LOTS of people do it. I do it all the time. Lots of people make fun of it, too. There was a movie where a couple faced this very problem. The guy in the relationship would get so pissed when the woman in the relationship, which was frequently, twisted the lyrics of a song. He would become irritated and admonish her.
(It’s like one of those couple issues.)
Why can’t you keep the toilet paper over the rim instead of under, so I don’t have to reach so far!
These are the minor things that often tear relationships apart. I’m pretty copacetic about which way the toilet rolls, but I would never tolerate a partner who criticized my tendency to swap lyrics with the those tailored to fit my mind.
However, this business of swapping lyrics does reveal a lot about a person.
You don’t have this problem when listening to Classical Music. That may be precisely why I listened to Classical Music for decades. It’s not like I didn’t like Rock, etc. Mostly, I had no idea what the fuck they were saying, apart from the music. So I was in a blissful rut, instead of being under a psychological microscope, which was hot to analyze me.
But eventually, I turned to popular music again. Oddly I did that after I gave birth to my kids.
I started to Substitute Teach in a highly progressive school system in the Northwest Suburbs of Chicago. District 211. They were teaching Adobe Photoshop, shortly after it hit the market. The district was tiny. Five schools. High Schools. Four of them had been cited for Educational Excellence and were awarded Presidential recognition for their excellence.
I either taught Special Ed, or, Art, Music and Literature. Whenever I taught Art, I always allowed the students to play the music they had brought to school, music that would be deemed unacceptable by other teachers and Administrative staff.
It was during an Art class that I was first introduced to the Violent Femmes. A student had brought a tape (remember those?) and we put it in the Boom Box.
WHO
is that!
I like them.
Blister In The Sun
After I had my kids, as I said earlier, there emerged this appreciation for the music I had not listened to for decades. I had graduated from Raffi to Rock. I bought Naughty Little Doggie by Iggy Pop and blasted that on the turntable and through the speakers and through the roof of the townhouse. The entire foundation shook and vibrated to Iggy. My husband, being the liberal moralist that he was, expressed dire concern about exposing the boys to the lyrics Iggy had written, especially, Pussy Walk.
What’s the problem? Do you really think a one year old and three year old will be permanently scarred by the experience? They have no idea what a pussy is. It could be a kitty cat, as far (and, if, but highly doubtful they are) as they’re concerned. Take a chill pill, Aquinas. Relax ….
Iggy, however, was not difficult to understand. His enunciation was crisp, so I had no problem with his lyrics.
But when the Violent Femmes sang …
“Grasp and reach for a leg of hope…”
My brain simply could not process that. (Not that my rendering made any sense. It made no sense at all.)
Thus, I sang … “Grasp and reach for a leg of Coke.” Profound, isn’t it?
Another group whose music I enjoyed was much more tame, but I still managed to turn them into Existentialists.
Sister Hazel has a gentle version of reality. It hurts a bit, but it’s also sweet.
All For You?
I slashed that one on the 5th note of the third line …
“Finally, I figured it out.
But it took a long, long time.
But now there’s a ton of doubt.”
Etc., etc.
Thus, when I say I love a song, you can be sure, I have no idea what I’m talking about.
