For a musician, it’s easy to name the worst song ever written

Quick, what’s the worst song in the world, the one tune you hate more than any other? Don’t think about it; just shout out the first thing that comes to mind.

If enough people read this column at the same time, there will soon be folks in China listening to the echo of innumerable voices hollering, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree.”

“Muskrat Love”, “Achy Breaky Heart”, and “Having My Baby” also are reasonable responses.

But if you’re a musician, the kind of musician who plays clubs, weddings or bar mitzvahs on a regular basis, there’s only one correct answer: The worst song ever written is “Happy Birthday.”
There is no request a bandleader fears as much as “Happy Birthday.”

Why? First off, “Happy Birthday” requires absolutely zero finesse. The tune sounds precisely the same whether voiced by Freddie Mercury, Pavarotti, or your drunken uncle Harry. Marilyn Monroe once tried to sing a “sexy” version of “Happy Birthday” to President Kennedy; it was one of the few times she came off looking like a dork.

Also, no band has ever gotten away with performing “Happy Birthday” just once. Every single time a request comes in to play that godforsaken tune, another request follows 30 seconds later.

Why? Because everybody has a birthday. Not all on the same day, of course, but that doesn’t matter.

Let me explain how this works. Someone approaches the stage, not the birthday boy, but his wife, cousin, brother, mother or aunt. “Could you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Moe?” he or she will ask. “It’s his birthday at midnight.”

“Sure,” the bandleader says. Then, as fast as musically possible, in the key of “G,” the band belts out a lame version of “Happy Birthday” while members of the audience (those who have had a few martinis, at least) sing along.

Before the band can launch into its next tune, someone’s girlfriend rushes the stage. “Can you play ‘Happy Birthday’ to Fred, too? His birthday’s Monday.”

“Sure,” the bandleader says, stifling a sigh. Again, in the key of “G,” the band plays “Happy Birthday.” This time the only audience members singing along are Fred and his girlfriend.

Before the song is over, another guy stumbles up to the stage. “Hey! Hey!” he shouts over the rumbling of the last few chords. “Sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Zach!”

“Is it Zach’s birthday?” the bandleader asks.

“Nah, but his birthday’s next month an’ he’s gonna be up north then, so we wanna sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for him tonight!” the guy shouts.

The bandleader has had enough. “OK,” he barks into the microphone. “Any other birthdays in the house tonight?”

Several hands go up.

“Names, please,” the bandleader sighs, pencil in hand.

In “G,” the band dejectedly intones, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Zach, Lucy, Marcie, Chuck, John, Garrison, Betty, Lucille, Shaniqua, Erin, Bill, and Eunice, happy birthday to you.”

Rallying their collective will to live, the band members again prepare to launch into their next number.

A middle-aged woman wearing a Metallica T-shirt runs up to the stage. “You forgot Dierdre,” she says. “She’s not here tonight, but she works in our office and her birthday’s next July. Could you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ one more time just for her?”

Without a word, the bandleader intentionally spills water from his glass onto the stage, removes his shoes, steps into the puddle, and grabs his microphone with both hands. The smell of burning hair fills the room.

Sisters Patty and Mildred Hill co-wrote “Happy Birthday” in 1893. They’ve both been dead a long time. No musician living feels bad about this.


More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.