My song-category for this eighteenth day of thirty is: Your Favorite Duet.
There are almost as many forgettably-forgotten songs sung by two people in tandem as there are played by groups and sung by soloists. To identify this favorite I ran my mind, ears, and eyes across many such songs, tunes, and titles.
I recall not hating the film Duets directed by Bruce Paltrow and starring Paul Giamatti. The one duet which has always stuck with me from the film—Giamatti singing Try a Little Tenderness with Andre Braugher. Although it's not my favorite duet, by deconstructing it I was able to identify my favorite.
Try a Little Tenderness is a fantastic song. I've heard it sung by several artists. I enjoy the version by Otis Redding and the covers by Three Dog Night as well as The Commitments. So, first and foremost, a favorite duet must be a great song all by itself, no matter who sings it.
I was a bit surprised to learn that Giamatti and Braugher are capable-to-good vocalists, but there's a reason they both earn their livings acting and not singing. So, the second factor in identifying a favorite duet, is that both singers must be great solo-vocalists in their own right.
The third and final determinate is the gestalt or the mise-en-scène (if you'll allow a visual metaphor to describe the realm of song). Combine the tunes meter, rhythm, instrument's sounds, vocals, echos, vibrations, silences, etc...with the lyric's words, phrasing, inflections, structure, intended meanings and emotions. Now mix in all the unintended meanings and associated emotions introduced by each listener. The result is a favorite song.
My favorite duet is one which both of the vocalists as well as the band of musicians contributed equally to the creation of, and overall everything of: Under Pressure by Freddie Mercury and David Bowie. They never recorded it together live. None-the-less, this wonderful video adds an additional layer of emotion to the recording.
"Ok, folks! We're back. And we're here with the Insipid family. Talking with their adorably cute young daughter, Brandi. Hello there my dear."
"Hi."
"Your family already has two strikes. Are you nervous?"
"Maybe kinda. But, not really. This is, like, pretty simple."
"Well, the topic is interesting song-meme titles. Two weeks of answers still on the board. Get this one wrong and the Snapperhead's get a chance to steal. What do you say?"
"A Song You Often Hear On The Radio?"
"Show us A Song You Often Hear On the Radio!"
*braaaaaaazzzzzz*
"To steal, Snapperhead, what do you say?"
"A Fucking Song."
"Are you sure? That can be interpreted as an intensifier, adjective, adverb, verb, emphatic particle..."
"That versatility makes it a brilliant title."
"Show us "A Fucking Song!"
*bing*
17th day, seventeen people surveyed said A FUCKING SONG. I'm going with the verb. Mia Culpa by Enigma happens to be the only song I've intentionally programmed to play while fucking.
Sticking with today's dual theme (fucking and 17) and trying to end on a humorous note:
If you're counting, this is my 16th consecutive day of song-O-rama. A few of the insipid titles I'm disregarding and replacing with my own: a song that no one would expect you to love (a shadow of yesterday's title) a song that you used to love but now hate, and a song from a band you hate (that you used to?..terrible grammar. Both titles are foolish—only a child hates bands and songs).
My title for today is The Oldest Song You Enjoy.
The reason mine is Boléro by Ravel (1928) is that it is in a portion of the wonderful 1976 Italian film Allegro Non Troppo, by Bruno Bozzetto. I first watched that humorous homage to Disney's Fantasia in 1979.
Yesterday, Ginny's post clarified (for me) that she's not the author of this month-long-song-o-rama. For days, I've colored outside the lines as well as fabricated a few more interesting (for me) titles. When I, naïvely, thought they were her titles, I bit my tongue; I like Ginny. Now that it's just a stupid meme, I have no compunction expressing scorn for unimaginative titles written by an early-adolescent girl.
I committed to a month. I still want to prove—to myself—I can do it, and I enjoy not only the memory mining but where my creative juices lead (like, an artwork's back-story, a new poem, or a parenting theory) so for the final two weeks, if I decide to fabricate my own title I'll include the insipid child's title (appropriately struck) only if it begs comment; as it does today, a song that is a guilty pleasure.
If an immature stranger were to criticize my playlist (and I can't imagine a situation, but, going with the premise) I would be unaffected. No friends would do it. A new acquaintance would become a stranger. The concept that someone experiences an emotion they label "guilty pleasure" is foreign to me. I don't do things on purpose that make me feel guilty. There are things which make me feel sated, angry, content, tired, excited, sad, scared, and—occasionally even—bored. Never guilty. That title was written by a twelve year old who still gets her hand caught in the cookie jar and slapped by her mommy.
My title today:A Song Which Reminds You of a Sport or Job.
My first full-time employment was a 1974 summer job at Mississinewa Country Club. I worked in the Pro Shop collecting greens fees, renting carts, selling golf equipment and listening to the radio. I rode to and from work on my ten-speed (which had a radio mounted on its handlebars). Late that summer they hired the recently-graduated highschool senior class president. Mister Charisma. Mister Popular. Mister Charm. I was asked to train him. Me. The dorky boyscout who liked to squeeze in a free 9-holes after shift when there was enough daylight.
One day our shifts overlapped. He joked around. I got the impression he might not look down on me any more than any graduate disdained anyone who just had a learner's permit. Led Zeppelin's new song D'yer Mak'er came on. (LEARNED TODAY: the title is pronounced like saying the country Jamaica with an accent...Dje-May-ka.)
He began to gyrate. He humped the door jam. He replaced some lyrics with other, funnier, ones. It was hilarious. Then he said, "My friend's coming to pick me up. Wanna ride? It looks like it might rain. You could put yer bike in the trunk."
I accepted. And then tried to politely decline when his friend arrived driving an MG.
"No biggy. Sit in my lap." He said.
I sheepishly accepted. Once on his lap, head crammed into the roof, zipping down the county road, he put the 8-track on, turned it to D'yer Mak'er, and began to grind again. His hands on my hips. "Oh Veach, you're so tight. Just relax into it." And the jokes went on and on for half the trip.
"Ok. Very funny. I'm used to being picked on." I said.
Although he giggle-apologized and claimed it was "all innocent fun" I realized he and his friend got much more of a kick out of the comments and actions than would be normal, and it dawned on naïve little highschool-sophomore me: Mister Popular was gay.
Brushing my teeth this morning I thought: with Ginny on sabbatical, what's the best way to select a title without any of the (already discussed) mental entanglements and involuntary pre-approval requirements? Teethbrushing. A song about teeth brushing!
My mind then did what I can't prevent it from doing, and ran a search. About 1 result (.038 seconds). Upon examination, I realized that the one result was an advertising jingle. I discarded it. Began shaving.
My internal stream-of-consciousness dialogue continued. Toothbrushing reminds me...I don't have any cavities. Which is a lie. I have one. When I was thirteen the dentist discovered a crack in the enamel of my top-right-rear molar. He said it would become a cavity and so I got a filling. But, since it wasn't yet a cavity I'm not really telling a lie when I say I've never had a cavity...only if I were to ever say 'I don't have any fillings'.
I wonder. Why do I have only one? My blood relatives all have much worse dentition, so it's not genetics. Is my oral hygiene routine better? I brush twice a day, but I never floss, and I haven't seen a dentist in so long I can't remember. So, that can't be it. Maybe I brush better than others; could once when I wake up and once before bed be sufficient?
At this point my brain forces itself to do calcuations. Struggles. It can't be that hard. Math. But it is. Finally, I come up with: 830 times a year; 832 on leap years. Then... Fuck I'm terrible even at multiplying 365 times two! And, again finally, I arrive at: 730, 732 on leap years. Others may say they brush regularly. But, like my no cavities but one filling shite, people lie. Even to themselves. How about others I've lived with? I've witnessed their routines. All my sig-o's possess relatively bad teeth. So maybe I've kept the evil bacteria at bay for a lifetime because I've never skipped a 1/2 day. Others fudge. They may say they brush but I know they forget because I witnessed it, smelled their breath, and paid their dentist bills.
Just like they also said they were on the pill. Or they couldn't get pregnant.
I've paid those bills too.
My first abortion—four years after my one and only filling (to date)—cost me $179.
Six years later my on-the-pill wife got pregnant, which cost me more than a little bit of freedom of choice (I joined the military to have both an income and attain free natal care).
And we mustn't forget the child support payments which began three years after that.
Another three years...let's see...didn't use a condom because she said she couldn't get pregnant, which resulted in another abortion. And another several years after that. (Totally on me. Because the adage "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, I'm a moron who deserves to be force-fed off the idiot's menu" very much applied to me in that instance there). I got into the shower and began washing my hair.
Many say they're against abortion but their regimen to prevent tooth decay is not really strict habit but, in fact, more sketchy practice. Like the practice of birth control. If I skip a day or three of brusha-brusha-brusha what's the worse case scenario? Several hundred dollars poorer and a few hours, maybe a day, of discomfort after the offending tooth is extracted.
Wait...where was I going with this? My brain confused itself. Like it does. How did mulling over dental hygiene successes become discombobulatentwined with birth control failures?
Steering blindly back onto the perfect smile highway, I wonder, what about that tooth experiment, in third grade, at Meadowbrook Elementary in New Haven, Indiana? The school where I had to run around the outside edge of the gymnasium, while listening to...
Ahh HA! The title for today is: A Song That Reminds You of Elementary School.
The gym teacher played the same song every day. We were permitted to stop running when the music stopped. He would, randomly, lift the arm of the record player mid-song and... finally!...we could walk a while. Catch our wind. Then he'd start it over near the beginning. With the whistling. Winchester Cathedral (which I always called "wind"chester) by The New Vaudeville Band will always remind me of that elementary school.
About the dental experiment (don't worry, I never forget the punch line). A week after we returned our permission slips, the whole school filed into the cafeteria. We were patiently instructed by doctor-like people wearing white coats. They told us what they expected us to do. In front of each of us was a small paper container and a new toothbrush in cellophane. In each paper cup was a brown gritty-looking goop like substance. We were to unwrap the toothbrushes, scoop the paste onto the bristles, and—all at the exact same time—brush our teeth, all-over, for two full minutes. We were warned it would not taste good. But, they said, it would only be effective if we kept brushing the entire two minutes. It was going to help fight cavities, they said.
They had us all hold our toothbrushes over our heads while assistants and teachers walked around and inspected. The head white-coat did on your mark, get set, go! And we all began to brush.
It wasn't as terrible as some of my classmates made out. Some quit immediately, stood, and began spitting on the floor. Others made it longer and got to the trash cans near the front table with the water cups. All this time the teacher's assistants, teachers, and the "doctors" talked over the din...keep going and sit down and one more minute! I felt like I was brushing my teeth with a salty soap mixture made of mostly beach sand. The idea I have a mouthful of dirt was the hardest. As the countdown made it to ...ten, nine, eight... I stood up, kept brushing, moved to the front table and took a cup of water. At the ok, you can stop now point, I began swishing and spitting into a trash barrel.
I've had so many preferred songs, bands, and even genres in the five-feckin-hundred months which have elapsed since I started formulating favorites (described here) that it seems unfair/impossible/cheating to pick one. I could never only eat just one.
It's not that Led Zeppelin would get jealous if I said I like Pink Floyd better. Nor would Chicago Transit Authority get a bruised ego if I chose Fleetwood Mac over them, either. But as the last dozen days have shown, it is better—for me—to tie either an emotional balloon or a temporal anchor to my selection switch.
Ginny's title—a song from your favorite band—seems like it's missing that connection with my past or my soul or my sumthinerother. I prefer: A Favorite Song From (Random Year).
I used a random number generator to choose the year. With the parameter years between when I was 12 years old and today (52). The generator selected one integer for me. It chose 24.
I turned twenty-four years old in 1983.
Sticking with Squire as the font of all knowledge, I used Squire's favorite chalkboard to remind me what songs were released in 1983; then what songs were hits in 1983. (Unsurprisingly, it lists all years.)
From that quick scan of albums, artists, and songs I remembered many...but one was my favorite that year: Spandau Ballet, True. (My bona fide fy-ants will karaoke it, sometimes. She sings it fantastically.)
My brain often reminds—I was once much more free of cares.
In the pajama years, my heart thrummed light all thru the night.
Until my supposedly-asleep adolescent ears heard Johnny Carson.
On Tonight, in black & white, he jested about statistics. Sleep attire.
How much we wore; at what age. My brain no longer retains the funny.
It probably wasn't (even though Ed, Doc & the audience had to chuckle).
That night, my mind decided to completely remove myself from childhood.
I tossed it, rumpled, on the rug—the next morning I dropped it in the hamper.
The next thirteen and a half thousand nights weren't carefree—my brain recalls.
There were the bunks of clothed nights in open-bay barracks hounded by snores.
The months singing the sleepingbag blues, just catchin a snooze in all but my shoes.
And the occasional fright; foxhole without light; desperate night forced to nap upright.
Or even those rare unkissed but unmissed, pulling the full-moon into the next's sun-rays.
Sleep is now a skittish kitten, creeping in after all sounds (internal and external) extinguish.
White noise from a nearby brook does help damp down the unexpected, nearby coyote's yip.
Earplugs help transcontinental flights or when an inconsiderate bucking fastard is playing music.
From books on the nightstand to Bogie downstairs on-demand, the sandman has many assistants.
Warm mint tea in the evening, a bedtime valerian/melatonin dose and then a nice refractory period.
Ginny's title today: A Song That Makes You Fall Asleep caused me to sketch this prose-ish poem. There are no songs that make me fall asleep, lull me toward rest, nor do anything besides wake me...except white noise or—like the two-hour nap inducing video above—waves (and I might even be woken around the 17 and 42 minute marks of this, when some rude seagull shouts 'wake up!').
Today's title: A Song You Can Dance To reminds me of my current reality. I don't "hit the dance floor" with enthusiasm anymore. I don't have the energy I once had. I'll join my partner on occasion, but I don't enjoy it (unless I'm not driving, have imbibed sufficiently to no longer care that I look like a goofy gyrating grampa, and the right music is playing). The Chemical Brothers, Block Rockin Beats is still the right music.
...when half of what they got, you know, they never will use. Enough to get by suits me fine; I don't care if you think I'm funny...
I've got the baton. I enjoyed following Ginny, but yesterday she forwarded all her planned titles, which—I think—means she's relayed the song-a-day baton. Hopefully she'll resume. Until then, I'll cherry pick from her list and make up my own until...questionmark.
Choosing a title is much more complex than the linear exercise of identifying a song to fit someone else's title. This conundrum (similar to mentally wrestling with a kōan) stems from my mind instantaneously "discarding" titles which don't immediately pair-up with a tune from my frontal and parietal lobes. Even when I remind myself the challenge is to force yourself to dredge deep; you can't do that if you're putting the song before the title, my conscious brain still cheats when it competes with itself. I never could finish a paint-by-numbers, because I already knew what it would look like.
Today's title: A Song That Describes You.
The Supertramp song, Poor Boy, succinctly describes my personal politics, character, as well as a portion of my attitude (lassitude?) towards others and life in general. The "mouth-trumpet" which bookends the song is a key ingredient to my enjoyment of it. For me, it imbues an attitude of: too destitute to own an instrument but not too proud to fake it.
The one lyric which captures me best: Although I'll rant an I'll rave about one thing an' another...the beauty of it is (hope you'll agree)...tho' I'm a poor boy, I can still be happy, as long as I can feel free.
In the spirit of being a good military wingman (Ginny's probably currently engaging the enemy with Gatling guns a-blazin) and a desire to—mixed metaphor ahead—pick up the fumbled ball and serve it with scallions and cheese...I'll keep her video-for-a-month thing going with an abstruse tip o' the dunce cap to April 1st (All Fools Day). My title for today is A Song That Makes You Laugh.
I was never mentally supercharged enough to orchestrate an April Fools Day Joke. Days like today were the bane of my youth. In pre-cellphone years not only would I arrive an hour late each year on the day after Spring-forward's daylight savings but six months later I'd arrive an hour early after failing to Fall-back; I'd always get pinched for failing to wear green on March 17th; and I seemed to be a prank-magnet every April's Fools Day morning (after falling for the first one, I'd then engage my remain-vigilant and overly-suspicious filter).
My song-category for this eighteenth day of thirty is: Your Favorite Duet.
