An Elegant and Wry Reflection on the Follies of Age and the Irresistible Pull of Youthful Transgression
There are songs that simply exist, and then there are the compositions that, over time, begin to feel like a cherished, slightly dog-eared chapter from a collective autobiography—particularly one penned in a distinctly cynical, jazz-inflected prose. Steely Dan’s late-career gem, “Slang of Ages,” nestled near the midpoint of their ninth and final studio album, Everything Must Go (2003), is precisely one such piece. For those of us who came of age with the dizzying, sophisticated rush of Aja or the noirish perfection of Gaucho, hearing new material from the dynamic duo of Donald Fagen and the late, lamented Walter Becker in the 21st century felt like an unexpected, luxurious reprieve from the relentless churn of fleeting popular music.
The album Everything Must Go, released on June 10, 2003, itself was a modest commercial success in the grand context of their celebrated discography, but it was a testament to their enduring artistry. It peaked at Number 9 on the US Billboard 200 chart and hit Number 21 on the UK Official Albums Chart, a respectable showing for a band over thirty years into their career, and a welcome continuation following their Grammy-winning comeback, Two Against Nature. Singles from later albums, however, rarely mirrored the chart dominance of their classic-era hits, and “Slang of Ages,” not being an official hit single, did not register a position on the main singles charts. Its true measure of success, as with much of the Dan’s catalogue, lies in its lyrical depth, its harmonic complexity, and the sheer cool of its delivery.
The story behind this particular track is marked by a delicious anomaly that speaks volumes about the long-running, dry-witted internal dynamic between Fagen and Becker. For decades, Fagen had been the unmistakable voice of the Steely Dan narrative—the weary, literate baritone articulating the band’s gallery of low-lifes, losers, and world-weary sophisticates. “Slang of Ages” broke this mold, becoming the only song on a Steely Dan studio album where Walter Becker takes the sole lead vocal. It’s an unforgettable shift, giving the track a distinct, almost spoken-word, gritty texture. Becker, whose previous vocal contributions were largely confined to backing harmonies or early, more nascent work, steps up to the mic to embody the song’s protagonist with a gravelly, self-deprecating wit that instantly distinguishes it from the rest of the album’s material. The decision to feature Becker here felt like a playful nod to their own history and a poignant acknowledgment of their partnership’s longevity—a private joke shared with an audience that understood the significance of this role reversal.
The meaning of “Slang of Ages” is classic Steely Dan: a darkly comedic, slightly uncomfortable vignette of intergenerational encounter and fading relevance. The lyrics paint a picture of an older man—the narrator, voiced by Becker—trying desperately to connect with a much younger woman. His attempts at conversation are strained, his references dated, and his efforts to understand or adopt her “slang of ages” (the vernacular of youth) are hilariously clumsy and doomed. It is a lacerating self-portrait, or at least a composite of a familiar, aging caricature: the man who refuses to relinquish his grip on the zeitgeist, only to find the current slipping further away. He attempts to decipher her cryptic, modern language and mores, all while she remains coolly detached, a figure of modern, elusive coolness. The song becomes a wistful, yet wickedly funny, commentary on the agony of growing old in a world that perpetually renews its vocabulary, its music, and its fleeting idols.
For the devoted, older reader, the song’s emotional resonance is profound. It stirs a deeply nostalgic reflection on the speed of time. We remember our own youthful, incomprehensible “slang,” now archaic, and recognize the mirror held up to our present selves—a chilling little jazz-funk number about being left behind, or worse, about being foolishly unaware of it. Becker’s dry, almost sardonic vocal delivery is the key: he isn’t trying to sound cool; he’s capturing the sad, yet resilient, humor of an era-appropriate failure to communicate. It’s the sound of a man who knows the jig is up, yet still feels the pulse of the groove, the irresistible, funky rhythm of life, even as he contemplates the final, inevitable sale item in the store of life: Everything Must Go. It’s a moment of dramatic irony wrapped in a perfectly executed, blue-eyed soul arrangement—a final, knowing wink from a master craftsman.