“The past is a different country,” said LP Hartley. “They do things differently there.”
If this is true, what can we say about the Nation of 1973?
Judging by some shocking documentary evidence I recently uncovered, I would say that 1973 was a terrifying land of rhythmless dorks who enjoyed dressing up like Indians and plastering insanely cheerful smiles on their faces:
I have a cousin Chip who smiles like this. He had a bad habit of falling on his head, usually by falling off the backs of pickup trucks—or peddling bikes with no brakes down steep hills. (The later happened during a visit to our house in Pittsburgh. All I remember is my brother telling him he was putting his life in danger by riding this bike down this hill—followed by his dramatic helicopter lift to the hospital.)
Was 1973 a nation populated by cousin Chips? The evidence is strong, except I doubt Chip could have pulled off having a trio of sexy “Apache” girls doing what appears to be traditional Native American dances around him.
I ended up looking this song up, by the way, because I heard a version of it in Starbucks— and recognized that it had been sampled a million times. (Most notably by the Sugarhill Gang’s “Jump On It.") I then read on wikipedia that the tune is considered “hip hop’s national anthem.”
If you want a change of pace, however, this tune offers a glimpse of a truly evocative nation of the past— a country I could live in for a thousand years.
