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Some hooks are such audio dopamine that you'd think all of our brains would naturally produce a chemical equivalent of their essence. Which is maybe why they sound so familiar the first time you hear them. This chorus hijacked my mind Saturday morning and continues to hold on tight. How is that a man who labored over convoluted messes like Quadrophenia busted out such an effortless earworm just a few years later? Something in the water circa '82 maybe. Another one for my as-yet-to-created summer bike riding mix. Gotta get on that.
The other day a co-worker remarked that if you've got a song stuck in your head, the way to dislodge it is to start humming "Private Dancer." Preferably the verses, which have an almost medicinal way of blocking the mental desire to loop a tune. I've found that any part of "Careless Whisper" has a similar effect, although its mechanism of action is more like the mighty sun rising up to burn away the threat of any competing melody. No really, that's how it works.
And yet, neither of these strategies has been able to get today's song out of my head. Regular readers know I'm pretty into Bill Nelson these days, but this one just keeps hitting the spot like sweet devil candy. Enough so that even the dorky saxophone can't stop my Pavlovian response of jumping around the room when it comes on. I only hope my enemies don't get their hands on this kryptonite.
Some hooks are such audio dopamine that you'd think all of our brains would naturally produce a chemical equivalent of their essence. Which is maybe why they sound so familiar the first time you hear them. This chorus hijacked my mind Saturday morning and continues to hold on tight. How is that a man who labored over convoluted messes like Quadrophenia busted out such an effortless earworm just a few years later? Something in the water circa '82 maybe. Another one for my as-yet-to-created summer bike riding mix. Gotta get on that.
