Wall of Voodoo was an underrated band, and Stan Ridgway was one of its genuinely intriguing figures. “Can’t Make Love” may be the best song I've encountered about male sexual awkwardness: introspection, fear of intimacy disguised as aggressive bravado, and the peculiar desperation of a man who wants connection while doing everything he can to prevent it.The lyric, delivered in the first person, seems to change direction with every line, as though the speaker is arguing with himself while simultaneously trying to maintain some semblance of control. That is what makes it so convincing. This isn't the familiar pop-song version of romantic difficulty, where the troubled guy eventually figures things out and gets the girl. There is no such resolution here. He may eventually break out of the negative spiral and find some possibility of happiness in a relationship grounded in the real world, or he may remain trapped inside his own defenses. The song leaves that possibility hanging.
Ridgway's performance is crucial. His flat, trembling declarations sound almost emotionally neutral until you hear what's underneath them: fear, embarrassment, desire, hostility, and the need to appear less vulnerable than he actually is. The angular rhythms and jagged accents don't merely accompany him. Rather, they give the music an unstable architecture akin to the personality in the lyric. Everything is slightly out of alignment.
What makes “Can’t Make Love” so powerful is the contradiction at its center. The aggressive male persona is revealed as a defense against vulnerability. The bravado isn't confidence; it's fear wearing a leather jacket. Ridgway understands something that most songs about male sexuality miss: the man who seems most determined to assert himself may be the one least capable of surrendering control.I've heard plenty of songs about sex, desire, loneliness, and male insecurity. Very few get this close to the uncomfortable machinery underneath them. This world is askew, and is viewed askance. The combination of these elements--fragile and defeatist personality meets awkward tempos--makes you think not a little of the auto destruct art works of Jean Tinguely, who created sculptures that were fundementally machines that were created for the sole purpose of destroying themselves. Auto destruction, in other words. The more Ridgeway's talks about the hole he's in, the deeper the pit gets.
I think “Can’t Make Love” is genius. If not genius, lets settle for quirky, concisely confessional and, yes, you can dance to it, some what.
