My company instituted a corporate ban on streaming internet radio because it eats up bandwidth that would be better allotted to, say, sales demos and customer training class. In the past 3 weeks, I’ve managed to rip only one CD to my work laptop, the Grosse Point Blank soundtrack. Every day, I vow to bring in more CDs. Every day, I forget and wind up listening to the Grosse Point Blank soundtrack.
It’s an objectively great soundtrack, but when you listen to anything for 90 hours straight, it begins to gnaw at the fringes of your sanity. I now have impassioned opinions about each track, and since you’re here, I’ll share them (all from memory):
Blister in the Sun, Violent Femmes. Initially charming with its quirky, folksy edge, this song was an instant favorite the first time I heard it. But the magic wore off, particularly after its use in My So-Called Life when Angela danced her post-Jordan-Catalano-freedom jig. Suddenly, it became the anthem for every pseudo-rebellious teenager. Now, Gordon Gano’s voice grates on me, a petulant Bob Dylan whining in perpetuity.
Rudie Can’t Fail, The Clash. The song that started my love affair with The Clash. Back in 1991, I forked over $50 for a mail-order VHS of their movie Rudie Can’t Fail. Decades later, this song still lifts my spirits, even after hearing it a hundred times over the past two weeks.
Mirror in the Bathroom, English Beat. The soundtrack’s nod to the film’s absurd plot—an assassin at his high school reunion. Listening to it makes me crave “Save It for Later.”
Under Pressure, David Bowie and Queen. The iconic bass line is a siren call, but what elevates this song is Freddie Mercury’s audacious vocal range. His voice dances from playful scatting to a haunting whisper, culminating in that show-stopping high note that gives me goosebumps every time.
I Can See Clearly Now, Johnny Nash. I was convinced a woman sang this song until I learned it was a man named Johnny Nash. Even after dozens of listens, I still feel like my ears are playing tricks on me. I stand by my original belief: a woman is singing this song.
Live and Let Die, Guns N Roses. Axl Rose sounds like he’s recording this from the depths of a cannabis cloud. Even for Guns N’ Roses, he seems extra blitzed here.
We Care a Lot, Faith No More. This song wins the award for most-improved quota of listening pleasure on the whole damn soundtrack. I used to sort of roll my eyes at pre-Mike Patton Faith No More, but this song kicks ass. I love the funky bass line, I love the slippery, snotty voice of the singer, I love the rag-tag chorus of overly-passionate voices yelling “We care a lot,” I love the stupidly subversive lyrics: “(We care a lot) about you people! (We care a lot) about your guns! (We care a lot) about the war we’re fighting, gee that looks like fun !”
Pressure Drop, The Specials. Pure, reliable mood lifter. There’s nothing like the Specials to reset a day.
Absolute Beginners, The Jam. The time period of this song’s likability is roughly equivalent to the lifespan of a fruitfly.
Armagideon Time, The Clash. Considering how much I love the Clash, it pains me that this funky, political B-side is included on the soundtrack, because it’s forcing me to admit that the Clash recorded sub-par throwaway tracks.
El Matador, Los Fabulosos Cadillacs. How I love the first 20 seconds of this song. Such vigorous salsa, with playful whistles and an infectious drum beat. And then, what a pity, the singer start singing.
Let My Love Open the Door, Pete Townsend. Pete, no. Just, no. This song is the musical equivalent of a nausea-inducing smell. The only door it opens is the one to the nearest bathroom stall, where I’ll be dry-heaving if I have to hear it again.
Blister 2000, Violent Femmes. A re-make with squealing saxophones and violins and a dragging, lulling tempo. The world did not need this song. When it’s over, the soundtrack restarts back to track #1, to the original “Blister in the Sun,” and I silently make yet another a mental note to bring in new CDs to work tomorrow.
