When I was in my early twenties I lived in Hollywood and briefly dated the lead guitarist for an arty, alternative band. While trying to find a record deal, these guys played little local venues with names like Club Lingerie and Gaslight. Their work sounded kind of like The Smiths, Echo and the Bunnymen or Joy Division. The songs had mysterious lyrics that I found breathtakingly ingenious but that in retrospect may have just been nonsense. (I think I can pretty much say the same thing about most of my twenties: seemed like genius — was really nonsense.)
One of the band’s songs was called Green Car. It offered enough angst-filled lyrics to satisfy even the most serious of liberal arts majors, but was set to a rollicking, danceable beat. And not once — not even in the crowd-pleasing extended version with drum solo — did the singer ever utter the words “green car.” In fact, the song never mentioned cars at all.
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