The most dangerous song of all time

Concerned parents, church leaders, and elected officials have rallied against the negative effects of recorded music ever since, well, music has been recorded.

The first culprit was rock and roll, which prudes chastised for decades until Kevin Bacon set it free in Footloose (1984) with authority-defying dance moves he mastered in an old mill. Gangster rap came along next, teaching kids how to sell crack, kill cops, and mix gin cocktails. But the genre couldn’t rebound after Biggie and Pac shot one another at the Source Awards. Speed Metal. Marilyn Manson. Raves. All have been blamed for rampant teen violence and drug use.

Yet it is a seemingly placid folk singer who is responsible for spilling an ocean’s worth of blood and tears. His name is Harry Chapin. And his weapon of mass depression is the song “Cat’s in the Cradle”.

If you’re ever driving on a two-lane highway at night and a car approaches, you better hope to God the driver is not listening to that song. Play it on the jukebox at any corner bar and prepare to watch grown men weep into their whiskeys.

Not familiar with the song? Allow me to provide a brief synopsis:

Man sires boy. Man leaves for indefinite business trip. Boy wants to play catch. Man neglects boy. Boy returns from college and only wants to borrow car. Man feels neglected. Boy goes on indefinite business trip, sires children, and neglects Man over long-distance phone call. Cycle complete.

The honesty of Chapin’s lyrics is bone crushing. No song has strummed the futile cords of ancestral fate so exactly. It has been said that listening to this song with your father is the equivalent of watching pornography with your mother.

“Cat’s in the Cradle” didn’t always play exclusively in dental offices. It actually hit #1 the week of December 21, 1974. Do you understand how dangerous of a week that must have been? The holidays getting people down. Vietnam still battling on. Oh and people were buying this arsenic of a singer/songwriter record like there were golden tickets hidden inside.

The only Christmas gift more depressing than that record would be a puppy that didn’t get enough air holes poked in the box. “Thanks for the Chapin LP. I’m gonna pour myself a glass of eggnog and take a toaster bath.”

So what is the lesson to take away from this silent and deadly revelation? If your son gives you a Harry Chapin greatest hits album, consider it an official act of disownment. Don’t believe me? Give it a listen. Chapin himself says it scares him to death.