R-O-C-K ’bout the U-S-A

On deck today is some condescending lampoonery of Americana, courtesy of some of our European friends. (See also Pierre, DBC, Vernon God Little.)

• Prefab Sprout, “Cars and Girls” (buy here)

In which Brit songwriter Paddy McAloon takes on the Boss. One of the occupational hazards of the kind of ubiquity that Springsteen achieved after Born in the U.S.A. is that many people glimpse the surface and assume they’ve taken the measure of the whole. For example, in “Cars and Girls,” McAloon refers to “Brucie” in the first line and schools us that “some things hurt more, much more, than cars and girls.”

Um, yeah. Like maybe the tension between the definition/expression of selfhood and the limiting/determining forces of our social & political institutions? Between the comforts of community & relationships and the oppressions thereof? Between the human impulse to escape and the human need for stability & love? Because all that stuff, plus a bunch of other stuff, is what Springsteen’s work is about. You know, if you’re actually listening.

McAloon’s high horse is also hobbled by utter incoherence. Seriously, here are the lyrics for “Cars and Girls” – if anyone has any idea what the hell he’s trying to say, beyond the line I’ve already quoted, please let me know. Musically I don’t think it’s Prefab Sprout’s finest moment, either – it sounds trebly & sterile & except for the tiny blip in the chorus line kind of tuneless. Give me “Faron Young” or “When Loves Breaks Down,” which at least have some kick to them, any day.

OK, then, moving on.

• The Leather Nun, “Pink House” (album is Force of Habit, but out of print I think)

In which John Mellencamp draws the wrath of an ’80s Swedish band and must answer for the sins of the cultural colossus from which he came. Mellencamp’s corny “Pink Houses” is undoubtedly more scorn-worthy than Springsteen; whatever his strengths, the Artist Formerly Known as Johnny Cougar never had the Boss’s keen perception or storytelling chops. However, the Leather Nun’s “Pink House” paints the aforementioned cultural colossus in the coarsest of strokes – “Rambo Reagan is forcing me to eat an American pie” – which again calls to mind that surface-glimpse/measure-of-whole disconnect. The singer’s saying more about his own anxieties than about the America that exists in the real world.

On the other hand, as an expression of those anxieties the song is interesting in its own right (note the recurrence of the word “forced” in the lyrics), and as a polemic it’s entertaining & at least comprehensible. And musically it crackles, man: the snap of the snare, the organ solo coming on all Midwestern heartland, the shining guitar crunch, and the singer’s Teutonic-sounding vocals, his chewy, brooding phrasing. I still think the words are goofy, but damn, for a song that declares war on classic rock, its strategy is infiltration, and I can listen to it happily any time.