Perfectly Paired Pop Songs: An American Heartland Tropical Hoosier Dream

I have these compulsions.

No, we won’t go there. I will mention… no, not that, either.

Safe to say, without delving too much into the state of my mental wherewithal: that I will dwell.

And dwell hard. I recently competed in a local dwelling and brooding tournament. And while it was only an amateur contest, I finished in third place (out of 18), behind a defrocked Pentecostal minister and a high school senior who said she was ‘thinking of going pro after graduation.’

I thought I did well. But the more I considered the matter, the bleaker my outlook became. Third place? With less than a couple dozen in the field?

Mediocre. Untenable. Failson.

It took me a week to shake out of my dark and dreary self-reflection…

But back to those compulsions:

One of many, albeit one that provides some light entertainment as opposed to simply shouting down the lions of order, order, order:

I haven’t found many of the latter yet, as I’m concentrating on the obvious first, a longstanding shortcoming of mine.

Thus, I inaugurate things with songs that kinda sound the same. I’ll admit, not the thrilling plot twist you were expecting.

First up:

The (Nitty Gritty) Dirt Band’s “An American Dream.”

There’s a loaded phrase. And like its brethren, which include The Great American Novel, American Exceptionalism, The American Experiment, and Great America (the amusement park), it’s ineffable, indefinable, includes limitless, ‘I know it when I see it’ heights of your personal point of view. You’ve got an opinion, and you’ve got an opinion, and, you? Over there, in the shadows? You’ve got one, too.

So, what’s T(NG)DB’s position on said dream (and by extension, Rodney Crowell’s, who penned the thing)?

A quick scan of the lyrics reveals that it involves fantasizing about taking a trip from Augusta, Georgia (America) to Jamaica (not America). I can take this one of two ways:

Hmm. Fingers drumming on the desktop. Interesting premise. Proletariat, rise up! We must not only dream of a vacation, we must seize the levers of capitalism! The ability to travel for leisure must become a reality!

Gather up your pitchforks and ball peen hammers, fellow workers! We may only make it to Miami’s Coconut Grove neighborhood, but through our struggle: our children and our children’s children will one day frolic in Martinique Bay!

The ‘flee to warmer climes’ vibe is further bolstered by the musical accompaniment. Which skews faux-island, with some escapist country & western touches (pedal steel, harmonica, singer Jeff Hanna’s twangy lead vocal.

It’s a nice, lazy song. And if you want to suggest I should abandon this exercise and simply explicate randomly across the Buffett discography, well, you’re not far off. ‘An American Dream’ is a pleasant, waves-tickling-your-toes kind of tune, no more, no less, and catchily inoffensive. You could do worse.

Speaking of which: The Mr. Hyde to ‘An American Dream’s Dr. Jekyll:

“Kokomo.“

My first draft of this section… (come on, admit you love to read about how the marzipan gets molded) …was another in what could be an endless series of Mike Love takedowns.

No.

Back up.

Let’s take ‘Kokomo’ at face value and consider it for what it is. And what it is, is… a song very similar to ‘An American Dream…’

Much of its lyrical content involves, yes, traveling to horse latitude isles for fun and inebriation, just like its forebearer. Martinique is mentioned in both.

It’s got that same relaxed gait. It’s clearly a reworking of the older hit.

Were the producers and songwriters inspired by “An American Dream?” Maybe. Or, maybe it’s an out-and-out ripoff. Maybe it’s an (slams hand on the table) abomination, another example of Mike Love’s satanist plot to undermine the whole of Brian’s legacy while also lining his pocketbook! Maybe it’s a blot on existence itself!!! Aaarrrggghhh…

“All right, all right, just breathe,” you murmur.

• “You should really get over it,” you say.
• “It is, at heart, a seriously riff-laden song,” you maintain.
• “The chorus is a masterwork of tone poetry or some such technical jargon,” you expertly venture.
• “The atmosphere of lounging near a tropical surf rendered by the muted steel drum runs is tastefully, if unimaginatively, brought off,” you wordily exclaim while lightly perspiring.
• “It’s The Beach Boys. And even if they’re coasting a bit here more than two decades past their heyday, all legendary acts deserve a little comeback action,” you patiently put forward.

“You should really get over it,” you repeat.

I get it. I should. At the end of the day? “An American Dream” and “Kokomo” sound alike.

That’s all.

There’s no Kokomo anywhere near the Caribbean.

The claim is that ‘Kokomo’ is a feeling. An attitude. A signifier for summer fun.

I beg to differ. My sources tell me John Phillips’ original lyrics went something like this:

Ladoga, Selina
Ooh, I wanna take ya
To Orestes, Angola

Come on, pretty mama
Walesboro, Cayugo
Baby, why don’t we go

Gary…

Off the interstate road
There’s a place called Kokomo
That’s where you wanna go
If your on your way to St. Paul

No more Ku Klux Klan
Boilermaker freezing in your hand
We’ll be falling in love to the rhythm
Of the casting plant
Down in Kokomo

Brownsburg, Alexandria
Ooh, I wanna take ya
Up to Crown Point, Aurora,
Come on, pretty mama

To Wabash And Hobart 
Baby, why don’t we go own to Kokomo

I’ll fill the tank if you gotta go
That’s when we’ll take it slow
Way down in Kokomo

Mechanicsville… that Howard County thrill

We’ll sit in Foster Park
It’ll be a relaxing lark
We might reignite the flame 
A little after dark

Whiteout blizzard delight
Another green bean casserole night
The weary look in your eye Gives me 
A Bobby Knight Rust Belt high

Way down in Kokomo
Ladoga, Selina
Ooh, I wanna take ya

To Orestes, Angola
Come on, pretty mama
Waleboro, Cayugo
Baby, why don’t we go

Ooh, I wanna take you down to Kokomo
I’ll fill the tank if you gotta go
That’s when we’ll take it slow

Way down in Kokomo

Wawpecong, you really can’t go wrong…

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