Still scribbling

September’s grand final crowd might have been thrilled at having one of America’s heavyweight rappers schlepping around the MCG in a white track suit, but I’ve yet to come to grips with Snoop Dog. This makes me feel woefully out of touch with music trends. 

But I’ll say this for Snoop: he spread the money around. You could reasonably expect a few back up dancers and singers to put in an appearance, but that was Ben Hur in high-soled sneakers. Presumably everyone got paid for being able to play the sax, dance, do backflips, run back and forth, sway and do knee rolls all at the same time. By the time Snoop doled out the cash he’d have been lucky to end up with a couple of hundred. 

My lack-lustre reaction to the show stems from the fact I don’t like rap much. I’m no orphan. Lots of people who still feel nostalgic about blokes with long hair and flared pants bashing up guitars are inclined to feel likewise. Yes, it was childish and a bit silly and self indulgent, but it made for peppy theatre. 

We got through rock and on to punk, and then it all went pear shaped. I think this miserable anti-rap streak is underpinned by the fact I can’t join in with it. I cannot think of one Snoop song that’s generated a singalong – even a half-hearted one where you forget most of the words, but roar like hell in the chorus. I’m looking at you Mr Kenny Rogers; ‘The Gambler’ was hand-made for drunks, party people, and shower singers. 

And another thing. You can sing Kenny Rogers dressed in any old gear.  For rap you need the look. Cool. Preferably black and hinting at the south side of Chicago. The ability to slide on the balls of your feet and make elaborate hand movements. 

Of course, rap is nothing new. Our son was playing rap music when he was at school. It was reasonably tuneful back then – I even sang along with one song until I stopped to listen carefully to the lyrics and realised I’d been crooning a load of poorly syntaxed sexist profanity. Our daughter wore a shabby black reefer jacket with Dead Kennedys scrawled on the back in white texta. But you could sing Dead Kennedy songs, shouty as grim as they were. 

It’s not the same as before though. Get together at any party with people who remember ‘Eleanor Rigby’ and nothing is off limits. So long as it’s got a tune and recognisable words everyone will join in. And you never know what’s going to be dragged out of the hat.

I was once at a gathering of family and friends and we were having a jolly old time. Booze flowed, as did songs. One lot of men in from somewhere else and looking a bit the worse for wear started singing. I expected a ragged chorus of the afore-mentioned ‘Gambler’ or maybe a Bob Seger number. 

What I didn’t expect was ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’.