Musical interlude

afternoon delight and pure intonation

Like every kid in the late 70s and early 80s, I had no idea what this song was about when I heard it on the radio. It is absolutely filthy underneath the clean, bright, veneer. But it’s filthy in a wholesome way. That’s what makes it so great.

It’s also corny as hell.

But my God, the harmonies. Listen to it again like you haven’t heard it before. The singers are in perfect, just intonation (pure harmonic intervals, not tempered).

My mother used to sing harmony along to this in the car or doing dishes; she had a pretty, pitch-perfect soprano with a lovely vibrato. I can see her hands on the steering wheel of the lemon yellow Ford Maverick, blue cigarette smoke curling up out of the ashtray underneath the AM radio in the dash. I can see them picking up the bottle of emerald green Palmolive as she hit the highest note.

It doesn’t matter what the lyrics are. When I hear perfect harmonic ratios like this it makes me tear up and gives me shivers up and down my body.

If there is anything we can call “divine” in any sense, for me it’s musical harmony. I’m convinced that pure harmonic ratios are tuned to the human nervous system. There must be a reason why they produce a kind of joy and a feeling of being overcome that nothing else does.

The sweet, open hopefulness helps, too. No past era was perfect, but we’ve lost so much we used to have that was simple and good.