I have a closed circuit radio station playing in my head 24/7. A lot of the time, I'm listening to Golden Oldies (did you know that Love Me Do, because of a quirk in the European copyright law is, as I type this, in the public domain? And all this time I thought Allen Klein was the only bad guy in rock and roll) and sometimes I get a song stuck in my head and I don't know why.
For the last couple of days, I've been taking it very easy in terms of activity as I continue to recover from my brush with the flu-before-it-became-the-flu, catching up on my sleep and drinking a lot of liquids, or vice versa. I've also been enjoying the work of Lizzy Spit, a musician and performer I met (more or less), though Google+ and whose music I find more than interesting both lyrically and melodically. Good quiet time sounds.
Somehow, though I'm not sure of the math that would cause me to go from one place to the other, I have added Harry Nilsson to my mental jukebox and pushed B-52. To my knowledge Lizzy and Harry never met and have nothing in common, except they once both had blond hair. Harry isn't even alive anymore and yet they're both coexisting on my imaginary Rockola, hopping at the high school hop.
There's a wistfulness about the Lottery Song I have always loved. It suggests a vulnerability in Nilsson that at the time we, as fans of the man and his music, didn't necessarily hear. It was only after the song was over in the silence that followed that we first heard the softness of the sighs for what had gone before and was now passed forever. Let the wheel of Fortune spin.