CHART ATTACK!: 8/11/73
Friday, August 8th, 2008 by Jason HareThis week’s chart is being covered by Popdose’s own Matthew Bolin. Boy, it seems like only yesterday he was giving Popdose readers too many Wham! songs or a reason to love Rod Stewart again. He now runs our “When Good Albums Happen to Bad People” column, and does a damn fine job. Please give it up for Matthew! — JH

I have a theory that the music playing over the radio when you were in the womb can shape your personality — that the muffled vibrations that work their way into your first home can actually have an effect on the person you end up being (or at least they can have an effect on your mom, which in turn has an effect on you). What scientific proof do I base this on? Absolutely nothing, tough guy. However, I figure that the music of the mid-1970s is as good enough a reason as any for why I’m the crazy nut I am today. So, when given the chance by Jason to attack a chart from when I was negative-seven months old, I said “lay it on me.” Let’s take a look at August 11, 1973!
10. Monster Mash — Bobby (Boris) Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers Amazon iTunes
9. Uneasy Rider — Charlie Daniels Amazon iTunes
8. Yesterday Once More — Carpenters Amazon iTunes
7. Let’s Get It On — Marvin Gaye Amazon iTunes
6. Smoke on the Water — Deep Purple Amazon iTunes
5. Bad, Bad Leroy Brown — Jim Croce Amazon iTunes
4. Touch Me in the Morning - Diana Ross Amazon iTunes
3. Brother Louie — Stories Amazon iTunes
2. Live and Let Die — Wings Amazon iTunes
1. The Morning After - Maureen McGovern Amazon iTunes



You probably won’t be surprised when I tell you that this has been the hardest post for me to write since Popdose started. I mean, it’s been a damn month: what’s the holdup? Well, the truth is I discovered it is a lot easier to write about straight-up criminals like the members of Mötley Crüe, or hardcore divas like Diana Ross, than smug, pretentious assholes like today’s subject, Roger Waters. Simply put, it’s rather entertaining to write about individuals in the former categories. To write about Waters, however, is as trying a task as actually listening to his solo work in an attempt to find if any of them are worth talking about in this column. But I was able to find a good one, or a “good” one, depending on one’s ability to stomach conceptual prog joints. First though, a refresher on Herr Waters’ crimes of pomposity.
When thinking about Rick James nowadays, it seems easy to slip into one of two moods: One is the enjoyment of the way Dave Chappelle satirized his life so humorously, making the phrases “I’m Rick James, bitch!” and “Cocaine’s a hell of a drug” part of the pop culture vernacular for umpteen months. The other is a sense of pity and sadness at a man who was cut down before his time, first by a stroke in 1998, then by death itself in 2004 at age 56.
Berry Gordy is a powerful man. Not only did he found Motown Records, building a musical empire that allowed blacks to crossover into what had pretty much been a white-controlled music industry, but almost as amazing, he was able to convince a young Diana Ross that her crap doesn’t stink, and she has not deviated from that belief one iota over the past 45 or so years. In an industry of big egos, the one belonging to Miss Ross (remember, she must be addressed as such or you will be thrown out — and don’t you dare look her in the eyes!) is likely the biggest, and she has wielded it to not only obtain her huge success, but to build herself into a prick so immense that it would make porn stars gasp. Here are but a few examples of Miss Ross in action:
“That’s Leonard’s Jeep,” Robert said as we walked his dog past the monastery. My wife and I had driven north about ten miles, most of it curving two-thirds of the way up Mt. Baldy, to watch my professor’s cabin while he was away on a business trip. The most important part of the job was to make sure his old dog, Toby, was looked after, and walked twice a day. As he showed us the normal route that Toby liked to go, he pointed over to the Buddhist monastery right across the street, halfway between his cabin and the public campgrounds. There were a few vehicles outside the building, all of them likely part-time visitors who would come up for a few days at a time to gain peace and wisdom at the feet of the monks. Among the vehicles there was a silver Jeep, which was likely bought by the unofficial Poet Laureate of Canada to make his nearly-weekly trips from Los Angeles to Baldy, trying to shake a depression, a “cloud” that had settled over him sometime in the early 1990s, and had literally kept him unable to create anything new, either on the page or in the studio, for nearly a decade.
You know who’s good for breakups? Bruce Springsteen. He’s also good for budding romances, weddings, funerals, long walks on the beach, calculus tests, trips to the jungle gym, pretty much anything. But as Matthew Bolin tells us, he’s also a prophet, and has the power to make his songs appear at appropriate times, even when you have no idea how appropriate they are.
Rod Stewart’s 1991 cover of Robbie Robertson’s “Broken Arrow”
When I was 17 years old, I had my first serious makeout session. When George Michael was 17, he wrote the song that has arguably led to more makeout and baby-making sessions than any other ’80s song: “
It’s Saturday night, and it’s time to get back out on the dance floor as the all Wham! weekend continues. This time around, I’ve got a batch of Wham!-related extended dance remixes.
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