TOP 5 SONGS I HATE PLAYING
NOVEMBER 15, 2019
Sweet Caroline — I’ve done a bit about this song for years. I bet the entire audience that not a single one of them knows the words to the song, and aside from one old man at the Zebra Lounge 6 years ago, no one has been able to get through the tune, even with help. It’s an excuse for a sea of inebriated idiots to go “BAHP BAHP BAAAAH” and I cant help but feel like that’s why our oceans are filled with plastic, Nickelback was a thing, and Arrested Development was cancelled. I will give you a pass if you’re old or a Red Sox fan, but this song annoys me so much even that’s hard to do.
Piano Man — but not for the reason you’d expect. I love the song. I still get nostalgic when I hear it. I can remember as a kid sitting shotgun in my dad’s Silverado on the highway getting goosebumps on both arms when young Bill jumps the octave on the last stanza: “And the piano sounds like a carnival, and the microphone smells like a beer…” I still love playing it, seeing folks throw their arms around each other, singing loud and swaying. So why is it on the list? The people who request it. There are two kinds of people who request this song. The first is the apologizer — “I’m so sorry, I know that you’re probably totally sick of this song, but please, if you could, we love it, and we’d love to hear you play it.” Totally great. I’m in. I’ll play the hell out of it. The second, however, is a banal, vacuous, vapid tub of dishwater who could only think of “Piano Man” because they never cared enough about life to take an extra second to think of a song that might actually mean something to them. These are people who like Papa Johns, TiVo Pawn Stars, and drive slowly in the left lane.
Pour Some Sugar on Me — with a vocal range reserved for men with a quarter-sized coin purse and rock guitar riffs never intended for keyboard transcription, this adolescent anthem plods along like a clumsy toddler who reminds you that contraceptive education is severely lacking in our public school system. As the chorus approaches I can see the Chads and Trishes inhale big while leaning back, closing their eyes, and hoisting aloft their Bud Light Lime, totally forgetting about their busy lives filled with tanning appointments, above-ground pool parties, and after-market truck part shopping.
Anything by Springsteen — I can already feel your hate from here. It’s okay, I understand. I really do understand. And I will say this: I have the utmost respect for the guy, he’s still relentless, and can still stuff himself into a badass leather jacket and make it work. Credit where it’s due: he’s the voice of a generation. But he’s just outside of my strike zone. Case in point: I’m 22. I had a crush on a beautiful Italian. I ask her out, and we drive into the city with windows down on a beautiful summer evening; she turned up Thunder Road and sang loudly, with bright eyes and a smile a mile wide, which melted into confused disgust as she looked at me and saw that I was left unmoved. I really tried to get into it, even just for her sake. But a chorusless, meandering song structure with a stagnant melody line being barked by a man unconcerned with diction did not pull my groove chain, and consequently the rest of the date was brief. I heard someone call him “an open mic host that never gets off the stage.” I just call him The Employee.
I Like Big Butts — Sir Mix-A-Lot (a pathetic echo of the mighty arthurian legend become a teenager’s AIM screen name) blathers through a blatantly objectifying set of low-brow lyrics I’ve never felt comfortable playing. It was funny in that it is its own parody, but it’s increasingly hard to find a place for it in today’s climate, particularly when it’s requested by a dude in a passive attempt to comment on a nearby woman. Not to mention how musically insipid it is, especially when being played on solo piano.