Heyoooo.
How are you? You good? Me too.
In the continuing interest of examining the nature of one's exposure to music, today we're looking at forgotten things. In specific, I want to look briefly at the idea of being exposed to something, forgetting it and then having the massive head rush of recollection. It is essentially this core idea of the elusive remembrance that started this very blog - I was growing frustrated with the constant conversations I would find myself having with friends and family saying "Oh man, I totally forgot about that! It was so awesome, do you still listen to it?". Instead of becoming an overbearing presence at dinners and happy hours with these passionate diatribes regarding media both adored and neglected I decided to collect those thoughts here. 100+ posts later, I feel like I've done a fairly successful job of exorcising some of this pent up mix of enthusiasm and nostalgia. Nostalgiasm? No, enthusialga. Yes, much better. So what is this specific bit of music that elicited such a reaction? A song I hated at first but have now experienced a contradictory appreciation for, a prime example of 90s music and culture, in a further display of synergy with recurring themes in this blog. Today I write of the excessively titled 'Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand' by the long-dissolved Primitive Radio Gods.
Let's face it - you either know this song or don't, and if you know it you either love it or hate it. There's defiantly a divisive nature to the song and yet I can't put my finger on exactly what it is. Maybe it's that it wears its heart unabashedly on its sleeve. Maybe it has to do with the prominent use of the (then) controversial art of sampling (how quaint). Released as a single in June of 1996, this song was all over the radio in a big way. It was almost as though it was designed for success, arriving just before our current culture of crass commercialism and conspicuous consumption really gained momentum. Centering around a piano sample over a heavy drum loop, the song is a soft but contemplative and moody piece of work. In it, singer Chris O'Connor softly sings/mumbles the nonsensical lyrics about missed connections and old friends. The most well known feature about the song, though, is the B.B. King sample, taken from a 12-bar blues song released in 1964 called 'How Blue Can You Get?'. This short snippet of King wailing "I been downhearted baby, ever since the day we met" serves as a sort of refrain and thematic center to the song. All of these disparate elements serve to create a fantastic mish-mash of styles, the result being a sleepy, trip-hop-ish bit of mid-90s alternative music that feels perfectly at home on the radio even today. If you dig back through past posts I've written you could quickly discern that this single is right up my alley, given the tone of the song. What's odd for me, however, is that the song drove me absolutely up the wall when I first heard it.
I'm not sure what it was about the song that bothered me so. I think it was most likely the dreamlike, ephemeral quality to it that contrasted with my youthful insistence on raucous energy and wild abandon, despite my uptight nature. At the time I was still heavily in to the likes of Nirvana and Dinosaur Jr., having no patience for anything even the slightest bit contemplative or basically not rushed and in-your-face. Whenever it was on the radio of when I saw the video (back when that was possible on terrestrial TV) I would immediately flip the channel. For all I know it could have been an instinctual reaction to the song affecting me on a deeper level, akin to putting my hands over my ears and shouting out the world. It was too soft, I was too hardcore, man. I was an idiot, because the song was great. Perhaps it served as a forerunner to how much I would love the somber, sneaking world of trip-hop down the line. My personal discovery of Bjork was still years away, Portishead even longer. This song basically hit me and bounced off. I wasn't ready for it's brilliance! But as pop music does in time, it moved on and Primitive Radio Gods only had minor success afterwords, never again hitting the heights they did with this song.
Years go by. 10 years, if I count accurately. I'm having a drink with my better half on our small deck above Uptown, enjoying the sunset and each other's conversation, her iPod playing quietly through the window. One song ends and then this one begins. It starts off just a bare drum track, with a bass line joining soon after. When this happened, some small part of my brain buzzed and my Spider Sense tingled. My eyes went wide and I sat back in my chair in wonderment. I looked at my better half and admitted "Oh dear god, I completely forgot about this song. I used to hate it so much."
She smiled, bemused and asked "Really?", her head turning slightly.
I nodded, answering "Yeah, I can't believe how wrong I was. This is so serene." She smiled and agreed.
The real lesson here?
She has better taste than me.
How are you? You good? Me too.
In the continuing interest of examining the nature of one's exposure to music, today we're looking at forgotten things. In specific, I want to look briefly at the idea of being exposed to something, forgetting it and then having the massive head rush of recollection. It is essentially this core idea of the elusive remembrance that started this very blog - I was growing frustrated with the constant conversations I would find myself having with friends and family saying "Oh man, I totally forgot about that! It was so awesome, do you still listen to it?". Instead of becoming an overbearing presence at dinners and happy hours with these passionate diatribes regarding media both adored and neglected I decided to collect those thoughts here. 100+ posts later, I feel like I've done a fairly successful job of exorcising some of this pent up mix of enthusiasm and nostalgia. Nostalgiasm? No, enthusialga. Yes, much better. So what is this specific bit of music that elicited such a reaction? A song I hated at first but have now experienced a contradictory appreciation for, a prime example of 90s music and culture, in a further display of synergy with recurring themes in this blog. Today I write of the excessively titled 'Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand' by the long-dissolved Primitive Radio Gods.
Let's face it - you either know this song or don't, and if you know it you either love it or hate it. There's defiantly a divisive nature to the song and yet I can't put my finger on exactly what it is. Maybe it's that it wears its heart unabashedly on its sleeve. Maybe it has to do with the prominent use of the (then) controversial art of sampling (how quaint). Released as a single in June of 1996, this song was all over the radio in a big way. It was almost as though it was designed for success, arriving just before our current culture of crass commercialism and conspicuous consumption really gained momentum. Centering around a piano sample over a heavy drum loop, the song is a soft but contemplative and moody piece of work. In it, singer Chris O'Connor softly sings/mumbles the nonsensical lyrics about missed connections and old friends. The most well known feature about the song, though, is the B.B. King sample, taken from a 12-bar blues song released in 1964 called 'How Blue Can You Get?'. This short snippet of King wailing "I been downhearted baby, ever since the day we met" serves as a sort of refrain and thematic center to the song. All of these disparate elements serve to create a fantastic mish-mash of styles, the result being a sleepy, trip-hop-ish bit of mid-90s alternative music that feels perfectly at home on the radio even today. If you dig back through past posts I've written you could quickly discern that this single is right up my alley, given the tone of the song. What's odd for me, however, is that the song drove me absolutely up the wall when I first heard it.
Years go by. 10 years, if I count accurately. I'm having a drink with my better half on our small deck above Uptown, enjoying the sunset and each other's conversation, her iPod playing quietly through the window. One song ends and then this one begins. It starts off just a bare drum track, with a bass line joining soon after. When this happened, some small part of my brain buzzed and my Spider Sense tingled. My eyes went wide and I sat back in my chair in wonderment. I looked at my better half and admitted "Oh dear god, I completely forgot about this song. I used to hate it so much."
She smiled, bemused and asked "Really?", her head turning slightly.
I nodded, answering "Yeah, I can't believe how wrong I was. This is so serene." She smiled and agreed.
The real lesson here?
She has better taste than me.
