Coronavirus, the musical

The world is about to get a whole lot more musical, thanks to the only thing most people are talking about these days: the coronavirus.

In last week’s column, I wrote about an unfortunate bit of knowledge I possess: that singing the first verse of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” exactly corresponds to the 20 seconds it takes to wash your hands well enough to avoid contracting the disease du jour.

That’s a fact I’ve known for years, long before the latest outbreak sent the world’s population into a mad rush to acquire bulk packs of toilet paper. And as I mentioned last week, the song is contributing to my slow decline into madness. One can sing “Yankee Doodle Dandy” only so many times before one snaps one’s cap.

What with the current CDC advice that I wash my hands about a million times a day … well, let’s just say “Yankee Doodle Dandy” is wearing really thin.

Fortunately, Daily News readers came to my rescue big time! That column struck a chord with readers, many of whom have been having their own musical meltdowns over this recent hand-washing fanaticism.

Elaine P., for instance, has her own musical cross to bear, thanks to her grandchildren. They informed her that “Happy Birthday” (twice) also is the perfect hand-washing tune; just about 20 seconds if sung the way most people sing it at Chuck E. Cheese.

“I go crazy every time singing that tune,” Elaine wrote. Who can blame her? “Happy Birthday” is the only song in the world more annoying than “Yankee Doodle.”

Fellow Daily News columnist and researcher extraordinaire Sandy Main sent me a link to a list of 10 songs (or parts of them) that also work. The chorus to Prince’s “Raspberry Beret,” for instance: “She wore a raspberry beret / The kind you find in a secondhand store / Raspberry beret / And if it was warm she wouldn’t wear much more / Raspberry beret / I think I love her.”

I’m a Prince fan, but not where that song’s concerned. Just never liked it. So I won’t be picking that one; it would make me just as crazy as you-know-what-song is making me now.

Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” also fits. However, were I to get caught singing the chorus in some biker bar somewhere, the results might be worse than the virus: “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene / I’m begging of you please don’t take my man / Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene / Please don’t take him just because you can.” Hard for a straight guy to feel manly when he’s begging someone not to take his man. Just sayin’.

Then there’s Stevie Nick’s “Landslide”: “Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’ / ‘Cause I’ve built my life around you / But time makes you bolder / Even children get older / And I’m gettin’ older too.”

The problem with that one is it reminds me I’m not only getting older, I have arrived at that particular station and am therefore more susceptible to the coronavirus’ more deleterious effects. Who needs to thump that point home? Not me.

One I really DO like is from Natasha Bedingfield, called “Unwritten.” It goes: “Feel the rain on your skin / No one else can feel it for you / Only you can let it in / No one else, no one else / Can speak the words on your lips / Drench yourself in words unspoken / Live your life with arms wide open / Today is where your book begins / The rest is still unwritten.”

I like that one for several reasons. It seems hopeful and implies I’m probably going to live through this virus thing. Also, it has the words “rain” and “drench” in it, which fits with the hand-washing theme.

Unfortunately, I have no idea who Natasha Bedingfield is or what the tune to her song might be. One of the curses of getting old is you no longer give a rat’s patootie about “current” music. (If Bedingfield isn’t considered current, please don’t tell me; it’ll only make me feel older still.)

Other readers sent in their own ideas: “Karma Chameleon” by Boy George (another one to avoid singing in biker bars, along with “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me.”) The chorus to “Old Time Rock & Roll” also works, but I’ve been playing that song for 40 years in my own bar band and would rather inhale the virus through a used plastic straw than sing that turkey for free.

At any rate, I’m thinking of combining all these great hand-washing tunes into a Broadway Musical. Look for the film version, “Keepin’ Kleen,” coming to a theater near you this October. Assuming civilization hasn’t crumbled by then.

My recording career may take a while to take off

I recently wrote one of the most beautiful songs of all time. Sounds boastful, I know, but it’s true. 

As I’ve mentioned before in this column, I’ve been a musician since age 11, when my folks dropped the as-of-then unheard of amount of $26.95 to buy me a junior-sized guitar from the Sears catalog. 

Since then, I’ve been honing my craft, but very, very slowly. It’s been 45 years and my guitar playing still stinks. My singing’s a little better. And I do play several other instruments as well, though badly.

Fortunately, in my band, The Guinness Brothers, I’ve managed to surround myself with musicians far more gifted than myself. Hence, we keep fairly busy working local clubs even during these economically trying times.

For the most part, we play cover tunes; typical bar-band music written by people with record contracts, stretch limos, and long, undulating histories of drug abuse and rehab clinics. But every so often, I’ll write an original song and we’ll toss that into the mix until we get tired of it or bar owners start complaining.

My new song, though … no bar owner would EVER complain about that. It was that good.

I should preface this by saying I almost never listen to music. Unlike every other musician I know, I rarely turn on a radio, even during long, cross-country drives. I’ve always been utterly content with the silence and the little stories scampering around my (mostly empty) head. I’ve never felt the need for a soundtrack to my life.

Consequently, I never know what music is currently popular. I rarely know the names of any “big stars” or their current hits. If it was recorded after Springsteen’s “Born to Run” album, chances are I’m not familiar with it.

The only time I hear new music is when it’s thrust upon me in an elevator, supermarket or pub.

As someone who makes at least part of his living trying to get others to listen to his music, I probably shouldn’t admit this. People have certain expectations of musicians and I don’t meet any of them.

At any rate, I figured none of that would matter once my new song went triple platinum. I had little doubt it would; it was, like I said, the greatest song ever.

The best thing about my new tune was that it just “came to me” one day while driving to a newspaper assignment. I was humming tunelessly to myself and the song just sort of formed up in my mind.

The melody was heartbreakingly perfect; something timeless and filled with melancholy, longing and a deep understanding of the human spirit. Over the next couple months I put lyrics to my new tune. The lyrics weren’t bad. They weren’t Lennon/McCartney good, but I figured the melody would carry the number anyway.

I polished the song over and over until it glistened like gold. 

Last Saturday, I sat down at the kitchen table with a pad of paper, a pencil, a guitar, and my digital recorder; my intent was to create charts and a demo in order to more easily teach my opus to the rest of the band.

It had been a while since I’d last used the recorder and the batteries were, of course, deader than Abel after his last disagreement with Cain.

At the nearby super-store, I trudged the requisite half-mile to the electronics department and picked up a pack of triple-A’s. On my way back to the checkout counter, my song came over the store’s Muzak system.

MY song! The lyrics were different, but that tune … that tune was MINE!

Well, as it turns out, that tune was not mine; it was Sting’s. The song, as I later learned, is called “Fields of Gold,” and was released by the former Police front-man in 1993. At some point I must have heard it, though I swear, I don’t remember hearing it.

I had put three months work into re-writing somebody else’s song. Worse still, Sting’s lyrics were a lot better than mine. A lot.

To say I was bummed out would be an understatement. But it could be worse. I do have another song in the hopper, and it really has potential. It’s a cute, little number. About an octopus and his under-sea garden.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available in eBook format on Amazon.com, or in paperback at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com.

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.