“You do not have to be good”: A Consideration of Sugar Ray’s “Fly”

When we were toddlers, my twin sister and I would climb to the top of our dad’s busted-ass recliner, frantically doggy-paddle our hands in the air, and participate in a shared delusion that we could fly. We’d plan our flights in advance, through places as exotic as the woods in our backyard and the church nursery, and report back to each other on the ground to verify the truth of our ability. It is remarkable how the human brain can adapt to survive harm: now that I am far removed from the fearful, angry house we lived in, it seems obvious that our pretending was a four-year-old’s magical form of dissociation. 

 We lost our aerial gifts around the time we began Kindergarten in 1997. That same year, Sugar Ray had their first hit with “Fly.” It was undoubtedly a staple of the boombox radio at our local pool in the summers, but lay dormant in my subconscious for decades until a recent vivid dream in which I argued its greatness in a perplexing attempt to impress a crush. It is a well-known schtick of mine to passionately defend pieces of pop culture deemed low-brow (see: Mariah Carey’s Glitter, the Real Housewives franchise, the Josie and the Pussycats soundtrack) but the question of  “Fly” followed into my waking hours: could it, in fact,  be a good song? 

“Fly” and its accompanying music video are a free-association exercise in musical trends of the late nineties and early aughts.  The song starts with a simple, repetitive bass riff (The Breeders). The band has a DJ (Incubus). Jamaican dancehall legend Super Cat makes a baffling yet compelling guest appearance (Shaggy).  The music video features an extended bit of lead singer Mark McGrath traversing the walls and ceiling of a small room (Jamiroquai).  Band members wear flashy pants and have an obscene amount of gelled hair and carefully trimmed goatees (Smash Mouth). But despite being endlessly referential (or in some cases, prescient), the overall effect is both like every local garage band and like nothing else in pop radio. 

For all his outward appearances of douchebaggery, lead singer Mark McGrath contains multitudes. According to genius.com, “Fly’s” opening lyric, “All around the world/statues crumble for me” could be an allusion to Shelley’s “Ozymandius.” This is perhaps a generous reading, but it nonetheless warms my heart to consider the possibility that a man who has said that he got into music to pick up chicks has a healthy respect for  English Romantic poetry.  (He also has a healthy respect for matriarchy. The lyrics frequently reference moms, and the moving conclusion of the “Fly” video sees the members of Sugar Ray exit a car to meet their assembled mothers.) 

Sugar Ray, a band whose oeuvre includes a 2009 album entitled Music for Cougars, has never taken themselves too seriously. They’re a bunch of dudes who got a record deal at a time when a bar cover band with two songs could get a record deal.  In a world of self-important songwriters, there’s something to be said for music that doesn’t try too hard. The vocals are out of tune, the iconic guitar riff seems to be composed specifically to sound kind of  shitty, the production veers abruptly into disjointed segments (Synthesizers! Spoken word! Compressed drum tracks!) with little cohesive vision. It’s sloppy, it’s human, it’s charmingly approachable. Life doesn’t always have to be profound- wouldn’t that be exhausting? 

McGrath has explained in interviews that the line “25 years old/ my mother god rest her soul” is a reference to the iconic Gilbert O’Sullivan single “Alone Again, Naturally,” widely regarded to be the most depressing pop song ever recorded. (Cass Elliot’s version is sublime, by the way.) “Fly” is about nothing, but it’s also about death! (“No one really knows/the starting or the end.”) There’s something beautifully democratic about a mediocre band vibing to what is essentially the dirtbag interpretation of a gospel standard. In the end, it doesn’t matter if “Fly” passes any test of musical quality. An attempt to evaluate its merit misses the point. Love cannot be earned: put your arms around me, baby.