One critic’s view: “Fake Harley hardnuts, Poison sound as though they’ve never been a-straddle a chopped hog in their motherlovin’ lives. ... Poison are probably the most dangerous property that Capitol have managed to sign up (Ha Ha!) and we get this wimpy pile of crapola dished up dog style.” – Edwin Pouncey @ New Musical Express, April 22, 1989
The public’s view: 2.13 / 5.00
Once upon a time, all teenagers had sex in cars. It was mandatory. This was one of those things that I worried about when I was 11 or 12, like the prospect that I might someday get called for a sequestered jury or the NFL draft. I needn’t have fretted over the messy logistics of vehicular sex, however, because it proved to be one of those phenomena – like streaking – that largely died out just before my generation could partake of it. Most of us teens in the ‘80s weren’t driving roomy full-size Oldsmobiles. We had Ford Escorts and Dodge Omnis, and any amorous activity more intense than a hand job required chiropractic treatment afterward. More importantly, video cameras and blazingly bright lights were going up at every location where a couple could discreetly park, and the few drive-in theaters that were still open were now marketing themselves to families. Just in case the drive-in’s showing of That Darn Cat! didn’t completely kill the mood, it was preceded by a public service announcement starring Surgeon General C. Everett Koop. He warned us that intercourse causes diseases such as AIDS, lice, and child support. He recommended that all women be sealed in latex for the protection of male-kind.
This caused the 1972 hit “Your Mama Don’t Dance”, a Kenny Loggins & Jim Messina song about teenagers having sex in the backseat of a car, to become an anachronistic relic. Radio didn’t play it anymore and no one ever thought about it. Even Kenny Loggins had moved on from the track, focusing instead on defending his prize-winning beard’s national title from the challenge posed by the beard of Surgeon General C. Everett Koop. So it was a bit of a surprise when one of the most commercially successful hair metal bands recorded a by-the-numbers remake of “Your Mama Don’t Dance” and released it as a single in 1989.
To understand why this happened, we must consider the nature of Poison’s popularity. All of the other big rock acts of the ‘80s inspired fierce loyalty in their fans. For example, I had a friend who admired Ozzy Osbourne so much that he wore the same Ozzy T-shirt every single day for several years. (I was afraid to ask what the shirt’s laundry situation was like.) One of my high school classmates carved an elaborate pentagram mural into her study hall desk as a tribute to Mötley Crüe. My ex-girlfriend carried her adolescent crush on Jon Bon Jovi into middle age, ultimately spending thousands of dollars to fly across the country to a meet-and-greet where she pestered him about his band never coming to our city anymore. I even had a neighbor who was really into Night Ranger, for heaven’s sake, but I don’t remember anyone with a deep affection for Poison. Nobody wore Poison gear or skipped school to stand in line for Poison tickets. No one voted for “Talk Dirty to Me” to be their prom theme. There wasn’t an army of Poison devotees who debated the meanings of the band’s songs. Poison was merely an acceptable consensus choice for party playlists and for double headliner bills with other hair metal acts.
Poison’s lazy cover of “Your Mama Don’t Dance” fits right in with the group’s mission of pleasing the masses while taking no risks whatsoever. They didn’t even bother to update the antiquated lyrics. Just like in the Loggins & Messina original, the police catch a teen and his girlfriend engaging in drive-in sex. It’s as if the two of them had never heard of C. Everett Koop. An officer then effortlessly yanks the boy from the vehicle, completely forgetting that this is 1989, the teen’s car is most likely a Chevette with a backseat the size of a poodle’s casket, and the jaws of life will be needed to extract the contorted couple. Also, this has to be the only bit of ‘80s pop culture in which an authority figure labels an unruly youth a “longhair”. The cop might as well have called the kid a “jackanapes” and described the girl as a “flapper”.
There is not any great singing here because, well, this is a Poison record. The remake existed only so that C.C. DeVille could show off some decent guitar licks and Bret Michaels could strut around on stage like a less smarmy version of David Lee Roth. And you know what? That was perfectly fine with me. Every minute that my radio was playing “Your Mama Don’t Dance” was a minute that it wasn’t playing the group that will be highlighted in my next post. In 1989, a musical mediocrity could be a blessing.
My rating: 5 / 10
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