What song are you listening to right now? What does it mean to you?
Last Updated: 24.06.2025 12:02
It’s one motive, at least. If that’s your meaning then run off with it and see who’ll bow, buy, or slap a bow-tie on it for a garrotte. The rest of us?
It, whatever the heck it is or may be to someone, doesn’t really mean anything else but its own real features and properties. The thing itself is what must mean, and the only thing that can mean: to anyone, everyone, okay uh-huh alright forever and ever amen.
HAH. HA! No! How could I possibly be, about something as trite as art has in our day and age become? Grossaroo!
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I men: you’d have to be a surefire every-miss dweeb of cretinous nature to credit what I have to say here with authority, or even a slick, greasy Greek booty-toot of value. GROSS. GROW UP, if so! Get a real load on!
Whatsoever is moved in you: now THAT you can know!
“The text” here means only: the entire artwork of whatever kind. Picasso’s Guernica is a text. Citizen Kane is a text. “The World’s Address” is our text, for this instance.
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Touch!
Whatever each viewer, hearer, taker-in and receiver “gets” out of it is, if anything, that critic or fan’s own personal production. Of what? Meaning. Value. Worth. Call it by any metric you can lay forth or set out: it’s pure personal judgment in play now, dog. Cur. Bitch?
Let’s not get personal. A woman, even a very young and competitive woman far too good for the likes, loves, needs or wants of me (or you, for that matter) is only called a “dog” by some sour grapes loser. Or! Hey, if she must love dogs, maybe she won’t even mind being called in a doggy style?
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You gonna tell us the mere author or creator of a work gets to decide for YOU what it means?
It is we the living who’ll each decide what it means: to each and all.
I like to enjoy music, literally. Just the text, just what it says.
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This is They Might Be Giants, and contrary to the dull, glistening and listless imaginations of self-perverted twerps who think songs have “real” or “secret” meanings that only the author or authors could tell you, John L. & John F. of They Might Be Giants will lay it all right out on the line for you every time I’ve ever seen ’em get into it.
The original authors did.
Art is what moves you in ways mere craft could not.
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Who do you say I am? Some “grammar anarch & semantic champion” for the people!
Take it in every sensory or sensual way it exists, by any medium presented! Like, love, want, even need, and even share that with others! Your own lived experience of the thing itself, yeah-heah!
In many circles (and the glorious art that erupts and cruises forth from these circles is not to be puked at), what’s vulgar is pretty always a-gonna be a good bet: to pop.
Anyone who wants to pretend their free gift to the world means something other than what they actually made and gave is welcome to be that pretentious.
How are you moved? It’s not a f***ing contest. Why would anyone want to WIN a f***ing contest? Oh, that triple asterisk stands for “art” not “uck.” Pretty yucky, that droll substitution. Pretty disgusting, those who try to pass it off as “fresh.”
Shall we uphold that craptastically egotistical self-shoveling attitude? Why should we? Because we, two should be famous for moving the world with what moves us in art? Hey.
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Nothing beyond what was literally made part of the song is the song’s meaning.
It ain’t the thing. Is it?
Whose song is it, any old way?
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Disabuse you of that “secret meaning” or “real meaning” nonsense notion pronto and galore! I mean consistently, coherently, cogently and with integrity: in every onstage bout of audience-aimed grateful candor, plus every interview segment you’re likely catch them in, speaking for themselves to all the world: unabashed, unashamed, not too guardedly at all.
A great deal like Robert Frost. “No musician!” would you say? HA. HA! HA! HA! Nonsense!
This is each person’s moving contribution to any work of art: to say how it moved in you.
Now pull the other one! How did it make YOU feel, about your mother for instance?
Nobody could possibly credit my take over and above or underneath the text itself, the thing itself: the actual work and nothing else. Nothing but. All that’s in or within it. Right?
A whole lot like AC/DC, Sia Furler and The Black Keys! Great pool hall music, the lot of them!
Feel!
I know you've deceived me
I’m so mean I mean it all.
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Official audio only.
Meaning is what you get out of it.
It is yours. Your own. Don’t be too precious about it, please. Shoot me a comment below: tell me what’s moving in you, easily or uneasily as you listen for yourself to the song (below!), and judge it for all that it is, or isn’t. For what they have done, or for what they have failed to do: in you.
Popular, yes. That’s what vulgar originally meant.
Big “A” or little? Done for Art’s sake, or just for free sushi and sake? Got anything for us, anything for each or all? GIVE IT UP, HOMO SAPIEN.
The sales and marketing job (includes all backstory and behind-the-bio of the real maker, doer, makers or doers) is nothing to do with the genuine article: the act performed, the thing made.
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Is that what you think of me?
Did it stink for you, or were you moved to applaud? Don’t be shy.
Every meaning is valid to the degree it can be supported from within the text.
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Kind of like John Linnell, John Flansburgh & The Band Of Dans (who hadn’t yet joined the bandwagon as of the above-limned song’s original finished debut).
It is trivia.
Everybody’s got one.
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What does it mean to me?
The thing really done.
I’ve got to be some kind of “sense, senses or sensual snob” who wants to root like King Tut on human growth hormones and steal your golden moment right out from under you, right?
This isn’t a matter for seriousness.
A. See below. It’s a 2-Parter!
What the singer or writer, the true creator, the artist (modern, classic, wise or otherwise) thinks it should mean in addition to what they’ve indeed made is…puff. Fluff. Tacky add-on, at best.
The thing itself is the thing itself.
Nope. It isn’t the thing.
That doesn’t mean the trivialist has some secret special key and code in their possession. They’re just kinky like that: like to be deep in the loopy sh!t. Smells like some way too-old pretend teen’s spirit hit the fan again, though. VULGAR.
Why even read my take on what it means? You think my “hot insider intel” can override, overrule or otherwise upset the work itself: in all it truly IS? Can interpretation unseat the text?
Would be wildly, reasonably sane to call “BULL’S-HIT!” on such fancy-shmancy anti-bullseye potshots.
Who says what’s art? The Modernists united in a real cheap-shot art-critic sold and commanded zeitgeist ventriloquism voice: The Artist! Art Is Whatever The Artist Nominates As Art!
TELL THEM ALBERT EINSTEIN AND COPERNICUS
AND LET THEM HEAR THIS SONNNG
worn...etc.
Is “it” an art at all?
Life's parade of fashion
It is what the thing itself meant in you. Or: means to you, coming forward now.
You decide. Purpose is what you put into life.
What more could one ask of a work of art? Sometime, maybe try to ask the song itself what it means.
Bull. The public has always known better than that. It isn’t novelty of theoretic conception that makes good art. It is truth. It is beauty. Which can include: hideous ugliness, if true. Or: hideous ugliness, if for some reason you the viewer, the onlooker, the innocent bystander, the paying customer or the passerby decide: I rather like the feel and style of that hideous thing.
Context (since there’s every single context you or anyone could choose to clap on top of it or pretend-slide beneath any artwork) is keyhole.
Hold!
A deft touch like Peter Gabriel, in such regards.
It means what it is, not what some paid or unpaid maker thinks it should mean to you. Kind of like oh, I don’t know, Neil Diamond? Neil Sedaka? Bing Crosby? I’ve no idea really. Elvis Costello? Aimee Mann? Sean Penn’s sister-in-law? The Beatles? Who gives a rat’s toss? These people were paid and paid handsomely to prettily dish up something for us, for us to take in and mean, and feel. And sure, think! Why not?
The world's address
They told you simply: by making the whole thing, nothing less. Nothing more. In every single word strong strung in sequence.
Answer one. “What song” indeed! I’m listening to "The World's Address":
So be it, then!
What kind of hack art critique confidence job (or “fanfic”) would you like us to call that crap?
Behold!
Now my tearstains on the wall reflect an ugly sight
Not I.
No need to confess
Don’t believe the hype.
A song made for public consumption has no “real meaning” beyond what it means to you: the hearer. The listener, ideally. The artist, the creator, the originator or the band of record merely bring you the best they could put out to move you, given available talent and production time. So?
Vulgar?
Hear!
There is no “code” in art to break.
Frankly, The Dead’ve never been the same since Garcia died, except on record and if you take a lot of drugs, too. Got Art?
Well, duh. More than that: TUH-DUH. TA-DA! It means the words! It means each and only what the words say. Read ’em and weep not! See? Right up there for you. SEE? See!
…this is all very well beyond what the thing itself means, or meant. It is new.
A finished work. A “fait accompli.”
Not in some misbegotten competition with the dead.
Under every garment I can see the world's address
A place that's worn
“The Word’s Address”
CALL THE MEN OF SCIENCE
Look.
Couldn't sleep last night
Q. What song are you listening to right now? What does it mean to you?
Or do not. Yoda won’t take them odds, and you shouldn’t aspire to be some critic’s forceless green-tinged puppet, whether cartoon or foam rubber: IT STANK EVERYWHERE BUT THE BOX OFFICE, and buddy?
I’m plain-out roaring, here!
A sad pun that reflects a sadder mess
Yes! You nailed it! A “full-on slob-mode aficionado of pop cultural forms” to boot! Who minds what I, some rando asshat off the internet, told YOU couched so hot, deep and hard in threadbare shorts, rocking and a-rolling on a huge leather sofa stolen from “schools” and “styles” of old thought, “BUD”? Not it!
Give us what cha got, “artist.” If indeed you consider yourself an artist: give it up. For all we the living, for any and each who might be moved, AND HOW.
I can see your secrets
THE WORLD'S ADDRESS
Some lovely story about what the artist went through prior to making the thing? Human interest, yes! We love to be deep in the gossip, we kind and faithful beings. Yet is this OF the artwork? No.
Check between one or the other set of your cheeks, and go blow.
Yet…
Everyone looks naked when you know the world's address
This all holds true for every thing called art, in every form of art, or called art.
I’m not sure if it’s like Wet Leg. I haven’t really drawn a bead on Wet Leg yet. Look.
Is that what you think of IT? Of art? Or if you’re a real capital-A ASS, of “Art”?
Taste!
I didn’t tell you what it meant.
WERE WRONG, the world's address! A place that's
Not at all like Pet Shop Boys, but who really is these days? Beyond Tennant and Lowe, no one has ever been very much like those Pet Shop Boys, actually.
No critic and no investor, no, not even any Capital-A Author or Major League Maker can add one jot, jolt, titter or teardrop to the finished work of art. As it was, or as it lasts in its finished form.
Am I serious?
You say. You’re the one to be moved, after all. In the “final anal”—what some call the “final” analysis. Why be rude? Art may be! Art may be the rudest thing in the world, taken out of its own natural time, place and culture! Pay heed! Open your eyes and let your tongue waggle like a slug!
It means an “accomplished fact.” Something that has already been done, and there it is: “that’s-that.”
Why should anyone swallow it? Except for what IT truly is? Your own original production! At best or at worst, “based on” or “inspired by” the thing itself.
Care to have a listen?
You know it.
Here’s the musical recording from the band They call “TMBG”
We humans do love trivia, and some of us: we love it more than art.
I’m far worse than serious on such scores: I’m sincere.
Why be a turd about it, stuffing imaginary made-up “author’s intent” (beyond what the author actually DID do, DID make whole) into some fantasy “envelope-pushing” exercise?
Call it an affectionym, but be sure the other wants yours first. It isn’t a very high art to be sure, this dealing and doling of names. Lables and boxes, more often than not? Empty of everything but nerve, bile and gall. Turn your head and cough, please. Yes!
Just leaves me depressed
I'll repeat it for those who may not have already guessed:
I say leave that to the one being called, Holmes. Or…sure, lock your tongue away behind your lips and bite yourself, hard! Why offend needlessly over what amounts to a nickname? Must you?
It is background intel, no part of the work at all, at all.
So…you can read the lyrics above. Those words, in that simple order? That IS what the song really means.
Context is not “key.”