I Hate Music

5
Feb 01

We Put The A In Accordian

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By far and away the pinacle in imaginary They Might Be Giants awfulness – We Put The A In Accordian – is an almost prog-rock type number which explains almost their entire career away as some sort of sad, sorry joke. It is only a matter of time before Ben Folds Five do a similar tune about a piano – this is a brief history of the accordion in rock music. Or should I say accordian? Well, according (nice wording – cheers) to the ones named after the “first half good, second half rubbish George C.Scott film” the equivalent to the electric guitar in the sqeezebox world should be spelt with an a at the end. this is partially – the song explains – due to it natural key, but mainly due to the fact that with that final A it sounds like a much more whiney instrument. We Put The A In Accordian is supposedly played in that key – though frankly it is unlikely that key changes mean anything to TMBG. They also slide in other “clever” jokes such as the idea that in some sort of musical grading ceremony their career may be given an A. Only if preceeding “bismal” I would argue. In an attempt to make me write the word ironically, this is the only tune in their four thousand tune repetoire which does not employ a squeezebox. Ho fucking ho fucking ho.

(I would like to thank all that have made this gargantuan item possible – a parting shot before Tom makes me – the most popular thing on this site – go weekly. Most of all I would like to thank Christopher Virchow for his help on this particular item.)

2
Feb 01

Stephen King’s “The Carpet”

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Our cup overfloweth with sixth form humour with this classic. A direct descendant of the “Monster Mash”, just not as scary or potato based. Their Casiotone 400 “Scary Sounds” option button must have been pushed – as creapy wafty noises compete with an accordian to create a genuinely unatmospheric backing to some imagined pitch of theirs of Stephen King’s next best-seller. In doing so they not only misunderstand Mr King’s ouvre (who has been way out of “The” prefaced horror novels for at least fifteen years) but create a pastiche so unlikely that even Dean Koontz would not nick it. When they get on to the bit where the hearth rug eats much of a small town in Maine the record both becomes horrifically poor, and yet laughably tame. Therefore a masterpiece in self-contradiction.