Well, Jay-Z and Beyoncé finally had their baby, which can only mean one thing: Here comes another baby song!

You know what I’m talking about, right? One of those intolerable, “Oh-my-precious-little-angel-it’s-a-miracle-that-you-were-born-unto-me” tunes that a songwriter is compelled to write every time he or she pops out another squirmer.

Whether you believe newborn babies are miraculous gifts from God or subterranean alien vampire-rats bent on draining your life force, can we at least agree that songs about babies tend to suck rusty buckets of contaminated amniotic fluid?

And this new tune by Jay-Z is especially abominable.

“You’re a child of destiny / You’re the child of my destiny / You’re my child with the child from Destiny’s Child / That’s a hell of recipe.”

OK. I want you to pause for a moment and marvel at the pure hideosity of that line: “You’re my child with the child from Destiny’s Child.” I want you to bask in the rays of its badness like a pale-skinned woman on an overpowered tanning bed; absorb the radiation of it on your face and neck—mind not the blisters and the hair loss— for a lyric as bad as this is a thing to behold.

Britney Spears’ “My Baby” is no less irradiated: “With no words at all / So tiny and small / In love I fall / My precious love / Sent from above / My baby boo / God I thank you.”

I want you to imagine that you’re Britney’s baby being spoon-fed in the kitchen, when suddenly mommy starts singing that song to you. Wouldn’t you eject the strained carrots onto her shirt and blurt, “Bitch, you better get your ass back in the rehearsal studio!”?

In Brit’s defense, “My Baby” sounds like a John Prine political ditty compared with Creed’s criminally negligent baby ballad, “With Arms Wide Open.” The worst part about that afterbirth is the video, which features singer Scott Stapp posing on a mountain top, his “arms wide open” toward the sky, his long, gorgeous Jesus-locks blowing in the wind and the fetor of a thousand soiled diapers blustering from his howl-hole.

Speaking of mucky diapers, Lauryn Hill’s baby song, “To Zion,” is a rash on the ass of all that is right and good. Lord knows Hill is full of herself, but how much of a messiah complex must you have in order to name your kid Zion?

And, look, I dig Stevie Wonder as much as the next guy, but “Isn’t She Lovely” isn’t. The melody is as mesmeric as a busted mobile, and all Stevie does is sing “Isn’t she lovely, isn’t she wonderful, isn’t she special” over and over again like a drill burrowing into the part of the brain that represses the urge to take sniper shots at random pedestrians.

I will concede that John Lennon’s song for Sean, “Beautiful Boy,” is lovely. But I often wonder how messed up it must be for Julian whenever he hears his dad gushing on the radio or jukebox, “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful… darling, darling, darling Sean”—given that Lennon neglected Julian as a child, which makes Lennon something of a parental dickweed, nullifying any fatherhood songs written by him.

The list goes on. The Dixie Chicks’ baby anthem “Godspeed” is in dire need of a spanking. “Prayer for You” by Usher should have been terminated in the first trimester. “Just the Two of Us” by Will Smith needs a circumcision—at the base. And it’s utterly impossible to keep your formula down should you happen to hear “In my Daughter’s Eyes” by Martina McBride.

And, yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Oh, Ed, you hate baby songs because you don’t have any children and don’t understand the miracle of new life.

Wrong!

You needn’t be a parent to understand the miracle of new life. Nor do you need to understand the miracle of life to scrutinize a song about the miracle of life, just as I don’t need to live in South Central L.A. to know “Straight Outta Compton” is a badass song about living in South Central L.A.

No, these baby songs suck for two simple reasons:

1. Childbirth is such an enormous, sentimental event in most of our lives that our emotions can be easily manipulated. You could write the lamest piece of cliché-addled garbage and everyone will blubber over it, leaving songwriters no incentive to compose something truly original and profound.

2. Baby songs never tell the whole story about parenting—no tunes about sleepless nights and bedraggled days; no odes about giving up your dreams, your friends, your drugs and your porn collection; no power ballads about how you’ll age an average of five years for every day you cohabitate with a toddler. There are no verses that mention that the only movies you’ll be permitted to watch for the next dozen years will feature talking cartoon animals and worse, a moral to the story, nor are there any refrains about how your sacrifices will go unappreciated—because they think it’s  invisible elves who stock the refrigerator and replace the toilet paper—and the day will come when not only will they not appreciate you; in fact, they will hate you. Sure as the babysitter will raid the liquor cabinet and blow her boyfriend on your couch, your children are going to hate your guts.

This is the thanks you’ll get for giving them life, because they are cold, cruel tyrants, and you are but a peasant who mollycoddles them. Hmm, I like that: “Cold Cruel Tyrant.” Now, see, that’s a baby song that needs to be written!

Barefoot Hockey Goalie frightens the children

Having bartended live-music clubs in San Diego for the last 25 years, I can say that this city is home to some of the best bands in the country. Unfortunately, there’s never been quite enough of a fan base to sustain them financially. For whatever reason, San Diego’s always had a somewhat thinner following for local music than most other major cities.

Now, complaining about this doesn’t strike me as particularly lame. It’s frustrating to see a band as kickass as SweetTooth or Barefoot Hockey Goalie playing in front of 20 people when a propped-up poser like Sisqo would attract more bodies plunking Zimbabwean polka melodies on a busted thumb piano. However, it’s when the complaints about low attendance become a narcissistic blame-game that it begins to rub me the wrong way.

I recall an old drummer friend, who played in a series of failed art-rock groups, constantly complaining about how San Diegans are shallow, sun-worshipping, condo-residing automatons who don’t support local music. He eventually became so weary of the empty seats that he decided to strike back at those shallow San Diegans by quitting the business and depriving them of his “musical genius.”

Now, this guy was no Chad Farran but even if he were a genius, who did he punish by quitting? It wasn’t the people who didn’t come to his shows. (If they didn’t come to his shows in the first place, how could they miss his genius?) No, quitting the biz only punished the people who came to his shows—his fans.

Ah, yes, arrogance and ignorance—the ultimate combo plate.

Arrogance and ignorance are what kept this guy from asking the questions any performer worth a damn would ask when his or her band doesn’t draw: “Are we as good as we can be? Did we rehearse enough? Are we doing anything different from what the 8 million thousand hundred other bands in San Diego are doing?”

And what about marketing? I know it’s the crappy part of the job, but you can’t bitch about attendance if you don’t promote the show. Over the years, as a live-music bartender, I can’t tell you how many bands play the blame-game for a slow night. It happens all the time. After the show is over, they’ll march up to my bar and demand to know where the hell all the people were!

“That’s the question I was going to ask you,” I’d say.

“What do you mean?” they’d respond.

“I didn’t see one flyer, poster, Tweet or Facebook invite to the show.”

“So.”

“I’m just saying, Adam Gimbel you are not.”

At that point, he or she would usually say something that closely resembles, “Hey! I’m the rock star here. Marketing is your job.” To that, I’d usually respond with, “This ain’t The Garden, and you ain’t Gaga. On this level, marketing is everyone’s job.”

Practice and promote, practice and promote. After that, it’s out of your hands. Like the Christians say, “Let go. Let Godsmack.”

Perhaps my Rock ’n’ Roll Serenity Prayer will help you see things my way:

Godsmack grant me:

The serenity to accept the seats I cannot fill
The courage to aggressively promote the gig
And the wisdom not to put flyers on public property (because you can get a big fine for that).

SD's second best band, Burning of Rome

Anyway, the question is: Who’s more shallow? The people who don’t come out to support local music, or the people who call people “shallow” because they’d rather chill at home than flit around with the music-scene scenesters every other night—or play poker with friends, bowl in a league, volunteer for a cause, congregate for Bible study, read or write a novel, or maybe just drink in a bar where there isn’t a loud rock band mowing down their auditory cilia like a tank on a toothcomb. Besides, I’m the last person to whom you want to complain about empty-seat syndrome. Because, as I recall, I didn’t see you at any of my shows.

You think the music business is slow, try spoken word. Talk about not being able to get people to come out! When I perform spoken word, I can’t even get my stalker to show up! It’s always the same thing: “Uh, I’d like to be there, Ed, but I don’t want to breach the restraining order.”

“Then why are you are under my bed, Raymond!?”

Um, yeah, people clamor for spoken-word shows the way artificial-insemination candidates clamor for Gary Coleman’s frozen semen. So, spare me your woe-is-me tale of empty seats.

That said, it’s probably true that many San Diegans need to be better educated about the local scene. For those of you who enjoy live music but tend to only see bands that come through town on tour, a friendly word: Don’t buy in to the myth that touring bands are somehow better, or more exotic, just because they’re from somewhere else.

If you do, you’re missing out on all the fantastic local groups that are every bit as good as your Green Days and your Springsteens and your Black Eyed Peases—acts like The Burning of Rome, The Silent Comedy, Steve Poltz, Gregory Page, SweetTooth, The Mentals, Drowning Men, Bunky, Rafter, Superunloader, MC Flow, Vokab Company, Cindy Berryhill, The Devastators, Revelations, Transfer, Tomcat, The Dabbers, Mower—are you bleeding kidding me with this list? And there are so many more. And they’re playing in the bar down the street. And the best part is, you don’t have to arrive early to snag a seat. Or is that the worst part? Whatever.

Decker reviews Barefoot Hockey CD for SLAMM

My liner notes for SweetTooth CD, Play it Loud

Because Tucholsky was unable to trot around the bases, and teammates are not allowed to physically assist their runners, the homer was about to be revoked. However, to everyone’s amazement, two members of the opposing team (shortstop Liz Wallace and first baseman Mallory Holtman of Central Washington University) picked Tucholsky up and carried her around the bases–a move that directly cost Central Washington the game and knocked them out of the playoffs.

Sports fans across the nation praised the action as being sportsmanly. The sports media all gurgled with appreciation. ESPN said it was the “ultimate act of sportsmanship.” Who could blame them? In an era of egotistical athletes, cheating head coaches and dog-torturing superstars, it’s understandable for this extraordinary act of selflessness to be viewed as true sportsmanship.

Except for one small problem – there was nothing particularly sportsmanlike about it.

According to Reference.com, sportsmanship is defined as “a component of morality in sport composed of… fair play, persistence, and courage.”

OK, so right off the bat we can see these attributes do not quite apply to our girls: “Fair play” isn’t relevant because there was nothing unfair about the ruling to revoke her homer. All players must round the bases after hitting a homer, not just Tucholsky. Nor does “persistence” seem applicable since “persistence,” in this case, probably means persistence to win, such as not giving up when behind, or playing through an injury. And “courage” does not compute because there was nothing particularly courageous about what they did. Their actions turned them into national heroes. They are the darlings of the day. It took no “courage.”

Granted, their actions were kind and selfless. All I’m saying is that I’m not sure sure they can be defined as sportsmanly. Take a look at the very first sentence of the definition which I believe proves my point.

“In a basic sense,” says Reference.com, “sportsmanship is conforming to the rules of sport.”
Exactly!

A sporting event is a world within a world. When you’re playing a game or a match, you exist within an alternate micro-universe which has a series of arbitrary rules and etiquettes created specifically for the purpose of determining what it takes to compete within it. Thus, when an athlete excels within the confines of the rules and etiquettes of a sport, he is a good sportsman. Everything else is horseshit.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Some things are more important than sport, which is absolutely true. In fact, most things are more important than sport.

Things like family, friends, commitment and dedication are certainly more important. So is loyalty–like, say, loyalty to your teammates, the ones who stood by your side all season long, who toiled and sacrificed to get to this point in the playoffs only to have a couple of Florence Nightingale wannabes throw away their dreams for some klutzy Anny-fanny who plays for Western Oregon!
Holtman and Wallace made a commitment to their team when they joined. Wouldn’t the sportsmanly thing to do be honor that commitment? Because you can bet your bingo bucks that some, if not most, of the girls of Central Washington weren’t entirely down with the decision to concede the playoffs.
And what about the cancer kids? Every team has one of those, right? Those little kids stricken with some terrible condition and are relying on their favorite sports team for motivation to keep fighting? What kind of message did they receive? For all Holtman and Wallace knew, their cancer kid was sitting on her hospital bed, watching the game wearing her CWU jersey, baseball cap and face paint, hoping beyond hope for an inspirational victory–only to see them hand over the game on a platter.
Not exactly promoting the fighting spirit, are they?

In an interview after the game, shortstop Liz said, “We didn’t know that [Tucholsky] was a senior or that this was her first home run. That makes the story more touching. We just wanted to help her.”
Are you kidding me? You just wanted to help her? If I were the pitcher on that team, walking off the field in miserable defeat, and overheard my shortstop saying that to reporters, I would’ve clubbed that bitch with a couple of pounds of Louisville aluminum.

“Help her?! What about helping me?! You’re my shortstop–you’re supposed to have my back, not stab it!”

And the fact that Tucholsky was a senior and this was her last chance to hit a homer before graduating is irrelevant. What if everyone started behaving this way within the confines of the alternate micro-universe of sport? What if Major League pitchers intentionally lobbed meatballs to hitters who are in slumps? What if defenders intentionally permitted touchdowns to help struggling quarterbacks? What if, suddenly, Chutes and Ladders players decided to bypass the ladders, taking only chutes?
The whole concept of competition and sport would implode, leaving behind only Hacky Sack as a way for humanity to exercise its warrior muscles.

Could you live in a world where the only sport to play was Hacky Sack?!

Look, in these annoyingly PC times, when everyone is expected to be nice to each other, and talking smack is akin to treason, and public-school officials teach that there are no losers or winners–can’t there be this one place where it’s OK to win and to want to win? Can’t we just have one alternate micro-universe in which the desire to crush your opponent is acceptable, where it’s OK to despise someone just because she’s wearing a different-colored jersey, and where it’s permissible to call somebody a “belly-itcher” without the ACLU dropping the hammer of Thor upon your head?

Look, it’s not like I don’t care that the poor girl got hurt. If I were playing that day, I’d have dropped my glove and helped her in a heartbeat. I don’t care what the situation is, if you are hurt and need assistance, I will help. I will carry you off the field. I will carry you to the emergency room. I will carry you to the goddamn moon if that’s the only place where knee surgeons live. I will carry you anywhere you need to go except around those motherfucking bases.

Apparently, Major League Baseball is seriously considering adopting the instant replay. I sure hope so. After several decades of having my heart routinely stomped by the brutal boots of crappy umpiring, my thumper is beginning to look like a jelly donut smushed through a spaghetti strainer.

There are many arguments against instant replay in baseball, but I won’t bother disputing them, because it’s not a question of right or wrong–rather, it’s a simple matter of preference. Some people want to preserve the purity of the game. My sensibilities tend toward preventing aortic rupture. Nobody is wrong.

There is, however, one argument against employing instant replay with which I concur: the notion that doing so will further retard an already too retarded game. I use the word “retard” literally. As in, “to make slow.”

Now, I truly love baseball, but with games often lasting three or four hours, I ask you, who has that kind of time? That’s just too long. Baseball is loaded with all this excessive, time-consuming, ceremonious bullshit that has nothing to do with the functionality or appreciation of the game itself. It’s like when you download new software on your computer you get all this dreck that only serves to slow down your machine and ramp up your nerves.

In order for me to fully get behind the instant replay (as if MLB cares what I think), the powers that be must first find a way to un-clutter the baseball machine. Fortunately for MLB, I have ideas:

1. Introduce a pitch clock: Once the batter is in the box, the pitcher should pitch the ball. All this thinking and pacing and ball-grinding and nut scratching and batter-staring and Jesus-praying that these pitchers do before they feel ready to throw makes me want to pitch a brick through the screen, which I could do in a fraction of the time.

Introduce a pitcher’s play clock, sirs. Twelve seconds is more than enough time for them to scratch their groin, scuff the ball, shoot off a quick prayer to their deity and deliver.

2. Harsh penalties for game interference: I’m recommending brain re-programming through hypno-psycho-electroconvulsive deprivation, denailing and waterboarding therapy for everyone who crashes the field during game time. The reprogramming sessions should be videotaped and shown on the JumboTron between innings. A torture bloopers reel would be a fantastic addition to the repertoire.

3. Expedite intentional walks: What an absurd waste of everyone’s time. The batter goes through all the trouble of strapping on his helmet, taking warm-up swings and stepping into the batter’s box only to stand there–impotent as little Eddie Gaedel*–as the pitcher and catcher play keep-away with the ball. Who wants to watch this? Just wave the guy to first base and get on with it.

4. Eliminate honorary first pitch: Do I really need to see my president throw like a girl on national television? Do I really need to watch some brat from the local elementary school who won a spelling bee or something delay the start of my baseball game with this honorary, fake first pitch? Not unless Satan himself emerges from the bowels of Hell and throws a first-pitch fireball that incinerates the catcher, the umpire and everyone sitting behind home plate in a conflagrant orgy of screams and death do I need to see any honorary first pitches.

5. Disallow warm-up pitches: A relief pitcher is permitted eight practice throws from the mound, during which the game is put on hold. We don’t usually see the warm-ups on television, but it extends the game just the same. The only difference is TV viewers get to watch more commercials while stadium viewers get to watch more of this pitcher-playing-catch-with-the-catcher business. (I think there’s something going on between those two.) Pitchers say they need to get the feel of the mound. I say, “Quit bitching and pitch the ball, bitches.” You’ll get all the warm-up you need in the bullpen and like it.

6. Limit pickoff attempts: Two per base runner is plenty.

7. Abolish infield-fly rule: I will never understand why baseball has the infield-fly rule. If you hit an infield pop up with a man on first base and fewer than two outs, that’s your bad. No different than the typical double-play grounder. Maybe removing the infield-fly rule won’t speed up the game that much (you get two outs for the price of one), but watching the fielder sit under a pop fly while the runners try to figure out what to do, then see them all scramble for safety as the ball is intentionally dropped would be a helluva lot more interesting than watching the umpire kill the play before the ball ever hits the mitt.

8. Delete extra innings: My greatest fear while watching a game is that the Yankees have a late lead and the other team comes back to tie. I would almost rather lose at that point. The last thing I want to do after sitting around watching three hours of baseball is to view a bunch of haggard players dragging themselves on and off the field into the wee hours of morning.

Major League Baseball should make the 10th inning the sudden-death inning. It should be pitched by a third-grade spelling-bee champion. Whichever team is the first to smack a liner directly into the third-grader’s face wins the game. I would stay awake for that.

9. Rain delays?: Bah! Play ball!

10. Eliminate manager mound visits: Yaaaaawn. What could the skipper possibly say that the pitcher doesn’t already know?: “OK, Mariano, I’m thinking a good strategy for this next batter is to, um, try to get him out. Maybe pitch him some strikes, mix in a couple of balls for good measure, then, you know, get him out or something. It’s just a suggestion–your call.”

Ed Decker
01/09/08

* Eddie Gaedel (seen at top) was the infamous dwarf who appeared for one at bat for the St. Louis Browns in 1951. Eddie had a one-and-a-half-inch strike zone. He walked on four pitches. Before the at-bat, Browns owner Bill Veeck reportedly told him, “I’m going to be on the roof with a high-powered rifle…. If you so much as look as if you’re going to swing, I [will] shoot you dead.”

The problem with the Ten Commandments is that it tries to be all things to all people. It is simply too generic a document to be applicable to all situations in life. For instance, the First Commandment, “Thou Shalt Have No God Before Me,” doesn’t really help you on the grocery store checkout line. Nor does the Fourth Commandment, “Honor Thy Father and Mother,” do a bit of good to that little boy living in a Cabrini Green rat’s cubby with a crack-addled mother who sells her ass for vials of rock.

That kid needs a set of Ten Commandments that are specific to his situation. Like, The Ten Commandments of Being the Son of a Crack Whore. And think how much better his life would have been if his parents had had a Ten Commandments of Parenting to consult. There should be Commandments for everything: a Ten Commandments for Parking and Ten Commandments for Bartending and Ten Commandments for the Grocery Check Out Line (Thou shalt not use Visa to pay for Gum) and yes, even a Ten Commandments of Rock and Roll. . .

The Ten Commandments of Rock and Roll.
I) Thou Shalt Not Consume More Drugs Before Thy Gig Than Thy Body Can Handle: If thou doth pass out on thy stage with foam at thy mouth – then ye shall surely be flogged.

II) Thou Should Not Drink Up Thy Entire Band Tab: Thou shalt leave room on thy tab for thy bandmates. When thou doth screw over thy bandmates by ordering double Patron for thou and thy girlfriend — then he shalt be flogged and thereafter pelted with jagged rocks at public square.

III) Thou Shalt Not Explain to Thy Audience the Meaning of Every Song: Thy lead singer shalt shut thy wine hole and just play thy song. If thy singer doth wont to speak out, “This song is called “Spin Cycle” and it is about thy friend who died from a freak laundry accident but really it’s about how everything in life comes full circle,” – then ye shall be fitted with a muzzle and stoned and flogged and flayed with pruning shears.

IV) Thou Shalt Not Pre-Plan Encores: When thou pre-plans an encore it ceases to become an encore. Then it becomes a set break; a stupid, five minute set break near the end of the show that thou doth not need nor want and doesn’t thou feel silly waiting backstage pretending to decide whether or not thou will return, then bound back on the stage as though thou suddenly changed thy mind? Do that and thou will be stoned and flogged and flayed and tarred with molten earth.

V) Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery with Thy Bandmate’s Girlfriend (Unless thou art wasted, or thou art horny, or thy bandmate’s concubine is wicked hot):
“. . . And Vince did make to lie with the fiancé of Tommy Lee, and Tommy Lee did make to lie with the wife of Nikki, and Vince and Nikki both did make to lie with their A&R rep’s wives, and Nikki did try to make to lie with the mother of Tommy Lee and lo did there performances suck thereafter evermore.”

VI) Thou Shalt Keep Holy the Black Sabbath Day: On the 13th day of the month of February (upon whence came the first Sabbath album) thou shalt do no work; nor thy son, nor daughter, nor thy manservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates – instead thou all shalt layeth around the living room all day smoking weed and cranking metal.

VII) Thou Shalt Not Say the Phrase “Farewell Tour” in Vain (unless thou plans on permanently farewelling): If thou performs a show after a farewell tour – thou will be stoned and flogged and flayed and tarred then laid across a bed of spires and made to do push ups then suffocated.

VIII) Honor thy Mama’s and the Papas: Before stepping on stage, thou shalt remember thy roots and thy predecessors. Remember Mama Cass and John Phillips. Remember thy Lord and producer, Lou Adler, and the hallowed ground at Monterey Pop Festival, and all the other people and places that came together at the dawn of rock and roll to pave the way for thou. Then and only then may thou proceed to the stage and rock out with thy holy cock out.

IX) Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Headliner’s Hits: If thou art an opening band, thou shalt not play any tunes by the headliner – or hungry cattle ticks shall be mounted on thy eyeballs.

X) Thou Shalt Not Lip Synch: For the lord said, “Lo I reserve a special place in hell for ye who dares to synch thy lip; a place where demons have razors for fingers toes and play twister upon thy back. And I will surely smite thee and the son of thee, and the son of the son of the son of thee until thirteen generations down are burned by the pyrotechnics of Hell simply because thou did make thy lips to move yet uttered no sound.”

EJD
01/07/04