Radio Play By guest contributer S- So how it came to be that I was a radio listener, albeit briefly, was thus: I got a car. And it seemed annoying and pointless to haul out the portable CD player and its attendant tangle of auto-adaptive wiring, plug it in to the ancient and shitty car stereo to listen to the three or four songs I would hear on my invariably short drives. So the radio: easy. Turn it on and hope for the best. I started with 104.5 and quickly abandoned it when I heard Eric Clapton and James Taylor each twice in as many days. My friend K. is a big fan of 97.3, and since I've never been offended by her musical tastes, I tried it out. 97.3 was...well it was ALICE and it sucked so much. Fiona Apple stopped giving me the warm fuzzies years ago. And on I went, 94.9, 93.3, 107.7 (THE BONE!!) and finally settled on 105.3 as their DJs were the least annoying and they seemed to offer up some consistently tolerable programming. And so I reaccquainted myself with some of the poppy crap that passes for "alternative" music these days, and tapped my toes accordingly. All was well with the world. Except one thing. One little song. It wasn't "Stacey's Mom", which inexplicably grew on me. It wasn't the new White Stripes single which, while not without charm, was getting a wee bit tiresome. It was fucking OutKast and "Hey-Ya." Ohmygod that fucking song made me crazy. I'd complain loudly to everyone, waiting for the melodious chorus of agreement that would commence the delicious OutKast bashing. It never happened. Instead, my vituperative comments were met with, "What?! That song rocks!" or "It's not THAT bad," or, my favorite, "Have you seen the video?" as apparently, the video to the cussed song is, like, the best ever. Fuck y'all, I don't have cable. But despite all of this, I stuck by my controversial opinion of "Hey-Ya" because I am SO rock n roll (insert sarcastic eye roll here) and I'm not gonna put up with that crap. But did I turn that dial when that festering wound of sound came on the radio, as it did constantly? Nope. Much like the awful visage of George W. Bush appearing on the TV or in the newspaper, I am replete with fantastic loathing, yet utterly compelled to savage my mind with the accompanying drivel and certain offense. You know, the train wreck thing. So it became an indelible part of my reality. It was awful. I would find myself, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, unmindful of the lyrics imprinting themselves forever in my memory even as I groaned and yelled at the DJ "Get a longer playlist you fucking moron!" And then something wonderful happened. The Supersuckers, the greatest rock n roll band in the world (not debateable, so don't even start) covered the evil, annoying song. They made it beautiful. There I was plied with PBR and rock n roll, pressed on all sides by a warm and squirming mass of people at Cafe Du Nord, singing, dancing, LOVING that despicable song. I am ashamed to say, I "broke it down." You just can't say no to Eddie Spaghetti. Hating it will never be the same, thanks to the lovely
and talented Supersuckers.
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