Cat’s Rant
by Scott Hefflon
“Cats in the Cradle,” a-la Ugly Kid Joe, filled its rotating slot on MTV. My wandering attention was drawn to it, and responded:
“I like this song. I think I’ll review it for the magazine.”
It just fell out the top of my head. I wasn’t expecting such opposition.
“God, that’s so old!” Someone informed me.
“Califonia pseudo-stomp rehashing someone else’s childhood? How progressive,” another scathed.
“Even MTV is tired of that song. Why bother now?” A third asked.
At the time, mealy-mouthed arrogance supplied my rational.
“Because I haven’t reviewed it yet. I like it and I’m going to do it,” I spluttered in my own defense.
I received the patronizing arched eyebrow of “Yeah, whatever,” and the subject dropped like lead.
Days later it still nagged me. Why was it so important to me to review this admittedly tired cover of an overplayed “classic”? And why was I so pissed off that no one could understand my reasoning? It dawned on me later that I’d missed my own point. It wasn’t the quality of the cover (which is merely in updated production technique and chic grunge appeal), and it wasn’t the content (which is common knowledge by now, yet still thought-provoking and chilling despite it’s glossy finish), it was something more. The “A-Ha!” was the context of the song, not the song in itself. Consider:
A generation after Harry and Sandy wrote the original, a bunch of twenty-something white trash degenerates redo it. How circular. Recovering sentimental memorabilia is a solid career move for a candy corn band vying for the status of Big Cheese. The timing was sweet as well. The Babys are in office (and doing a much better job, thank you!), the Baby Trailers are rowing frantically, wondering how they missed the boat, and the rest of us? Basically, our options are:
1) Give up, get “real jobs,” get married, mortgage a house in the ‘burbs for the next 50 years, and generally, become our parents,
2) Give up, stay exactly where we are, in whatever limbo we’re in, fear like the plague any sign of maturity, evolution, or cop-out, publicly revel in the high school/college debaucheries that used to be the end all be all but now feel hollow and contrived, and desperately ignore the realization that our existence is spent paying the bills by running the 9 to 5 treadmill at nearly the same wages we made at 16 and faking the orgasm, (whew!), or,
3) Drop acid and groove with the “hey diddle diddle” chorus of the song and not really give a starving artist’s ass where we end up, as long as we enjoy riding the scenes, and barely even notice when choice #(1) sweeps us off our feet ’cause it’s about that time anyway, man. Right? Yeah, whatever.
