My recent trip to Thailand has rekindled a musical fire in my soul, which I haven't felt in over a decade. My creativity unleashed, I brought into life an album that harks back to pop music of the mid-to-late 2000s — music concocted in the same cauldron as John Mayer, Jack Johnson, and Jason Mraz. The album captures the lazy and free beach bum vibe, which shall henceforth be referred to as coco-mango. This attitude, only accessible to white men like me, is cultivated by summoning the native man in your head. It matters not where he is from — he could be Jordanian, Kenyan, or Filipino — just once he is from a hotter, poorer county than yours. Permanently jolly and deferential, with a whistle-while-you-work character to the point of implausibility, he tirelessly labours the cogs and levers of your brain to create a chilled, laid-back vibe just for you. In advanced stages of this condition, you might find yourself under a coconut tree, wearing a straw hat, jamming on a ukulele.
And so it was this spirit that gripped me on my most recent holiday on Thailand. Perhaps it was the shits I suffered from during my holiday that forced me to be more laid-back and philosophical, but, in any case, I was swayed by the rhythm. I somehow managed to compose an album draft entirely on my phone. With no ukulele available, I made use of a two-litre bottle and some elastic bands; it's as good as the real deal.
I'll treat you to a preview of each song.
1. Never Change
A sentimental melody, gently urging the local islands I visited to remain the same. May the same saltwater lap against the shore; may the same smiles warmly grace the locals' faces; may the vibrant hum of the hot nights remain in the same key. May the cheap prices never succumb to any substantial inflation. Maybe air-conditioning could be more prevalent, and the wifi, as well. But, that aside, the song asks everything to remain the same, pure and unspoilt by too many visitors and increasing income expectations.
2. Mango Girl
A love hymn for a local girl — innocent, friendly, and (one hopes, despite all the references to her childlike features) of age. She is languorous, sweet, and exotically beautiful, quite possibly a product of my imagination. It's a passionate, soulful vow to love her forever — a love encumbered only by the sad reality that I have to go home and it's best she doesn't follow me. My land would only corrupt her sweet soul.
3. Be Chill (aka, don't tip too much, it "ruins" the natives)
A rebellious, righteous anthem to remind all the agitated folk of this world to look at the lighter side of life. Our time on Earth was not meant to be spent in a rat race. Chill brothers and sisters: drink coconut water and eat mango under the shade of a tree. Bathe in the sea and don't worry about anything. Let love guide you to the warm shore, and eat the food I prescribe above. Care not for the daily grind, or the small troubles that seem so big up-close. Come sail away with me and forget your worries. Fret not about work; forget about money. And always barter down the prices.
4. Somewhere, Over the Banana Pancake Tree
A reminder that the sweeter things in life are eminently within reach. Consider the coconut trees by the shore, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. Thematically similar to the last song, but sung in an intonation like that of the natives speaking English (heavily punctuated and simple in grammar). Also, its subject is a different type of food.
5. Your body is a salty wonderland
A cheeky, risqué love song about the adoration of the flesh. I'll allow your imagination to figure out what "her coconuts" means. She is like the sea, waves lapping against my shore. Also like the sea, she is salty, because the air-conditioning is broken and it's a very sweaty romp. The shortest song on the album too as exerting yourself in this heat is exhausting.
6. Mango Monkey Malarkey
A feverish, food-poisoned composition that spurts out in a shit-stream of consciousness. Monkey. Mango. Coconut. The mango tree. Alcohol bucket. Shore. Love. Long boats. Long nights. Coco water. Warm breeze. The sweet, refreshing water. Tropical fish. Warm smile. Little lizards. Tuk tuks. Banana pancakes. Full-moon party. Sandy beaches. Chill attitude. Elephants. Blue skies. Buddhist temples. Thai massage. Sunshine. Huge bullfrogs. Heatstroke. Diarrhoea. Ganesha, the great unblocker, curse me no more.
7. Sand in My Shoes Blues
A didactic tale told metaphorically. Riffing hard on my make-shift ukulele, this number packs real attitude. The surly, glum, jaded tourists taking up all the space in my holiday are lampooned squarely here, compared to the irksome sand that won't leave the inside of my sandals. They get everywhere, bringing a mild misery with them. Like sand, they can only be dealt with by drowning them in a handy basin of water. The song starts with that famous Anakan Skywalker quote to set the tone of a formidable attitude and an implausible lapse into homicide. Written before my morning coffee during my 4.30 a.m. visit to Angkor Wat.
8. Where'd All the Good Prices Go?
A post-holiday blues lament. Back home, where the attitude is far less chill and mangos are proportionally as expensive as they are lacking taste, one can only dream of returning to the lands of coco-mango. The thoughts linger long in your head, and soon it is all you can talk about. Everything at home is far more expensive. Your friends call you a pretentious knob for blathering on constantly about your holiday. All around you are miserable simpletons, with a countenance of solemn boredom appended permanently to their faces. They seem oblivious to what lies beyond the horizon: lazy days, cheap booze, coconut and mango. And checking the conversion rate between Thai Baht and Euro to make sure you're getting a real bargain.
In my mind's eye, I have already begun to imagine the live performance of the album. I imagine the perfect audience, the perfect atmosphere. I perform it in front of a crowd of jaded tourists, preferably as part of a guided tour, where the people barely interact with each other. Bored, and just going through the motions, they bend their knees bouncily and tentatively, and clap a perfunctory clap. The album will enchant those who have been touched by coco-mango, and they will allow an authentic, knowing smile drift up their face. The songs will haunt those who cannot relate to it, as they meander on, even more constipated and stressed in their lives. And then the sweet tunes will pass into the night sky, never to be heard again. A legend. Not available on the internet or on iTunes, and no CDs for sale. A ghost, an ether, a moment lost. The excitement will hit you momentarily, when you think you hear it on the stereo in some bar in Ko Phi Phi. But it's just Jack Johnson or Jason Mraz. We all sound the same.
As many of you have now guessed, the transience of the songs is the object lesson. The mid-2000s can never be recaptured. Visit as many paradise beaches in the Pacific all you want, but you'll never find it again. 2005 is never coming back. Put down the seashell necklace, and the bead bracelet. Remove the cargo shorts and the novelty t-shirt. Don't worry, it's all going to be okay. You can get them cheaper at a stall down the street anyway.
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| Don't forget to have a totally chill shirt, too. |
