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?"

Tune Translator Vol. 2: "I'm On Fire"

Merton Sussex, Playa-Hater

Today's DoF Tune Translator takes on one of the most beloved of the American pantheon of songwriters. He goes by many names: among them - "The Boss," The Jersey Devil, and (at least at family reunions) Unca' Stinky. But I'll call him what his mom does: Bruce Springsteen.

Bruce's 35-plus year career has seen him win 19 Grammy Awards, sell more than 65 million albums, and play thousands of live shows. Along the way, he's done more to reduce the severity level of the national shame that is New Jersey than Kevin Smith, Bon Jovi and Danny DeVito combined.

However, he's managed to do all of this while being what is, frankly, a weak songwriter.

Easy, Bruce fans. I like the dude as much as the next red-blooded, meat-eating, heterosexual American male is culturally obligated to. But the fact is that when it comes to putting together a song, Brucie-poo cuts more corners than a kindergartner making paper snowflakes. Whether it's beating to death the looping six-note riff that literally forms the entire backing track of "Born in the U.S.A.", or "Born to Run's" clumsy vehicle-parts-as-romantic-metaphor-motif, the fact of the matter is the guy has earned his reputation that seems inversely proportionate to his talent level. Which is fine. I mean, that's sort of what Americans do. For chrissakes, California's economy is the worst of any state in the nation, given the fact that the entire joint seems filled to the bursting point with celebutantes like Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian who don't have any real job and never will, but are somehow still household names regardless.

So, for today's soupçón of snark, I'll be taking a look at the hidden meaning behind "I'm on Fire", one of Mr. Springsteen's most egregiously watered-down compositions. Musically, it's even sparser than "U.S.A.", with a messily arpeggiated guitar, and a wall-clock drum track that is more insulting to Max Weinberg's skill level than anything Conan O'Brien's ever done to him in sixteen seasons. But I'm not concerning myself with the music, for now. Music is subjective. It's lyrically that this turd really "shines."

Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

This passage is, not surprisingly, exactly what it appears to be: A craggy old man delivering a subtle-as-a-sledgehammer come-on to a would-be female paramour. He's got a "mad desire," which, when speaking of the less-fair sex, typically only means one thing. Fine, whatever. A lot of rock music comes much more from the groin than the heart. Not necessarily all that unusual.

However, it's the subtext that has always bugged me. Mostly, because he's asking if her father is home. Presumably, this is because Bruce wants to get his crusty old freak on without having to deal with running into some sort of overprotective paternal warden. Which means she lives at home. And of course, in the current zeitgeist, the financial state of which has millions returning to the safe haven of parental basements, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. But given that this song was written in 1985, one can assume that she's living with her father because she is a minor.

Going further, because there apparently exists the possibility that Papa has "[gone] away and left [her] all alone," it's safe to assume she's of the age where she's not in need of a sitter. Which means by some yardsticks, she could be as young as 13 or so. I'm guessing that this is likely the case, being as Bruce referred to the man he's hoping isn't around to spoil his good time as "daddy," like a little girl would. I'm sorry that you have to think about that now. But there it is.

Even so, it gets worse.

Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

Oh, JESUS.

Look, I'm gonna pull the cards away from my vest here a little bit. I spent a good chunk of the last decade doing some volunteer work dealing with the problem of child sexual predators. I've testified in several court cases as a prosecution witness, given talks to police organizations regarding the ever-changing tactics of the predator, and even been tapped as an "expert" in order to give topic-specific on-camera sound bites to television stations doing stories on the subject. So, I'm a little more than familiar with the tactics of the prowling pervo. And "tell me now baby is he good to you / does he do to you the things that I do" is rife with so much Sex Offender 101 "logic" that it could be a case study all by itself.

To begin with, he opens up with the wheedling term of endearment of "baby," which, while kinda cute among married couples, rather gives marching orders to the epidermis in light of the previous. Then, "Is he good to you" attempts to frame as "positive" that which immediately follows; namely, "does he do to you the things that I do." I'll let you fill in the blanks yourself. But in doing so, be sure to consider the choice of words: "Does he do TO you." Not FOR you, but "TO you." Again, I'm not really going to spell it out for you.

As if that's not bad enough, Bruce follows it up with: "I can take you higher." Which sounds suspiciously like, "I'm sure you enjoy being molested by your father, but trust me...You'll enjoy it even more when I do it."

Take it from someone who knows: the manipulation inherent in these phrasings isn't just common among predators...It's more or less ubiquitous. As are the questions themselves about whether or not the intended victim has any background with being abused, and whether or not they "liked" it. And, if I may refer back to the first verse for a moment: in my experience the query about whether there's a parent around is one of the first that usually arises when any predator is sussing out a potential target. This, notwithstanding that our "protagonist" is asking only about a father. Whether this is a reflection of his own masculine insecurity as depicted in verse two, or because Dad is a single parent (who probably has enough to worry about with raising a teenage daughter even BEFORE creepy, gravel-voiced Americana crooners come poking around her bedroom window) cannot be inferred from the information supplied.

The mind boggles.

Then, it's onto what's passing for the bridge:

Sometimes its like someone took a knife baby
Edgy and dull
And cut a six-inch valley
Through the middle of my soul

Yeah, because YOU'RE the real victim, here. The horrible illicit yearning for the physical company of a teenager coupled with the societal and parental obstacles you have to overcome to get there must be so very AWFUL for you.

And c'mon...six inches is not a "valley," Bruce. Shit, it's not even a ditch. It's more like something a kid would dig into a garden with a stick to move watering-can sprinklin's among the dandelions. And besides, "edgy and dull"? Make up your fucking mind, man. Which is it? It can't be both. And that's putting aside for the moment the deeply-unsettling imagery of a dull, six-inch instrument of assault doing damage to someone's soul. I promise, if there's a six-inch weapon involved in this transaction that's going to do damage to ANYONE'S soul, chances are, it's gonna be hers. Talk to me in 10 years when you're nursing your sixth beer under the glowing buzz of the neon "GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!" sign, and wondering why the dead-eyed stripper mechanically gyrating against the pole 20 feet away looks so doggoned familiar, anyhow.

At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet
And a freight train running through the
Middle of my head

Oh, God. PLEASE let the sheets be "soaking wet" because you were sweating, or I will never stop throwing up. I guess it depends on whether the freight train in his head just went into a tunnel, or not.

Assuming that the waking-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night is a panic thing, I'm thinking it's possible that someone's got a case of the guilties, maybe?

Only you can cool my desire
Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

I guess that WAS too much to hope for. No, he's sweating because the carnal craving he has for a child is too much to bear, and it's gotten to the point where it's interrupting his sleep. He's managed to convince himself that only SHE holds the keys to his well-being. Lovely. I'm sure any woman who at any point had second thoughts about the way things were going once the ball got rolling is well-acquainted with justifications like that. "It's PAINFUL if I stop! Guys HAVE to once they get turned on! You don't understand!" Uh-huh. Cry me a river. If we're both lucky, you might turn that six-inch valley into a wee li'l babblin' brook filled entirely with your sadness!

Christ.

Also, at the risk of cluttering things any further, I suppose it's too much to hope for in an overall sum-up sense that "I'm On Fire" refers only to his perversely sick-headed youth-lust, and NOT some crotch-clap that ACTUALLY burns. Because the only thing sweeter than raping a kid is dumping off a little chlamydia in the bargain.

Now, don't get me wrong. Am I suggesting that Bruce Springsteen, American treasure, and celebrated bearer of the quintessential American Songwriter torch that John Mellencamp has coveted since before he was Cougar is a full-on, unrepentant pedophile? Not at all. It's just given that all that I've come to understand about the mindset of their revolting ilk, he certainly seems to be able to convincingly write lazy, crappy little three-minute pop ditties from their perspective.

Of course, maybe I'm right. Maybe he IS a sex-crazed maniac. It certainly would explain why three of his albums were called "Human Touch," "Tunnel of Love" and "The Rising," would it not?

You're welcome.

Diary of Fools: Tune Translator Vol. 1

By Merton Sussex, Chairman of the Bored

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.

To that end, there are often online articles which purport to "break down" or "explain" some of the more confusing offerings of the current musical spectrum. Most recently, I stumbled upon this blog, which attempts to do just that. It addresses some of the more commonly-misinterpreted songs of recent years, but it does so badly. Most of the "insight" it attempts to render is either forehead-slappingly obvious, or dead wrong.

So, it occurred to your ol' Uncle Mert that shining the unforgiving light of close scrutiny upon pop music and it's often-impenetrable lyrics might be an under-served niche in the online world. And so, you have to deal with this: The Diary of Fools Tune Translator.

First up is an old favorite: The Violent Femmes' "Blister in the Sun."

To begin with, songs about...shall we say, "self-love" are legion in the rock lexicon. From the Buzzcocks' "Orgasm Addict" to Billy Joel's "Captain Jack," through Cyndi Lauper's "She Bop," and Green Day's "Longview," there have historically been as many songs about you-know-what as there are euphemisms for it (e.g., "Cuppin' the Bishop," "Punching the Parrot," and "The Five-Knuckle Shuffle." Or, if you're a lady, "Rubbin' the Nubbin," "Flickin' the Bean," or "The Slit Slide"). So it's not surprising that it's a theme that gets applied to a lot of songs whether it fits, or not.

One such song to which the overall idea of the dolphin-flog is erroneously applied is the Violent Femmes' 1981 folk-punk hit, "Blister in the Sun."

That's correct, "Blister In The Sun" is NOT, as is frequently assumed, about pounding the pole. It's actually a writ-large expression of anger and frustration on the part of the character sung by Gordon Gano (no doubt informed by Gano's experience, which lends it a semi-autobiographical bent) concerning a particularly painful sunburn.

I'll explain.

When I'm out walking I strut my stuff
Yeah I'm so strung out
I'm high as a kite I just might
Stop to check you out

This passage refers to the protagonist's having headed out on a hot, sun-bright day, and finding himself struck by the symptoms of heatstroke. The line, "I'm high as a kite" obviously refers to the light-headedness typical to the onset of the condition, and the reference to being "strung out" is an allusion to the subsequent fatigue sufferers experience. Anyone who's had heatstroke can attest to the accuracy of this reference.

Further: it's well-known that the Violent Femmes began their career in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, which is prone to exceptionally harsh, long-lasting winters, as well as summer-like spring conditions that tend to arrive quite suddenly, sometimes almost overnight. Ergo, every year, countless victims of heatstroke wind up in area hospitals because they're so eager to get out and enjoy the weather that they fail to take adequate precautions against the heat, such as drinking sufficient fluids, and using sunscreen to protect themselves from the sudden climatic change.

At the end of the phrase, "I just might / stop to check you out" refers to Gano (or his character/surrogate) having his activity ground to a halt by the harshness of the conditions.

But that's not all. The song continues:

Body and beats I stain my sheets
I don't even know why
My girlfriend shes at the end
She is starting to cry

"Body and beats" is a reference to the suns rays having "beaten" down on his "body", leaving him feeling "beaten." And the aforementioned eagerness to enjoy spring and failure to prepare for the seasonal condition change is reflected by the line, "I don't even know why." Both the typically endemic disorientation from the onset of heatstroke, and the typical Milwaukee resident's omission of protective clothing, fluids and sunscreen when rushing outdoors, have left him unsure of what, exactly, has happened to him.

Of course, "I stain my sheets" is not an allusion to semen as some have reasoned. It's actually a reference to the Solarcaine® and other Aloe-based topical analgesic/anasthetic products his girlfriend has apparently applied to his epidermis in a vain attempt to soothe the pain and damage caused by the solar radiation over-exposure. She is crying, because she's "at the end." This is a clever double-entendre referring both to her having applied so much of the attendant ointments (out of overcompensation for trying to match the burn's severity) that she's run out of them, and her emotional overreaction ("she is starting to cry") at seeing someone she cares about in pain, leaving her "at the end" of her wits and patience.

Of course, as anyone who's suffered a severe sunburn knows, the burn damage continues to ravage your skin long after you remove yourself from direct UV exposure, which is why pain worsens, and blisters continue to form well into the next day...No doubt the phenomenon that inspired the title.

Once you know the real story, it all becomes clear, doesn't it?

Interestingly, the Violent Femmes' critically-panned and poor-selling second record, "Hallowed Ground," while widely considered to be a stylistic departure for the band (due to a strong undercurrent of Christian influence having crept into the work following singer-songwriter Gano's conversion to the faith following the eponymous LP), is in fact a concept album that's totally about beatin' it.