John Daly Doesn’t Need Golf, He Needs To Rock

John Daly’s a weird cat. We probably didn’t need to tell you that, of course, but every now and then it bears repeating. He’s getting his weight down and that’s a good thing, but even if he’s jettisoning his vices, it’s unclear-at-best if he’s replacing them with normality.

John Daly and his guitar
(John Daly: he’s to the acoustic guitar what John Daly is to golf.)

Example, you ask? But of course: how about yesterday? Daly was hanging in there at the PGA Championship at +2 with two holes to play in the first round. He double bogeyed them both, left without speaking to the media, then witihdrew on account of an old back injury. We’ll take him at his word on this one, since one of the few vices he doesn’t have in his past is lying. That much isn’t that far out of the ordinary. Taking the opportunity to release a new song, however? That we didn’t see coming.

So let’s take a listen, shall we? Audio is after the break.


We’ll let DEVIL BALL GOLF take it from here:

Daly, who’s got a history with the six-string, graced his Twitter followers with a new song called “Lost Soul.” It’s the title track from a forthcoming CD, one that I can guarantee I’ll be buying.

The song’s got a ’80s power ballad wave-your-lighters-in-the-air vibe to it — matter of fact, I think those are the opening chords of “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” And the lyrics are all about girlfriends in prison and daddies pulling guns on July 4th — were it anybody else, I’d say it was cliche, but since this is Daly we’re talking, it’s probably autobiography. Check it out and see for yourself.

Yes, suffice it to say, things fly right off the rails within the first 30-40 seconds of the song. Seriously, he rips off honors Poison with the chord progression, then goes right into the dead mom, the dad with the gun, the girlfriend hitting prison, and his best friend dying. All that, right off the bat. You halfway expect the descent to only continue from there while he sings about going through airports with condoms of heroin up his butt and writing the script of The Cell in 20 minutes while strung out on some powder he found behind his refrigerator. But sadly, no; all the harrowing details are in the first stanza.

Daly’s problem is that which strikes most budding arteests; as Oscar Wilde once said, “all bad poetry is sincere.” And indeed, since we’re damned sure that everything in this song is true (again, Daly’s many things, but an outright liar isn’t one of them), then we’re forced to acknowledge the crappy nature of his life does not necessarily make for compelling music.

We’re not telling him to stop making music, of course; that’s not our call to make, and it’s clearly something he’s doing for himself first and foremost, and that’s about the healthiest thing he’s done in years. But as good songwriting goes, um, he’s got some room for improvement.