We’re back online: Now with more 80s!

Within the past few months, I found myself graduating from college, moving across country, and adopting a dog. While the last one is arguably the most awesome of the three, all of them left me scrambling for free time and internet access, in that order.

Things are settling down, though, which leaves me time to go back to resurrecting music. See, my anthropology degree is coming in handy already.

First on the block is a little ditty that has seriously ensnared my soul. Paul Simon’s You Can Call Me Al. It’s probably the combination of those fake synthesizer horns and the back up humming/chanting that emphasizes certain words and phrases throughout the verses that really does it. Regardless of the reasons, this song snatched a large portion of my attention span and whisked it away. The lyrics, while doubtlessly cryptic, are entertaining, and I now find myself occasionally mumbling “don’t want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard”.

The music video only further cemented my love of this song. The concept is so simple, but well executed. Chevy Chase joins Paul Simon in a room, and starts singing at the beginning of the song, confusing Paul Simon, who spends the rest of the music video looking bored and sullen. Chevy Chase, of course, nails his performance. Go watch it.

Eddie Money with Take Me Home Tonight comes in second place for soul stealing. The way the synthesizer tiptoes through the verses and then falls away to let the chorus erupt is perfect. It really makes you want to jump around and dance, which works out well for me, since I live on the first floor of my apartment complex. At least now all my neighbors question my sanity, which might come in handy later. Being a fan of my Complete Top Billboard Hits of the 1960s set makes me enjoy Ronnie’s vocals in the song, too. She’s amazing.

This is another dynamite music video. Also simple, but way more rock n’ roll. You can tell Eddie is having a great time rocking out by himself on that stadium stage, and Ronnie, despite however old she may have been when this was filmed, embodies bad girl femininity. I love it.

Next up to the chopping block is a song that has stolen my soul a couple times over the years, but it can get so infuriatingly stuck in my head that I always go to great lengths to oust it, despite potential psychiatric of physical pain involved. Then, like an Alzheimer’s patient, four months later, I say, why haven’t I heard that song lately? I really like that song. And the cycle of pain continues.

Patty Smyth/Scandal’s The Warrior is the song in question. You’re right, the song makes no sense. At all. No matter who I consult, no one can help me piece together the right pieces that would make this song make sense. Regardless, the beat is alluring, and being able to scream both “I am the warrior” and “Bang Bang!” while doing 70 miles per hour down the highway, without looking like you pose a danger to those around you, is pretty amazing.

This music video gets credit for creativity, but I really want to know what’s up with the complex theatrical and stupid 80s music videos. I thought the Bonnie Tyler music video took the cake, but this one might come out on top. At the beginning of Patty Smyth’s music video I think “Oh, warrior, I get it. She’s the heroine, he’s the bad heart breaker guy.” That image fits just up until 6 seconds into the song when those two people dressed up in blue fairy/bird/fish suits make an entrance. Then all hell breaks loose. I know when I ballet fight someone, I generally wear fishing nets all over me.

One super plus in this video is that Patty Smyth is adorable. The way she struts and dances makes me want to give her a hug. Her face paint looks good, too. I think it blows Ziggy Stardust out of the water, but that might be because she doesn’t look like a corpse.

What to pair these songs with alcoholically speaking?
A root beer shot. Fill a shot glass with root beer schnapps, light it on fire, and drop it into a mug of beer. drink heartily and quickly, lest the beverage end up everywhere except in your stomach.

Some sort of comparison to my sanity could probably be made here, but I think I’ll refrain.