Not the urban, catastrophe-laden, pull over to the side variety. No, the haunting strains of a peculiar variety. The close your eyes and cock your head type. Sometimes even the come-hither type. Tempting. Like spotting a wad of cash or what looks like a dropped wallet half-way down a dark alley. Like spotting a knock-out of a hitchhiker. You know better. Don’t stop. Don’t listen.
Or should you listen? Should you struggle against it? And where does the damn stuff come from? Too many hours of television in my youth? Too much advertising? Or an over-abundance of caffeine or hooch?
Maybe I should discard those lead drinking vessels. Cut down on the opium a tad. Wean off the opium and take some vitamins. Turn off the ticker tape and smell the roses. Sure.
It’s not all hypnotic, hocus-pocus, the screen turns wavy while harp strings hum in the background. But hard to ignore. So vivid. So strange. Strange like a hanging execution on “So You Think You Can Dance?” You can laugh until you realize its your own head.
- It always starts with Brubeck. “Tangerine” rolls in soft, real soft.
- I hear “Satisfaction” played in double-time, full-blown, banjo-picking bluegrass style.
- I hear “Ragmop” sung over the top of “In the Mood.”
- I hear “Vincent” as a hopped up & hot New Orleans jazz number.
That’s only the beginning.
I know. Sure. I’m headed for a crash.