Best Songs Ever

I was cleaning some window fans in preparation of Boston's one-day heatwave, and I was cranking the tunes. Prince's "Kiss" came on, and I believe that could possibly be one of the best pop songs ever. Lyrics are killer, the singing is perfect, and the beats are so comely. Quickly after that, John Mellencamp's "Jack and Diane" come on, and I wondered if that could be considered as well. I'd have to have a battle between the two on my iTunes to declare a winner or a draw. I have "Kiss" but I'm missing the little ditty about two American kids growing up in the heartland. That debate has to go on the back burner. Meanwhile, more good music and memories crossed my path on the web.

Yesterday, EW.com published this exclusive video of Rivers Cuomo doing a live version of "El Scorcho." The tiny post that accompanies the video sort of articulates my feelings about Pinkerton. I wasn't a teenager though. Two memories about Weezer/Pinkerton.

I wanted Weezer on disc bad one holiday. I totally pleaded to have some off-beat rock under the tree. It was a gamble. My darling mother from Wisconsin totally missed out on the music revolution that was the 60s, and sort of jumped off after digging Elvis. She likes Pat Boone for jiminy's sake! So, yeah, anything Beatles and beyond is a mystery to this woman.

Plus, ofttimes the woman becomes befuddled in an American retail outlet. It's the dazzling array of shiny choices. She gets overwhelmed and shuts down. She grabs the closest thing to the register and wham! there's your gift. So, I was a bit nervous about entrusting Weezer to her. Remember, there was a band out there called Ween at the same time. Sure, I dug that weird daisies song, but I didn't want a whole album of it.

Anyhoo, my mom got it right. I unwrapped not just Pinkerton, but the Blue Album as well. I proceeded to lose my shit. I jumped up, screamed, and ran around the house like a wild thing. Yeah, I was in my 20s. But, I lost it. And, I proceeded to slip in the amazingness that WAS, IS, AND WILL FOREVER BE Pinkerton.

My mother marched into the music store in her navy cardigan, approached the clerk, and said her daughter wanted a band with a weird name that started with "W" and sang about Buddy Holly. Two Christmas miracle discs were instantly plucked from the rack by the magical mystery clerk: I imagine that his name was Trevor, wore polyester plaid pants, and had groomed a burly fu manchu. But he was probably named Dave, rocked a pot belly, and wore baggy black clothes.

And, I lived happily ever after in the brooding, yet upbeat, world of half-Japanese girls and unraveling sweaters. THAT IS FUCKING POETRY, Y'ALL!! That's what this music does to me. I morph into a Kanye-Britney hybrid while I write.

The second memory about Pinkerton would be my statement to an uber alt-boy (writes reviews, lead singer of band on a semi-obscure label) that it was the best album to come out of the 90s, period. I said it with such conviction, he did a double-take. He wanted to argue with me with every shred of his alt-rock-country-obscure being, but a heartless wench had just dumped him and he was too weary. Sometimes miracles do come out of a Jim Beam bottle.

Merry Christmas, y'all!