The Most Dad Rock Song To Ever Exist
In 1985, British rock outfit Dire Straits released the single “Money for Nothing”. Mysteriously, Wikipedia cites a 1984 interview with the songwriter, Mark Knopfler, detailing the inspiration behind the song:
The lead character in "Money for Nothing" is a guy who works in the hardware department in a television/custom kitchen/refrigerator/microwave appliance store. He's singing the song.
Mark Knopfler is only partially correct. I have no doubts that this premise is truthful, but it does not tell the full story. The story is not being told from the primary perspective of a hardware employee—it is being told from the persepctive of a father. Allow me to lead you through the lyrics of that number one single, as a David Attenborough peering in on your Dad in his natural habitat. Observe.
[instrumental intro]
The swooping synth paired with Sting’s backing falsetto piques your Dad’s interest. He raises his eyebrows ever so slightly, and you can almost feel his dismissal of this as “some new age nonsense” pursing on his lips. Men shouldn’t be singing that high. It’s not natural. Except when KISS does it.
Then—as if out of nowhere—Omar Hakim comes in with a drum fill. Then another. Then another. Dad is beginning to tap along, missing every single note. He doesn’t care. The individual fills bleed together as the synth rises from its lowest tenor. Is this music, after all?
The pressure escapes the room as the lead guitar hits its triumphant melody. Dad is understanding what’s happening now. The drums are playing a clean rhythm. This is where we are.
Now look at them yo-yos, that's the way you do it
You play the guitar on the MTV
That ain't workin', that's the way you do it
Money for nothin' and your chicks for free
Now that ain't workin', that's the way you do it
Lemme tell ya, them guys ain't dumb
Maybe get a blister on your little finger
Maybe get a blister on your thumb
You and Dad are watching the halftime show on a November Thursday Night Football game. Someone oddly dressed is playing the guitar. Dad is going to be asleep by the middle of the third quarter, and everyone knows it except for him. You turn over to look at him, expecting some wise-cracking comment about the outfits. Perhaps it is true that in languor veritas—he gestures vaguely at the screen, and almost under his breath, mutters “Now there’s a good gig”.
“What?” You know what he means. You just want to hear it.
“That guy. He can wear whatever he wants. Looks like a total goofball. Just plays his guitar and probably makes millions.”
Of course, Dad doesn’t like his job. You’re not even sure you could say what he does. “Sales” really isn’t telling. “Business” even less so. He doesn’t complain too very often, and it’s generic when he does. The boss is riding him. He’s got a big deadline. You think you could teach a computer rather easily to produce the kind of grievances he does.
Dad continues after his previous comment has mellowed out into the room. “What’s the worst that happens to that guy? Hands hurt a little after playing?”
You know that’s not how it works—but you know the toll a 9-5 can have on a man after so many years, so you keep quiet. Not that it would matter. Dad’ll soon be in his own world entirely.
We got to install microwave ovens
Custom kitchen deliveries
We got to move these refrigerators
We got to move these color TVs
“You could buy all kinds of stuff with that money…Jeez Louise,” he sighs. You are no longer part of the scene. Dad has left the couch and is in that one weird aisle at Home Depot with all the dishwashers and toilets on display. He has taken the porcelain and stainless steel exit all the way to Applicance Town. He is outfitting the man cave in his mind. And not just the man cave—the kitchen, and the den, and the patio, too. The temptress of this middle-class life is a mistress well-clad in gas cook tops and a six burner grill. Dad is Ship of Theseus-ing his place of residence with every single applicance he is aware of. Would it still be his house? Would it matter?
[Ed. Note: The original second verse of the song was later removed in the remaster—it talks about how wealthy and stupid-looking the band member looks, which I think can be extracted from the previous and following verses. It also refers to that band member as a homophobic slur. This is a side of Dad we all wish he didn’t have. But every time you explain it to him, he becomes a little more entrenched in some weird politics he has, in exchange for you not having to hear the slur for the next 2-4 hours. You’ve decided to stop making that trade-off. He wouldn’t act that way around others, anyway.]
Looky here, look out
I shoulda learned to play the guitar
I shoulda learned to play them drums
Look at that mama, she got it stickin' in the camera man
We could have some
Caught multiple levels deep, Dad has snapped out of his home renovation dream but remains caught on his “this guy has it made” dream. He’s channelling his inner Uncle Rico. Dads love the past—it provides the hope for them that the future may still, for some of us. At a certain point in life, some people find that dwelling on what could have happened gives them an eerie yet unfulfilling hope, but it’s something more than the prospect of the future holds. Everything’s going to hell in a handbasket, anyway. Maybe things will be better? No. Maybe things could have been better.
And he's up there, what's that? Hawaiian noises?
He's bangin' on the bongos like a chimpanzee
Oh, that ain't workin', that's the way you do it
Get your money for nothin', get your chicks for free
Most find that a bit of distant island music begins to switch their brain off and distance themselves from reality—not Dad. Dad is shocked—nay, appalled—at what’s happening here. Did we listen to the same drums in the intro and the first verse? What’s going on now—we’re going to screw the whole thing up with bongos? So typical. So, so typical. Look at that maniac. Even he gets paid.
The song rolls out with an extended repartee featuring all the lyrics we’ve heard before in small snippets. You sit, transfixed on the screen, thinking about what you’ve heard. Dad doesn’t like to share much of how he’s feeling, unless gruff counts as a feeling. You feel as though you’ve peeked behind the curtain. Maybe something just odd enough happened to him that he felt compelled to share. Maybe he’s finally had it—for real this time—with his job. You’ll likely never know. But you feel oddly connected to him in this moment: you understand, you think, his desire to just hang out, even if you don’t care that much about the refrigerator. It’s the sort of intra-generational bond that those silly New York Times op-eds will never understand. At the end of the day, we all just want to be around and have our basic needs fulfilled. That’s what you’re searching for. That’s what Dad’s searching for, too.
The song finishes its overwrought fadeout, and the third quarter kicks off. You turn to share thanks with your father for this time spent together, unsure if he’ll even know what this meant. His mouth ever so slightly agape, his hands folded by his sides, a sound escapes his cracked lips: hnGGGHHH, pnxzzz. Dad’s passed out again. Some things may never change.
In Christ,
Hunter