“I fell asleep,” Jason said, apologizing.

“Ah.”

“I was awoken in the worst way possible.”

“Fire?”

“No.”

“Earthquake?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“A bunch of drunk people next door,” Jason said, keeping his voice flat, “singing ‘Wake Me Up When September Ends’.”

I like “American Idiot.” I listened to it for the first time because I was having a bad day and needed something to mock and I was bitterly disappointed. It’s a frightening world where little mockable can be found in a political rock opera by a pop-punk band whose past métier was the joy of stoned masturbation, but I guess it’s good to have another decent album out there. I even kinda like “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” though it’s the most obviously overblown song, and I can understand that it might suffer in quality when delivered by a bunch of drunk people next door. Or might it? Isn’t there something joyful, something communal and spontaneous, about a bunch of drunk people next door? Probably not in this case; the song’s all over MTV, and Jason just returned from a few months in Italy, where, apparently, the radio only plays “Wake Me Up When September Ends” and “Speed of Sound.” (This is sad and fallow compared to the rich musical climate of American radio, which also plays “My Humps.”) Such songs have become unhearable now, oatmeal, mere noise. But isn’t it possible that some songs, vivisected by the alcohol-drenched scalpels of a ruthless crowd, might yield better results? What might be sung so as to make Jason’s forced awakening, if not pleasant, at least memorable? Some suggestions:

The Decemberists - The Tain (Pt. 5): Not all of the Decemberists’ Irish-legend masterpiece lends itself to intoxicated ululation, but this, the penultimate movement, is just asking to be belted for all that it’s worth. Lurching from lead singer Colin Meloy’s deadpan recitations over nothing but a stuttering drumbeat to ascending AC/DC riffage, it’s full of stuff like “Darling dear, what have you done / Your clothes are torn, your makeup runs,” except it’s not “runs,” it’s “RUH-OOOOOH-UNS.”

American Music Club - Crabwalk: Contains the three hallmarks of the ideal drunken singalong: a loud, inescapable beat; an idiosyncratic singer whose flouting of conventional vocal rules has to be imitated with a deft, almost surgical touch lest things turn into an atonal Charybdis; and rapid-fire, Dylanesque lyrics that no one will ever be able to remember. Get some friends together and you can make a truly awful noise.

Tom Lehrer - Poisoning Pigeons in the Park: Many of Tom Lehrer’s songs are incisive, humane topical satires. This is not one of them. Giggle at the blissful strings and the oom-pah rhythm, then swirl your incompetent voices around lines like “when they see us coming the birdies all try and hide / But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide!” Let the teetotaler in your party negotiate the hazards of the bridge, in which Lehrer confesses having “gained notoriety and caused much anxiety in the Audobon society with our games,” and join in afterwards, when Lehrer speaks plainly: “it’s not against any religion to want to dispose of a pigeon.” Social consciousness and animal cruelty—the song’s a gold mine.

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! - Details of the War: The most fragile, soaring ballad on CYHSY’s gorgeous debut is ripe for violent destruction. Begin with a sacreligious desecration of the delicately mumbled stretched-gum vocals and build slowly to a horrifying climax, smashing Alex Ounsworth’s voice into oblivion as you shriek along: “be careful with the details of the war!” Extra fun comes from the inescapable fact that you don’t even know what the hell the lyrics are sober.

Garbage - Cherry Lips (Go Baby Go!): The overlooked single from Garbage’s third album is kept from being a truly perfect pop song only by its slightly too-overt desire to be such. Drink until you don’t know what “overt” means, and you’ll be set. Banish critical thought from the room, and settle down with Shirley Manson, a hook made of Day-Glo bubble-gum, and the kind of handclaps you have to do while moving your hands to alternating sides of your head. Get your falsetto on, and navigate each bouncy verse in the knowledge that you’re careening towards the orgasmic chorus, where Manson’s voice slides up and down sonic valleys like a character in an 80s platform game, while chiming bells and booming timpani cast the idea of restraint into the abyss from whence it came.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen (from “The Magic Flute”): If none of your friends want to sing this, you need some new friends. Sure, the lyrics are in German, but that shouldn’t stop you; nor should the impossibility of imitating the hearstopping acrobatics of the melody give you pause. We all know the famous part (which I shall attempt to reproduce here as the “ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-AH” part) but one forgets how soaring and inventive everything surrounding it is, and how dramatic Mozart allows his villain’s musical accompaniment to become. “The Magic Flute” is Mozart’s giddiest, most delirious opera, its every second demanding of a Wodehousian simile, and deserves to be experienced sober, but the fact is that nothing “Girls Gone Wild” scrapes from the bottom of the brainstem can touch the spectacle of a slightly intoxicated girl trying to punch her voice through the ceiling that separates it from the Queen of the Night’s. Except, of course, for a guy trying the same. This is your big finish.

Jason peered at the list as I stood by expectantly. “What do you think?” I said. “People read this, y’know. I think. Word might get around. Tomorrow night it could be Clap Your Hands next door. Or Mozart. Wouldn’t that be cool?” He was still reading. “You know,” I continued, “I was thinking, and there really might be a common thread between these songs. You know, the shared aspect that makes them all work so well. Maybe there’s something more communal about them. Maybe as human beings there are certain themes - and I’m not just talking lyrical themes, or literary themes, I’m talking particular kinds of music as well—that we respond to more tribally than we do to, like, My Bloody Valentine. I mean, I like walking around town with headphones on as much as the next guy, but there are some songs where it’s just, wow, I really want to sing along with this. And get some guy on the street to help. You know what I mean? People want to come together. They’re just looking for a catalyst.”

Jason came to the end, folded the printout, and handed it back.

“Don’t encourage the bastards,” he said.

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