July 2nd, 2012 § 2 Comments
Frank Zappa: “I detest ‘love lyrics’.”
“Yes, Frank! I hate love songs too.” They’re lame. “I can’t live, if living means without you…” “Oh, my love, my darling I’ve hungered for your touch … I need your love I need your love God speed your love to me!” “I”m lying alone with my head on the phone, thinking of you til it hurts. I know you hurt too, but what else can we do? …” Geez. Kick me in the head.
Nope, not just generational. I listen to my kids’ music. The same lameness. “I’d catch a grenade for ya Throw my hand on the blade for ya I’d jump in front of a train for ya You know I’d do anything for ya See I would go through all this pain Take a bullet straight through my brain Yes I would die for ya, baby But you won’t do the same.” Bruno, that’s not love; that’s a big fat lie. The same ol’ whinny, sappy, sorry stuff.
The trouble with “love songs” is there’s really very little love in them. It’s all “me, me, me”; “I, I, I”. Then they glorify the “extraordinary” at the expense of the “ordinary”. From our youth, they make us sigh and long for a life not our own. As the years go by, as gravity pulls our “love” down to Earth, we bemoan, “You don’t bring me flowers … anymore.” C’mon. The pinnacle of love can’t be youthful intoxication.
Love goes something like this: “I’d watch an episode of Glee for ya I’d clean our baby’s pee for ya I’d jump in line at Macy’s for ya You know I’d do anything for ya See I would go through all this pain Wash the dishes, clean the drain Yes I die a little each day for ya, baby And you don’t have to do the same.”