Music and entertainment pundit Bob Lefsetz takes time out from his keystroke laden life to share some long-overdue wisdoms on one of the douchiest heartthrobs of the past decade, John Mayer.
“We always had an inkling that John Mayer was a douche — ever since we heard lyrics like like, ‘You got this room for two / One thing I’ve left to do / Discover me / Discovering you,’ ” Huff Post Comedy wrote recently. “But now it seems that Mayer is not content with his lyrics doing the talking, and jumps at the chance to out-douche himself with every interview he gives.”
Take Mayer’s so-called crayon philosophy:
“Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you’re really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I’ve got a few missing. It’s ok though, because I’ve got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I can only meet the 8-color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation… so when I meet someone who’s an 8-color type… I’m like, ‘hey girl, magenta!’ and she’s like, ‘oh, you mean purple!’ and she goes off on her purple thing, and I’m like, ‘no – I want magenta!’ ”
Now back to Lefsetz latest take on John John…
“He alienated his core audience. Which was sensitive females,” Lefsetz begins. “A hunk who could both croon and wail, it was John Mayer’s crooning that delivered star status. Back when VH1 still played music and Top 40 radio wasn’t the haven of producer-driven, made by committee pop.
“Under the best of circumstances Mayer would have a hard time triumphing today. But having screwed everything that moves, and seemingly having no regrets about it, females don’t need him anymore. And neither do males… We like our guitar slingers unattractive with little to say. Break the mold and you’ve got to be legendary, and Mayer is good, but not that good.”
Long story short, Lefsetz thinks Mayer firing his manager was the artistic equivalent of kicking the dog. Blaming everybody but himself for his latest album stiffing.
“Let’s be clear, (Mayer) had a good run. A decade. But the generations have changed. His audience is getting married and having babies. No one has hits forever. So who does he want to be?” Lefstez asks. “He’s reinvented himself as a ’70s, back to the land, no flash musician. The only problem is the two albums he released in this role had no hits. Nothing that stuck in your brain that you couldn’t get out. It all comes down to the music. You want hits, you’ve got to write hits. And that’s okay. If you want to do it your way to ever fewer people.
“But if you want to get on radio and sell out arenas, you’ve got to play beyond your core, reach those who are not paying attention, with your music and shenanigans. Kind of like his girlfriend Katy Perry. But she’s a completely different animal. A studio construct. Without her helpers she’s nothing. Whereas Mayer started off with just himself and a guitar.”
“But it would be laughable for a guy who made it on his chops to sing about man-power to a beat,” Lefsetz cracks. “Then again, maybe he…could come up with a catchy ditty. But one thing Mayer had was…his audience believed it was him. He wasn’t a front for other people, he was not just a face, but a soul.”
Nope, where Mayer went wrong was bedding all those Hollywood hotties then being so cavalier about dumping them.
You know, douchy.
“It’s got little to do with the Playboy interview,” Lefsetz writes. “Hell, what did he say that was so wrong? But the perception is he took advantage of Jennifer Aniston and Jessica Simpson and Taylor Swift. Going from America’s sweetheart to an airhead to someone just out of adolescence. What was his type? Other than attractive and desirable?
“And you could say his personal life is irrelevant, but that’s only for movie stars. Who are part of ensemble casts, playing roles. Music, when done right, is about the person himself. And once upon a time, Mayer did it right.”
“Like, you need to have them be able to go toe-to-toe with you intellectually. But don’t they also have to have a vagina you could pitch a tent on and just camp out on for, like, a weekend? Doesn’t that have to be there, too? The Joshua Tree of vaginas? …I’ll be happy when I close out this life-partner thing. Think of how much mental capacity I’m using to meet the right person so I can stop giving a fuck about it.”