In Praise of Wuss Rock

I was having one of those driving days. I started in G.R. and went down to Kalamazoo, stopping on the way in and out. From Kalamazoo I went to Lansing and several points within, before heading back home to G.R.
The point of recalling all this is that I found myself passionately searching for Wuss Rock on my radio the entire time. Wuss Rock is the term the immortal (amortal?) Homer Simpson gave to bands like Air Supply, Climax Blues Band, 10CC, Ace, Squeeze, Orleans, Chicago and many, many more.
If you are too young to know any of these, or too old to remember, please enjoy this brief example.
Alan Parsons, the performer of the above was a lead producer on some of the most rocking albums ever produced including Dark Side of the moon. And yet, here he is writing these chords, arranged so tastily you can't help but eat them. Listen closely to the graunchy repetitive guitar leading into the choruses and on the bridge. Ch ch ch ch ch ch ch... very rock. And the guitar gets even a little wild at the end with a little wailing solo out of nowhere to end the song.
But at the same time, Mom would approve.
My absolute favorite wuss rock song in the whole world is Baker Street, by Gerry Raferty.
It's nice, right? Not entirely lame, but lyrical and easy to enjoy. But, Bill you balk, this song includes a synth flute AND an alto sax and bells and strings. This is not rock!
Ah, I reply, listen to the the distorted guitar that punctuates that sax riff. listen to the piano with it's banging little da-da at the end of each cadence of sax.
And then the lyric "Way down the street there's a light in his place. He opens the door he's got that look on his face; and he asks you where you've been; you tell him who you've seen and you talk about everything. He's got this dream about buying some land, he's gonna give up the booze and the one night stands and then he'll settle down in some quiet little town and forget about everything."
Totally rock themes in an inoffensive package. Now listen to the same song as performed by the Foo Fighters. Same song with the wuss dialed out and the rock dialed up. I always said the mark of a truly good song is when it transcends its performer and sounds good in many different styles.
Examples of this are "He Called Me Baby", "Landslide" (which may be the most covered song of all time), "You've Got a Friend", "Leavin' on a Jet Plane" and leaving the wuss rock genre, "Sweet Jane" by Lou Reed.
So we have established the tunes are distinctive, but the content is often the same. Just as many country songs seem to be about losing your woman dog and truck to your cold-hearted boss all in the same day your double wide got repo'd by the bank, wuss rock songs are usually about love. First love, lost love, last love, tough love, love love love love love.
I heard Climax Blues Band's "I Love you " today and was digging it. Hard. With lyrics like; "If ever a man had it all, it would have to be me..."
I don't even know this woman and I am a little in love with her after listening to this song. How could you not be?
These are all fine examples of the breed, but even though I have shared my favorite wuss rock song, I can't not mention the king of all wuss rock songs. That is Jim Steinman who wrote the entirety of Meatloaf's "Bat Out of Hell" album, Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and yes, even that one song by Celine Dion that I kinda like but won't admit it. Most of Steinman's songs, especially those of a certain vintage feature the wind as a musical instrument. Mystical. Perhaps one of the more recognizable wuss rock songs by Steinman was performed by those great wuss rockers, Air Supply. Let's make love, out of nothing at all, shall we?
This has been just a smattering of what has to be the single greatest genre of music ever conceived. Whole stations are programmed solely on it. My mother, and probably your mother would be positively be lost without it. Road trips would jangle your nerves. A day in your cubicle is almost inconceivable without "no repeats 9-5" on the local light rock station playing from the tinny speaker precariously mounted in the stained drop ceiling tile somewhere 30 feet above your head.
Pure manna. Pure rock.