I miss being in a band. The last band I was in, the “Phlegmtones,” dissolved a couple of years ago, and even that was not truly a formal band in the sense of having instruments or playing them or anything. What it was, basically, was my friend Randall and myself drinking beer and trying to remember the words to “Runaround Sue,” by Dion and the Belmonts.
Before that, the last major band I was in was in college, in the sixties. It was called the “Federal Duck,” which we thought was an extremely hip name. We were definitely 10 pounds of hipness in a 5-pound bag. We had the first strobe light of any band in our market area. We were also into The Blues, which was a very hip thing to be into, back in the sixties. We were always singing songs about how Our woman she done lef’ us and we was gon’ jump into de ribba an’ drown. This was pretty funny, because we were extremely white suburban-style college students whose only actual insight into the blues came from experiences such as getting a C in Poli Sci.
In terms of musical competence, if I had to pick one word to describe us, that word would be “loud.” We played with the subtlety of above-ground nuclear testing. But we made up for this by being cheap. We were so cheap that organizations were always hiring us sight unseen, which resulted a number of times in our being hired by actual grownups whose idea of a good party band was elderly men in stained tuxedos playing songs from My Fair Lady on accordions at about the volume of a drinking fountain.
When we would come in and set up, with our mandatory long hair and our strobe light and our 60,000 pounds of amplifiers, these people would watch us in wary silence. But once we started to play, once the sound of our pulsating beat filled the air, something almost magical would happen: They would move farther away. They’d form hostile little clots against the far wall. Every now and then they’d send over an emissary, who would risk lifelong hearing damage to cross the dance floor and ask us if we knew any nice old traditional slow-dance fox-trot-type songs such as “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes,” which of course we didn’t, because it has more than four chords. So we’d say: “No, we don’t know that one, but we do know another one you might like.” Then we’d play “Land of 1,000 Dances,” a very big hit by Cannibal and the Headhunters on Rampart Records. This is a song with only one chord (E). Almost all of the lyrics consist of the statement, I said a na, as follows:
I said a na Na na na na Na na na na, Na na na, na na na; Na na na na.
Our best jobs were at fraternity parties. The only real problem we’d run into there was that every now and then they’d set fire to our equipment. Other than that, fraternity brothers made for a very easy-going audience. Whatever song they requested, we’d play “Land of 1,000 Dances,” and they’d be happy. They were too busy throwing up on their dates to notice. They are running the nation today.
Me, I am leading a quiet life. Too quiet. This is why I’m going to form the Urban Professionals. Right now I am actively recruiting members. So far I’ve recruited one, an editor named Tom whose musical qualifications are that he is 32 years old. He’s going to play some instrument of the type you got handed in rhythm band in elementary school, such as the tambourine. just judging from my circle of friends, I think The Urban Professionals are going to have a large tambourine section.
Once we start to catch on, we’ll make a record. It will be called: “A Moderate Amount of Soul.” After it comes out, we’ll go on a concert tour. We’ll stay in Holiday Inns, and sometimes we’ll “trash” our rooms by refusing to fill out the Guest Questionnaire. Because that’s the kind of rebels the Urban Professionals will be. But our fans will still love us. When we finish our act, they’ll be overcome by emotion. They’ll all rise spontaneously to their feet, and they’ll try, as a gesture of appreciation, to hold lighted matches over their heads. Then they’ll all realize they quit smoking, so they’ll spontaneously sit back down.
The Plastic, Fantastic Cover
I have just about given up on the Tupperware people. I’ve been trying to get them interested in a song I wrote, called “The Tupperware Song,” which I am sure would be a large hit. I called them about it two or three times a week for several weeks.
“You wrote a song?” they would say.
“Yes,” I would say.
“About Tupperware?” they would say.
“It’s kind of a blues song.”
“Yes,” I would say.
“We’ll have somebody get back to you,” they would say.
For quite a while there I thought I was getting the run-around, until finally a nice Tupperware executive named Dick called me up. He was very honest with me. “There’s a fairly limited market for songs about Tupperware,” he said.
“Dick,” I said. “This is a killer song.” Which was true. It gets a very positive reaction whenever I perform it. Of course, I perform it only in those social settings where people have loosened up to the point where they would react positively if you set their clothing on fire, but I still think this song would have widespread appeal.
I wrote it a while back, when friends of mine named Art and Dave had a big Tupperware party in their apartment. It was the social event of the month. Something like 50 people showed up. When the Tupperware Lady walked in, you could tell right away from her facial expression that this was not the kind of Tupperware crowd she was used to. She was used to a subdued all-female crowd, whereas this was a large coeducational crowd with some crowd members already dancing on the refrigerator. The Tupperware Lady kept saying things like: “Are you sure this is supposed to be a Tupperware party?” And: “This doesn’t look like a Tupperware party.” She wanted to go home.
But we talked her into staying, although she never really accepted the fact that Art and Dave were her Tupperware hostesses. She wanted to deal with a woman. All of her communications with Art and Dave had to go through a woman interpreter:
TUPPERWARE LADY (speaking to a woman): Where do you want me to set up? WOMAN (speaking to Art, who is standing right there): Art, where do you want her to set up? ART: How about right over here on the coffee table? WOMAN (to the Tupperware Lady): Art says how about right over here on the coffee table. TUPPERWARE LADY: Fine.
Once we got everybody settled down, sort of, the Tupperware Lady wanted us to engage in various fun Tupperware party activities such as “brain teasers” wherein if we could name all the bodily parts that had three letters, we would win a free grapefruit holder or something. We did this for a while, but it was slowing things down, so we told the Tupperware Lady we had this song we wanted to perform.
The band consisted of me and four other highly trained journalists. You know what “The Tupperware Song” sounds like if you ever heard the song “I’m a Man” by Muddy Waters, where he sings about the general theme that he is a man, and in between each line the band goes Da-DA-da-da-DUM, so you get an effect like this:
MUDDY WATERS: I’m a man.
BAND: Da-DA-da-da-DUM
MUDDY WATERS: A natural man.
BAND: Da-DA-da-da-DUM
MUDDY WATERS: A full-grown man.
And so on. This is the general approach taken in The Tupperware Song, except it is about Tupperware. It starts out this way: