Just as some obsessive types find it necessary to be tormented by a constant need to wash the hands or flick the on/off of switches, fiendish audiophiles too have their own variety of compulsions.
For humble blogger, it happens just about anywhere–on a crowded or quiet train, laying about in bed, playing avoidance in my work office. It’s a fanatical desire to rinse and repeat; only its not the hands that need the cleansing–its the ears.
It’s a beautiful riff that playfully dances along, enrapturing you in its pure delight. It’s that biting lyric which cuts the rib straight to the heart, paralyzing you with its honest approach (or reproach, for that matter). It’s an unshakable desire, really, to listen, here, now, again, 22 seconds from now, and for 6 minutes hereafter.
The rinse, the repeat.
It’s as if I’m paralyzed by its at times sheer brilliance or, in fact, its sustained normalcy. It’s overwhelming in its ability to underwhelm, or its numbing in its sheer genre bending braggadocio. It could just be downright charming.
Everyone has done it. I know so. A yearning to hear that one small bit, no matter how insignificant, again…and again.
And so, I will bear my inner audioslut and introduce you to my lovers: the uncommon blip in this here tune over here, that oh so common pop hook over there. It’s shameful at times, its boastful in others.
But its what I do; there, I’ve admitted it. Isn’t admitting the first step toward recovery? It’s the rinse, the repeat.
Up first? Rufus, featuring Chaka. Chaka Khan, that is.
I can remember the first time this became a repeat offender. I was 16, “felt heartbroken”, and instead of seeking revenge, I did what all normal, audio-fanatic 16 year olds do: I reached for the Chaka.
While the opening lick of “Sweet Thing” will really whet your appetite, the rinse and repeat doesn’t hit me until the 2:09 mark; Chaka just opens up and let’s loose from the minute she slowing works into it with “you are my heat, you are my fire/make me weak with strong desire” and lays literally all her shit bear by the end at 2:38.
She quivers with words like “child”; it feels forbidden yet absolutely necessary and it’s pure soul funk brilliance, worth every single compulsion on the planet.
Rinse, Repeat is a column by humble bloger, published in short, sweet, repeating bits whenever compulsion happens, of course.