On Not Acting My Age (Because I Don't Know It)

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.

Select Carefully Your Mood Music

Gray skies, cool breezes and rain late in the day.  Had my windows open from morning into night.  They still are, and the crickets murmur of everything and nothing.

Ordinarily I dig these kinds of days.  Today was no exception, up to a point.  That point was up until those small shadows detached themselves from the clouds overhead and came down to settle around my heart.  The rain was floating them.  Listening to "It's A Shame About Ray" by the Lemonheads did me no favors.

Raindrops and Ray sounded too much like angst and regret.  That is a soundtrack I can do without. 

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:

...the regrets quickly faded and I had a great time shakin' what passes for my moneymaker while sweeping the floor.  I think having simple tasks and getting things done was just the ticket to sand the edges off my anxiety.  Not to mention, I also have clean floors!

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*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?

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.

Blues From A Gun

A Joyful Noise...I Wish!

Do you ever find yourself wishing you could do something you cannot do, and do it well? Wishing it so much it gets to the point of obsession because you think about it so much?

I do. I've got it bad right now. Aside from jonesin' for PHOTOGRAPHY these days, I also really, really wish I could sing. Seriously. I don't need to be a virtuoso, I would just like to be able to hit the notes well enough. Why, you ask, do I want to sing?

Damned if I know. I just do.

I suspect it has to do with the creative impulse, and the inability or unwillingness to ignore those voices in my head and heart that say I must, or that I should at least try. The problem with singing is that I have no talent. No real talent, anyway. I can on on occasion sound like I can sing. I can do a credible imitation of Metallica's James Hetfield* when I set my mind to it, and I do enjoy that. Sometimes, I can sound like Johnny Cash on his cover of "Sea of Heartbreak". Actually, I don't know if I sound like Johnny Cash so much as I can almost harmonize with him on the chorus. Plus, I usually do that while driving, and the road noise covers up a lot of the flaws I'm sure.

This does not mean I want to do karaoke, an entertainment for some that I just do not get. The very thought of singing karaoke-style, on purpose (like in some sort of misguided team-building exercise, or after a heavy dose of liquid courage) makes me cringe. Any sort of overt public performance also has always been anathema to me. In high school, once, I took an 'F' grade rather than get up in front of class and recite a memorized speech, with memorable results**. Even to this day, I abhor the thought of public speaking, although I've had to do it in limited form as part of my (former) job.

So why the obsession, the singing badly, loudly but with gusto when no one else is around?*** I return to the creative impulse. Writing, photography, singing...any creative endeavor seeking manifestation eventually wants to express itself, and that means exposure and vulnerability, both things I typically avoid. But lately, things have been wanting to get out, working their way to the surface. I still don't want to be vulnerable, I don't want to be rejected...yet true and honest expression requires risk. 

I think writing opened the gate a bit, photography pushed the thing wider, and I realized that it doesn't matter if I can't really sing. I'm not going to be a professional singer, anyway, so I should sing primarily because it makes me happy...similar in effects to the writing and photos.

The saying goes "Dance like nobody's watching" so I suppose the corollary is "Sing like no one is listening". It is a good lesson for life, I finally realized, because it can take me out of myself and learn to enjoy the act of creation simply because...that's all, simply, because. It helps shed the fear engendered by self-consciousness and allows the creative mind some room to grow. It helps me stop thinking so much about myself, paralyzed by the fear of error and too timid to show myself. This is all good, my heart gets it, even if my mind hasn't quite embraced the concept.

So these days, I've been listening and I've been thinking, and here are a few songs I wish I could sing:

"Fuel" - Metallica

"Unsung" - Helmet

"Sea of Heartbreak" - inspired by Johnny Cash

"Oh, Darling!" - The Beatles

"Gasoline" - The Airborne Toxic Event

"Hard to Handle" - Otis Redding (with a nod to The Black Crowes)

"Feels Like Rain" - John Hiatt (with a nod to Robbie Schaefer)

No particular order there, and I suppose it doesn't matter. All I can hope is that I can keep singing, pushing away the fear of my self and of being alone, holding out until I can find at least an audience of one.

*James Hetfield himself once described his singing as "yelling on key", something I'd like to do. I can growl like him sometimes.

**A post for another time, dear friends.

***I have discovered that I can embarrass Wee Lass, if I sing a certain way. She sometimes gives me the stink-eye and says "Daaaaa--aady, stop singing that way!" Okay, dear, but just wait until high school, hehheh...

Music Notes: 'Splainin' to Do

Many of you are aware of my puzzlement over the LADY GAGA phenomenon, so it should come as no surprise that there is more where that came from.

Now that I think about it, it is something I have been pondering for years now (in one case) and for a few months (in another case), and I thought it was time to do a brain purge. Musical bookends, you might say.

CASE #1: JANIS JOPLIN

I am not a child of the '60's, in the sense that many people use it these days. I was born in the '60's, but not early enough to have anything to do with being a hippie or a draft dodger or civil rights activist or Bob Dylan. I was old enough (or young enough?) to hear and appreciate a LOT of music from the '60's*, such as lots of Jimi Hendrix, early Led Zeppelin, Beatles, Rolling Stones, even a lot of "oldies". A lot of it I liked. But I never, ever really liked Janis Joplin. I didn't hate her music, but I never really understood why so many people seemed to really dig it. I guess I always found it be...boring. I heard a Janis Joplin song on the radio today, and I listened intently...I tried...but I just wanted to turn it off and stifle a yawn.

CASE #2: VAMPIRE WEEKEND

I was introduced to this group courtesy of my beloved local ear candy provider, 89.7 WTMD (Rock on, freaky bro!) a few months back, and since I trust their judgment, I tried to pay attention when they played them on air. I tried to get into it, but each time it was like "Okay...okay...okay...um, what is it I'm supposed to be gushing over?" I gave them the benefit of the doubt for a while, but I couldn't escape the conclusion I was drawing: I just don't get what is so great about it, what makes the DJ's get so psyched about their music. In all fairness, I do really like the song "Cousins", it has really cool Dick Dale inspired guitar work in it. But their early stuff, and the new song "Horchata"? Sigh. It just makes me search for something else. Nothing personal, it just doesn't grab me.

So there it is, my big head is a little smaller now. So what is your musical mystery? What artists do you get (that others don't seem to get) or not get?

*Quite possibly, I may have been one of only three or so people in my junior high school to know of Iron Butterfly. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, baby...

Radio Free Gumbo: Persian Diversion for a Winter's Night

That Darvish Khan, he played a mean tar.

Not gui-tar. Just 'tar'. Its an unusual-sounding instrument (unusual for someone brought up on Western guitar music) but I find it oddly fitting for the night. As I write this I am sequestered in my apartment, full belly and warm feet, and serenaded by the off-the-wall tunes on Radio Darvish.

Radio Darvish, in case you don't know, is a listener-supported webcast featuring traditional Persian music. I discovered it recently through the magic of iTunes radio, finally got around to investigating that particular segment of of my iPod list. The station is named after one Darvish Khan, a early 20th-century Iranian rockstar analog who was a master of the 'tar'. Apparently he was a master of the style, and even died in somewhat of a rockstar fashion. His carriage got T-boned by a new-fangled "automobile" back in 1926, supposedly the first Iranian ever to die in a car accident. I guess Darvish is like, the Cliff Burton of Persian trad music.

The winter has its hooks in hard. It is times like this that I look everywhere possible for something, anything to bridge the gaps between chores and activities that occupy my mind. Early in the day, I had ventured out to take some pictures. It was cold, as cold as the proverbial brass simian 'nards, but I was determined to get OUT. I ventured over to a favored riverine state park, camera in hand and toque on head. I was just getting into a good groove when it started to snow, enough so that I reckoned I couldn't stay out very long. Especially since my fingertips were in agony from the chill. So reluctantly I gave up and went home, whereupon it started snowing harder.

No more outdoorsy stuff for me. I'll stay in and watch it fall.

A side effect of shutting in is boredom. Monumental boredom. Television doesn't hold my interest for very long, and lately I haven't been in a reading mood. So it is mostly music that gets my attention. That and cooking.

This night, it was off to Persia, and my monthly allotment of 'tar' solos. It may seem strange, I know, but it did the trick. The walls moved a little further away, breathing became a little easier, and my knowledge of traditional Persian musical instruments increased exponentially. Score!

So tell me, what is your favorite traditional music utensil, Persian or otherwise?

Damn You, DGM!

A few days ago, while perusing one of my favorite blogs, Dad Gone Mad, I came across this post:

http://www.dadgonemad.com/2008/10/latest-developm.html.

In it, the inimitable Mr. Evans listed an unofficial soundtrack, which contained this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CetPq_pkHc

Since then, I have not been able to get the Big Brown Beaver out of my head.

Damn you, Danny! (Great post, by the way).