Seriously lads, our pop music is shit. Of course, we are not alone in this, because by its very nature, pop music cannot be good. It caters to the lowest common denominator, the sizable wedge of the population that drools when they speak, can never remember important dates, fail to tie their shoelaces, and just generally has difficult interacting with other people who don't have such problems to begin with. It's music that is full of catchy hooks, disposable, childish lyrics that pertain to nothing but baby talk or ways to reference sex without being too offensive, and some of the worst electronic samples and drums ever committed to memory.
In short, it's absolute shite, and my home nation is responsible for more of this than seemingly anyone else. So, with that in mind, the theme in Thunder Matthew's Pub turns to one of regret and atonement, and I humbly apologize on behalf of my people.
So where do we begin? We casually omit the cultural diarrhea that is perhaps better known as the 80s, and we begin on July 8, 1996.
What happened on that day (besides the birthday of yours truly)? The Spice Girls released an obnoxious song by the name of "Wannabe" and the world remained forever changed. 2 minutes and 52 seconds of perfectly-crafted, saccharine drivel, sung and "rapped" by 5 women wearing next-to-nothing. While my teenage sensibilities didn't oppose the lack of clothing, my cerebral cortex loathed the sound itself. It came draped in the heavy cloth of feminism (at least so the band proclaimed with their "Girl Power" image which, if we're honest, was created in a lab somewhere deep near the earth's core), and to this day, I still haven't figured out what "zig-a-zig-ahhhh" means. Answers on a postcard to:
Thunder Matthew's Saloon
12 Ambivalence Road
Continuing with this dreck, "Wannabe" was perfect for a legion of peppy, rebellious teenage girls, as they practiced the dance moves in the living room once school let out. The video was weird and disorienting, in which the camera followed the fraught 5 through a hotel where they caused all sorts of mischief. By mischief, I mean taking lampshades off, ruffling up peoples' hair and running around the hallways. They stop periodically to turn and face the camera, thus starting a chain of choreographed dance moves that even a paraplegic could get right.
Then, they all got botox and married, a couple of them had kids, the redhead fucked around and quit the group ahead of everyone else, then they broke up right around 2002, and did their expected reunion last year or so. Fucking brilliant. On behalf of my people, I apologize for their existence. It's against the law of nature.
And then, we move back a little bit to the day when a piano-playing muppet named Chris Martin put a band together and ballad'd his way into Gwyneth Paltrow's pants. What a crock of shit. I apologize for Coldplay.
They're fucking terrible, the worst kind of adult contemporary cheese available on the radio dial. They had one song I enjoyed, probably their mopiest, saddest tune to date, but aside from "The Scientist" (which I enjoyed because of its video), they're awful. On behalf of my people, I apologize for their existence.
Not much further to go in my flagellation. James Blunt. Fucking lord, why hast thou forsaken us? Why hast thou left us on this planet to live with the aural pain caused by James Blunt? Why on earth did you let his birth go through unhindered by pain and pestilence? Please lord, I beg of you. "You're Beautiful" is a fucking terrible song, yet it weakens the knees of any thirty-something woman who just clocked off from her desk job. After a delicately-chilled glass of Chardonnay, those women are ready to weep into their tote bag upon hearing Blunt's weird, screeching voice and puppy-dog eyes. On behalf of my people, I apologize for their existence.
Over the decades, my people have created some wonderful fucking music. Led Zeppelin. The Who. The Beatles. Black fucking Sabbath. Motorhead. The Rolling Stones. And yet, we have also given birth to some absolute wank in the form of The Spice Girls, Coldplay and James Blunt.
Sure, in the final analysis the good does outweigh the bad, and considerably too, but it doesn't wash the taste of dreadful pop music from my brain, and it certainly doesn't make up for the years of noise pollution and emotional damage those three "bands" have caused. That's just life for you.
In the meantime, fuck off and let me listen to "In Through the Out Door" a few more times before I pass out drunk.