Like a good single, a terrible one reveals itself with airplay and forbearance. I don’t want to hate songs; to do so would shake ever-sensitive follicles, and styling gel is expensive. I promise my readers that my list will when possible eschew obvious selections. Songs beloved by colleagues and songs to which I’m supposed to genuflect will get my full hurricane-force winds, but it doesn’t mean that I won’t take shots at a jukebox hero overplayed when I was at a college bar drinking a cranberry vodka in a plastic thimble-sized cup.
New Kids on the Block – “”You Got It (The Right Stuff)”
PEAK CHART POSITION: #3 in February 1989
Wobbly but determined to keep cool, I step into the Boston studio. Donnie’s stuck to the phone, running a hand through his mullet as he pleads with the chick he met last week to let him come over. Joey blows bubbles into his milk. Jordan plays basic chords over his Casio’s samba preset. On the sofa sits Danny, tongue between his teeth, attacking the problem of tying his sneakers.
“Yo, yo,” Danny mumbles.
Donnie, always the friendliest, cradles the phone on his right shoulder while leaning in to kiss my cheek with the left side of his body. Can Donnie smell the two beers on my breath? Joey winks. Only Jordan, who can be a dick like only a brother can, ignores me.
“What’s goin’ on?”
“We’re waiting to do backup vocals.”
“Ya mean you haven’t done’em yet?”
Jordan doesn’t look up. “Maurice needed all of us.”
Ever since Maurice refused me a lead vocal, I haven’t given a fuck. I thought a song called “Cover Girl” was perfectly in range, even had a rockin’ solo. Fuckin’ Donnie got it. Fuck, even Danny got a song. But I’ll go along with it– I’ll go along with playing bass live if that’ll please Maurice, and he seems to think we gotta look like a band at some point.
Finally, the engineer gives the thumbs up. Lining up in front of a mike, a legal pad with Maurice’s lyrics on the stand, we rehearse a bit. It’s called “You Got It (The Right Stuff).” Danny is consistently out of tune — how’d he get picked to join them anyway? I am too. Can’t blame the beer. I’ve known forever I can’t sing a fucking note. Really, only Joey and Jordan have the voices. Donnie, fuckin’ Donnie, has the enthusiasm.
Then there’s the other shit. Every time I hit a bum note, Donnie slaps my ass. Does he know? He must suspect. I’ve only told Jordan, who wasn’t surprised. Joey? Too young. Danny? Who gives a fuck. Donnie, though. There was that time in the Century Plaza in L.A. when they’d stayed having a few beers in the bar, the only ones in the New Kids who could. Anyway, Donnie kept looking him in the eye and going, “You’re a killer, Jonathan Knight. You’re a fuckin’ killer.”
Anyway, we try again. Really dumb fucking shit. Maurice may have written for New Edition, but this shit isn’t even as catchy as “Cool It Now.” It sounds plastic. Fake. It doesn’t even need singers. Joey once joked, “Hey, Maurice, would ya sing this stuff yourself if we weren’t around?” Fuckin’ Joey. Sixteen and funnier than the others. And he’s right.
At 9:46 p.m. we nail the take. I’ve sung more oh-oh-ohs than Paul McCartney ever did. Danny doesn’t say anything to anybody, just gets in the limo and zooms away. Jordan and Joey decide they’re gonna stay at the mixing board watching Maurice — “adult supervision,” they call it.
Because fuckin’ Danny is a selfish bastard, we gotta wait for the car to come back for me and Donnie. Looking over his shoulder, afraid of being spotted by fans, Donnie lights a cigarette. I bum one off him. “This shit’s gonna blow up, Jon,” he says quietly in the unexpectedly cool late spring air. Our eyes meet. I’m the one who breaks the stare. Donnie laughs for some reason. He knows where I’m going tonight, to find the right stuff I think I got and is better than this dumb fuckin’ song.
Humanizing The Vacuum 