I’ve always been both inspired and spooked by music.  In general, it’s the quieter moments that have the most potential to spook me.  Put on something intended to be loud and scary – say, Big Black’s “Kerosene” – and I’m generally unmoved.  Put on something that sounds like a radio stuck between two stations, or a TV station going off the air, and I’ll concoct some sort of doomsday scenario around it and generally get unnerved.  Here are five examples.   Despite the numbering, these are in no particular order.

1)  Stevie Wonder, “Fingertips Part 2″ as heard on AM radio.  Growing up in the 1970s, you still heard ’50s and ’60s hits on AM radio.  AM is, of course, scratchier and fuzzier than its FM counterpart.  The static and noise acted almost as an additional instrument or production layer.  In the case of “Fingerprints Part 2,” it made Little Stevie Wonder sound like an apocalyptic child preacher in a Deep South shack/church.  Sudden drop-outs, stark harmonica solos, audience screams and Wonder’s high voice made this an unspeakably spooky listening experience.  The fact that he sneaks in “Mary Had A Little Lamb” just adds to the tension; it sounds almost mocking.  Just when you think it’s over, there’s about 30 seconds of chaos, and then – terrifyingly – there goes the harmonica, and the whole thing starts again.  You don’t get the same effect listening on FM or iTunes; there, in high fidelity, it sounds more like the soulful shouter it was meant to be.

2)  The Beatles, “Can You Take Me Back” / “Revolution 9″ / “Good Night.”  1968′s The Beatles double-LP is a deeply, deeply unsettling set in general, but it doesn’t get truly unhinged until the end.  You probably already know at least the backstory of “Revolution 9.”  I’ve written about it here.  It almost always tops polls of Worst Beatles Song by virtue of being such an amusical departure, but I never thought of it as the “worst.”  Its sheer power to cause terror made it singularly unique.  Less appreciated, however, are how its bookends amplify the effect.  Just after “Cry Baby Cry” we have “Can You Take Me Back,” a short, plaintive Paul snippet which sounds disoriented and confused.  It works as notice of an imminent descent into hell.  Then 8 minutes of “R9.”  An uneasy silence, and then the lush “Good Night,” which comes across like a post-apocalyptic Busby Berkeley soundtrack.  It’s as if “R9″ was the world ending,” and “Good Night” the lullaby for the dead planet Earth.  At the very end, Ringo whispers. “Good night everybody…everybody, everywhere.”  It’s really incredibly chilling.

3)  Richard H. Kirk, “False Erotic Love.”  Apparently spoken tape-loops by blase Brits scare the crap out of me.  I bought the Disposable Half-Truths cassette having fallen for Cabaret Voltaire’s “Nag Nag Nag,” not knowing what to expect.  Turns out Kirk’s solo album was Cab Volt reduced to its essence – out-of-context tape loops, primitive electronics and distorted vocals.  Minus the structure of “Nag” or “Silent Command,” the result was eerie.  “False Erotic Love” featured a bored-sounding woman repeating two or three phrases – “no fucking chance at all,”"…felt the need to use the body sexually,” etc. against a staticky backdrop.  Easily as creepy as anything their friends Throbbing Gristle recorded.  (Can’t find it online, but here’s “Information Therapy,” which is actually the closest in sound and structure to classic Cab.)

4)  Young Marble Giants, “Wind In The Rigging” as used by WPRB-FM as signoff music.  Signoffs in general have always scared me.  When I was a kid, TV stations used to go off the air at night.  Usually they’d conclude with a short statement of FCC compliance, followed by “The Star-Spangled Banner.”  Then, abruptly, a test pattern and an eerie electronic tone.  Radio signoffs, however, are even scarier, because there’s not even a test pattern to assure continuity.  They just go poof! into white noise.  WPRB‘s 1980s airstaff was apparently aware of this feeling.  For their signoff, they used the closing track from Colossal Youth with some official language overdubbed.  “Wind In The Rigging” is the closing track, the latter of two instrumentals, and it features mournful organ tones against a somber drum-machine beat, punctuated by what sounds like rising and falling radio static in the background.  Then it cuts off completely.  And so, in WPRB’s hands, does the station signal itself.  (Ironically, the YMG song about nuclear winter, “Final Day,” does not have nearly the same effect on me.)

5)  John Lennon and Yoko Ono, side 2, Unfinished Music No. 2: Life With The Lions.  Again with the Beatles.  They may have been the most popular band of all time, but as Scott Miller suggested in his recent book Music: What Happened?, it was truly scary as a kid to delve into the weirdness of their latter days.  “Revolution 9,” of course, but also “I Am The Walrus,” “You Know My Name (Look Up the Number),” and all the crazy and sinister-sounding solo projects by John and Yoko.  The Two Virgins cover, the weird films, the incomprehensible art sensibility…it was all rather heavy stuff if you were 12 years old and used to the “red” and “blue” greatest hits.  As an adult, I finally summoned the courage to listen to the two Unfinished Music records.  (I still haven’t heard the Wedding Album.)  Two Virgins was just boring, neither scary enough nor intriguing enough to make for captivating listening.  I think I made it through the whole thing once.  Life With The Lions, on the other hand, was something else entirely.  Even as an adult who’s made peace with “Revolution 9″ and heard all kinds of challenging music, this one was frightening.

The cover: Yoko on a hospital bed, John on the floor, both wearing blank expressions.  The back cover: the couple herded into a police car, John seemingly oblivious to the whole thing, Yoko clutching him for support.  Side 1, “Cambridge 1969,” was a 26-minute free jazz piece and unsettling enough.  Side 2, however, was where the horror really began.  It was recorded at Yoko’s bedside at the hospital after her first miscarriage, seemingly with a primitive tape recorder.  First track: “No Bed for Beatle John,” in which the two chant newspaper articles about themselves like a couple of cantors or monks.  Yoko is heard in the forefront, John in the distance, and there’s something about the cool, dispassionate tone in their voices that gives chills.  Next we hear some chatter, and an ultrasound heartbeat.  It is the heartbeat of the child Yoko miscarried.  This goes on for about 5 minutes, and then comes the Cageian “Two Minutes Silence.”  It’s as if you’re hearing the child die in the womb.  Finally comes “Radio Play,” 12 minutes of a radio being turned on and off as the dial is turned and Lennon is on the phone in the background.  Staccato, harsh and violent, “Radio Play” is hard to listen to all the way through.  When it’s over, you’re left with a woozy silence.  What do I do with this?

Originally posted on djearlybird.blogspot.com, November 27 and 30, 2003.  Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, which is why I remember the bad ones so vividly.

Worst Thanksgiving ever?  It was in 1988, I think. I know I was in college at the time. My parents had divorced a few years earlier, and my dad had just moved back to Philadelphia, taking an apartment in Trevose. Dad had asked my brother Steve and me to spend Thanksgiving with him, so we drove down to Philly, meeting him at his new apartment.

First we visited my grandmother at her nursing home, a depressing facility in a rough area north of Temple University. Grandmom had always been a cantankerous sort, and had only grown nastier as she grew older. Hence, Steve and I always dreaded these visits – which may be why Dad didn’t tell us in advance about this excursion. Grandmom was, as I recall, not in her worst mood ever, which was somewhat of a relief.

Afterward, it was time for dinner. As we drove away from the nursing home, it suddenly occurred to Dad that he’d forgotten to plan that part of the night. I guess we figured that Dad would bake a turkey, which even then seemed laughable – Dad barely knew how to use a microwave. After driving around awhile, we ended up at a Shoney’s restaurant in the northern Philly suburbs. Shoney’s is kind of like an off-brand Denny’s. The time was fairly late by Thanksgiving dinner standards – about 8:30 pm or so. Shoney’s was nearly empty, our waitress was weirdly perky, and of course the kitchen was out of turkey. I ended up ordering a chicken breast sandwich, figuring that hey, at least it was still poultry. I think all three of us felt a palpable sense of depression. I know I did.

On the way home, I lost my Pennsylvania Turnpike ticket. I had to pay full fare – about $14 – to drive 2 exits. That felt like an insult-to-injury move. I think I cried.

Actually, come to think of it, that only was the second-worst Thanksgiving of my life. At least it’s a memory of my dad, who died in 1992. The worst was probably the year before, when we spent the evening with Mom’s current boyfriend, an oily guy who lived in a creaky apartment. That was miserable in all sorts of ways. My mom broke up shortly thereafter with him for giving pot to my brother.

Wait, scratch the above.  Talking to my mom on the phone last night, I remembered what was, in fact, the Worst. Thanksgiving. Ever.

Growing up, my parents, brother and I used to drive down to Richmond, VA every Thanksgiving. My maternal aunt and uncle lived there. They had two kids – my cousins – who were the same ages as my brother and me. We were all fairly close. The cousins would include us in outings with their friends, that sort of thing. I always looked forward to these trips. Sometimes I even fantasized that my parents would move to Richmond, since things always seemed so much easier there.

In autumn 1983, however, my parents decided to separate. Therefore, my dad stayed home from our yearly trip to Richmond, while the rest of us took off down I-95 South. It was a long, difficult ride down. Mom’s car was leaking oil, and we had to stop every hour to add another quart. To my brother and me, it was something of an adventure – to this day, I liken the car ride to our own personal National Lampoon’s Vacation – but I’m sure my mom was stressed.

That Friday night, the grownups all went out for Chinese food. We kids stayed home, ate junk food and listened to records. Our cousins had discovered rap, so we listened to “White Lines” and “It’s Like That” at loud volume. Suddenly my aunt and uncle burst in front the door. It seems that Mom passed out in the restaurant and had to be rushed to the hospital. Don’t worry, we were assured: she was OK. However, we’d be staying in Virginia until Tuesday, when she was well enough to travel.

This did not suit me at all. I basically panicked, insisting that I had to be back at school by Monday to take a test. I simply would not listen to reason. The most important thing in my life, as far as I was concerned, was that I get out of Richmond ASAP and high-tail it home to New Jersey. So the next morning, my uncle paid for a train ticket and drove me to the station. Dad picked me up at the 30th Street Station in Philadelphia and drove me home. I guess my mom and brother followed a couple of days later.

Looking back at it, this may have been the most selfish thing I’ve ever done (and I’ve done some pretty selfish things). I’m wincing just thinking about it. I really can’t understand what was going through my teenage head. My mom’s in the hospital, she’s dealing with her marriage dissolving, and on top of that it’s not at all sure her car will make it home…and all I care about is taking a train ahead of everyone else? Like I wouldn’t have been able to take a make-up test at school? It’s amazing that my mom didn’t disown me right then and there. Don’t think my uncle ever forgot, either: he insisted that I pay him back, and a decade later was still reminding me of the incident.