Mrs. M is visiting her mom up in Lost-in-the-Woods County, so I’m keeping an eye on things here in Mondoville. In this case, that takes the form of setting and resetting the central air system, because if I don’t do that, the AC gets lackadaisical, and the next thing you know, the temperature is where the power company wants you to set it, but that’s just crazy talk, is all that is. Anyway…
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Because Mrs. M is out of town, she has the Blue Meanie. In turn, I’m driving her car, which means I’m stuck with terrestrial radio. Mondoville is situated between two significant media markets, but radio reception can be a challenge. Normally that wouldn’t be an issue, because I’d be listening to the college’s radio station, but it’s out of action while the roof of our Comm building is under repair. (Apparently the roofers would prefer not to be sterilized by our transmitter — go figure.) Mrs. M ordinarily listens to a pop-country station in Real City, but I’ve expressed my take on that in the past. So basically, I’m stuck with a classic rock station when I’m running errands or picking up something to eat.
I haven’t listened to that format with any regularity since I moved to Mondoville twenty years ago, thanks to the college station, the Web, and satellite radio (on my TV for years, and now in the Meanie as well.) This weekend has reminded me of why that happened.
Don’t get me wrong — I’m old enough to remembering listening to classic rock stations when the format was a relatively new evolution of what used to be called AOR (Album-Oriented Rock). But if anything, the format has grown more restrictive, and the homogenizing effects of conglomerated corporate radio haven’t helped. Indeed, the first track I heard yesterday afternoon was Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell”, and having grown up in the South, I’ve heard all the Skynyrd I ever want to hear, and then some. That was followed by Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy”, which serves only to make me wish that the kid had followed the “surprise left” with a full beatdown of Eddie Vedder. So it was with a measure of dread that I tuned in the Real City station on my way to pick up my Friday Fried Rice.
The dread was justified. The first song I heard was “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” by Tom Petty. Now, I don’t bear any particular animus toward the late Mr. Petty (heck, I’ve even played in bands that covered his work), but I’ve really never been able to understand why he was a big deal. “Mary Jane”, like so much of his material, just kind of left me feeling like I’d been served a pile of KFC mashed potatoes, with neither gravy nor salt.
On the other hand, that glob of aural starch was followed by a musical emetic, in the form of Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page”, which may be my least favorite song in the history of rock and roll. From that mournful, reverbed five-note sax lick at the beginning to the ersatz soulfulness of “East of OmaHAW” (I think that’s called Iowa, Bob), it’s a lugubrious dirge about. . . being a professional musician. I mean, bitching about your job is every American’s right, but having played in my share of bands that never had a chance to even reach the road dog level, it’s hard for me to work up much sympathy, or really, any. Taco Bell is hiring smiling faces, buddy.
(Also, that line about “You can think about your woman… or the girl you knew the night before” sounds a little, um, statutory. Maybe that’s why he says “East of OmaHAW’; he doesn’t want to cop to having crossed a state line.)
Likewise, the diner scene (“Is it woman, is it man?”) is more drudgery. The Barbarians had already covered this turf seven years earlier, and if they were catching that in Provincetown, getting in a snit about some diner rednecks in Iowa (Io-WAW?) seven years later is cold leftovers. But we didn’t get that far, because I was already shouting imprecations at the radio and stabbing the on-off knob.
The next morning, I try again, and get more Tom Petty, with “Don’t Come Around Here No More”, which, thanks in no small part to Dave Stewart’s production, has aged like sour cream. It also features Petty’s full-on Sears Dylan intonation, especially in the melismatic run at the end of “Who did you expect to meet?” I copped a small break with Pat Benatar’s “Heartbreaker,” but then it was right back to the yarling of Pearl Jam, this time with “Even Flow.” Then it was Green Day’s “Basket Case,” which at least had some energy. So I’ll call that one a draw.
As I went to get my pizza last night, I actually cracked a smile when they played “Breakin’ the Law” by Judas Priest. Okay, I can accept that it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it reminded me of all the energy and dumb frustration of my dateless, powerless high school years. If classic rock has value for me at this time in my life, that may be it. But then? Here comes Mr. Petty again, this time with “Don’t Do Me Like That.” Does the Petty estate have compromising photos of the program director at I Heart Radio HQ? I’m starting to choke on those KFC spuds.
Finally, I had to pick up a prescription after lunch today. This time, what I get is what I think of as early post-heroin Aerosmith, in the form of “Take Me to the Other Side.” All that did is remind me that Aerosmith was a rock band once — but not by that point. In a surprise move, however, I got a dose of Billy Idol’s “Dancing with Myself.” That was followed by a commercial break, so I quit when I was ahead, lest I get hit with a dose of “Free Fallin'” on my way home.
I guess what I’m saying with all this is that I really hope the college radio station comes back, and soon.
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On a cheerier note, I officially received my panel assignment for this year’s Bouchercon in San Diego. The convention starts on Wednesday afternoon, and Mrs. M and I will be arriving just in time, At 4:30 that afternoon, I’ll be discussing noir with Halley Sutton, Valerie J. Brooks, and Travis Richardson. Larry Gandle of Deadly Pleasures webzine will be moderating, and a brief signing session will follow. I’d love to see you there.
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I’ll close today with one of my favorite current bands — the Green Pajamas. The Seattle psychedelicists have a new album out, and this is one of the tracks thereon. While the makeout game I remember (but never experienced) from high school was called “Seven Minutes in Heaven,” apparently a minute got lost en route to the Northwest. Must be a time zone thing.
See you soon!
Professor Mondo 