It was hiding. For weeks I’d been driving around, blissfully unaware of its existence. How was I to know that, mere inches away, lurked a creature as rare as a gold-plated unicorn? Had fate not intervened, I would be unaware of its existence still. But whether it was dumb luck or divine intervention, it emerged uninvited from the speakers without warning. It’s a miracle that I didn’t send the car into the nearest ditch, such was the gargantuan nature of the surprise. For suddenly and without a moment’s notice I was confronted with the unmistakable sounds of a great, big dirty power ballad.
It was hiding. For weeks I’d been driving around, blissfully unaware of its existence. How was I to know that, mere inches away, lurked a creature as rare as a gold-plated unicorn? Had fate not intervened, I would be unaware of its existence still. But whether it was dumb luck or divine intervention, it emerged uninvited from the speakers without warning. It’s a miracle that I didn’t send the car into the nearest ditch, such was the gargantuan nature of the surprise. For suddenly and without a moment’s notice I was confronted with the unmistakable sounds of a great, big dirty power ballad.
It’s the nature of second hand cars, I suppose. It’s easy to forget that they’ve led a life before they came into yours. I’d bought the car a few months ago and I can honestly say that the previous owners never enter my mind. That’s probably because I’m too busy trying to remember which side the indicators are on or how to open to boot. But, as clean as the car was when I received it, I still find occasional traces of that former life. I was trying to insert a CD when I discovered it.
For those too young to remember, a ‘CD’ is a compact disc. With its superior sound quality, the CD killed off the cassette and gave vinyl records a serious beating. However, despite the fact that they offer a superior quality audio, the CD was no match for the overly compressed but seriously convenient download. As a result, every shed in the country now has boxes of CDs waiting for the day the owner is finally able to cut the emotional chord that inevitably develops between people and the products they love. Say what you will, but the idea of throwing out Hootie and the Blowfish’s Greatest Hits is still too radical a step for some. But I digress.
Despite my determination and a good half a can of WD 40, I could not get the CD into the CD player. Just as I reached for my hacksaw and blowtorch, a thought occurred to me: what if I couldn’t insert my CD because the player was already occupied? I pushed the eject button and the player gently spat out a compact disc. Its face was blank, meaning that this was not something that had been purchased at a store but curated and lovingly burned (if, indeed, it’s possible to ‘lovingly burn’ anything) at home. Curious, I immediately pushed the disc back into the stereo’s mouth.
Starting gently, a synthesizer provided a layer of atmosphere descending like an evening mist. High hats and the centering thump of the kick drum give it shape. Wind chimes. Suddenly, the atmosphere had a hint of magic about it. And then came the vocal. There are some who contend that you can overdo things on the emotion front when singing. Get too carried away and you sound like an unholy combination of Laurence Olivier in Richard III and Jim Bakker post motel-room visit, begging for forgiveness.
As custom dictates, the vocal began quietly, shaking like a leaf in the wind. You could tell the singer was so overwhelmed by either love or intestinal issues that he was in great pain. The bass lolled around sympathetically, massaging the eardrums as momentum began to build. The guitars began to chime. You could almost feel the wind machines start to crank up, causing the singer’s (no doubt) ample locks to sway in the breeze. Then it came – a chorus, ten feet tall. The lyrics, such as they were, revealed a world of pain, the result of being separated from the singer’s true love. He wailed like a man who’d just accidentally entrapped his genitals in the InSinkErator.
One minute in and it’s patently obvious that the singer is not seeking to seduce his beloved but to kick up such an almighty stink that he can no longer be ignored. When we hit the second verse, the intensity dropped. It’s as though the band has called a quick ‘time out’ to recuperate. But the respite was temporary as the second chorus was as belligerent as the first. Then it’s over. The soothing sounds of the synthesizer returned along with the wind chimes as our hero wandered off into the distance, presumably for a glass of water and a Strepsil.
I had barely recovered when the whole thing started over. It was then that I realized that this CD only had one song on it. Meaning that the previous owner had been commuting to the sounds of a single power ballad, possibly for years. Somewhat startled, my fingers fumbled for the ‘eject’ button as I pulled over. Shaking with beads of sweat dripping my forehead, I had been beaten into submission by the unknown mystery power ballad that lives in my car.
It’s been an interesting year. Not only did I experience an unexpected bruising from a power ballad, but I also managed to find a fruit bagel that looks like an emoji. My only regret is that I ate it instead of putting in on display and charging people what I consider to be one of nature’s miracles with their own eyes. Thank goodness for surprises. There’s something great about them. I may not like my surprise power ballad, but it still made my day.