by JUSTIN CROUCH
edited by ANDREW HICKS
VOLUME 1: JASON MRAZ – “I’m Yours”
I get it. This is a great summer song, by which I mean it’s got that Look At the Quasi-Homeless Man Strumming His Acoustic Guitar On the Beach-type vibe to it. It fits Mraz’s personality perfectly, in other words.
The lyrics to this shit-gem don’t make much sense. Contradictions are everywhere. If “nothing’s gonna stop you but divine intervention,” Jason, then why do you “reckon it’s again your turn”? YOU DON’T WAIT FOR YOUR FUCKING TURN IF YOU’RE DEAD SET ON DOING SOMETHING, fuckwad. Another thing, Mraz: if you ‘won’t hesitate no more,’ then WHY for the love of Jesus Jones do you sing the song SO GODDAMN SLOW?! Keep in mind, people, these contradictions are just from the first verse.
As for the production here, it’s a relatively simple formula. Muted four-chord acoustic guitar and a ton of imitation slack-key guitar go a long way when you’re trying to compose an island-themed hit. Now where are the native-sounding folks on backup vocals? Holy crap, Jason, you’ve got that covered before the second verse starts. You sick, clever bastard. Too bad it’s all formulaic, which means it doesn’t amount to shit, Mr. Mraz.
Rule 42: Employ Ethnic Background Singers
It doesn’t matter that all they really say is “Hey,” as long as they sound like they could be from Jamaica or the Virgin Islands. Or maybe they run a bodega down the street from your seventh story walk-up apartment. As long as they can highlight Mr. Whitebread’s vocals. I mean, this guy is from middle-class Virginia.
Rule 68: Scat Sing
Jazz singers used scat singing to imitate the instruments used in jazz, like trumpets or the frenetic, unpredictable pacing of a jazz drum riff. Jason Mraz scats in “I’m Yours” because, frankly, he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do. Somehow, he merges the scatting into the cheap pick-up line, “Scooch on over closer dear, and I will nibble your ear.” No thanks, Mr. AZ, as they call you. Not only am I a straight male, but you have offended my ears to the point where nibbling them would only outwardly resemble what you’ve done to the insides of them.
Jason Mraz, you Opie, white-bread, apple-pie motherfucker, you should be ashamed of yourself. I hope Louis Armstrong shoves his trumpet so far up your ass, you’ll be the new P.A. system in hell whenever “Taps” is played. I hope Cab Calloway tap dances all over your face and assigns you to be his new Minnie the Moocher. You did, after all, mooch, or steal something genuine from him. But it’ll probably never happen.
I’m sure right now the biggest decision you have to make is which pharmaceutical-grade pot you’re going to roll your next joint with and what you’ll have for dinner — grass-fed, free-range unicorn steak seared rare, or the souls of lost children everywhere. And that’s what upsets me most.
And what’s up with your awful teeth?