999,842: Midnight Oil - Beds Are Burning

There comes a time in every American’s life when he or she must select a political identity. America not exactly being a land of subtlety, there are only two choices. Should I be a selfish, greedy asshole who refuses to give one solitary shit about other human beings? Or should I be a naïve, idealistic weenie who is too attached to the idea of being a good person to ever get my hands dirty by participating in the real world? Fortunately, there is no middle ground.

If there is any other country in the world that aspires to America’s reductive cowboy mentality, it is Australia. Judging by the output of Midnight Oil, this must drive Australian liberals absolutely batty. Midnight Oil spent much of college radio’s glory days doing benefit albums and concerts for countless noble causes alongside U2, Peter Gabriel, R.E.M., and Sting. However, they never rose above second-tier status outside of their homeland, due in large part to the fact that – unlike the aforementioned artists – idealistic young college women didn’t really want to fuck freaky-intense bald singer Peter Garrett.

Midnight Oil’s biggest hit was 1987’s “Beds Are Burning,” a P.C. anthem about a hot-button issue that had virtually nothing to do with everyday American life, yet was catchy enough to make our Top 20 anyway. The song advocates doing something idealistic about Australian takeovers of Aboriginal lands, though it’s not clear what – the pre-chorus can’t make up its mind whether white Australians should pay rent for the land, or just flat-out give it back. Naturally, one can point out parallels with American injustices toward blacks and Native Americans. But the song is catchy enough that its international appeal probably didn't come from its politics, beyond maybe a general conviction that people should do things that are right.

It’s tough to think of another socially conscious ‘80s rock hit that’s quite as full of self-flagellating white liberal guilt as “Beds Are Burning.” Granted, Australia did so many horrendous things to Aborigines that they now have an actual holiday called “National Sorry Day.” (This is real.) But Midnight Oil’s guilt burns so hot – Peter Garrett nearly chokes on the words! – that it literally doesn’t know where to go. Man, it’s so unfair that our ancestors conquered this land hundreds of years ago. WE would never have done that! All us several million people should return it in the name of fairness! Well, then we’d have to go…somewhere else. Hmm. OK, maybe not. Wait, what if we PAID RENT??? That’s a fair compromise that EVERYONE can get on board with! Oh, but…what if that’s just propagating the systemic abuses of Western capitalism, and forcing the concept of property rights on an innocent and uncorrupted culture? Man, absolute ideological purity is so difficult!

But the real key line arrives in the chorus, which begins “How can we dance when our earth is turning?” Think about that for just a second. I read a lot of liberal politics blogs and always come away angry and stressed out about how often our country fails to live up to our ideals. It’s emotionally draining and leaves a body terrified that nothing will ever go right. But this lyric? This isn’t even about rampant injustice anymore. This is beyond overwrought “I shouldn’t be happy if anything is wrong anywhere” hand-wringing. This is a narcissistic mind whipping itself into such a state of perpetual crisis and misery that it’s literally asking: how can I possibly feel good about anything in life when there are – at this very moment – NATURAL EVENTS THAT I HAVE NO CONTROL OVER? Even if all injustice in the world were eradicated, even if everybody by some miracle decided to stop being assholes, even if all of humanity lived side by side in peace and prosperity, MIDNIGHT OIL WOULD STILL BE COMPLETELY FUCKING DEPRESSED. “Mr. Garrett, everything is great now! Won’t you come dance and celebrate with us?” “Nah. The planet is still rotating on its axis…and there’s nothing I can do to make this right. Not even a benefit concert.”

This is notwithstanding the fact that if Midnight Oil got their way and the earth DID stop turning, half of it would be shrouded in eternal darkness, which would render it uninhabitable for humans, which would force the population of one side of the earth to seek survival by invading the lands on the other side of the earth, WHICH IS HOW WE GOT INTO THIS MESS IN THE FIRST GODDAMN PLACE.

In conclusion, if Midnight Oil were ever actually elected to run the government of Australia, I posit that the impracticality of their platform would doom their administrative efforts to failure. Also, I will never have adequate health care.

The video below shows Midnight Oil performing “Beds Are Burning” at the 2000 Sydney Olympics, dressed in black suits bearing the word “SORRY” all over the place, in an unintentional caricature of American liberal stereotypes. Judging by the crowd’s reaction, however, the idea of giving land back to the Aborigines is a big-time party-starter.

999,843: The Smiths - Meat Is Murder

There is a tragedy going on in the world today. A tragedy that too often goes unnoticed. A tragedy in which nearly all of us are complicit. A tragedy that hacks away at the roots of human empathy and respect for life. It is the tragedy of meat. And this tragedy is why we must all join together in solidarity, with common purpose, to make a difference.

WE MUST BOYCOTT LIONS.

Lions are vicious predators who subsist on a diet composed entirely of meat. Female lions eat an average of 11 pounds of meat per day, while gluttonous males consume more than 15 pounds. This inefficient dependence on meat has a strongly negative impact on the problem of global warming. Lions chiefly consume grazing animals – the same kind of animal whose “carbon footprint” accounts for 18 percent of all greenhouse gas emissions.

Lions need to understand that they are harming innocent animals with their murderous cruelty. They need to remember the teachings of the Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, who taught us to live in harmony with all living things and inspired many of his followers to adopt a vegetarian diet. They need to realize that killing is wrong, because it makes things die. They should try putting themselves in the places of the defenseless animals they are torturing and slaughtering. Maybe then they wouldn’t be so cavalier about putting gross disgusting dead flesh in their mouths.

Some might say that it is wrong to impose our culture on others who have a traditional, deeply ingrained way of life. This is a valid concern, and we agree that traditional cultures must be respected. However, this respect need not preclude an active support for social justice. Lion society may seem progressive on the surface, with females actively encouraged to go out in the world and become the breadwinners. However, this falls apart on closer examination. Male lions have inculcated in their mates an unnatural, typically masculine, meat-related aggression. In order to compete on this patriarchal turf, the females have simply internalized this propaganda, rather than the emotional, nurturing values they surely would adopt if left to their own devices. As a result, the females do all the work, while the male lions lay around like sultans being catered to by their harems, waiting to violate the lionesses with weird, spiny penises as soon as the hunt is over. Additionally, lions have higher infant mortality rates than many less developed species, which points to a failure of their social contract. Lions can – and should – do better.

We need to convince lions to adopt a diet based on organic fruits and vegetables, whole grains, and legumes. This far healthier diet will also help reduce our public expenditures on lion health care, and support sustainable local farming operations. This makes sense for the lions, and for us.

No matter how much sense our arguments make, many lions still refuse to change their behavior. This is why their social group is referred to as a “pride.” This is also why we must bring public pressure to bear on the lions with a vigorous campaign of shaming. PETA has already signed on to this campaign, pledging to contribute shrill and off-putting ideas over the next six months.

We need to hit the lions where it hurts -- in their pocketbooks. Don't buy lion products or watch lion shows. Pressure any business that sponsors lions to pull their advertising. And never stop reminding the world that "lion" is just a homophone of "lyin'."

Please help make the world a better place. Send a message. Tell lions that WE WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS ANYMORE. Join the Lion Boycott.

Also, the Smiths recorded a song called “Meat Is Murder.” Listen to it here while you get people to sign an anti-lion petition. Because they MUUUUUUURDER.

999,844: Morphine — French Fries w/ Pepper

Most of what's been written about Morphine have been cliches repeated ad nauseum, much to the annoyance of the band. Did you know, for instance, that Morphine did not use an electric guitar? Rather, that they used a baritone saxophone and a strange, two-string slide bass? It's true! More incredibly, somehow they use these uncommonly combined instruments to create music notes. The kind of music notes you might hear inside of a bar, while drinking whiskey, after you've been dissed by your lover.

Sadly, frontman Mark Sandman is no longer around to bristle at the inane questions of hack reporters, but in life he cultivated a mystique—purposefully or not—by only reluctantly talking about his past lives as a cab driver or commercial fisherman, concealing his age (Sandman was at least a decade older than most other indie rockers of his musical generation), and expressing himself through cryptic, often monosyllabic lyrics that, if you wanted to further forego critical originality, you might compare to beat poetry. When a college roommate and I were new to Morphine, we used to play them in the car and then try to guess the title of a song without looking. Naming the most oft repeated word or phrase worked about 80 percent of the time.

Undoubtedly simplistic and spare, Sandman's lyrics sometimes cut to the heart of a profound truth. One time, the man even called his shot. Structured a bit like "It Was a Very Good Year" if you took out the affairs, 1997's "French Fries w/Pepper" found Sandman looking back over his life and reflecting on what was happening on 6/6/66 ("I was little/I didn't know shit"), 7/7/77, and so on. Peering into the future, "About 9/9/99", Sandman hoped he'd be "sitting on the back porch drinking red wine".

With a Rod Serling-esque twist—turned out to be God's back porch and wine from heaven's vineyards—he made it just in time. After a stressful series of sessions for what would be Morphine's second major label offering, Sandman took to an outdoor stage in 103 degree temperatures, played one song, and dropped dead while starting a second. It was 7/3/99—plenty of time to get settled in the rocker—the rocker of the angels. Also check out the sweet sax groove and the ethereal wordless vocal leading into the choruses.

999,845: The Move — Do Ya

For anyone who laments that The Beatles broke up too early, or imagines an alternate reality in which the Fab Four continue to push musical boundaries within the confines of their perfect pop craftsmanship, even to this day, think about Jeff Lynne for a second.

You'll remember him as The Electric Light Orchestra guy. The guy who eventually turned to producing songs all in exactly the same post-excitement, easy-listening style. Whether it was Tom Petty, Roy Orbison, or any of the other 1200 year-old Traveling Wilburys, you could tell a Jeff Lynne-produced song a mile away. You know, "Let's isolate some acoustic strumming, throw in some lazy slide guitar, and kick it up to medium!" This is the guy who actually thought ELO's combination of symphonic cues and cheesed out pop-rock picked up exactly where the Beatles left off.

And you what other geniuses thought that? The Beatles. Ringo Starr sought out Lynne's production work. George Harrison worked with Lynne so often that he was entirely absorbed through Lynne's porous cell wall, vanishing forever into the opaque, gelatinous interior. John Lennon, for crying out loud, described ELO as the Beatles' musical sons. And when three then-living Beatles needed someone to make Lennon's corpse presentable for a couple of mid-'90's "reunion" songs, who did they go to? Not a hale and lucid George Martin, God forbid. No, they did an end run around Paul's protests and straight to Jeff Lynne and his rainbow-spewing boredom machine. And even Paul came around after that, using Lynne for his Flaming Pie record.

Now imagine it wasn't just two utterly forgettable Beatles songs. Imagine forty years of incredibly sappy, lifeless, Jeff Lynne-esque, sub-MOR Beatles tunes. Imagine 25-odd entire albums of worthless—worthless!—Beatles music. The implications are nauseating.

Once upon a time, though, Jeff Lynne wasn't the polished, precision Swiss watch of mediocrity we know today. Once upon a time, that guy not only rocked, but he rocked messy. Before he and ELO began a decreasingly interesting attempt to build a nuclear cannon that could fire lukewarm ear-porridge out of every radio on Earth simultaneously, he was in a band called The Move that approximately 7 people in the United States were aware of. In the final length of its brief career, after Lynne joined, The Move was sludgy. And distorted. And heavy. And channeling the "Helter Skelter"-y side of the Beatles that ELO seemed never to acknowledge.

Check out The Move's version of "Do Ya", an ELO favorite. First! Think about the Do Ya you know. Strings. Cleanly guitars. Now plug in this one, crank the volume, and exult in rock n' roll bliss.

999,846: Miami Hurricanes 7th Floor Crew - 7th Floor Crew Rap

Sports fans may remember that in 2005, a two-year-old recording surfaced which featured members of the University of Miami Hurricanes football team rapping about sex. Thanks to the insatiable demands of 24-hour sports media for fresh material to bluster about, there ensued much overblown controversy, during which nearly everybody involved was revealed as a colossal idiot.

First, there’s the song itself. Lifting its hook from Aaliyah’s “If Your Girl Only Knew,” it chronicles the alleged sexual exploits of the 7th Floor Crew, named after a dorm area inhabited by a cluster of football players. Each crew member gets his turn to rap, for as long as he’s got lyrics. Then the chorus plays. Over and over again. As a result, this song is nine minutes long. That’s two minutes longer than the Grammy-nominated “Super Bowl Shuffle.” Now, to be fair, these dudes weren’t trying to make a bangin’ club hit. They were just doing this for themselves to laugh at later, in private. But the sheer length works against the repetitions of the chorus. The more often you hear “If that ho only know/That she was gettin’ fucked on the seventh flo’/If that bitch only knew/That she was getting mutted by da whole crew,” the more you’re forced to think about it. Apparently this ho isn’t even aware that she’s getting gang-banged, which raises the distinct possibility that she has also gotten roofied by da whole crew. Plus, the gang-bang slang term “mutted” suggests roots in the world of dog breeding, which we now know as a healthy and productive hobby for such football stars as Michael Vick.

Second, there’s the media outcry about the song. ESPN’s initial report stated breathlessly that the song “referenced multiple acts of group sex” (well, why stop at one?), “derogatory terms for women” (because you never hear “bitch” or “ho” in rap songs!) “and minorities” (because black people never address each other as “nigga” in rap songs!), “and dozens of curse words” (remember the days before rap music, when “motherfucker” was still a swear word?). What we learned from this report, basically, is that no one at ESPN has ever even HEARD rap music. And don’t tell me it counts when Stuart Scott announces touchdowns by yelling “Hear the drummer get wicked!” I was as white a teenager as they came, and even I’d heard that sampled on Anthrax’s Public Enemy cover. (Side note: I distinctly remember one SportsCenter anchor – possibly Scott Van Pelt – marveling in an interview that Scott had “almost created a new language” with his catchphrases. Ostensibly these were the same ones Scott had lifted from not-terribly-obscure hip-hop songs. I rest my case.)

Here’s what we have so far: a bunch of jocks acting like dumbasses, dirty talk in a rap song, and a big media outlet stirring controversy over some dumb shit while praying to God somebody is offended. My stars, Western civilization must be ending! The only way this could get more shocking is if some bureaucrat offered a cosmetic PR-driven solution that failed to address the root of a problem!

So, third, we have the official University of Miami response to the “controversy.” How do you excuse yourself and show the world that you’re taking real action in the culture of 21st-century America? Well, of course you have to call it inappropriate and demeaning, but the kicker is this: “Any students whose voices can be identified will be subject to appropriate discipline and/or counseling.” YES, Miami. If only football players could learn via counseling that their aggressive words were hurtful and offensive to others, THEY WOULD CEASE ANY SUCH SPEECH IMMEDIATELY. ESPECIALLY in PRIVATE, which is where this song had been intended to stay. I don’t care whether this “counseling” is sinister Orwellian brain reprogramming, or just some innocuous weenie bullshit with a name everyone rolls their eyes at, like “sensitivity training.” Sometimes, America, there is no clinical cure for “being a horse’s ass.”

I can’t quite figure out who typifies the worst cultural narrative at work here. Is it the hyper-macho athletes, spoiled rotten by a combination of conditioned aggressiveness, physical strength, and cultural adulation? Is it the bloviating bigmouths of sports talk, desperately clinging to the notion that America’s obsession with sports signifies some kind of objective importance, which in turn legitimizes the amount of time and money wasted on them? Is it the sanitized corporate blandness which – given the money-making machine that is sports in America – constantly has to cover up the fact that our golden athletic idols are mostly the same assholes we all saw swaggering around high school calling everyone else “faggots”?

Despite my obviously keen cultural awareness, I like watching football anyway. Sure, it often attracts horrible people. But even for spectators, it’s a tremendous psychological outlet for biologically programmed instincts designed by evolution to help human males compete for scarce resources in a harsh natural environment. (Careful bringing up evolution around certain football people, though!) As a longtime Chicago Bears fan, I sought out the “7th Floor Crew Rap” because it contains a verse by our starting tight end Greg Olsen, who here goes by “G-Reg.” (This rhymes with “third leg.”) Now, I grew up with the Grammy-nominated “Super Bowl Shuffle,” a project so rife with potential hubris (it was recorded a month before the playoffs even started) that it could never be repeated in today’s blandly corporate, play-it-safe, team-first conformist NFL. So hearing a college-age Greg Olsen rapping “Come on fellas let’s get weird/Stick your dick up in her ear” is, sadly, the closest I’ll probably come to repeating that cherished childhood experience.

The Youtube video below helpfully identifies the players for you, and notes what professional teams signed them. See if your favorite team has one!

999,847: Shawn Brown — Rappin' Duke

A decade after its birth in the nightclubs and block parties of the Boogie Down Bronx in the mid-1970‘s, rap was in crisis. Pushed into an ever darker and confrontational direction by groups such as Run DMC and Grandmaster Flash, the genre was losing sight of the goofy, party time vibe that is its essence. Rap was in need of a strong leader. Otherwise, it was in danger of succumbing to the funky nihilism of gangsta rap.

Luckily, at this critical juncture in its history, an exceptional artist appeared, intent on guiding rap back to a brighter, better place. Shawn Brown’s extraordinary hit “Rappin’ Duke” asked listeners to imagine that the late actor John Wayne was not only a rapper, but also possibly Ronald Reagan. With it’s childishly minimalist beat, infectious nonsense chorus, and timely lyrical nod to Chaka Khan’s “I Feel for You”, “Rappin’ Duke” captured the mood of a nation as few songs have before or since.

This single sent shockwaves through the rap community, and its influence was lasting. Without “Rappin’ Duke” and its distinct blend of rap and cowboy imagery, there would have been no “Wild Wild West” by Kool Moe Dee. There would have been no “Duke is Back” by Shawn Brown. There would have been no “Rappin’ Duke is Dancin’” by Shawn Brown. And there would have been no “It’s Me, Gary Cooper (Bitch)” by Rappin’ Gary Cooper.

Imagine a world without Rappin’ Gary Cooper!

So, next time you put on your chaps and cow vest and hit the club, or have a new set of 24 inch spinners put on your horse, think of Shawn Brown, and the difference one visionary artist can make.

999,848: Lillix - Tomorrow

When I was teenager, way back in the early 90's, the times were a-changin'. The power of "Grunge Rock" had brought "the man" to his knees, sweeping fuddy-duddy ol' George Bush I out of office, and replacing him with Wild Billy Clinton. Young people were smoking dope, wearing dirty sandals, and attending our generation's Woodstock, Lollapalooza, as well as our generation's other Woodstock, Woodstock '94. This mood of change was perfectly captured by 4 Non Blondes lead singer Linda Perry's hit song "What's Going On" (apparently the actual title of the song is 'What's Up," which I learned during my extensive research for this review.) In the lyrics to "What's Up," Linda confessed to praying "every single day for REVOLUTION."

Ten years after that clarion call to rise up and overthrow the patriarchy, Linda Perry co-wrote the song "Tomorrow" with the Canadian teen-girl pop-rock band Lillix. "Tomorrow" is a sugary pop-punk song. It has slickly produced "heavy" guitars that caress the ears with velvety compression and EQ, layers of nicely sung background harmonies and a bit of of what I think is a mellotron sprinkled in the outro. The lyrics, at first listen, are about a girl who got dumped trying to make herself feel better as she mopes around the house. It certainly doesn't seem like something that would have come from the pen of the fire-breathing revolutionary who stuck a middle finger in the establishment's eye by writing "dyke" on her guitar when she performed at the 1994 Billboard Music Awards. A closer reading of the lyrics, however, have led me to a different conclusion - "Tomorrow" is the "Won't Get Fooled Again" of its time.

Just as "Won't Get Fooled Again" ("Meet the new boss / Same as the old boss") was Pete Townshend's way of parting with the revolutionary ideals of the 60's, "Tomorrow" is Perry's farewell to 1993's "Summer of (Danny G)Love(r in "Lethal Weapon 3"). After spending an entire day "all by myself staring at the TV screen" (undoubtedly watching George W. Bush strip away the hard-won freedoms of the Clinton era), Perry, through the proxy of an attractive all-teen girl band, announces she has had enough of beating herself up about a failed revolution. She decides to "wake up, put on my make up." No more giant top-hat and dreadlocks for Linda Perry - she's putting on make-up, because the only way to affect real change is to dress nice, throw on some foundation and eyeliner, and work the system from within. "Tomorrow" is a piece of throwaway Canuck-pop with a message: We can waste our days away missing our boyfriends/revolutionary ideals. Or we can face reality - nobody wants songs about revolutions and Alanis-esque vocal theatrics anymore. It's 2003, and the leader of 4 Non Blondes is gonna make some serious scratch writing music 4 blondes.