June 28, 2004
The Official “Hatemonger’s Quaterly” Music
The Official “Hatemonger’s Quaterly” Music That Sucks Series: (Installment the First) Gynorock
As our regular readers must know by now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” detest so-called “rock music.” In fact, we have already used this space to dilate on the horrors of “classic rock” and compare “rap” music to Joseph Stalin. (To be fair, old Iron Joe didn’t fare very well in the juxtaposition.)Yet we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have so much hostility toward pop music that we have decided to inaugurate an Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Music That Sucks Series. In the months to come, we shall do our best to malign sundry species of so-called music that get our dander up. So, dear reader, if you find our current posting markedly bereft of nasty jibes aimed at, say, Phil Collins, cheer up: He’ll get what’s due to him in due time.
Let us move on, then, to the subject at hand—the genre of horrendous music that we are contemning today. That, dear reader, is the aesthetic calamity we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” collectively label “gynorock.”
What, you must be asking yourself, is gynorock? Well, it seems to be a particular sub-genre of the category a long-time confidante of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” once delightfully dubbed “Yuppie Comfort Music.” You know, the kinds of tunes that lull Ian and Jennifer into a pleasant daze whilst they lounge on Pier 1 Imports furniture. That sort of thing.
Gynorock, as we have just said, is a sub-species of Yuppie Comfort Music; its tell-tale features include: A female singer-songwriter; lazy, saccharine melodies; girlish, sentimental lyrics. Typical granddames of gynorock include such un-notables as Tori Amos, Sarah McLaughlin, and Natalie Merchant.
It’s the kind of music for people who consider James Taylor just a bit too hard-edged for their liking.
For those of you still unaware of what brand of noxious musical detritus we are discussing, see if you can drudge up that rancid “In the Arms of the Angel” song that is so often featured at such classy haunts as CVS. If that song doesn’t make you want to throttle the record company executives responsible for such palaver with a harp, we don’t know what will.
What, you may be asking yourselves, if we enjoy gynorock? May we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly suggest that you take the Bob Barker route? That is to say, get yourselves spayed or neutered. That way, this may be the last generation of folks who enjoy this aural horror.
