Earworms: The Self-Induced Blight On Humankind

 

Who hasn't had the experience of having that one special song take up residence in one's forebrain, playing the same verse or chorus repeatedly, maddeningly, for hours, days, weeks, months, or, if at least one account is to be believed, for years at a time?

A formal study has shown that 98% of individuals have experienced the earworm. This means that everyone, across all walks of life, in other cultures with totally different musical traditions, is susceptible to these insidious parasites. So what's the deal? 

Scientific Studies

As I wrote above, a study (by one James Kellaris) showed that 98% of people experience earworms. Men and women experience the phenomenon equally often, although women tend to have longer lasting, more irritating earworms. I will not speculate on why this is, although no doubt there are songs about it.

Statistics suggest that songs with lyrics account for about 74% of all earworms, while instrumental pieces account for roughly eight per cent. Not sure about the other 18%, unless the researchers meant music without meaningful lyrics or musical instruments, such as that produced by boy bands.

It is thought that obsessive-compulsive traits, like intrusive thoughts, make one more likely to experience earworms. It is also thought that musical expertise and education creates an effect of "sophistication" with respect to earworms.

Mine are so sophisticated they can include French augmented sixth chords.
Suck it, Philistines.

Countless remedies have been tried to eradicate earworms, the most common of which is replacing them with "cure songs," catchy songs that push out the offending music, hopefully without themselves getting stuck. Two popular choices are "God Save The King," and "Happy Birthday." Warning, though: last I checked, "Happy Birthday" was not yet in the common domain, and you may owe royalties if you try that one. If it becomes an earworm, this could be financially ruinous, like forgetting to hang up after phone sex.

Other suggested solutions include anagrams, puzzles, reading, and even chewing gum. My experience tells me that none of them work, however, and chewing gum actually makes things worse by making me think of the 60s-70s genre of "bubblegum music," and results in an earworm of "Yummy Yummy Yummy (I Got Love In My Tummy)" by the Ohio Express, a condition which cannot be cured but only managed.

Earworms in Literature

The earliest known use of the word "earworm" in English language literature is in Desmond Bagley's 1978 novel Flyaway. The concept, however, was referred to much, much earlier. It goes back at least to 1876, when Mark Twain wrote a story, "A Literary Nightmare," which tells of a jingle so relentlessly catchy that one could only get rid of it by giving it to another person. Yes, the idea existed way back before recorded music, before moving pictures, before radio or television, before even Spotify or TikTok.

Even then, he knew.

The story is clearly fantasy, however; if earworms were that easy to get rid of, everyone would try, and our cities and towns would be full of people going about with their fingers in their ears, LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU I CAN'T HEAR YOU, walking down the street revolving the whole way to make sure no one was sneaking up behind them.

Alfred Bester wrote a novel in 1953 called The Demolished Man in which the protagonist crafts a catchy jingle to block mind readers from reading his mind. I don't know if that would work, but it would at least punish them severely for the intrusion. Read my thoughts, willya? Here, have some freaking "MacArthur Park," mind flayer.

The great Arthur C. Clarke, in his 1957 short story "The Ultimate Melody," features a scientist who crafts a piece of music that "resonates with the fundamental electrical rhythms going on in the brain." He is later found catatonic and unresponsive and never awakens. Which, if my own experience is any indication, provides no escape. These things will follow you into your sleep. Like Freddy Krueger, only with more yodeling. It's possible they will follow you through the portal of death. But only if there are lyrics, I suppose.

"Turn off the music, HAL."
"Sorry, Dave..."

One other notable literary reference comes from 1933, a short story by E.B. White called "The Supremacy of Uruguay." In this, the writer posits a powerful earworm discovered in a popular American song, weaponized by the Uruguayan military and deployed through the use of "pilotless aircraft" with powerful loudspeakers. This weapon conquers the world by reducing humanity to mindless beasts wallowing in complete insanity.

This one is not only possible, it is likely inevitable. Elon Musk will probably be involved. Humanity is certainly doomed, it's music's fault, and no amount of autotuning or even a special dance remix can change that.

My Personal Story

I have always been exceptionally susceptible to earworms, beyond all reason and well beyond the norm. I don't know if this is a natural tendency, or if my four years of music school training possibly took a natural ability and made it worse. I was trained, after all, to hear, understand, and retain musical information through a carefully planned program of drills, practice, and study. It didn't lead to much in the way of a lucrative career, unless you consider "twitchy guy involuntarily conducting unheard symphony at the bus stop" a career. But I did gain some "skills."

About 10 years ago, I was innocently surfing through the television channels, trying to find that rare something on over-the-air TV worth watching, when I happened across my local PBS affiliate re-running a Neil Diamond concert from the late 1980s. This did not interest me at all, really, because while I've never had strong feelings about his music either way and have at least some respect for his songwriting (hey, he did write "I'm a Believer"), this was a little later in his career, after he had become an overly dramatic and mildly bilious self-parody in his performances.

So I only watched and listened for maybe 30 seconds, not even close to hearing a complete song. Just a single verse or so.

I dare not write or even think the name of the song he was singing out of fear of re-activating the currently dormant parasite in my vulnerable ♫CRACKLIN' ROSIE GET ON BOARD ♫ WE'RE GONNA RIDE 'TILL THERE AIN'T NO GODDAMMIT GODDAMMIT MAKE THE MUSIC STOP KILL IT WITH FIRE DAMMIT DAMMIT TO HELL

Sorry.

Well, needless to say, it stuck. My classically trained composer's brain, which I spent four years and thousands of dollars honing the abilities of, latched onto the song like a fighting pit bull's jaws lock onto an opponent's flesh. It stayed with me for roughly three months, auto-playing most of the day. I would go to bed and sleep for eight hours, and when I awoke it would start up again. It was ever my close companion, through thick and thin, trial and tribulation, like Frodo's buddy Sam in Lord of the Rings only if Sam was a horrible, giant leering worm-beast with the face of Neil Diamond.

The best craiyon's AI art program can do with the prompt "worm
with Neil Diamond's face."

It tormented me without mercy, pushing out any other music I tried to think of. There was no therapy, no cure; not even surgery could have removed it (I asked). These things take on a life of their own, and there is no turning them off or disconnecting or running away because THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE YOUR HEAD!

Eventually it faded, much to my relief. Other songs have come and gone, but thankfully none has lodged themselves quite so securely in my consciousness. It certainly left some scars, though, most probably little holes eaten in my brain, like some sort of Mad Cow Disease with a melody and a beat and I can dance to it.

The Future

There is no future. At least, none without the pain and suffering caused by earworms. Not even today's popular music, which completely lacks in melody, counterpoint and chord progressions, as well as any other identifiable musical characteristics, is exempt from turning into the debilitating, crazy-making affliction also known as the "stuck song." And yes, before you ask, I must insist that you young people remove yourself from the grassy area in front of my house. It's private property, y'all.

And there certainly is no future for me. Neil Diamond? He's back. He's back. 

He's back, and the prospects for peace are negligible.