Why, Wilson Phillips?
I’ve had this song stuck in my head for a week — please put me out of my misery.
It’s not the song you’re thinking of — that one would be merely intolerable. This one is slowly destroying my soul and is likely to cause me to do something harmful to myself or those around me. For six days now, it has haunted my most meditative moments — showering, shaving…the other S. It follows me on the running trail, and hides in my car. Even as my head hits the pillow, it waits there like a latent virus, ready to shatter my peace in grating three-part harmony.
I caught it last week in the waiting area of my kid’s dentist’s office. Upon delivery of the first few notes of the intro, I knew I was screwed. Trapped between the receptionist and a paper sign taped to the exit, explicitly forbidding the abandonment of one’s child during their appointment, I endured the song in its entirety. This was a mistake — had I known the true extent of this affliction, I would have risked the receptionist’s wrath, and bailed.
I don’t have anything against Wilson Phillips — I’m sure Carnie, Wendy, and Chynna are delightful people — but this song is awful. It doesn’t even merit the nostalgic irony that renders tracks like “Ice Ice Baby” permissible at weddings and karaoke bars. That it reached a baffling #1 on Billboard’s Hot 100 is a sobering reminder of the barren musical landscape that existed in 1991 — remember Michael Bolton? He won a Grammy. By the grace of God and Seattle, we were rescued by “Smells Like Teen Spirit” later that year, and the 90’s became…well, the 90’s.
The most tragic aspect of this situation is that I know this song’s lyrics by heart. I was eleven when this album was released, and those who were there will recall it was inescapable. This means the nascent capacity of my prepubescent brain could have been dedicated to higher math or a second language — instead, it assimilated this crap. Now I struggle to remember simple multiplication tables, yet this song lies dormant in some part of my cortex, able to be recalled in an incessant loop that I can’t seem to shake.
I’ve tried to replace it with everything from Tool to Taylor Swift. Even JT can’t seem to liberate me from this agony. In my desperation, I fear I may have ventured into territory from which there is no hope of return. In another thirty years, when I’m struggling to remember my grand-kids’ birthdays, or even their names — I trust it won’t be Wilson Phillips that haunts my waking moments…but this. Go on, click it if you dare.
If you’ve made it this far and any of these songs are stuck in your head — welcome to my hell. Misery loves company, so feel free to click the 💚 and spread the love!
Thanks for sticking around! I enjoy writing about music, movies, sports, aging, parenting, relationships, and a whole host of other fun things men face as they approach midlife. Check out my other stories on Medium, and feel free to join me at my blog, In Uncharted Waters.
