I never wanted to be one of those bitter, miserable adults that go sour when listening to Christmas music, but it finally happened this past winter season. Not even before fucking Thanksgiving Day came, and then left unnoticed. I was working at "Ghettomart", barely refraining from a Columbine-like assault on the usual clientele. Throughout October we were forced to listen to 50's music, and sometimes country (only if the goat-tee sporting, Nascar enthusiast Dean was working), which I was able to shut out with ease. But one fateful day, someone thought it would be a great idea to bring the holiday spirit a little earlier than usual. A flood of crap like "Last Christmas" by WHAM, "Feliz Navidad" by some nameless Mexicans, and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" (not the Pointer Sisters version, the new-age lounge version, all jazzed up) spread through the airwaves, blindsiding me with faux sentamentalism. Just absolute rubbish, over and over. I was also moonlighting at the Great Northern, and they played the exact same irritating drivel. "Do they Know its Christmas?" by Band Aid (a charity coalition of pompous British rockers) and "The Chipmonk Song" by the Chipmunks (fuck!) were among the worst. And these songs plowed on and on past Christmas, spreading the holiday joy like a hooker with syphilis.
I've noticed that I don't use music as a distraction. The wonderful thing about good film or good books is that they can draw you out of your insular world and distract you from your everyday life. However, I've always found that music works more effectively as a medium if it corresponds with the listener's immediate emotional landscape. So if I'm feeling quite frail, I'm not going to throw on Decade or 1984. I'll probably be more inclined to play Boys Don't Cry or Queen is Dead instead, to help keep the momentum. I want to listen to something that gives me permission to toil in whatever mood I'm in. So when I'm pissed off, I'll throw down some Converge or even Dillinger. And if I'm feeling nostalgic, I'll often listen to Pinkerton or Siamese Dreams or Somery.
However, this golden rule does not apply when I'm feeling irritable or frustrated. I guarantee that I'll have no inclination to hear irritating, annoying, or frustrating music in this state. Perhaps something to the equivalent of aural wallpaper, like lounge or trendy world music, or anything without much emotion that I would never intentionally listen to. But if you play anything by Steve Miller Band, or Bette Midler, or fucking Rod Stewart, I will punch someone. I want my own grouchiness to propel by my own free will, not from some nerve grating song that could be the initial cause of said grouchiness. With that said, there are many ways in which a song can annoy. Repetition, bad vocals, long intros, brass instruments (mostly), and whining. But there's a theme I need to stick with here, and that is a song being overplayed.
My first choice for Most Irritating Song Ever Award almost went to John Elton for his tacky sentimental ode to yesteryear with "Crocodile Rock". I don't think I need to explain myself. However, I only hear that song at work every other day. No, the winner of MISEA has to go to not only a song that represents all that is evil, but also a song that I have to hear everyday of my banal existence. Something that pushes me over the edge.
So, without further adieu, the MISEA goes to..Jimmy Buffet, for his beach-faring shanty, "Margaritaville." Whether I'm at work, at a grocery store, dining at a restaurant, or even listening to a local radio station in my car, Margaritaville elbows its way through the speakers in into my ears, poisoning the synopsis in my brain and inflicting immediate distress. These symptoms include fits of rage, frustration, claustrophobia, and the song is therefore stuck in my head for at least the next few hours. I begin to sing it out loud, passing the annoyance upon other people in the vicinity.
If you aren't familiar with the song, Margaritaville is a laid back acoustic dirge about being lazy and getting shit drunk at some beach resort, resulting in a lame tattoo of a Mexican cutie, at which he doesn't recall how it got there (we can all relate). The opening staccato flute solo kicks in like the voice of God, reminding me of a sin in a prior life that I will spend the rest of this pathetic life suffering for.
Am I being ridiculous? Maybe, but I think the core issues involved here are consent and control. Would I agree to listen to most of the music that I hear at work, at home? No. Nobody at work asks me first if it's okay to listen to this nonsense. It just comes on, and we have to deal with it, and find some way to block it out.
All of this reminds me of a buddy I had in high school that absolutely hated Lynard Skynard. So much that intentionally playing "Freebird" in his presence was grounds for an ass-kicking. This guy, Sean, was a pretty laid-back guy, spending most of his time getting high and watching Space Ghost. But once I saw him punch out the driver's side window of his own truck just because the guy inside wouldn't turn down "Sweet Home Alabama." A passive, mellow dude pushed to rage and violence over a dumb song. Sure, I hate Lynard Skynard as much as the next guy and "Good Vibrations" by the Beach Boys really tests my nerves, but I'm not going to throw-down over it.
Turns out that when Sean's father returned home from his deployment to Vietnam, he became quite reclusive and very depressed. Often times at night, Sean's father would polish off a bottle of Jack, blast a little Lynard Skynard, find Sean and then beat the shit out of him. It's unclear how long this abuse went on, but it's clear that Sean associated his father's beatings with the harmless, redneck songs of Lynard Skynard. Whenever Sean heard the twangy intro of Sweet Home Alabama, or the weeping guitar lines of Free-Bird, something buried deep inside him snapped.
Sean's dilemma is that these songs are classics, and subject to spontaneous plays in public areas. And there is nothing that suggests that the classics are going away anytime soon. Its somewhat assuring to know that things from the past can live on and have some relevance in the distant future. But who isn't sick of being fed the same garbage everyday?
Sometimes the radio at work plays songs that I do enjoy. Songs that I associate with memories, happy or sad. Like the Beatles, for instance. Sure, I enjoy the Beatles as much as the next guy, especially their earlier work. The Beatles are probably the most important group in the history of rock music. However, I don't enjoy them at work. At work I am subject to bouts of angst and irritability. I'd rather just listen to the wall of noise of costumer conversation.
And it seems like every time I listen to the oldies station, a Beatles song is played. Being forced to listening to the radio quite often, I hear their hit songs quite frequently, to the point that they have become wallpaper. Which is unfortunate because the Beatles had always reminded me of a time when I had moved from my home town in Douglas, WY to Watford City, ND, shortly after I graduated high school and my mother passed away. It was a scary time in my life and I just so happened to be listening to a lot of the Beatles (along with At the Drive In). Those songs became a part of the whole experience of starting over. But since that time, when I hear those songs, I no longer feel nostalgia. Instead, I feel a little detached from those experiences. Thankfully I still can count on At the Drive In. I seldom, if ever, have heard them when I didn't consent to it.
So if you're having a shit day and "Walking on Sunshine" kicks in, just pop another Valium and smile, because there's really not much you can do to avoid bad music in public. Writing your congressman might do the job, but they're pretty busy with hookers and blow. Besides, putting up with these little nuances is a part of being an adult, so I've been told. Tuning the bad songs out is easier said than done, but I find it helpful to declare "I hate this song", and usually someone will smile and nod in agreement. And hopefully that sentiment carries on and drowns the song out.