I don’t get it, this getting older thing. Chronologically, yes. But state of mind? Personal aesthetics? Outside interests? No. Rather, I’m not sure. I don’t know how I am supposed to act, or exactly what it is I supposedly like now that I have survived five decades on Earth. My head and heart are caught in a tug of war between the dorky punk I used to be and the curmudgeon into which I am morphing. The tension is real and bizarre.
Routines are much more part of life these days. It is an afternoon habit of mine to have a tea or coffee break at this coffee shop near my office. I do not recall how it started, but almost every day I am there, hopefully perched in a window seat. People watching, daydreaming, writing such follies as this. Near to this shop is the campus of a liberal arts college. As such, the place has its share of students as customers and quite likely as baristas. This shop does not have Muzak or programmed piped music. Proof that there is mercy in the universe, sometimes. But what happens is that the employees typically hook up their smartphones or MP3 players to the shop speakers. Consequently I get to hear a broad spectrum of music, much of which I either know little of or have never heard.
The other day in the shop I was sipping tea and listening to the music. It was otherwise quiet so I was getting a good earful. Deciding I liked what I was hearing I opened the music identification app on my phone and let it cogitate. The result came back for a band of which I had heard the name but not the tune. Cool, I’m thinking I might have to get it. I research it only to find out that the song is an album that was released in 1992.
1992. Twenty-six frickin’ years ago. Blood rushed to my head, then swiftly drained out. Twenty six years is half my life ago.
See, herein lies the problem. I love music from the standpoint of an enthusiastic listener. I used to have a strong sense of time and place when I listened to it. I could orient myself quite well. But these days music is not so much bound by context and location. Also, between having listened to music for decades, the ubiquity of listening devices, and the widespread distribution of music wherever I go, I am simultaneously bored and fascinated by it all.
A consequence of that is I hear old stuff that sounds new and new stuff that sounds old, to my ears. I honestly don’t know what I am hearing sometimes. I just know I like it. Mostly. Recent adventures in music have taken me into rap, hip-hop, a little dub, neo-psychedelic rock, and even electronic dance music. There is much undiscovered country in music, for me, most of which is far away from my formative years in becoming a music lover.
On any given day the music I hear makes me feel old, young, and ageless. That can be a good thing. It can be dizzy-making, too. It feels odd to me to realize I am fan-boying over music that people much younger than me are considering to be the shit. Music is music, right, and age don’t matter to the ear of the open-minded listener, right? So why this mixing up with the issue of my years on earth?
This is a problem in that the onset of summer already has me disoriented and detached from life. My dizziness is only increasing from the influence of this musical curiosity of mine. Music has been by turns exhilarating and exhausting, uplifting and depressing. My head is unable to give direction and my heart is feeling oh so lost. Consequently I am at a loss as to how to behave in my life. “Act your age” is a shopworn bromide I have heard before. But what do you do when you cannot pin that down? The music is helping me to feel something, at least, even if it isn’t helping me think. That might be a good thing.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
17 June 2018
13 April 2014
On the Unaccountable Sadness of Orchestral Maneuvers in the Morning (Sunday Meditation #39)
I find sometimes that a familiar song played solely on violins and such often leaves me with a desire to weep. A curious phenomenon that is not conducive to the conduct of business in the public sphere. While not given to frequent weeping, I am not a man that is afraid to let it vent if circumstances dictate.
Still, it is troublesome. Not the sort of thing that should occur on an otherwise ordinary Thursday morning. Sweeping the floor, tending the shop: the retail equivalent of the Buddhist practice to chop wood, carry water. Music played and the tune was familiar, although I could not recall its name. An instrumental version heavy on violins and cellos. I paused while leaning on the broom. A lump formed in my throat. There called a low voice in my head, asking why this must be so.
I had no answer to this homesickness. Perhaps it is the vestige of the little boy in me, or the mercurial passions of the Irish poet I hope lives on my heart. Maybe there is no difference between the two. All I know is that in chords I cannot name I felt a pull between those things I left behind and those things towards which I travel.
The song ended. I swept the floor, greeted the customers. The lump I swallowed along with the tears that never reached my eyes. There was new music in my head, it was good, I kept moving towards the light.
Still, it is troublesome. Not the sort of thing that should occur on an otherwise ordinary Thursday morning. Sweeping the floor, tending the shop: the retail equivalent of the Buddhist practice to chop wood, carry water. Music played and the tune was familiar, although I could not recall its name. An instrumental version heavy on violins and cellos. I paused while leaning on the broom. A lump formed in my throat. There called a low voice in my head, asking why this must be so.
I had no answer to this homesickness. Perhaps it is the vestige of the little boy in me, or the mercurial passions of the Irish poet I hope lives on my heart. Maybe there is no difference between the two. All I know is that in chords I cannot name I felt a pull between those things I left behind and those things towards which I travel.
The song ended. I swept the floor, greeted the customers. The lump I swallowed along with the tears that never reached my eyes. There was new music in my head, it was good, I kept moving towards the light.
26 September 2013
If Only I Could Stop...
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics,Yeah, well there is the problem. I can't stop thinking about music and politics, even when I so desperately desire it. Part of that is just my own weirdness, part of it is the incessant yammering of pop culture and social media not giving it a rest. There is so much going on that I feel compelled to comment on, so many distractions, I cannot get it together. If I was paid for each reaction I have to the latest nuggets about gun control, Kanye West, Syria, or Miley Cyrus, I'd probably be wealthy enough to be "financially independent".
I would tell you that music is the expression of emotion
And that politics is merely the decoy of perception.*
But I am not paid for my exertions. Thus, I am not wealthy in that regard.
I have been silent for weeks now because I am overwhelmed by the blathering that passes for discourse in our shared media environment. So many things I could comment on, but I do not have the time or energy. So I'll leave it to the pundits, talking heads and chattering masses. Politics lately is making me tired, and music, well, music is making me slightly sad.
Do-nothings and twerking are not the breakfast of champions. Right now, so much has been said by others I feel there is nothing I can add without shrieking or weeping. And no one, especially me, wants to see that debacle.
I believe this state of affairs exists because of the tensions that bind me. Politics I can ignore to no great harm to my psyche, but music means too much to just set it aside. Coupled with my obsessions about food, I am all set to be uneasy in the media environment these days.
So, I won't use this post to rant about music and politics. As to food, let me say that I have been thinking about it in the gaps where I was not thinking about music and politics. About what other people are eating, what I want to eat and where I can get it. This has given me the urge to write about food, which I must say I have been doing, just not here.
And that is a story for another time. I'll keep you posted on that score.
Suffice to say that all this mental meandering has left me in quite a state. Thinking about food often leads me to thinking about travel, because much of what I am curious to eat is better experienced in its native surroundings. Plus, there are people I want to meet in those places I want to eat. Here, there, and everywhere, food is often better when shared. My difficulty in traveling, meeting and eating is that difficulty common to the modern era: the lack of time and money.
So what is this all about? Ladies and gentlemen and those in between, I really do not know. This ramble of mine had no specific agenda, I simply felt the need to communicate to you where I my head and heart seem to be. Where they are, is somewhere between the poles and the equator, wishing I could break bread with you all.
That, and wishing I could stop thinking about music and politics.
*Lyrics quoted from "Music and Politics" by The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy
30 May 2013
Electric Slumgullion
8:34 PM. Burning off the dross of the day, the sky is undecided. Rain is on the way, I think. But there is music.
Lately I have been looking in the mirror carefully, trying to see who might show up. Or what might show up. See, I've also been unable to shake off the notion that if I had a totem from the world of plants, it would be an onion. I stare into the silvered glass, watching the layers morph and ripple across my tired face.
To have my animal self replaced by a plant is deflating. It should not be, perhaps. We are all of us made of many things, and not all of them mammalian. The identity drawn therefrom can serve as a wellspring of strength, courage, energy. In my case, I fancied my animal self to be Panthera onca, the jaguar. Powerful, enigmatic, and possessed of a shamanic energy I crave and envy.
The jaguar has been scarce lately. I catch the occasional glimpse, but full sightings are scarce like iridium crystals. I hold the totem in my hands, but the eyes are dull. This troubles me.
The jaguar, it seems, has given way to the onion. How long this will last, none can say. All I know is that the last year has peeled away a lot from my outer surfaces, exposing even more layers within as well as creating the occasional tears. I spend a lot of time meditating on these circumstances. It is important for me to plumb my depths. I have no desire to be caught from behind by things I did not know existed within.
This is not to say that these layers are always serious. While I certainly have the tendency to be too serious, there are things I keep finding that make me laugh, or marvel at the oddities that contribute to the mass of intriguing weirdness that resides in my heart and head.
Case in point tonight: on my way home this evening, I caught a musical snippet on "World Cafe with David Dye"---an interesting radio show hosted by WXPN---that made me sit up and take notice. It was this weird but likeable mix of what sounded like Indian-inspired dance hip-hop party music. I had no clue as to genre, and I missed the name of the group, but I wanted to hear it again. I felt I had to know who, what, and why.
So I turned to our friend the Internet and looked up the play schedule for WXPN. Turns out the music I heard was by a the group Red Baraat, a Brooklyn, NY-based outfit that combines Punjabi bhangra with New Orleans-style jazz, hip-hop, and go-go music. I couldn't even begin to tell you exactly what all of those styles encompass, but I can tell you this: the music made me happy and wanting to dance. And I'm not a dancer by any stretch.
Dig this, too. The leader of the band is named Sunny Jain. Born in the United States, his parents were Punjabi immigrants. He is trained as a jazz drummer. The band is heavy on percussion and brass, including a two-headed drum---the dhol---and a sousaphone.That's right, ladies and gents, a freakin' sousaphone. And the guy who plays it also raps.
I don't know what it is about stuff like this that draws me in. It makes me wish I could play a sousaphone, for crying out loud. It is weird. It is loopy.Which some might say are accurate descriptors of me.
It is this sort of thing that gives me hope for the future, for the world, and for myself. I like to think the one who likes all this weirdness is the poet in my soul, the one hidden behind all those layers, and that doesn't get to the surface as often as I wish. What I heard made the poet smile, making me okay with my weirdness.
I bounced in my chair for a bit, listening to the music and tucking into a digital bowl of electric slumgullion. After all, the jaguar is in there, too. He is hungry, he must be fed.
Lately I have been looking in the mirror carefully, trying to see who might show up. Or what might show up. See, I've also been unable to shake off the notion that if I had a totem from the world of plants, it would be an onion. I stare into the silvered glass, watching the layers morph and ripple across my tired face.
To have my animal self replaced by a plant is deflating. It should not be, perhaps. We are all of us made of many things, and not all of them mammalian. The identity drawn therefrom can serve as a wellspring of strength, courage, energy. In my case, I fancied my animal self to be Panthera onca, the jaguar. Powerful, enigmatic, and possessed of a shamanic energy I crave and envy.
The jaguar has been scarce lately. I catch the occasional glimpse, but full sightings are scarce like iridium crystals. I hold the totem in my hands, but the eyes are dull. This troubles me.
The jaguar, it seems, has given way to the onion. How long this will last, none can say. All I know is that the last year has peeled away a lot from my outer surfaces, exposing even more layers within as well as creating the occasional tears. I spend a lot of time meditating on these circumstances. It is important for me to plumb my depths. I have no desire to be caught from behind by things I did not know existed within.
This is not to say that these layers are always serious. While I certainly have the tendency to be too serious, there are things I keep finding that make me laugh, or marvel at the oddities that contribute to the mass of intriguing weirdness that resides in my heart and head.
Case in point tonight: on my way home this evening, I caught a musical snippet on "World Cafe with David Dye"---an interesting radio show hosted by WXPN---that made me sit up and take notice. It was this weird but likeable mix of what sounded like Indian-inspired dance hip-hop party music. I had no clue as to genre, and I missed the name of the group, but I wanted to hear it again. I felt I had to know who, what, and why.
So I turned to our friend the Internet and looked up the play schedule for WXPN. Turns out the music I heard was by a the group Red Baraat, a Brooklyn, NY-based outfit that combines Punjabi bhangra with New Orleans-style jazz, hip-hop, and go-go music. I couldn't even begin to tell you exactly what all of those styles encompass, but I can tell you this: the music made me happy and wanting to dance. And I'm not a dancer by any stretch.
Dig this, too. The leader of the band is named Sunny Jain. Born in the United States, his parents were Punjabi immigrants. He is trained as a jazz drummer. The band is heavy on percussion and brass, including a two-headed drum---the dhol---and a sousaphone.That's right, ladies and gents, a freakin' sousaphone. And the guy who plays it also raps.
I don't know what it is about stuff like this that draws me in. It makes me wish I could play a sousaphone, for crying out loud. It is weird. It is loopy.Which some might say are accurate descriptors of me.
It is this sort of thing that gives me hope for the future, for the world, and for myself. I like to think the one who likes all this weirdness is the poet in my soul, the one hidden behind all those layers, and that doesn't get to the surface as often as I wish. What I heard made the poet smile, making me okay with my weirdness.
I bounced in my chair for a bit, listening to the music and tucking into a digital bowl of electric slumgullion. After all, the jaguar is in there, too. He is hungry, he must be fed.
02 December 2012
If I Could Speak My Mind (Sunday Meditation #25)
9:54 PM. At my desk, on the cusp of what I hope to be a good nights' sleep. Poems and music in my head.
I returned home about forty minutes ago, tired but content, from a social event where I got schooled in what in means to surround one's self with beautiful things that make one happy. In other words, Art. All I know is that I stood there admiring some prints, and thought "That is what I want to do. Please."
On the ride home I had a mashup going on in my head, poetry of two widely divergent decades swirling around in my head. W. B. Yeats in a church, sepulchrally intoning 'The Second Coming' intertwined with the staccato baritone of Chuck D. knocking out 'Welcome to the Terrordome'...and I couldn't stop marveling over the power of shadow and light and words. I couldn't help but feel a tad helpless in the face of such talent and skill.
I thought of my cameras and notebooks waiting patiently at home. I wondered, given what is out there and the sum total of powerful art that has been created, if my aspirations to be a shaman (of sorts) are wildly misplaced. I like to think I see things, hear things, that maybe no one else does in those creative moments of mine. But I have much to learn when it comes to pursuing and creating art, of any kind, be it written or visual.
Yeats, Chuck D. and an artist whose name I didn't write down. I can see them on the road ahead of me. I've miles to go, people, miles to go on the road to who I want to be.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
~ from 'The Second Coming' by W. B. Yeats
Man I've had it up to here
Gear I wear got 'em goin' in fear
Rhetoric said
Read just a bit ago
Not quittin' though
Signed the hard rhymer
Work to keep from gettin' jerked
Changin' some ways
To way back in the better days
Raw metaphysically bold
Never followed a code
Still dropped a load
Never question what I am God knows
Cause it's comin' from the heart
~from 'Welcome to the Terrordome' by Public Enemy
I returned home about forty minutes ago, tired but content, from a social event where I got schooled in what in means to surround one's self with beautiful things that make one happy. In other words, Art. All I know is that I stood there admiring some prints, and thought "That is what I want to do. Please."
On the ride home I had a mashup going on in my head, poetry of two widely divergent decades swirling around in my head. W. B. Yeats in a church, sepulchrally intoning 'The Second Coming' intertwined with the staccato baritone of Chuck D. knocking out 'Welcome to the Terrordome'...and I couldn't stop marveling over the power of shadow and light and words. I couldn't help but feel a tad helpless in the face of such talent and skill.
I thought of my cameras and notebooks waiting patiently at home. I wondered, given what is out there and the sum total of powerful art that has been created, if my aspirations to be a shaman (of sorts) are wildly misplaced. I like to think I see things, hear things, that maybe no one else does in those creative moments of mine. But I have much to learn when it comes to pursuing and creating art, of any kind, be it written or visual.
Yeats, Chuck D. and an artist whose name I didn't write down. I can see them on the road ahead of me. I've miles to go, people, miles to go on the road to who I want to be.
03 February 2012
All We Need is Wooooah!
Wooooah!
I need a few more of these in my life. Those moments where I could just shout it.
Wooooah!
I'd love to burst out with it in the middle of a business meeting someday. I think it would be a great way to let everyone know my enthusiasm for the topic at hand. Get some attention, for sure. Wouldn't that be cool? Random explosions of joy, of exuberance.
Wooooah!
What holds me back? Decorum, I suppose. Not wanting to perturb co-workers or random folks passing by. Although that wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Wooooah!
I used to shout it out. That was back in the days of being a young Gumbo, at concerts and dances where it was noisy and I could get lost in the crowd. The problem for me was self-consciousness and a lack of good musical voice. Not that being able to sing is necessary, but it is better if you can at least get it in key. I can't sing, and for me to hit a key is more chance than skill.
Wooooah!
These days I don't get my woah on very often. It has to be the right moment, almost always music inspired. And I don't do it in public. Mostly in the car, or in the odd moment at home when I can occasionally be moved to caper about like a fool to something on the radio or my music collection. I kid myself that I can do it well.
Wooooah!
Sometimes I do get it right. And when I do, I smile and play my air guitar or put my fist in the air, recalling the energy I once had and the time I cherished where a good woah fit right in. These days, I hear one on the radio and I know that exuberance can be had, if I know where to look. I used to think that growing up meant I'd have to leave it behind. For too long, I did leave it behind.
Now I know better. It's still there, peeking out from the shadows of my jaded heart. It won't manifest every day; that's no longer possible. But it doesn't have to be every day. All I need to know is I have it, and all it needs are the right moments. I'm happy to say that, even in the midst of nearly four months of being jobless, I'm having quite a few Wooooah! moments.
That is a very good thing indeed. Wooooah!
Two of the best wooooah! moments I have heard recently is in a new favorite song of mine, "I Don't Owe You A Thang" by blues guitar virtuoso Gary Clark, Jr. If you want a great pick-me-up, you can listen to the song/watch the video HERE. Great stuff. I wish I could do it the way he does it!
I need a few more of these in my life. Those moments where I could just shout it.
Wooooah!
I'd love to burst out with it in the middle of a business meeting someday. I think it would be a great way to let everyone know my enthusiasm for the topic at hand. Get some attention, for sure. Wouldn't that be cool? Random explosions of joy, of exuberance.
Wooooah!
What holds me back? Decorum, I suppose. Not wanting to perturb co-workers or random folks passing by. Although that wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Wooooah!
I used to shout it out. That was back in the days of being a young Gumbo, at concerts and dances where it was noisy and I could get lost in the crowd. The problem for me was self-consciousness and a lack of good musical voice. Not that being able to sing is necessary, but it is better if you can at least get it in key. I can't sing, and for me to hit a key is more chance than skill.
Wooooah!
These days I don't get my woah on very often. It has to be the right moment, almost always music inspired. And I don't do it in public. Mostly in the car, or in the odd moment at home when I can occasionally be moved to caper about like a fool to something on the radio or my music collection. I kid myself that I can do it well.
Wooooah!
Sometimes I do get it right. And when I do, I smile and play my air guitar or put my fist in the air, recalling the energy I once had and the time I cherished where a good woah fit right in. These days, I hear one on the radio and I know that exuberance can be had, if I know where to look. I used to think that growing up meant I'd have to leave it behind. For too long, I did leave it behind.
Now I know better. It's still there, peeking out from the shadows of my jaded heart. It won't manifest every day; that's no longer possible. But it doesn't have to be every day. All I need to know is I have it, and all it needs are the right moments. I'm happy to say that, even in the midst of nearly four months of being jobless, I'm having quite a few Wooooah! moments.
That is a very good thing indeed. Wooooah!
Two of the best wooooah! moments I have heard recently is in a new favorite song of mine, "I Don't Owe You A Thang" by blues guitar virtuoso Gary Clark, Jr. If you want a great pick-me-up, you can listen to the song/watch the video HERE. Great stuff. I wish I could do it the way he does it!
20 June 2011
Because Bird is the Word
The night before Father's Day, I was winding down from a relatively busy day for a weekend. Chores were done, belly had been filled (spicy home-made bean and linguica burritos, if you are curious) and I had the luxury of some quiet moments with no agenda. As is often my wont, I began to follow the inscrutable exhortations of my soul.
In this case, it meant a session on the interwebs and time in on the good ol' iTunes store, from whence I purchased some music. What music, you ask? Well, I'll tell you:
Stone Rollin', the new album from Raphael Saadiq and...the single of "Surfin' Bird" by the Trashmen.
I know, I know...you're probably wondering WTH? How does that even tie together?
Honestly, I'm not sure. I hear things and I jot them down on scraps of paper and napkins and stuff, so I won't forget. The end result, especially when it comes to music, is usually eclectic mental flotsam.
Anyway, Stone Rollin' is an excellent album, Saadiq has talent and skill to burn, and discussion of it is a subject for another post. "Surfin' Bird", well...it got me to thinking about Father's Day and my Big Bro, and how much I miss him since he passed away in 2009.
When we were kids, we heard "Surfin' Bird" on the radio, and we got a lot of hilarity out of it. This was long before Family Guy got a hold on it (which, BTW, is one of the funniest things I've witnessed on television). Big Bro and I could both do a credible imitation of the vocals. Admittedly, that may not be much of a stretch, but we were good at it.
Hearing it again brought back some of the life he and I shared, so long ago. It made me a little nostalgic for the silliness we could get into, and thinking of him made me think of what he was as a son, brother and father (to my nephew). Big Bro was an imperfect person, but he had a big heart and an translucent soul. He tried his best, straining against his limitations, to be the best dad he could be given the circumstances.
And we loved him for that. Still do.
Happy Father's Day, Big Bro. You still are the word.
In this case, it meant a session on the interwebs and time in on the good ol' iTunes store, from whence I purchased some music. What music, you ask? Well, I'll tell you:
Stone Rollin', the new album from Raphael Saadiq and...the single of "Surfin' Bird" by the Trashmen.
I know, I know...you're probably wondering WTH? How does that even tie together?
Honestly, I'm not sure. I hear things and I jot them down on scraps of paper and napkins and stuff, so I won't forget. The end result, especially when it comes to music, is usually eclectic mental flotsam.
Anyway, Stone Rollin' is an excellent album, Saadiq has talent and skill to burn, and discussion of it is a subject for another post. "Surfin' Bird", well...it got me to thinking about Father's Day and my Big Bro, and how much I miss him since he passed away in 2009.
When we were kids, we heard "Surfin' Bird" on the radio, and we got a lot of hilarity out of it. This was long before Family Guy got a hold on it (which, BTW, is one of the funniest things I've witnessed on television). Big Bro and I could both do a credible imitation of the vocals. Admittedly, that may not be much of a stretch, but we were good at it.
Hearing it again brought back some of the life he and I shared, so long ago. It made me a little nostalgic for the silliness we could get into, and thinking of him made me think of what he was as a son, brother and father (to my nephew). Big Bro was an imperfect person, but he had a big heart and an translucent soul. He tried his best, straining against his limitations, to be the best dad he could be given the circumstances.
And we loved him for that. Still do.
Happy Father's Day, Big Bro. You still are the word.
10 June 2011
Early Summer Poetry Slam #3: Quiet Aria
She sings, moon listens
straining on tiptoe to hear
music of the heart
straining on tiptoe to hear
music of the heart
10 April 2011
Saturday Night (Swiffer) Fever
It says something about my current life and state of mind that its Saturday, on a cool but pleasant night, and I am home alone perched on the couch...and I am okay with this situation. There is good music on the stereo, the chores are all done and I am pleasantly tired and (get this) relaxed.
"Get out!" you say. "I know!" I say.
It is true. I am relaxed. This is big. It has been weeks since I felt unwound to the point where I didn't feel jittery, and I had a grip on my day. This is what it must feel like, I tell myself, to feel normal. Perhaps normal is just another way to say 'content', like cows chewing cud.
I attribute this to finally pushing myself to take care of lots of nagging little things, cleaning out some clutter, catching up on laundry and bills. Oh, and a liberal dose of my Wee Lass. She wasn't with me this weekend, but the circus was in town, and she and I and her mother went to see it. Wee Lass was very excited, and seeing that made me feel good too. She got a stuffed white tiger (with cub) as a souvenir, and we all thoroughly enjoyed the show. An amazing spectacle, fun for all!
After that it was pizza for dinner, and then home for me. I briefly considered hitting the tavern around the corner, but then I got distracted.
Distracted by Swiffering. Yeah, man, I was doing the swiffer-dance and getting the floors clean, and I was really digging it. There was a brief pang, of feeling pathetic because I'm cleaning instead of clubbing* on a Saturday night...but then with a playlist like this one:
*Not that I ever was much on clubbing. When I had the energy for it, I lacked the social skills to make a go of it. Now that I can at least make people think I have social skills, I almost never have the energy. Seems a tad unfair, yes?
26 February 2011
Music and Politics and a Sweet Ride
After watching our boy Richard Engel in Iraq, then Egypt (see above) and now Libya, I have to say I'm very impressed. Boy's got stones, he does.
But maybe its fatigue settling in, me feeling a bit punchy...but I saw the original newscast of the happenings in that video, and watched the video tonight, and both times I had the same thought:
Wouldn't it have been hilarious if, in the background, a tricked-out Impala low rider drove by, blaring an Arabic-language version of "F**k Tha Police"?
Yep. I'm tired.
25 February 2011
Bookends: Eighties
Me and Big Bro, circa 1984
I was browsing some '80's and '90's music files tonight and I could not help but think of my brother. The music led me to some pictures, specifically the one above. It's a Polaroid, and my parents have the original. I never used to get sentimental over old pictures, especially ones of myself, but things are different now. As far as I'm concerned, that picture up there needs to be archived in a museum-quality case, suitable for framing.
I am struck particularly by our expressions. Mine was showing a lot more self-assurance (youthful arrogance?) than I really possessed, and Big Bro? Well, he was the shizznit, as that expression says it all. He certainly could pull off the Look. It gained in strength when he had a guitar in his hands, something I could not (and still can't) do.
I think that picture was taken at a time when I was beginning to feel I had any confidence at all of dealing with the world, out of high school and on my way to college. It was a time I felt like I was right, even when I wasn't. Untested youth has a way of doing that to a person.
I'm glad I didn't know then, what I know now. I see this picture, and I cannot help but marvel at the power we didn't know we possessed. Me and my Big Bro against the world, two saplings as yet unbent by the storms of life...the hurricane that took him down struck much too early. The one that might take me, well, I hope its a long way off.
Until then, I'll think of him, and sink my roots deeper into the soil.
The following link (to myspace.com) is to a song by The Jesus and Mary Chain, that came out in 1989, which is kind of the cap on what I think of as my first (hopefully) Golden Age. I listen, and I wish I could have sung this live with my brother on guitar. I know he would have liked that.
18 February 2011
Pretty Sound Good - The Ponytail Files, Volume 2
Hey, guys and dolls! Here's a little trip in the Wayback Machine. Longtime readers may recall THIS POST from (get this) two years ago, about the the lurvely Adele and her incredible voice. Well, a really ravishing look, too, but she can saaaaaang!
Guess what, my lovelies? She's back! A slightly different (but still lurvely)(very lurvely) look and a new album out this year...and once again I am gobsmacked.
So I...uh, wait, where was I? I was approaching a point here, what did I do with it? Oh, yes, of course...MUSIC! As I said, she has a new album out, and if anything, she sounds even better. Click on the picture, it links to a concert performance from earlier this month. You don't have to listen to the whole thing (30 minutes), but at least give the first song a try...mmm, mmm, that voice...pretty do sound good, so good.
Happy Friday, everyone!
15 January 2011
Spider
Silicon glow marred by the flow
of words, and pictures, cascading
down eyes gone glassy, seen too much
Sad guitar warbles across empty rooms,
I know sometimes it gets too much
But tell me baby, have you had enough
Hands pause, cradling head and smoothing hair
he thinks, yeah, it gets too much, this searching,
stirring of the silt in the memory tank
Invisible engines make it so easy, and so hard
to stop, when the past is lying in wait
just clicks away, under trembling fingers
And I know sometimes I can be too much
No, no, he whispers, you were never too much;
This electronic memory web, baby, it drowns me
Lines in italics were quoted from the song "Tell Me Baby (Have You Had Enough)" by Phosphorescent, on the album Here's To Taking It Easy, a mighty fine indie/alt-country work of art.
10 January 2011
Little Acorns
A finer scene I am unsure I could have made up, playing out on the couch in my living-dining room combo space, as the Wee Lass and I sat side by side on a fine Sunday morning. It is that special time of year for those of us who are, or like to pretend they are, gardeners what can grow the good stuff.
You know what I'm talking about: that is right, the seed catalogs are here! You remember that scene in "The Jerk" when the new phone books arrive? Yeah, that's what it is like. This year, anyway.
I get two seed catalogs* from major suppliers, and I look forward to perusing them at my leisure in the depths of winter. Now that the Lass is a little older and enjoys plants and flowers, we have started what looks to be an annual tradition of our own. When the seed catalogs arrive, she and I set aside some time to leaf (leaf: get it? ha!) through them to pick out stuff to grow in the spring and summer.
Our interests are complementary in that I am drawn strongly to the Things That Are Good To Eat, and she is drawn to the Things That Make Pretty Flowers/Have Pretty Names. I like flowers too, but can't help the appetite. If I can find something that looks great and produces tasty stuff, well that is just double plus good for me. The Wee Lass is on a pink kick, and she is drawn like a bee to the flowers that do just that. She also likes big showy ones like sunflowers and marigolds.
So this past Sunday morning, we parked ourselves on the couch, catalogs in hand and sticky note tabs at the ready. I had some music playing, streaming on the laptop, mug of tea nearby. She snuggled up to me and we set to.
Fruits and vegetables came first, followed by the flowers. As we made our way through the peppers and tomatoes, impatiens and sunflowers, Wee Lass carefully wrote our first initial followed by either 'V' for vegetable or 'F' for flower on each tab, and we affixed the note to each seed we liked. In the end of course, we ended up with far more selections than we could possibly manage, but it sure was great fun.
This year was extra special, because of what happened as we searched and marked. Shortly after we started, I noticed Wee Lass bobbing and moving to the music. It was either "The Long Cut" or "Chickamauga" off of the Anodyne album by Uncle Tupelo. She seemed to really be getting into it, and I was amazed. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to make her self-conscious about it. A short while later, the song "We've Been Had" came on, and she started a little seat dancing. I couldn't help but grin and laugh, and I asked if she liked this music. She said yes, and wanted to know the title of the song and who it was by. She kept it up into the next song, "Fifteen Keys", and I thought my heart was going to overflow, it was so full.
It felt so good sitting there in the sunlight bouncing from her bedroom windows and into the living room, sharing some things I care about with the vein of my heart, and basking in the wonder and joy of her discoveries. We have something we can grow together, literally and figuratively. We will plant some seeds later in the early spring, and maybe learn some new songs along the way as well.
We will grow together, and sing the joy of sunlight and music. We will know love.
*Fedco and Burpee. I am not receiving compensation of any kind from either company, I just like them. I have had great success with Fedco seeds (love their catalog in particular) and I even have a cool Fedco shirt. Burpee was my late G-maw's seed purveyor of choice. When I was a boy I avidly looked forward to reading the catalogs when they arrived at her house.
You know what I'm talking about: that is right, the seed catalogs are here! You remember that scene in "The Jerk" when the new phone books arrive? Yeah, that's what it is like. This year, anyway.
I get two seed catalogs* from major suppliers, and I look forward to perusing them at my leisure in the depths of winter. Now that the Lass is a little older and enjoys plants and flowers, we have started what looks to be an annual tradition of our own. When the seed catalogs arrive, she and I set aside some time to leaf (leaf: get it? ha!) through them to pick out stuff to grow in the spring and summer.
Our interests are complementary in that I am drawn strongly to the Things That Are Good To Eat, and she is drawn to the Things That Make Pretty Flowers/Have Pretty Names. I like flowers too, but can't help the appetite. If I can find something that looks great and produces tasty stuff, well that is just double plus good for me. The Wee Lass is on a pink kick, and she is drawn like a bee to the flowers that do just that. She also likes big showy ones like sunflowers and marigolds.
So this past Sunday morning, we parked ourselves on the couch, catalogs in hand and sticky note tabs at the ready. I had some music playing, streaming on the laptop, mug of tea nearby. She snuggled up to me and we set to.
Fruits and vegetables came first, followed by the flowers. As we made our way through the peppers and tomatoes, impatiens and sunflowers, Wee Lass carefully wrote our first initial followed by either 'V' for vegetable or 'F' for flower on each tab, and we affixed the note to each seed we liked. In the end of course, we ended up with far more selections than we could possibly manage, but it sure was great fun.
This year was extra special, because of what happened as we searched and marked. Shortly after we started, I noticed Wee Lass bobbing and moving to the music. It was either "The Long Cut" or "Chickamauga" off of the Anodyne album by Uncle Tupelo. She seemed to really be getting into it, and I was amazed. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to make her self-conscious about it. A short while later, the song "We've Been Had" came on, and she started a little seat dancing. I couldn't help but grin and laugh, and I asked if she liked this music. She said yes, and wanted to know the title of the song and who it was by. She kept it up into the next song, "Fifteen Keys", and I thought my heart was going to overflow, it was so full.
It felt so good sitting there in the sunlight bouncing from her bedroom windows and into the living room, sharing some things I care about with the vein of my heart, and basking in the wonder and joy of her discoveries. We have something we can grow together, literally and figuratively. We will plant some seeds later in the early spring, and maybe learn some new songs along the way as well.
We will grow together, and sing the joy of sunlight and music. We will know love.
*Fedco and Burpee. I am not receiving compensation of any kind from either company, I just like them. I have had great success with Fedco seeds (love their catalog in particular) and I even have a cool Fedco shirt. Burpee was my late G-maw's seed purveyor of choice. When I was a boy I avidly looked forward to reading the catalogs when they arrived at her house.
03 January 2011
Rock and Roll Animal
New Year's Eve, 2010, I attended my first rock and roll club show in years. Many, many years. I wanted to see J. Roddy Walston & The Business, a group whose debut album has been in heavy rotation on my iPod since it came out earlier in the year. I had missed them at a previous show, in a smaller venue, and reckoned now was the time. Carpe diem, and all that.
The band went on at midnight, right after the ball dropped. It was like opening the door into a hurricane. A loud, raucous and just-this-side-of-controlled hurricane.
Standing there, about four people back from the stage, stomping my feet, pumping my fist and shouting choruses at the top of my lungs, I felt something wake up inside. Something that had been asleep for a long, long time: the animal, and it felt good. It was like watching a jaguar stretch, flex and growl. It makes the blood run hot, and alive.
The tired, run-down me shook hands with the rock star me, and together we pushed back the great gray walls of the universe. The volume knob on life went to eleven.
And it was good.
The band went on at midnight, right after the ball dropped. It was like opening the door into a hurricane. A loud, raucous and just-this-side-of-controlled hurricane.
Standing there, about four people back from the stage, stomping my feet, pumping my fist and shouting choruses at the top of my lungs, I felt something wake up inside. Something that had been asleep for a long, long time: the animal, and it felt good. It was like watching a jaguar stretch, flex and growl. It makes the blood run hot, and alive.
The tired, run-down me shook hands with the rock star me, and together we pushed back the great gray walls of the universe. The volume knob on life went to eleven.
And it was good.
14 December 2010
Music Lesson
Oh, Lou- I'd like to let you know that I do not feel welcome.With the weather here being cold and wet, and conducive to keenly felt melancholy, I was all set to park myself at the keyboard this night and bang out a finely crafted paean to being adrift. I made one mistake. I listened to the song that produced the above lyrics. The title is "That Western Skyline" by Dawes. It a great song and a master class in rich, deep storytelling. Yet they do it with an economy of means that leaves me astounded. Like 'jaw-on-the-ground' astounded. No, no, make that 'head-on-the-table' astounded. This song had me in tears, face in my hands, because it was so heart-breakingly beautiful.
All the birds, the trees, the falling snow
No they were not made for me.
And all this is where her heart resides; we met in California
She saw cities, promise reaching through my eyes
And she turned her self away
All because of one simple lyric.
Well how I curse that western skyline.
And yet I thanked it for my start.
Oh Lou, no my dreams did not come true; no they only came apart.
Oh, lawd...one line, twelve ordinary words...but what a punch. How is this possible? What is it they are channeling? I have on occasion produced some powerful and provocative sentences (or at least I hope I have!), usually with bigger or more numerous words. Yet I think I have only scratched the surface where Dawes has sunk a whole damn mineshaft into the broken heart.
The song revolves around that pithy gem. The rest of the story speaks to leaving some important things behind in search of love, maybe home or even the 'who' a person used to be, only to find that love unrequited. It is truly a hell of a thing to go that far out on a limb, only to discover it has been sawed off behind you.
The song revolves around that pithy gem. The rest of the story speaks to leaving some important things behind in search of love, maybe home or even the 'who' a person used to be, only to find that love unrequited. It is truly a hell of a thing to go that far out on a limb, only to discover it has been sawed off behind you.
So I followed her here to Birmingham, where the soil is so much richerAnd though my aching pride might guide my hand, she did not ask for me to come.So I wait for her all through the day, as if I wait for her surrender.And every time I get her to look my way, she says I'm not where I belong.
But I watch her father preach on Sundays.I know the hymnals all by heart.But oh, Lou, no my dreams did not come true; no they only came apart.
I listened to the song three times in a row. I could not tear myself away from it.
So I hope you understand that I could not bring myself to write the story I was going to write. Not after that, no. I reckon it will have to wait for another day, when the weather is better and I'm not sitting at the dining table and staring at the Christmas lights that illuminate my empty living room. I need to meditate on stitching dreams back together, and that may take a while.
Listen and learn:
20 November 2010
WOFF: The New Music Alternative
Another night, just another night and the goddamn radio or mp3 player or streaming audio or whatever the device du jour, it is possessed by demons. Sonsabitches get inside the head and play whatever they want to play, DJ's from the hell, for sure.
Because every song you hear is a song that drives another needle into the heart, and you curse the bastards and tell them not to stop. Think to throw the diabolical device out the window, and you know you won't be able to. Because then you won't be able to hear every song as a love song, a heartbreak song, a love gone wrong song, another blow to the heart song...a love gone away song.
When did this happen? How did it happen? Even the goddamn shuffle is the enemy, because no matter what comes up, it brings memories with it. Some good, some bad, many just too much to bear for one reason or another, and some days it seems overwhelming. Elevator music for 100 floors of melancholy. Too planned. As if directed by intelligence, or malice. Thousands of songs, days worth of music...and the ones that get played are the ones that play you.
So, for it...the only thing to do, as you often do, is hit 'Skip'...
...or find a quiet spot where no one can see, and listen to the memories...and learn to embrace them all.
Because every song you hear is a song that drives another needle into the heart, and you curse the bastards and tell them not to stop. Think to throw the diabolical device out the window, and you know you won't be able to. Because then you won't be able to hear every song as a love song, a heartbreak song, a love gone wrong song, another blow to the heart song...a love gone away song.
When did this happen? How did it happen? Even the goddamn shuffle is the enemy, because no matter what comes up, it brings memories with it. Some good, some bad, many just too much to bear for one reason or another, and some days it seems overwhelming. Elevator music for 100 floors of melancholy. Too planned. As if directed by intelligence, or malice. Thousands of songs, days worth of music...and the ones that get played are the ones that play you.
So, for it...the only thing to do, as you often do, is hit 'Skip'...
...or find a quiet spot where no one can see, and listen to the memories...and learn to embrace them all.
14 October 2010
From The Ground
Pouring from the speakers
Slide guitar from the crossroads
ass kickin' vocals tellin' it right
Believe in "God, the Devil and Love"
he rasps out at me and I flinch
This trinity of everything I am
Or everything I want to be
or everything I want to avoid
hanging in the air, right there
"'Cause there's good deeds and good intentions"
sneered on the back of a chord
far apart as Heaven and Hell, I know
Lips curl in a knowing smile
I sing the blues with Ben Harper
to find God, the Devil and Love.
Italicized phrases used without permission, from "Ground on Down" by Ben Harper. Badass guitar, indeed.
Slide guitar from the crossroads
ass kickin' vocals tellin' it right
Believe in "God, the Devil and Love"
he rasps out at me and I flinch
This trinity of everything I am
Or everything I want to be
or everything I want to avoid
hanging in the air, right there
"'Cause there's good deeds and good intentions"
sneered on the back of a chord
far apart as Heaven and Hell, I know
Lips curl in a knowing smile
I sing the blues with Ben Harper
to find God, the Devil and Love.
Italicized phrases used without permission, from "Ground on Down" by Ben Harper. Badass guitar, indeed.
11 October 2010
Yeah, It Does Feel Like Rain
Long time readers probably already know this, but I'm a sucker for a finely crafted love song (this one in particular), and I don't say that lightly. There is a lot of mediocre to just plain bad music about love, and I don't want to waste my time listening to something that isn't worth it.
Not when it comes to love.
I was reminded of that tonight, scrolling through my iTunes list. I came upon my favorite version of "Feels Like Rain", by Robbie Schaefer (he of Eddie From Ohio fame) off of a live solo album he released a few years ago. I noticed that I hadn't listened to the song since July 26 of this year.
I told myself "Don't do it, don't do it..." because...I knew it would cut to the bone. This is song is amazing in that it can be interpreted in two ways simultaneously: it speaks to the all-consuming nature of a deep love between two people, and can be heard as a wistful and cutting realization that maybe things are lost.
I know both those states, and the cognitive dissonance of holding them in my heart demands that it stop, but not right now.
I listened to the song. And maybe, in another two or three months, I'll listen to it again.
Right now, it's raining. I'm going to listen to that, instead.
Not when it comes to love.
I was reminded of that tonight, scrolling through my iTunes list. I came upon my favorite version of "Feels Like Rain", by Robbie Schaefer (he of Eddie From Ohio fame) off of a live solo album he released a few years ago. I noticed that I hadn't listened to the song since July 26 of this year.
I told myself "Don't do it, don't do it..." because...I knew it would cut to the bone. This is song is amazing in that it can be interpreted in two ways simultaneously: it speaks to the all-consuming nature of a deep love between two people, and can be heard as a wistful and cutting realization that maybe things are lost.
I know both those states, and the cognitive dissonance of holding them in my heart demands that it stop, but not right now.
I listened to the song. And maybe, in another two or three months, I'll listen to it again.
Right now, it's raining. I'm going to listen to that, instead.
04 October 2010
Kickdrum Girl
"She was a fast machine
She kept her motor clean
She was the best da...(skizzzrwwrrrrxxxkkss skids the needle across the grooves)
"Who is that, Daddy?"
I looked up to see my Wee Lass giving me that quizzical look she has perfected, when she sees me doing something that leads her to question my mental health. She hasn't gotten the hang of cocking one eyebrow yet, but it should not be too much longer. Fortunately, none of the other patrons in the sandwich joint had noticed me doing my best Angus Young imitation while mouthing the words, although they could certainly hear the song given the high-pressure volume of the radio blaring through the place.
"What, the music? You know who that is?" I replied. I sighed in relief knowing that we managed to drown out the line about ...the best damn woman I have ever seen...It occurred to me that perhaps "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC was probably not the best song to sing in front of my daughter's heretofore unsullied ears.
"It's AC/DC. One of the best concerts Daddy saw when he was a kid was AC/DC!" I left out the part about the cannons and Angus Young mooning the crowd.
She scrunched up her face and said "AZ/DeeShee?"
"Ay-cee Dee-cee, sweet pea. It's a band that I listened to a lot when I was a kid." I proceeded to break into another round of air guitar, cajoling her to play along with me. She said "Dah-dee, I don't want to play guitar. Can you play guitar?"
I told her no, I couldn't play guitar. Fair to middling as an air guitarist. Real guitar? I'm a big bowl of suck when it comes to real guitar. I don't know what made me say it, but then I told her "My Big Bro could play guitar. Really well, too."
"Did he play air guitar, Daddy?" I laughed.
"No, pumpkin. He could play real guitar. One with strings. Plus, he could grimace musically."
She gave me a startled "Huhhh?" look when I said that. I could hear the Scooby Doo voice in my head. I just laughed and tried to explain what "grimacing musically" meant. I was grasping at the best words for it, when the radio again came to my rescue. "More Than a Feeling" by Boston: the radio spirits were looking out for me. This was a perfect song to demonstrate my Big Bro's technique.
So it came to pass, that on a Sunday afternoon I was rockin' the air guitar with my face contorted into all sorts of musical shapes, ones that I remembered from watching my brother play. He may have looked goofy sometimes, but he did it with honest feeling and verve. I must have pulled it off successfully, because Wee Lass was laughing that silver bell laugh and asking me to "do what he did again!"
I managed to keep the tears in my throat and a musical grimace on my face, all the while grinding out power chords and banging my head like a pro. I felt a bit embarrassed to notice some of the other customers begin to stare at me, maybe thinking I had lost my marbles.
That's okay. They could stare all they wanted. I had my daughter laughing with me at the table, and my brother playing his guitar in my heart. And when she picked up those air drumsticks to pat out a rhythm on the table, while watching my feet to learn the kick drum, I felt the circuit close.
Nothing like a little rock and roll with those you love. Nothing like blood music to fill the heart.
She kept her motor clean
She was the best da...(skizzzrwwrrrrxxxkkss skids the needle across the grooves)
"Who is that, Daddy?"
I looked up to see my Wee Lass giving me that quizzical look she has perfected, when she sees me doing something that leads her to question my mental health. She hasn't gotten the hang of cocking one eyebrow yet, but it should not be too much longer. Fortunately, none of the other patrons in the sandwich joint had noticed me doing my best Angus Young imitation while mouthing the words, although they could certainly hear the song given the high-pressure volume of the radio blaring through the place.
"What, the music? You know who that is?" I replied. I sighed in relief knowing that we managed to drown out the line about ...the best damn woman I have ever seen...It occurred to me that perhaps "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC was probably not the best song to sing in front of my daughter's heretofore unsullied ears.
"It's AC/DC. One of the best concerts Daddy saw when he was a kid was AC/DC!" I left out the part about the cannons and Angus Young mooning the crowd.
She scrunched up her face and said "AZ/DeeShee?"
"Ay-cee Dee-cee, sweet pea. It's a band that I listened to a lot when I was a kid." I proceeded to break into another round of air guitar, cajoling her to play along with me. She said "Dah-dee, I don't want to play guitar. Can you play guitar?"
I told her no, I couldn't play guitar. Fair to middling as an air guitarist. Real guitar? I'm a big bowl of suck when it comes to real guitar. I don't know what made me say it, but then I told her "My Big Bro could play guitar. Really well, too."
"Did he play air guitar, Daddy?" I laughed.
"No, pumpkin. He could play real guitar. One with strings. Plus, he could grimace musically."
She gave me a startled "Huhhh?" look when I said that. I could hear the Scooby Doo voice in my head. I just laughed and tried to explain what "grimacing musically" meant. I was grasping at the best words for it, when the radio again came to my rescue. "More Than a Feeling" by Boston: the radio spirits were looking out for me. This was a perfect song to demonstrate my Big Bro's technique.
So it came to pass, that on a Sunday afternoon I was rockin' the air guitar with my face contorted into all sorts of musical shapes, ones that I remembered from watching my brother play. He may have looked goofy sometimes, but he did it with honest feeling and verve. I must have pulled it off successfully, because Wee Lass was laughing that silver bell laugh and asking me to "do what he did again!"
I managed to keep the tears in my throat and a musical grimace on my face, all the while grinding out power chords and banging my head like a pro. I felt a bit embarrassed to notice some of the other customers begin to stare at me, maybe thinking I had lost my marbles.
That's okay. They could stare all they wanted. I had my daughter laughing with me at the table, and my brother playing his guitar in my heart. And when she picked up those air drumsticks to pat out a rhythm on the table, while watching my feet to learn the kick drum, I felt the circuit close.
Nothing like a little rock and roll with those you love. Nothing like blood music to fill the heart.
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