My favorite radio station just wrapped up a week-long countdown of the two thousand and twenty "greatest songs of all time." A few months prior to beginning the playback, they solicited listeners to compile a list of their ten greatest songs of all time. These lists were then tallied and calculated and counted and sorted. On December 10 at 8 AM, they played "Time is Tight," a 1969 release by instrumental funk band Booker T & The MGs. This song, ranking at Number 2020, kicked off a non-sequitur musical marathon that would — over the course of eight days — span decades, artists and genres. The countdown promised (or threatened) to continue non-stop — burgeoning on 24 hours a day — until the Number One song was revealed. Social media immediately lit up as, in the first 24 hours, the station defiantly — and consecutively — played "I Keep Forgettin'" by Michael McDonald, "Just Like Honey" by The Jesus and Mary Chain, "Louisiana 1927" by Randy Newman, "The Breaks" by Kurtis Blow and "Open My Eyes" by Nazz. This made for one of the early examples of unusual and awkward segues. As the on-air hosts divulged each song (in reverse order), Twitter was a-twitter with hash-tagged conversations, proclamations and overtly possessive browbeating. With each new song disclosure, a new volley of discussion would erupt, fraught with more speculation, contempt and even a bit of bullying. And this is how things played out until the single digits were reached.
I planned to steer clear of the countdown and, to be honest, I only heard approximately sixty or so minutes of it and that didn't come until Day Five. It was on the radio in my wife's car as we took a ride to my son's house to deliver some cookies that she made. We talked during the drive, so I really wasn't paying close attention to the songs. I heard approximately 26 songs in the time it took to drive to his house and then return home. When each song began, I asked the same question: "Is this the 'Greatest Song of All Time?'" I asked the question — out loud — 26 times... until Mrs. Pincus (rightfully) told me to shut up. On the final day, I blew off my planned "avoidance" and I sat with my wife on our sofa as we listened to the last 100 songs play back through our stereo. To add to the fun, we participated in the social media fervor that accompanied the countdown. It was sort of a running commentary, like those second audio tracks on DVDs that nobody listens to. Because I am who I am, my tweets were dripping with sarcasm and faux ignorance (in keeping with my online persona). I tweet strictly for my own amusement and, sometimes, I find the results funnier if the folks on the receiving end don't know me and take everything I say to heart. I was careful to include a healthy dose of my "disdain" for Ringo Starr, as well as a "put on" misunderstanding of particular artists. (For instance, I expressed my love of jazz great Dave Brubek when his classic "Take Five" checked in at the Number 54 position. However, I punctuated my tweet with a photo of David Ruprecht, the host of the 90s game show Supermarket Sweep. I got the joke and that was all that was important.)
I love music. I hate countdowns. I did not compile nor submit a list for inclusion in the countdown. I hate ranking anything — movies, television shows, foods — anything. I don't care to hear other people's lists and I especially don't need to hear two thousand and twenty songs in reverse order of greatness. It's all opinion. There is no definitive answer. There are no bad choices. There are no good choices. It all means absolutely nothing. Months and years from now, when this countdown is a mere memory, will it make any bit difference that "Day Tripper" by The Beatles ranks as the 1,164th Greatest Song of All Time the next time they play it?
I like what I like. I don't like what I don't like. The specifics of those things, of course, will differ from person to person. But people seem to get really possessive and defensive about the songs they like and the songs other people like. People want other people to like the same songs they like. I don't know why? I don't understand the insecurity that surfaces when someone says they don't like a song or band that you like. It appears, though, that my generation insists on keeping the flame burning for the music of their formative years. This phenomenon doesn't seem to exist in the generations that followed. The Top 25 songs, as "determined" by the Countdown results, were an embarrassing reflection of my contemporaries, boasting primarily white guys with guitars... with just a few exceptions. People my age, in 2020, are still hanging onto their beloved "Layla" and "Stairway to Heaven." I could just picture graying men with bad backs struggling to pump their fists in the air as the opening chords of Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland" emanated from the smart speaker that their grandson set up for them.
Sure, I like to hear the music I grew up with. I also like to hear the music my parents grew up with and the music my son grew up with. It makes for a much more enjoyable variety of soundtrack to my life. I don't try to "school" anybody. I will not make a convincing argument to persuade someone half my age that Elton John, in his heyday, could run musical circles around Taylor Swift. That's just stupid. Elton John was a talented singer and songwriter and Taylor Swift is a talented singer and songwriter. And what difference does it make if you or I feel otherwise. There's no need to take music so seriously. It's supposed to make you feel good. Let it. And let different music make someone else feel good.
So after eight days and nights, the 2020 "Greatest Songs of All Time" came to a close. And this is what I learned:
1. People my age like to vote in countdowns
2. People my age don't seem to be aware of any music that was released after 1977
3. People my age really need to lighten up
4. I still know the words to all twenty-three minutes of Genesis's "Supper's Ready"
And we will never know what is truly "The Greatest Song of All Time."
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