It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment it all began, but I distinctly recall it was at a coffee shop about two weeks ago. The establishment had a predictable playlist featuring soft rock hits from decades past—nothing avant-garde or unusual. Just straightforward adult-oriented tunes, serving as a bland backdrop for patrons sipping their coffee.
As I paid for my drink, an all-too-familiar song was playing in the background. It was one I hadn’t heard in ages: Brenda Russell’s 1988 soul-rock classic “Piano in the Dark.” Little did I know, this would mark the start of an auditory nightmare.
Day 1
The intrusion starts subtly. While loading my laundry, the slick, polished intro of “Piano in the Dark” begins to swirl in my mind. The song narrates a woman questioning whether the spark has faded in her relationship, only to find solace in her partner’s mysterious piano playing in the dark (discussing this song inevitably makes me feel a bit like Patrick Bateman). At first, I’m not displeased; I enjoy the song and even begin to hum along.
Day 2
After a day of this relentless tune looping in my head, I make the regrettable decision to watch the music video on YouTube. This solidifies every note of “Piano in the Dark” in my memory, ensuring its grip tightens even more. The video is perplexing—Brenda prepares herbal tea in what seems like real-time, throws playing cards at a hat, and prominently features a massive harp. Why does she never address the harp? “Greg,” she might say, “you’re always at the piano, and the harp is just collecting dust. Can’t we do something about it?”
Day 3
I start to question the mental stability of the song’s characters. Perhaps the piano being played is horrendous, and Brenda is worried that “he” is making a cacophony in the dark. After 72 hours of this relentless earworm, my subconscious has grown bored, inserting inappropriate words into the lyrics. Now, in the depths of my mind, he’s playing “Piano up his Ass.” I find it amusing, which leads me to realize I’m laughing alone in an empty room—quite similar to the narrator.
Day 4
I wake to a serene morning, blessed with sunshine and the cheerful sounds of birds. There’s something I should remember or perhaps forget, but it’s unimportant. Just as I step outside, the lyrics invade my thoughts: “Just as I walk through the door / I can feel your emotion…” Oh no, it’s back.
Day 5
I feel like Job, tormented without understanding why. Even the session musicians likely didn’t ponder this tune as much as I have. The worst part is that I can’t share this with anyone, fearing it might infect them too. I go through my daily motions, smiling and nodding, all while Brenda Russell’s voice echoes in my head, questioning the vitality of her relationship, which seems to be fading away from me as well.
Day 6
I begin to wonder if the song holds some hidden meaning. It mentions a “riddle,” which I must solve to free my mind. Who is the mysterious “he” that plays the piano in the dark? In the video, he somewhat resembles David Lee Roth. Clearly, there’s a more profound game at play here.
Day 7
I’ve identified “He” as the source of my torment—the dark piano player. He is akin to a malevolent force, perhaps even Cthulhu himself, eternally playing a piano made of human bones for lost souls like me. I also learn that Brenda Russell received two Grammy nominations for “Piano in the Dark.” This conspiracy runs deeper than I realized.
Day 8
Hope seems lost. I feel like a mere shell of a person, doomed to a monotonous existence where every moment is punctuated by the song, which plays every four minutes and 28 seconds. I find it impossible to focus during lunch with a friend, who unknowingly asks me if I’ve ever had a song stuck in my head. I casually inquire what he does when that happens. “Oh, I just sing ‘Kumbaya’,” he replies. “It clears any song stuck in my head.”
Day 9
Miraculously, it works. Whenever Brenda’s tune tries to resurface, I simply “Kumbaya” it away. The melody that once consumed my thoughts melts away, leaving me liberated. I explore the origins of “Kumbaya,” discovering it began as a heartfelt plea for divine assistance. And just like that, Brenda Russell exits my mind, returning to 1988 where she belongs. Yet, I can’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia—“I cry just a little / when I think of letting go…”
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