Of all my terrible habits, I imagine that it’s probably my constant music-making which is the most annoying.
There are friends of mine who flat-out refuse to watch films with me because they know an hour and a half will rarely pass where I won’t start drumming out a pointless rhythm on my ribs. The bassline to Mary Jane Girls’ All Night Long regularly gets lodged in my head and I’ve only just recovered from a two year curse where every single day, without fail, I would catch myself mumbling a line or two from Free From Desire by Gala. I only need to hear the word “Vengabus” and both mine and my flatmate’s week is ruined.
(We’re thrilled that the bendy buses have been pulled off the roads in London if for no other reason than there will be fewer chances for me to mishear the word in everyday conversation)
Worst and weirdest of all though is my propensity to combine songs. Like a series of short and poorly thought through DJ sets, there are pairs of songs which I have cut and shut together into ten second megamixes that will remain permanently fixed in my mind no matter how hard I try to break them back apart again.
The first one I remember splicing was The Nolan Sisters’ I’m In The Mood For Dancing mixed with (and it is quite specifically his version) Phil Collins’ You Can’t Hurry Love.
Now whenever I hear “I’m in the mood for dancing / Romancing…” the track seamlessly crossfades in my mind to “…It’s a game of give and take / You can’t hurry love / No, you’ll just have to wait” etc
If you’re struggling to imagine what it sounds like, this is a rough approximation:
It happens with lots of others – more often than not with songs that feature in adverts for compilation CD sets – and it ruins a number of perfectly good songs for me (and anyone unlucky enough to catch me singing them over and over again). None, however, is more upsetting to me than The Beatles and B*Witched.
Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is an album which (in rotation with The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds and The Beatles’ Revolver) is often declared the Greatest Album Of All Time. Sadly, I will never be able to understand this, or love it in the way that critics, fans and others love it – and it’s all because of B*Witched.
This is why:
I wish I could help it. I really, really wish I could. Nothing would make me happier than to hear the words “It’s wonderful to be here / It’s certainly a thrill…” and then follow them up with “…You’re such a lovely audience”, but I can’t do it.
No matter how hard I try, no matter how many times I listen to the original, it’s always “…We’re not nice / We’re cool as ice / We’ll give you such a chill.”
Keavy. Edele. Lindsay. Sinéad. Not only have you clearly plagiarised the melody of the bridge of Sgt. Pepper’s, but you have ruined what is widely considered to be the best music of all time for me.
Thanks a fucking bunch.
And to think, I once used to fancy you all…