The monarchy, as well as all popular music, have been full of empty, broken promises since before the birth of recording. Yet, unlike politicians, musicians and royals are not held accountable for their social manipulation. Even the Pope is given a bad rap, while Phil Collins gets off scot free.
In 1985, Collins published what some consider to be the most politically charged music video in history when he released Land of Confusion to rave reviews. Jules Trellis, in an op-ed for the Sun Times Courier had this to say: "Never has music been so revealing and life-changing. I have sold all my possessions and purchased a pearl: the music catalog of one Philip David Charles Collins, PVO."
One has to look no further than the lyrics to find out that the legions of fans who jammed out regularly to the tune are clueless if they believe the song has any meaning.
"There's too many men making too many problems and not much love to go around."
So, the question is, what do we do about these men and the arms we give them? The song has nothing to say in response except an awesome sound that does, admittedly, captivate the imagination with thoughts of global terror. Still, it does not address the issue and, essentially, wasted everyone's time (except for the colossal feelings it evokes in combination with mind-altering substances). Every time you listen to Land of Confusion, Phil Collins owes you 5 minutes of your life back. For me, that is thousands of hours per month.
Despite its marching promises and intricate puppets designed by Alfred Gomex, who once drove tanks for Che Gueverra, the song has not affected world politics in the least. If anything, the world has gotten significantly worse since the days of Land of Confusion, with new threats of constant war piling up like broken records in church courtyards set aflame with all the subtlety of a train wreck.
To add to the threat to society posed by singing artists, along came Wilson-Phillips, rock and roll brats who wanted to get attention. They promised everyone that if they only sat back idly and waited, things would auto-magically get much better. They sold the world on the idea that laying around on Sunday would be fine and dandy with Almighty God.
To prove the point, meet Sarduch Van Starnkle, a homeless man in West Hollywood who heard Hold On several years after its release while he was distraught over being in an upside down mortgage that was also, and this is rare, inside-out. He had been promised more than he got, and his life was ruined. He was about to go into business with his Uncle delivering narcotics from distant locales as a last resort.
The song encouraged Van Starnkle to stay the course and turn down the offer. Eighteen months later, his Uncle Rufus was a millionaire high-end heroin trafficker and the nephew's home was still backwards to the street, had no curb appeal, with wallpaper on the outside, therefore Van Starnkle lost everything and is currently busy requesting micro donations on the boulevard in a town near you. You can see him for a song or a few nickels and he will tell you what he told me. Be wary, he has an unsavory odor about him. He was not able to "hold on" to his bathing routine.
In 1985, Collins published what some consider to be the most politically charged music video in history when he released Land of Confusion to rave reviews. Jules Trellis, in an op-ed for the Sun Times Courier had this to say: "Never has music been so revealing and life-changing. I have sold all my possessions and purchased a pearl: the music catalog of one Philip David Charles Collins, PVO."
One has to look no further than the lyrics to find out that the legions of fans who jammed out regularly to the tune are clueless if they believe the song has any meaning.
"There's too many men making too many problems and not much love to go around."
So, the question is, what do we do about these men and the arms we give them? The song has nothing to say in response except an awesome sound that does, admittedly, captivate the imagination with thoughts of global terror. Still, it does not address the issue and, essentially, wasted everyone's time (except for the colossal feelings it evokes in combination with mind-altering substances). Every time you listen to Land of Confusion, Phil Collins owes you 5 minutes of your life back. For me, that is thousands of hours per month.
Despite its marching promises and intricate puppets designed by Alfred Gomex, who once drove tanks for Che Gueverra, the song has not affected world politics in the least. If anything, the world has gotten significantly worse since the days of Land of Confusion, with new threats of constant war piling up like broken records in church courtyards set aflame with all the subtlety of a train wreck.
To add to the threat to society posed by singing artists, along came Wilson-Phillips, rock and roll brats who wanted to get attention. They promised everyone that if they only sat back idly and waited, things would auto-magically get much better. They sold the world on the idea that laying around on Sunday would be fine and dandy with Almighty God.
To prove the point, meet Sarduch Van Starnkle, a homeless man in West Hollywood who heard Hold On several years after its release while he was distraught over being in an upside down mortgage that was also, and this is rare, inside-out. He had been promised more than he got, and his life was ruined. He was about to go into business with his Uncle delivering narcotics from distant locales as a last resort.
The song encouraged Van Starnkle to stay the course and turn down the offer. Eighteen months later, his Uncle Rufus was a millionaire high-end heroin trafficker and the nephew's home was still backwards to the street, had no curb appeal, with wallpaper on the outside, therefore Van Starnkle lost everything and is currently busy requesting micro donations on the boulevard in a town near you. You can see him for a song or a few nickels and he will tell you what he told me. Be wary, he has an unsavory odor about him. He was not able to "hold on" to his bathing routine.
Additionally, and perhaps more damning, Van Starnkle has never, not once, met anyone that made him want to turn around and say goodbye.
You cannot just hold on and expect things to get better. Sometimes you have to jump up and stand in someone's face until they decide it was not appropriate to mess around town with the likes of you. Sometimes one has to move carefully in a direction, sometimes randomly, sometimes blatantly. No song on the radio or television is ever going to have the right advice for the right situation. By design, popular songs are meant to mislead the soul.
Perhaps one of the biggest jerks ever to be a singer/songwriter has to be The Gambler himself, A white guy named Reggie something. You know, the country fellow that sings The Gambler. In his song, which was wildly famous in the honky tonk circuits in days of yesteryear, he advises card players that they need to "know when to hold them, know when to fold them, know when to walk away, and know when to run." Yet, at no time in the entire 3 minutes of the song does the smoke-haired dixie-lover give us criteria for determining those parameters!
A friend provided anecdotal evidence of a man in Clebald who counted his money while he was still sitting at the table and suffered no ill-effects from the experience, despite Reggie's priceless advice to the contrary. The man from Clebald won thousands of dollars and then casually drove to Barnswallow to purchase a new combine for his reaper. Players at the table testified that this over-zealous man, in fact, counted his money seventeen times prior to winning several key hands in a row that sealed his fate and luck as being of a good aspect.
"I was a Las Vegas gambler for many years," touts Aldridge Yakamoto of Queens, "and I lost many a dollar listening to that hornswaggler Reggie Whats-his-name. When do I hold them? Kings or better, or should I have a flush? You tell me? When am I going to have to run? That is pretty serious problems you are revealing, and at the same time you have no solutions. I am running blind here. Your album was a poor investment, Reggie."
Spokemen for Reggie have declined comment, and refuse to refund all the money ever made on the song, including royalties and residuals, but did hint that his real name was not Reggie. I forget, now, what name is correct. I do not believe it matters in making the point.
So, the next time you Rock The Casbah or lay back as London Calling rips a thread of fake-sarcasm, keep in mind that it is all a catastrophic lulling phase that captivates nothing and holds no one, not even extreme war criminals, in contempt. You might as well bounce a ball off the Queen's head for all the self-same reactions you are liable to get. Remember who holds the all-time record for sitting the longest?
You cannot just hold on and expect things to get better. Sometimes you have to jump up and stand in someone's face until they decide it was not appropriate to mess around town with the likes of you. Sometimes one has to move carefully in a direction, sometimes randomly, sometimes blatantly. No song on the radio or television is ever going to have the right advice for the right situation. By design, popular songs are meant to mislead the soul.
Perhaps one of the biggest jerks ever to be a singer/songwriter has to be The Gambler himself, A white guy named Reggie something. You know, the country fellow that sings The Gambler. In his song, which was wildly famous in the honky tonk circuits in days of yesteryear, he advises card players that they need to "know when to hold them, know when to fold them, know when to walk away, and know when to run." Yet, at no time in the entire 3 minutes of the song does the smoke-haired dixie-lover give us criteria for determining those parameters!
A friend provided anecdotal evidence of a man in Clebald who counted his money while he was still sitting at the table and suffered no ill-effects from the experience, despite Reggie's priceless advice to the contrary. The man from Clebald won thousands of dollars and then casually drove to Barnswallow to purchase a new combine for his reaper. Players at the table testified that this over-zealous man, in fact, counted his money seventeen times prior to winning several key hands in a row that sealed his fate and luck as being of a good aspect.
"I was a Las Vegas gambler for many years," touts Aldridge Yakamoto of Queens, "and I lost many a dollar listening to that hornswaggler Reggie Whats-his-name. When do I hold them? Kings or better, or should I have a flush? You tell me? When am I going to have to run? That is pretty serious problems you are revealing, and at the same time you have no solutions. I am running blind here. Your album was a poor investment, Reggie."
Spokemen for Reggie have declined comment, and refuse to refund all the money ever made on the song, including royalties and residuals, but did hint that his real name was not Reggie. I forget, now, what name is correct. I do not believe it matters in making the point.
So, the next time you Rock The Casbah or lay back as London Calling rips a thread of fake-sarcasm, keep in mind that it is all a catastrophic lulling phase that captivates nothing and holds no one, not even extreme war criminals, in contempt. You might as well bounce a ball off the Queen's head for all the self-same reactions you are liable to get. Remember who holds the all-time record for sitting the longest?
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