The Ghost Of Robert Palmer Can Reunite Our Divided Nation
These days, trying to get all Americans to agree on something—anything—seems like a fool’s errand. But that sentiment doesn’t speak to an irrefutable truth; it speaks to our embarrassing and shameless lack of imagination, with social media as one of the main culprits.
For example, The Bad Penny is willing to bet that, if 1,000 people living in the U.S. were surveyed and given a multiple-choice test to name the worst lyric ever, in any music genre, from any point in the history of pop music, the end result would be more or less unanimous. The lyric is, has to be, could only be, and always will be: “Doctor, doctor give me the news/ I’ve got a bad case of lovin’ you!”
Robert Palmer, who died in September 2003, was perhaps a very nice man. He might not have had any enemies. His fan base is still intact more than two decades after Palmer’s passing. But dude had so much blood on his hands for claiming the unimaginatively titled “Bad Case of Loving You (Doctor Doctor),” as one his top hits, especially because he didn’t even write the damn thing. Let’s be real: Palmer made the conscious decision to turn that turd of a tune into a hit. And for that reason, he should have been embarrassed and ashamed of himself. Grocery shoppers who have to suffer through that god awful “hit” are the crowd who are most owed an apology—hell, maybe even reparations.
Additionally, the fact that Palmer incorporated his rendition of the abysmal song into his live performances, when logically taken a step further, implies that he actually enjoyed the tune that was loathed by everyone else. And then that fact calls into question Palmer’s artistic taste, even leaving us to wonder whether he knew basic concepts like the difference between good and bad music—a rather critical skill for a musical talent, wouldn’t you say?
Of course, there’s one way the Ghost of Robert Palmer can turn his ship around and—like the proposal posited above—it is a foolproof, guaranteed way to bring us all together by turning piss into lemonade. Palmer’s estate/team could arrange live coverage on TV and social media so they can finally address the atrocity of a song, and the atrocity of his mistake in a forthright way.
If Palmer were still around, he might have agreed to stage the press conference by himself. He would dab at his tears with a handkerchief—you know, to keep the public appearance classy and all—unfold a piece of paper from his pocket, and read the remarks he scribbled on it. The notes would direct him to become a more noble man, apologize for decimating the livelihoods of millions upon millions of people who never sought out the song, never wanted to hear it again after the first time and punch Alexa when she mishears you and blares the song despite your objections.
“My fellow Americans, I have a ‘bad case’ of not recognizing ‘bad music,'” Palmer would possibly joked to the amusement of no one. “The people have spoken. And the healing must begin. I prayed and asked God for forgiveness and advice on how I can atone for this cluster-fuck and how I can best undo all the damage that song, with me effectively acting as its nefarious accomplice.
“I asked God for even more direction,” Palmer would continue. “Should I make an executive decision to ban the song ‘Bad Case of Loving You (Doctor Doctor)’ in public and private? Should I attempt to form a bipartisan group of lawmakers to hold hearings on what I now understand is a hideous song, with the glimmer of hope that it would bring the horrors facing us to an end?”
He wouId then solemnly swear that, as a result of a series of actions demanded by members of his family, his friends and [a choked-up Palmer pauses] my 7-year-old Pekanee poodle named Pimples, The Song-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named will never be heard again. No living, breathing organism, no matter how small or scary (like, I’m really afraid of spiders, for example). From this day forward, one of the two songs responsible for making me famous will never be heard again.”
Palmer would then hear a call from the skies above and immediately recognize it. Indeed, God had heard Palmer’s petitions, but the only response that God would have for Palmer would be this blunt retort: “What the hell were you thinking? Why did you pick that particular piece of tripe and essentially claim it as your own? I may be all-knowing, but you gotta do some work too, particularly on your judgment. Do you smell what The Rock is cookin’?”
God would then fade away like Marty McFly’s relatives did, at least temporarily, in that Polaroid picture he kept handy while traveling through time. Meanwhile, Robert would fold up the piece of paper that listed the instructions to which he had so closely adhered. It would no longer crisp but soggy and frayed due to the copious amounts of sweat and tears his body would have produced during the ordeal.
After tucking the paper back into his pants pocket, Palmer—still teary-eyed—would then mutter to no one in particular: “For the record, God, ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown’ was a pretty fucking awful song too.”
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