Attack of the Debbie Gibson Earworm!

Trigger Warnings: ‘80s bubblegum pop, Casiotone, non-PC slang from yesteryear, simpler times.

If I could go back in time and tell middle school Marc about the foldable supercomputers we’d have in the future, and that I’d be using one to write a missive about Debbie Gibson, he’d probably scrunch up his face, and in a wonderfully ’80s moment of zero political correctness, call me a retard.  Or a fag.  Or maybe a retarded fag.

The thing is, middle school Marc wasn’t a rocker yet.  Before I was scribbling Rush lyrics on my book covers and extolling the virtues of Savatage, I liked me some pop.  Madonna was my early favorite, from the first time I saw the “Borderline” video all the way up through the excellent Like a Prayer album.  (Living Colour helped me find my true calling, and “Justify My Love” got me over Madonna real quick.)

When it came to pure bubblegum pop, the needle never moved.  In the big Tiffany versus Debbie Gibson debate, I always leaned towards the latter, but when it came down to it, I didn’t really care.  While groups like New Kids on the Block could evoke all sorts of pre-teen rage, Ms. Darwish and Ms. Gibson never did anything for me.

After all, neither of them were Susanna Hoffs.

The Day of the Wyrm

So fast forward to about a week ago.  I don’t remember the moment exactly, but at some point I realized I had Debbie Gibson’s “Only In My Dreams” stuck in my head.  (Click if you dare.)  I was fine with this.  It’s a catchy tune, and I’m a sucker for a bit of neon-tinged nostalgia.

The problem was that it wouldn’t stop rattling around in my mind.  After an entire day of it, enough was enough, and it was time to kill the earworm with the mighty King’s X and their awesome Ogre Tones album.

It didn’t work.  As soon as the last track faded, “Only In My Dreams” came roaring back.  With volume.  The kind of volume where you think people around you can hear it too, and if you started ’80s dancing to it in the middle of a crowded street, everyone would join you.

I was counting on a night of dreamless sleep to get rid of this.

The Blue Belly of the Beast

Of course it didn’t.  I woke up to that same chorus blaring in my brain.  It was time for my other go-to earworm cure — listening to the song that caused the problem in the first place.

It didn’t help.  My mind was now consumed with the minutiae of the song — the rhythm change in the second chorus, the interplay between the falsetto and sax in the solo section, the subtle sassiness in Debbie’s voice when she sings, “No-no-no.”

In a further attempt to know one’s enemy, I decided to listen to the entire Out of the Blue album.  Surely this would dispel the curse, and I could go back to my regularly scheduled regimen of screaming guitars and odd time signatures.

Out of the Blue has to be the single most ’80s sounding album ever produced.  It has it all.  Tons of Casiotone.  Thwocky single coil electric guitars.  Synth bass.  Programmed drums.  Radio-friendly fades.  A complete lack of midrange frequencies.

I could only get through the first side.

Love, Shaken

Day three brought one more blue nightmare of “Only In My Dreams.”  It was time to fight fire with fire, as I had the whole second half of Out of the Blue left, which featured the nuclear option — “Shake Your Love.” 

If a more evil pop song has ever been written, it was probably scrawled in blood on the pages of the Necronomicon by Desmond Child.  “Shake Your Love” is in the pantheon of some of the most insidious three-word pop hooks ever conceived, joining “What Is Love,” “I’m Too Sexy,” and “Everybody Dance Now.” (I’m really sorry about that.)

But not even this evil little song could dislodge “OiMD” from my skull.

As I wound down for the night, I wondered if I should just lean into the whole thing, and go the ironic hipster route.  I went to Zazzle to see how much it would cost to get a Debbie Gibson T-shirt made, and to wear my shame for the world to see.  But I couldn’t think of a single 50-year-old man who could pull off a Debbie Gibson shirt, so those tabs are now history.

You Can’t Fight It, Live By It

By the fourth or fifth day, I was a man broken.  The days were starting to blur together, all with the common polyester thread of Debbie Gibson’s debut single.

This song came out in 1986!  Why is it doing this to me 40 years down the road?!?

I got dressed as usual, but then took a good look in the mirror.  My shirt was just a bit baggier than usual.  My jeans were just a bit lighter.  If I had hair, it probably would have had Dep in it. 

Madness was taking hold, and in its scaly grasp, I came up with the ridiculous idea that watching the video for “Electric Youth” might do the trick.

This video has everything you want in a wholesome ’80s pop video.  Pretty people doing non-threatening dance routines.  A backing band sponsored by Aqua Net.  Behind-the-scenes clips showing you that Debbie is just as down-to-earth as you would want her to be.  None of the latent sexiness to be found in, say, Alyssa Milano’s Teen Steam.

For a brief moment in time, I had “Electric Youth” stuck in my head.  This is akin to feeling the queasiness more than the headache during a hangover.  It didn’t last though, and soon my brain was back to pounding the foolish beat of “Only In My Dreams.”

Literal Insanity

I had resigned myself to my fate.  Like a young man in the ’80s who wore too much Drakkar, I was desensitized.  After almost a week, it was still with me, and I figured it would be the only song I’d ever have in my head again.  It’s as if Deborah wrote it for just this purpose.

It had become a trait at this point.  I have pale white skin with freckles.  I’m allergic to cats.  Two fingers on my right hand are bent due to breaking them a few years back.  My constant mental musical companion is Debbie Gibson.

I recalled what Mark Twain said about the mind: that it’s merely a machine, and you have no command over it, and it has no command over itself.  This sounded about right. 

I also remembered Rime of the Ancient Mariner (the Iron Maiden adaptation, of course).  Maybe if by the light of the moon, I prayed for ’80s pop’s beauty not doom, the albatross would fall from my neck and the curse would be lifted.

And no, not even Iron Maiden could save me from “Only In My Dreams.”

A Deal with the Devil

A week later, I was finally cured.  The curse of Deb has been lifted.  But it took a deal with the devil to do it.

(And now for a random, stealth game review!)

Over the weekend, I played through Indika, which is just about as weird as a walking simulator starring a Russian nun who can talk to the devil could be.  I usually don’t like avant-garde art pieces like this, but it brilliantly ties everything together in a very effective end sequence.

Without going into spoiler territory, our hero is having a conversation with the ever-present devil, bemoaning all the “disgusting” and “vile” thoughts he puts in her head.  At the end of the scene, she tells the devil to leave her alone, to which he says:

“Oh, I’d love to.  But I will only disappear when you stop wanting me to.”

As if by a miracle, I felt instantly cured.  My mind was only going to let Debbie Gibson go when it stopped wanting her to go away.  I embraced this, and the albatross finally fell.

A wiser man I rose the morrow morn. 

How it Feels to be Free

I wish I could say I have some great knowledge to share from all this.  I really don’t.  Indika is not yet a proven cure for earworms from the 1980s.  “Only In My Dreams” didn’t teach me anything about myself.  I did not become a more effective leader, a better father, or more in touch with my feelings. 

The song comes back from time to time, reminding me that I’ll never be cured, and I’m okay with that.  I feel something of a connection with Debbie Gibson now, and I’m glad that she and some of her contemporaries have had career resurgences, regaining some of the respect that may have been hard to come by in the edgy ’90s.

Except for the New Kids on the Block.  They will always suck.