But with a tiny bit of commentary from Mr. Hitchcock.
Because, you know, it's his song.
But I'll say that I read on a long-gone listserv from the era that a Robyn Hitchcock fan mentioned asking Robyn to sign weird things after a concert and joked that he almost brought an Indiana Jones poster for him to sign. A few years later this song appeared.
Because things just mean different things decades later.
The sweet confident rush of youth, replaced by an appreciation. Maybe an understanding. Add some silent awe and a recognition that things never go as you planned. But if you try sometimes you get what you need.
How for the love of God have I never heard this before? Greg Kihn transforms an early Springsteen travelogue of the Jersey shore into a piece of pure pop wonder.
This one, on the other hand, I've heard about a million times.
But as my grandfather used to say "it's Thursday, kid. Time for a million and one."
The words are so general that the don't really have much meaning.
The voice is thin and high -- as if to make it clearer that the whole thing just isn't very good.
But then something happens.
A great hook. An amazing chorus.
Even though there's nothing really there.
Except the feeling.
Which soars. Inexplicably.
And then the next verse starts and it dips again. And you want to turn away because there are more important things to do and better songs to listen to.
But you don't. Because you want to soar again.
You want the chorus to take you places you didn't think the song or the singer could go.
And it does. Again.
And you wonder if you're just overlaying your own feelings onto the song.
Or the feelings you had decades ago when you first heart the song.
And in that moment, you go inside the song.
And the lead guitar grabs you. And takes you someehwere unexpected. Somewhere you don't have to worry about whether there should be an apostrophe in the title.
And all at once you're back in the past, far in the future, and somewhere else in the present.
Here's hoping the album has some real rockers and not just the endless mid-tempo stuff that characterized most of their output from the late 80s and 90s...
Here's Barry McGuire singing "California Dreaming."
If it sounds familiar, that's because producer Lou Adler used the exact same backing track for the Mamas & Papas version, just wiping McGuire's lead vocal and slotting in Danny Doherty. Because efficiency.
Sometimes the wrong version of a song becomes a hit... but not this time!
I've been sick. Hellishly sore throat. Mild temperature.
Muddled through. It's going around.
But.
I hate being sick.
I hate the loss of control.
I hate coughing so much I pull a muscle.
I hate the feeling that I can't quite swallow.
That my progress ebbs and flows and when I feel I have a good day it is gone by evening when I can barely speak.
Did I mention I hate being sick?
There's a feeling of being trapped inside something you can't control and didn't ask for and don't like.
There's a brisk perception that all solid objects are waiting for you to close your eyes so they can turn into liquids and drip down into messy puddles on the floor.
And then there's always a single song that pops up all over the place, that is playing on every radio station you happen across in your feverish state.
The good news is I'm almost completely better after nearly a week.
The silence in the early morning, buzzes and crackles
Static electricity conveying too much possibility and not enough sleep
Too many secrets sent out into the night air
Cold and ripe, waiting for answers that never come
Hoping for sleep that pushes the possible aside
Leaving behind what was
What is
And what will be.
But the night doesn’t listen.
The night whispers desperate truths through the breezes
Calls out in silent protest that you feel
That you feel only when it buzzes
Only when it rings
Only when the first probing prongs of daybreak are safely in the future
It’s the darkness that calls us
The darkness that fills us with dark futures
That seem light only in darkness and dark in the day.
“But what if that’s all reversed?” the night whispers.
And dares you to listen.
-- Early morning, The Netherlands/Belgium, 2 May 2015
Dr. Frank from the Mr. T Experience, aka Frank Portman, has written a great angsty teen novel called King Dork.
The protagonist is a teenage boy who plays a little guitar and is forever starting bands with his best friend, who plays a little bass. They name their bands, adopt stage names, design logos and album covers, then move on to a new band... without bothering to rehearse, write songs, learn material, or perform.
As part of the audiobook for King Dork, Dr. Frank wrote and recorded versions of a few of the songs his hero eventually writes in the book.
And here are a few:
The book's plot fizzles a bit by the end, but I highly recommend it because of how well it captures how it feels to be a male teenager trying to figure out life, love, sex, family, and friendships.
Not to be confused with World Party the band (or the other song "World Party" by World Party). I guess Karl Wallinger likes the phrase "World Party," huh?