Breakfast In Central Park
performed by Dilana Smith
music & lyrics: Jan Koster

This is, admittedly, an entirely subjective assessment:

Breakfast In Central Park is the worst rock song ever written.

I discovered this in Amsterdam. Like most epiphanies which come to you while in Amsterdam, this should be taken with a grain of salt, but I am utterly convinced that this is absolute fact.

In dubious support of my theory, I hereby present the relevant excerpt, verbatim, from my travel diary:

I've heard the worst rock song ever written: "Breakfast in Central Park" by Dilana Smith. Screamingly bad. Wow.

See? Incontrovertable truth.

I discovered this while standing in a french fry stall. See, the thing about all the snack stands in Amsterdam is that they all have a little TV up in the corner by the ceiling which shows music videos. So you can stand there, stoned, eating your fries, and absorb the horror. The only reason I know the performer's name is that the song is so bad I felt compelled to watch the entire video.

Musically, the song reflects the worst clich├ęs of modern rock. The chorus is somehow reminiscent of the "Kingman, Barstow, San Bernadino" section of Route 66. Lyrically...well, here are the lyrics:

All the nightbirds gather on Houston & Bleecker
Celluar phones, pagers & beepers
They go yeah, life's a party you know
So bring your dry martinis your Liz Claiborne specs
Your Dolce & Gabbana your buds & your Becks
And go yea, lets's get this show on the road
So go up to 57th to Central Park West
Put on your skates & a see-through dress
Like a Village reject with Manhattan class
Now get out of the powder room girl
And show me some New York ass!
Breakfast in Central Park
Loungin' in the sun be cool just smile
Breakfast in Central Park
Sidewalk, catwalk, bohemian style
Breakfast in Central Park
Get a little rollin' stoned
Now they got red, white, blue, green & yellow wigs
Pavarotti, chili peppers all in the mix
They go yea, Lauren Hill's queen of club
So take the 5 to 57th to Central Park South
Get on your boards and let it all hang out
Like a SoHo hippie with a lot of cloud
Wipe the mace off your face boy
And gimme some New York mouth
So take the 5 to 57th to Central Park South
Just like the 4th of July let it all hang out
Is it Jersey smog or jamaican cloud?
Baby take a wild, wild guess
Ain't nothin' like a jumpin' jack flash
Oh it's gotta be New York it must be that New York grass!

So there you have it.


Lyrics courtesy of http://home.soneraplaza.nl/qn/prive/rc.hubert/song3707.htm, and edited for spelling and capitalization by QXZ.

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