Hereunder

Enrico Sings

Gentle visitors, no doubt you have read something of the travails and menaces faced by our melodious friend Enrico over the past year.  (We speak of Enrico Roselli, not Caruso -- though the latter, likewise, was Italian-made and could belt out a tune.)

Now, Enrico is singing again.  We hired him out over the holidays to a friend whose Beantown-based family has the quaint custom of sponsoring a talent show during Christmastide, wherein the several aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, first cousins (even once or twice removed) display their gifts, which may otherwise remain hidden during the rest of the year (and, perhaps, with good reason). 

In any case, this friend donned false pigtails and breeches, and undertook to play Enrico, accompanied by a small ukelele players.  Honorable and good, you might say; but, all the while she was uttering demeaning and defamatory remarks concerning accordions or accordion culture, apparently in an attempt at humor, such as the following:

Q: What's the definition of a gentleman?
A: Someone who knows how to play the accordion, but doesn't.

Q: What's the difference between an onion and an accordion?
A: No-one cries when you chop up an accordion.

Q: What's the difference between an accordion player and a terrorist?
A: Terrorists have sympathisers.

Q: Why do some people automatically hate accordionists?
A: It saves a lot of time.

Q: What does a long court hearing and a bad accordionist have in common?
A: There is always a huge sigh of relief when the case is closed.

Q: What is the song most requested of accordionists?
A: Can you play Far, Far Away.

Well, they can laugh all they want, gentle Visitors:  we would only note that the decline of accordion playing and popularity over the last 40 years has almost exactly corresponded to the decline of Western Culture during the same period.  Coincidence?

And, do not be distressed: while Enrico has been gone, we still had the squeeze-box formerly known as Princetti at home.  This beauty had long been neglected by a Poor Relation-in-law -- indeed, there is some evidence that he had not picked it up, except to move it, since 1967.  It seems that circa 1963, he had wanted nothing more than an electric guitar, that he might strum it according to the wild and clamorous style of the time.  His wise mother, however, insisted on the accordion, judging it a harmonious and beneficial treatment for childhood asthma.

Of course, we have since come to learn that the accordion probably offered limited benefits for this purpose -- unless the bellows were used as a transplant for the lungs, in which case each deep breath would have put one in mind of Lawrence Welk.   

We ask you:  what could be more wunnerful?

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Jokes courtesy Accordions Worldwide.

Putting Words In Your Mouth

Lyrical ideas have dominated my thoughts for a long time.

Or perhaps I should say that ideas about lyrics have dominated my thoughts for a long time.

Popular music is a compelling expression of many things, among them, emotion, culture, and wit. The best music marries the music itself with lyrics of beauty, strength, cleverness, or humor. I hope to look at these types of lyrics in the future.

But for today, I am interested in bad lyrics. But not just bad lyrics -- rotten lyrics. The worst lyrics you can possibly imagine. Not just nonsense lyrics of the Maresy Doats variety. Like them or not, songs like that are almost tolerable since they do not presume to take themselves seriously. The really horrible songs, however, employ lyrics that combine self-satisfying gravity and importance with ridiculous sentiment and just plain awful word choice.

I hope to roll out a few of the best, by which I mean the worst, songs I have come across in my many decades of musical enjoyment, and I hope you will join in with your own.

My first nominee is “Jesse’s Girl,” written in 1981 by rock “star” and sometime soap opera “actor” Rick Springfield. The lyrics to this song are so bad, they will make you laugh. When you are not laughing, you likely will be retching. Take a look.

Jesse's Girl

Jesse is a friend
Yeah, I know he’s been a good friend of mine
But lately something’s changed that ain’t hard to define
Jesse’s got himself a girl and I wanna make her mine

And she’s watchin’ him with those eyes
And she’s lovin’ him with that body, I just know it
And he’s holding her in his arms late, late at night
You know I wish that I had Jesse’s girl
I wish that I had Jesse’s girl
Where can I find a woman like that

I play along with the charade
That doesn’t seem to be a reason to change
You know I feel so dirty when they start talkin’ cute
I wanna tell her that I love her, but the point is probably moot
Cos she’s watchin’ him with those eyes
And she’s lovin’ him with that body, I just know it
And he’s holding her in his arms late, late at night

You know I wish that I had Jesse’s girl
I wish that I had Jesse’s girl
Where can I find a woman like that
Like Jesse’s girl
I wish that I had Jesse’s girl
Where can I find a woman
Where can I find a woman like that

And I’m lookin’ in the mirror all the time
Wonderin’ what she don’t see in me
And I’ve been funny, I’ve been cool with the lines
Ain’t that the way love supposed to be
Tell me
Where can I find a woman like that

You know I wish that I had Jesse’s girl
I wish that I had Jesse’s girl
I want Jesse’s girl
Where can I find a woman like that
Like Jesse’s girl
I wish that I had Jesse’s girl
I want, I want Jesse’s girl

Copyright © 1981 Rick Springfield, RCA Records

First off, I include the copyright only out of sense of propriety, since it is beyond comprehension that anyone would steal these lyrics or falsely claim their ownership.

I also note that Mr. Springfield’s search for a woman like Jesse’s is very likely to be made more difficult by a past that includes having written lyrics like these. And while he tells us that he’s “been funny” and “cool with the lines” with Jesse’s unnamed girl, I have a feeling that a guy with a gift such as his for turning a phrase is more likely to have been Strange-funny than funny of the “haha,” charm-the-clogs-off-my-best-friend’s-girl sort. I have no difficulty in believing that Mr. Springfield spends lots of time looking in the mirror; unfortunately, whatever else Jesse’s girl does not see in him, she does not see a poet.

Not to put too fine a point on it, these lines -- “You know I feel so dirty when they start talkin’ cute, I wanna tell her that I love her, but the point is probably moot” -- are probably the worst and stupidest couplet in the history of the English language. These lines manage to be simultaneously illogical, silly, offensive, and voyeuristic. I will put those 25 words up against any other 25 words in the history musical lyrics as a measure of sheer idiocy.

As Yeats could have told Mr. Springfield, “Hearts are not had as a gift. But hearts are earned.” Unfortunately, I have a feeling that these two poets run in different circles.

Originally posted by Palinurus.

The Honor of Don Castagnari

Don Castagnari lit his cigar, puffed several times, then took it from his mouth and looked at the glowing end. Before him sat Luigi "The Lip" Pigini.

"Lip, I asked you to come in because -- go ahead, have a cigar -- because I need you to do a piece of work for me."

The Lip took a cigar and sniffed the length of it. "Of course, boss ," he said, patting his pockets for a lighter, "Uh..., may I ask who dis guy is."

The Don puffed slowly. "Roselli. Enrico Roselli. He spent a long time in the pen down in Alabama of all places. God knows how he got pinched down there. Anyhow, he got out, and now he's back."

The Lip eyed the lighter at the Don's right hand. "Roselli...Roselli.... I don't know da name, boss."

"He's old news. Small time. Used to do some work for Gabbanelli and Giustozzi."

"Okay," said The Lip, alternatively mouthing the unlit cigar and regarding it with feigned satisfaction.

"He's been back for a while now, but he hasn't come in to see me." Castagnari leaned forward in his leather chair. "It's a matter of honor, Lip. A man comes back after many years away, then doesn't come to see me." He shook his head. "It's disrepect."

"Absolutely," said The Lip. "Boss, you want I should use concertina wire for this."

"No," said The Don, "You can use a concertina, but don't pop him. I'll give him a pass this time. Just put the squeeze on -- somethin nice, like, maybe, a Palermo polka."

"Uh, boss, no disrespect, but how about a Siracusa sonata. Sounds kinda, you know, melodeon."

"Whatever. Just make sure his, shall we say, 'bass keys' don't work for a while."

The Lip gripped his cigar between his fingers. "Ha! Dis guy'll be singin real high."

The Don exhaled a long stream of smoke. "Yeah. Like a soprano."

"Boss," The Lip laughed, "You kill me... I mean figurative like." Then, he quickly kissed The Don's ring and exited.

The Don looked at his cigar and sighed. "You can't find good buttons anymore."

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The Secret Life of Accordions

Some years ago, Gary Larson, the creator of "Far Side", drew a wonderful cartoon in two panels: in the top panel, a happy deceased appears at the pearly gates, where an angel hands him an instrument, saying, "Welcome to Heaven. Here's your harp;" in the bottom panel, an unhappy deceased enters the unquenchable fires, where a devil hands him an instrument, saying, "Welcome to Hell. Here's your accordion."

Your humble Contributor is feeling very welcome anymore, now that one of the other Householders has taken up the accordion.

Specifically, it is a Princetti circa 1958, which belongs to one of the other Poor Relations, who made a name for himself in 1961 with his interpretation of "Lady of Spain" for an audience of whoever happened to be visiting on a Sunday afternoon or those gathered at the 'old folks home' (a term now offensive to all but those whose currently live in old folks homes). Alas, he has not put the squeeze on lately; so, he generously offered it as a loaner, along with the music for "Carnival of Venice" and sufficient dust to trigger an asthma attack.

Princetti -- the name strongly suggests an Italian make (apparently, the preeminent homeland of concertinas on up) -- and, perhaps, one of the better makes of accordion (if that comparative may be used to describe this free-reed).

Perhaps it is unfair that this boisterous, bellowing, mellifluous instrument has been associated with Gihenna. After all, one cannot listen to Frankie Yankovic and His Yanks without a faint stirring of something good in his heart. Think about it: would the most keilbasa-hardened polka-palooka not be brought to tears by "Who Stole The Keeshka?" Indeed, recall the moving poetry the accordion has inspired.

The truth is that accordions have become, once again, chic. This might have started when "Weird Al" postmodernized cousin Frankie's melodies. Now, secret accordionists are emerging from the closet and asserting their pride. The search is now on for the "hottest accordionists", who fairly channel Lawrence Welk, and there's a waiting list for the accordion fantasy cruise. The more cultured among us might visit the Cleveland Accordion Museum.

Gentle visitors, it simply may be time to re-assess the spiritual status of the accordion.