Musical Numbers Then and Now
Musical numbers from an earlier generation are entertaining and instructive.
Pass That Peacepipe (1947)
Dig for Your Dinner (1950)
The first song is about self-control, the second is about industriousness. The sins of wrath and sloth are dispraised.
This is from a generation later:
U Can’t Touch This (1990)
The third song is simply boasting: MC Hammer vaunts over a Homeboy who cannot dance as well as he. “School’s in, sucker!” The sin of pride is praised.
On the other hand, to be fair, M.C. gives glory to the Lord at the outset, who blessed him with rhythm and talent, so the pride is mitigated.
Note that it lacks melody, harmony, and the dance lacks choreography. The beat is played over a sample, that is, a cut copied from another song: Rick James’s “Super Freak.”
I list this here not because it is the worst of rap songs, but, by all account, the best: I have been told that it is this song that saved the rap genre from obscurity.
And from a decade later
Here Comes the Money (2001)
The final song is also boasting, but it was meant to be the entrance theme for a professional wrestler, where vaunting is part of the gladiatorial spectacle. The spectacle here is ostentatiousness, gaudy display of wealth and women. The sin glorified here is greed.
We have had twenty years of this trend continuing, and I cannot show certain mainstream songs nor print their lyrics because this purports to be a family friendly blog. But I trust the gentle reader knows whereof I speak.
Looking back at the first song, Pass That Peacepipe, allow me a brief but bitter digression on the downfall of the West.
We have allowed the fallen angels of our nature to rob fun and joy from our songs. The boastful and vaunting songs from rap are strident, to be sure, and cocksure, but joy is not the note they hit. Joy comes from gratitude, and gratitude comes from humility.
The well-indoctrinator modern audience will instinctively flinch in nervous fear, that is, fear of thought-crime, at any mention of American Indian stereotypes, or at any mention of warpaint, tomahawks, peacepipes or any mimicry of war whoops or war drums.
I note merely that the medicine man mentioned at the outset is being revered as a source of wisdom to follow, and uttering a folksy reminder of the virtues of stoicism and forgiveness. It requires a truly neurotic over-sensitivity to all things politically correct to interpret this as demeaning.
When the Roman conquered the Greek, they imitated and admired the defeated people. Americans likewise held up the conquered Indians for emulation, naming football teams in their honor, or using Indian icons in Boy Scout ceremonies. Every boy playing Cowboys and Indians wanted to be the Indian.
All the romance and dignity of the American Indian has been erased in the name of political correctness. They are now as unknown to popular culture as Basque. No youngster of the current generation has ever seen them portrayed, except, perhaps, in the Sky Island sequence in One Piece, and anime from Japan.
Instead of being grateful at how well the conquerors treated the Indian tribes, it is politically correct to feign outrage at the injustices, hence to ignore any justice done. Gratitude is alien to political correctness, and destroys it.
Is our nation any better off, now that football teams are named for bland nonentities, our butter packages are blank, and no schoolboy wants to learn archery or woodlore? That we feel guilt toward our past and vacant hopelessness toward our future?
Vaunting is glorious, or, at least vainglorious, and no one in my profession avoids it — and yet I would rather pass the peacepipe, keep my dignity, and dig for my dinner, and earn my keep.
*** *** ***
I post the lyrics here to display the cleverness of the wording, or the lack thereof.
LYRICS:
*** ***
Pass the Peacepipe
A medicine man I met
Said don’t get yourself in a sweat
When things look gray
Just shrug and say:
It musta been somethin’ I et!
So don’t get yourself in a snit, he said
Tuck your tantrums into your kit instead
It’s disarming to be charming,
Quoth the medicine man
Whom all agree
It’s plain to see
Nobody could be wiser than.
So if your temper’s getting a top hand
All you got to do is just stop and
Pass that peace pipe and bury that hatchet
Like the Choctaws, Chickasaws
Chattahoochees, Chippewas do!
If you’re feeling mad as a wet hen
Mad as you can possibly get, then
Pass that peace pipe, bury that tomahawk
Like those Chichimecs, Cherokees
Chapultepecs, too!
When you’re cranky
Try to use a little restrain
Fold that hankie
And wipe off all of that war paint
So, if you wanna be an all-right guy
Not a long face, blues-in-the-night guy
Write that apology and dispatch it!
When you quarrel, it’s grand to patch it!
Pass that peace pipe and bury that hatchet
Like those Choctaws, Chickasaws
Chattanoogas, Chippewas
And those Chichimecs, Cherokees, Chapultepecs
And those Chakootamees, Chepacheps, and Chicopees,
Choktohs, Changos, Chattanoogas, Cheekarohs do-o-o-o
If you use a little control,
You’ll be top man on the totem pole.
*** ***
Dig for Your Dinner
I don’t want to sound like I’m preachin’ a sermon
But I’ve heard people say:
The early bird catches the worm;
‘N there’s a lot of good logic in that old cliché
There are certain obligations you just can’t shirk
You’ve got to put the heat on to make the kettle perk;
And if you want it to be a good day
You’ve got to do a good day’s work
Chorus 1:
You’ve gotta dig, dig, dig, dig for your dinner
Nothin’s what you get for free
You’ve gotta dig, dig, dig, dig for your dinner
Never was a money tree
And furthermore, my friends, I must repeat
Nobody’s livin’ down on Easy Street;
And if you want to owe for groceries
You’re gonna get an awful lot of “No sir-ee’s.”
You’ve gotta dig, dig, dig, dig for a dollar
‘Taint as simple as you think
You can’t purloin a sirloin
Or the butcher will put you in the clink
You just can’t be a lazy bird
You’ve gotta get off o’ your twig;
So you can afford your room and your board
And it’s nice to have the price of a cig.
Say, you’ve gotta pay the fiddler man
If you want to do a jig
You’ve gotta be as busy as a bee
To be a Mister B. I. G
And if you want some dig-dig-dignity
You’ve gotta dig, dig, dig, dig, dig for your dinner
Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig
Hear ’em talking to you
Dig, brother, dig!
That’s the spirit, brother!
Dig, brother, dig, brother,
Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig!
That’s right!
You gotta see the light
You gotta pull your load
You gotta dig the ground
You gotta get it hoed
You gotta pitch right in
or hit the road
You gotta feed the chickens
Gotta milk the cow
You gotta stack the hay
You gotta push the plow
You gotta feed, milk, stack, push
The time is now!
And dig, dig, dig, dig, dig!
You gotta pulls the weeds
You gotta rope the steer
You gotta bag the tiger
You gotta shoot the deer
You gotta see your dentist
Twice a year!
And dig, dig, dig, dig, dig!
Dig, brother, dig! [x2]
[Chorus]
Dig for your dinner
It’s harder than you think
Purloin a sirloin
And you wind up in the clink
You just can’t be a lazy bird
You’ve gotta get off o’ your twig;
So you’ll afford your room and board
And it’s nice to buy a cig
Say, you’ve gotta pay that fiddler man
If you want to do a jig
Be as busy as a bee
Be a Mister B. I. G
If you want dig-dig-dignity
Dig, brother, dig! [x3]
Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig for your dinner
Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig!
*** ***
U Can’t Touch This
[Chorus]
You can’t touch this [x3]
[Verse 1]
My, my, my, my music hits me so hard
Makes me say, “Oh my Lord”
Thank you for blessin’ me
With a mind to rhyme and two hype feet
It feels good, when you know you’re down
A super dope homeboy from the Oaktown
And I’m known as such
And this is a beat, uh, you can’t touch
[Chorus]
I told you, homeboy (You can’t touch this)
Yeah, that’s how we livin’ and ya know (You can’t touch this)
Look in my eyes, man (You can’t touch this)
Yo, let me bust the funky lyrics (You can’t touch this)
[Verse 2]
Fresh new kicks and pants
You gotta like that, now you know you wanna dance
So move out of your seat
And get a fly girl and catch this beat
While it’s rollin’, hold on
Pump a little bit and let ’em know it’s goin’ on
Like that, like that
Cold on a mission, so fall on back
Let ’em know that you’re too much
And this is a beat, uh, they can’t touch
[Chorus]
Yo, I told you (You can’t touch this)
Why you standin’ there, man? (You can’t touch this)
Yo, sound the bell, school’s in, sucker (You can’t touch this)
[Verse 3]
Give me a song or rhythm
Makin’ ’em sweat, that’s what I’m givin’ ’em
Now, they know
You talkin’ ’bout the Hammer, you’re talkin’ ’bout a show
That’s hyped and tight
Singers are sweatin’, so pass them a wipe
Or a tape to learn
What’s it gonna take in the 90’s to burn
The charts? Legit
Either work hard or you might as well quit
[Chorus]
That’s word because you know (You can’t touch this)
You can’t touch this
Break it down!
[Post-Chorus]
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh [x3]
Stop, Hammer time!
[Verse 4]
Go with the flow, it is said
That if you can’t groove to this then you probably are dead
So wave yo’ hands in the air
Bust a few moves, run your fingers through your hair
This is it, for a winner
Dance to this and you’re gonna get thinner
Move, slide your rump
Just for a minute let’s all do the bump
(Bump, bump, bump)
[Chorus]
Yeah (You can’t touch this)
Look, man (You can’t touch this)
You better get hype, boy, because you know you can’t (You can’t touch this)
Ring the bell, school’s back in
Break it down!
[Post-Chorus]
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh [x3]
Stop, Hammer time!
[Bridge]
(Woah, woah) [x2]
Oh, woah [x2]
Oooh!
Woah [x3]
[Chorus]
(Woah, woah, woah, woah) You can’t touch this [x4]
Break it down!
[Post-Chorus]
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh [x4]
Stop, Hammer time!
[Verse 5]
Every time you see me, the Hammer’s just so hyped
I’m dope on the floor and I’m magic on the mic
Now why would I ever stop doin’ this?
With others makin’ records that just don’t hit
I’ve toured around the world, from London to the Bay
“It’s Hammer!” “Go Hammer!” “MC Hammer!” “Yo Hammer!”
And the rest can go and play
You can’t touch this
[Chorus]
You can’t touch this [x2]
Yeah (You can’t touch this)
I told you (Can’t touch this)
Too hot (Can’t touch this)
Yo, we outta here (Can’t touch this)
*** ***
Here comes the Money
[Chorus]
Money, money, money, money (x4)
Ching ching, bling bling, cut the chatter
You ain’t talking money, then your talking don’t matter
Ching ching, bling bling, pattin’ pockets
You make the dolla dolla, can’t a damn soul stop it
Shock it (Uhhh)
[Verse 1]
Here comes the new kid on the block
Hold all your bets here’s where the buck stops
See first of all I am steppin’ out on my own
‘Bout time I elevated to claim my own thrown
Success in my blood, call it home grown
Pores reekin’ testosterone
Power and money got me crazy, cocky
No longer need you papi
I know your mad because you can’t stop me
And if you wonder how this playa done scooped your honey
I think she smelled my cologne, It’s called brand new money
Making major moves man ain’t a damn thing funny
Pimpin’ hood rats and playboy bunnies
They see the—
[Chorus]
Money, money, money, money (x4)
[Verse 2]
I’m global dolla dolla and roll with ’bout 50
Like to go out smelling fresh and lookin’ spiffy
Don’t like clean money, I want my riches to be filthy
And a retirement fund I can’t touch ’til I’m 60
So what am I supposed to do? Roll in two
Stand there pattin’ the pockets, ’till I’m stackin’ only two
Ching ching, bling bling, got the cash in lumps
It’s a four wheel here to jack and I’m selling them out my trunk
Whenever, whatever it takes to shake down a dolla
I roll in that direction, wait a minute (Holla, holla)
All I wants to know, where they go, where they went
And I’m makin’ monster money, smellin’ just like a mint
[Chorus]
[Verse 3]
If you can’t see the money
Get your eyes cleaned with Visine
I need fine things worth 7 digits at a time, G
My chil’ren chillin, the best, never worst
See, we never give them pebbles they get the rocks first
Bank vaults on lock’n
Ching! Ching!
About John C Wright
John C. Wright is a practicing philosopher, a retired attorney, newspaperman, and newspaper editor, and a published author of science fiction. Once a Houyhnhnm, he was expelled from the august ranks of purely rational beings when he fell in love; but retains an honorary title.
