The Democratic Music of Bob’s Burgers

ISSUE #325

The human is a musical animal. We’re one of the few: the birds, the whales, maybe the cats. Profiteers try to pretend like music's some exclusive skill or talent. It’s not. It’s a spiritual compulsion. A limitless drive. As rebuttal, ask them—"Remember gospel?" "Read about life before microphones?" Sorry—probably: "Seen someone make a video about that stuff, or imagined it?" "Felt like there's something you wanted to sing?"

My grandfather used to whistle on the farm; my grandmother doing the dishes. They were yokels, miles even from Flushing or Astoria. My dad used to sing this little ditty he made up to his only daughter to wake her up: “C’mon, pumpkin seed! C’mon!” His favorite bands are Styx, Queen, and Rush.

I have little to no idea how people feel about Bob’s Burgers. It’s not in the IMDB 250 (a sham of a list anyway) and I rarely see any press about it. Maybe because it’s just chugging along, a quotidian shingle, the way any adult animation does when it’s not dredging Rick & Morty controversy or dumping a full streaming season.

But I’ll say, if you tune into Bob’s just about any night, rerun or premiere, you’ll likely end up hearing one of the greatest pieces of musical television in history. Doesn’t matter the episode. Every single one ends with either an original song or a delightful cover, has an interstitial funk song or pop-punk B-side. Unpolished by design, life's bleeding melodies, they're beautiful the way good karaoke is. In these ditties, I hear the micro-pop of Tierra Whack married to the symphonic ambition of John Williams.

Five days ago, my grandmother passed away, and I’m back home for the funeral. Every time I’m back, I watch Bob’s with my sister. It's become the great comfort of my lifetime. It's why I need you to know how good the music is (just in case you don't). It reminds me of me, as all the things I truly love do. It's full of teeny punk, of Broadway pastiche, of power pop from the highest order.

This is the stuff you make up for yourself just to live a little longer, what you hope your wife won’t ever leave you over. It's voice to the "booty booty booty" songs, the little “ba-da-da-fucking-ding” you let out in the bathroom. Music tells us: there's quiet dignity to every life. No lords, no kings, no masters ever.

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