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A PRISONER OF POP MUSIC, ONLY I ESCAPED TO TELL ABOUT IT

WHAT SONGS LACK IN LYRICS, THEY MAKE UP FOR IN ADDICTIVENESS, WILLIAM THOMAS WRITES

WILLIAM THOMAS Column For a comment or a signed copy of humour columnist William Thomas's The Legend of Zippy Chippy, email: williamjthomas@gmail.com.

So I'm sitting on a balcony of the Oceanus Aparthotel in Portugal for the last 25 days, working mornings on my next project. Swimming outside and jogging in the basement indoor pool with bars and restaurants minutes away — it was perfect.

So at day's end, I kick back, feet on the railing with a book, a glass of red and my trusty little solar radio. The best hundred dollars I've ever spent. I need news. The only English language station is The Algarve and curiously it's Kiss FM 98.5.

Now, I never listen to pop music — jazz, classical, and classic rock — but I kept listening because the DJ promises me news at the top of the hour.

It's Mother's Day, so I hear Meghan Trainor sing "I am your mother" more times than should be legal. Apparently, Meghan now has a baby boy who, according to the lyrics, is "Mr. Big Boy, pullin' up in his big toy." So the kid — not yet in school and driving a car — is obviously gifted.

Next up is Miley Cyrus' new song, "Flowers." "We were good, we were gold. Kinda dream that can't be sold. We were right, 'til we weren't. Built a home, watched it burn." Wow! I was really impressed by those lyrics, so I googled it and ... thank goodness for writers. Let artists write their own material and pretty soon you find yourself riding through the desert on a horse with no name, but you're happy, "Cause there's ain't no one for to give you no pain."

So I get past a second play of "I can buy myself flowers" and a third of "I am your mother" with "Mr. Big Boy" — "so frustrated, emasculated." Meghan may have confused "emasculated" with "circumcised." The news comes on at the top of the hour and ... it's in Portuguese. Yeah, the all-English, only English station in The Algarve switches to a Portuguese media server for their news.

After Ed Sheeran teaches me how to dance with my eyes closed, there's news in English but before I can turn the radio off, I'm listening to a song that's most definitely not in English, kinda ping-pong bouncy and quite catchy but all I can understand is "Calm down. Calm down" and later something like "Lockdown. Lockdown." Did he really say "Baby, you're sweet as Fanta"!? And then there's a disagreement because she says in a very low voice, "No, no, no, no, whoa-whoawhoa," and in an even lower voice, "Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-ohoh-oh." I'm thinking, who wrote those lines? A computer with a jammed algorithm? Turns out it's an artist called Rema from Nigeria and this song is slowly, painkiller addictive.

So by the third play and my second glass of wine, I'm now boopin' along to "No, no, no, no. Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa ..." and getting down low with "Lolo-lolo-lo."

Now it's dark and all the orange lights are on above all the balconies and by play 3, I'm kinda shuffling as Harry Styles and I sing, "You know it's not the same as it was." Good Lord! I was like this close to moonwalking when I heard, "You OK, mate?" It was Nigel, the Brit next door; a Liverpudlian I'd met earlier during the hotel's fire drill.

"Yeah, sure," I said rather meekly, nodding and retreating to the kitchen but definitely not for more wine. I'd already been: "Popified! Spotified! I don't want to talk about it."

On day 5, while singing backup for Harry, I realized nothing really was the same as it was! Me and Harry Styles? The guy who appeared on the cover of Vogue in a frilly, fulllength baby blue, Victorian gown!?

"Bill," I said to myself, "there's nothing in your clothes closet that needs to be held up with a crinoline! Give yourself a shake. You're best in clean jeans, white button-down shirt and loose-fitting dark blue blazer. You've never worn anything that needed to be tied up in the back by another person!"

No, Bill, you're not Harry Styles, you're Harry Chapin and The Travelling Wilburys and Paul Quarrington, that's your Styles.

In short order — a nervous Nigel changed apartments, I locked my little radio in the room safe and I watched the news on BBC TV. Also, I went to Karaoke Night at the hotel bar where sunburned Brits sang several versions of "Feelings." Now there's a great song!

Yes, I escaped but I'll be honest, I was like one "Lo" and two "Whoa whoas" away from being imprisoned in an addictive pop music culture that only David Koresh could dream of. Kiss FM — the Ministry of Love that George Orwell warned us about is Nineteen Eighty-Four because "I can love me better ... than you can."

OPINION

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2023-06-08T07:00:00.0000000Z

2023-06-08T07:00:00.0000000Z

https://communitynews.pressreader.com/article/281582360028090

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