Outside The Box

My old friends Mr. Paul Reed Smith and Mr. Washburn spend more time collecting dust than making music these days, but there was a time when they were busy almost every night. I think every American who ever owned a guitar, whether that instrument was a PRS or an air guitar, has entertained at least a moment of rock and roll fantasy or delusions of grandeur.

Some of us may even achieve a level of proficiency which, had we been blessed by that rare combination of luck and perseverance could have led to some kind of notoriety, but most discover the harsh truth that talent does not equal fame in plenty of time to choose a career path that builds a sturdier roof over our heads.

Of course some of us stick with it just for the love of the music, and I suspect that the dustiest guitars were wielded less for love and more for ego. But had I but known how far marketing companies, supercharged by technology, would go in using music to help condition us for consumption, I could probably have made a go of it as a professional musician composing disease music. Bear with me.

Yesterday we were puttering around the house in the evening and the television was on while we waited for the weather during the nightly shooting report. Unfortunately the remote was hiding under a sofa cushion and the mute button was temporarily unavailable, but had I been in possession of it I likely would have missed, well, there is no other way to describe it than to say, “the disease opera.”

This grand production celebrating an amazing pill was fully orchestrated. Dozens of dancers moved in tightly choreographed routines. Everyone was laughing and smiling as they sang over the disclaimers in the tiny font at the bottom of the screen and the intermittent auctioneer voice describing the side effects. “If you’re allergic to Wegotcha, stop taking Wegotcha.”

The tune was catchy and stuck in my head. It joins a growing collection of disease music residing there, like that lively tune from the commercial where a woman is living the good life because she takes Placebix. She wakes up with a smile that beams like the sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window. She throws back the covers and dances into the kitchen where the coffee is already waiting. In the next verse, she flows into town spreading joy, pats the dog on the head, helps the elderly man with his package, rescues the kids’ basketball and scores a three pointer on her way to the restaurant to join her ethnically diverse group of friends for a celebratory meal.

“I could write this stuff” I often think when I hear the repetitive tunes designed to occupy memory cells better utilized in remembering where I put the remote. Apparently there is a great demand for disease music because there are so many more diseases now, and so many more drugs to treat them. Each one needs a song to help us remember that living the good life depends on getting just the right prescription. I wonder what rhymes with “Mortalis,” “Endital,” and “Noasatal?”

Of course the good life requires us to consume much more than just prescription drugs. We have many other needs, like cottage cheese. Apparently I’m buying the wrong one. No one at our house stares dreamily into the distance while we slowly savor the delicate little white curds. No one strikes up a tune or dances across the kitchen between bites.

Marketing companies know that music is to memory like a shoehorn is to a tight loafer. They’ve known this for a long time, as anyone can tell you who still remembers commercial jingles from decades ago.

Sometimes it’s a challenge to navigate the myriad consumption choices required to achieve the buona vita. The triple-decker burger good-life-music is really catchy, but I have a feeling I need to hum the cottage cheese music more often so I can avoid dancing to the tune of Endital.