Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Banned By The Geneva Convention

I was in a commercial establishment recently--yesterday? The day before? Time is hard to track now--ANYWAY, this particular establishment was playing some "retro" music. At least, I assume they would call it "retro;" I would call it "the unredeemable dreck of the tone deaf 70s" myself. But that probably wouldn't make a good sales pitch.

We heard much of the worst of that decade before New Wave and Punk hit our shores. Yes, there was some Atlanta Rhythm Section crooning "I Am So Into You." Yes, there was some 10 CCs asserting "I'm not in love." Anita Ward screeched the disco imperative to "Ring My Bell." The Bee Gees warbled something in three part harmony. (Do you think there might have been come connection between the extremely tight pants they wore and their singing in a register that only dogs can hear? It couldn't just be a coincidence, could it?)

But the worst--the ultimate worst--the most painfully bad regurgitation of that nauseating decade was

"Do The Hustle."

Count yourself lucky if you have never heard this abominable cross between Ray Coniff singers and the Boston Pops. This overproduced piece of coprolite has insinuated itself into the synapses of my brain, and it keeps coming back like a bad curry.

"Ooooooo, oooo ooo ooo oooooo <whispered> Do it!"
Ooooooo, oooo ooo ooo oooooo <whispered> Do the hustle!"

And the strings swirl around behind the singers like water flushing down the toilet, culminating in a cheesy little flute non-melody: "Do do do do do-da-do do do, Do da do-da do-da-da do doot!" And every so often, that eerie whisper "Do the hustle!" Lather, rinse, repeat and repeat and repeat. . .

I hope you realize what a sacrifice I am making of my mental health to bring you this entry. This "song" has gotten lodged in my brain, and suddenly asserts itself. Oh man, bad disco flashback man. And I can't get rid of it. Lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, and the damn flute starts is perky piping and I can't stop it. Driving along, listening to an audiobook, and suddenly Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn are stepping aside for a lush string disco arrangement.

I'm starting to feel like John Candy from "Volunteers," where he place a Peace Corps volunteer in Asia who has been captured and brainwashed by the evil military bad guy. "Sleep? Who needs sleep? We can sleep when the revolution is over! I'm Tom Tuttle from Tacoma Washington! Fight, fight, fight for Washington State!"

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