Conventional wisdom about writing is conventionally wrong.
As a fan of music videos, and flash mobs, this sort of thing makes my day.
The classic. The all-time great: MC Hammer flash mob in some random LA clothing store.
This might be the same peoples. I love them. If they were for hire, I’d bring them for parties.
Even hippie ninja pirates type get into it, lulling you with their Singing in the Rain thing before busting out the Hammer.
Finally: The Boring Accountants dance badly, but at least they TRY, and have fun.
Bring back the ‘70s.
ABBA, John Travolta, bell bottoms, CANNONBALL RUN – and solid gold stuff like this music video, by a Spanish disco due named Baccara.
This isn’t insanely bad. You won’t need therapy or anything.
The song and video is simply fun to check out.
Things to watch and listen for:
Just when I thought there was no worse music video on the planet, here comes this blessed gem.
This has it all: Home-made superhero costumes. Bad dancing. Random violin duets that take over the entire video.
Sometimes, a book / music video / B-movie about swamp monsters can be so Bad, and so low-budget, that it circles back to Good.
This is not one of those times.
Watch this music video, and think about it. Then let’s talk, because this video raises all kinds of Serious Philosophical Questions.
Question No. 1: Is this woman a one-hit wonder, or are there more gems out there, waiting to be discovered?
Lisa Gail has a website and some kind of album, or at least seven songs you can listen to and buy with REAL MONIES, if your monies are able to travel over the Series of Tubes.
Question No. 2: Is it possible to watch this entire thing, start to finish?
Though it was a challenge, and I cannot recommend it if you have heart problems, I did it.
Question No. 3: Sound on or sound off?
Sound on.
Question No. 4: Has any mortal listened to Lisa Gail’s other songs, to determine they, also, have a 2nd degree black belt in awesomesauce?
I, personally, as in me, have not subjected my ears to her other snippets of song-like substances. If you do so, please give us the word in the comment section. That would be a public service.
Question No. 5: How in God’s green earth did she get all those men in cowboy boots?
This is the biggie, for me, right up there with “What existed before the Big Bang?” and “How can we truly know wrong from right without reading 4,923 pages of nonsense from Immanuel Kant about the categorical imperative?” and “If Snooki actually reproduces, will that cause the galaxy to implode?”
Sure, I could see any random singer being able to lasso her boyfriend / husband / son / neighbor kid into putting on Wranglers, cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat. However, these men are not all related to her, or married to her. It would be a stretch to call them professionals, but they aren’t a random group of people she was cooking grits for one morning.
There are three possibilities: (1) Lisa Gail is famous and successful down in Texas, and these men are volunteer fans, just like 30 Seconds to Mars has rabid fans who guest star in videos and such, (2) Lisa Gail spent a bunch of her own monies to hire the cutest local “models” and “dancers” she could possibly find or (3) these were the manliest men in the feed store on Sunday afternoon and she somehow has blackmail photos on all of them.
Question No. 6: Does she have the self-awareness to understand the irony of her lyrics?
There’s nothing wrong with being a singer, actor, author, director, politician, professor or TV anchor who isn’t some kind of supermodel. I actually prefer people with some character, and talent, rather than pure eye candy, because the eye candy types expect to skate by with no talent at all, and that gets boring real quick.
HOWEVER: If you are a singer making music videos, it’s one thing to be young and hot while you sing this sort of thing. It’s another thing to be older and hot and sing this sort of thing. You can even be uglier than a three-horned toad lizard, as in Lyle Lovett, but if you’ve got talent and charm, hey, it’ll work for you. You can have a long career and perhaps even get hitched to Julia flipping Roberts, at least for a weekend or three.
This is a polite way of saying, “Honey, if I was your man — and I definitely would not be, not if you were a billionaire who didn’t mind if I had six supermodel mistresses on the side — it’d be hard for me to look at YOU for three seconds.”
Also, the real Three Second Rule that every person knows is this: “Anything you drop on the floor for less than three seconds is still sanitary and kosher and fine.” After three seconds, you slip it to the dog. Except I would not slip this video to my dog, as the Hound of the Baskervilles has better taste.
If you like music — and who doesn’t? — you have to love music videos.
Last time, I took apart ELECTRIC AVENUE, one of the first music vids ever, and interesting stuff. Click here with your mousity mouse to read that post, watch the video and see the lyrics get all deconstructed.
You’d think there’d be a market for music videos, some kind of channel on the Glowing Tube where you played music vids — which the artists produce and hand to you, for free, just to get the publicity — while you charge GEICO and Miller Lite many, many dollars to run ads in between Lady Gaga freakouts and AC/DC classics.
I mean, the Glowing Tube only has 45,982 cable channels right now. There’s a market for this stuff, right? The last thing we need is more reality shows.
HOWEVER: let’s get on with dissecting ICE, ICE BABY by Vanilla Ice.
Here’s the video. Watch it.
He can dance, can’t he?
Now, let’s find our red pen and interpret the lyrics.
ICE, ICE BABY
Yo, VIP, let’s kick it!
(Hello, my listeners of high status. Should we start?)
Ice ice baby, ice ice baby
(The first part of my nickname is relevant, sweet-hearted stranger. My real name is not necessary information, although repetition may boost both my name recognition and my record sales.)
All right stop, collaborate and listen
(Halt whatever you’re doing and do your job, which is paying attention to me.)
Ice is back with my brand new invention
(I don’t want you to think that I’m a one-hit wonder. Think this song is good? I have many, many other creative rhymes and melodies that spring forth from my brain all the time.)
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
(When I get inspired by an idea, it consumes me.)
Then I flow that a harpoon daily and nightly
(After an idea for lyrics come to me, I practice 25 hours a day, just like Ahab and the whale or whatever.)
Will it ever stop? Yo, I don’t know
(Will I ever cease to be a creative and successful rapper, with loads of cash and girlfriends, and instead retire from the spotlight to Florida, where I remodel McMansions in hopes of turning a quick profit? That hypothetical situation is too ridiculous to even consider.)
Turn off the lights and I’ll glow
(I’m such a star, I create my own light)
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
(My singing and rhymes are so out of the ordinary, you should compare me to the barbarians who sacked Rome)
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle
(I can bring excitement to a stage while beating up other men who don’t have my talents, although this may be a metaphor, or a simile, or some other literary term that I can’t be bothered to pinpoint)
Dance, bum rush the speaker that booms
(My fans should gyrate with excitement and gather around the large black boxes that amplify my rhymes and backup band)
I’m killin’ your brain like a poisonous mushroom
(Though my songs are not literally poisonous, they do possess powerful addictive and paralyzing properties)
Deadly, when I play a dope melody, anything less that the best is a felony
(Like I said, potentially fatal poisonous mushrooms that should send me to prison)
Love it or leave it, you better gain way
(It’s advisable to retreat from my path, because I am so talented, tough and unstoppable)
You better hit bull’s eye, the kid don’t play
(If you try to stop me, it should be a fatal blow or shot, because my tolerance for non-fatal blows and bullets is quite low)
Chorus:
If there was a problem, yo, I’ll solve it
(Nothing is beyond my grasp)
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it
(This is a recurrent portion of my song that I stole from rock stars in the 1970s, and I want you to pay attention to how I’ve incorporated it into my rhymes)
Ice ice baby Vanilla
Ice ice baby Vanilla
Ice ice baby Vanilla
Ice ice baby Vanilla
Now that the party is jumping, with the bass kicked in, the Vegas are pumpin’
(The lowest registers of my song motivate people to dance)
Quick to the point, to the point no faking
(My lyrics go straight to the heart of the matter, as there’s no point in misdirection)
I’m cooking MC’s like a pound of bacon
(I beat competing lyricists so quickly and thoroughly, it’s as if they are healthy measure of pork bellies, fried on a skillet)
Burning them if they’re not quick and nimble
(Other rappers lose to me unless they possess exceptional speed and wits)
I go crazy when I hear a cymbal, and a hi hat with a souped up tempo
(The metal instruments of percussionists motivate me to dance and rhyme)
I’m on a roll and it’s time to go solo
(Though I don’t apparently have a band, my success is such that I should sing on my own)
Rollin in my 5.0, with my ragtop down so my hair can blow
(When I drive, I remove the top to my vehicle so the air currents can touch my blond locks)
The girlies on standby, waving just to say hi
(Women who see me try to get my attention because they would like to bear my children)
Did you stop? No, I just drove by, kept on pursuing to the next stop
(However, I don’t stop my vehicle, because such things are not unusual for me)
I busted a left and I’m heading to the next block
(So I will seek better opportunities in a different part of the city)
That block was dead, yo so I continued to A1A Beachfront Ave
(A square section of the city was not entertaining, so I went to where the ocean meets the land)
Girls were hot wearing less than bikinis, rock man lovers driving Lamborghini
(The women near the ocean were more attractive and wore fewer clothes, while successful men drove expensive Italian vehicles)
Jealous ’cause I’m out getting mine, Shay with a gauge and Vanilla with a Nine
(Other men of jealous of my prowess with women, so when I travel, my friend carries a shotgun and I bring a nine-millimeter pistol)
Ready for the chumps on the wall, the chumps are acting ill because they’re so full of eight balls
(Young males leaning against structures are dangerous, as they are intoxicated by a mixture of cocaine and heroin)
Gunshots ranged out like a bell, I grabbed my nine, all I heard were shells
(When young males used their weapons, I fired mine and listened to the casings hit the asphalt)
Fallin’ on the concrete real fast, jumped in my car, slammed on the gas
(Many bullets were expended, so I re-entered my vehicle and put my foot on the accelerator rather roughly)
Bumper to bumper the avenue’s packed, I’m tryin’ to get away before the jackers jack
(Though traffic was impossibly bad, I attempted to escape car hijackers before they could get to me and my expensive vehicle)
Police on the scene, you know what I mean, they passed me up, confronted all the dope fiends
(The authorities ignored me and instead confronted the young, intoxicated hooligans)
(Chorus)
Take heed, ’cause I’m a lyrical poet, Miami’s on the scene just in case you didn’t know it
(Pay attention to my rhymes and remember that the city of Miami, Florida is also a worthy center for musicians)
My town, that created all the bass sound, Enough to shake and kick holes in the ground
(Miami is well-known for music with low tones of such power that they make the ground and create cavities in the earth)
‘Cause my style’s like a chemical spill, Feasible rhymes that you can vision and feel
(The way I sing is as powerful as a toxic leak, and my words make you see and feel the things that I speak of)
Conducted and formed, this is a hell of a concept, We make it hype and you want to step with this
(Also, you will want to happily gyrate to the rhythm)
Shay plays on the fade, slice it like a ninja, Cut like a razor blade so fast, other DJ’s say, “damn”
(My partner also assists by appropriating pieces of music from other artists, and this causes intense jealousy)
If my rhyme was a drug, I’d sell it by the gram, Keep my composure when it’s time to get loose
(My songs are as addictive as the illegal narcotics sold on the street using a basic unit of weight from the metric system)
Magnetized by the mic while I kick my juice
(You will be hypnotized by the words amplified by an electric device that I sing into while performing a synchronized dance that will later be appropriated by the Back Street Boys)
(Chorus)
Yo man, let’s get out of here
(Friend, we should depart and end this song)
Word to your mother
(Please tell your maternal parent that I send my greetings and wish her well)
Ice ice baby
Too cold
Ice ice baby
Too cold too cold
Ice ice baby
Too cold
Ice ice baby
Too cold too cold
Now, this is interesting.
She just cranks this out, like it’s effortless to sing beautifully while spewing 150 bazillion words per second.
I don’t know her name. I don’t know the song.
I do know this: some record company exec with half a brain should SIGN HER UP.
The Red Pen of Doom 