“Margaritaville”-Song Dissected

I’m not much a Jimmy Buffet fan, but there are a couple reasons why I respect him. Number one, he has actually written a song about cheeseburgers and how much he loves them, lamenting a diet that forbids their consumption . Having written about fast food myself, I can understand the power it commands over people. Number two, he has ventured into the land of Celebrity-owned restaurants, which we know thanks to Kenny Rogers’ Roasters, is not for the faint of heart. Although the tropical-themed “Margaritaville” is a suitable name for a dining establishment in his honor, I would like to see him take it a step further and start “Jimmy Buffet’s Bucket Buffet” which would be an all-you-can eat restaurant where you don’t put your food on a tray, you put it in a bucket.

Compared to Dave Matthews, Jimmy Buffet’s lyrics are deep and sophisticated, so I thought I would breakdown the cryptic, insightful “Margaritaville” in case you are wondering what he really is trying to pour out of that margarita pitcher in his soul.

Nibblin’ on sponge cake,
watchin’ the sun bake;
All of those tourists covered with oil.
Strummin’ my six string on my front porch swing.
Smell those shrimp
They’re beginnin’ to boil.

The artist lives in a warm tourist destination eating sponge cake while observing sunbathers disregard the the repeated warnings of dermatologists and lather themselves in tanning oil. He apparently cares not for their welfare because rather than warn them about the dangers of skin cancer, he continues to play his six string guitar on his front porch swing. Though indifferent to the tourists’ future health problems, the artist is able to effectively multi-task because he is apparently preparing a meal at the same time which involves boiled crustaceans.

Wasted away again in Margaritaville,
Searchin’ for my lost shaker of salt.
Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame,
But I know it’s nobody’s fault.

Though we have thus far not been informed of any alcohol consumption, the artist has apparently fallen victim to the intoxicating mixture of tequila, triple sec, and sweet and sour mix known as a Margarita. Margaritaville is a fictional city the artist is transported to upon consuming several margaritas, and it seems that this city exists solely in his mind. A common side effect of alcohol consumption, memory loss, has set in as a shaker of salt he likely needs to season his boiling shrimp is nowhere to be found. His peers seem inclined to blame a female, for the fickle natured woman frequently drives men to quell their pain with drinking, however the artist cautions against jumping to premature conclusions, instead assessing the situation as one where no one is at fault.

Don’t know the reason,
Stayed here all season
With nothing to show but this brand new tattoo.
But it’s a real beauty,
A Mexican cutie, how it got here
I haven’t a clue.

Likely still in a state of euphoric confusion thanks to the overpowering effects of alcohol on his nervous system, the artist contemplates why he has stayed in the same location for at least one season of the year. The alcohol’s effects on his memory seems to have continued as he now finds himself with a tattoo which he has no recollection of getting. At this point, the artist reveals that although he does not recall actually getting the tattoo, it is of rather high quality and is likely a portrait of an attractive Mexican female. It is important to realize that alcohol has the ability to impair one’s judgment, particularly regarding members of the opposite sex, so although he describes his tattoo as a “beauty”, it may be just “ok”.

Wasted away again in Margaritaville,
Searchin’ for my lost shaker of salt.
Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame,
Now I think, – hell it could be my fault.

Again the artists repeats the fact that he is quite intoxicated on Margaritas, and has unfortunately yet to find his salt shaker. Peers, “haters” in today’s common speak, still maintain that a women has driven him to such excessive drinking, but perhaps in alcohol induced psychosis, the artists ponders whether or not he is now to blame for the situation, a departure from earlier assessments that held no one at fault.

 I blew out my flip flop,
Stepped on a pop top,
Cut my heel, had to cruise on back home.
But there’s booze in the blender,
And soon it will render
That frozen concoction that helps me hang on.

At some point, the artist left his front porch, possibly to warn the tourists about the dangers of UV rays, however while in transit, his footgear was rendered useless and he stepped on an aluminum can. With a sliced heel, he had no choice but to head back home to dress his wound. Perhaps hastening his return was the thought that more Margaritas were available in the blender which has hopefully been left in the freezer rather than out on a counter where it would melt in such warm conditions. He plans on drinking more of them because it helps him deal with difficult situations, one of the tell-take signs of addiction.

Wasted away again in Margaritaville
Searchin’ for my lost shaker of salt.
Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame,
But I know, it’s my own damn fault.
Yes, and some people claim that there’s a woman to blame
And I know it’s my own damn fault.

As the song commences, we see the artist still reiterating the fact that he is intoxicated and inhabiting the fictional town of Margaritaville. No progress was ever made on his shaker of salt, and it’s whereabouts will forever remain a mystery. He once again indicates that his peers feel that a woman is at the root of his problems, but he does seem to achieve some clarity on the cause of his intoxication, which he now squarely attributes to himself.