Hairspray howdies, yodelbuddies! Tighten your wigs and tuck your tummies, we’re goin’ to Dollywould!
Only Dollywould discover Ladysmith Black Mambazo in a LifeSavers commercial, pack ’em on a Peace Train and flash ’em to Nashville to rehash the Yusuf Islam cat who used to be Stevens. There’s enough culture shock in that mix to fondue-bee-doo sixteen tons of goat cheese yogurt. And to think we were only an Ocean Spray away from the Dolly McFerrin version of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”.
Only Dollywould mournfully bid the silver spaceships adieu-si-do in Neil Young’s “After the Goldrush” and then scamper yippety-skippity into Katrina & the Waves’ “Walking on Sunshine”. That’s not a mood swing, that’s a mood seizure. Gave me wiglash.
Only Dollywould give Neil Young a lyrical scrubby-scrub (think “I could cry” for “getting high”) but keep the bit about lying in a burned-out basement. Only Dollywould go post-apocalyptic while wearing cherry lipstick.
But let’s, like a foxhound with a straight razor, cut to the chase. Pondering with her eyes squeezed shut so tight she sees a flashy flurry of fractals, Claire O. has reached these conclusions:
Holy harmonicas, race fans, on “Today I Started Loving You Again”, John Popper (Blues Traveler) noodles nicely on his mouth organs, but when he comes wailing in to sing the second chorus, Claire’s neck hairs (all girlie-curly) shot straight up and shimmied. He makes hurting sound like a beautiful thing.
Claire is tickled pinker than a cross-dressing panther with the Randy Van Warmered-over version of “Just When I Needed You Most”. Made my eyes go all lip-glossy.
Dolly warbles “Before the Next Teardrop Falls” saintily, but Freddy Fender warbled more daintily.
Charlie Rich and an orangutan slammed the door on “Behind Closed Doors” a long time ago.
Dolly can be breathier than a phone booth full of 1-900 girlies.
Claire loves Dolly like a pair of fuzzy slippers with plastic daisies attached (reckon Dolly’s a cheap dumb blonde? Claire has news, youse: She’s not cheap, she’s not dumb and she’s not…meow), but Claire will use this album like she uses her Elvis shampoo: to cure the kitsch itch.
Well, there is one other thing…As you read this, Claire O. is clad in her Queen of the Dragstrip wig (Televangelical Dominatrix model), one Press-on pressed on the repeat button, repeating “Something’s Burning” repeatedly at decibels doing distortion to my diffenbachia. Every time Dolly stomps her dainty little shaded foot and hollers “fire! FI-EYE-EYE-IRE!”, six stubble-sweaty volunteer (and oh, I wish like fish they would) firemen come screeching around the corner and pop their pike poles past my portal.
Yodel-eighty!
