I was listening to the DirecTV Adult Alternative music channel the other day when I came to two startling realizations:

One, no matter what song came on, I knew almost all the words.  And two, I think that means I’m officially an adult.

But it’s not like I ever sat down and committed the Sheryl Crow songbook to memory, or stayed up late studying the lyrics to “Nothing Compares 2 U.”  They’re just there, hogging gray matter.

Now, this is not to say that I’ve never attempted to memorize song lyrics.  In fact, my freshman year of college, my roommate and I decided it was absolutely imperative that we learn the words to Young MC’s “Bust A Move” (If you’ve somehow forgotten this classic, it begins, “This here’s a song for all the fellas / Try to do what those ladies tell us / Get shot down ‘cause you’re overzealous / Play hard to get females get jealous,” and progresses from there.  And yes, that was from memory).  To facilitate our learning, we typed up the lyrics, taped them to our dorm-room wall, and convened nightly for lo-fi karaoke study sessions.

I can no longer remember why we felt it was imperative to memorize a song whose lyrics included both “Stone cold munchin’” and “You say ‘neat-o,’ check your libido” -- though in our defense, it was 1989, and the collective wisdom of the time also agreed that it was a good idea to roll up the cuffs of your jeans and grow your hair longer in the back than in the front -- but regardless of rationale, the exercise was a success.  Nearly 16 years later, I can, at a moment’s notice, explain to you in detail exactly how to Bust A Move.

So I know why those song lyrics are in my head.  But every Tom Petty song ever played on the radio?  Half a dozen Dave Matthews Band songs that all sound the same?  Why do I know all those words?

Before you suggest mere repetition, let me also add this:  I can’t, for the life of me, remember my bank account number.

And though I am pressed to recall it every time I deposit a check, perhaps I simply haven’t read or written my bank account number as many times as I’ve heard “Don’t Do Me Like That.”  But my bank account number only has 12 digits.  “Don’t Do Me Like That” has 332 words -- and several of them aren’t “Don’t do me like that” (although many of them are).

So what gives?

After giving this much thought, I realized it all comes down to the alphabet.

And if you doubt this, see if you can find someone who knows the alphabet that doesn’t also know the alphabet song.

Undoubtedly, as kids, we learn the alphabet more readily in song because singing is more fun than memorizing.  But after a few hours with the Adult Alternative station (and that sounds a lot naughtier than it actually is), I realized that what triggers the memory is not the fun -- it’s the music.

For example, I’m sure I’m not the only one who knows that the function of a conjunction is hooking up words and phrases and clauses, or that a noun is a person, place or thing.  And why do I know those?  Well, because I have a bachelor’s degree in English -- I better.  But I learned them first from Schoolhouse Rock, where these lessons, and many more, were sung to me while I watched Saturday-morning cartoons.

But Schoolhouse Rock has hardly been my only musical teacher. I know that James K. Polk, our eleventh president, seized the whole southwest from Mexico, made sure the tariffs fell, made the English sell the Oregon territory, and built an independent treasury, and that having done all this he sought no second term.  And why do I know this?  Well, it’s not because I have a bachelor’s degree in history -- I don’t.  I know this because They Might Be Giants wrote “James K. Polk,” an insanely catchy tune about the selfsame Commander-in-Chief.

Simply put, if you hear it in song, it sticks in your head.  I’m convinced that Tommy Tutone became a one-hit wonder not because he was a particularly talented songsmith, but because when he saw Jenny’s number (867-5309) on the wall, he didn’t have a pen.

Still not buying this music/memory theory?  Try turning to your favorite classic-rock station -- you’ll be embarrassed at how many of the words you can sing along to.  The ugly truth is, we all know a little more REO Speedwagon than we’d like to admit.  And that’s not because of the significance of the lyrics -- though I admit there may be some deeper meaning behind “I don’t wanna sleep / I just wanna keep on lovin’ you” that escapes me -- it’s because of the catchiness of the tune behind them.

But perhaps the greatest argument in support of the theory is what happens when you remove the music from the words.  For years, radio stations have stumped listeners by reading opening lines -- all monotone, no melody -- and offering prizes to whoever can guess the song first.  And here the converse proves the rule:  on the classic game show “Name That Tune,” contestants consistently named songs -- given the melody alone -- in seven notes or less.

So what am I driving at?  Basically, the Save the Music people are completely missing half of the story.  Yes, we need to keep music education in our schools.  But more than that, we need to make education musical.

Teachers should be singing about spelling, harmonizing about history, and making melodies about math.  The National Endowment for the Arts should be offering grants to rock bands who make us sing along and teach us about history -- or math or science -- at the same time.

In other words, there is a solution to our educational problems, and it’s not more standardized testing -- it’s more songs.  That’s why I encourage you today to write to your school board, your elected representatives, and anyone else who will listen, and tell them you want more songs in schools.  We can start a movement here, friends.  We can start a movement now.  Let’s get to it!

In the meantime, I’m going to try to come up with a catchy tune for my bank account number.