has little to do with providing a mirror of the times. For example, the disc for the year 1970 -- the year we lost both Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, the Kent state murders took place and - gasp! -- the Beatles broke up -- has no songs by either Hendrix, Joplin or the Beatles. This was also the year that "I Think I Love You" sold more singles than "Let It Be." So go figure.

While not always what I'd pick as the best of the year (with a few exceptions) these Entertainment Weekly collections are digital testaments to the tenacity of the top forty formula, and they are lethally addictive. Music is an amazing form of pop cultural shorthand, and I was surprised at what memories came floating back to be mixed with a 20/20 hindsight that in most cases has been very kind to music that I probably couldn't handle at the time.

You know, High Fidelity really is a great movie.

1970

My filthy nine year old mind was convinced Shocking Blue were actually singing "I'm your penis" instead of "I'm Your Venus" and I wondered why my mother didn't turn it off immediately when it came on the car radio. The Partridge Family was my favorite TV show and I was allowed to stay up until 10:00 PM Friday nights on so I could watch David Cassady sing "I Think I Love You", sandwiched between The Brady Bunch and Here Come the Brides. The Hollies "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother" was the theme song at my sister's High School Graduation. The Guess Who's "American Woman" is my first exposure to what I imagine 'hard rock' must sound like. Folk singer Melanie sings with a passion that transcends reason about "staying black against the night" and "dry against the rain" in a song called "Lay Down" which I embrace fully while remaining clueless that the song is a protest of the war in Vietnam. The Jaggerz' "The Rapper" predates "No Scrubs" by 29 years!

1971

The Raiders (who changed their name from "Paul Revere and...") and Marvin Gaye go PC before there was a name for it with their songs "Indian Reservation" and the more universally-themed "What's Going On." Jesus gets a name check in both "Put Your Hand in the Hand" by one-hit-wonders, Ocean, and Brewer & Shipley's "One Toke Over the Line," my older sister's favorite song which somehow successfully mixes name dropping Jesus with smoking pot. Whoever told Rod Stewart ("Maggie May") he could sing has some explaining to do. My two favorite songs are "Mr. Bojangles" by the Nitty Gritty Dirt band and "Brand New Key" (which got a second life the 1998 film Boogie Nights) by Melanie.

1972

Has there ever been a better pop song written about seduction than the Raspberries "Go All The Way" ? I really do not think so. It was definitely lost on me at eleven, but it's on my voice mail message right now. My best friend, Vicky, and I think "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass is the coolest song ever. "Let's Stay Together" (Al Green), "I'll Take You There" (Staple Singers), and "I'll Be Around" (The Spinners) are better songs than any rap or hip hop artist will ever produce. Helen Reddy's "I Am Woman" is hokey as hell but it sure did get people's attention. I remember being at camp and some girl named Janet sang "I Am Woman" in our Talent show and people laughed her off the stage. She had a good voice though. Kids can be such bastards. Harry Nilsson's "Without You" is lovely and sad and inspires a wistfulness that transcends nostalgia. The cast of Godspell, a Jesus Christ Superstar-meets-Hair musical where Jesus dresses like a Mime, has a number one hit with "Day by Day." Shit like that just doesn't happen anymore.

1975

Minnie Riperton hits high notes that shatter glass (and, these days, would make Mariah Carey sound talentless) on her debut chart topper, "Loving You." A year after this song saturates the airwaves, Riperton dies suddenly and tragically of a brain hemorrhage. Vicky and I teach ourselves to do "The Hustle and make up dance steps to go along with the Average White Band's "Pick Up The Pieces." The Bay City Rollers teach the world how to spell "Saturday Night" and "Lady" by Styx -- which builds from a simple acoustic piano accompaniment to a fanfare-for-the-common-man style epic declaration of eternal devotion -- just slays me. And "That's the Way (I Like it)."

1976

I am fifteen years old and look amazing in a bikini. Eric Carmen breaks up the Raspberries and records the wimpy and tiresome solo hit "All By Myself." My parents send me to spend the summer with my aunt and surfing-obsessed cousin at a rented beach cottage in Oceanside, California. Hearing The Starland Vocal Band's ubiquitous "Afternoon Delight" -- a song about SEX -- emanate from my radio all summer embarrasses my aunt, which I think is cool. My friend, Mary Ann and I smoke pot on the beach with a couple of insanely cute surfer boys and make out in the sand with them while Gary Wright's "Dream Weaver" blasts from a nearby car stereo. "Fly me away to the dark side of the moon/and meet me on the other side." What a great summer that was.

1980

I buy the single of The Romantics "What I Like About You" because I actually think it is a great song. Gary Numan's "Cars" does not sit as well with me as his post-apocalyptic synth masterpiece, "Are Friends' Electric?" and I consider him to have sold out. Blondie's exuberant and kind-of-but-not-really naughty "Call Me" from American Gigolo is the number one song of the year and new wave music goes legit. The Pointer Sisters, Air Supply, Pat Benatar, Jefferson Starship, Christopher Cross and Hall and Oates blanket the airwaves with substandard nonsense in their maddening quest to define the middle of the road. I have a tape deck installed in my car so I can drive without wanting to speed blindly into a brick wall. I am not yet bitter enough to embrace the J. Geil's band's "Love Stinks."

1981

I am in college taking lots of drugs, having lots of sex, listening to punk rock and trying as hard as I possibly can to buck the norm. At KUCI, the University's radio station where I have a weekly show, I record and produce a Public Service Announcement on "Stroke Prevention" with my friend Yuval, The Flying Wonder Boy. As background music, we use Billy Squire's "The Stroke." We are so impressed with our cleverness that we are still mentally high-fiving ourselves weeks later. The Pointer Sister's "Slow Hand" makes me want to vomit. How does a contemporary musical masterpiece like "Just The Two of Us" by Grover Washington Jr. and the sublime Bill Withers get thrown in with smarmy dreck like Hall & and Oates (who should have hung up the guitars after they made "War Baby Son of Zorro") and -- gag!! - "The One that You Love" by those closet cases, Air Supply????

1982

I guess I didn't listen to the radio much that year, either because I was doing radio myself or because this was a really crap year for singles! There are two songs on this collection that I remember really going wild over. A moment please to recall the emotional climax of Laura Branigan's "Gloria," a high powered dance hit about a woman on the run from the Mob, or something like that. "Gloria, I think they’ve got your number/I think they’ve got the alias/that you’ve been living under!" What drama! No one else was singing about a woman living under an alias or trapped in some kind of vaguely menacing identity crisis. What a great song! And then there was Tommy Tutone's ubiquitous "867-5309/Jenny," which gave a name and a personality to the woman Faster Pussycat would later sing about in the considerably less-inspired "Bathroom Wall." There was also a cool lawsuit involving this song, instigated by whoever was unlucky enough to have this particular phone number. I mean, the song was just impossible to get out of your head. The rest of the songs for 1982 are just as horrendous as what gets played on the radio today and prove The Human League ("Don't You Want Me") and Flock of Seagulls ("I Ran)" could suck just as hard as Toto and Rick Springfield. Sad, but true.

1985

"Walking On Sunshine" is the worst song I've ever heard in my life. Sheena Easton sings cryptically about her vagina in "Sugar Walls" -- a song written for her by Prince, who she is banging at the time. The Jefferson Starship, now called simply "Starship" have a less-offensive-than-usual, bland, faceless hit with "We Built This City" but I prefer "Turn Up The Radio" by Autograph for fist pumping anthems. Keyboard genius, Jan Hammer, who once played with Jeff Beck, records the theme to Miami Vice, and sells millions of copies. David Lee Roth sells his soul to Satan when he records the Beach Boys "California Girls" and makes a really bad accompanying video. "And We Danced" by the unfortunately-named Hooters has a kind of fatalist charm while MTV vaults treacle-y crap like Huey Lewis & The News' "The Power of Love" and "Broken Wings' by Mr. Mister to unqualified platinum success. I am surprised I am listening to the radio at all.

1986

The worst year of my life thus far (until 1995 came stampeding to the front to claim that dubious title) and an equally shitty year for pop music. Howard Jones has a hit with "No One is To Blame" -- his take on Bob Seger's "We Just Disagree" -- but I prefer "What is Love," because it is just much bleaker in its view of love than anything anyone else seems capable of even imagining. Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love" is so overplayed I want to kill him. The Dream Academy has a hit with the mmelancholy "Life in a Northern Town" which I feel strangely attracted to since I remember Kate St. John from the days when she played Oboe on all of Julian Cope's solo albums. "The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear shades" is a guilty pleasure. "Word Up" by Cameo goes way over my head.

1989

"Bust a Move" by Young MC and "Funky Cold Medina" by Tone Loc are played endlessly at the disco where my bartender boyfriend works. Soap Opera actor, Michael Damien covers David Essex's "Rock On" and I can only ask `Why?' I can't listen to Mike + The Mechanics' "The Living Years" in a public place without completely losing it, because when Paul Carack gets to that line "I wasn't there that morning/when my Father passed away," it just hits too close to home for me.

1990

Technotronic's "Pump Up The Jam" and "Everybody Everybody" by Black Box -- a French disco diva who speaks no English and is later revealed to be only lip-syncing to Martha Wash's uncredited vocals -- force their way into every waking second of my consciousness. The Video for Paula Abdul's absurdist "Opposites Attract" depicts her having an affair with a cartoon dog (or was it a cat?). When my boyfriend tells me it reminds him of our relationship I break up with him immediately. Poison's "Unskinny Bop" sticks in my head no matter how hard I try to shake it free. Michael Penn gets a recording contract about the same time that Madonna marries his brother. "No Myth" is my favorite song for about a month straight. I know I have to write off Billy "I was a punk before you were a punk" Idol when he has a kid with his girlfriend and puts out his worst single ever "Cradle of Love."

******

As hypercritical as this commentary must seem, in truth, these songs have aged well in most cases or are at least good for an "Ohmigod!" moment here and there. I never could have stomached "Poetry Man" when it came out in 1975, but Phoebe Snow sings about Stoufer's frozen pizza now and I've grown fond of the comforting quality of her voice. If you're only one quarter the elitist music snob I am, you'll have fun with any one of these discs. Go out and recapture a piece of your youth right now!

Hate Mail of the Month

I received the letter below in response to my column on the South By Southwest Music Conference, Texas Rocks Your Lame Ass. While there are no typos or glaring grammatical faux pas, as was the case with the now famous Letter From Butthead (the topic of my previous column, You’re Not A Real Rock Critic and Your Favorite Band Sucks), it sets a pretty darn good example for all musicians on the type of letter you should refrain from penning to a rock critic and signing your name to.

Dear Gail,

Thanks for not ruthlessly kissing our ass. Seeing as how you obviously look to your friends and "the underground" to see what's cool, I'm glad we didn't make the cut. Reading about some pink haired old hag rattle on about "the god of sex" and how cute some guy was makes me want to puke. We'll contently keep on in "obscurity" while you wish for the days when you were trying to fuck guys in Whitesnake. Whatever.

Stoney Tombs
The Hookers

This letter is hilarious on so many levels. I mean, not that I even take this seriously, but...

For one, if anyone looks to their friends and the "underground" for confirmation of ‘what’s cool,’ it is NOT me. I've always liked exactly what I like, regardless of trends or friends. You only have to look at the list of my 20 favorite CDs of 1999 to see that most of the bands I like are considered to be complete laughingstocks by others critics, not to mention the record-buying public. Secondly, a band called The Hookers should not cast stones at those who seek a little sexy danger in their rock music. Third, by making this personal with his sexist/misogynist "pink haired old hag" comment, Stoney Tombs (obviously his real name) reveals himself to be not only a woman hater, but a mean-spirited loser who has no idea how to "work the press" to the advantage of his lackluster, not-so-talented bar band. If he’d taken my review in stride, looked at it as a challenge to step-up and perhaps win me over, and laughed it off with a sense of humor, grace and professional aplomb he so obviously lacks, maybe if I got The Hookers CD in the mail, I’d pop it in the player and discover they really rock. Of course, this will never happen now.

All that aside, and getting back to the "old hag" reference, Stoney should be down on his knees praying to god in heaven above to look even a fraction as fucking great as I look when he’s my age, if he isn’t older than me already. The bottom line is this: If I had praised the music of The Hookers along the lines of "The Hookers kicked so much ass I couldn’t sit down for a week!" or dribbled flirtatious compliments all over him like "Stoney Tombs was just like the rain because he made me all wet!," this guy would have been all over my ass, thanking me for even mentioning his band, while complimenting my cutting-edge writing style and -- oh yeah -- telling me how hot I look with the pink hair. Finally, with regard to the comment about me "trying to fuck guys in Whitesnake," this is such a pathetically lame attempt at flexing his misogynist muscle, I can’t even be bothered to comment. So thanks a lot, Stoney, for writing a chunk of my column for me, giving me a good laugh, and for being an embarrassment to your band and your record label. Get a thicker skin or get out of this business.

Metal-Sludge.Com Loves The Worley Gig!

Metal Sludge (http://www.metal-sludge.com), a biting satiric parody of Metal Edge magazine, is one of the funniest, most comprehensive metal music websites on the Internet. If you’re not already familiar with Metal Sludge’s hilarious regular features like the Weekly 20 Questions Interviews, Sludge Scan, The Dick Chart, The Groupie Chart, Rock on the Decline, Hate Mail from/about Sebastian Bach, the Ho Bag, relentless Slaughter jokes and their various contests, you’d better check it out soon before you’re the last one who’s not totally hip and in-the know! Since I am down with Metal Sludge, the guys recently reviewed my column and gave me a place in the prestigious Sludge Links. Check it out!

The Worley Gig

This is a column written by Gail Worley. She's the one who reviewed us for Request Magazine, which can be found in all Sam Goody, Musiclands, and Media Plays. We got 95 out of 100!! That was the shit! So you know Gail has good taste and everything she says is 100% accurate! Go read her column because she talks about a lot of 80's bands and recently did an interview with Rikki Rockett.

So there you have it, an endorsement you can trust and nothing about me fucking guys in Whitesnake! Wild Love to the folks at Metal Sludge, and please continue to rock!

Rock Star Quote of the Month

"It’s hard to pander and make art at the same time."

-- Singer/songwriter, Terry Clark (ok, so she’s country and not rock, it’s still a great quote!)

The Worley Gig: "Avoiding your memory, like a vampire does the sun."

I doubt anyone can name either the song from whence the above lyrics were plucked or who sings that very fabulous song. But if you think you can do it, email your answers to rezpect@aol.com to receive some free CDs.

Big Worley Gig Lovin’ goes out to Matt Garman of Seattle for his winning guess in last month’s song lyrics contest. Matt was the first of many correct responses to identify Def Leppard’s "Photograph." Matt won himself the newest discs by both Fu Manchu and Guided By Voices. You could be next...

Email Gail Worley

Visit The Worley Gig Archives

Also in Pandemonium Online:

Wild Boys Go the Way of Pop Trash
An Interview with Nick Rhodes and Warren Cuccurullo of Duran Duran, by Gail Worley

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