3hree Songs I Never Want To Hear Again (But Undoubtedly Will)

Watch out for 3hree Things every Tuesday, where Riley Breckenridge,
drummer of Orange County's favorite local alt-rock band Thrice, gives
his take on life in Southern California, being an OC native and, of
course, music.




There are certain songs that are inescapable, that have been so
engrained in the nation's playlist that you're bound to hear them
somewhere eventually: in a bar, in an elevator, at a restaurant, on TV,
over a stadium PA. Some wear their welcome out quickly, some were never
welcome in the first place (see: anything by Black Eyed Peas), and some
just got so played to death that they've lost whatever magic they might
have had in the first place. For must of us, this list probably extends
into the hundreds, but for the sake of this week's column, I've whittled
that list down to three songs that I've had the misfortune of hearing
on this tour, and wish I hadn't.

]

Train, “Calling All
Angels”

In a hotel lobby bathroom in Clifton Park, NY – I've been a fan of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim for as
long as I can remember. I go to as many games as I can afford to when
I'm not on tour. Since 2002, the going has been good for Angels fans–really good. There honestly hasn't been much to complain about over the
past seven or eight years, aside from them finding a way to lose to the
Red Sox or Yankees in the playoffs almost every year, and…that they
have been playing this horrible Train song over the stadium PA at the
beginning of every game for the past six or seven years.  I can't stand
it. It makes my skin crawl. 

On one hand, I suppose I get
it. It's harmless. It's contemporary.  It has the word “angels” in the
chorus. Other songs that have “angel” or “angels” in the chorus would be
just as out of place: Sarah McLachlan's “Angel” (better suited for
napping, or a montage scene in some original programming from the
Lifetime Network), and Slayer's “Angel Of Death” (probably wouldn't go
over well with hyper-sensitive Orange County family folk.) On the other
hand, I hate it. It's too safe, too boring, too contemporary, and seems
to be the antithesis of any heart-pumping rock song you'd probably want
to hear at a sporting event. It has always seemed better suited for a
Viagra commercial or soundtrack to an interpretive dance routine at a
church retreat than a ballgame. Why not some 1979-1990 AC/DC, '80s-era
Metallica, or even The Black Keys or Sleigh Bells? Unfortunately, this
season, the Halos have bigger problems (the bullpen, the back end of the
rotation and lineup, an inability to hit with runners in scoring
position, and a fixation on aggressive base running despite a lack of
team speed) than what music they're playing or not playing at games.


Van Morrison, “Brown Eyed Girl”


At a restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, FL – I
dated a girl in college who loved this song. She also liked to drink.
Unfortunately, she had friends that also loved this song and loved to
drink. When they drank together, they had to hear this song and had
to sing along. More often than not, this would happen in my car as I
drove them home from a bar or party. You really haven't heard annoying
until you've heard a few hammered (and quite possibly tone deaf) college
girls with booze and cigarette breath sing the “Do you remember when/We used to sing/Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah?” part of
this song at earsplitting volumes while you're trapped in a moving
vehicle. Do I remember? Yes, yes I certainly do, and it reminds me of
wanting to jam an icepick into my ear, slam my face into the steering
wheel, and drive my car into a tree. Never again, please.

Jimmy
Buffett, “Margaritaville”
 


At an outdoor bar in Towson, MD – This song
will be forever tied to the sight of greasy, ruddy-faced, Tommy Bahama
shirt-wearing, fiftysomething males of varying degrees of
obesity, that reek of well alcohol, cigar smoke, and suntan lotion,
perving-on/eye-raping anything with two legs and a vagina. They're
absolutely inseparable, and while you can try your damnedest to steer
clear of them, they'll find you somehow. All I did was walk by an
outdoor bar adjacent to the venue in Towson, heard those godawful steel
drums, and lo and behold, there were two guys with the complexions of
baseball gloves, fitting the mold I described above (although, to be
fair, one of them had substituted a t-shirt that featured a clumsy
metaphor involving fishing, penises, and women, for the XXL Tommy Bahama
button-down) undressing a woman that looked like a manatee in a
sundress with their eyes (expertly hidden behind a pair of aviator
glasses.) It never fails.

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