Slices of Life: Pictures, Portraits, and Profiles

by Ian F. King

If you had to guess what song a crazy person might sing out loud while riding his bike on the avenue outside my apartment (or your apartment, whatever), what would it be? “Mac the Knife”? Maybe some Frank Sinatra, or the Beatles? “It’s Raining Men”? Okay, I know, that’s a fairly random thing to speculate about. The point is that it might never occur to you to think of what songs a crazy person is more likely to sing until you are confronted with a crazy person who sings songs that you never thought a crazy person would. It’s even weirder when those songs are ones that were in heavy rotation in your Discman ten years ago.

I first heard the crazy bike rider singing not long after I moved into my apartment in the summer of 2007. I was sitting in my living room reading, when from outside my window rose a tuneless yodel over the usual low hum of traffic. I swore I recognized the song he was singing and I jumped up to look out the window, just as he was heading out of earshot. Though I only heard the snippet as he rode by, it immediately came to mind: “Photobooth” by Death Cab For Cutie. Not even an album track, but an obscure-ish older EP song from way before they were famous. I dismissed it as random, but over the years I’ve heard that guy out my window, seen him while I was walking down the street, even walked by him in the park, and he’s always riding his bike and singing an indie rock song from the late ’90s. Even tonight, as I laid feverish on my couch trying to watch La Dolce Vita for the second time (I failed again, I should stop trying to watch it only when I am sick), there he went by outside again, singing “Pink Chimneys” by the Promise Ring. Definitely not the first time I’ve heard him sing a Promise Ring song.

That’s when it finally clicked. People like me think that indie rock—because it is, or at least was, supposed to be sort of under the radar—would only be the realm of sane people who might consciously go to the trouble of finding music that was more difficult to hear or get a hold of than popular music that is readily available. Because crazy people just listen to the radio and don’t have discerning musical tastes? That’s what I thought, apparently. Somehow, I have been under the impression that the music of my teenage years was, and is, only appealing to non-crazies. You might think the bike rider I’m talking about is just “eccentric,” but I assure you, people that warble loudly like that in public consistently are voluntarily handing over their sanity cards. What I should be most thankful for is that I’ve been forced to confront this stereotype of mine head on, and see that people of all walks of mental stability can like cuddly sweater boy guitar bands of the 1990s. Either that, or I’m crazy, too.

Epilogue: Ian was still sick the next day and finally managed to make it through La Dolce Vita. He wonders what the hell that girl is saying to Marcello at the end. He’ll give an extra special George Washington medallion to whomever can come up with the best answer.