An Intergalactic Parable of Alienation and the Humiliation of Not Quite Fitting In
There are moments in music history that feel less like a starting gun and more like a quiet, profound sigh—a long-awaited exhale from an artist who had, for decades, been half of a legendary, exquisitely polished equation. Such was the arrival of Walter Becker’s first solo album, 1994’s 11 Tracks of Whack. It wasn’t an attempt to replicate the gleaming, cynical perfection of Steely Dan, but a deliberate, almost defiant, step into a scruffier, more personal realm. And buried deep within its tracks, like a strange, glittering shard of dark comedy, is the song “Hat Too Flat,” a composition that perfectly encapsulates the album’s wonderfully cracked sensibility and Becker’s singular, sardonic wit.
For those of us who grew up with the serpentine jazz-rock and elliptical narratives of Steely Dan, the mid-90s were a time of cautious hope and deep nostalgia. The duo had reunited, yet the individual voices we knew were still emerging from the decades-long hiatus. While Donald Fagen’s solo efforts were often a seamless extension of the familiar Dan sound, Becker chose a path less traveled—a path that led to a sound that was deliberately looser, more blues-inflected, and, frankly, weirder.
Crucially, “Hat Too Flat”—and indeed, 11 Tracks of Whack as an album—did not achieve mainstream chart success. It was a release for the faithful, a connoisseur’s delight. It was never intended to be a radio hit; it was an artifact of pure, uncompromised artistic expression. Its commercial performance was modest, a footnote compared to the massive cultural footprint of its parent band, but its enduring significance lies in its meaning, which resonates with a poignant, universal experience of alienation.
The story behind “Hat Too Flat” is one of classic Beckerian subterfuge, a dramatic monologue delivered in the guise of a bizarre cosmic travelogue. The narrator is an alien visitor, a member of an advanced race arriving “all the way from far Arcturus” with “peace and good will.” This isn’t your typical saucer landing; the Arcturans have studied human culture intensely. They are prepared to assimilate: “Our women are slung down low to the ground / They’re very good you’ve probably had one / Our men are brave, studly and wise, / A pleasure to behold.” They’ve mastered the nuances of human interaction, or so they think, even correcting their linguistic errors: “My English she is much better now.”
Yet, a single, ridiculous, soul-crushing flaw remains: “The hat is just too flat.”
This is the brilliant, brutal core of the song’s meaning. On the surface, it’s a playful, off-kilter funk tune with a lurching reggae undercurrent, replete with oblique guitar work and a keyboard sound that sounds like a retro-futuristic burp. But beneath the wry humor, “Hat Too Flat” is a powerful, deeply felt metaphor for the immigrant experience, for the agony of social exclusion, or for any individual who has ever tried desperately to “pass” in a society that judges you on a superficial, arbitrary flaw. The Arcturan has done everything right—they are skilled, they are amiable, they’ve even improved their language—but they are rejected, defined, and ultimately defeated by the smallest, most insignificant detail: the shape of their headwear.
For those of us who have lived long enough to accumulate a litany of small, embarrassing failures, this song is a masterclass in melancholy disguised as absurdity. It’s the moment you realize that no amount of internal work or external competence can overcome the capricious, often illogical prejudices of the world. It’s a tragicomic narrative of an earnest attempt at belonging dashed by something as simple as a brim that won’t curl correctly. Becker, who spent much of his career crafting elaborate, literary critiques of societal dysfunction, delivers his most empathetic observation through the voice of a frustrated alien, making it one of the most uniquely nostalgic and emotional tracks in his catalogue. It’s a memory of every time you felt utterly out of sync, told with a groove that just won’t quit.