After the Rutles album came out, there was a lot of talk about how similar the songs were to Beatles songs (including this article, which proves that scholarly study of humor will almost immediately spiral into self-parody).
Unfortunately, the owners of the Beatles publishing (but not the Beatles themselves) decided that the Rutle songs were too close to Beatle songs and sued. In the process, Innes lost all the publishing and songwriting royalties for all the songs from the first Rutles album (and was so disgusted with the music business that he dropped out of music for several years). Add in legal squabbling with Eric Idle about legal ownership of the idea of the Rutles, and you've got enough to make you want to smash everything in sight. (And blame it on society.)
But the universe does have a way of showing that there is such thing as Karma, even if it takes longer than we want. In the mid-1990s, Oasis, a band whose music is often ignored while people focus on their influences and frequent fistfights, released a song called "Whatever" which -- and I'm not sure how to put this delicately -- sounds exactly like the Neil Innes song "How Sweet to Be an Idiot."
And, perhaps in part to make up for mistreating him financially with the Rutles, the universe awarded Innes royalties and co-writing credit on "Whatever."
If Neil Innes had done nothing in his life besides the Rutles, he'd deserve shrines on half the world's continents.
But, as it happened, he did a lot more -- from almost all the Monty Python music to the music-oriented Innes Book of Records and Rutland Weekend Television on the BBC. (I'll leave it to you to decide if that warrants shrines on the other half of the world's continents.)
Rutland Weekend Television is sadly unavailable on video or DVD thanks to clearance issues, but is a great outlet for Innes songs (and the comedy of Eric Idle, who was then at his peak).
(If you're unclear on the concept of douchebaggery, a douchebag is much more than a jerk. It's a jerk with a sense of entitlement that borders on narcissistic personality disorder. So a jerk will cut you off in traffic, but a douche will do it while on the phone and will be generally surprised if you point out to him that there are other people on the road.)
You look around these days and you can't help but notice that there are more douchebags than ever... and that the economy has gone into the toilet, leaving us with deficits that are worse than poetry written by teenagers.
Here's how to deal with both these problems:
Since, as my Dad noted, you can't stop people from being douches, but you can take advantage of their douchebaggery. So, while I'd be happier if everyone would stop their douchebag behavior, I'm prepared to let douchebags go on being douchebags to their douchebag heart's content.
But let's let douchebags pay the full cost of their own douchebag behaviors. Through a national Douchebag Tax.
I'm not saying it should be illegal for people to be Douchebags... just that we should let the free market help regulate the douchier among us.
So you want to drive a Hummer and justify it because you have to drive kids to soccer practice every seven weeks? A real douche move, but no problem. From now on, every time you start up your 8-mile-per-gallon, 4-ton beast, you pay a $100 Douchebag Tax.
And you want to park your huge SUV in a "Compact" space? Yeah, it's douchey, but as long as you pay a fine of $100 per hour, no one will complain. Need two spaces so no one will scratch your new car? $200 per hour, no dirty looks from fellow motorists, and your Douchemobile remains ding-free.
You think the law about not talking on hand-held cell phones while driving doesn't apply to you because your conversations are, like, really important? Sure, that makes you a douche, but for $250 per call, feel free!
You want to complain in the press that the financial crisis has lowered the value of your seven vacation homes and the nasty people losing their jobs give you mean looks when you get into your chauffered limo? No problem. As long as you pay a $500 Douchebag Tax for every person your firm put out of work.
You cut in front of someone in line at Starbucks because your time is more valuable than other people's? Pay everyone in line $100 and they'll gladly praise you for your mad douchebag skills.
Think it's okay to talk loudly on your cell phone in public? Fine. $500 per conversation. And an extra $1000 if you're in a public restroom.
Do you have a great health care plan paid for by your work but you still loudly pontificate that letting others have access to health insurance is socialism? That's some leaky douche logic, but I'm glad to have you spout this madness for only $750 per incident.
Now, we're going to need some special fines for especially douchey behaviors. Let's say you ruin the world economy by inventing new financial vehicles (and selling them to your douchebag clients), only to notice later that the cascading failures of your inventions threaten to suck up all the money in the world 20 times over? Clearly, you're a Master of the Universe Douche. That's fine, but it will cost you both arms and one of your legs (because the douche punishment must fit the douchebag crime).
And finally, you think the very idea of a Douchebag Tax is a douche proposal? Think that a blog post using variations on the word "douche" more than 30 times is excessive? I'm happy to support your right to voice that kind of douchebaggery. For $1,250 per conversation.
Now, the Douchebag Tax (soon to be enumerated in the Douchebag Reconciliation Act of 2009) may not immediately balance the budget and pay for free healthcare and unicorns for all Americans, but it's a start.
(And, hey, if it can keep a few douchebags from douche behaviors, that's okay too.)
Like most stories from my 20s, this one starts at 3:30 in the morning.
The middle of the night has always been my favorite time for grocery shopping. Stores are less crowded, clerks are more amusing (and more easily amused), and the other shoppers present plenty of opportunity for observing Life's Rich Pageant.
So it was 3:30, I couldn't sleep, and I was craving grilled cheese, which meant it was the ideal time to go shopping. At the time, I shopped exclusively in a gigantic food warehouse store that had a parking lot with 600 spaces. When I pulled in, there were four other cars in the lot -- another advantage to late-night shopping.
As I wandered through the bulk section, assessing my need for yogurt-covered pretzels at $4.99 per pound, the sound system in the store switched off. The lighting levels dropped about 30%. And then they started playing Aerosmith, and the piano sound bounced around the store, careened off the charcoal grills, got absorbed in the 36-packs of double-ply toilet paper, and echoed slightly in the spice aisle.
And as I grabbed a package of seedless Rye, I noticed something in a nearby aisle. A barefoot hippie chick in tie-dye and cut-off shorts was very slowly swaying to the music, staring at the selection of breakfast cereals (all sold in quantities designed to provide family breakfasts for the next six months).
As I stared, I was transported. Driving through the dark hills of Western Massachusetts late at night, listening to the radio, hearing the devils howling at Steven Tyler's heels and hoping they would stay in the woods long enough to let me get home safely.
When the song ended, the hippie chick collapsed in a ball by the Quisp boxes. And I felt weird that I'd been staring, wanted to get out of the store as soon as possible and let her have whatever private moment she was having, and go back outside where it was 40 degrees and sensible people wore scarves and coats instead of cut-off shorts.
I turned, then heard a quiet sob. And paused, knowing I'd have to go talk to her, knowing she was undoubtedly crazy, and suddenly wondering if it might be better to shop earlier in the night -- maybe at 1am instead of 3am.
And I went up to her. Stood awkwardly. Stared at what she was staring at. Then finally asked if she was okay. She looked up at me, smiled, and said "I was just thinking that Steven Tyler would be so much happier if he ate more Quisp."
I looked at the boxes, nodded, and said "yeah, probably, I mean it is the vitamin-powered sugary cereal." I tried to think of something else to say that would express concern while also allowing me to leave soon. But I couldn't think of anything so I looked down. And the hippie chick was gone. Concerned, I quickly looked in adjacent aisles. She was nowhere to be seen.
When I paid for my bread and cheese, I asked the clerk if he'd seen the hippie chick. He frowned at me, said "Dude, you're the only one who's been in here in the last three hours."
As I drove back to my apartment, the local classic rock station played "Dream On." I switched the car radio off (even though that violated nearly every belief on which I'd constructed my life). Let Steven Tyler's Quisp-fueled demons chase someone else home for a change.
The first Meat Loaf album might just be the perfect music for teenagers.
It's loud. It's bombastic. It paints love and sex as life or death struggles from Paradise Lost or a Wagner opera.
And it erects the sonic equivalents of Iwo Jima monuments to young lust. In short, it's what every parent fears and what every teenager thinks he or she alone has discovered. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)
Jim Steinman provided the songs (think Wagner having fever dreams that mash up Phil Spector and Bruce Springsteen anthems), Todd Rundgren produced the tracks (and paid for the recording himself), and the musicians included Max Weinberg and Roy Bittan from the E Street Band, Willie Wilcox, Kasim Sulton, and Roger Powell from Utopia, Edgar Winter playing sax, Ellen Foley and Rory Dodd singing, and Todd Rundgren himself playing the "motorcycle guitar" on the title track (which, on the album, goes on for nearly 10 glorious minutes).
The other thing about this album that teenagers recognize with great embarrassment decades later is that it's hilarious -- why else would NY Yankees announcer Phil Rizzuto be providing the play-by-play in "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," one of 3 songs on the record that are more than 8 minutes long?
The other day, I hauled my vinyl copy of this album out of storage and listened to it. (The record sure beats Tums for relief when you see this commercial.)Yeah, I cringed more than once. But I also laughed more than once and marveled at some of the music all over again. And while I know it's possible to defend this record, it's a bit of a guilty pleasure -- one that I share with almost 40 million people around the world (including about 200,000 new ones every year).
By the way, if you're in Germany, stop in and visit Charles Altmann and bring your vinyl copy of Bat Out of Hell. What better way to listen to an album with a "motorcycle guitar" than on a turntable built out of parts from an actual motorcycle?
If you put the Who, the Kinks, Smokey Robinson, and the Clash in a blender, and added a shot of ginseng, you'd wind up with the Jam.
There are some inexplicable holes in my music collection. It amazes and astonishes me that I never owned a record by the Jam (although I wore out a cassette that had Sound Affects on one side and This is the Modern World on the other, listening to it every day as I drove to and from my first post-college job).
The Clash had the political cred and the Sex Pistols had the punk cred, but it's hard to think of any English band to emerge from the mid-1970s who had more musical cred than the Jam.
Initially, the Jam were considered yet another punk band. But their musical ambitions were always a little grander. They wanted to be a Motown band. And a Pub Rock Band.
And in an era when they're contemporaries wanted to bury "dinosaur" bands like the Who, the Jam secretly dreamed of being the Who. But they didn't entirely take that ambition seriously and were willing to mock their Who-obsession by calling their third album All Mod Cons. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)
But then things changed. And the band started becoming a faster, more punk version of the Kinks, chronicling the uniquely British details of their lives. This made them superstars in the U.K., but ultimately probably made it much harder for them to break through in the U.S. (which they never quite did, despite incongruous appearances on shows like American Bandstand):
While their music always retained the same propulsive drive, they moved into more of a soul sound before finally calling it quits in 1983. Maybe all they really wanted was to finally be Martha and the Vandellas:
Paul Weller wound go on to found the Style Council and a solo career and his bandmates Rick Buckler and Bruce Foxton wrote a book about the Jam that slammed Weller. Buckler and Foxton recruited a singer from a Jam tribute band and toured as "From the Jam" in 2007. Weller insists he'll never get back together with the Jam and described reunion tours as "just embarrassing and sad."
Maybe so. But to this day, when I'm feeling sad there's still nothing that cheers me up quite like the doomed-but-also-hopeful tone of the Jam's "Monday."
And (like the song goes) I will never be embarrassed about that again.
After the Rutles album came out, there was a lot of talk about how similar the songs were to Beatles songs (including this article, which proves that scholarly study of humor will almost immediately spiral into self-parody).
The other day, I hauled my vinyl copy of this album out of storage and listened to it. (The record sure beats Tums for 
There are some inexplicable holes in my music collection. It amazes and astonishes me that I never owned a record by the Jam (although I wore out a cassette that had Sound Affects on one side and This is the Modern World on the other, listening to it every day as I drove to and from my first post-college job).
Posts
