Shady Song Lyrics: Rolling Stones Edition

It's been awhile since we did this--so let's get to it.

No one ever really listens to song lyrics, but song lyrics is where a whole boat load of crazy happens in music. We've covered Taylor Swift (she's obsessive!), The Beatles (John Lennon might murder you!), Broadway (misogyny is catchy!), romantic songs (loving old ladies and underage girls!) and years of holiday song analysis (Frosty is a criminal, and the drummer boy is violating noise ordinances!).

Now it's onto The Rolling Stones. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll stereotypes? Check. Check. And check.

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Song:  Stray Cat Blues
Written By:  Mick Jagger & Keith Richards
Lead Singer:  Mick Jagger
Album:  Beggars Banquet



How quickly can we have a song take a sexual undertone? Roughly fifteen seconds.

I hear the click-clack of your feet on the stairs
I know you're no scare-eyed honey.
There'll be a feast if you just come upstairs

Is it a Thanksgiving feast? I think he's referring to a Thanksgiving feast. I hope there's mashed potatoes! And pumpkin pie!

I can see that you're fifteen years old
No I don't want your I.D.
And I can see that you're so far from home
But it's no hanging matter
It's no capital crime

Ah, I'm sorry, but I'm pretty certain that statutory rape gets you some jail time. Movie theaters are more strict with I.D.s to gain access to an R-rated movie than Mick Jagger is with gaining access to what's in his pants.

You say you got a friend, that she's wilder than you
Why don't you bring her upstairs
If she's so wild then she can join in too

"Why don't you bring her upstairs?" Because she doesn't enjoy having sex with a stack of firewood that we name Mick Jagger.

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Song:  Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby, Standing in the Shadow?
Written By:  Mick Jagger & Keith Richards
Lead Singer:  Mick Jagger
Album:  Big Hits (High Tide and Green Grass)



If we can have a parent not give a damn about their kid, how about the flip side of the coin and have an obsessive-compulsive mom?

Have you seen your mother, baby, standing in the shadow?

Apparently mom is no ninja if she's easily seen in the shadow. But maybe she heard that Jagger has a thing for young girls.

Have you seen your brother, baby, standing in the shadow?

Oh, so this is a family affair then. This must be one hell of a shadow that's being cast. Maybe someone might want to turn on some lights so people aren't squinting to see who's in the room. Or was the electric bill not paid on time?

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Song:  Happy
Written By:  Keith Richards
Lead Singer:  Keith Richards
Album:  Exile on Main St.



This is Keith Richards we're talking about, so I assume what makes him happy is copious amounts of heroin and cocaine, no?

Well I never kept a dollar past sunset,
It always burned a hole in my pants.

Heroin ain't cheap, my friends! And don't even talk about the prices for the nose candy.

Always took candy from strangers,
Didn't wanna get me no trade.

You call it heroin, Keith calls it candy--what's the dif? Who can pass up a free offer, stranger or not? But I'm shocked--shocked, I tell you--that a known drug addict had no desire to learn a trade.

Never got a flash out of cocktails,
When I got some flesh off the bone.
Never got a lift out of Lear jets,
When I can fly way back home.

Cocaine is one hell of a drug. What, is he Kate Winslet in Titanic ("I'm flying!")? Or--oh, God--was Kate Winslet's character a closet drug addict in the movie? Leo DiCaprio's character had that druggie vibe, I think we can all admit.

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Song:  Mother's Little Helper
Written By:  Mick Jagger & Keith Richards
Lead Singer:  Mick Jagger
Album:  Aftermath



If it's not sex or drugs, The Rolling Stones seemingly have an obsession with mothers in their songs. But can we get a song where we combine stay-at-home moms with all the allure of illicit pharmaceuticals?

What a drag it is getting old
"Kids are different today,"
I hear ev'ry mother say

Oh, that old complaint. Time to start banging the cane against the rocking chair and shaking a fist of indignation at all those young'ns!

Mother needs something today to calm her down
And though she's not really ill
There's a little yellow pill
She goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper
And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day

Pill poppin' soccer moms! In case you're wondering, the yellow pill he's talking about is Diazepam, better known as Valium. You try raising an SUV of little ankle biters day after day, week after week. You'd be running for a bottle of Valium, too.

Cooking fresh food for a husband's just a drag
So she buys an instant cake and she burns her frozen steak

Clearly she's no Julia Child. Of course she burned the steak--you need to properly defrost that in the fridge. And what's up with hubby's inability to cook for himself? He could at least stop at an Applebee's and pick up some overcooked, greasy takeout. But, noooo.

They just don't appreciate that you get tired
They're so hard to satisfy, You can tranquilize your mind
So go running for the shelter of a mother's little helper
And four help you through the night, help to minimize your plight

Four Valium just to get through the night? This is getting expensive. If this is a stay-at-home mom, where is she getting that sort of coin? Is she robbing her kid's savings? Where is she getting that bank?

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Song:  Brown Sugar
Written By:  mainly Mick Jagger
Lead Singer:  Mick Jagger
Album:  Sticky Fingers



If there's ever been a subject area in modern music that's been lacking, it's rocking songs with a solid guitar riff that refer to slavery.

Gold coast slave ship bound for cotton fields
Sold in a market down in New Orleans
Scarred old slaver knows he's doing alright
Hear him whip the women just around midnight

Whoa, whoa, whoa. This song turned into 12 Years a Slave right out of the gate here. Slave ships? Whipping? Is Brad Pitt going to pop up?

Brown sugar how come you taste so good?
Brown sugar just like a young girl should

Phew...that was close. I panicked there might not be sexual references to underage girls--but Mick squeezed one in there.

Drums beating, cold English blood runs hot
Lady of the house wonderin' where it's gonna stop
House boy knows that he's doing alright
You shoulda heard him just around midnight

So what we have going on here is a lovely blend of slavery and brutal abuse mixed with not-so-subtle allusions to oral sex. Seems like a natural combination. I can't understand why there haven't been more songs recorded like this.

I bet your mama was a tent show queen
And all her boyfriends were sweet sixteen
I'm no schoolboy but I know what I like
You shoulda heard me just around midnight

Well at least Mama has bumped up the age of her sexual partners to sixteen. That's practically legal in some eastern European countries.

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Song:  19th Nervous Breakdown
Written By:  Mick Jagger & Keith Richards
Lead Singer:  Mick Jagger
Album:  Released as a single



If you're having 18 nervous breakdowns, you might as well go big or go home and aim for the 19th.

You're the kind of person you meet at certain dismal, dull affairs
Center of a crowd, talking much too loud, running up and down the stairs

Listen, you can't have it both ways. If it's a dismal, dull affair, maybe someone talking loudly and doing wind sprints up and down the stairs might be a good thing.

Well, it seems to me that you have seen too much in too few years
And though you've tried you just can't hide your eyes are edged with tears

Well, aren't you just the psychotherapist?

When you were a child you were a treated kind,
But you were never brought up right
You were always spoiled with a thousand toys,
But still you cried all night

I'm confused. I was treated kind--but I was spoiled? Is that the gist? Because when I think of people who know good parenting skills, Mick Jagger is the first that comes to mind.

And how does he know if I cried? What, is he Santa Claus?

Your mother who neglected you owes a million dollars tax
And your father's still perfecting ways of making sealing wax

It wouldn't be a Rolling Stones song unless a mother was mentioned--and a neglectful one at that. And apparently this mom is a deadbeat with paying off debts. It could be the same soccer mom with the Valium addiction. It's all coming together now!

New James Bond novel shows a softer, gentler side.

Anthony Horowitz is writing the latest James Bond book, titled "Trigger Mortis," but admits this Bond isn't the same one we're used to reading in books or seeing on screen.

"My wife Jill Green [...] read the first draft and was quite angry about some of the language and some of the words I used and the descriptions," Horowitz told England's Radio Times.

"And she was right as she always is and I had to cut back and cut back. I had to really bring it back over the line again. Bond's whole attitude to women, although it's part of his character it doesn't really play very well these days."

And let's not forget Bond's smoking, which is a 30-a-day habit, created out of Bond's original writer Ian Fleming's own smoking habit.

"To give Bond his 30-a-day habit was against my instinct,” said Horowitz. To feel morally acceptable allowing Bond to smoke, Horowitz added a scene in the book where Bond reads a label about the dangers of smoking.

To recap, this Bond doesn't sleep around as much and is cognizant of the dangers of smoking.

In other words, future Bond novels will probably have him doing papier-mâché and taking a quality multivitamin, all while inviting the story's villain to come by for a lovely dinner of chicken Marsala.




Trigger Mortis? Really now? That sounds like the name of the worst Walt Disney character ever created.

The souvenir t-shirt to James Franco's 'Of Mice and Men' play isn't half bad.

New York Daily News theater critic Joe Dziemianowicz enjoyed the play (easy now, Franco!), but he really likes the souvenir $30 t-shirt for sale in the lobby.

Says Dziemianowicz :

It’s a souvenir shirt that sees the world through Lennie’s eyes — childlike and innocent. Even when the world is anything but.

I noticed the shirt as I was leaving the theater. That’s when a rabbit caught my eye.

Tiny, white and with long ears pointed straight up like side-by-side exclamation points, the critter was staring out at me from a black T-shirt on sale near the exit.

The last time a piece of clothing was this hypnotic to someone was Pippa Middleton's bridesmaid dress, and that didn't even come with a souvenir.




photos: New York Daily News

Male Nobel Prize winner says no woman is his equal.

Nobel Prize winner, V.S. Naipaul--known popularly in suburban books clubs as "Who's V.S. Naipaul?"--is famous among the literary set.

But it might be safe to say his fan base among women has dwindled slightly.

According to Salon, Naipaul was interviewed recently, and suggests that he can detect a woman writer whenever he reads. This might be because of psychic premonitions he's always kept on the down-low (how mysterious!)--or, possibly, he's just a misogynist. But it's more fun to pretend a Nobel Prize winner in literature has psychic abilities. It spices things up.

Anyway, Naipaul kept the misogyny bandwagon rolling in the interview, saying that no woman writer, alive or dead, was his equal, mainly because of "sentimentality, the narrow view of the world." It's funny when he talks about narrow views of the world because he's misogynistic. See how that works? Naipaul is a comedian! It's open-mic night at The Chuckle Hut!

His views on no woman equal includes Jane Austen--who he backhandedly comments that he couldn't "share her sentimental ambitions, her sentimental sense of the world."

At least Austen had sense. I'm going to go on a limb and say Naipaul long lost his.

Shady song lyrics: Broadway tunes edition.

The lid was blown off a wide variety of Christmas song lyrics a couple months back. Now it's time to give Broadway the same treatment and an examination of their own lyrics. Admittedly, I'm not a Broadway fan. But after looking at some of these lyrics I might need to give it a second thought. Wholesome? If these lyrics were any more wholesome they'd have to be eaten with oatmeal.

Song: Gee, Officer Krupke!

Written by: Stephen Sondheim

From: West Side Story

Gang violence never looked so dashing as it does in West Side Story. And like all typical gang members that you might find in New York City's seedier alleys, they're liable to bust out into song with a police officer around.

Dear kindly Sergeant Krupke,
You gotta understand,
It's just our bringin' up-ke
That gets us out of hand.
Our mothers all are junkies,
Our fathers all are drunks.
Golly Moses, natcherly we're punks!

I've always thought the DARE program lacked a musical vibe. It's good to get small children to watch West Side Story so they can be introduced to the concept of junkies at an early age and in such a toe-tapping manner. Plus, if there's anything I've learned from watching episodes of COPS, it's that the police always understand when you blame your upbringing for your bad behavior. It's like a verbal "Get Out of Jail Free" card.

Dear kindly Judge, your Honor,
My parents treat me rough.
With all their marijuana,
They won't give me a puff.

I might be looking into things here, but I think the guy just said his parents are potheads. But not just any potheads--they're potheads with a deep moral code. The kids don't get any. I like that in a pothead parent.

They didn't wanna have me,
But somehow I was had.
Leapin' lizards! That's why I'm so bad!

"Somehow I was had"? That's called gestation, buddy. Nine months. It happens to the best of us.

My father is a bastard,
My ma's an S.O.B.
My grandpa's always plastered,
My grandma pushes tea.
My sister wears a mustache,
My brother wears a dress.
Goodness gracious, that's why I'm a mess 

No one likes to see grandmas pushing tea. But with cuts in social security, it's bound to happen. Nursing home violence might erupt over some Earl Grey or Orange Pekoe. Forget marijuana--tea is the gateway drug of choice of the AARP crowd.

Song: Sixteen Going on Seventeen

Written by: Oscar Hammerstein

From: The Sound of Music

Maria von Trapp was all the women's lib one musical could withstand. The Sound of Music needed some old school macho man attitude to crop up somewhere. Cue nearly 18 year old Rolf:

You are sixteen going on seventeen
Fellows will fall in line
Eager young lads and roues and cads 

Will offer you food and wine
...
You need someone older and wiser
Telling you what to do
I am seventeen going on eighteen
I'll take care of you.

Meanwhile, Liesl--she of sixteen going on seventeen fame--is easily undertaken by such sweet nothings whispered by Rolf. And how can she not be? A teenage boy offering to boss you around? It's as if he's walked straight out of central casting for dreamy men. What a Casanova!

Liesl:

I am sixteen going on seventeen
I know that I'm naïve
Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet
And willingly I believe
...
Totally unprepared am I
To face a world of men
Timid and shy and scared am I
Of things beyond my ken
I need someone older and wiser
Telling me what to do
You are seventeen going on eighteen
I'll depend on you.

If you listen very, very quietly, you can hear Betty Friedan sobbing from her grave.

Song: It's a Hard-Knock Life

Written by: Martin Charnin

From: Annie

Ahh, child abuse and song. It goes together like peas and carrots. Misery often makes me break out into song, as it does for Annie here. Why, for example, whenever I see a commercial for starving children with distended stomachs in Third World countries, I often put on my dancing shoes and sashay the misery away.

Orphans:

It's a hard-knock life for us!
It's a hard-knock life for us!

Annie:

'Steada treated!

Orphans:

We get tricked!

Annie:

'Steada kisses!

Orphans:

We get kicked!

Why quibble over physical assaults on children? One person's kicking is another person's love tap. I'm sure closed-fist punching is just love coming at you at full speed.

Annie:

Cotton blankets,

Orphans:

'Steada wool!

Annie:

Empty bellies:

Orphans:

'Steada full!

Apparently we have high-society minded orphans here. Cotton blankets aren't good enough. Next, they'll be asking for 700 count Egyptian cotton sheets underneath down comforters on a memory foam mattress. I sleep with cotton blankets, and I'm not an orphan. I just look like one.

Orphans:

Ohhhh!!

Empty belly life!
Rotten smelly life!
Full of sorrow life!
No tomorrow life!

When all else fails in a Broadway musical, make sure to offer up some subtle hints at suicide. Someone better get the Samaritans on the phone.

Song: Bill
Written by: Oscar Hammerstein, with Jerome Kern and P.G. Wodehouse
From: Show Boat

Sometimes it's best to minimize expectations in a relationship. We always assume the one we'll marry will be flawless in every way. With Bill here, we see pragmatism at its very best.

I used to dream that I would discover
The perfect lover someday.
...

But along came Bill
Who's not the type at all,
You'd meet him on the street
And never notice him.

So, what she's trying to say is that Bill's an eye-catcher.

It's surely not his brain
That makes me thrill -
I love him because he's wonderful,
Because he's just my Bill.

That's right. Bill is kind of ugly and he's kind of dumb, but he shouldn't be offended. He's still a wonderful guy!

He can't play golf or tennis or polo,
Or sing a solo, or row.
He isn't half as handsome
As dozens of men that I know.
He isn't tall or straight or slim
And he dresses far worse than Ted or Jim.

That sound you hear of an engine revving is the sound of this woman hitting the gas as she runs over her husband with more sweet compliments. I'm going out on a limb here to say that Bill is probably a very patient, quiet man. He also might have scoliosis, since he isn't "straight." She can't even cut the man some slack for a spinal condition!

He hasn't got a thing that I can brag about.
And yet to be
Upon his knee
So comfy and roomy
Seems natural to me.

Oh, well, now that's the kind of sentiment Rolf from The Sound of Music can get behind. At least Bill has comfortable knees that the little lady can sit upon like a trophy wife. I think I need to see a chiropractor, because I just had a case of whiplash from seeing the song lyrics go from "My husband is a loser" to "I'm happy to be a trophy wife" in a matter of five lines. 

Ohh, Oscar Hammerstein! Your subtle jabs of misogyny make any Broadway production more of a sing-along!