Tune Translator Vol. 3: Counting Crows - "Mr. Jones."

Modern pop music can be perplexing, laden as it so often is with oblique imagery, vague references, and confusing lingo. On the one hand, this is desirable; art SHOULD be open to interpretation, and different songs will then mean different things to different people. On the other, it can be a big ol' pain on the ass if you have absolutely zero idea what the fuck that overpaid loser on the radio is howling about. Hence: the Tune Translator.

Today's dissection specimen: "Mr. Jones," a jangly mid-90's alt-pop hit by unrepentantly filthy California hippies Counting Crows.

In case you need to refresh your flagging memory:



"Mr. Jones," at least on the surface, serves as as a double-edged sword: both a paean to the potential benefits of large-scale recognition, as well as a naïve cautionary tale on fame's perils as viewed through the rose-colored glass of unrequited longing. But as we look deeper, we discover disturbing undercurrents of alcohol abuse, mental illness, and emotionally-crippling delusion.

However, it's still art!

The subtle depth of the artistic vision of lead hair-host Adam Duritz begins to make itself evident immediately, in the song's opening strains:

"Sha la la la la la la la.
Oh.
Uh huh."

To the untrained eye, these are nonsense syllables. But true scholars see them for what they truly are: a crafty wallop of meaninglessness in order to provide a juxtapositional contrast to the brilliance to come. Sort of like Marilyn Monroe's birthmark; a small blight of imperfection in a sea of pristine elegance that serves to throw the rest of the surrounding beauty into stark focus rather than detracting from it.

"I was down at the New Amsterdam starin' at this yellow-haired girl,
Mr. Jones strikes up a conversation with a black-haired flamenco dancer.
You know, she dances while his father plays guitar.
She's suddenly beautiful.
Don't we all want something beautiful?"

Ha, ha! We sure do, Andy.

As every schoolchild knows, "New Amsterdam" was the original name of New York City in the time of the original settlement. So, Durtzman's lyrical choice here is meant to provide a geographical context; if an archaic one that also reinforces his hipster credentials. He's in the Big Apple, The City That Never Sleeps, El Grande Cloaca. Furthermore, he's hanging out in a tavern somewhere, as we're about to find out.

Also, he's not alone...Kind of. Because next, our humble narrator goes on to speak of his companion, a one "Mr. Jones," the titular hero. Decker refers to the mysterious Jones repeatedly throughout the song. However, as will readily become evident, Jones does not, in fact, exist. At least, not in any tangible sense.

"Jones," it is soon clear, is in reality Dzurick's alter ego. A Walter Mitty-like internal persona, albeit one with far more balls than Dimble will ever have. Sort of a Tyler Durden character, except one that presumably knows how to talk to hot dancer chicks, instead of one that beats the stuffing out of vagrants and then makes surfactant cleansers out of their unfortunate gynecomastia-induced lipid deposits.

"Man, I wish I was beautiful..."

You're right, Abel...you do. Being beautiful is everything you could hope for, and more. I should know. Unfortunately, you don't, and never will. Because to a layman, you resemble nothing so much as a pasty, tubby dockworker with a bad case of Parkinson's, trying in vain to fend off a scalp-attack courtesy of a charred octopus.

Using a real gun might help. Just thinking out loud, here.

Let's move on.

"So come dance the silence down through the mornin'.
Sha la la la la la la la.
Yeah.
Uh huh.
Yeah."

More nonsense syllables. This includes the first line, which concerns an action, abstract notion and time-frame all smashed together in an order that doesn't make the faintest lick of grammatical sense. Still, it's a bridge/transition to some more gibberish, which further underscores to the unbridled genius of the previous verse. We needed a palate cleanser before launching into the next section, so in addition to a beauty mark, Marilyn now has a Letterman-like tooth gap. Works for Lauren Hutton, right?

CHRIST! On second thought, let's just forget I said anything.

"...'Cut up, Maria! Show me some of them Spanish dances, and
Pass me a bottle, Mr. Jones.'
Believe in me,
Help me believe in anything.
'Cause I wanna be someone who believes.
Yeah."

"Cut up" refers here to rug-cutting (i.e., dancing), which the aforementioned flamenco artist Maria (accompanied by El Papa) has already been established to be doing. And while it is not clear which half of the narrator/hero's personality issues the redundant request in the first line, it IS clear that Dimple doesn't have any desire to take responsibility for his own drinking problem. Which is why he asks "Jones" to hand him the bottle. Presumably, Dibble's right hand obliges him (as it is wont to do, given his already-established difficulty communicating with women). Hooray, liquid courage!

Following this, Dobbs/Jones utters a desperate plea that this distant, desirable dervish express an interest in him and his clumsy non-advances, as fame must start somewhere, and charity begins at home. It is not known if she issued any response, but one assumes no.

"Mr. Jones and me tell each other fairy tales,
and we stare at the beautiful women:
'She's looking at you. Ah, no, no, she is looking at me'."

As the alcohol takes its effect, confidence increases. So Dotzman/Jones egg each other on here, possibly within the confines of their shared, tentacle-bedecked head. "They" lie to "each other" concerning the nature of "their" sexual desirability, deluding themselves into believing attractive women have noticed "them." In reality, any attractive females in the vicinity, if they've noticed the singer at all, have no doubt said to themselves, "Who the hell is the pudgy, drunk douche with the mop on his head, and why is he gawking at me while he mutters to himself?"

"Smilin' in the bright lights.
Comin' through in stereo.
When everybody loves you, you can never be lonely."

The club's lighting and sound system are remarked upon, as Dumbert's/Jones' intoxication has progressed to the level where he is apt to see himself as a suave, charming, Dean-Martin-style bon vivant everyone adores, rather than the sloppy, gibbering lush he is in reality.

You will never, EVER be this cool. So stop trying.

"Well, I'm gon' paint my picture.
Paint myself in blue and red and black and gray.
All of the beautiful colors are very, very meaningful.
Yeah, well you know, gray is my favorite color."

Slurred speech makes a more pronounced appearance, as does a presumptuous self-confidence about perceived crossover artistic ability. This is tinged with pretentious, pseudo-moody ruminations about the nature of color meaning, and the poignancy and ambiguously-nebulous sub-textural nature of "shades of gray" in particular. Y'know...the kind of "Art Appreciation 101" stuff that stopped being deep enough to get you laid post-freshman year.

"I felt so symbolic yesterday.
If I knew Picasso,
I would buy myself a gray guitar and play."

Dinklage is now drunk enough to tell us how "symbolic" he feels, in case we missed the ham-fisted nature of the previous passage. He then goes on to invoke the name of Spanish surrealist Pablo Picasso, the most hackneyed example of a painter both familiar enough in household-name recognition, and unconventional enough in artistic approach for a given reference to have a possible impact on someone you're trying to impress while pickled.

Pictured: more action than Adler Durtzel will be seeing tonight.

"Mr. Jones and me look into the future.
Yeah, we stare at the beautiful women:
'She's looking at you.
I don't think so. She's looking at me'."

Here, Dortzberg/Jones digs out the crystal ball and attempts to divine what's to come. Hilariously, even in a hoped-for, post-progress future, our multiple-personality hero STILL can't conceive of a scenario wherein he's put enough starch in his spine to break the ice with the female types. The frustration inherent in this is illustrated by the subtle-but-obvious combative escalation of the interior argument.

"Standin' in the spotlight.
I bought myself a gray guitar.
When everybody loves me, I will never be lonely.
I will never be lonely.
Said I'm never gonna be lonely."

"Maybe when I learn to play an instrument, I will receive the adoration of the anonymous masses, for which I so pathetically yearn. In the meantime, I will continue to sit here, assault my liver, and not approach women."

"I wanna be a lion.
Eh, everybody wanna pass as cats.
We all wanna be big, big stars, yeah but, we got different reasons for that.
Believe in me 'cause I don't believe in anything,
And I wanna be someone to believe, to believe, to believe.
Yeah."

Chicken-hearted, self-pitying Dumble, the spectre with whom he fights for control of his mind and their pet skull-squid envision themselves to have all of the bravery of the King of the Jungle, post-wizard-visit. These self-affirmations have no discernible effect.

"I feel pretty."

"Mr. Jones and me stumbling through the barrio.
Yeah, we stare at the beautiful women:
'She's perfect for you. Man, there's got to be somebody for me!'

A heavily-intoxicated Dexter/Jones has left the club after failing to muster up the sack between the "two" of them to speak to any available ladies, and are currently staggering clumsily through the ghetto, STILL pining in vain for female attention. This, despite the fact that in all of recorded history, not a single sloppy, fat alcoholic lurching home after bar close has EVER convinced a woman to join him on his trek. Plus, the probability of this scenario decreases slightly from zero in the presence of dreadlocks.

"I wanna be Bob Dylan.
Mr. Jones wishes he was someone just a little more funky.
When everybody loves you, ah son, that's just about as funky as you can be."

Duckberg figures Mr. Dylan gets plenty of chicks and respect with HIS guitar, and envies that. Jones, for "his" part, is shooting for the emulation of a pop idol with a little more of an R&B feel to his oeuvre.

"I don't blame him. Being me IS pretty fuckin' fantastic, if I'm being honest."

"Mr. Jones and me starin' at the video.
When I look at the television I wanna see me starin' right back at me."

A television is on in a storefront window as Delbert staggers homeward. A music video is playing. Dembeck, in his drunken and desperate state, leans on the glass to watch it, and wishes it were HIM instead. Jones, as a helpless prisoner/passenger within Determan's booze-impaired mind, must also.

"We all wanna be big stars, but we don't know why and we don't know how.
But when everybody loves me, I wanna be just about as happy as I can be."

For all of his pined-for stardom, Dostoyevsky has no clue regarding just exactly how to go about actually achieving those goals. Conveniently, he hangs the entirety of his well-being upon the satisfaction of a set of criteria over which he has convinced himself he has no control, thus allowing himself a readily-available excuse to be forever miserable. Like so many others, rather than actually researching, putting any effort into, or investing in his dreams, Deuteronomy would rather just get piss-drunk and bitch about his lack of success before going home alone. In doing so, he banks big points on his claims for being a "suffering" artisté. Points he will never, ever cash in by actually creating anything.

"Mr. Jones and me, we're gonna be big stars..."

Don't fucking count on it, champ.

"I has a sad. Blow me?"