I recently got in to a heated argument...no, let's be honest...it was full blooded fisticuffs.
I dared to say to someone going to a concert and having the singer lip-synch wasn't a gig, it was a mimed cheat.
They argued that the music didn't matter, as it was about the image, the style, the 'performance'.
I spluttered in to my ginger beer, arguing that if you paid $140 to see a poppette, you should at least hear them sing. Otherwise, why not buy the CD and sit at home with it turned up really loud and then change your own clothes in-between each song? They took exception to this. I told them the truth hurts. They asked me if I thought they were some sort of idiot. I replied it wasn't their fault their genetic code had let them down, but I was open minded and said 'each to their own'. The gauntlet had been laid down, it was handbags at three paces and slaps were exchanged. I'm glad to say the squealing ninny was dragged away before things got really ugly and I left with my tail between my legs.
And I don't like arguing in front of the children, but sometimes principles need to be defended.
Then my young son asked me why I was fighting, and I broke down and cried.
I sat him down.
I told him back in very late 1989, I loved a song so much that I quite literally wore out the tape. He asked me what a tape was, I dragged out a box and searched through a pit of ageing cassette tapes, and burst in to tears. It was gone; the piece of treasure was missing.
And after all these years, that shameful secret tape, the one I had spent so long burying, hiding away from everyone only to be listened to slyly on my boom-box when no one was around, was gone.
He patted me saying everything would be alright. But it wouldn't. I loved that bloody tape!
Sniffing, I found a compilation CD and loaded it in to Itunes. Where Were You - 1989. All class.
As we waited for it to upload, I told him how wonderful the world can be. Sometimes so briefly. And sometimes you get lied to, get cheated, get broken hearted. Then I pressed play.
Bliss. Milli Vanilli.
You see, I had the cassingle of Baby, Don't Forget My Number. I played it back and forth. The synth beats made me feel great. I waited each week as it would air on VIDEO HITS and I thought it was the coolest song ever. My mates and I knew all the moves... I've been searching high...I've been searching low... ba-ba-ba-ba baby!!!! Don't forget my number!!!
And an older bloke at boarding school who was in year 11 had his own room aside the dorms. Let's call him *James*. He had a record player. He had the 45 of Blame It On The Rain. He would spin it all day and all night, and sometimes, he'd open the door a crack and let us Year 8 kids have a listen. It was like being taken to the pub, a brothel and a tattoo parlour all at once.
Yes... we were young and Milli Vanilli ruled the world. Mike Hammond on 2Day FM played 'em to death, The Rev Doctor Doug Mulray over on Triple M derided them mercilessly.
And no one knew the dark secret that would soon shame the world.
You see, Rob and Fab of Milli Vanilli didn't even sing. They were dancers, and the faces of Milli Vanilli. In reality, the guys could barely string two English sentences together, but here they were topping the charts, especially in the US, with THREE #1 hits. They won a Grammy! They sold millions of records.
When the scandal broke, you couldn't bury your face quick enough. I think James lost a chunk of himself on November 12th 1990 (probably November 13th here, with time zones, and the way news travelled back in 1990...it could have been three weeks later in Australia!).
Poor old James was never the same again.
James went from being a person respected by his peers and juniors and staff to a husk of a lad, burying his head in his text books just so he could pass his HSC (out of 500 marks back then) and run away from the hurt and pain inside.
Me. Well, meh. I've always had my cassingle. Listened to it with pride. I always argue that Baby, Don't Forget My Number still is a great song, sung by someone other than the chaps on the cover.
But back then lip-synching was a sinful act. Only wicked, talentless hacks would dare do it. Vermin, bottom feeding, soulless *!&#!@!s!!!
My son asked me what they called it today.
"Son," I said. "Today, it's called the Top 40."
Baby, Don't Forget My Number
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ReklDIQS-n8 (Video version)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vUQHG5fy34 (MY cassingle version)
Blame It On The Rain
Girl I'm Gonna Miss You
All Or Nothing
Girl You Know It's True
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