There appear to be “hit factories” like the Australian humpbacks, whose ear worm tunes seem to leak out from their population, carried by bulls to other areas where other bulls take elements of their phrases and verses and add them to their songs.
“Can We Learn to Speak the Language of Whales?” Tom Mustill, Boston Globe Magazine
“Feelings . . . woah, woah, woah–feelings.”
I’d been in the studio since 10 p.m.–off-peak hours are cheaper–working with my latest boy-band prospects, The Cetaceans, hoping to replicate one of the great hits that the Australian non-human animal music industry is known for. Surely you know “How Deep is Your Love?” by The Bee Gees, which was so successful that doctors made their careers writing peer-reviewed papers about it, e.g., “Chemical immobilization and killing of intra-aural Beatle-like earworms,” Annals of Emergency Medicine, 1997 Dec. 22(12): 1795-8.
Unfortunately, despite frequent take-out orders of krill and algae to keep their blood sugar up, I sensed that the guys were “hitting a wall” and I wasn’t going to get a monster #1 hit on the Billboard Aquatic Placental Marine Chart out of them in this session.
“Let’s try ‘Crazy Breaching Over You’ one more time,” I said into the control booth mic, but heard nothing but groans coming back.
“Do we have to?” That was Blainville Beaked, a moody tenor.
“Guys, remember, all studio time comes ‘off the top’ before you see a nickel. Let’s suck it up like a mouthful of plankton so we don’t have to book another session.”
“I’m tired,” said Minke.
“So am I, but you don’t see me coming up for air.”
“You don’t have to, you’re not a fish.” That was Bryde.
“Neither are you, you’re a mammal,” I snapped, “so let’s give it one last shot.”
The guys swam back into the recording booth, cleared their throats, put their headphones on and listened to the intro to what I hoped would complete their breakout album, the way “Saturday Night Fever” was–to quote Wikipedia–“the turning point of The Bee Gees career, having a cultural impact through the world, enhancing the disco scene’s mainstream appeal.” And, I might add, making a wealthy man out of their producer.
I’m not sure what came over them. Maybe it was the phenomenon runners refer to as a “second wind,” but the guys began to harmonize in an odd combination of “harsh, belching grunts to high squeaks to deep mournful moans,” as the rock critic from Boston would later put it. I nodded to the engineer to add a backbeat from a drum loop, and soon everyone in the studio was nodding their heads, and not from lack of sleep.
“That’s catchy but annoying,” a willowy bottlenose dolphin said. “If I had a record like that, it would really annoy me mum.”
“So you . . . like it?” I asked hesitantly.
American Bandstand Record Review
“It’s got a good beat–you can dive to it,” her boyfriend replied, just like one of those Philadelphia greaser teenagers on American Bandstand in the 50s.
“Guys,” I yelled to the three whales crammed into the studio. “I think we’ve got our hit–that’s a wrap.”
“What’ll we call it?” Blainville Beaked asked.
“Just what he said,” Minke replied. “Rap.”