RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,243
('the pop-world syndicate')
I think the most egregious use of
skip-rhyme, in a simple, pop-song,
sense, was the curious effort of
rhyming 'apples' with 'Indianapolis,'
as in a song from the late 1960's
(I think), by Roger Miller. It was
later, and further on, a song-hit
for a guy named O.C. Smith, and
Glen Campbell too, among others.
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I have nothing against the song.
It's fine as that stuff goes; a tame
and thoughtful, maybe, combination
of the usual treacle and sentiment
that makes popular songs what they
are - or once were anyway. I always
thought that one gauge of that - the
re-usable factor of triteness in pop
music - was seen by how many
other performers tap into the song;
30, 50, 100 different versions, and
many people trying it. The more
dilute-able the song is, the easier
it is to spread around, numbly. Once
a 'standard,' it's 'Hello Las Vegas!'
-
Probably, 'predictability' is the key
word here - the little rhyming
couples must bounce, engage. take
the listener somewhere, and -
along with some of 'pleasing' form
of melody and lilt, carry those same
listeners along. Which is what this
sentimental song did, but with the
added, sudden, attraction of that
word 'Indianapolis' - thrown in,
sudden, and with a leap too! Who
would have thought of such a
striking effort to bridge the lazy
pace of sentiment with the far-throw
of an unexpected rhyme, or 'assumed'
rhyme anyway. When I first heard
that, way back whenever, it did, yes,
throw me. I'd always heard, and
read, the 'poetry' nugget that the
one word in the English language
that had no rhyme was 'orange.'
That was all 'textbook' stuff, and
told and given, usually, by people
seeking safety in 'writing courses,'
workshops or seminars. Missing
the entire point of their endeavor,
they sought safety in the ways
and means of being 'instructed'
what not to do, what wouldn't work,
and how they should never venture
outside any norms of pace and
inclusion while they wrote. All
so stupid - they encapsulated
their won dullness, and called it
'writing.'
-
Yes, the Internet - with its 15 zillion
'poetry' sites, groups, and collectives,
all toe-ing the same BS line of what
once was called normalcy yet now is
called 'poetry' - is chock-full of such
stand-out clubs of the hurt and the
broken-hearted; pondering the very
universe they walk through in the
selfsame manners of dwarfs and
eunuchs of sentimentality. None
dare strike out. None dare step
over the line of their 'regularity.'
-
I suppose that I'm being as bold
an asshole as I can be by saying
that - and it is 'incorrect' and far
too general in its strike-path, for
there are many-enough fine folks
whose work I see and read, that
surpass my own feeble and often
odd attempts. I guess what I'm
really saying is more pep-talk
than anything : forget the rules;
go for 'Indianapolis' whenever
you can.
-
Back in my formative years (yes,
kiddies, I'm by now just another
old and tragic figure, and one who
has said a large 'NO!' to the 21st
century, and the last part of the 20th
as well), of the 1960's and beyond,
the sort of 'revolutionary' pap that
was foisted upon us amounted to
not much more than, as today, an
organized propaganda. It had a
thousand forms : the seedy crapola
of, say Crosby, Still, and Nash, used
as catchword and breakthrough music,
with or without old one-string Neil
Young, ended up as deflated, flaccid
and moribund as 'Our House,' or
'Teach Your Children Well.' Good
God, it was a long-way down, to
say nothing of the hedonism of
'Suite Judy Blue-Eyes' and her
garden-smelling hair. What in the
world were those morons ever
thinking about. (Curiously, one
of the more cloaked-in-shadows
figures of those days is 'Mysterious
Bassist Greg Reeves.' Shunted
aside, little acknowledged, kept
in the shadows, and certainly never
granted an 'R,' in what rightly
should have been CSN&R, in
those days. Stranger sorts of
racism, I guess, there were then,
so that this one got glossed over.
-
One after the other, these high-hats
of pop-drivel hammered home their
kindly but pathetic song-homilies
which - in the end - proved no
more revolutionary that whatever
mass-mind messaging was sent out;
from the Who to the Beatles to Bob
Dylan to the Rolling Stones. All crap,
albeit occasionally and grindingly
engaging, but, in the long-run, as
conservative as weasel-dust and
drugs. Groupies, groundhogs,
and fleet-fingers too. The entire
world was, and is, a gimmick,
presented to you by the men who
stayed behind the curtains, busily
manipulating it all. No matter the
changing fashions, seasons or
styles, the pop-world syndicate
was in control, and quite steady.
Everyone was a sell-out; from
Sweet Baby James (Taylor) to
the so-aptly-named Big Brother
& the Holding Company, with
their rascally big-sister, Janis.
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