I was having a cocktail with a friend in a local dive bar the other day when a familiar song came over the sound system. Now this particular friend and I have an unusual talent in common. We both have total song recall and often end up in a battle of “Name that Tune”.
This day’s challenge happened to consist of artists that have a single letter for their recording monikers. Each contestant was given one clue. Each contestant was required to name the artist rather than the song. Incidentally the songs just popped up randomly and one or the other of us would lean over and say, “Who does this song?”
My challenge was easy, “I don’t need any notes to name that tune or letters to name that artist but since that’s the way we play the game…what’s my clue?” He studied the dingy advertising haphazardly stuck up on the walls and said, “See that sign over there, it’s one of those letters.” I glanced over at said signage that read in bold letters, “QUEEN”. I instantly reported that the artist was Stacy Q. and that the song title was Two of Hearts affectionately referred to as Two Pop Tarts.
Several moments and a few more cocktails later I heard my opportunity to strike back. I leaned in and said, “Remember this one? Name that artist? In a puzzled fog he requested his letter. I searched the same dingy wall and found my letter source and announced, “See that sign it’s one of those letters.” The bright red sign read in stylized letters, “Budweiser.”
He searched his memory bank of drunken 1980’s memories of nights spent swirling under strobes and mirrored disco balls. His particular talent is in the recollection of those drunken swirling swishy flashbacks. The precise memory of a snappish shrew bitching out another queen and the song playing in the background at exactly that moment.
He pondered for at least a cocktails length, which in actuality was a mere second. He recalled the night that he and Steve Westbury (owner of Champagne Nails) hijacked a young chicken for a ride in his momma’s brand new black Buick Electra. The ride of course was a rouse to joyride around the block away from the disco so that a joint could be smoked. Steve Westbury was an evil queen and as they were headed back over the railroad tracks to the wrong side of town, Steve reached over and stomped on the gas pedal. This caused the shiny new Buick to lurch and “punch-in” jumping the tracks, becoming airborne and landing unevenly with a loud crunch from the front bumper. Upon arrival at the club the Electra sputtered out with a decidedly less new quality belching smoke.
Finishing up with his tales from the disco he had this to say, “Oh and during this incident the song, I Wanna Be the One by Stevie B. was playing on the car’s radio.”