Going To Rehab With A Ya Ya Twist
Hey, kids. Dlock is back with what may be the final “ripped off music” blog entry for a while. Been a busy 10 days since the last post – sorry about that. Let’s get our teeth into today’s tunes.
Seems like everyone knows all about Amy Winehouse, her song Rehab, and her struggles with substance abuse. To refresh the memory, here is Amy singing Rehab:
Whatever else, Winehouse’s vocals on Rehab are smoky, sultry, and utterly amazing in the best ’60s Motown tradition. A truly talented singer, and hopefully her health will allow her to record more marvelous songs in the future.
But you know me. It sounds like something I’ve heard before. Memory is a double-edged sword, both curse and blessing in one. And while I may not have heard the following song for many, many, many years, perhaps it was lodged in a synapse all this time. But truth be told, I owe a tip of the hat to an anonymous poster on Yahoo Answers for this one.
Miss Petula Clark, from 1962, singing Ya Ya Twist. And I know I’ve heard some covers of this one.
So once again, old tunes are given new life. I’ve occasionally heard that, since there are only so many notes, and only so many ways in which to arrange them, that we are going to run out of fresh melodies, and may in fact have already done so. (Here is a link to a really in-depth article on the subject.) When you stop to think about how many little tunes are squandered as throw-away jingles for auto insurance or taco stands, in addition to all the melodies that are fully developed into songs in their own right, the mind fairly reels in shock. We’re wasting our musical resources to peddle ice cream and cell phones.
Ah, well. No one ever said we humans are smart about how we use our resources. Have a lovely weekend, everyone! I’m off to bed. Got a yard sale to do in the morning.
Adam Freeland vs Black Eyed Peas
Some things never end, like this series on musical borrowing. Actually, I was running out of ideas when this one came to my attention. First, a neat little dance number called Mancry by Adam Freeland…
I rather like it. It’s got a good beat and you can dance to it, in the words of all the teenagers ever interviewed by Dick Clark on American Bandstand, back in the days of only 3 TV networks.
Seems as though the Black Eyed Peas may have sampled it without approval for their new tune, Party All The Time:
The music biz sure has changed since I used to listen to The Beatles on a little AM radio when I was a kid. Now people borrow and sample and remix. Club DJs are becoming celebrities in their own right, due to their mad skillz on the mixing console.
Here’s a nice comparison video someone put together:
I think Adam Freeland may have a case here.
And if any of you out there have some ideas for concluding this series, by all means, comment below. I’ll be getting back to some other pop culture topics very soon.
And rest in peace, Michael Jackson. The media hounds are tearing your corpse apart. Shame.
McCain picks running mate, asks “What was that bang, and why does my foot hurt?”
Unexpectedly good news from the political front today. Sen. John “Duffer” McCain chose freshman Alaska Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate.
What a wonderfully stupid move. He would have been better off choosing Michael Palin. At least then he could have sewn up the votes of all the Monty Python fans.
Ms. Palin, whose lack of political experience makes Barack Obama look like a rugged, callused, seasoned elder-statesman by comparison, has made an impression nonetheless with her wretched environmental record in Alaska, and apparent willingness and desire to drill for oil anywhere and everywhere, wolves and polar bears be damned (and shot, and drowned). Yeah, okay, she’s hot – for a Republican chick. I hear she’s a former Alaska beauty queen. Anyhow, she’s way hotter than Ann Coulter.
Do we really want or need Ms. Palin, who is apparently somewhere to the right politically of even George Bush, sitting in D.C. literally a heart-beat away from the presidency? Yikes. I’d say – big, huge, echoing “no”. Considering McCain’s age and health, this is not a world-class idea. Well, like even electing McCain in the first place is anything remotely like a good idea.
The reason that I believe this is good news, is that the choice of Ms. Palin as candidate for VP will sink the GOP in November like an elephant wearing a concrete overcoat, cast-iron top hat, and lead galoshes. We clearly do not need another 4 or 8 more years of failed Republican “leadership”, and this bonehead move by McCain will essentially hand the election to Obama.
Finally. The Republicans have well and thoroughly shot themselves in the foot, and now they’ll be standing around wondering where all the blood is coming from. I’ve said it before, and I’m saying it again – idiot.
This is the kind of news that makes me smile. Hell, I’ve been giggling all day.
The Denizens of McMenamin’s
I couldn’t resist it tonight. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and cabin fever has set in again. Had to get out of the house, and so drove myself “down to pub”. In my case, the “local” is McMenamin’s East Vancouver.
A brief rundown of the patrons in attendance this evening may be entertaining… let’s see.
There is some woman off to my right who has a giggle not unlike that of Black Adder’s temporary bride, Tully Applebottom. Say, barkeep! I’ll have what she’s having. And here – please hold my car keys.
Oh, just outside the window is a young buck in surfer shorts and black T-shirt, listening intently to another fellow in his 30’s. Young buck was reading the bible a little earlier, before his mentor (?) arrived and greeted him with a manly, back-pounding hug. Will he be saved? Or will he wise up and understand that religion is bunk, before he spends a lot of time and effort trying to find a god that isn’t there?
At the near end of the bar is a young couple, he in white T-shirt, she with a tattoo on her arm. Tats are enormously popular here in Vantucky. Damned if I know why. I can’t quite make out the design, here in the gloom of the swag lamp-illuminated interior. It may be a floral motif, or a flaming skull. Either is equally probable here in the cosmopolitan Pacific Northwest. (Yes, there is a Starbucks less than 100 feet away from my table. Imagine that.)
Young buck update – he’s looking increasingly contemplative, as his mentor becomes more animated. Mentor is speaking and gesturing with great earnestness and conviction, and young buck is nodding thoughtfully, holding his chin.
And tattoo girl is reviewing today’s crossword, as her companion ponders a different section of the daily news rag.
(Young buck’s food has arrived… keep a healthy skepticism, and defend your mind, that’s my advice. That and – check out the brunette behind you, dude. Nice.)
The table just to my right has now collected about seven 20-somethings, out for an evening’s food and drink. The discussion at the moment centers around lousy autobody repair (too much bondo) and the relative merits of light vs dark beers. Personally, I am far happier with a stout than I am with a pilsner or lager. And a woman at a table behind me was telling a rather cringe-inducing story about a motorcycle accident. I think I heard the words “face”and “gravel”. Ow. Kinda makes me glad my bum’s too big to go bicycling any more. I really don’t miss road rash.
No Lamborghinis tonight, sorry to say. But a sweet little Porshe Targa in pearlescent white just left the parking lot. Lambo dude was in a week or two ago. My friend Mark says he knows him. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Maybe he’ll be in tomorrow night.
I probably won’t be, though.
