One fine day, about 13 years ago, I was in a department store in Toronto -- Zellers, I believe -- buying various items in preparation for my then upcoming trip to Israel, the country to which I had decided to immigrate.
After about an hour, having picked out the items I had decided to purchase that day, I proceeded to the checkout area.
But just before I entered one of the checkout aisles, a 2- or 3-year-old black girl walked up to me. In her hand, a chocolate bar. Very much opened. And her mouth, and the surface area surrounding her mouth, and, in fact, much of the rest of her sweet little face, were all gloriously covered with chocolate. Her eyes were wide open, bearing silent but eloquent testimony to the kiddie-heaven experience she had clearly just enjoyed.
But the earnest expression on her face as she looked up at me and held the half-eaten chocolate bar in her hand up towards me indicated unambiguously that the moment of rapture was passing, and her thoughts had now turned to the far more pedestrian chore of disposing of the evidence.
What has always struck me about this moment was the way she approached me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to hand me that half-eaten gooey chocolate bar mess. It was as if, in her mind, all department stores employed several people such as myself, whose official job description it was to patrol the check-out area in search of little children who were wandering around with half-eaten chocolate bars that needed disposing of.
Without a word, I performed my assigned task, and gently took the proffered chocolate bar remains from her extended hand, disposed of them, purchased my items, and immigrated to Israel.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Forget Me Not
My two earliest memories are from when I was 2: I can remember sitting in my high chair eating Alpha-Bits cereal. And I can remember the first time I went to Synagogue: my grandmother took me to one near our home, Beth David, where I would spend many a Sabbath in subsequent years.
I remember the general physical layout of the room, and I remember that on that first occasion, we sat on the left, near the back. Beyond any physical memories, I distinctly remember feeling very comfortable and very much at home in this strange, pleasant place. It felt like a special place that brought out the best in people. Obviously, I would not have been able to articulate such thoughts at the ripe old age of 2, but that is definitely the overall impression I still retain of that visit.
I was once told by a friend of mine that regarding such early memories, eventually what we retain is not memories of the actual events themselves, but rather, memories of our memories of the events. I'm not sure how you would measure when a memory had passed from the former to the latter category, but intuitively, this very much makes sense to me. (Although it begs the question: do we eventually retain only the memory of the memory of the event? And so on?)
It's funny how we can retain a general impression of things, even absent any specific memories. For example, I can think of some teachers from my school days of which I have absolutely zero specific memories, and nevertheless, I am left with a very distinct general impression of whether I liked that teacher or not. (Happily, with two exceptions, the lasting impressions are pleasant.)
When I was in my teens, I was reading Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. My father noticed my reading selection, and he mentioned to me that he too had read it in his youth. After a brief discussion, it emerged that he did not recall the main character's name. I was dumbfounded -- how could you read an entire book and not remember the main character's name? Meanwhile, it appears that I have very much followed in my father's footsteps.
I have an unusual ability to remember when most of the vignettes of my life have occurred. Whenever I tell someone a tale, be it from my misspent youth or my misspent adulthood, I am almost always able to recall the exact year during which said event occurred.
Meanwhile, about 5 years ago, I decided that it was high time to read some of the books on my bookshelf that I had purchased but never gotten around to reading. So I pulled one out and started reading it. I was enjoying it quite a bit. But then on page 10, I noticed that I had made a note in the margin. What the dickens?! I already read this?! I started flipping the pages of the book, and there were marginal notes all the way to page 200!
I had read 200 pages of a book, and not only did I not remember one iota of what I had read -- I had managed to forget the very fact that I had read those 200 pages!
But I can tell you with absolutely certainty that the time I spun my baby sister around took place in the year 1976...
I remember the general physical layout of the room, and I remember that on that first occasion, we sat on the left, near the back. Beyond any physical memories, I distinctly remember feeling very comfortable and very much at home in this strange, pleasant place. It felt like a special place that brought out the best in people. Obviously, I would not have been able to articulate such thoughts at the ripe old age of 2, but that is definitely the overall impression I still retain of that visit.
I was once told by a friend of mine that regarding such early memories, eventually what we retain is not memories of the actual events themselves, but rather, memories of our memories of the events. I'm not sure how you would measure when a memory had passed from the former to the latter category, but intuitively, this very much makes sense to me. (Although it begs the question: do we eventually retain only the memory of the memory of the event? And so on?)
It's funny how we can retain a general impression of things, even absent any specific memories. For example, I can think of some teachers from my school days of which I have absolutely zero specific memories, and nevertheless, I am left with a very distinct general impression of whether I liked that teacher or not. (Happily, with two exceptions, the lasting impressions are pleasant.)
When I was in my teens, I was reading Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. My father noticed my reading selection, and he mentioned to me that he too had read it in his youth. After a brief discussion, it emerged that he did not recall the main character's name. I was dumbfounded -- how could you read an entire book and not remember the main character's name? Meanwhile, it appears that I have very much followed in my father's footsteps.
I have an unusual ability to remember when most of the vignettes of my life have occurred. Whenever I tell someone a tale, be it from my misspent youth or my misspent adulthood, I am almost always able to recall the exact year during which said event occurred.
Meanwhile, about 5 years ago, I decided that it was high time to read some of the books on my bookshelf that I had purchased but never gotten around to reading. So I pulled one out and started reading it. I was enjoying it quite a bit. But then on page 10, I noticed that I had made a note in the margin. What the dickens?! I already read this?! I started flipping the pages of the book, and there were marginal notes all the way to page 200!
I had read 200 pages of a book, and not only did I not remember one iota of what I had read -- I had managed to forget the very fact that I had read those 200 pages!
But I can tell you with absolutely certainty that the time I spun my baby sister around took place in the year 1976...
Sunday, December 22, 2013
You Light Up My Life
"Do you know what your sister did?"
"Yes, yes, I know what she did."
"Guess what your little sister did!"
"I know all about it."
"Hey --"
"I know!!!"
All day long, people coming up to me, telling me what my sister had done.
The setting: my elementary school. I was in the 8th grade (or, as Canadians call it, grade 8), and my sister, being 5 years my junior, was in the 3rd. What had she done on that fateful day to generate such a buzz? During lunch, in the lunchroom, she had climbed up onto her table and sung the song: "You Light Up My Life", which was a hugely popular hit that year. In fact, it had spent several consecutive weeks at the #1 spot on the hit parade of the local radio station I listened to.
Now at the time, having every person in the entire school inform me that my kid sister had sung this song in the middle of lunch made me roll my eyes. In fact, I'll be candid and say that it was one of the most annoying events of my middle school years. However.
Years later, or should I say decades later, I thought about this stunt of hers and decided that I loved it. What an original, brave, imaginative, spontaneous and creative thing to do!
A few years ago, I asked my sister whether she remembered the event. Her response: "Oh, you mean the time that I serenaded my friend Benji?"
Fascinatingly, even though thousands and thousands (I know, I know, if you've told me once, you've told me a million times, not to exaggerate) of people had told me about the event, not one of them had bothered to share with me the not entirely irrelevant detail that this was a serenade. All of those years, I had understood that my sister had just randomly decided to sing the song in the middle of the lunchroom. But it turns out that she was expressing her romantic feelings to her young Romeo. Making the episode all the more endearing. If everyone were to treat their loved ones to an expression of love like that, boy!
In fact, episodes like this just .... wait for it ... light up my life.
"Yes, yes, I know what she did."
"Guess what your little sister did!"
"I know all about it."
"Hey --"
"I know!!!"
All day long, people coming up to me, telling me what my sister had done.
The setting: my elementary school. I was in the 8th grade (or, as Canadians call it, grade 8), and my sister, being 5 years my junior, was in the 3rd. What had she done on that fateful day to generate such a buzz? During lunch, in the lunchroom, she had climbed up onto her table and sung the song: "You Light Up My Life", which was a hugely popular hit that year. In fact, it had spent several consecutive weeks at the #1 spot on the hit parade of the local radio station I listened to.
Now at the time, having every person in the entire school inform me that my kid sister had sung this song in the middle of lunch made me roll my eyes. In fact, I'll be candid and say that it was one of the most annoying events of my middle school years. However.
Years later, or should I say decades later, I thought about this stunt of hers and decided that I loved it. What an original, brave, imaginative, spontaneous and creative thing to do!
A few years ago, I asked my sister whether she remembered the event. Her response: "Oh, you mean the time that I serenaded my friend Benji?"
Fascinatingly, even though thousands and thousands (I know, I know, if you've told me once, you've told me a million times, not to exaggerate) of people had told me about the event, not one of them had bothered to share with me the not entirely irrelevant detail that this was a serenade. All of those years, I had understood that my sister had just randomly decided to sing the song in the middle of the lunchroom. But it turns out that she was expressing her romantic feelings to her young Romeo. Making the episode all the more endearing. If everyone were to treat their loved ones to an expression of love like that, boy!
In fact, episodes like this just .... wait for it ... light up my life.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Play It Again, Shmulik
As mentioned in earlier posts, most of my high school Sabbath mornings were spent in the company of a small group of sixty- and seventy-something Jewish men, in a Synagogue located in the basement of a house, otherwise known as a Shtiebel. My position was the Baal Koreh -- I would chant the weekly portion of the Torah. It kept me off the streets, as they say.
Now most Synagogues I've been to in my life hold, after the closing of Sabbath morning services, something called a Kiddush, which is a brief prayer recited in honor of the Sabbath, followed by victuals, of the traditional Jewish persuasion.
The house which housed our Shteibel had a front entrance and a back entrance. We would enter through the back entrance, then walk down a small flight of stairs. We would then be in an ante-room, where the Kiddushes took place. That ante-room in turn led to the room in which the prayer services were held.
Now for some reason, at our Shteibel, Kiddushes were held not every week, but rather only every few weeks. I suppose the Kiddush frequency was roughly that of Mickey Mantle's batting average. So each Sabbath, when you entered the back door and walked down those steps, there was but one thought on your mind: were the tables in the ante-room set, indicating that this would be a Kiddush week, or would they be tragically bare?
(Did I just say that? Obviously, a momentary lapse of judgment. Naturally, what I meant to write was: So each Sabbath, when you entered the back door and walked down those steps, there was but one thought on your mind: the excitement of imminent spiritual communal prayer amongst one's coreligionists. Yes, that's it. Clearly. Please ignore the above gaffe.)
At the conclusion of the services, the 20 or 30 or 40 of us would proceed to the ante-room, and take our seats at three long tables, covered with white plastic tablecloths. The regular staples, to the best of my recollection, were as follows:
To this teenager, this was as good as it gets. Now although there was no official formal structure to these Kiddushes, nevertheless they followed a pretty definite pattern:
Interestingly enough, I have no recollection of whether I ever participated in any of the aforementioned rounds of schmoozing. But what I do remember is a great feeling of warmth and camaraderie, sitting with these men who were 5 and 6 decades my senior. (Of course, that shot of scotch almost certainly contributed to the feeling of warmth.)
Now one of the items on the above itinerary was the part where we would all sing a traditional Jewish song. Each week, a different member of the board would be called upon to choose a song, and after three notes, we would all join in. Almost invariably, the song chosen was an oldie but goodie: Yismechu haShamaim, a song I actually learned back in the first or second grade.
Now I happen to like this song very much, but when, Kiddush after Kiddush, whoever was called upon to lead us in song would consistently choose that same song, I eventually grew more than a bit tired of it. Every Kiddush, when someone was about to choose a song to lead us in for that Shabbat, I would inwardly hope that they would have the temerity to throw off the shackles of conformity and choose something different. C'mon guys! There are other songs in the liturgical canon than Yismechu haShamaim, you know! Go wild! But more often than not, my vain hope would be dashed.
Finally, after having been there for well over a year, and possibly well over two, one Shabbat, someone called out my name to lead the group in song.
Huh? Who, me? Like a deer in the headlights, I froze. Only one thing came to my mind:
Yismechu haShamaim...
Now most Synagogues I've been to in my life hold, after the closing of Sabbath morning services, something called a Kiddush, which is a brief prayer recited in honor of the Sabbath, followed by victuals, of the traditional Jewish persuasion.
The house which housed our Shteibel had a front entrance and a back entrance. We would enter through the back entrance, then walk down a small flight of stairs. We would then be in an ante-room, where the Kiddushes took place. That ante-room in turn led to the room in which the prayer services were held.
Now for some reason, at our Shteibel, Kiddushes were held not every week, but rather only every few weeks. I suppose the Kiddush frequency was roughly that of Mickey Mantle's batting average. So each Sabbath, when you entered the back door and walked down those steps, there was but one thought on your mind: were the tables in the ante-room set, indicating that this would be a Kiddush week, or would they be tragically bare?
(Did I just say that? Obviously, a momentary lapse of judgment. Naturally, what I meant to write was: So each Sabbath, when you entered the back door and walked down those steps, there was but one thought on your mind: the excitement of imminent spiritual communal prayer amongst one's coreligionists. Yes, that's it. Clearly. Please ignore the above gaffe.)
At the conclusion of the services, the 20 or 30 or 40 of us would proceed to the ante-room, and take our seats at three long tables, covered with white plastic tablecloths. The regular staples, to the best of my recollection, were as follows:
- A shot-glass of scotch, or, as we used to call it, schnapps;
- An airy cookie known in Yiddish as eier kichel ("eier" is German for egg);
- A fish dish, which was delish, known, also in Yiddish, as shmaltz herring;
- And on rarer occasions, my favorite, a warm stew known in, what else? Yiddish, as cholent (actually, I have heard that the etymology of this term is French: "chaud lent": cooked slowly)
To this teenager, this was as good as it gets. Now although there was no official formal structure to these Kiddushes, nevertheless they followed a pretty definite pattern:
- We would all sit down, and schmooze for a few minutes (if they made a Yiddish version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, surely one of the dwarfs would be Schmoozy)
- Someone would recite the Kiddush prayer
- We would all down a shot-glass of scotch
- Within a minute or two, the usual lively din of conversation would disappear, as the various parts of our mouths were now engaged in a different activity
- Some more schmoozing
- Someone would give a brief speech, orating on the weekly Torah portion
- Yet more schmoozing
- Someone would be asked to lead all present in a song
- Even more schmoozing
- Someone would lead one and all in the blessing recited at the close of a meal
- Kiddush adjourned, and we would begin to head for our respective homes, accompanied by, you guessed it, more schmoozing
Interestingly enough, I have no recollection of whether I ever participated in any of the aforementioned rounds of schmoozing. But what I do remember is a great feeling of warmth and camaraderie, sitting with these men who were 5 and 6 decades my senior. (Of course, that shot of scotch almost certainly contributed to the feeling of warmth.)
Now one of the items on the above itinerary was the part where we would all sing a traditional Jewish song. Each week, a different member of the board would be called upon to choose a song, and after three notes, we would all join in. Almost invariably, the song chosen was an oldie but goodie: Yismechu haShamaim, a song I actually learned back in the first or second grade.
Now I happen to like this song very much, but when, Kiddush after Kiddush, whoever was called upon to lead us in song would consistently choose that same song, I eventually grew more than a bit tired of it. Every Kiddush, when someone was about to choose a song to lead us in for that Shabbat, I would inwardly hope that they would have the temerity to throw off the shackles of conformity and choose something different. C'mon guys! There are other songs in the liturgical canon than Yismechu haShamaim, you know! Go wild! But more often than not, my vain hope would be dashed.
Finally, after having been there for well over a year, and possibly well over two, one Shabbat, someone called out my name to lead the group in song.
Huh? Who, me? Like a deer in the headlights, I froze. Only one thing came to my mind:
Yismechu haShamaim...
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
An Impressive Impressionist
In my previous post, I discussed the phenomenon of mistaking one person for another. You see a person whose features are so similar to someone else's that your mind mistakenly concludes that you have seen that other person. In my case, while watching a movie, I momentarily mistook Kirk Douglas for Sean Penn. The moment passed quickly enough, and once again, it was Kirk Douglas before me.
This experience is quite similar to the optical illusions we've all seen: you're looking at a drawing of an old woman, and then, all of a sudden, you are instead looking at a young, elegant one.
What is so amusing and entertaining about these optical illusions is that the very same visual stimuli that one moment cause your mind to believe that it is seeing a certain image just a split-second later cause your mind to perceive a completely different image. Your mind is in effect saying: "Wait a minute! I'm looking at the exact same person I was a moment ago -- so why am I now all of a sudden seeing a completely different person?! And I thought seeing is believing."
Now even though in both of the above situations your mind is being "tricked", there is an interesting difference between the two:
In the case of the "Dopplegänger Dilemma", where the source of the illusion is the similarity between two different people, the confusion arises because the visual stimuli being presented to your eyes are similar to the mental image you have stored in your memory for a different person (similar hair, facial structure, etc.), causing a mismatch.
On the other hand, in the case of the Old-Young Lady, something very different is at work. Our eyes see the picture and transmit its visual stimuli to our brain. Our brain then extracts from the totality of that picture various elements, and interprets each one. It then combines the interpretations of those elements and concludes that it has seen an old woman.
When a moment later the mind suddenly sees instead the young woman, it is now extracting different elements from the picture, and interpreting them differently, and voilà! it comes up with a different interpretation of what is has seen.
Now all of the above is an introduction to another illusory experience I had a few months ago.
I've been familiar with actor Sammy Davis, Jr. for decades. But I was unaware until a few years ago that:
But then he did an impression which absolutely astounded me. Now Sammy Davis, Jr. was a small, short, black man, and the actor he was mimicking was a tall, large, white man. (I have since forgotten which actor it was.) And for his impression of this actor, Sammy did not utter one word, relying instead wholly on visual prompts.
Sammy did such a superb job of duplicating this man's facial expressions and body language that at one point, all of a sudden, I was no longer looking at Sammy Davis, Jr. -- instead, this other actor who looks absolutely nothing like Sammy Davis, Jr. appeared before me. So completely had Sammy's mannerisms duped my brain. That moment was as much an unexpected surprise to me, as if I were to turn around right now and see an elephant standing in my room.
So on the one hand, my eyes were seeing Sammy, a man who looked nothing like the other actor, and the image of Sammy was obviously being transmitted to my brain. But at the same time, Sammy's expert duplications of this man's mannerisms were simultaneously being transmitted to my brain as well. What is so striking is that with a wink and slight shift of his body, Sammy was able to make my mind completely ignore the overwhelming visual evidence and see instead the image that those oh so very subtle cues conjured up. What a feat!
Recall the two types of optical illusions I discerned earlier in this post: (a) the "Dopplegänger Dilemma, where the illusion arises from two images appearing the same; and (b) The Old-Young Lady, where the source of illusion arises from your mind extracting different clues from an image and interpreting them differently.
Into which category did Sammy's impression fall?
This experience is quite similar to the optical illusions we've all seen: you're looking at a drawing of an old woman, and then, all of a sudden, you are instead looking at a young, elegant one.
What is so amusing and entertaining about these optical illusions is that the very same visual stimuli that one moment cause your mind to believe that it is seeing a certain image just a split-second later cause your mind to perceive a completely different image. Your mind is in effect saying: "Wait a minute! I'm looking at the exact same person I was a moment ago -- so why am I now all of a sudden seeing a completely different person?! And I thought seeing is believing."
Now even though in both of the above situations your mind is being "tricked", there is an interesting difference between the two:In the case of the "Dopplegänger Dilemma", where the source of the illusion is the similarity between two different people, the confusion arises because the visual stimuli being presented to your eyes are similar to the mental image you have stored in your memory for a different person (similar hair, facial structure, etc.), causing a mismatch.
On the other hand, in the case of the Old-Young Lady, something very different is at work. Our eyes see the picture and transmit its visual stimuli to our brain. Our brain then extracts from the totality of that picture various elements, and interprets each one. It then combines the interpretations of those elements and concludes that it has seen an old woman.
When a moment later the mind suddenly sees instead the young woman, it is now extracting different elements from the picture, and interpreting them differently, and voilà! it comes up with a different interpretation of what is has seen.
Now all of the above is an introduction to another illusory experience I had a few months ago.
I've been familiar with actor Sammy Davis, Jr. for decades. But I was unaware until a few years ago that:
- He began his career as a performer at the tender age of 3.
- He performed with his father for many years.
- He was a multi-talented entertainer, his talents including: singing, dancing, acting and doing impressions.
- He was enormously popular in the 1950's, far more so than I had ever realized.
But then he did an impression which absolutely astounded me. Now Sammy Davis, Jr. was a small, short, black man, and the actor he was mimicking was a tall, large, white man. (I have since forgotten which actor it was.) And for his impression of this actor, Sammy did not utter one word, relying instead wholly on visual prompts.
Sammy did such a superb job of duplicating this man's facial expressions and body language that at one point, all of a sudden, I was no longer looking at Sammy Davis, Jr. -- instead, this other actor who looks absolutely nothing like Sammy Davis, Jr. appeared before me. So completely had Sammy's mannerisms duped my brain. That moment was as much an unexpected surprise to me, as if I were to turn around right now and see an elephant standing in my room.
So on the one hand, my eyes were seeing Sammy, a man who looked nothing like the other actor, and the image of Sammy was obviously being transmitted to my brain. But at the same time, Sammy's expert duplications of this man's mannerisms were simultaneously being transmitted to my brain as well. What is so striking is that with a wink and slight shift of his body, Sammy was able to make my mind completely ignore the overwhelming visual evidence and see instead the image that those oh so very subtle cues conjured up. What a feat!
Recall the two types of optical illusions I discerned earlier in this post: (a) the "Dopplegänger Dilemma, where the illusion arises from two images appearing the same; and (b) The Old-Young Lady, where the source of illusion arises from your mind extracting different clues from an image and interpreting them differently.
Into which category did Sammy's impression fall?
Friday, May 3, 2013
Fool Me Twice -- No Shame At All
A few months ago, I watched an old movie called "Detective Story", starring Kirk Douglas. It was quite entertaining and thoughtful, but the point I wish to discuss has nothing to do with the movie itself, but rather an unusual experience I had while watching it.
At one point of the movie, when the camera shifted to Kirk, it was not Kirk Douglas whom I saw, but rather actor Sean Penn, another well-known actor born nearly half a century after his doppelgänger (who is within striking distance of becoming a centenarian).
Naturally, I did a mental double-take at that moment, for I thought I had been watching a Kirk Douglas movie, not a Sean Penn movie! A beat later, my mind's eye re-adjusted, and it was once again Kirk Douglas before me. This scenario repeated itself at another point later on in the movie.
I'd like to offer my insights into what happened in my mind at that moment. Am I an expert in the workings of the mind? No, I'm a Freud not! But nevertheless.
I see a photo and recognize my mother. The following steps occur:
- My eyes see the photograph and take in the visual stimuli presented.
- Those stimuli are transmitted to my brain.
- Somewhere in my memory, under the label "Mom", I have stored a set of visual information: my mother's facial features, expressions, etc.
- My brain compares the stimuli being transmitted to it right now from my eyes with the set of data stored in my memory under "Mom", and perceives ample similarity between the two.
- My mind concludes that the visual image I'm seeing is my mother.
- I smile.
What transpired in my mind at the aforementioned moment in watching the film was virtually identical to the above steps, with the following exception: in step (4), the visual stimuli of Kirk Douglas being sent to my brain from my eyes were markedly similar to the visual information stored in my memory under the label "Sean Penn" -- the thick, straight hair, the cleft chin, etc. My mind therefore concluded, incorrectly, that I was watching Sean Penn.
Fair enough, Dr. Freud Not, but not so fast. If what you're saying is true, then why did this "false-positive" recognition occur only at that moment of the film? Clearly, prior to that moment, every time my mind compared the visual stimuli it was seeing with the images stored in my memory, it found a match with the set of data stored under the label "Kirk Douglas". So, to borrow from the Paschal liturgy, how was this moment different from all other moments?
Put differently, at that moment, my mind, upon being presented with an actual image of Kirk Douglas, and comparing that image with both my memory of Kirk Douglas and with my memory of Sean Penn, somehow felt that an actual image of Kirk Douglas looked less like Kirk Douglas than Sean Penn. Surely an impossibility!
I don't think this question is easily answered. Perhaps at that moment, something in Kirk's expression or stance contained a spark which to my mind is more associated with Sean Penn. Or maybe at that moment, my mind's secretary, shuffling through the myriad of mental images stored in its memory, simply pulled out the Sean Penn file before it reached the Kirk Douglas one.
Finally, a note on human error. I believe that when the mind makes these types of errors, there is no conscious decision making process involved in the error. The part of the mind which is comparing the visual stimuli with the "wrong" stored mental image is taking place on an involuntary, automatic level. If in that process of comparing, the mind finds a significant number of points in common between the two sets of data, then there is absolutely nothing it can do negate that. There is therefore no shame in such errors. (To be sure, there ought to be no shame in any type of error!)
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Shake! Shake! Shake! Shake! Shake! Shake!
And while we're on the topic of disco, one of the most prominent, successful and definitive disco bands of the 1970's was K.C. and The Sunshine Band, led by frontman Harry Wayne Casey. Formed in 1973, the group had a string of enormously popular dance hits, a run which came to a screeching halt in 1980, as disco itself, along with its sartorial accoutrements, met its demise.
K.C.'s songs are disco par excellence. The requisite elements are all present and accounted for:
But one of the most salient characteristics of K.C.'s songs is not to be found in the above list. The chorus of one of their biggest hits illustrates the feature nicely:
- as one disco enthusiast beautifully described, a "happy chord progression in the minor scale";
- mid-tempo percussion and bass occupying center-stage;
- electric guitar confection;
- exclamation marks from the trumpets;
- refreshingly shallow lyrics extolling the virtues of dancing
But one of the most salient characteristics of K.C.'s songs is not to be found in the above list. The chorus of one of their biggest hits illustrates the feature nicely:
Shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty!
Oh, shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty.
(That I had no idea -- nor to this day am I entirely sure -- what exactly booty is never diminished my enjoyment of this delicious musical tidbit one iota.) In any event, we are struck by K.C.'s propensity to repeat, in part or in entirety, the titles of his songs.
Music critics and die-hard fans often use the phrase "going commercial" or "selling out" when they feel that a musician has shifted styles, producing less serious music, in order to appeal to a broader audience. (Given that I was usually part of said broader audience, I was never bothered by this.)
But K.C.'s ploy takes the commercial angle of songwriting to a whole nother level, as they say. For it is one thing to craft a song in a style which will be pleasing to the masses, and will therefore lead to increased record sales. But it is another thing altogether to craft a song which is, in essence, an advertisement of itself. Here, the medium has truly become the message, and the message is to purchase the medium!
Indeed, one part of the K.C. song "That's The Way (I Like it)" has the backup singers whispering "That's The Way" over and over again, reminiscent of how in the 1950's, in certain movie theaters, the projectionist would flash the words "Drink Coke" on the screen, in the hopes of sending a subliminal message to the audience -- the difference being that in K.C.'s case (not to be confused with Casey Kasem), the advertisement is self-referential.
Self-referentiality is not completely absent in other items that we consume:
In contrast, consider this chorus, of a song which came out just 2 years prior to K.C.'s debut:
Abbie Hoffman's Steal This Book, with its vehemently anti-commercial title, is K.C.'s diametric opposite. Indeed, a book penned by K.C. would be entitled Buy This Book (Don't You Dare Steal It!). In fact, I have an idea for a new song for K.C., "Buy This Song (You'll Like It)". K.C., if you're reading this, the rights are yours. And if it's as good as your hits of the 70's, I just may and I probably will.
To test the veracity of this observation, I listened to three K.C. songs and counted the number of times the title appears. The results are corroborative:
- I'm Your Boogie Man: 24
- Keep It Coming Love: 33
- That's The Way (I Like It): 30
[K.C.] worked part-time in a record store. He noticed often that customers would come in not remembering the titles of the records they wanted, and the store would lose the sale — this is the reason so many of his songs repeat their titles over and over.Clearly, these early experiences had a dramatic (is it going too far to say obsessive?) impact on K.C. So the repetitiveness, far from signifying an indifference to the lyrics, was, on the contrary, a decidedly calculated move on K.C.'s part, stemming from a savvy commercial instinct.
Music critics and die-hard fans often use the phrase "going commercial" or "selling out" when they feel that a musician has shifted styles, producing less serious music, in order to appeal to a broader audience. (Given that I was usually part of said broader audience, I was never bothered by this.)
But K.C.'s ploy takes the commercial angle of songwriting to a whole nother level, as they say. For it is one thing to craft a song in a style which will be pleasing to the masses, and will therefore lead to increased record sales. But it is another thing altogether to craft a song which is, in essence, an advertisement of itself. Here, the medium has truly become the message, and the message is to purchase the medium!
Indeed, one part of the K.C. song "That's The Way (I Like it)" has the backup singers whispering "That's The Way" over and over again, reminiscent of how in the 1950's, in certain movie theaters, the projectionist would flash the words "Drink Coke" on the screen, in the hopes of sending a subliminal message to the audience -- the difference being that in K.C.'s case (not to be confused with Casey Kasem), the advertisement is self-referential.
Self-referentiality is not completely absent in other items that we consume:
- Printed material, displaying the title in the margin of each page;
- Fashion designer clothing bearing the logo;
- Car hood ornaments.
In contrast, consider this chorus, of a song which came out just 2 years prior to K.C.'s debut:
Don't you remember you told me you loved me now baby
You said you'd be coming back this way again, baby
Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh baby
I love you, I really do.
The title of this lovely Carpenters ballad? Superstar. Not only is the title completely absent from the lyrics -- one is hard-pressed to find the remotest connection in the lyrics to it. Perhaps this was one of those very songs whose title escaped a customer's memory, awakening K.C.'s keen commercial instincts.
Abbie Hoffman's Steal This Book, with its vehemently anti-commercial title, is K.C.'s diametric opposite. Indeed, a book penned by K.C. would be entitled Buy This Book (Don't You Dare Steal It!). In fact, I have an idea for a new song for K.C., "Buy This Song (You'll Like It)". K.C., if you're reading this, the rights are yours. And if it's as good as your hits of the 70's, I just may and I probably will.
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