Record Of Embarrassment

A while back I read Daniel Tammet's interesting memoir Born on a Blue Day, about his experiences as an Aspergian. Having grown up with someone like Tammet, I was especially interested in what he had to say about Asperger's and I was not disappointed by this book. Much of what he wrote hit home with me, and I found myself thinking that if enough people read books like this and John Elder Robison's Look Me in The Eye, perhaps people will stop marginalizing Aspergians and recognize them for the interesting, often uniquely talented people they are.

But what I want to write about today is something that came to me as I read an astonishing admission on Tammet's part: His favorite band is the Carpenters.

Now I'm not teasing Daniel Tammet. Like I said, I loved his book; I was fascinated by his insights, his account of his extraordinary childhood and remarkable achievements. I felt like weeping with envy reading about his mathematical genius, the ease with which he acquires language. But more than anything, I marveled at his honesty. And let's face it, anyone who publically states that his favorite band is the Carpenters must be honest. And brave.

One of the reasons I'm bringing this up is that I have a theory. No matter how musically sophisticated you think you are, I'm betting that you've got a musical secret that embarrasses you to death. I certainly do, but I'm not telling you mine until you tell me yours.

This is a test of courage, you understand. It is also a test of your honesty. I tried this out on my husband two decades ago, just after we'd met. I suspected him of musical snobbery just after I told him that my favorite reggae album happened to be The Harder They Come. He smiled a little disparagingly and told me that he'd been to reggae music shops in London where you'd be laughed to scorn if you were daft enough to mention Jimmy Cliff; that he went for far more obscure reggae musicians. I found this snobbery worrying and I knew that it was not the sort of thing I wanted to build a relationship on. So I tested my theory on him. Watching him closely, I asked him point blank what his favorite Carpenters' song was -- just like that! Bless him, he blushed and I know that he considered lying that he didn't have one, but he passed the test with flying colors. Looking around furtively, he whispered. "The one about the birds on the telephone line." In fact, he won double with this admission: that happens to be my favorite Carpenters' song too.

I'm not a big Carpenters' fan. I gave birth to my second baby in Tokyo, and the hospital we were in had a communal feeding room. All of us new mothers waddled in periodically to feed our infants, and we were allowed to choose from a number of CDs of soothing music that would supposedly aid our lactation. One woman, obviously going through a terrible depression, chose The Carpenters' Greatest Hits time after time. She would sit there nursing her infant, tears streaming down her face as we listened to We've Only Just Begun for the umpteenth time. I could have cried too, but for different reasons. By the time we finally got out of the hospital, even the merest mention of the Carpenters made me froth at the mouth. But it took its toll: it penetrated my subconscious. To this day, I have to cross my arms over my chest when Desperado comes on.

But I digress. Go on and tell me -- what band do you like that you wish to God you didn't? What record album do you have quietly moldering away in the basement that you shiver to think of anyone finding but cannot bear to throw away? What is your deepest, darkest, most embarrassing musical secret? You tell me yours and I will tell you mine. And I'm betting mine's worse.

The only person who is excused from playing along is Daniel Tammet, who has already fessed up with a beguiling lack of shame. If he writes to me, I'll e-mail him with the goods straight away.