Kids These Days - by Philip

I always promised myself that I would never be one of those dads who gripes at his kids and their friends about how much better things were in the good ol’ days. Thankfully, almost everything actually is better now than when I was a kid, so that makes this job much easier for me. For example, I have an adorable little machine in my car that tells me how to get from my house to any location on the planet; my dad had my mom yelling at him to take the exit that he just drove past. I now have a tiny music player that holds every one of the thousands of songs that I own; as a child, I used to spend hours trying to figure out just where the one song “Pop Music” by M was located on my 8-track tape. And don’t even get me started on the myriad ways that the internet has improved my porn consumption.

But lately, I have been getting more and more annoyed at one aspect of modern society that has been in an absolute nosedive since its heyday in the 70s. I’m talking, of course, about the sex ballad.

What’s a sex ballad? That’s the song that bands in the 70s and 80s used to sing at each of their concerts in order to pick out the local hotties that they were going to "get to know better" that night. Every band that I used to listen to in my childhood had one of these songs. Rod Stewart had “Tonight’s the Night.” Bad Company had, “Feel Like Makin’ Love.” But by far, the highest example of this art form was exemplified by the group Foreigner with their heartbreaking work of staggering genius, “Hot Blooded.”

If you’ve never listened closely to this song, it reads like a sex questionnaire. Take a look at the subtle clues that Lou Gramm gives that he just might be interested in Miss Tube Top in row three:

“You don’t have to read my mind, to know what I have in mind.” (No, Mr. Gramm, we just have to glance at your skin-tight leather pants to figure out that mystery.)

"Are you old enough? Will you be ready when I call your bluff?" ("Seriously, after that incident in Jacksonville, I'm going to need to see some photo ID.")

“If it feels alright, maybe you can stay all night. Shall I leave you my key?” ("Shall I?" Do you hear any singers these days using grammar like that? It brings a tear to the eye.)

Then, just to be sure that he’s getting his message across to the right young “lady,” Gramm adds:

“But you’ve got to give me a sign. Come on girl, some kind of sign.” (This is for the slower women in the audience who haven’t picked up on the song’s hidden message.)

“Is my timing right? Did you save your love for me tonight?” (Translation – "Don’t raise your hand if you’re having a visit from your 'Aunt Flo' or if you already gave it up to your date in the parking lot. Lou Gramm doesn't do sloppy seconds.")

“Now it’s up to you. Can we make a secret rendezvous? Oh, before we do, you’ll have to get away from you know who.” (Bet you’re regretting bringing her to the concert now, Poindexter.)

You have to admit, the boys of Foreigner had this thing down to a science. No matter how you look at it, that is a formidable example of lyrical poetry capable of enticing any small-town girl into a night of romance that will give her painful flashbacks for the rest of her life. But (Crotchety old man alert!) the kids these days with their rapping tunes and the hippity hop music just have no idea how to write this kind of song. Instead of carefully interlacing their lyrics with some lovely romantic overtures, the songs today consist almost entirely of demands for sex. They basically go like this: “I’m a rich singer who likes alcoholic beverages, weaponry, and women with distinguished gluteal profiles – get up here and have sex with me now.”



As an example, let’s take a look at Flo Rida’s song, “Low”:

“Hey, I ain't never seen nuthin’ that'll make me go
This crazy all night spendin’ my dough
Had the million dollar vibe and a body to go
Dem birthday cakes, they stole the show
So sexual, she was flexible,
Professional, drinking X&O
Hold up wait a minute, do I see what I think I whoa
Did I think I seen shorty get low
Ain't the same when it's up that close
Make it rain, I'm making it snow
Work the pole I got the bankroll
I'ma say that I prefer them no clothes
I'm in to that I love women exposed
She threw it back at me I gave her mo'
Cash ain't a problem I know where it go”

Where’s the romance? Where’s the subtlety? Where’s the grammar? Musicians used to have just a single song dedicated to convincing that one special woman to meet them backstage. Nowadays, those young whippersnappers don’t sing about anything but sex! Instead of treating women like the cherished objects of desire that they are, today’s singers just treat them like disposable sex toys that they can use up and throw away. And that’s, umm… bad. They really shouldn’t be traveling all over the world in their private jets, drinking the best champagne that money can buy, surrounded by gorgeous women that cater to their every whim. Instead, they should… uh, they should… actually, that sounds pretty cool. I mean “tight.” Okay, I’ve changed my mind – everything is better today than it was when I was a kid. Except for saggers. I mean, seriously.

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