The first song I ever wanted to listen to on repeat was the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo.” In fact, I only have a few musical memories pre “Kokomo.” I remember specifically the songs “Penny Lane” and “Strawberry Fields,” though no specific memories seem to go with them. (Those are unusual songs to remember because Dad hardly ever, and not once in recent memory, listened to Beatles albums.) Also, I remember more specifically sitting on our recliner in the living room one day mid-summer, mid-morning listening to the jubilant “I Feel the Earth Move.” (In this case, the unusualness probably made the moment memorable: Carole King is very definitely my mom’s, not my dad’s music, and Mom hardly ever, and not once in recent memory, listened to any albums.) So, without a complex narrative of music in my life to that point, “Kokomo” was a personal cultural revolution, introducing me to the world of pop music.
I was in 2nd grade and rode the yellow bus to and from school everyday. The driver always had the radio tuned to what I assumed was the oldies station (although in hindsight that doesn’t seem right because “Kokomo” was brand new that year). “Kokomo” was amazing in popularity. My memories may be exaggerating, but I’m pretty sure that song played on the radio at least once on the way to school and once on the way home every day for a period of several months.
I didn’t have many friends in 2nd grade, but a group of us would sit in the back of the bus and sing along every time the song played. The boy I had a crush on would change the lyrics from “come on pretty mama” to “come on sexy mama,” which seemed wild and racy to us 2nd graders. I laughed loudly in appreciation every time, in a move that hasn’t really changed much over years of crushes and defeats.
I have heard a theory that Hall & Oates had the perfect formula for radio-friendly, catchy songs. I’m pretty sure the Beach Boys had that formula as well. “Kokomo” apparently appealed across the board to elementary school kids and Cocktail watchers. Second-grade-me didn’t even understand most of the lyrics and pretty much had no idea what the song was about but still loved it. I had some concept that the song was about someone (Martinique?) treating the singer badly in some way—stealing his girl, perhaps? It wasn’t until high school that I finally realized they are singing “that Montserrat mystique” not “that lousy, rotten snake.”
Rereading the lyrics now, different associations come up that I never had as a child. I now know what steel drums are, know that Martinique is a place not a person, and get the meaning of “afternoon delight” (talk about wild and racy).
Later the song also came to remind me (and many people my age, I’m sure) of a Full House episode that I vaguely remember involving a tropical island, the Beach Boys, and Uncle Jesse on the drums. At the time I’m sure I loved it, but I kind of wish I didn’t have that association anymore. I like the bus memory better. We were like a kid’s version of that cheesy, but not-so-entirely-unrealistic scene in Almost Famous where everyone starts singing “Tiny Dancer.” For some reason it never seemed odd that we, who never spoke outside of the bus setting, could have this shared experience for a few minutes everyday. But then again, maybe it’s not so odd. There are sports games, movie theatres, concerts… The experience of community with strangers is not relegated to childhood, even if the ability to sing aloud in front of others without embarrassment might be (for some of us).