If Loving the Carpenters Is Wrong
Everybody has songs they secretly like but wouldn’t tell their best friend. For example, while I worship at the head-banging throne of all things AC/DC, I also like, gulp, the Carpenters. And, um, the BeeGees. This makes me lame in many circles, including my own family, who would not understand. My wife would no more listen to Karen Carpenter warbling “Close to You” than she’d listen to Bread’s “Diary,” another song I like.
Bread. Now there’s a band that wasn’t worried about being hip; it was worried about selling records. Bread was a band you could get a gal to make-out to, supposedly. It never worked in my case, but surely the problem lay with me, not the group. I mean, listen to this Bread tune, “I Wanna Make It With You.” Could that song even get on the air nowadays? Well, maybe when Michael Powell leaves the FCC.
As far as my musical taste is concerned, my sister is ineligible to make fun of me, knowing I might bring up her vast collection of Bobby Sherman LPs and Jim Schonfeld’s masterpiece, “Shoney.” Now that Jim’s a successful coach in the NHL — that’s a league that used to play hockey in the winter — I wonder if any of his players have the guts to play his “Bear Barrel Polka” in the locker room. I doubt it.
I recently purchased the BeeGee’s new collection of number one hits, and felt somewhat embarrassed presenting it to the nose-ring clad clerk for purchase. I could imagine him rolling his eyes or smirking at me, or joining a conversation with my wife and kids about my asthetic shortcomings. But when it comes right down to it, would you really rather listen to Lou Reed’s philosophical meanderings, or the Brothers Gibb more direct version: “How can a loser ever win?” How can a loser ever win, indeed. Now that’s deep.
An English friend of mine told me that when punk came out in the UK, he threw away all his old records and has spent the last 25 years trying to get them back. I suspect there’re a lot of us out there. So embrace your inner WKBW, circa 1973. And Richard and Karen Carpenter — you rock.
I sure hope none of my friends are reading this.
