Once upon a time, we had record stores. (Records, for you young folks, are flat vinyl — occasionally styrene — disks which, when spun at the correct speed under a suitable tracing device, will yield up music. Never mind what happens when they’re spun at the incorrect speed.) And these record stores would occasionally spin those records in the hope of spurring sales.
A Fye Music Store I used to visit was frequently, for some reason, playing uniquely vapid tunes over its PA system (and often no other kinds of music, which would sort of make you wonder about their inventory). Unless I had a specific purchase in mind, I usually didn’t linger when one of those albums showed up and left to shop another day. I recall one day cutting my browsing short and heading to the counter to check out. The clerk asked, “Find everything you were looking for?” and I answered, “No, but I can feel myself getting stupider with every second of that song.”
Sometimes the temptation to break that record becomes overwhelming.