I listened in on a very long conference call yesterday, so long in fact that we had to take a couple of breaks.
I kept my speaker phone on during the breaks, instead of hanging up and calling back in each time.
During these interludes, phone-hold “muzak” came on.
I tinkered away on my computer while this shiny, polished tune washed over me.
Slowly, it dawned on me that I recognized the melody.
I was certain I knew the tune, but I couldn’t place it.
You know how muzak can be?
You don’t pay attention to it until you suddenly do and then you must know what song that used to be, in its youth?
You rock your head back and forth just a little to the tune, maybe close your eyes or look up, trying to access some long-dormant pathway in your cortex.
For me, figuring it out typically amounts to remembering the words; what are the words that go with that tune?
What are they?
They’re on the tip of my tongue.
“But, the boy in the station…”
No, that’s not it.
“But, the dog in the station doesn’t need a vacation as the people rush by in
Boy, did I feel old.
In the late eighties, K lived in Burlington, Vermont and spent a lot of time in small clubs and dorm basements listening to four good musicians play funky music.
Those four guys were the band Phish.