The importance of insanely cheerful music

Music can help in several ways when negotiating a bleak trough. For instance, you can try going with the flow of misery by listening to something so appallingly gloomy that you start feeling sorry for the composer: Tchaikovsky’s incredibly self-pitying but utterly beautiful Sixth Symphony is in a class of its own in this respect – no one ever felt worse than this. (If this fails, try Mahler.)

Alternatively, I’ll go for huge, furious, classical thunder– the “Rex Tremendae” from Mozart’s Requiem, the fourth movement of Saint-Saens’ Symphony No. 3 (graced by a stupendous organ), the final movement of Beethoven’s Choral Symphony or the “Battle on the Ice”from Prokofiev’s Alexander Nevsky. 

I can’t listen to cheerful classical music when feeling low – it makes me feel inadequate, somehow (maybe because I tend to imagine concert-goers chortling in the background). Contrariwise, I do respond well to cheerful popular music – the more insanely and mindlessly upbeat, the better. 

I have no idea why this should be so.

My favourite “happy” record came on the car stereo while we were driving back from Cornwall earlier this week. I don’t know what effect it would have on a true depressive, but for those of us who merely feel a bit glum occasionally, surely Cuban bandleader Perez Prado’s “Guaglione”, first released in 1959, and a No. 2 hit in the UK in 1995 after being featured in a Guinness commercial, represents a sure-fire tonic. I defy anyone not to find themselves smiling goofily while listening to this ludicrously cheerful masterpiece. (1958’s “Patricia” can be substituted in an emergency.)

“Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” by the Andrews Sisters managed to keep everyone smiling in the latter stages of the war, so no wonder it has the same effect now. (The video helps.) I guess people were in need of cheering up in 1944. 

Louis Jordan’s 1946 bouncer, “Choo Choo Ch’Boogie” is simply irresistible. So is Glenn Miller’s earlier train classic, “Chattanooga Choo Choo”. 

“Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” by the Four Lads triumphs because of the sheer idiocy of the lyrics – “Why did ‘Constantinople’ get the works?/That’s nobody’s business but the Turks”.

I only became aware of Harry Belafonte’s 1961 zestful, “Jump in the Line”, when it was featured in the 1985 Tim Burton movie, Beetlejuice, but it has been a favourite ever since.

The Diamonds’ 1957 hit, “Little Darlin’”, has proved a sure-fire boost to my spirits over the years. Ditto Freddy Cannon’s 1961 hit, “Palisades Park”. 

Trini Lopez’s happy-clappy version of “If I Had a Hammer” has been doing the trick for 49 years – the fact that he bleeds the song of any of its  intended “protest” elements just makes it even more endearing. 

Why does Quincy Jones’s “Soul Bossa Nova” work every time? It shouldn’t -  it really shouldn’t. The same goes for Henry Mancini’s “Baby Elephant Walk”, which is borderline insulting – but irresistible.

I’ve never been that keen on “comic” songs – even if they raise a smile on first hearing, you eventually want to track down the performer and assassinate them – but Jerry Reed’s Elvis tale, “Tupelo Mississippi Flash”, never palls.

Jonathan Richman’s 1977 LP Rock ‘n’ Roll with the Modern Lovers was a effective antidote to all those spotty English adolescent punks being angry on the one hand, and the fatuous pomposity of groups like Genesis and Yes on the other. I almost broke my leg dancing drunkenly to “South American Folk Song” soon after its release and it was over a decade before I could be convinced to make an arse of myself on a dance-floor again.

I was on a plane to Washington DC in 1992 when I first heard Marty Stuart’s version of “Doin’ My Time”. When Johnny Cash’s voice enters unexpectedly after the first instrumental break, I burst out laughing. No idea why. Still makes me smile every time.

And, of course, there’s always Leonard Cohen’s “Sisters of Mercy”.