Friday, May 25, 2007

Mrs. Jones, the infidel biatch.

The last time I heard someone say, "you infidel bitch!" or read about it was in a Harold Robbins novel which has the word 'pirates' in it or something. That was way back when pubescent curiosity had the better of me. I'll spare you of the x-rated details though, and just say that it is something really unpleasant. But anyone who has read a Robbin's novel should know. Anyway, I ain't telling you any Robbins novel. Instead, lemme tell you about Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones is an infidel bitch with the daintiness of a 40s or 50s star, that an illicit affair with her appeals so much to a crooner as Michael Buble. So this is currently my stuck in the head song. The kind that, unconsciously, you find yourself humming to before you even take note of it.

The track is included in his latest album, Call Me Irresponsible, which I find more diverse than the second one. There's a duet with Boyz II Men which resembles like that of a 50s or 60s blues song (Comin' Home Baby), think Steppin' to the Bad Side kind of groove, and a choral ensemble in a couple of songs. There's also the pop-catchy Everything, and Home-like ballad Lost, plus takes on Tony Bennet (The Best is yet to Come) and Henry Mancini (It Had Better be Tonight) classics.

So let me go back to Mrs. Jones, where he sings: Me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on. We both know that it's wrong, but it's much too strong to let it go now... We meet ev'ry day at the same cafe. Six-thirty I know she'll be there. Holding hands, making all kinds of plans, while the jukebox plays our favorite song... We gotta be extra careful, that we don't build our hopes too high. 'Cause she's got her own obligations and so do I... I haven't heard the versions from Hall and Oates, The Dramatics and Billy Paul. But Buble's version makes cheating fun and run of the mill.

1 comment:

digitalburyong said...

hi jay, salamat sa pagbisita sa blog. hehe.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting