GILBERT O'SULLIVAN IS FOLLOWING ME!

Most of you probably aren’t familiar with Gilbert O’Sullivan, but he has hounded me ever since December 1979 when I was a teen listening to a Casey Kasem countdown of the top songs of the ’70s. I hadn’t been aware of pop music during the first half of the decade, just a few albums and 45s—Elton John, The Carpenters, The Partridge Family, Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy”. When I finally started tuning in to my AM radio, the playlist featured Mary MacGregor being “Torn Between Two Lovers” and William Bell “Tryin’ to Love Two” while Donna Summer faked orgasms on “Love to Love You, Baby” and rodents shared their mating calls—or was it flatulence—in “Muskrat Love”. It was clear that, as John Paul Young sang, “Love Is in the Air”. What I learned from radio was that love was aplenty. So when I belatedly heard Mr. O’Sullivan’s 1972 #1 hit “Alone Again (Naturally)” it felt bubble-bursting. Indeed, it was the most depressing song I’d ever heard.

Instantly, I identified with it. (I even liked that the “Naturally” came as a parenthetical!) Yes, this was more like it. This seemed like my past, my present, my future. (Apparently teen angst came early for me.) There would be no one wanting to be my everything. Nobody wanting to kiss me all over. (A relief, really.) And I would not have whatever those damn muskrats had. Instead, there was just a big-haired Irish guy acknowledging that this big-haired Canadian boy would feel aching loneliness again and again.

And so it should come as no surprise that, although a year ago, I was getting the sense I had found lasting love—indeed, at last!—it would wilt before year’s end.

I’ve put off this blog post for six weeks or so. I quietly changed my Twitter profile. It’s not that I see Twitter as a mechanism for dating; it just felt dishonest to continue to claim to be one of the #Taken. To be clear, I never used that hashtag. If I recall correctly, I simply said that I was scratching my head over how I stumbled and bumbled my way into a relationship.

The head scratching has stopped, much to the relief of those around me who, no doubt, fretted that I must have lice. That would be the more plausible explanation.

So, yes, Gilbert O’Sullivan has reappeared. It’s not like I’ve gone to the dollar store and purchased a “WELCOME BACK” banner to hang in my living room, but I haven’t chased him and his song away either. (Is it wrong that the song amuses me?) As the titular parenthetical indicates, this aloneness is natural for some of us. For ugly ducklings like me. (Oops. That’s Janis Ian in my head. Second most depressing song of the ‘70s.) 

To ensure I don't wallow in Gilbert's neighborhood, I also play “Dancing Queen” and “Boogie Oogie Oogie” on repeat. It's unlikely Mr. O’Sullivan would join in my amusement. I suspect he would have been one of those who jumped on the Disco Sucks bandwagon at the end of the decade. Mr. Depressing would not want happy beats booming about in his midst. Maybe disco, as much as it offers a joyful detour, is not an antidote. Maybe being alone is my true destiny. Gil—I think I can call him that after all these years—and his “Alone Again” will likely get comfy hanging out once again, not with me but alongside me, two sad-sacks sharing the same airspace but nothing else.

(Naturally.)  

KEEP REACHING FOR THE RADIO

Most every Casey Kasem tribute prominently features the American Top 40 host’s signature statement: Keep reaching for the stars. It’s a happy, generic sentiment. NASA must wish it had coined as effective a statement to engage the American public.

Maybe I am not such a lofty guy. For me, a truer expression to associate with Casey Kasem is “keeping reaching for the radio.”

I first discovered Kasem’s distinct voice in the fall of 1978 when I was a thirteen-year-old who had moved from an urban center in Ontario, Canada to a not-big-enough city in East Texas. I was entering tenth grade and overwhelmed by an amped up social reality: weekly high school dances, football games in large stadiums, daily updates on who was “going together”. I was too young, too confused and too gawky. I stumbled on “American Top 40” on an AM radio station out of Shreveport, Louisiana. For four hours each week, I had a date—at least, the kind I could handle. Things made sense, except for the inexplicable rise of a few tunes like Taco’s “Puttin’ on the Ritz” and, well, anything by Charlie Daniels. Casey faithfully chronicled the ups and downs, introduced new acts and filled me in on musical milestones. He even got a wee bit folksy, reading out weepy/sappy Long Distance Dedications. Through each broadcast, Casey always came off as earnest.

I needed comfort during my awkward youth and Casey’s distinct voice provided that. He did not demystify any of the perplexities of adolescence, but at least he offered a regular reprieve. I thoroughly enjoyed the weekend countdowns. Casey spoke with a calm authority. Without any histrionics, he made Donna Summer and Barbra Streisand each scoring her fourth Number One with a duet seem to be a landmark achievement. Heck, he even made it matter when a minor hit by Franke and the Knockouts moved up one notch to 38.

When other DJs took over AT 40, I stopped listening. They were imposters. And when Casey voiced other countdowns, it wasn’t the same. Casey Kasem and Billboard were the perfect combination. To this day, I still follow the Billboard charts, checking online every Thursday to track the latest musical movements.

While many people are tuning off the radio, opting for Sirius broadcasts, programmed iPods and YouTube videos, I still find that a DJ—they go by “radio personality” now, don’t they?—matters. Sometimes. I typically despise having the airwaves filled with blabber. I don’t need the rundown on the latest misstep of Justin Bieber or a Kardashian. And I don’t want to hear a five-minute back-and-forth about an RP’s (sorry, “DJ” still sounds better) shocking experience last night whereby two people failed to wash their hands after using a public bathroom. Too much talk before I’ve had enough caffeine. I usually change the station. Music, please. It is rare to come across an authoritative, interesting voice on radio. But it has happened a handful of times. And it started with Casey Kasem.