Music is powerful in dividing and uniting families. NPR's All Things Considered recently aired a piece about a woman whose hatred for Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" (a song that her father loved) played an important role in father-daughter bonding. I have a similar if less compelling tale, but in reverse: it was I doing the inflicting.
When I was prepubescent, I listened to a lot of what was then classified as "oldies" music: saccharine white-bread pop from 1952-1966; early, non-funky Motown R&B; Phil Spector's kiddie symphonies; and less-daring Beatles songs. On long, suburban drives, my mother would be serenaded by a curated selection of her own teenage follies. If I had been in her shoes, I would not have been able to take it.
My mother persisted, except when confronted with one particular sonic nemesis: Neil Diamond's "Cracklin' Rosie".
Neil Diamond was responsible for some of the worst '70s pop with some of the most unfortunate staying power. His songs are teased-hair, wink-and-a-smile, over-orchestrated kitsch. They insult you with lyrical stupidity and playground-chant catchiness. "Sweet Caroline" enjoyed a recent renaissance of bro-comedy popularity largely because it is insipid pap best sung along to under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol.
"Cracklin' Rosie" is hardly Neil's worst -- that would probably go to "I Am, I Said" -- but the lyrics are horrid and meaningless. And vaguely mysogynistic. And, by gum, they get stuck in your head. To torment my loving mother I used to call the local "oldies" radio station to request that they play "Cracklin' Rosie." I would ask them to dedicate it to her. She would howl with indignation as I would sing with the chorus: "Cracklin' Rose, you're a store bought woman..." Ultimately, we could laugh together at how horrible the song was before the radio would be brusquely switched off.
When I was prepubescent, I listened to a lot of what was then classified as "oldies" music: saccharine white-bread pop from 1952-1966; early, non-funky Motown R&B; Phil Spector's kiddie symphonies; and less-daring Beatles songs. On long, suburban drives, my mother would be serenaded by a curated selection of her own teenage follies. If I had been in her shoes, I would not have been able to take it.
My mother persisted, except when confronted with one particular sonic nemesis: Neil Diamond's "Cracklin' Rosie".
Mr. Diamond's facial expressions are priceless.
"Cracklin' Rosie" is hardly Neil's worst -- that would probably go to "I Am, I Said" -- but the lyrics are horrid and meaningless. And vaguely mysogynistic. And, by gum, they get stuck in your head. To torment my loving mother I used to call the local "oldies" radio station to request that they play "Cracklin' Rosie." I would ask them to dedicate it to her. She would howl with indignation as I would sing with the chorus: "Cracklin' Rose, you're a store bought woman..." Ultimately, we could laugh together at how horrible the song was before the radio would be brusquely switched off.
2 comments:
Why does Rosie crackle? Because she's a store-bought woman? Do other women crackle? Do men? If so, exactly how? I might find answers to these and other questions if I actually listened to this song, but I really really hate it! -JK
Wiser words are rarely written.
Post a Comment