Apparently they used to call this “continental pop”—in the pantheon of music genre names, “continental pop” must rank right up there with “indie rock” as a descriptor that may have once meant something, and perhaps still points in some general musical direction, but is otherwise completely useless for defining a genre of music. I guess “continental pop” still means something to Americans because “continental” is occasionally shorthand for “European.” (Except notice which one has fewer letters AND the same number of syllables?) That particular meaning of “continental” carries with it other connotations as well—a sort of decadence that is supposedly foreign to our shores, at once appealing yet vaguely offensive in its luxury.

“Sorry Doc” manages to capture a bit of that “continental” feeling—it’s an outlandish and bombastic production, like a jazz orchestra deciding to rock the fuck out at some rich playboy’s penthouse. You can almost see the mad cocktail parties in your head: randy bachelors in crumpled tuxedoes, bow ties askew, chasing debutantes in short black skirts across the lounge while the guitarist plays a mean solo three feet away from two tipsy women with arm-length gloves having a good ol’ fashioned bar fight. Wine bottles everywhere, scattered amongst the platters of fine aromatic cheeses. Drunken smokers setting the beautiful velour drapery on fire while embracing madly on the balcony. Trumpeters playing through the final climax, shattering windows in the building cross the street and setting car alarms off everywhere just in time for the police arriving because of “noise complaints.”

Actually, this “continental” thing doesn’t sound so bad. Where do I sign up?