Moves Like Jagger

Me: I'm starting to really hate that new Maroon 5 single.

Taylor: "Moves Like Jagger" . . .  why?

Me: Cause he doesn't.

Taylor: Oh

That was kind of a conversation killer on the way to drop my son off at the dorms. Taylor doesn't do idle chit chat unless its 1:15am and there's a world wide web involved.

I was thinking about this at the beginning of our drive after reading an article on the 20th anniversary of the release of "Nevermind" and the Nirvana/grunge explosion. 

I was younger then than he is now.

We stood in our combat boots with multiple layers of clothing. Long sleeve flannel shirts and army surplus jackets.

Here we are now. Entertain us.

Now its skinny jeans, V-Neck T-shirts, 

OMG. LMFAO

We both, however, are stupid . . . and contagious.

As we drove in silence, Taylor flipped through his radio presets.

I counted eight Pop radio stations he flipped through, and I am not shitting you, we only heard four songs the entire drive.

1. Friday Night - Katie Perry - The joke with this one is that the first time I heard it I could have sworn it was a cheap Katie Perry knockoff. I thought it was lame and dirty and didn't have the wink and nod of her earlier work. So how red faced was I discovering that it was actually Katie Perry and how sad to see a cute little pop star becoming a knockoff of herself.

2. Drink to That - Rhianna - Lame, but at least the auto-tune kept her usual chalkboard scratching flatness at bay. And then there was the Avril Lavigne sample in the chorus that made me wonder if bubble gum pop has gotten so bored with everything else its decided to start sampling itself. It may one day become so self contained that producers and artists will just start releasing their iTunes playlists instead of albums. 

3. Someone Like You - Adele - Good song, Well produced. Heard four times during a 45 minute drive.

4. Moves Like Jagger - Maroon 5 - After making my little quip Taylor scrolled through his presets until he found a station playing it. Not sure if it was serendipity, but there might be a conspiracy here. Maybe radio stations only play the top five hits so that new songs are as accessible on the radio as their are on Youtube.

Find the song you want and ignore the advertising.

Here we are.

Now.

Give us what we want.

Or someone else will.

So when we get to a song such as "Moves Like Jagger" I start to become an old fuddy-duddy.

Cause he doesn't.

Not only does Adam Levine of Maroon 5 NOT move like Jagger, I'm sort of confused as to why that would be something to openly discuss.

And not kinda creepy.

Telling another person that you have the moves like Jagger should illicit a furrowed brow, a soft tilt to the head, and a look of the eyes that clearly says "Please, you will have no chance of getting laid again if you even begin to think its a good idea to stand up and demonstrate."

Jagger is, and should be, the only person who can get laid moving like Jagger.

Maybe our dear Adam woke up on the floor of his hotel room using a V-Tshirt as a blanket and a pair of leather pants as a pillow and thought to himself "Hmmm. This makes me think of Mick Jagger. I must write a song about him. And use his last name for a lyric. A lyric that won't sit very well in the melody line."

And he continued:

"What is it about Jagger that makes him worthy of homage? Is it his lyric writing? No that can't be, he's not evening singing words. Is it his dynamic vocal range? Nope. If he's ever spread out an entire octave it was only because he fell off the stage and hurt himself. But Jagger wouldn't do that. Nobody moves like Jagger. I wish I could move like Jagger. Then I'd get laid. Chicks dig Jagger for how he moves. And for his V-Neck T-Shirts and leather pants. What's that awful taste in my mouth?"

I could tell him what that taste was. Its the taste of a bad idea that turns into an obsession.

I know that taste because I've had lots of songs like that.

Thankfully I'm not a pop star. Because I would be horrified to have to sing some of those bad idea songs for the rest of my life.

If the devil were to tell me that I could have a wonderfully successful career, and that he wouldn't take my soul, but that he would insist that twenty years from now I would find myself in a Carson City casino singing "Moves Like Jagger" night after night,

I might have to ask him if he would reconsider the soul.

So as Taylor and I finished unpacking the car and loading all his shit into his dorm room I was just about to  place my arm around his and give him some advice.

Son, I would say. You will be here for at least nine months. If you have any chance at all of getting laid, do not, under any circumstances, tell someone that you move like Jagger.

But just then two incredibly cute girls rushed into the room screaming his name and gave him full body hugs, and causally invited themselves to lunch with him.

So,

I'm thinking,

maybe he'll do just fine.

The Pantheon

Cole Porter. John Lennon. Amadeus. Leonard Cohen.

These are the people I'd like to meet in heaven.

Will they be in the same room?

Will they be in the Pantheon of songwriters?

Will I be allowed into the room?

Will I have to show my ID? Will I have to display a lexicon of my work in orderer to enter or will I be allowed to glide in like Jay Zee at the hottest night club in Manhattan?

Or will I be standing out in the cold waiting for a look of encouragement from some heavenly bouncer?

I'm not sure.

I'm thinking about the greatest tragedy of life.

The tragedy of never being able to prove oneself.

Will my work ever be able to stand up to the rest of the Lexicon, or will it merely be a footnote of some family tree of which I am a single branch?

Will my son ever venture into my lexicon?

Or will he be so bored of Daddy's dreams that it will be placed kindly into a box and left on some shelf in the garage only to be shuffled into the garbage pile that my grandchildren have made?

When my great grandfather died, I was nothing.

When my grandfather died I was in my mid twenties, and there was nothing left of him to give me but a few anecdotes and a pile of motorcycle parts.

When my father dies, I have recordings, memories written in ink, memories written in  cyberspace. Pictures and items of great personal worth.

My son will at least have those when I too die.

But what will become of them?

What will my grandchildren know of me?

Most likely every little.

And their children even less.

Unless.

One day. By pure miracle.

My work trancends my family and friends and finds a home among the pop culture for which it was written and to which it belongs.

But that is a dream.

A dream which can never be fulfilled, but a dream which sustains me none the less.

I believe I can hang with that crew.

the Pantheon of great songwriters.

And not feel myself the foolish man I feel myself today.

Because when everything is stacked against me.

when Life shreds its secret and tells me that I am just a small bit of material in a vast universe of matter,

I still dream.

So dream. Everyone.

dream.