Even if you aren’t familiar with the term “earworm,” you know what one is, because it’s a sure bet that you’ve had one, even if you have a tin ear or couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. I get them all the time. Songs get stuck in my head for days. I wander about the house warbling away. (Mind you, I’ve never actually caught any of the kitties doing the teenage eye rolling thing. . .) So here it is:
Today’s earworm comes courtesy of Sir Paul back when he was one of those scandalously long-haired teen idols who, with a little help from his friends, turned the music industry upside down and hit popular culture like a ton of bricks. It comes from the infamous “white album” and its odd assortment of tunes. Sir Paul (does he get as big a laugh out of the “Sir” bit as I do?) has a gift for melody — tuneful, catchy, delightful and eminently humable. He’s not so big on lyrics, but oh, those melodies. I think George Martin, the noted musical midwife, picked up on that straight away. His arrangements for some of them — Eleanor Rigby, Yesterday, Penny Lane, She’s Leaving Home, and When I’m Sixty-Four (which Sir Paul wrote at the tender age of 16), provide platinum settings for those little jewels. And then there are I’ll Follow The Sun, and the spare solo guitar of Blackbird. Even after the breakup of the Beatles, the hits kept on coming — Only Love Remains, Bluebird, No More Lonely Nights, the insanely popular Mull of Kyntyre, When the Wind is Blowing, Great Day, to name but a very few, and his ability churn out these merry melodies has made him a mint (and a knight).
The writer Douglas Adams took a somewhat jaundiced view of the Macca phenomenon. In Life, the Universe and Everything, the third book in his five-book The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy, he puts this thought into the mind of his well-traveled protagonist, Arthur Dent as he listened to the Masters of Krikkit singing: “Arthur could almost imagine Paul McCartney sitting with his feet up by the fire one evening, humming it to Linda and wondering what to buy with the proceeds, and thinking, probably, Essex.”
(BTW If you are looking for something zany, off the wall, and hilarious to read (and you are willing to dangle your disbelief off a high cliff), I cannot recommend the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy books highly enough.)
Owing to the fact that the resident human has an extremely low earworm threshold, the kitties have become hardened veterans. Sometimes they luck out, like when this and the vocal part of this got lodged in my ‘hum-de-diddle-er” following a re-re-re-re-re-viewing of The Secret of Roan Inish, but when this was the earworm du jour, it got whistled. Endlessly. For days. The kitties spent a lot of time under the bed. They hate the whistle-y ones.
While searching YouTube for songs for this blog, I ran across this video — which is also another “marvelous Macca melody” case in point. (I can just see the black one jerk his tail back and forth and mutter between clenched fangs, “Oh, crikey. Not another whistle-y one.” And doing the eye roll thing.)