Worst songs: Music to murder by

By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

Whom the gods wish to destroy
They first make mad with really bad songs

NO, I haven’t heard a banshee, this female spirit whose wailing, according to Irish legend, warns of a death in the family. But I’m positive that Anita Ward is a banshee. How else explain that excruciating, keening, shrieking anthem of hers, “Ring My Bell”?

That song, I’m sure, foretells of a death in every family that must have had the misfortune of hearing it. The first time I heard it, I swear all the dogs in the neighborhood suddenly whimpered in fear, tails tucked limply between their legs. For once, I was thankful human ears can’t always hear what dogs can. Well, except for “Ring My Bell,” which must have been specifically written to torture dissidents into betraying even their mothers.

Imagine a fingernail grating across a blackboard while the banshee coaxes: “You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell…” Since you’ve probably become catatonic after hearing these words a gazillion times, the banshee turns ballistic and orders you toward the end of the song to “ring it, ring it, ring it, oww!!!” Alright already!

Just as annoying because really, haven’t we got enough Lito Camo songs with which to prove that we truly deserve Willie Revillame? Why oh why do we have to listen to Shirley Ellis’ “The Name Game,” like we don’t already hate our baptismal name without having to make a stupid repetitive song out of it.

Imagine, just imagine how this song, a favorite during acquaintance parties, can prod a shy adolescent to slash her wrist because for crying out loud, her name is Eufrasia: “bee-bo Eufrasia, banana pana Eufrasia…”

Of course if you’ve ever heard me sing, you’re probably thinking I’m the last person who should bellyache about bad songs. Well, yeah. But at least I only sing in the shower, probably annihilating all the molds, mildew and toilet bowl fungi before Miriam makes an example of them. I don’t go around imposing my vocals on persistent winos who have taken up residence in karaoke bars.

Which brings us to “My Way,” easily voted the most murderous music around. How many drunks have deep-sixed each other while grappling for the mike for a chance to brutalize this song? How many bar brawls have been provoked by the stampede to the CR, where everyone rushes to upchuck their sisig everytime this song is played?

Finally, I just hate rap and disco. Okay, so I was born a square. Still, think of how I’m doing humanity a favor by sparing music lovers my version of “Push, Push in the Bush,” Rick Dees’ “Disco Duck” and Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You, Baby!” while thrusting my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps like there isn’t enough shame in the world already.

For another look at music and the good folk who make them, check out the May 18 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.