Out, damned earwig! Begone!!
For some reason, earwigs rarely seem to be music you like. No, friends, earwigs are horrid, annoying pieces of melody or rhythm whose very existence is a affront to refined taste. A smudge of Wishbone Ash, a dollop of Cream, a squeeze of Chris Dilford...these are welcome visitors, like a blog hit from an old college pal. They appear, refresh your recollection, and fade. I once spent a pleasant afternoon with Boccherini's Minuet, in both the string quintet and Spinal Tap instrumentation.
But that's not an earwig. An earwig is a vile, despicable thing, an auditory abomination so loathsome that my regard for you, the reader, prevents me from suggesting some of the more common manifestations of this infestation. (Afternoon Delight) No, it would be a rude host indeed (Milkshake) who would even mention (Who Let the Dogs Out) some of the more horrific (Anything by Abba) parasites that can become wedged (Achy Breaky Heart) among the malleus, incus and stapes of the memory (Mr. Roboto).
Earwigs are not mere figments (Leather and Lace) of our imagination; they have a scientific basis. (Barbie Girl)
It's not that I dislike pop music. (New York, London, Paris, Munich) I used to program Top-40 radio stations and promote records for a major label. (Here's a joke: A frog and a rabbit meet by the watering hole. Being blind, neither can identify the other. What's more, being blind, neither has ever seen itself. The first animal agrees to try to describe the second animal by touch alone. "You have soft fur, and a wiggly nose, and long, floppy ears. You must be a rabbit!" The rabbit was overjoyed, and set out to describe his new friend. "You're cold, and you're slimy, and you have no ears at all. You must be a record promoter!")
I can tolerate the most mindless piece of pop fluff, as long as it's got the hook. But I want to be able to turn it off when I choose.
I'm currently suffering from the music in a Budweiser commercial, which is apparently by someone called the Chemical Brothers. It's called "Galvanize." There's a Bollywood sounding string riff and what sounds like a 13 year old rapper, advising us that "There's a potty ovah heah, so you might as well be heah, where the people ceah." (Psst. Dude, might want to get those adenoids checked out by a professional.)
Who will deliver me from this troublesome beast? Any ideas?