It surprises me what American music has made it over here, and in what context. My office mates love Summer of ’69, and play it a lot — usually the radio release, than a live recording, and then an unplugged recording, in that order. The other day they were running around calling each other “Mr. Lover Lover.” Hotel California also gets a lot of play in the office. One day, when my art director partner was frustrated, he blasted Norah Jones until HR made him stop.
In the last few weeks, as the weather has heated up (it’s now in the high 90s during the day), I’ve developed an intense craving for American beer. Kingfisher is good, but it doesn’t cut it. Heineken is ubiquitous, but I don’t like it. Yesterday I took the drastic step of actually patronizing a Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant because of the promise of Corona on the menu.
Well, they were out of Corona. But in the twenty-seven minutes it took me to drink my Kingfisher, I heard the following four songs, presumably chosen by the restaurant management as representative of what Americans would want to hear in their family restaurants: Ice, Ice, Baby; Iko Iko (remember that one?); I’m Too Sexy; and, most bizarrely of all, ringing out across the heads of young Indian men smoking over their “Ultimate Mohitos” and otherwise pretending to experience life in an American strip mall: The Chicken Dance.