January 4, 2008

Name, Don't Sing, That Tune

After 16 years of marriage it shouldn't still freak me out, but it does. It happened again this week, when a stroll through the aisles at Lunardi's looking for coffee filters turned into a game of "Name That Tune."

"Listen," said Keeper. "Do you know what that song is?" I tend to screen out grocery store music in favor of eavesdropping on other shoppers, which often provides column fodder.

I turned my attention from a woman shouting into her cell phone about the cost of cereal to the synthesized strings coming over the speaker system as we entered the checkout line.

"I have no idea," I answered, knowing that my role in this game is not to guess, but to let Keeper display his superior knowledge and then act amazed.

"It's The Band! Life is a Carnival!" he replied, seemingly incredulous that I didn't know that. He looked at the cashier for support, but his face was blank.

Holding his credit card aloft, Keeper closed his eyes and started singing the song:

You can walk on the water, drown in the sand
You can fly off a mountaintop if anybody can…

The cashier broke into his reverie. "Uh, sir, you have to scan that," he said, pointing to the machine in front of us.

Keeper was lost in the 60s, so I grabbed the card and completed the transaction to the accompaniment of an obscure tune I had never heard of.

Then I made a fatal error. I spoke the actual words, "I've never heard that song."

As soon as the words passed my lips, I knew I had just signed up for a seminar from which there was no escape unless I jumped out of the car.

"Never heard of it? The Band was only the greatest group to ever play! They were the quintessential 60s band!"

He offered up some evidence for this thesis: another "hit" with lyrics that involved a guy named Ragtime Willie and something about harvesting corn. Keeper seemed to think the lyrics were poetry and spoke them with reverence. He implied that my formative years were somehow lacking if I wasn't a fan of The Band.

I bristled and retorted, "How can they be the greatest? What about the Beatles? Simon and Garfunkel? The Zombies?" (The last one was a desperation move; a two-group rebuttal wasn't sufficient and I was drawing a blank.)

Keeper snorted. "They can't hold a candle to The Band."

We pulled into our driveway. Afraid that the lecture was going to continue past our front door, I sprang a pop quiz on him.

"Quick! I said. "Who sang 'Hang On, Sloopy'?"

"The McCoys. 1965," answered Mr. Jukebox.

"'Alley-Oop'?"

"The Hollywood Argyles. 1960."

"'Wild Thing'?"

"The Troggs! 1966," shouted Keeper. "Want me to sing it?"

"Uh, no," I said, closing the front door behind us. "Why don't we watch a little TV?"

"Did you know that Tivo recorded a Twilight Zone marathon? I remember each and every episode."

"I'll make the coffee," I sighed.