At Bella's request, I've reposted this for tonight's Blog Fever:

 

I’ve always been musical by nature.   I spend a large portion of every day singing songs, or trying to think of songs that will make my friends and coworkers smile or sing along.  I started playing piano by ear at the age of four or five.  Sadly, I never learned how to read the notes; I would just have my piano teacher play the song through once, and I’d play it back to her.  As a result, my piano teacher just assumed I was reading the sheet music.  My mother, who also plays piano and heard me practice daily, was aware that I couldn’t read notes, and used to get into heated arguments with my piano teacher about my inability to read sheet music.  To this day, I can only read notes by using the mnemonics Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge and F.A.C.E. and then counting alphabetically from the notes I can read because of the mnemonic to the notes I can’t read.

 

I don’t know what it is that makes me love a particular piece of music.  Sometimes the first time I hear a song it’s like meeting your soul mate.  Somehow the tune was already in your brain; to paraphrase Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle “It’s like coming home, only a home I’ve never known.”  Other times I hear a song four hundred times before I can tolerate it, and then I grow to love it; similar to your girlfriend’s ugly little puppy that you can’t stand at first, but over time simply ingratiates itself into your heart.

 

Lyrics also fascinate me.  A particularly poignant or witty turn of phrase can cause me to love a song immediately.  The lyrics can be especially profound, or just echo a sentiment I’ve felt.  In some cases the song and lyrics become a historical bookmark to me, they bring me back to a particular place and time that I love, or a specific memory.

 

As the years go by, I’ve started to really enjoy the stories behind songs:  either the driving motivation in their creation, or the anecdote detailing how the song was written.  I’ve decided to write up a couple of my favorite stories behind the making of a particular song.  Once or twice the story behind the song drastically changed my interpretation of the lyrics.  Mostly though, the stories just make me smile when I hear the tune.  I’d love it if anyone so inclined would contribute their own favorite stories behind a particular piece of music.

 

Song 1:  The Beatles – Yesterday

 

 

 

Edited from Wikipedia:

According to biographers of McCartney and the Beatles, McCartney composed the entire melody in a dream one night in his room at the Wimpole Street home of his then girlfriend Jane Asher and her family.  Upon waking, he hurried to a piano, turned on a tape recorder, and played the tune to avoid letting it slip into the recesses of his mind.

McCartney's initial concern was that he had subconsciously plagiarised someone else's work (known as cryptomnesia).  As he put it, "For about a month I went round to people in the music business and asked them whether they had ever heard it before."Eventually it became like handing something in to the police. I thought if no-one claimed it after a few weeks then I could have it".

Upon being convinced that he had not robbed anybody of his melody, McCartney began writing lyrics to suit it.  As Lennon and McCartney were known to do at the time, a substitute working lyric, entitled "Scrambled Eggs", was used for the song until something more suitable was written.  In his biography, "Many Years From Now", McCartney wrote: "So first of all I checked this melody out, and people said to me, 'No, it's lovely, and I'm sure it's all yours.'  It took me a little while to allow myself to claim it, but then like a prospector I finally staked my claim; stuck a little sign on it and said, 'Okay, it's mine!' It had no words. I used to call it 'Scrambled Eggs'."

During the shooting of Help!, a piano was placed on one of the stages where filming was being conducted.  McCartney would take advantage of this opportunity to perform "Scrambled Eggs" accompanied by the piano.  Richard Lester, the director, was greatly annoyed by this, and eventually lost his temper, telling McCartney to finish writing the song, or he would have the piano removed.  McCartney's original lyrics were, "Scrambled eggs, Oh, baby how I love your legs."

Lennon later indicated that the song had been around for a while before:

McCartney said the breakthrough with the lyrics came during a trip to Portugal in May 1965:

Song 2:  The BoomTown Rat’s – Tell Me Why I Don’t Like Mondays

This song was always an anthem for me as a kid.  I hated school, and Monday morning meant five straight days of it.  I never really paid attention to the verses of the song, I just belted out “TELL ME WHY, I don’t like Mondays!” at the top of my lungs.  To me, this song was along the same lines as Manic Monday by the Bangles... a fun little way to rebel against the inherent crappiness of a Monday.

About five years ago, I heard the song again, and actually listened carefully to the verses.  I was shocked by the lyrics, and jumped on the internet to find out more about the song.  Apparently the Boomtown Rat’s wrote this song in response to the following disturbing news story:

On 29 January 1979, 16-year-old Brenda Ann Spencer opened fire on children arriving at Cleveland Elementary School in San Diego from her house across the street, killing two men and wounding eight students and a police officer.   Principal Burton Wragg was attempting to rescue children in the line of fire when he was shot and killed, and custodian Mike Suchar was slain attempting to aid Wragg.

 

Spencer used a rifle her father had given her as a gift (she had wanted a radio).  As to what impelled her into this form of murderous madness, she told a reporter, ''I don't like Mondays. This livens up the day.''

 

The "Mondays" comment was not the only eyebrow-raising declaration to issue from Spencer that day.  According to a report written by the police negotiators who spoke with her during the six-hour standoff, she made such comments to them as ''There was no reason for it, and it was just a lot of fun''; ''It was just like shooting ducks in a pond''; and ''[the children ] looked like a herd of cows standing around, it was really easy pickings.''

 

That Spencer failed to kill any of the children she shot at was attributable to luck rather than any reluctance on her part to take their lives.  The bullet that struck 9-year-old Charles "Cam" Miller missed his heart by about an inch.

 

Spencer pled guilty to two counts of murder and assault with a deadly weapon and was sentenced to 25 years to life in prison.  She has been up for parole four times and has been turned down each time, the last in 2005.  At her first parole hearing she expressed doubt that any of the victims were hit by bullets from her rifle and contended they might have been shot by police.  She also claimed to have been under the influence of alcohol and hallucinogenic drugs at the time of the shootings and asserted prosecutors and her attorney had conspired to fabricate test evidence showing there had been no drugs in her system.  By her third parole hearing she was admitting guilt and expressing remorse but was still contending she had been drunk and high on marijuana laced with PCP the day of her deadly rampage.  She also claimed something new, that she had been beaten and sexually abused by her father, an avowal conspicuously absent from previous records.

 

She is eligible to again apply for parole in 2009.  Those who continue to be troubled by the callousness of Brenda Spencer's crime and concerned by her continued attempts to shift blame for her actions onto anyone or anything else can draw comfort from the knowledge that murderers are rarely granted parole in California.

 

Holy Paradigm-Shift Batman!  My cute little anthem about hating Mondays was really about attempted mass murder, and the incredibly cold, disconcerting comment made by Brenda Spencer to justify her crime.  This is one of the rare times where learning the story motivating the lyrics completely changed my interpretation of the song.    I don’t know how I missed this in the lyrics as a kid; it’s painfully obvious upon reading them:

The silicon chip inside her head
Gets switched to overload
And nobody’s gonna go to school today
She’s gonna make them stay at home
And daddy doesn’t understand it
He always said she was good as gold
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to be show-ow-ow-ow-own?

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot the whole day down

The Telex machine is kept so clean
And it types to a waiting world
And mother feels so shocked
Father’s world is rocked
And their thoughts turn to their own little girl
Sweet 16 ain’t that peachy keen
Now that ain’t so neat to admit defeat
They can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reasons do you need?
Oh Oh Oh Oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot
The whole day down, down, down, shoot it all down

And all the playing's stopped in the playground now
She wants to play with her toys a while
And school's out early and soon we'll be learning
And the lesson today is how to die
And then the bullhorn crackles
And the captain tackles
With the problems and the hows and whys
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to die, die?
Oh Oh Oh

The silicon chip inside her head
Gets switched to overload
And nobody’s gonna go to school today
She’s gonna make them stay at home
And daddy doesn’t understand it
He always said she was good as gold
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to be show-ow-ow-ow-own?

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Song 3:  Matchbox Twenty – 3 A.M.

 

 

I always like this song when it first came out, but I had difficulty interpreting the lyrics on my own.  I did a pretty extensive internet search to find out the real story behind the song.  When Rob Thomas, the lead singer of Matchbox Twenty, was in high school his mother was diagnosed with cancer.  Not abnormally for patients diagnosed with cancer, she began drinking to cope with the inherent loneliness and depression associated with a potentially fatal disease.  In the end, the cancer went into remission, but she became an alcoholic.

 

There is an absolutely phenomenal acoustic piano version of this song by Rob Thomas that I couldn’t locate.  I’ve figured out how to play the piano version as an homage to my brother, who passed away this time last year because of drugs/alcohol.  The back-story behind the song somehow makes it appropriate for my brother to me.  My brother always claimed that he couldn’t stop drinking/using drugs because of a medical condition (he had difficulties sleeping, so used the drugs and alcohol to knock himself out nightly).

 

In this song, 3 A.M. represents her drinking (a common closing time for bars in some areas), and the rain is a metaphor for her cancer.  Some of the lines become particularly poignant in light of this:

 

She says it’s all gonna end, it might as well be my fault.

 

-  I can picture the conversation that went along with this line in my head.  I envision Rob Thomas confronting his mother concerned about her budding alcoholism, and this is his mother’s response.  I’m going to die of cancer anyway, so what does it matter if the alcohol kills me?

 

Well I can't help but be scared of it all sometimes.  But the rain's gonna wash away, I believe it.   

 

-  Cancer patients often go through different stages in coping with the disease, and often backtrack to previous stages.  They can oscillate between being frightened and thinking they will beat cancer, often within the same day.

 

The clock on the wall has been stuck at 3 for days and days

 

-  Instead of drinking occasionally to cope, his mother has become a full-blown alcoholic.

 

But outside, it’s stop raining.

 

- The cancer went into remission, but she remains an alcoholic.

 

Song 4:  Phil Collins – In the Air Tonight

 

 

When I first heard ‘In the Air Tonight’, I was fascinated by the song’s macabre theme and how well the music matched the lyrics.  Driving home from work one night, the song came on the radio.  After the song, the DJ recounted the following urban legend about its origins:

 

While at camp as a child, Collins awoke to find his counselor missing.  Looking outside, he saw the counselor standing by the lake doing nothing to help a drowning boy.  Collins, being too far away to help himself, was racked with guilt over the incident.

 

In later years, Collins became obsessed with the counselor, spying on him and watching him at home. Collins sent the man a free front row ticket to his concert and the man, thinking it was strange, but seeing no reason to turn down a great seat to a great concert, attended anyway.  Collins played a few songs into the concert, paying no notice to the man.  Then all of the lights went off, as Collins seemed to be preparing for another song. Two spotlights appeared, one pointing on Collins, who was sitting on a stool off of the stage now in front of a man (the stranger) who had the other spotlight trained on him. Collins proceeded to perform a new song, entitled ‘In the Air Tonight’ seeming to direct it right at the anonymous man.

 

At the point in the song where the drums kick in and the song becomes louder, Collins supposedly threw the stool onto the ground and all the lights went on.  It is presumed that the man left after this song, realizing that Collins was there when he had watched the child drowning.  The rest of the audience had no idea what the whole situation had been about, only suspecting the man had done something to anger Collins to a great degree.

 

This first verse of the song is consistent with the urban legend:

 

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh lord
I’ve been waiting for this moment, all my life, oh lord
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, oh lord, oh lord

Well, if you told me you were drowning
I would not lend a hand
I’ve seen your face before my friend
But I don’t know if you know who I am
Well, I was there and I saw what you did
I saw it with my own two eyes
So you can wipe off the grin, I know where you’ve been
Its all been a pack of lies 

 

I hope all of you have enjoyed these four songs and the stories behind them; I’d like to encourage you to include your own songs and stories.

In my life, I have had three highly improbable, flying-insect with stinger related, traumatic events.  Any one of them I could forgive, but now I'm pissed.  All stinging insects should be exterminated.... completely wiped off the face of the planet.

I know what you're going to say; bees polinate flowers, which in turn convert carbon dioxide to oxygen.  If we got rid of all bees, we'd eventually screw the ecosystem and destroy life as we know it.  Cry me a river, liberal.  Bees die when they sting us, and we'll never defeat them until we adopt the same mentality.  Once you read my 3 bee stories, you'll understand my point of view.

---

Bee story #1

I believe I was 5-ish years old.  I was in the backyard behind my parents house.  I had to go to the bathroom, but was feeling too lazy to walk across the full-acre backyard to the house.  I decided the haystack behind the barn would be a good place to take a piss (pardon the rather vulgar wording). 

I admit, I noticed a yellow jacket flying around, but I didn't pay any attention to it.  I hadn't learned they were the enemy yet.

I unzipped my pants, and started to take a leak, when the yellow jacket decided to land directly on my penis.  I repeat - the yellow jacket landed directly on my penis.

I've heard the true measure of a man can only be taken in situations of dire stress: war, family members dying, etc.  That's wussy stuff; you don't truly find out who you are until you've had a yellow jacket land on your penis.

Incidentally, it turns out that I'm a very stupid man when measured.

I looked down my penis and stared at the yellow jacket.  His eyes met mine; I swear to God the little S.O.B. grinned.  I think a tumbleweed might have fluttered by in the distance.

Apparently my knee-jerk reaction to noticing an insect on my body is to hit that part of the body as hard as I can.

That's right, I hit myself in the penis as hard as I could.

I missed... the damn thing had already stung me... and flew away.  I'm pretty sure he was laughing his ass off.  Not only did he sting me, he conned me into punching myself in the gonads. 

Like any good 5 year old, I ran back into the house crying.  My mother and brother were sitting in the kitchen.  Between sobs I let them know a bee had stung me.  My mother asked where I was stung... she could rub some salve on it to ease the pain.  I said I was stung in my "special place". 

My Mom, ever sympathetic, choked out "Are You Serious!?!?!".  Then she nearly fell over laughing.

My brother Chris, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, quipped "So Mom, are you still going to rub salve on it?"

I ran away embarrassed, crying to myself.  Thus my deathly fear of all flying insects that sting began.  To this day I claim I had an allergic reaction to the sting, permanently causing the affected area to grow to tremendous size ;).

---

Bee Story 2:

(Note this story has one bee-stress related moment of stupidity, and one moment of stupidity that I can only claim as my own)

Fast forward about 18 years later.  I had been playing alot of basketball, and had torn my meniscus.  I had to get arthroscopic surgery.

The surgery went well, and I was sitting in my room recovering.  They had given me an epidural for the surgery, numbing me from the waste down.  They had also given me a number of sedatives to calm me down.

I was still groggy from the surgery when the doctor said I could go home as long as I demonstrated I could go to the bathroom.  Through my drug induced haze, that sounded pretty easy.  I tried to locate the hole in my boxers so I could pull "Mr. Happy" out and urinate.

I had no idea how much finding the hole in your boxers depended on not being numb from the waste down.  Normally, your boxers bulge near the hole, and you simply pull apart the bulge to reveal the hole.  You can tell the difference between the bulge near the hole and the bulge created by "your manhood" by feel.  Until you are given an epidural.

I spent about 15 minutes trying to pull my penis apart through the fabric until I realized it was the wrong bulge.  This was my own fault; I was still wasted from the sedatives, and believe me I paid for my mistake once the painkillers wore off.

Eventually I did go to the bathroom, and they let me leave the hospital.  As I just had surgery on my knee, they wheeled me out to the car in a wheelchair.  As fate would have it, a bee landed on my leg.

I freaked... I shot out of my chair like a bullet and sprinted across the parking lot.  Surprisingly, you're not supposed to start sprinting within an hour or so of knee surgery.

I had to get another knee surgery.  At this point, I was starting to develop a very healthy dislike for all flying insects.

---

Bee Story 3:

 

I was on the freeway, in stop-and-go traffic.  I was in the "stop" portion of the program when I noticed a bee had landed on my windshield.  Now thoroughly biased against bees, I quite happily turned on my wipers to give it a smack.  The wipers hit it, and pinned that bad boy directly against my hood.

 

Ten minutes later, traffic had cleared up.  I was cruising down the highway going around 70 when I noticed a strange buzzing coming from the air vent in the dash.  I remember thinking to myself – no way in hell man, no way in hell.

 

One minute later the bee I had pinned against the hood with the wipers was struggling to come out of the air vent in my dash.  Yet again I freaked.  I started smacking the air vent as hard as I could.  All the desperate banging on the vent did was dislodge the bee, and he started flying around my car. 

 

It didn't occur to me until I saw red and blue flashing in my mirror that I had completely stopped paying attention to my driving.  Trying to calm myself, I stopped swinging at the bee, slowed the car down and pulled over.  The bee promptly stung me.

 

At least I figured I had a hell of an excuse for erratic driving.

 

Again I was wrong…

 

Apparently, if you are a cop, you hear this story twice a day.  It's one of the oldest excuses in the book for speeding.  People even go so far as to keep a dead bee on their dash to give the story more credibility.  The cops eventually notice the dust that has accumulated on the bee after laying on the dash for four months.

 

Needless to say, I got the ticket.

 

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These are 3 fluke occurrences… they are so statistically unlikely in their totality that I have to believe the bees are organized and deliberately targeting me.   

Almost inevitably, when I am walking with a female and another woman passes by with large breasts, the female I am with looks on with disdain and mutters "Those aren't real you know!"

I must admit, I find this comment pretty amusing coming from a gender that habitually uses eyeliner, make-up, etc., to alter their appearance to look more attractive.

I can sum up the male consensus on the subject of fake breasts in one sentence:

The Sistine Chapel didn't come painted, but I still appreciate the art!

I think the female gender is drastically overestimating the discriminating palette of the average penis. Although our brains realize the deception, our penises (penis-i?) "can't believe it's not butter" as it were. When it comes to breasts, our brains are cultured wine afficianodo's, while our penises are generally happy with Mad Dog 20/20.

While we're on the subject of fake breasts, here's my contribution to the Saturday Night Blog Fever:

 

Incidentally... is anyone so skeptical that they really "can't believe it's not butter?" If this is the case, they have some serious trust issues.

The other day I was watching the Discovery Channel, and they included a little sidenote about how dogs urinate to mark their territories.  After the show was over, I ran to the bathroom as I always do (I drink entirely too much soda).  The door to the downstairs bathroom fails to shut properly, and my dog inevitably pokes the door to the bathroom the rest of the way open while I'm peeing, exposing me for the world to see.

The following thought occured to me as I yet again had to suddenly stop urinating and lunge desperately to shut the door:

From a marking territory perspective, peeing into a toilet must seem an incredibly odd behavior to my dog.

I can only imagine the thought going through her head as she watches me use the restroom after every show:

For the love of God man, I got the point.  The big, white water-bowl is yours already!