Venturing into space has been a fertile theme for many musicians. You've got lots of Pink Floyd on this subject, most notably Dark Side of the Moon. Elton John did Rocket Man. And, of course, David Bowie recorded the best one: Space Oddity.
Until now.
Greasetruck proudly presents the greatest song ever recorded about space travel. This was inspired by the death of David Bowie and the last twenty minutes of Interstellar.
Spoiler: I only watched the the last twenty minutes of Interstellar, so I have no idea what the movie is about.
The Perks of Being an Astronaut
Let me see you with your red dress on,
the one you wore when we were young and dumb.
Because you know I'm going away,
when I get back it won't be the same.
They're pointing me at the stars,
six months I'll walk on Mars.
When I get home you know . . . you know how it goes . . .
The women, they will worship me, fall into my gravity.
So let's be real, I think you understand the deal:
when I touch down that rig, you won't be in my league.
But let's not think on that, just try to relax . . .
And let me see you with your red dress on,
no worries for what's to come.
And you can tell all the world,
you're such a lucky girl.
You got to crash with me, explore my galaxy
before my shit blows up, then there won't be enough
of me to go around, so last chance,
I'm still on the ground.
So come on baby, you got one last chance here, when I get home they're gonna throw me a parade and I'll be on TV and the papers are gonna want to know what kind of shirts I wear, and the women will be all over me and you saw Interstellar . . . you're gonna be all old and I'll still be young and hot like Matthew McConaughey, but if I get you pregnant tonight, then I can check out your daughter-- maybe hit that and it will be like old times . . . and you can put this in your memoir, you know.
A fortuitous sequence of events left me home alone this afternoon. One child is at a bowling/Chinese food/sleepover birthday party, the other went wandering around town with some friends, and my wife is out with the ladies on a shopping/drinking spree. So I put some scotch in my coffee, played some guitar on the back porch, and then-- once I finished my scotch/coffee-- I poured myself the last of my Switchback beer into a chilled pint glass, and I decided to try recording some audio with my laptop.
I did this mainly to inspire Whitney, who has been dragging his feet on setting up some recording equipment for years now. I think he might be intimidated by the insane amount of digital audio equipment available. While I love my desktop recording DAW, my two input analog/digital converter, and my excellent condenser microphone, the moral of the story is that you don't need any of that to record audio these days. We live in the future, and the most minimal equipment will do the job (and do it well). I recorded this song with a forty dollar Blue Snowball microphone and a very old laptop with GarageBand. I did it in my kitchen (because I was home alone!) It took thirty minutes to record it, convert it to an mp3, and get it up on SoundCloud.
It is weird for me to record a song in one take, and to sing and play guitar at the same time. Someday, you might hear this with drums and synths and all kinds of weirdness, but it honestly sounds fine without all that. Serendipitously, the annoying black poodle that my dog hates walked by during this recording, so you can hear Sirius barking throughout the song.
This is a really sad song. Sorry. There will be more songs to come, and maybe even an entire dog album. Perhaps there will also be a Random Idiots reunion.
Stupid Dog I have a dog, he does not beg. But when he pees, he sprays his leg. He sleeps in the room where my boy used to be. Stupid dog, he's good company. I have a boy, overseas. He lost both his legs, at the knees. He's coming home, I don't know when. Stupid dog, make him feel good again. He's coming home, surely to stay. Stupid dog, help him forget that day. I had a wife, faithful and true. She passed on when the cancer grew. She looked so good in her high-heeled shoes. Stupid dog listen to my blues.
Hello Gheorghies! I'd like you guys to be the first to know that I've made an executive decision. I've decided that it's time for me to grow up. Time for me to get real. I need to cast away dreams and whimsy and accept the path that stretches before me. I must "dance with the one who brought me." Not that anyone would bring me to a dance, because I'm not that strong a dancer. In fact . . . I can't dance (this is one of my great regrets, but-- alas-- it's too late to learn . . . which is the theme of this post).
I acknowledge that it's going to be rough, but I'm quitting cold turkey. And I'm not talking about chewing tobacco-- although I've been having a pretty good run at quitting that stuff . . . aside from a minor lapse last week at the pub, but there were extenuating circumstances: my old dipping buddy Pastor Rob showed up out of the blue-- he moved to Pennsylvania last year, but he made a surprise visit-- and he was packing Copenhagen. Because of the unusual situation, I gave myself a One-Night Dipsentation. Pun intended.
Anyway, enough silliness. From this day forward, I hereby swear to stop creating new fictitious band names for my music. I'm done. It's Greasetruck if I'm solo and Random Idiots if I'm with any of the other idiots who write for this blog. No more Slouching Beast or The Density or The Hanging Chads or The Looming Specters of Death or The End of Dave or Almighty Yojo or any of the ones I've forgotten to mention. Life is too short. No one cares about Tin Machine. It's certainly fun to create new band names, but what does it accomplish? A rose by any other name . . .
Anyway, to celebrate this stoic acceptance of my fate, I'm releasing a song. A Greasetrucksong. It sounds just the way I imagined, which is always a miracle when I'm recording music. I started by looping a scratchy bit of clunky staccato guitar and using that as the rhythm, and then I layered synths and odd fills over that, and everything ended up coming together nicely.
But wait! There's more! Since I'm on a roll here, not only am I going to stop creating new band names and accept Greasetruck as my destiny, but I'm also going to stop complaining about the name of this blog, though it drives me crazy. Here is my final take on that topic:
--Hey, my friend TR wrote a great post about how he was touring The Sixth Floor Museum in Dallas and he looked out the window and-- holy shit-- he felt like he was in a time warp! You should read it. --Interesting . . . where is it? --On this blog we write . . . Gheorghe . . . Gheorghe the blog. But it's Gheorghe with two "h"s. --??????? --You know, like Gheorghe Muresan? The Romanian center who used to play for the Bullets? --?????? --It's sort of a play on that political magazine George. Remember that? --????? --Forget it.
Two weeks ago our own tiny dictator called me, and others in the G:TB family, out for not stepping up to the plate (pun intended), seeking out, and downing the mythical, off-menu Chipotle "quesarito". For the uninformed, a quesarito is a burrito that uses a quesadilla as a wrap. After an initial demurrer, my "toe-thumb" and I decided that if we could take on the KFC Double Down or two grease truck sandwiches, we could rise to the quesarito challenge.
One fake mustache, one real mustache, one guy filled with sandwiches.
The quesarito has received a bunch of interest lately, much of it prompted by the "Fast Company" article linked by Rob. The article, while focusing on the quesarito, is actually a larger discussion of "secret menu" items at various fast food restaurants. According to various sources, including this Ranker list, Chipotle has six secret menu items. Most of the items, like the single taco and fresh cilantro don't seem all that secret. The only ones that really stand out as secret are the quesadilla and the quesarito, mainly because they are tough to make using the standard Chipotle line equipment.
Since the quesarito requires additional time to make, most sources recommend going outside of normal dining hours. Last Tuesday, a 2:30 PM trek to the nearest Chipotle in midtown Manhattan was aborted because there was still a long line. Undaunted, after enlisting the support of my co-worker Teresa, we headed off to a Thursday 3PM date with destiny. When we arrived, Chipotle was almost empty and the line was staffed by only two people. The only thing now was to order the beast.
When discussing this mission with Mrs. Marls, she inquired whether there was some Larry Craig-esque toe tapping signal, which, instead of leading to illicit airport sex, would grant access to the cheesy delights of the Chipotle secret menu. Alas, there is not toe tapping or "wide stance"required. All that is needed is finding a bored group of Chipotle workers, a little patience, and a willingness to look like an unbridled glutton. Luckily, we had all three.
The person who took our order had no idea what a quesarito was but offered to make us a quesadilla. While this was not what we wanted, it was the opening we needed. Clearly this guy had a willingness to go into the clandestine world of off-menu mexican fast food. From there it only took a little explaining to coax a quesarito out of him. In fact, after he finished wrapping it up, he advised that he was going to make himself one for lunch.
At this point, the only thing left was to sit back and enjoy.
Note the toe-thumb and oozing cheesy goodness
It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.
Piscataway, NJ: Marls sent me this pics from a G:TB mini-summit quite some time ago. Now seems about the right time to fill 'er up with these glam shots:
On the Second Day of Gheorghe-mas, Big Gheorghe gave to me:
Two Dope-ass Rhymes (and a whole mess of sub-par ones as well). And a Doofus Dancing (Amidst a Really Long and Grumpy Analysis of the New Kanye West Album).
Like Zman, I can't resist a request, and-- absurd as this sounds-- I was requested by our Doofus Overlord to make a "Gheorghe-mas Song." The only direction I received as far as content was to mention and vilify the song "Christmas Eve in Washington." Despite this lack of direction, I managed to create what will certainly become an anti-holiday favorite, in the spirit of "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer." This fills me with self-loathing, because I hate that song.
Many of you know that I also hate all holidays (except Thanksgiving) and this song gave me a legitimate forum to express this (I'm not allowed to spew vitriol above materialism, consumption, and the environmental devastation that we call Christmas to my children, or my wife will punch me in the face).
As far as the two dope-ass rhymes, one of them is stolen from a Random Idiot's song written by Igor and myself in 1991 . . . see if you can find it, and the other is new: "Three wise men pondered this question-- Viagra or Levitra for the better erection?" As for the rest, you'll have to decide for yourself. Zman, please consider that I recorded this in one day (with a hangover) and go easy on me.
Once upon a time there was a baby in the hay, but in a double dip recession, we don’t pray that way. The Son of God can’t get us back in black, so St. Nick stuffed him in his sack. A modern day prospectus on Jesus Christ? Seems like he’s just a little too nice. So they killed him. And they stole his sandals, Sacked him like Rome got sacked by Vandals. But Santa Claus, he’s so much nicer-- Last Christmas, he brought me an electric slicer. Now I eat cold cuts all day long, use Billy Mitchell sauce, play Donkey Kong. This year I need a new gaming system, so I got on his lap at the mall and I kissed him. But that’s not why Santa’s looking so jolly. It’s ‘cause he cornered that elf under the holly. And he didn’t get caught by Mrs. Claus, she was too groggy from drinking the sauce. The Grinch who stole Christmas is doing thirty to life, sent to the slammer now he’s Bubba’s wife. Yes, Virginia there’s a Santa Claus, he’ll bring you coal if you make him cross.
Christmastime is here again so buy some stuff and we’ll pretend that we have good will toward men.
Three wise men pondered this question: Viagra or Levitra for the better erection? And when you get a tree: wood or plastic? Doesn’t matter as long as your waistband’s elastic. Because Nana’s gonna fill your gut with cookies, make you fat like a crooked bookie. Why was the Messiah born unto this world? So you can buy your honey a string of pearls. Gold, frankincense or myrrh-- Ain’t talking about love, son, what you gonna get her? If you like it then you better a put a ring on her. If you like it then you better put some bling on her. Or she’ll roast your chestnuts on an open fire. You’ll be singing soprano in your church choir.
Christmastime is here again so buy some stuff and we’ll pretend that we have good will toward men.
Holiday season in Hollis, Queens, Mom cooks chicken and collared greens. But, white man, you were eating spiral ham, and putting mint jelly on your leg of lamb. What’s inside a hot cross bun? More junk than you’ll find on Sandford and Son. Wrapping up presents for the boys Getting on the floor, assembling toys, But the batteries are not included. Should have got them a ball, you can catch and boot it. Makes me want to to celebrate Kwanza, you don’t have to listen to Mario Lanza singing carols like “Come All Ye Faithful.” “It’s Christmas Eve in Washington” is disgraceful. Or at least that’s what the Teej says, Pull back his head, remove the Pez. Heat Miser, Cold Miser, Burgermeister Meisterburger. Rudolph’s coach could have been a little bit nicer. The Bumble puts the star on the tree, Yule Log is burning up my HDTV, But Charlie Brown, he knew how to pick it, he chose his tree and told them to stick it up there where the sun don’t shine, and Linus backed him with Biblical lines. So I got the egg and you got the nog, it’s The Twelve Days of Gheorghe-mas at Gheorghe:The Blog!
A Big Thanks to Charles Schulz, Biz Markie, and Run DMC, who provided material and inspiration.
When Harold Ramis and Bill Murray visit the Army recruiter in Stripes, the recruiter asks if they are homosexuals. Harold Ramis replies, "No, but we're willing to learn." I like his attitude. It's true that John and Russel didn't really have a clue about the Army, but at least they were willing to give it a try. Occasionally, I feel the same way (not about trying out homosexuality, but about joining the military).
We've been at war for nearly the last decade, and although I don't agree with the reasons we are over in Afghanistan and Iraq, I do feel like I'm less a man because I haven't served. I have missed out on the ultimate experience: warfare. I've never disassembled an M-16 or driven a tank or shot a flamethrower. I've lived in the Middle East, but instead of rooting out terrorist cells and defusing IED's, I was eating cheap falafel and teaching Romeo and Juliet.
Hopefully, I will always lack this ultimate experience, because though I'm not as old as the narrator of this new Greasetruck song, I am close. It is too late for me, unless the war comes to our soil, and if that happens, I'm definitely screwed. I don't own any guns, and while-- unlike the narrator-- I have shot a gun, it was twenty years ago. G:TB founder Rob was with me, and we were shooting skeet, and we were not very accurate (perhaps Rob can verify, but I vaguely remember someone shooting a bunch of drying towels full of buck-shot holes . . . I'm not sure who it was).
I've got no survival skills to speak of, because instead of learning manly things like how to fix machinery and live off the land and use automatic weapons, I followed the advice of John Cougar Mellencamp and forgot "all about that macho shit and learned how to play guitar." If you listen closely, you'll hear me play an extremely macho solo for the entire length of this song. The style is classic Greasetruck: with pitch-shifting in both directions, and not one but two monologues.
I dream of going to war. I dream of going to war. Bivouac on a foreign shore. Tell a tale the girls can’t ignore (and they usually ignore me).
I want to drop some bombs (I never dropped a bomb). I want to shoot someone (I never shot no one).
I’m only half a man-- just like John Wayne and Frank Sinatra.
I dream of going to war. I dream of going to war. Pull the pin, hit the floor. But I just turned forty four. (I spend a lot of time indoors)
I want to be a man (in Afghanistan). I want to claim some land (I lack in land).
I want to drive a tank through the desert sand. I want my meals from a can.
I dream of going to war. Do my tour, get me some. I dream of going to war. But I never shot a gun. (I don’t even know how to load a gun. Or how to take the safety off. Or what to do about recoil.)
I do not own a gun-- I can’t shoot no one The revolution will come (and I’ll have to run).
I can’t protect my wife and sons . . . I’m good at having fun-- that won’t help no one.
I need to attend one of those volunteer militia training camps in the Midwest. I don’t know how to shoot a gun or skin a deer or start a fire in the rain or crawl through a trench or protect myself from mustard gas. I don’t own any camouflage. I don’t know how to peel back properly during an ambush. I don’t even actually know what the word “bivouac” means. When the barbarians storm the gates, will I be able to protect my family with absurd songs and humorous anecdotes? With my prodigious vocabulary and my ability to provide synonyms? Will my knowledge of science-fiction prove useful? This is doubtful. The revolution will come (I’ll be overrun). I should have learned to shoot a gun (instead of having fun). How can you fight the Hun (when you can’t shoot a gun).
I dream of going to war. I dream of going to war. But I just turned forty four I just turned forty-four
So maybe I’ll get a Harley instead. Or a jet-ski. Or a mistress. That sounds far better than combat. I could never deal with one of those Full Metal Jacket hard-ass Sergeants. It’s too late for me toughen up. If I was I was the protagonist of that Cormac McCarthy book, The Road, protecting my son after the apocalypse, the book would be seven pages long. I wouldn’t make it out of the cul-de-sac. My son would end up being a catamite. I really need to get myself some automatic weapons. And I need to learn how to use them.
One of the joys of blogging is the residual glee generated when something you have set free on the internet makes its way into the limelight. Whether it is a post on circus peanuts or the William and Mary griffin, there is nothing like the satisfaction of knowing that people are linking to your creation. You think: people beyond my retarded circle of friends are enjoying this. Like Dr. Frankenstein, you have created life, and though your creation might be perverse and monstrous, it is still beautiful to watch its span. So I am proud to report that a Greasetruck song has a life beyond my fans at G:TB..
Apparently, biology teachers across our wired nation have been streaming the song "Amoeba Love," thinking it is a cute way to illustrate binary fission to their students. But-- unfortunately for the teachers and fortunately for the students-- this is no cute educational video. Something happens at "00:27" in the video and one commenter remarks that his teacher's reaction was "priceless." And, judging by the number of comments and their different dates, this has happened more than once, and in more than one classroom. Check it out.
Though I apologize to all the educators who were duped by this video, I think your embarrassment is superseded by the joy the song has brought to the students in your biology classes. I won't detail the "00:27" surprise here, you can watch and enjoy it for yourself-- and I should add that the video might not be safe for work, if the people you work with are offended by bad cartoon drawings of genitalia-- but honestly, it's pretty tame.
And if you are offended by the video, let me offer this explanation: I was in a particularly weird mental place when I made this. It was several years ago on a snow day, and my two young children were both napping. I had two hours to compose and record the song and to animate the video. And in the days previous, to my chagrin, I had come to a frank realization-- I was not going to be a great animator. Despite learning to use a pirated 2-D animation program, I saw that my destiny was not in the way of Hayao Miyazaki. Why not? Because I could not draw. And so I gave up trying to animate something wonderful and magical, and decided to portray the only subject I could: an amoeba.
In the end, it is fitting. My amoeba video's digital footprint asexually reproduced on the internet, and then found its way back to me. I created life and it thrived in unexpected places.
Once you get married, you realize things will never be like when you were a kid. When you were a kid, and you did something well, you got a trophy. Or a medal or a sticker or a cupcake or a pat on the back or a "nice job there, little guy."
But once you get older, if you do something really great . . . something really totally amazing . . . like remove a giant stump from your backyard or install a ceiling fan without electrocuting yourself, there will be no one there waiting to hand you a medal or a cookie when you get done. And it's best not to look for accolades from your wife, because chances are that she does WAY more laudatory stuff than you do . . . she probably buys all the gifts for everyone on BOTH sides of the family and does the bills and keeps track of the tax information and cleans things and puts away the laundry and makes the kids lunches and participates in the PTO and does all kinds of other stuff that you don't t even know about because she doesn’t need constant encouragement and positive reinforcement to get stuff done. At least that's the case in my house.
As most of us know, the only way you can reward yourself once you are an adult, your only trophy after you swat a wasp-nest out of your porch umbrella and fight five giant wasps to the death, will be to grab a beer. This is scary because it means the busier and more productive you are-- the more trophy-worthy tasks you accomplish-- the more likely you are to become a fat alcoholic. It's certainly a paradox, and it seems that men succumb to it more than women.
I will illustrate this theme with a Greasetruck song, but first, here are the top ten things I did in the last three years that were deserving of some sort of recognition . . . and don't be afraid to list your unsung accomplishments in the comments.
1. Fought, Defeated, and Killed the Squirrels in my Attic. 2. Fought, Defeated, and Killed the Mice in my Shed. 3. Built Greasetruck Studio and surrounding Soundproof Bookshelves. 4. Successfully Collaborated with Igor during the Production of "Dear Ozzy (Thanks for Nothing)." 5. Did not Beat my Child when he Maliciously and Purposefully Flooded the Kitchen Ceiling. 6. Almost Finished Infinite Jest. 7. Uncomplainingly went to a Broadway Show 8. Performed Admirably at Ian’s Fifth Birthday Despite Having a Massive Hangover. 9. Took a Novocaine Shot in Roof of Mouth and Did Not Cry 10. Brought Down a Giant Precariously Hanging Tree Limb With Football Duct-Taped to a Rope.
There is a long tradition in popular music of singing about automobiles. The car, like rock and roll, is loud, powerful, adventurous, and sexy. And not only is it sexy, but it is also (especially when you are young and don't have a swinging pad of your own, and especially in the '50's and '60's when cars were BIG and had trundle seats) a great place for sex. It is both the theme and the setting. This post is certainly not a history of the car in music-- there are plenty of places you can read about that. Here is a great list, and here is a LONG list, and here is an excellent little history.
I am going to discuss something more specific, and honestly, I think my thesis is groundbreaking, so bear with me. And, as an added bonus (or punishment, it's all a matter of taste) I have written and recorded a Greasetruck song to illustrate this theme.
If I were going to make a general list of my favorite songs about cars, I would wax poetically about "Bitchin' Camaro" by The Dead Milkmen and "Joe Stalin's Cadillac" by Camper Van Beethoven and "El Camino" by Ween. But though those songs are quirky and funny, they only allude to the sexual power of the automobile in our culture. They certainly prove my point, but I'm going to use more obvious examples to show you something particular and profound about the automobile. I assure you, you will never be the same.
I further need to limit my thesis to rockabilly car songs. And again, I can't afford to be general. If I were to get into my favorite rockabilly songs about cars, then hands down, my favorite is "One Piece at a Time," which was written by Wayne Kemp and sung by Johnny Cash. It was the last Johnny Cash song to reach number one on the Billboard charts. I love the song because the hero, a working class guy at the Cadillac factory, steals a Cadillac part by part. He's patient, clever, and creative. He perseveres, not only over the years, but also over difficult engineering dilemmas-- and the song specifically addresses these; it explains how they drilled out the frame so it would fit the engine block, and the general asymmetry of the car. And then, after all this work, there's a great plot twist at the end: when he registers the car at the DMV, it takes them all day to type up the title because it is so difficult to determine what year and make the car is.
This difficulty in determining if the car is new or used or something else entirely addresses a classic philosophical dilemma-- if you were to replace parts in your own car, piece by piece, when you had replaced every part, would it still be the same car? Or would it be a different car? If you were to replace your brain, synapse by synapse, with circuitry-- circuitry that worked essentially the same as your brain-- say at a rate of one percent per day, when would you cease being you? Or would you still be you? Or a would you be a clone of you? But that's the subject of another song. The song that inspired me to get to work on my own rockabilly car song was originally done by Charlie Ryan and the Livingston Brothers, but it was made famous by Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen. It's called "Hot Rod Lincoln" and it starts with a spoken couplet: "My pappy said, "Son, you're gonna drive me to drinking if you don't stop driving that Hot Rod Lincoln." This song tells the story of a drag race, and again, it alludes to the power and sexuality of the car, but it's not the perfect example. The reason I need to mention it because when I heard it on WRSU the other day, the lyrics to my own rockabilly car song came to me in a flash. I’m not going to claim it’s the best song I’ve ever written, but it is definitely the fastest song I’ve ever gotten down on paper—from start to finish it took me five minutes to write. It came to me in a dream, like the way Mohammad received the Koran or Joseph Smith received the Golden Tablets of Mormonism or George De Mestral thought up Velcro.
The kind of rockabilly car song I’m talking about is when the car obviously represents sexiness and the engine obviously represents the sexual act and the driving represents full on doing it (riding, as they say in Ireland) and the car is also the place to have sex in. So you've got the outside of the car, which is a phallus itself. And compare a sports car to a minivan-- which is more phallic? Which will snag you more snatch? The humming throbbing engine is obvious enough as a symbol, but the smooth leather interior is symbolic as well. The folds in the seats, the new car smell. You’ve got both the male and female apparatus here. The outside is male, and the inside is female. Your driving a penis while sitting inside a vagina.
Now this is the paradox. The car is the thing and it is the setting for the thing. The long sleek body of the the fifties vehicle, with it's odd attachments, fins and such, is the male genitalia. And everyone knows what that greasy engine represents when it's trucking along. And the shiny smooth inside of the car, leathery with plenty of folds, is the female genitalia. You get inside and it has that nice smell (if it's clean) and a lousy smell (if it's not.) But the car is also the place to have sex, so it is the penis, the vagina, and the bed, all rolled into one.
So the car is having sex with itself, inside itself. There’s something deeply philosophical about this, and maybe that’s why cars are so deeply embedded in our culture, and so often sung about. Before I had this epiphany, I hated cars-- I thought they were loud, annoying, dangerous, overblown, and an environmental disaster-- and perhaps that’s why Greasetruck has only recorded one song about a car, and it's not very sexy at all. It's called "George Bush Stole the Plans for My Air Powered Car" and it features a monologue about how George Bush and Bill Clinton like to ride around together in a pneumatically powered car and visit nudey bars. But I have seen the light, and now I understand why public transportation will never make it in the United States (although trains are pretty sexy when they go into a tunnel). Now Greasetruck will attempt enter the car rockabilly pantheon, but the competition, is to say the least, stiff.
The archetype is Chuck Berry’s “No Particular Place to Go.” The narrator and his girl are simply “driving around” with no particular place to stop and have sex, so of course, they park “way out on the Kokomo" and decide "to take a stroll.” The lyrics are ambiguous. Is the stroll into the woods? Into her pants? The next lyric helps: the narrator is foiled because he “couldn’t unfasten her safety belt!” I appreciate this because I didn't learn how to undo a girl's bra until I was thirty-six. Does the safety belt represent her bra clasp? Or is it just the car's seat belt? That seems unlikely, considering people didn't wear seat belts back then. Perhaps it is a chastity belt. I'm sure Chuck Berry didn't specify so it could be all these and more. I wish I could be so playfully obtuse in my lyrics.
I am also partial to Chuck Berry’s "Maybelline," both for the content-- a high speed car race with a cheating woman-- and the use of the verb "motivating," as in, "I was motivating over the hill/ I saw Maybelline in a coupe de ville." The race is a sexual contest—a courtship ritual, like when male elks butt antlers or peacocks strut with their tail fanned or when basilisk lizards do those crazy dances-- and Chuck Berry needs his engine to run fast and powerful to court a girl as wild and sexy as Maybelline.So he's in the phallus, racing his engine, but she's in a phallus, and racing her engine, and maybe not with him. It's racy because "Maybelline" is an assertive powerful woman who makes her own choices. Once again, "she done started doing the things" she used to do. The narrator can't control her sexuality-- and he's having enough trouble controlling his own engine, but he does catch her at the top of the hill-- the climax of the song, and it's all downhill from there.And now, with looser censorship laws and new technology to assess, Greasetruckwill try it's hand at the genre. Though I know I can't compete with the greats, I believe my new song conquers new territory; it is the first rockabilly song celebrating the sexuality of the hybrid vehicle. It's called "You've Got to See Us in Our Prius." Hope you enjoy it. Feel free to offer your own automobile analysis.You've Got to See Us (Driving Round in our Prius) by Greasetruck
You've Got to See Us in Our Prius
So if you need to pick up chicks,
then a cool set of wheels is your fix:
a Lamborghini or maybe a Porsche.
Something sleek and something fast--
the chicks will think that you're a blast
but maybe that's not your style at all.
Maybe the girl you want to impress
likes whole grains and patchouli scent. Maybe she just got back from saving the whales.
Then the car you want runs really quiet,
Let's put the world on an oil diet.
I'm talking about 78 horsepower here.
Hey baby, you've got to see us,
driving round in our Prius,
The wind blowing back my Moonbeam's hair.
But I got to tell you something if you don't know:
hippie chicks don't dig fellatio . . .
something to do with not eating any meat.
And the car's too small for full on screwing,
so you can guess what we've been doing--
I feel like I'm back in the tenth grade.
Well, look at me I've come real far:
getting hand jobs in an electric car.
Who could guess what the future would bring?
So if you see a Prius driving real slow,
and my smiling face in the window,
you'll know what's going down in there.
We'll be driving this little car forever,
can't sell it cause of the stains on the leather
actually, you would think it would be faux-leather, but it's not.
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