Up a Creek with No O.A.R.

This past NFL season, the Chicago Bears did an outstanding job of illustrating the “He’s With Me” Theory. The “He’s With Me” Theory occurs when you have to halves of a tandem that are very different in quality, but because you need both in order to complete the whole, you have to take the weaker in order to let the stronger in. The Bears had an awesome defense this past year – a defense that led them into the NFC playoffs without blinking. Oh, but their offense – simply atrocious. They have a quarterback who was afraid to throw to his own receivers and a running game that vastly underperformed. Regardless, the offense gets to go to the playoffs because of the defense. In essence, Brian Urlacher looked at Rex Grossman, sighed, and uttered to the velvet rope-minder, “He’s with Me.”

This holds true for pop music.

On two occasions now, (here and here) we’ve called out suspect songwriting for its lyrical flaws and nonsensical rhyming. And even though we’re somewhat critical of the best penning efforts of LFO and Train, these people are WAY richer than me and WAY more popular than me. They aren’t literary geniuses. (Hemingway would raise a glass to them, however, not because of their great prowess. More likely because Hemingway was a drunk. Scotchy scotch scotch.) No, these charlatans of the manuscript have their songs on the radio because of the music, not the lyics. Catchy hooks and great riffs have looked at pop music DJs and uttered, “Oh, that’s just Lyrics. He’s with me.”

This is why I hadn’t caught this one in the past.

Even I am guilty of enjoying a song with horrible lyrical content. The song I am about to expose is a frequent tune to any treadmill, road trip, or karaoke collection. It’s a sing-along classic, albeit from a relatively unknown band. And as I listened on the way to work today, it finally hit me: these lyrics are horrible. The offending ditty?

O.A.R’s “Crazy Game of Poker.”

In its incessantly catchy acoustic power-chord sequencing and upbeat drumming structure, I totally missed the boat. Let’s board, shall we? In the past, we’ve pointed out the top ten worst lyrics of the previous offending songs. This time around, we’re going to try and follow the songwriter’s stream of conscience, and promptly run head-first into a wall.

Ohh my, 20 throw down in my fist of rage
and the man to my left has folded down,
well johnny doubled up with a royal flush -
I had three jacks and a pair of nines
my mind is turning - just two shots more,
there's not much left to play
well then dude walks in black hat on top
What a mop, I'm lucky
It wasn't a county cop cause I'm just runnin out of time

Analysis: For the most part, we start off okay. (Slippery slopes always need to start higher than they finish.) It appears that our young gent is attempting to a game of poker, that may in fact be, crazy. He’s dropping cash and playing poorly, except for a full house that he got at the same time as Johnny’s royal flush. However, what’s the likelihood of that? Johnny’s flush has to have A-K-Q-J-10 of one suit, and yet, our writer has the other three jacks in his hand. What are the odds that the only other jack in the deck is in the hand of the man who has its flushed compliments? This guy’s luck blows.

Who's up for game two? What to do?
My wallet's gettin thin and I just lost my watch last night
Well I gotta problem just one answer
gotta throw it all down and kiss it goodbye

Analysis: Game two sounds like a bad idea. No upside for our writer. He’s going to lose, and he’s not even going to have any idea as to what time it was when he went broke. What a shame.

That was a crazy game of poker (That was a crazy game of poker)
I lost it all (I lost it all)
but someday I'll be back again and I,
never to fold. (never to fold)

Analysis: Damn catchy chorus. No complaints. (For now.)

Who's up for game three?
I can barely see the bourbon drowning next to me
and I just lost it all
well there's a man sittin next to me - Red, with smiling eyes
It's funny I don't have no money tonight – yeaaaaahhhh

Analysis: This is the first introduction of our writer’s fascination with describing who sits within close proximity by giving us a meaningless fact about them that gives us no idea as to that person’s poker skills or whether or not they took his watch. After another chorus and a bizarre scatting section, we get to the part where the drowning borboun got the best of our writer’s pen:

And I walked into the bar yesterday
Cause I had something to do, something to say
And Johnny walked in right behind me and I didn't turn around
Til I heard the sound of his feet falling on the ground
I looked over my shoulder and I saw a clown
And I said what'cha doin' in the bar tonight.

Analysis: I like that he had to stretch the second line a full eleven syllables to match up the perfect rhyme of day and say. That’s brilliant. And if he didn’t turn around until he heard the sound of Johnny’s feet, does that mean he turned out, um, immediately? Or is this a bar that’s front door area is carpeted with marshmallows? Hey it could happen. This bar is weird. Clowns drink free.

And I said, what'cha looking at?
He hit me across the face with a bat
I grabbed my .45 and I said let's get out and go
So he opened the door and said do what you're here for
I said I'm wandering round the road four to four
And I said I been walking for about a thousand years.

Analysis: Wow, that got out of hand really quickly. Johnny, you were supposed to be my friend. I don’t hate ya for having the most improbable hand of poker ever. And why do you have a bat in a bar? Or better yet, where’d I get this gun? You would think I would’ve used it at some point earlier in the song. Maybe I would still have a watch.

And my feet are growing tired
My eyes a little wired
Don't know what to do unless I retire
And he just said let's play some crazy poker

Analysis: Dude, I totally forgive you for inexplicably clocking me with that bat you’re holding. And despite the fact that my feet and eyes are feeling completely opposite feelings, I would be game for a few hands. Why not?

Later on in his ramblings, we get to:
And to my left was a man, he had no chin
Didn't really think about starting to sin
The man to my right wasn't feeling kinda nice
He looked kinda mad and I felt bad
Because I took his money last night it's kinda funny
But now I'm just struggling-- I need a honey-bunny.
I don't know what to say anymore
So I'm just gonna go out, anywho...

Analysis: And our dear writer has gone insane. Old Chinless McGee, who “didn’t really think about starting to sin” is just a fancy way of saying “doing nothing,” scared the hell out of our writer. Which is ok, considering the man to his right “wasn’t feelin’ kinda nice” (a synonym for “mad”, apparently.) And this man is the only poker player on the planet worse than our watchless, penniless, writer. Who apparently thinks it’s a sick joke and could use a female companion. Or a rabbit.

God, what was in that bourbon?