September 11, 2007
The First 100
Congratulations to my good friend Matt Groneman for being the first person to finish his Top 100 list! I'm only slightly jealous he beat me... by about three months. But please visit his blog, The Cultural Impresario, read his list, and argue with it. And then write your own.
September 10, 2007
The Greatest Man
An excerpt from my forthcoming memoir:
Paul turned to me and said, "You play guitar?" and I was like, "Yeah," and he was like, "Cool," and there I was playing on stage with my hero. Sir Paul McCartney was singing "Hey Jude," close enough for me to hug him or punch him, or do what I did, which was dumbly strum along, with President Clinton smiling from the wings. (Of course, that pun was totally intended.) Ten minutes later, my novel was finished, cancer didn't exist anymore, and your favorite hot actress was texting me emoticons. The hand of God had clapped, and I liked it, better than even your mom, whom I loved.
Sadly, I knew, the moment was fleeting, and the bitter wind of destiny would blow me on my course, a path beset with hungry wolves and other scary metaphors -- and long and winding run-on sentences, probably ungrammatical. I thought of my youth, and I thought of my sled, and "Rosebed" fell from my lips like a loogie.
Being the Greatest Man was a curse...
Paul turned to me and said, "You play guitar?" and I was like, "Yeah," and he was like, "Cool," and there I was playing on stage with my hero. Sir Paul McCartney was singing "Hey Jude," close enough for me to hug him or punch him, or do what I did, which was dumbly strum along, with President Clinton smiling from the wings. (Of course, that pun was totally intended.) Ten minutes later, my novel was finished, cancer didn't exist anymore, and your favorite hot actress was texting me emoticons. The hand of God had clapped, and I liked it, better than even your mom, whom I loved.
Sadly, I knew, the moment was fleeting, and the bitter wind of destiny would blow me on my course, a path beset with hungry wolves and other scary metaphors -- and long and winding run-on sentences, probably ungrammatical. I thought of my youth, and I thought of my sled, and "Rosebed" fell from my lips like a loogie.
Being the Greatest Man was a curse...
The Long and Winding Novel Excerpts
From my unfinished novel, Most Likely to Succeed
Because even when I'm writing fiction, I'm really writing music reviews.
1. Jordan’s All-Time Top-Eight Albums
That summer, I listened to The Beatles everyday, preferring their work from the years when they weren’t on speaking terms. The Beatles, or The White Album, was then my all-time favorite, just as The Beatles were then my favorite band.
As I cleverly opined in "The Long and Winding Column" (The Rage, October, sophomore year), "Not only were The Beatles bigger than Jesus, but they harmonized better, too."
Two other albums by The Beatles, Abbey Road and Sgt. Pepper, also ranked high on my All-Time Top-Ten Albums list, following albums with skulls (Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction), a naked baby (Nirvana’s Nevermind), and a dead guy (Jeff Buckley’s Grace) on their covers. Sure, the covers totally ruled, but the music on the albums was pretty cool, too.
The next two albums were by The Smashing Pumpkins (Siamese Dream and the double-disc Mellon Collie), and I better stop soon – or rather, like, now – so whatever this is remains what it is and doesn’t turn into a Special List Issue (Entertainment Weekly, seemingly every three months).
2. Jordan’s Stereo vs. Johnny’s iPod
My problem was I read too much: The Catcher in the Rye (again and again and again), Romeo and Juliet, Huckleberry Finn... And I watched too many movies like Rebel Without a Cause. And I listened to songs like DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince’s "Parents Just Don’t Understand," which I heard every Friday for a two-to-three-year period, thanks to our attendance at Roller World’s "Flashback Friday."
I know, I know, it’s a silly example, but it’s also the one that proves my point the easiest: Parents just don’t understand, no duh, not in the world’s greatest masterpieces anyway. (Will Smith’s other masterpiece is "Girls Ain’t Nothin’ But Trouble." No shit.)
Perhaps it was the Beatles, my parents’ favorite band, who made me less reticent than usual to speak, at least until after I’d drunk a second cup, at which time I’d start to enjoy my verbal rants. I can’t understate the importance of the Beatles, the consensus pick for the best band ever, in a rare case of the huddled masses being right. Other examples include the deliciousness of pizza, the comfort of jeans, and the total adorability of babies.
Or perhaps The Smashing Pumpkins, whom I’d listened to up in my bedroom, had awakened or invigorated or otherwise inspired me: to express myself outwardly, to re-think my habit of internalizing everything, and to seek a connection with other human beings, instead of merely substituting writing and reading for living.
Sandwiched between The Beatles and Nirvana, The Smashing Pumpkins were then the number-two artist on my All-Time Top-Ten Musical Artists list. As I theorized in "The Greatest Band of Our Time?" (The Rage, May/June, freshman year), The Smashing Pumpkins are "at least the greatest band to have named themselves after a gourd."
Even though the band had their heyday when I was in kindergarten, I somehow fell in love with them when I was in junior high, thanks to an Ottumwa, Iowa, radio station, which only came in on clear nights in the summertime, and its hourly rock blocks, organized by decade.
I knew and believed and understood completely the rage and the loneliness and the pain in the lyrics. And the knowledge of being unique and alone was something I related to and let myself be defined by. And the music itself was the sound of pure emotion, somehow giving melody to everything I felt, from whispering doubt to deafening uncertainty to all the shades of pink in between, with piercing guitars and face-busting drums, which broke and mended and re-broke my heart.
Billy Corgan, the band’s singer, guitarist, and songwriter, was one of the heroes in my personal pantheon, right up there with Thomas Jefferson (because even great men can be hypocrites), Jeopardy! whiz kid Ken Jennings (living proof that nerdiness can be lucrative), and Mr. Peanut himself, Mr. George Washington Carver (without whom we wouldn’t know the joy of Reese’s Pieces). And Benjamin Franklin, who goes without saying. (See chapter one for a discourse on his bad ass.)
But The Beatles, not The Pumpkins, were playing during breakfast, and "Paperback Writer" came on the stereo. You could say the song was becoming my anthem. It was either that, or The Smashing Pumpkins’ "Zero." In third place was another fine choice, Elvis Costello’s "Everyday I Write the Book."
Johnny, to provoke me, said, "Is this the Monkees?" Johnny, a daydream believer himself, had dated three homecoming queens in the tri-county area in just that one summer. The twinkle in his eyes revealed he was playing.
I took the bait. I tried to play back. "You know who this is," I said, with a razor’s-edge less of an edge than usual. I wasn’t exactly what anyone would call cheerful, but at least I was less dour than my usual pre-noon self. "Take a wager. Who do you think?"
Johnny, as always, was nice enough to humor me. "The Kinks? Herman’s Hermits?" Wow. Where’d that come from? His musical knowledge surprised me that morning. Typically, he listened to "whatever’s on the radio," and he didn’t buy CDs or read music magazines like I did. He claimed his favorite rock bands were Green Day and Metallica, even though, when questioned by me, he couldn’t name five of either band’s songs.
When he ran, somewhat inexplicably to me, he listened to guys like John Mayer and Jason Mraz, acoustic singer/songwriters who "put (him) in the zone." His iPod was full of Jack Johnson downloads, songs that were as mellow and cool as the listener. "They help to clear my head," he once told me. "They help me not to think. It’s music to run a sub-five-minute mile to." For me to run a sub-nine-minute mile, I would’ve required an all-star, all-ghost band: John Lennon’s songs, Jimi Hendrix’s guitar, Keith Moon’s drums, Janis Joplin’s vocals, and Beethoven’s and Mozart’s dueling pianos.
His theme song, in my mind, though, was Nada Surf’s "Popular," full of "Johnny Football Hero" and his conniving "cheerleader chick." Yes, of course, my brother ran cross country, but just that summer, he’d dated two cheerleaders. Also, after winning state, he’d become "the biggest fish in (the) pond," the guy who set the standard for "being attractive," which, of course, as everyone anywhere knows, is pretty much "the most important thing there is" in high school.
3. The Nada Surf Defense
I’ll end by sharing one key detail: My favorites, as a rule, were not from this millennium, except for Nada Surf’s Let Go, which the band released when I was in middle school – i.e, those years when we’re all the most impressionable. Nada Surf, as I say, and I say it quite often, is kind of, like, well, I guess, like, "my band," as no one I’ve ever met owns this album, and everyone who’s heard of them thinks they’re one-hit wonders.
But Let Go, their third album, has a song that’s even better: "Inside of Love," which I learned about in a chatroom. "‘Inside of Love,’" wrote NadaBoy8, "will change ur pathetic life." Endquote.
And I myself asserted as much, in "Three Important Rules for Breaking Down Your CD Collection, or Why Nada Surf Deserves to Be ‘Popular’" (The Rage, December, freshman year):
The alternative-rock trio Nada Surf, known today, if at all, for their one big hit, "Popular," an MTV "Buzz Clip" that was popular (get it?) back in our elementary school daze, makes me feel like a schoolgirl with a secret, which is something I don’t even know how it feels, other than giddy and dying to tell you.
Their recent CD, Let Go, is their masterpiece, despite or because it lacks the song "Popular," and because, not despite, it has a better song, the beautiful, moving "Inside of Love," perhaps, no joke, the greatest song ever, a song that, if the world were right, and if the world were fair and just, and if this silly world of ours were not afraid to love, well, it’s the one that would be their one hit, a new "Amazing Grace" or "The Star-Spangled Banner," an improved "Hallelujah" or "Y.M.C.A.," because it deserves to commemorate your life, a life that, once you’ve heard this song, deserves to be commemorated.
And sure, that’s hyperbole, like I’m foaming at mouth, but I meant it when I said it, and I’ve sometimes meant it since. I sent the piece to Rolling Stone, where it must’ve gotten lost.
Because even when I'm writing fiction, I'm really writing music reviews.
1. Jordan’s All-Time Top-Eight Albums
That summer, I listened to The Beatles everyday, preferring their work from the years when they weren’t on speaking terms. The Beatles, or The White Album, was then my all-time favorite, just as The Beatles were then my favorite band.
As I cleverly opined in "The Long and Winding Column" (The Rage, October, sophomore year), "Not only were The Beatles bigger than Jesus, but they harmonized better, too."
Two other albums by The Beatles, Abbey Road and Sgt. Pepper, also ranked high on my All-Time Top-Ten Albums list, following albums with skulls (Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction), a naked baby (Nirvana’s Nevermind), and a dead guy (Jeff Buckley’s Grace) on their covers. Sure, the covers totally ruled, but the music on the albums was pretty cool, too.
The next two albums were by The Smashing Pumpkins (Siamese Dream and the double-disc Mellon Collie), and I better stop soon – or rather, like, now – so whatever this is remains what it is and doesn’t turn into a Special List Issue (Entertainment Weekly, seemingly every three months).
2. Jordan’s Stereo vs. Johnny’s iPod
My problem was I read too much: The Catcher in the Rye (again and again and again), Romeo and Juliet, Huckleberry Finn... And I watched too many movies like Rebel Without a Cause. And I listened to songs like DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince’s "Parents Just Don’t Understand," which I heard every Friday for a two-to-three-year period, thanks to our attendance at Roller World’s "Flashback Friday."
I know, I know, it’s a silly example, but it’s also the one that proves my point the easiest: Parents just don’t understand, no duh, not in the world’s greatest masterpieces anyway. (Will Smith’s other masterpiece is "Girls Ain’t Nothin’ But Trouble." No shit.)
Perhaps it was the Beatles, my parents’ favorite band, who made me less reticent than usual to speak, at least until after I’d drunk a second cup, at which time I’d start to enjoy my verbal rants. I can’t understate the importance of the Beatles, the consensus pick for the best band ever, in a rare case of the huddled masses being right. Other examples include the deliciousness of pizza, the comfort of jeans, and the total adorability of babies.
Or perhaps The Smashing Pumpkins, whom I’d listened to up in my bedroom, had awakened or invigorated or otherwise inspired me: to express myself outwardly, to re-think my habit of internalizing everything, and to seek a connection with other human beings, instead of merely substituting writing and reading for living.
Sandwiched between The Beatles and Nirvana, The Smashing Pumpkins were then the number-two artist on my All-Time Top-Ten Musical Artists list. As I theorized in "The Greatest Band of Our Time?" (The Rage, May/June, freshman year), The Smashing Pumpkins are "at least the greatest band to have named themselves after a gourd."
Even though the band had their heyday when I was in kindergarten, I somehow fell in love with them when I was in junior high, thanks to an Ottumwa, Iowa, radio station, which only came in on clear nights in the summertime, and its hourly rock blocks, organized by decade.
I knew and believed and understood completely the rage and the loneliness and the pain in the lyrics. And the knowledge of being unique and alone was something I related to and let myself be defined by. And the music itself was the sound of pure emotion, somehow giving melody to everything I felt, from whispering doubt to deafening uncertainty to all the shades of pink in between, with piercing guitars and face-busting drums, which broke and mended and re-broke my heart.
Billy Corgan, the band’s singer, guitarist, and songwriter, was one of the heroes in my personal pantheon, right up there with Thomas Jefferson (because even great men can be hypocrites), Jeopardy! whiz kid Ken Jennings (living proof that nerdiness can be lucrative), and Mr. Peanut himself, Mr. George Washington Carver (without whom we wouldn’t know the joy of Reese’s Pieces). And Benjamin Franklin, who goes without saying. (See chapter one for a discourse on his bad ass.)
But The Beatles, not The Pumpkins, were playing during breakfast, and "Paperback Writer" came on the stereo. You could say the song was becoming my anthem. It was either that, or The Smashing Pumpkins’ "Zero." In third place was another fine choice, Elvis Costello’s "Everyday I Write the Book."
Johnny, to provoke me, said, "Is this the Monkees?" Johnny, a daydream believer himself, had dated three homecoming queens in the tri-county area in just that one summer. The twinkle in his eyes revealed he was playing.
I took the bait. I tried to play back. "You know who this is," I said, with a razor’s-edge less of an edge than usual. I wasn’t exactly what anyone would call cheerful, but at least I was less dour than my usual pre-noon self. "Take a wager. Who do you think?"
Johnny, as always, was nice enough to humor me. "The Kinks? Herman’s Hermits?" Wow. Where’d that come from? His musical knowledge surprised me that morning. Typically, he listened to "whatever’s on the radio," and he didn’t buy CDs or read music magazines like I did. He claimed his favorite rock bands were Green Day and Metallica, even though, when questioned by me, he couldn’t name five of either band’s songs.
When he ran, somewhat inexplicably to me, he listened to guys like John Mayer and Jason Mraz, acoustic singer/songwriters who "put (him) in the zone." His iPod was full of Jack Johnson downloads, songs that were as mellow and cool as the listener. "They help to clear my head," he once told me. "They help me not to think. It’s music to run a sub-five-minute mile to." For me to run a sub-nine-minute mile, I would’ve required an all-star, all-ghost band: John Lennon’s songs, Jimi Hendrix’s guitar, Keith Moon’s drums, Janis Joplin’s vocals, and Beethoven’s and Mozart’s dueling pianos.
His theme song, in my mind, though, was Nada Surf’s "Popular," full of "Johnny Football Hero" and his conniving "cheerleader chick." Yes, of course, my brother ran cross country, but just that summer, he’d dated two cheerleaders. Also, after winning state, he’d become "the biggest fish in (the) pond," the guy who set the standard for "being attractive," which, of course, as everyone anywhere knows, is pretty much "the most important thing there is" in high school.
3. The Nada Surf Defense
I’ll end by sharing one key detail: My favorites, as a rule, were not from this millennium, except for Nada Surf’s Let Go, which the band released when I was in middle school – i.e, those years when we’re all the most impressionable. Nada Surf, as I say, and I say it quite often, is kind of, like, well, I guess, like, "my band," as no one I’ve ever met owns this album, and everyone who’s heard of them thinks they’re one-hit wonders.
But Let Go, their third album, has a song that’s even better: "Inside of Love," which I learned about in a chatroom. "‘Inside of Love,’" wrote NadaBoy8, "will change ur pathetic life." Endquote.
And I myself asserted as much, in "Three Important Rules for Breaking Down Your CD Collection, or Why Nada Surf Deserves to Be ‘Popular’" (The Rage, December, freshman year):
The alternative-rock trio Nada Surf, known today, if at all, for their one big hit, "Popular," an MTV "Buzz Clip" that was popular (get it?) back in our elementary school daze, makes me feel like a schoolgirl with a secret, which is something I don’t even know how it feels, other than giddy and dying to tell you.
Their recent CD, Let Go, is their masterpiece, despite or because it lacks the song "Popular," and because, not despite, it has a better song, the beautiful, moving "Inside of Love," perhaps, no joke, the greatest song ever, a song that, if the world were right, and if the world were fair and just, and if this silly world of ours were not afraid to love, well, it’s the one that would be their one hit, a new "Amazing Grace" or "The Star-Spangled Banner," an improved "Hallelujah" or "Y.M.C.A.," because it deserves to commemorate your life, a life that, once you’ve heard this song, deserves to be commemorated.
And sure, that’s hyperbole, like I’m foaming at mouth, but I meant it when I said it, and I’ve sometimes meant it since. I sent the piece to Rolling Stone, where it must’ve gotten lost.
September 9, 2007
Goodwill Hunting: We Are The World
The first post from my other blog, The Battle of Hastings:
Goodwill Hunting:
Record Reviews of Actual Records!
My studio apartment doubles as a library, with hundreds of DVDs, CDs, and books – and now, even records, actual records, warped and dusty, but surprisingly playable. For just one dollar, sometimes less, I can add whole albums to my music collection, a bargain too good to be anything but true.
With prices so low – they must be crazy! – I’ll gamble on a record, or two, or a dozen, where maybe I wouldn’t on a higher-priced CD (even though thrift stores sell them, too, often for less than $2.99). I’ll double up on albums I already own, just so I’ll own them in their older, cooler forms. I’ll even buy albums I’ve only slightly heard of, or albums I suspect will suck, just because there’s nothing to lose, except space.
And some people wonder why I don’t have an iPod. Ninety-nine cents for just one track?! Apple’s treasure is this man’s trash; Goodwill’s trash is this man’s treasure. St. Vincent de Paul is my rock (or my source); armories of misfit Toys in the Attics are my salvation.
But anyway, here’s a fossil I found:
USA For Africa, We Are The World
Like The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, an album often named by music magazines and the Sgt. Pepper liner notes as the greatest of all time, the cover of USA For Africa’s We Are The World features a group photo of musicians and melty-faced wax statues (no less than six Jacksons took part in this “historical recording”!) for future pop-cultural historians (um, me, I guess) to struggle to identify. Thankfully for me, there’s a list of names on the front. Sadly for the members of Huey Lewis’ backing band, “& The News” is listed collectively.
Some of the faces are obvious today. Others are James Ingram and Jeffrey “Definitely Not Ozzy” Osborne. But peep this collection of mid-‘80s talent! Dylan, Springsteen, (Lionel) Richie... that Geldof dude who organizes benefits (he also played Pink in Pink Floyd’s The Wall!)... two token blind guys (and four other posers in sunglasses, indoors)... and, leading off the alphabetical lineup, Dan Aykroyd, representing all the white people who ripped off black people’s music, I guess. (In 1985, when this record was released, the Sgt. Pepper-suited Michael Jackson was still identifiable as a member of the latter race. The banana-suited LaToya, however, is as white as Kenny Rogers’ USA For Africa sweatshirt and matching beard.)
But more than merely a “We Are The World” single, We Are The World is an album, you see. Sure, there’s the song that everyone knows, but then you discover the deep album cuts: “Nine Previously Unreleased Songs,” according to the back cover, or “Nine New Superstar Songs!” according to the front (exclamation point mine). Here’s the tracklist in decreasing superstardom: Prince & The Revolution, Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band (so far, so good), Tina Turner, Chicago, The Pointer Sisters (good at one time, or so I’ve been told), Huey Lewis & The News (great in Back To The Future), Steve Perry (solo), and Kenny Rogers (ugh).
The ninth superstar is Northern Lights, a supergroup you’ve never heard of, even though you’ve heard of some of its members. Unfortunately for actual superstars Joni Mitchell and Neil Young, the list of Canadian recording artists (Northern Lights, get it?) is alphabetical, so higher billing goes to the artists you’ve heard of either slightly less or possibly not at all: Bryan Adams, John Candy, Corey Hart, Gordon Lightfoot, Anne Murray, Aldo Nova (who?), Oscar Peterson (um?), and Mike Reno (who’s probably not even real). “And Others” also appear.
But wait! There’s more! Holy pop-cultural artifact, Hatman (my new nickname for the goofily hatted Steve Perry)! The record sleeve is an ad for even more outdated USA For Africa products: books, buttons, pins, posters, sweatshirts, T-shirts, and muscle T-shirts! USA! USA!! USA!!!
Tragically, this offer ended Feb. 1, 1986.
Before I even played this record, I knew the following statements would be true:
1. The title track is gonna be treacly.
2. The superstar B-sides are gonna be bad.
3. This is where Quincy Jones jumped the shark.
After one play, I knew I was right. This processed cheese is why I hate the ‘80s. (The Prince and Bruce cuts aren’t too bad, thought.) Also, although we might be the world, we actually harmed the world with this music. (And Steve Perry, please, just reunite with Journey.) I’ll file this record as a conversation starter, not as something I’m going to play.
Goodwill Hunting:
Record Reviews of Actual Records!
My studio apartment doubles as a library, with hundreds of DVDs, CDs, and books – and now, even records, actual records, warped and dusty, but surprisingly playable. For just one dollar, sometimes less, I can add whole albums to my music collection, a bargain too good to be anything but true.
With prices so low – they must be crazy! – I’ll gamble on a record, or two, or a dozen, where maybe I wouldn’t on a higher-priced CD (even though thrift stores sell them, too, often for less than $2.99). I’ll double up on albums I already own, just so I’ll own them in their older, cooler forms. I’ll even buy albums I’ve only slightly heard of, or albums I suspect will suck, just because there’s nothing to lose, except space.
And some people wonder why I don’t have an iPod. Ninety-nine cents for just one track?! Apple’s treasure is this man’s trash; Goodwill’s trash is this man’s treasure. St. Vincent de Paul is my rock (or my source); armories of misfit Toys in the Attics are my salvation.
But anyway, here’s a fossil I found:
USA For Africa, We Are The World
Like The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, an album often named by music magazines and the Sgt. Pepper liner notes as the greatest of all time, the cover of USA For Africa’s We Are The World features a group photo of musicians and melty-faced wax statues (no less than six Jacksons took part in this “historical recording”!) for future pop-cultural historians (um, me, I guess) to struggle to identify. Thankfully for me, there’s a list of names on the front. Sadly for the members of Huey Lewis’ backing band, “& The News” is listed collectively.
Some of the faces are obvious today. Others are James Ingram and Jeffrey “Definitely Not Ozzy” Osborne. But peep this collection of mid-‘80s talent! Dylan, Springsteen, (Lionel) Richie... that Geldof dude who organizes benefits (he also played Pink in Pink Floyd’s The Wall!)... two token blind guys (and four other posers in sunglasses, indoors)... and, leading off the alphabetical lineup, Dan Aykroyd, representing all the white people who ripped off black people’s music, I guess. (In 1985, when this record was released, the Sgt. Pepper-suited Michael Jackson was still identifiable as a member of the latter race. The banana-suited LaToya, however, is as white as Kenny Rogers’ USA For Africa sweatshirt and matching beard.)
But more than merely a “We Are The World” single, We Are The World is an album, you see. Sure, there’s the song that everyone knows, but then you discover the deep album cuts: “Nine Previously Unreleased Songs,” according to the back cover, or “Nine New Superstar Songs!” according to the front (exclamation point mine). Here’s the tracklist in decreasing superstardom: Prince & The Revolution, Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band (so far, so good), Tina Turner, Chicago, The Pointer Sisters (good at one time, or so I’ve been told), Huey Lewis & The News (great in Back To The Future), Steve Perry (solo), and Kenny Rogers (ugh).
The ninth superstar is Northern Lights, a supergroup you’ve never heard of, even though you’ve heard of some of its members. Unfortunately for actual superstars Joni Mitchell and Neil Young, the list of Canadian recording artists (Northern Lights, get it?) is alphabetical, so higher billing goes to the artists you’ve heard of either slightly less or possibly not at all: Bryan Adams, John Candy, Corey Hart, Gordon Lightfoot, Anne Murray, Aldo Nova (who?), Oscar Peterson (um?), and Mike Reno (who’s probably not even real). “And Others” also appear.
But wait! There’s more! Holy pop-cultural artifact, Hatman (my new nickname for the goofily hatted Steve Perry)! The record sleeve is an ad for even more outdated USA For Africa products: books, buttons, pins, posters, sweatshirts, T-shirts, and muscle T-shirts! USA! USA!! USA!!!
Tragically, this offer ended Feb. 1, 1986.
Before I even played this record, I knew the following statements would be true:
1. The title track is gonna be treacly.
2. The superstar B-sides are gonna be bad.
3. This is where Quincy Jones jumped the shark.
After one play, I knew I was right. This processed cheese is why I hate the ‘80s. (The Prince and Bruce cuts aren’t too bad, thought.) Also, although we might be the world, we actually harmed the world with this music. (And Steve Perry, please, just reunite with Journey.) I’ll file this record as a conversation starter, not as something I’m going to play.
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