Dreams in the Hollow

The Starburst are all gone. I’ve eaten them all — every last one of them, and instead of being sad that the binge is over, I am ridiculously relieved, as are my thighs. Mostly, though, I’m shocked at the amount I consumed.

My coworkers were singing “Benny & The Jets” all day, and while I can handle some Elton John, I cannot abide Benny & The Jets for more than three seconds without wanting to throw myself out the window to escape the never ending “BENNY! BENNY! BENNAYHEY! AND THE JEEEETS” Taunting, one of my coworkers would surreptitiously whisper a falsetto “BENNY!” every time I sauntered back to my desk from the bathroom.

Even now, as I sit here, I’ve breathlessly uttered, “BENNAY!” to Adam at least four times.

Anyway, this spurred a discussion about music, and it reminded me that I have a friend who doesn’t really listen to music unless it’s on the radio and can conveniently serve as background noise. Does. Not. Listen. To. Music. I can understand a lot of things, including political and religious beliefs that differ wildly from my own, but this, oh THIS, it never fails to leave me speechless, thinking about a life without music as some sort of daily influence, if not a sort of hobby.

(BENNAY!)

There are people like this, I know — I married one, surprisingly, really, I did — but it never ceases to leave me a little flabbergasted. I’ve written about this before, so I won’t rehash the whole thing, but I’ll say that when she told me that music wasn’t really her thing, and that she only listened to the radio, I stared at her open-mouthed until she stammered, “BOB! I listen to BOB! Do you know Bob?”

Oh, I know Bob. Do YOU know Bob? For those who don’t know Bob, he’s a freaky little brand of radio stations throughout the U.S. and Canada, and it’s just … well, it’s creepy, the whole thing is creepy, and is along the vein of Jack FM, wherein a faceless, voiceless creature named Bob, Jack, whatever, spins your favorite adult contemporary tunes from the ’70s, ’80s, ’90s and today! with little fanfare, and get this: there are no live DJs. Not one! Not one live human voice that hasn’t been pre-recorded and produced into submission the ENTIRE TIME you’re listening. And worse, a voiceover occasionally shares that Bob finds himself in awkward predicaments, like trying to change his oil and getting his pants caught in the whirring car fan so hey, we need to break for commercial, because Bob is having an issue! — and it’s just … well, it’s flat-out disconcerting, is what it is. Because there is no Bob. I’m on to you, Bob FM!

(B-b-b-Benny and the JETSSSS…)

Forgetting Bob for a moment, let me bring it back one more time to the mystery of music, and how is it — HOW? — that there are people, including my husband, who don’t have their days made or broken by the right song? The right/wrong song on a day that I have PMS can send me into such a tearful fit that I’d be smart to pull the car over, lest I mow someone down, my eyes obstructed with irrational music-induced tears.

(“I Grieve” is a particularly bad one, because all I can think about is death! Destruction! Flies, rats, dogs and cats! THERE IS NOTHING LIFE-AFFIRMING HERE, PETER. STOP TRYING.)

Conversely, the happiest of tunes can turn my entire day around or, in the case of freaking Benny, make me positively nuts, and maybe clawing off my skin so that someone — ANYONE — will commit me to a mental institution so that I can get rid of this godforsaken earworm.

And it breaks my heart a whole lot more than a little that there are people who miss out on that experience, for it’s the closest thing I’ve ever found to magic, and to get a little piece of it every day is one of the thousands of things that are worth getting — nay, JUMPING — out of bed for. Unless it’s Benny & the Jets, in which case it’s entirely possible I would eschew music altogether and get my jollies from painting or something, because …

BENNAY! BENNAY! BENNNNNAAAY!

IT WILL NOT STOP.

(Also, dude, they’re going to condense an entire season of Heroes in three episodes? Really? They are? And worse, the writer’s strike comes at a time when what they’re fighting for is claimed to be not yet real, and that means a greater impasse — do you really think the networks have any idea how to make any money on the Web? What a mess. As a person who’s worked in the media, I can tell you that what the studios are saying is somewhat true: the revenue derived from new media is kind of all over the place and relatively experimental and requires an entire overhaul of the entire *business* to work properly, which basically means that … well, I don’t know what it means, but it’s horrible for everyone involved. Two people I know tangentially in the TV writing business have all but confirmed that they’re fighting for … what is basically vapor at the moment, and they expect it to go on for six months or more with no real resolution, leaving us with an endless stream of “Are You Smarter Than My Dead Grandmother?”)

(BENNAY!)

*Jesca Hoop. Sundry describes her best here, and she’s all that and then some. I discovered Hoop off of a tip from a friend and after surfing iTunes for Feist because of that damn Apple commercial because again, I am a sheep. And although iTunes interface kind of blows, I’ll say that the “Listeners Also Bought” feature has really helped me find some fancy new artists, but even if it didn’t before, it would be entirely worth it for Hoop alone. She’s that good, and “Dreams in the Hollow” is a magical, magical song that evokes a swirly sea of velvety purple. Yes, velvety purple, maybe mixed with some green.

29 comments November 12th, 2007