RADIO-SURFING ON A BAD TITLE WAVE

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

So I was puttering down I-75, doing the one-finger radio punch when my FM dial landed on what sounded like your typical pop tale: Girl meets Prince Charming after a lifetime of kissing frogs. The story was headed toward the predictable happily-ever-after. Or so I thought.

“You cut me open and I keep bleeding.” Wait. What the deuce is this chick singing about? A surgical mishap? Eventually, the chorus revealed the source of the hemorrhage, as well as the name of the song, “Bleeding Love.” This launched a disturbing mental slideshow that caused me to swerve – and the driver in the next lane to blast his horn while mouthing colorful invectives against my gender and driving ability (and quite possibly, my mother).

Thanks to Leona Lewis, I’ll never look at Cupid as anything other than an archer with bad aim.

Mainstream pop ain’t exactly Shakespeare, but even by Top 40 standards, “Bleeding Love” is pretty heinous. But like I said, it’s not the worst title I’ve heard. I award that honor to Fairport Convention’s “Sir B. McKenzie's Daughter's Lament For The 77th Mounted Lancer's Retreat From The Straits Of Loch Knombe, In The Year Of Our Lord 1727, On The Occasion Of The Announcement Of Her Marriage To The Laird Of Kinleakie.” I swear I didn’t make that up; it set the Guinness world record for longest song name in 1970.

Dishonorable mention also goes to “Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict,” from Pink Floyd’s 1969 album, “Ummagumma.” It’s worth mentioning that this “song” is five minutes of animal noises, microphone-slapping and a rant by a gibbering pseudo-Scotsman. (History lesson moment: The Picts were indigenous to what is now Scotland).

Back then, musicians had a valid excuse for far-out titles: They were higher than Kilimanjaro. Nowadays, song titles are punch lines to in-jokes meant only for the cool kids. How else to explain “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage” and “London Beckoned Songs About Money Written by Machines,” the latter of which I suspect resulted from playing Mad Libs® after too much absinthe. These tunes are the handiwork of Panic At The Disco, who recently dropped the “!” after “Panic” … I’m guessing they don’t want to seem pretentious.

Another repeat offender: Fallout Boy, with "Tell That Mick He Just Made My List of Things to Do Today" and "I'm Like A Lawyer With The Way I'm Always Trying To Get You Off (Me & You).” I get the feeling these guys are aiming for “clever, cheeky monkeys,” but instead arrive at “wannabe-hipster hair gel junkies.”

It’s time we got back to the days when song titles made sense. You just can’t beat classics like “They May Put Me in Prison, But They Can’t Stop My Face From Breakin’ Out” and “There Ain’t Enough Room in my Fruit of the Looms to Hold All My Lovin’ for You.”