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by Lore Sjöberg
Madonna
Good lord in heaven, when is this woman going to go away? In my
world she would have slid into obscurity about the same time Mr. T did,
leaving us with fond retro memories, but no, she's become VH-1's favorite
self-fulfilling prophesy. Let me just say this: La Isla Bonita is one of the
most traumatically bad songs ever to pass through human vocal chords. C-
Prince
The artist formerly known as talented. For a while there it looked
like Prince was going to end up being the most essentially gifted of the
eighties Michael Jackson/Madonna/Prince triumvirate, but apparently the same
brain disease that led Michael to bleach himself and marry a Presley and
Madonna to charge fifty bucks for self-indulgent soft-core porn got to
Prince, because he's gotten simultaneously weirder and less interesting
since he changed his name to the path neutrinos take in a high-speed nuclear
collision. C-
Morrissey
The frown prince of the Depressed British Persons Genre, Morrissey
for reasons I can't fathom turned a lot of teenage girls on in the
eighties, which is a classic case of choosing poorly because the man himself
admits he has no sex drive. Still, I'm sure many groupies were breathlessly
led backstage to spend a night listening to him kvetch melodically. C-
Cher
Oh, please. Made a lot of money in the eighties in spite of the fact
that she peaked with "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)." "Moonstruck" may have
something to do with it; the film seemed really good at the time but it hasn't
aged well. Nowadays it feels like "Italiansomething." And then she made
commercials for Equal artificial sweetener. Boo. C-
Hammer
Started out as M.C. Hammer, he changed his name to Hammer just about
the time no one cared. It just goes to show you how fickle fame can be. For
a while there he was as hot as hot can be, and then a couple years later
he's doing Grad Night at Disney with L.L. Cool J and Run-DMC. Lesson to be
learned? Rappers need a strong investment portfolio. C-
Sting
I liked the Police. Synchronicity was a great album, especially that
bit about my mother on the phone. Sting on his own, however, is an
overexposed morass of self-importance and violins. And what the HELL is it
with that line about a big enough umbrella that he puts in three-tenths of
his songs? If I hear one more time about how it's always him that ends up
getting wet I'm going to mangle something important to me. C-
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