Unforgettable, that's what you are

(...and also, hard to love)

In June of 1991, just shy of four months after my man and I tied the knot, Natalie Cole’s remixed duet with her famous father, Nat King Cole, was released as the title track on the album Unforgettable…with Love. The song got a lot of airtime, his gentle, articulate, baritone and her precise, powerful mezzo-soprano recalling a bygone era.

Were it not for the plot twist it would have brought to our personal story, I’d be among those who believe my husband should have been born in a bygone era. A wooden boat builder turned fine furniture maker, he’s attracted to old tools, old stories, and, happily, to one particular version of an older woman. Recently, we talked about the passing of my childhood friend’s 94-year-old father, who left the world in the same house he’d lived in since the early 70s. “Did he have a basement?” my antiquarian asked. “I have a thing for old basements.”

That face. So innocent.

Thus, it was no surprise that when Unforgettable was trending, Jim sang it, even when the song wasn’t playing. A sweet melody, his serenade would have been innocuous enough save for one problem: He couldn’t get past the first word. “Unforgettable….,” he’d croon, on pitch, stretching out the “…blllle…” with a twinkle in his eye. But, then, he’d trail off. We’d look at each other expectantly. Nothing. That was it, the full monty. At first, it was ridiculous, and funny. Later, it was just ridiculous. He’d start the song a dozen times a day with that one word, maybe hum a few more notes, and carry on with whatever he was doing, not even realizing he’d been singing. I would have paid someone to reprogram his brain!

Obviously, Jim had a bad case of earworm. The modern understanding of this word hatched in the last century, when we English speakers picked up the German use of öhrwurm to describe songs that get lodged in the brain. For centuries before, it had referred to actual insects, starting with the earwig, erroneously believed to crawl into people’s ears, then transferring to the caterpillar we’ve all founding gnawing on our fresh, summer corn. The new sense essentially displaced the older ones, perhaps because it’s catchy, in a disturbing way.

Academics call it Involuntary Musical Imagery (of course they do), also stuck song syndrome and cognitive itch. No matter what you call it, you’re among a slim 2% of the population if you’ve never been afflicted. Earworms come on without warning. There you are, eyeing dog hair on the shoulder of the person in front of you in line, when a strain of music floats down from the store’s sound system. Without invitation, part of the tune creeps into your headroom, then roams around in circles, ignoring your efforts to show it out. Talk about a power play.

I am solidly in the majority on this one. I’ve had refrains that stick around for days, silly songs I learned when I was a nine-year-old at summer camp. Do you know how embarrassing it is to find yourself singing about baby bumblebees or yodeling Austrians in the middle of a meeting?  Since music is important to me, and I have a musical background, I am supposedly more susceptible, at least that’s the reason I’m leaning into.

I wonder about folks who are even more musically inclined than I consider myself to be. How does this play out for them? My mother had heaps of formal piano training, could often be heard singing or humming, and spent the better part of a lifetime tapping out imaginary tunes with her fingers. This last symptom might be an even more insidious form of earworm, because the notes coming out of her hands never linked back to specific songs, as far as I know. She could have been unwittingly channeling Chopin, a particular favorite for her, or something from Rodgers and Hammerstein that wound its way so deeply into her subconscious it resulted in involuntary movements. A musical twitch, as it were. Mama mia!

Speaking of Chopin, imagine the minds of phenomenal composers like him and Beethoven, or more contemporary talents like Stephen Sondheim or Billie Eilish. I figure people like Lady Gaga and her P-p-p-poker Face, a song that repeatedly turns up on lists of likely stuck song triggers, have brains filled with melodic strains. Is it still an earworm if it’s your own music?

Some studies suggest that earworms serve as tools to help us recall and encode memories, an area of research that holds promise for Alzheimer’s treatments. Anecdotally, I don’t think my ability to recite the McDonalds Big Mac jingle forwards and backwards (bun seed sesame a on onions pickles cheese lettuce sauce special patties beef all two) has helped me remember anything I learned in 1974. Maybe I should have been allowed to do my homework with the TV on after all.

A few nights ago, a full-grown raccoon sauntered onto our deck and put his nose on the glass of my back door. It was a striking enough event to be memorable all by itself. But, the effect it had on the cat, whose bottle brush tail provided just the handhold I needed to haul her queen-of-the-castle-ass back inside before she made it all the way out the pet door, will not leave my mind anytime soon. I’ve had Rocky Raccoon playing in my brain ever since.

P.S. If you’re wrangling an earworm today, this podcast might help you embrace it, or shake it off, depending on your preference. But be warned: There’s a chance it will stick you with a new one.

~Elizabeth