Your spouse wants to discuss estate planning.
Do you: A) Strike a sombre tone and spitball the last will and testament? B) Assign powers of attorney and beneficiary designations? Or C) Start singing Alphaville’s “Forever Young” into a mic that is a lint roller: “It’s so hard to get old without a cause / I don’t want to perish like a fading horse / Youth’s like diamonds in the sun / And diamonds are forever.”
I direct your attention to a story in the Guardian this week: “You be the judge: should my husband stop quoting song lyrics during conversations?”
Taylor and Randy have been hitched for 33 years. She says they have a “great marriage,” save for one warbling irritant: “… whenever we try to have a serious discussion, Randy will start singing song lyrics. It drives me nuts.”
Randy admits his mind is basically SiriusXM. For example: “If Taylor’s mentioned losing an item, or a co-worker leaving, I’ll defer to the band Cinderella and say you ‘don’t know what you got till it’s gone.’ ‘Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey has a lot of lyrics that can be applied to any number of life situations, too.”
Hopefully, Randy never finds himself on the lawn and singing Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” as Taylor hurls his belongings out a second-floor window.
This relationship snafu seems benign. It’s not as if Randy is juggling mistresses or blowing the kids’ college fund at a blackjack table. He has perfect recall for song lyrics and probably figures: why waste two hours debating summer vacation destinations when Radiohead can express his opinion in an outro?
When female friends confide the rough patches in their relationships, the issue invariably falls under the rubric of “communication.”
He doesn’t listen. He texts one-word replies.
But I’ve never heard: “He won’t stop quoting Metallica.”
I get why Taylor is exasperated. But this will never stop. This is how Randy is wired. Some people sing in the shower. Some people wish people would stop singing in the shower.
When a man responds to a sepulchral debate about an emergency home repair by impersonating Phil Collins – “the roof is leaking and the wind is howling” – he is not downplaying the need for shelter. He is processing.
When he is told his in-laws are planning a visit and will stay in the guest room, yes, he may blurt out, “Hello darkness, my old friend.” He’s not trying to start a quarrel. He has just deputized Simon & Garfunkel to sort out his emotional response in a 6/8 time signature.
In the old days, men were raised to treat their feelings like fireworks: keep them at a safe distance and never set them off indoors. So when a wife starts asking questions about health insurance claims, the husband’s brain might reach for the complete works of the Eagles.
Therapists will say spontaneous lyric-quoting trivializes serious matters. A partner may interpret a chorus from the Weeknd as mockery or avoidance. These therapists need to understand men have soundtracks for dread and despair.
And that needle can drop at any moment.
Now, I’m assuming Randy’s internal jukebox is powered by situational awareness and the songs match the subject. I withdraw my support if I find out Taylor once relayed grim news from overseas relatives and Randy recited, “Semolina pilchards / Climbing up the Eiffel Tower / Element’ry penguin singing Hare Krishna / Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.”
Quoting lyrics is a verbal fidget spinner. It’s harmless and calming. Besides, there is something touching about a grown bloke who believes Elton John and Bernie Taupin can express his innermost feelings better than he can.
Maybe just nudge him away from 50 Cent during budget talks?
Doesn’t Taylor want Randy to be true to himself? Or does she want him to sit mutely as he emotionally buffers because he is banned from quoting Sting? She married a Lyric Man, which is surely preferable to a Couch Potato or Peeping Tom.
Let him butcher Queen. Let him solve domestic problems in a higher octave.
Beneath what seems to be immature evasion, what you are hearing is a dad-rock cry for help, a rhyming coping mechanism. Is it garbage or recycling night? Randy can’t remember! Why else is he mumbling Pink Floyd’s “Brain Damage”? Let him belt out, “This is the song that never ends” in a desperate bid to halt a 30-minute spat over laundry.
Lyrics are emotional shorthand. They are subtitles for men. Randy is borrowing his poetry. On the upside, as Taylor spreads out report cards and puts on the kettle, Randy isn’t phubbing and texting a mate: “bruh idk what she wants.”
And that is the point: “You can’t always get what you want / But if you try sometimes / Well, you just might find / You get what you need.”
