umpy, overweight, orange-skinned, he burst on the music scene
with a verve unequalled since the debut of the Velvet Underground. Three parts
attitude and one part sheer gall, singing the blues as only a spoiled rich kid
could, Trump soon made a name for himself in a world in which talent is
distinctly subordinate to style. A punk sensibility clothed in a lounge lizard’s
scales, hit after hit rolled from the caverns of his gold-plated mind. Nothing
like it had been seen before—or since.
Where song-crafters like Paul Simon and Gary Osborne wrote of
the importance of breaking down barriers in relationships, Trump boldly
advocated them. In “We’re Gonna Build a Wall” he celebrated the virtue of
separation, of building obstacles to communication and understanding, and
making the other party pay. In “You Can Do Anything” he celebrated the endless
possibilities that life offers the wealthy, the approach being to “grab ’em by
the pussy” (a deliberate evocation of the famous line from The Plumbers, “get
’em by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow”). He boldly explored
the mysteries of forbidden love in ballads like “Can You Believe It” and “If She
Wasn’t My Daughter.” And of course there was his much-covered theme song, “You’re
Fired.” Probably no one has ever so hauntingly evoked the myriad dazzling
facets and features of the life of the ultra-rich.
The recent accolade granted this crazy-haired troubadour should
not blind us to his multifaceted genius. Something more than a mere
prize-winning laureate, The Donald is also something less than the classic
composers of days gone by. Their day is passed, but his—dare we say it?—is only
beginning.
