American Cake, Part II (Don McLean, Madonna, et al)

The translated chorus, both here and in Part I reminds me of that Gwendolyn Brooks thing that you think is really great and clever the first time you read it, but due to the law of diminishing returns or something, each subsequent viewing leaves you a little less excited.* You know how a lot of things are like that?

OK, but so Part II comprises the verses where this song always achieved a perfect mélange of enticing and repelling my high school self. It’s here that McLean’s references seem to spiral inward into such self-aware specificity that the exponentially increasing levels of analysis it seems to be inviting from the listener are kind of what makes it, like, suck? Like the song likes to think that it’s the enigma machine, but really it’s one of those first-attempt-at-a-poem poems where Everything is Actually a Stand In for Something Else. Blahhg.

But, happily, these are also the verses that the Brady Bunch included in their truncated cover version on the album Meet the Brady Bunch, which, when I heard it in college, allowed me to feel just a bit superior, because while by then I had outgrown those childish things, I could imagine the six Brady kids poring over the lyrics and FREAKING OUT because this is the half of the song McLean designed to make suburban teens freak out.

Attic-dwelling, literalist Greg would be all, “The three men he admires most are The Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens and Buddy Holly,” and idealist Marcia would be all, “No, it’s RFK, JFK and MLK,” and that Blakean mystic Jan would be all, “No, it’s the literal Holy Trinity,” but Cindy, little Cindy, looking at a framed picture (Is it Robert Reed? I can't make it out), would spake as a child:

You thay. You’re
Gonna leave. You
Know it’th a lie. You
Know that. Will
Be the day. When I
Die soon

Also, “Fun bird”? WTF, German language?

-Samantha

* Actually, I take it back -- I just listened to it and when
you hear her read it, it makes it OK again. Though
that's not the case with this song.


Helter (more “skelter”) at a summer more swelter.
The birds flew away with a precipitation protection,
Eight miles highly and fast falliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.
It landed, against the rules, on the grass.
The players tried for a forward run,
With the fun-bird on the supplementary income in a form.

Half the temporal air was a sweet odoriferous substance now,
While the Sergeants played a marching melody.
We rose completely, in order to dance,
Oh, but we never received the probability!
Because the players tried, catch, to take;
The marching volume rejected to furnish.
Do you recall, what the day was uncovered, which the music died?

We caught on to sing, So long, Miss American Cake.
Mine drove Chevy to the levee, but the levee? Was it drying!
The good old boys whisky drank (and rye)
And singing, this'll is the day, which I die.
This will is the day, which I die.

All -- oh -- and we were there in a place,
Which a production, which was in the area without time,
To the left again to begin lost.
So concerned: Jack is speedy! Jack is fast!
The Jack Lightning, which sat on a candle owner,
Caused a fire, is the only friend of the devil.

Oh -- and I, it on the stage, watched out there,
My hands became in the fists of a stranglehold.
No angel, who was carried in Hell,
Could break that spell (Satan’s).
And during the flames strongly into the night climbed,
In order to light up the offering candle,
Saw I that Satan, with joy, laugh the day,
Which the music died

It sang so long, it misses the American cake.
Mine drove Chevy to the levee, but... the levee, was it? Drying,
The good old boys whisky drank (and rye)
And singing, this'll is the day, which I die.
This'll is the day, which I die.

I met a girl, who sang the blue
And I asked it for somewhat lucky messages,
But she straight-smiled and turned away.
Forwards, I went, down to the holy memory,
Which I heard the music years became,
But the man said there that the music would not play.

And in the roads: the children cried,
Cried the loving. And the poets dreamed.
But a word was not spoken;
All church-bells were defective.

And the three men admire I most:
The father, son and the holy spirit,
Reached her last course for the coast
The day, which the music died.

And they sang:
So long, so long, Miss American Cake.
Mine drove Chevy to the levee, but the levee was drying.
And they (good old boys) drank whisky and singing rye.
Being is the day, which I die,
These is the day, which I die.

You sang:
So long, Miss American Cake.
Mine drove Chevy to the levee, but the levee -- was it drying!
The good old boys drank whisky and rye.
This are to sing the day, which I die

American Cake, Part I (Don McLean)

Language: German

Samantha and I have divided this one between us, because it's really really long and, frankly, I didn't think that I was capable of dealing with the whole thing. (Samantha is, I think, just humoring me. Which is fine with me as long as I don't have to do the whole thing.)

I should admit that I really hate this song. I mean really, really hate. This hasn't always been the case, or at least it doesn't seem like it. But in my part of the Midwest, no matter where you are, it seems like there's at least one radio station that will play this song about every six to eight hours. At the moment, where I'm living, there are two such stations: one of them also plays "Me and Bobby McGee," a song I actually did like at one time, at least three times a day, and the other one also plays "Livin' on a Prayer," by Bon Jovi, like every other hour.

The "Livin' on a Prayer" thing is a little easier to deal with because I always hear "It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not" as "It doesn't make a difference if we're naked or not." So I prefer that station.

Anyway. So I hate this song through sheer overexposure. I have no idea whether it's a good song or not, I don't know what it's about, all I know is that I want Don McLean to die. Repeatedly, if necessary. And anyone who wants to write a twenty-minute song called "The Day 'the Day the Music Died,' Died" is just going to have to have to think long and hard about whether or not that's a good idea.

-Jessi

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A long, long time before,
I can remind myself calmly,
I used to like this music of educated smiles.
I mean, I knew, and, if probability had
let those people dance, then possibly I could,
and they would (for a while) be lucky.

However, I would supply a shiver
with each paper. (I, who
formed February!) Bad messages on the door;
I couldn't undertake the further stages.

Remind me if I cried, if I could not.
I read over his widowed bride, when
something deeply within me
affected the daily music, which died.

So good-bye, Miss American Cake.
Levee drove the Chevy to the mine,
but Levee was drying the
good old boys, and they were drinkin' whisky and singing "Rye!"
I am the day; this'll die.
Which day is this? I'll die!

You wrote the love book,
and have faith in your God, above the
Bible. Such a way explains it to you.
Can you believe in rock roles,
store your death in soul music,
and can you teach dances to me, or how one slows material down?

You're in the love with him; I
dance to that, because I see you know the gymnasium property.
They both stepped away from your shoes.
Man, I dig that blue rhythm.

I was a lonely broncing youth
with a pickup truck and a dollar pink carnation,
but I knew that luck was from
the day when the music died.

I caught on to sing,
"Good-bye, Miss American Cake."
Levee drove the Chevy to the Mine.
Levee was drying, but he
drank whisky and the good old boys' rye.
I'll die singing, "Which day is this?"
This day is the day in which I'll die.

For 10 years, we're on ourselves, which is
[Samantha] moss. Fat now grows on a stoner,
but that's not like it used to be.
When the fun bird sang for the king and the queen,
it sang in a coat it borrowed from James Dekan.
And you: a voice came from me, (from which of us?), and . . .

Oh, the king looked down, and during this,
the thornbird stole his crown. (Fun!)
The court room was rearranged;
a judgment pronouncement was returned. No,
Marx and Lennon read a book, during
practice by the park. In the quartet,
we sang dirges in the darkness, and
the music died that day.

We sang,
"Good-bye, Miss American Cake!"
Levee drove to my Chevy,
but was it drying, Levee?
The old rye, and good whisky boys, drank,
singing, "And this is the day which'll die.
This day will die, which is me."