There's a scene in the second season of the TV show Dexter, wherein Dexter's detective sister sits anxiously and uncomfortably while Keith Carradine's superior officer character slowly pieces together his lunch from his brown bag. He sits there on the edge of the dock, feet dangling in the cool water while she grows more and more impatient to continue working. He tells her that work will always be there. It's time to eat.
Life can get to us - the demands others apply to us, the ones we put upon ourselves and on and on. With so few days off of late, I have grown to cherish more and more the time I spend alone before I open up the store. I plug in the iPod, steadily getting things set for the day by the dim overnight lights, watching the occasional anxious customer rattling the front door and suspiciously scan the store hours for discrepancy.
I ease into the day. It makes me feel a bit more in control of how it goes. We all need that power over our situation. When it occurs, I try to have my lunch half-hour - disappointingly rushed timeframe as it is - flow in similar fashion. I sit in the car, windows open under the shade of the trees, watching the traffic flow past north to south and south to north along Main Street, watching the brief montage of the world moving along. I enjoy the disconnection from all of the phone ringing, all of the voices, all of the conflicting TVs, radios, and the Sirius Radio sounds. The single drive to do little more than sit, ponder, and doze is crucial to my daily sanity.
What's part of yours?
23 May 2011
22 May 2011
charmed third.
Fortunately I have found another project to focus my waning energy and attention. My other recent endeavors have been limited to two cameraman gigs over the past year. They were both differently exciting projects, but they merely whet the artistic appetite. I have also nearly doubled my blog activity from during the preceding four years in that time, focusing on writing more and certainly working out my photographic muscles with the digital posts seen here, those left unpublished, and innumerable exciting new-style Polaroid snatches.
Two weeks ago I submitted a show for the upcoming season at a local theater - one of only three not associated with the college (unless the cafeteria-like setting of at least one of the regional towns counts). If we subtract the paid professional theater and remove the one that services the geriatric demands of the predictable, albeit well-funded community theater then do the math, this is the only place for someone like me.
But there's still a submission process and even there I have had to do a hard sell. I have batted there two for two critically and according to audience response, but only after fighting to get my shows on the stage. My first two were plays that became movies I saw and adored for one reason or another. The first show became hexed by art reflecting life and its counterpoint and the second almost nearly imploded as the burden of life committed itself to my production like an angry cancer.
My new show was selected by me sight unseen - hence, a new approach. I knew I wanted to avoid the film from play aspect. There is an intense strain and stress of selecting a show to marry. You don't know it 'til you've been there. I feel I know my strengths and weaknesses very well, and I found a means to bring that to making my choice.
The show is my first comedy. Yes, dark. In fact, it's pitch black comedy with tongue firmly in cheek, dripping with satiric blood. And there are plenty of screwball moments available therein. I have always been drawn to dark material. I am sure it says something about my soul. And I am comfortable with that. My first show was called an emotional horror show by one playgoer, the second is accurately defined as a psychological horror show, and this one is a bit like a Food Network show as hosted by a Stepford wife.
Two weeks ago I submitted a show for the upcoming season at a local theater - one of only three not associated with the college (unless the cafeteria-like setting of at least one of the regional towns counts). If we subtract the paid professional theater and remove the one that services the geriatric demands of the predictable, albeit well-funded community theater then do the math, this is the only place for someone like me.
But there's still a submission process and even there I have had to do a hard sell. I have batted there two for two critically and according to audience response, but only after fighting to get my shows on the stage. My first two were plays that became movies I saw and adored for one reason or another. The first show became hexed by art reflecting life and its counterpoint and the second almost nearly imploded as the burden of life committed itself to my production like an angry cancer.
My new show was selected by me sight unseen - hence, a new approach. I knew I wanted to avoid the film from play aspect. There is an intense strain and stress of selecting a show to marry. You don't know it 'til you've been there. I feel I know my strengths and weaknesses very well, and I found a means to bring that to making my choice.
The show is my first comedy. Yes, dark. In fact, it's pitch black comedy with tongue firmly in cheek, dripping with satiric blood. And there are plenty of screwball moments available therein. I have always been drawn to dark material. I am sure it says something about my soul. And I am comfortable with that. My first show was called an emotional horror show by one playgoer, the second is accurately defined as a psychological horror show, and this one is a bit like a Food Network show as hosted by a Stepford wife.
training wheels.
I work for Radio $hack.
When my acquaintance-friend first recommended I apply my knee-jerk reaction was wow, are they still in business? It took plenty of willpower and trust in myself that I would be able to harness my innate ability to find diamonds where only shit and zirconium exist.
Even a cursory search through Yelp or other citizen review pages shows the conceit that company's reputation is miserable at best. The job itself is constantly in the war zone. For some, we are hated on par with car salesmen and telemarketers. The huge turnover rate is well known and the store I work is no exception. I have seen the passage of three of the original employees who pre-dated me, five others in the meanwhile, and we're awaiting the introduction of our third store manager. A desperate hunt is underway after the complete burn-out of one and the legally questionable activities of another.
We are the skeleton crew with a figurehead of a quickly promoted co-worker who has my tenure beat by only four or five months. I have plenty reason to believe I might do a better job. All of my recent work horoscopes I get from my horoscope e-mail newsletter of choice have suggested I resurrect the ol' resume and keep in mind the bigger picture implications of my present situation . . . .
When my acquaintance-friend first recommended I apply my knee-jerk reaction was wow, are they still in business? It took plenty of willpower and trust in myself that I would be able to harness my innate ability to find diamonds where only shit and zirconium exist.
Even a cursory search through Yelp or other citizen review pages shows the conceit that company's reputation is miserable at best. The job itself is constantly in the war zone. For some, we are hated on par with car salesmen and telemarketers. The huge turnover rate is well known and the store I work is no exception. I have seen the passage of three of the original employees who pre-dated me, five others in the meanwhile, and we're awaiting the introduction of our third store manager. A desperate hunt is underway after the complete burn-out of one and the legally questionable activities of another.
We are the skeleton crew with a figurehead of a quickly promoted co-worker who has my tenure beat by only four or five months. I have plenty reason to believe I might do a better job. All of my recent work horoscopes I get from my horoscope e-mail newsletter of choice have suggested I resurrect the ol' resume and keep in mind the bigger picture implications of my present situation . . . .
21 May 2011
mix tape.
My 30 Post Song Challenge is complete. Much like my previous 30 I have a list of unpublished topics that tipped the scales beyond thirty. I will revisit these later, but for now I'll call it complete. Each of my posts contained one or more songs and each was titled after one, so it seems reasonable to a person like me to put it all together:
Santify Yourself - Simple Minds (1985)
Dance Hall Days - Wang Chung (1984)
Hands Clean - Alanis Morissette (2002)
Entre Nous - Rush (1980)
Hallelujah Chorus - Mormon Tabernacle Choir (trad.)
Lover's Spit - Broken Social Scene (2004)
The Killing Moon - Echo & the Bunnymen (1984)
Warm Sound - Zero 7 (2004)
La Golondrina - Plácido Domingo
Laugh, Laugh - The Beau Brummels (1965)
Creepin' Midnight - Sea Train (1970)
Last Child - Aerosmith (1976)
Speedfreak Lullaby - Kelly Hogan (2001)
Original Sin - INXS (1984)
Don't Panic - Coldplay (2000)
The Changeling - The Doors (1971)
Half Moon - Janis Joplin & the Full Tilt Boogie (1970)
Happy Together - The Turtles (1967)
Angry Johnny - Poe (1995)
Third Prelude - Oscar Levant (1945)
Kid Fears - Indigo Girls feat. Michael Stipe (1989)
Double Vision - Foreigner (1978)
The Name Game - Shirley Ellis (1965)
New Favorite - Alison Krauss + Union Station (2001)
Sad Clown - Sarah McLachlan (1989)
In Between Days - The Cure (1985)
#1 Crush - Garbage (1996)
Counting Backwards - Throwing Muses (1991)
Awkward Age - Joe Jackson (2003)
Santify Yourself - Simple Minds (1985)
Dance Hall Days - Wang Chung (1984)
Dance This Mess Around - The B-52s (1979)
Hands Clean - Alanis Morissette (2002)
You've Made Me So Very Happy - Blood, Sweat, & Tears (1969)
Right Down the Line - Gerry Rafferty (1977)
Punk Rock Girl - Dead Milkmen (1988)
Closer - Nine Inch Nails (1994)
We Didn't Start the Fire - Billy Joel (1989)
Grease Medley - John Travola, Olivia Newton-John, & Cast (1978)
Entre Nous - Rush (1980)
Heads Will Roll - Yeah Yeah Yeahs (2009)
Me & U - Cassie feat. (2006)
Cosmic Love - Florence & the Machine (2009)
Hallelujah Chorus - Mormon Tabernacle Choir (trad.)
Pump it Up - Elvis Costello (1978)
Lover's Spit - Broken Social Scene (2004)
Drink You Pretty - Placebo (2003)
Down by the Water - PJ Harvey (1995)
The Killing Moon - Echo & the Bunnymen (1984)
Red Right Hand - Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds (1994)
Warm Sound - Zero 7 (2004)
September - Earth, Wind, & Fire (1978)
La Golondrina - Plácido Domingo
Purple Rain - Prince & the Revolution (1984)
Goodbye Horses - Q. Lazzarus (1988)
Over the Hills and Far Away - Led Zeppelin (1973)
Laugh, Laugh - The Beau Brummels (1965)
Country Death Song - Violent Femmes (1984)
Know Your Chicken - Cibo Matto (1996)
Creepin' Midnight - Sea Train (1970)
'97 Bonnie & Clyde - Tori Amos (2001)
Clean - Sneaker Pimps (1996)
Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us - Robert Plant/Alison Krauss (2007)
Last Child - Aerosmith (1976)
Everything She Wants - Wham! (1984)
Speedfreak Lullaby - Kelly Hogan (2001)
No Excuses - Alice in Chains (1993)
Original Sin - INXS (1984)
Bloodletting (Vampire Song) - Concrete Blonde (1990)
Don't Panic - Coldplay (2000)
Bury My Lovely - October Project (1993)
The Changeling - The Doors (1971)
Hotel California - The Eagles (1976)
Half Moon - Janis Joplin & the Full Tilt Boogie (1970)
Happy Together - The Turtles (1967)
Don't Change - INXS (1982)
Angry Johnny - Poe (1995)
Third Prelude - Oscar Levant (1945)
Play Me - Neil Diamond (1972)
Baker Street - Gerry Rafferty (1977)
Angels We Have Heard on High - Sixpence None the Richer (2008)
Indiana Jones Theme (Raiders) - John Williams (1981)
Chopsticks - Traditional
Sweetest Perfection - Depeche Mode (1990)
King of Pain - The Police (1983)
Kid Fears - Indigo Girls feat. Michael Stipe (1989)
In Too Deep - Genesis (1986)
Double Vision - Foreigner (1978)
Shoe Box - Barenaked Ladies (1996)
The Highwayman (live) - Loreena McKennitt (1999)
Kool Thing - Sonic Youth (1990)
Dance Anthem of the 80s - Regina Specktor (2009)
The Name Game - Shirley Ellis (1965)
Jòga - Björk (1997)
Carnival - Natalie Merchant (1995)
Bravado - Rush (1991)
Sinequanon - Hybrid feat. Soon E MC (1999)
New Favorite - Alison Krauss + Union Station (2001)
Sad Clown - Sarah McLachlan (1989)
Break Your Heart - Natalie Merchant feat. N'Dea Davenport (1998)
And So it Goes - Billy Joel (1989)
Eyes without a Face - Billy Idol (1983)
My Immortal - Evanescence (2003)
Holding Back the Years - Simply Red (1985)
When it Don't Come Easy - Patty Griffin (2004)
Gloomy Sunday - Billie Holiday (1941)
It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday - Boyz II Men (1991)
A White Shade of Pale - Procol Harum (1967)
Lost Cause - Beck (2002)
If I Were Smart - Shelby Lynne (2003)
Landslide - Fleetwood Mac (1975)
All the Wild Horses - Ray LaMontagne (2004)
Why? - Annie Lennox (1992)
In Between Days - The Cure (1985)
Thunderstruck - AC/DC (1990)
#1 Crush - Garbage (1996)
American Girl - Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers (1976)
Counting Backwards - Throwing Muses (1991)
Awkward Age - Joe Jackson (2003)
More Than This - Roxy Music (1982)
Oh, Well (Live) - Fleetwood Mac (1980)
Sanctified - Nine Inch Nails (1989)
awkward age
a song that describes you as a teenager
In this culture, the teenage experience seems so prevalent. Examples of this seem entirely unnecessary. Are we to assume it's the only universal? They like to say high school is the best time of your life. It wasn't. Even when I was waist deep within it, I knew it was a trap and a means to maintain horny kids in pens and give them excessive restrictions and barriers whilst feeding them full of false hope. The summer between my tenth and eleventh grade I was several months into my first job. Even though it was flipping burgers, dropping fries, and deflecting sexual harassment from my boss, I felt this huge charge inside me that proved that school had nothing on reality, on working for a living. Somehow I stayed in school, keeping up my grades in courses I gave a fuck about. But I knew there was more going on outside that eight foot chain link fence that lined the high school property.
It was a time of trying hard to express myself honestly and rarely if ever being heard doing it, as if the language I was utilizing was not only foreign but equally not worth the time of those in my vicinity. If I could talk to then me now I would reassure him that this was something to be embraced and not fought against. I questioned and propositioned alternate points of view than I was being fed and was building the genesis of intellectual, personal, and spiritual independence. Logic and rationale were often at odds. I ended up at church through coercion and after much objection, finding there lasting lessons that were far from the ones that were taught, like rich kids do a lot of drugs, church-going teens are total hypocrites, and Pretty Hate Machine sounds really good headed north on I-95 in a fogged up church van.
In this culture, the teenage experience seems so prevalent. Examples of this seem entirely unnecessary. Are we to assume it's the only universal? They like to say high school is the best time of your life. It wasn't. Even when I was waist deep within it, I knew it was a trap and a means to maintain horny kids in pens and give them excessive restrictions and barriers whilst feeding them full of false hope. The summer between my tenth and eleventh grade I was several months into my first job. Even though it was flipping burgers, dropping fries, and deflecting sexual harassment from my boss, I felt this huge charge inside me that proved that school had nothing on reality, on working for a living. Somehow I stayed in school, keeping up my grades in courses I gave a fuck about. But I knew there was more going on outside that eight foot chain link fence that lined the high school property.
It was a time of trying hard to express myself honestly and rarely if ever being heard doing it, as if the language I was utilizing was not only foreign but equally not worth the time of those in my vicinity. If I could talk to then me now I would reassure him that this was something to be embraced and not fought against. I questioned and propositioned alternate points of view than I was being fed and was building the genesis of intellectual, personal, and spiritual independence. Logic and rationale were often at odds. I ended up at church through coercion and after much objection, finding there lasting lessons that were far from the ones that were taught, like rich kids do a lot of drugs, church-going teens are total hypocrites, and Pretty Hate Machine sounds really good headed north on I-95 in a fogged up church van.
14 May 2011
counting backwards
a song that you used to love but now hate
You never know what events are going to transpire to get you home...
Tom Hanks (as Jim Lovell) in Apollo 13
I used to frequent a website called ruinedmusic.com, which was a reader submitted blog spotlighting those tunes that have been in some way marred by life and experience.
Music surrounds us. It envelopes us. It wafts through the window and penetrates our eardrums, and strokes our ear canals. It expresses and over-expresses things to us, and it alters our mood. And we can quickly own it. When we hear something that amazes and excites, much like a lost virginity of sorts, we put a mental post-it on everything about that situation, or the surrounding incidents. In some cases, an unraveling of said situation can forever alter future experience with that music.
Advertisers try to force their hand at this phenomenon, selling us Revolution in a bottle or The Turtles in a bowl of cereal. Movies do this with better results. It becomes the unfair idea of, I can barely hear x-y-z without thinking of a-b-c.
Break-ups are always the big ones with this concept. After my last one, I found myself again. Returned. I discovered myself while peeling back so many years of a different guise. Many of my choices, tastes, and self was pro-rated from fifteen years earlier, as if my life had diverted so far off-track. Who I was and who I really was had gotten muddled. My iPod makes a ton of sense to me, but a percentage of my iTunes started to not.
This isn't all bad. I'm not being a total downer about all of those years, but I do know that certain tunes, artists, and even genres have become un-listenable. Time and experience change all. I don't even think it's productive to post examples, because I suspect everyone who reads this knows that sensation. For me, it could be entire playlists, or anything that created a co-ownership, or in some cases a complete co-opt, and now it represents a person called not-me.
12 May 2011
#1 crush
a song that reminds you of your first crush
I got into the whole opposite sex interest at a very early age. Pre-school and kindergarten were a veritable girl haven for me. Modesty aside, I considered nearly every female my girlfriend except for that bitch whose name I couldn't pronounce. Generally I wasn't as confounded by girls as most of my compatriots were. I was faux-married by first grade, into older third grade girls soon afterward, and crushing on camp counselor cum swim instructor Melissa by the summer between third and fourth grade. But that said, I can't for the life of me remember my first crush. I remember the early grade school girlfriends, flames, and random hookups through the years, but my memory hits the spin cycle very fast after that. That doesn't mean I don't know what it feels like to me. I would say Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers' American Girl is tangled up in melodrama, sun drenched spirit, and misunderstanding that feels exactly like young love to me. The song is the stuff of urban legend, Silence of the Lambs, and a revelation toward youthful romantic longing.
I got into the whole opposite sex interest at a very early age. Pre-school and kindergarten were a veritable girl haven for me. Modesty aside, I considered nearly every female my girlfriend except for that bitch whose name I couldn't pronounce. Generally I wasn't as confounded by girls as most of my compatriots were. I was faux-married by first grade, into older third grade girls soon afterward, and crushing on camp counselor cum swim instructor Melissa by the summer between third and fourth grade. But that said, I can't for the life of me remember my first crush. I remember the early grade school girlfriends, flames, and random hookups through the years, but my memory hits the spin cycle very fast after that. That doesn't mean I don't know what it feels like to me. I would say Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers' American Girl is tangled up in melodrama, sun drenched spirit, and misunderstanding that feels exactly like young love to me. The song is the stuff of urban legend, Silence of the Lambs, and a revelation toward youthful romantic longing.
inbetween days.
a song that reminds you of middle school
Middle school. Purgatory. The above picture is emblematic of that period in my life and the still life it contains offers a metaphor for my psychological state at the time. All told we hold on to so many items, trinkets, and whatnot to remind ourselves of days gone by when very little will do the trick. AC/DC's Thunderstruck has the sound of rumbling revolution and brimming, under-pronounced sexuality drenched in sweat that couldn't help but speak to the thirteen-year-old version of me.
Middle school. Purgatory. The above picture is emblematic of that period in my life and the still life it contains offers a metaphor for my psychological state at the time. All told we hold on to so many items, trinkets, and whatnot to remind ourselves of days gone by when very little will do the trick. AC/DC's Thunderstruck has the sound of rumbling revolution and brimming, under-pronounced sexuality drenched in sweat that couldn't help but speak to the thirteen-year-old version of me.
03 May 2011
sad clown
a song that you listen to when you’re sad
“It all depends on how we look at things, and not on how they are themselves.”
Teenagers are typically moody. The transition from youthful innocence and ignorant bliss quickly became full realization that I was caught in the stranglehold of my uncomfortable body and the prison of my household. I wanted escape from 85% of my circumstances, but had zero ability to get beyond the vicinity of my environs much like a tightly chained dog might feel in the backyard as it watches other neighbor dogs exploring and enjoying themselves. From situations like this, one can build up an astounding patience with a reserve for later.
Zip ahead ten years. Real world events create a ripple effect that incites a bi-polar response. The immediate fear, sadness, and rage of September 11th 2001 likewise inspired patriotic union both false and genuine like I had never witnessed before. The prospect of the whole matter was much too hard to harness and everything felt completely out of control. It's that teenager response infinitely magnified.
Though the circumstances are world's apart, each one of us comes uniquely equipped or ill-equipped for each and every step in our lives, entirely contingent upon what has come before and in many ways based on our response at each pot-hole and each proverbial earthquake. Hope reminds us that the negative situations we become enveloped within are not permanent. Positive thinking at its best fills that empty glass for us, whether or not we choose to drink from it.
Bak skyene er himmelen alltid blå.
-Norwegian Proverb, meaning:
Behind the clouds the sky is always blue.
Sadness comes in a variety of packages.
These days I sing too much, laugh too hard, and live and love too intensely to allow myself to get bogged down with much sadness. So, instead of focusing on music I listen to when I am sad, I feel it would be more appropriate to suggest some tunes that I think get it right.
Break Your Heart
And So it Goes
Eyes Without a Face
My Immortal
Holding Back the Years
When it Don't Come Easy
Gloomy Sunday
It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday
A Whiter Shade of Pale
Lost Cause
If I Were Smart
Landslide
All the Wild Horses
Why?
.
“It all depends on how we look at things, and not on how they are themselves.”
–Carl Jung
Teenagers are typically moody. The transition from youthful innocence and ignorant bliss quickly became full realization that I was caught in the stranglehold of my uncomfortable body and the prison of my household. I wanted escape from 85% of my circumstances, but had zero ability to get beyond the vicinity of my environs much like a tightly chained dog might feel in the backyard as it watches other neighbor dogs exploring and enjoying themselves. From situations like this, one can build up an astounding patience with a reserve for later.
Zip ahead ten years. Real world events create a ripple effect that incites a bi-polar response. The immediate fear, sadness, and rage of September 11th 2001 likewise inspired patriotic union both false and genuine like I had never witnessed before. The prospect of the whole matter was much too hard to harness and everything felt completely out of control. It's that teenager response infinitely magnified.
Though the circumstances are world's apart, each one of us comes uniquely equipped or ill-equipped for each and every step in our lives, entirely contingent upon what has come before and in many ways based on our response at each pot-hole and each proverbial earthquake. Hope reminds us that the negative situations we become enveloped within are not permanent. Positive thinking at its best fills that empty glass for us, whether or not we choose to drink from it.
Bak skyene er himmelen alltid blå.
-Norwegian Proverb, meaning:
Behind the clouds the sky is always blue.
Sadness comes in a variety of packages.
These days I sing too much, laugh too hard, and live and love too intensely to allow myself to get bogged down with much sadness. So, instead of focusing on music I listen to when I am sad, I feel it would be more appropriate to suggest some tunes that I think get it right.
Break Your Heart
And So it Goes
Eyes Without a Face
My Immortal
Holding Back the Years
When it Don't Come Easy
Gloomy Sunday
It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday
A Whiter Shade of Pale
Lost Cause
If I Were Smart
Landslide
All the Wild Horses
Why?
.
02 May 2011
new favorite.
a song from your favorite album
What music lover in their right mind would have a favorite album?
I don't have a favorite song. I don't have a favorite band. I don't even have a favorite style of music. So, why would I have a favorite album? I out and out refuse!
It is completely impossible to select. And even harder to stay committed to the answer. This doesn't mean I haven't been taking a musical tour through my head, through my iTunes, with quite the trip down musical memory highways and byways. The trouble arises when all you find yourself left with are musical beginnings, the influences, those records that you couldn't help but discover when you did. They are the albums that had impact on your life because of when you and they crossed paths.
(1.) I can't help that I discovered the brilliance of Led Zeppelin with their multi-named and often generically referred to fourth record. Every single tune is a classic, but it's not their best album and it's not my favorite of theirs either. It's probably their most influential and their most reviled, but it's got nothing on Physical Graffiti.
(2.) There have been times that I could listen to Pink Floyd The Wall front to back until I was ready to flip it back over and start again like a musical möbius strip, listening to all of the textures of composition, unsettling audio samples, and orchestral pretentiousness, and others when I could hear nothing more than ninety minutes of depression that reminded me of an Alan Parker film I once saw.
(3.) Sometimes my ears are craving the lyricism and looseness of guest musician laden Graceland, Paul Simon's 1986 ode to his time in Africa with what presumably had a layover in New Orleans. It won oodles of Grammy's and is a crowning achievement, but sometimes I want to dig deeper into the library than what somebody's tone deaf Aunt is spinning.
(4.) Eddie Vedder and his brethren showed up just in time for my libido and angst to hit full boil in 1991, when they put the semi-ironically titled eleven song album Ten in my sophomoric hands. As time passes and Cobain worship goes through predictable waves, I continue to maintain that Pearl Jam were a far superior band and this album is musically more interesting and mature than anything Nirvana put out.
(5.) Despite the radio raping and eighties nighting of several of its prominent singles, I love every single beat, phrase, silence, and lyric on Depeche Mode's Violator, but it might not be the best thing in my music library. Or is it?
For someone who decreed themselves a purist for so long, and actually spent a number of years avoiding the early use of burned CDs for wish of their store bought companions filled with artwork, lyrics, and sometimes liner notes, I have become Mr. Random, digesting the first two or three seconds of hundreds of songs a day through iTune and iPod usage.
I consider a lot of music in the favorite category. I hear a song that overpowers me with its beauty or with its spot-on emotional outburst and I immediately need to own it on my top 5, top 10, top 25, top any random number just to harness it a little bit more than my ears can attempt. Sometimes I feel like Cusack's character in High Fidelity, but that's really it. I could go on and on, writing and re-writing this blog without ever reaching anything the least bit conclusive. Music fuels my passion for living, and finding the specifics for why a love exists can only kill it slow and hard.
What music lover in their right mind would have a favorite album?
I don't have a favorite song. I don't have a favorite band. I don't even have a favorite style of music. So, why would I have a favorite album? I out and out refuse!
It is completely impossible to select. And even harder to stay committed to the answer. This doesn't mean I haven't been taking a musical tour through my head, through my iTunes, with quite the trip down musical memory highways and byways. The trouble arises when all you find yourself left with are musical beginnings, the influences, those records that you couldn't help but discover when you did. They are the albums that had impact on your life because of when you and they crossed paths.
(1.) I can't help that I discovered the brilliance of Led Zeppelin with their multi-named and often generically referred to fourth record. Every single tune is a classic, but it's not their best album and it's not my favorite of theirs either. It's probably their most influential and their most reviled, but it's got nothing on Physical Graffiti.
(2.) There have been times that I could listen to Pink Floyd The Wall front to back until I was ready to flip it back over and start again like a musical möbius strip, listening to all of the textures of composition, unsettling audio samples, and orchestral pretentiousness, and others when I could hear nothing more than ninety minutes of depression that reminded me of an Alan Parker film I once saw.
(3.) Sometimes my ears are craving the lyricism and looseness of guest musician laden Graceland, Paul Simon's 1986 ode to his time in Africa with what presumably had a layover in New Orleans. It won oodles of Grammy's and is a crowning achievement, but sometimes I want to dig deeper into the library than what somebody's tone deaf Aunt is spinning.
(4.) Eddie Vedder and his brethren showed up just in time for my libido and angst to hit full boil in 1991, when they put the semi-ironically titled eleven song album Ten in my sophomoric hands. As time passes and Cobain worship goes through predictable waves, I continue to maintain that Pearl Jam were a far superior band and this album is musically more interesting and mature than anything Nirvana put out.
(5.) Despite the radio raping and eighties nighting of several of its prominent singles, I love every single beat, phrase, silence, and lyric on Depeche Mode's Violator, but it might not be the best thing in my music library. Or is it?
For someone who decreed themselves a purist for so long, and actually spent a number of years avoiding the early use of burned CDs for wish of their store bought companions filled with artwork, lyrics, and sometimes liner notes, I have become Mr. Random, digesting the first two or three seconds of hundreds of songs a day through iTune and iPod usage.
I consider a lot of music in the favorite category. I hear a song that overpowers me with its beauty or with its spot-on emotional outburst and I immediately need to own it on my top 5, top 10, top 25, top any random number just to harness it a little bit more than my ears can attempt. Sometimes I feel like Cusack's character in High Fidelity, but that's really it. I could go on and on, writing and re-writing this blog without ever reaching anything the least bit conclusive. Music fuels my passion for living, and finding the specifics for why a love exists can only kill it slow and hard.
name game
a song whose title is a name you would want to have
I like my name. I enjoy having it.
My first instinct would be to say I like it and I have never wanted to change it, but I suppose that is only partially accurate. As a child I used to loathe my last name because the French spelling always seemed like a misspelling, something to point your nose at, or even just a frustrating Spelling Bee played with strangers. My comfort with my middle name was an even worse childhood embarrassment offense, as it seemed each substitute teacher seemed destined to become perplexed by my three first names and offer them all at once, revealing that middle mistake. I ultimately decided to buy back that affront toward my childhood by first professional and now personal use of my middle initial, because I find it balances out things nicely.
Nicknames have never stuck to me. Only two or three people have ever really attempted to drop them on me. One by an old friend from the fourth grade who grew up with me through all sorts of awkward years and would give me the inside joke of a name in the tenth grade after, you guessed it, a substitute teacher thought my name was Jamaal. Another few short-lived nicknames arose during my early years of college while I was sowing the oats in downtown Orlando and throughout UCF. These were names that implied that I was rather misunderstood, but nonetheless suggestive of something special, and were given by people whose faces are vague memories and whose names are unlikely to be recalled today.
I suppose on-line handles such as the one I have here that was inspired by a B-52s song or the film noir homage one that I once wore all across IMDB.com are the closest things to nicknames I have been able to muster in my first thirty-some-odd years. Now maybe someone will say something in passing. Recently a few have tried to ease up some of the duplicate name energy at my workplace, but with very little luck.
I think people, including myself, have really come to realize that my name just fits.
Sage advice teaches us to never go back and to look back only in guidance. I say, for the most part, why would we ever want to? I know enough movie paradox twists to recognize when the outcome is always poor if not outright cataclysmic. I can't think of a more fitting name than the one I have. This is maybe one of the best things I gained from my parents. I sometimes feel hard-pressed to find other things I have gladly inherited from them. I wouldn't say guidance was always their strong suit. I could say I got a name that makes me proud and a hundred examples of how I don't want to live my life - sad as that sounds.
But half of the fun with this exercise is to link to some fine tunes, so let's not disappoint. I wish I were called:
Jòga Carnival Bravado Sinequanon
--
jòga
In my estimation the nerve slicing, intensely dramatic and consequently romantic second track on 1997's Homogenic stands out as Björk's most powerful and most organic song. Only a special sort of musical work evokes emotions and a visceral response by the mere thought of it. For me, this is one example. The song has a hell of a lot of meaning for me, and as an innocent bystander to its sheer measure of beauty, it has seeped into my depths and knocks me over with an emotional sucker punch.
CARNIVAL
I was given a 35mm camera as a high school graduation gift. It was the most apropos present I had received up to that point. Everything about my direction in life and where I found myself fitting was wrapped up in the concept of art, composition, and observation. I loved that camera! It became a bit of a companion. Unfortunately these were the days that pre-dated digital cameras by many years, which not only interfered with the finances a lot more, but I find that people were far less receptive to being on camera than they are nowadays.
That summer estranged 10,000 Maniacs lead singer and songstress Natalie Merchant released her debut solo record, whose release kicked off with the meandering single Carnival. The perhaps overly literal, but visually striking video is shot in black and white and follows Natalie through the side streets of New York City, professional grade camera in hand, taking gorgeous shots of the oddities and regulars found in the everyday. This song and its corresponding video express so much romanticism for New York and for life in general, and both genuinely speak to me.
BRAVADO
n. defiant or swaggering behavior
a pretense of courage; a false show of bravery.
Overtime very few have understood my connection to the oft-maligned Rush. According to their terrific 2010 documentary, Beyond the Lighted Stage, they are the third highest selling band of all time, just shy of the Beatles and the Stones. But as singer/bassist Geddy Lee jests, they are the world's most popular cult band. No one admits to liking them in the least, but many are quick to express their dislike. And many others I've come across would say they've never even heard of them. One evening last year, I was surprised to find myself in a detailed Rush conversation with an attractive Goth girl who expressed to me that they are her favorite band.
They are the band for the closet fan. They were never in the least cool, except to their fans and, much like the moody idiots who drool over the Smiths or those who can't get enough fuckin' Dead, Rush fans also have their stereotype. They are commonly understood to be socially awkward IT types who can't get dates. I, for one, am none of those things. Yet I own nineteen of their albums. Sure I've only seen them live once, which isn't particularly hardcore. Even though they released their last studio album in 2007 and are due a new one this year, since they formed in 1969 and put out their first couple albums in 1974, they are frequently considered classic rock. However, even the local classic rock station can't see beyond playing one or two predictable tracks.
Their loss, I say.
SINEQUANON
si·ne qua non
n. an essential element or condition
And finally, we have Sinequanon by Hybrid, that unappreciated British electronic act whose music is caught somewhere between the club and the concert hall. This track especially has the peculiar distinction of including not only Hybrid's brand of very listenable classical trance, but its paired with an extensive rap - in French. It's strangely beautiful to me, even though I don't understand word one. But the song's title cuts straight to my core. I feel we can all hope to be indispensable and necessary in our lives and in the world. Perhaps the goal is lofty. Maybe it's shrouded in vanity, but I think it's an integral part to striving to wake up everyday.
--
I like my name. I enjoy having it.
My first instinct would be to say I like it and I have never wanted to change it, but I suppose that is only partially accurate. As a child I used to loathe my last name because the French spelling always seemed like a misspelling, something to point your nose at, or even just a frustrating Spelling Bee played with strangers. My comfort with my middle name was an even worse childhood embarrassment offense, as it seemed each substitute teacher seemed destined to become perplexed by my three first names and offer them all at once, revealing that middle mistake. I ultimately decided to buy back that affront toward my childhood by first professional and now personal use of my middle initial, because I find it balances out things nicely.
Nicknames have never stuck to me. Only two or three people have ever really attempted to drop them on me. One by an old friend from the fourth grade who grew up with me through all sorts of awkward years and would give me the inside joke of a name in the tenth grade after, you guessed it, a substitute teacher thought my name was Jamaal. Another few short-lived nicknames arose during my early years of college while I was sowing the oats in downtown Orlando and throughout UCF. These were names that implied that I was rather misunderstood, but nonetheless suggestive of something special, and were given by people whose faces are vague memories and whose names are unlikely to be recalled today.
I suppose on-line handles such as the one I have here that was inspired by a B-52s song or the film noir homage one that I once wore all across IMDB.com are the closest things to nicknames I have been able to muster in my first thirty-some-odd years. Now maybe someone will say something in passing. Recently a few have tried to ease up some of the duplicate name energy at my workplace, but with very little luck.
I think people, including myself, have really come to realize that my name just fits.
Sage advice teaches us to never go back and to look back only in guidance. I say, for the most part, why would we ever want to? I know enough movie paradox twists to recognize when the outcome is always poor if not outright cataclysmic. I can't think of a more fitting name than the one I have. This is maybe one of the best things I gained from my parents. I sometimes feel hard-pressed to find other things I have gladly inherited from them. I wouldn't say guidance was always their strong suit. I could say I got a name that makes me proud and a hundred examples of how I don't want to live my life - sad as that sounds.
But half of the fun with this exercise is to link to some fine tunes, so let's not disappoint. I wish I were called:
Jòga Carnival Bravado Sinequanon
--
In my estimation the nerve slicing, intensely dramatic and consequently romantic second track on 1997's Homogenic stands out as Björk's most powerful and most organic song. Only a special sort of musical work evokes emotions and a visceral response by the mere thought of it. For me, this is one example. The song has a hell of a lot of meaning for me, and as an innocent bystander to its sheer measure of beauty, it has seeped into my depths and knocks me over with an emotional sucker punch.
I was given a 35mm camera as a high school graduation gift. It was the most apropos present I had received up to that point. Everything about my direction in life and where I found myself fitting was wrapped up in the concept of art, composition, and observation. I loved that camera! It became a bit of a companion. Unfortunately these were the days that pre-dated digital cameras by many years, which not only interfered with the finances a lot more, but I find that people were far less receptive to being on camera than they are nowadays.
That summer estranged 10,000 Maniacs lead singer and songstress Natalie Merchant released her debut solo record, whose release kicked off with the meandering single Carnival. The perhaps overly literal, but visually striking video is shot in black and white and follows Natalie through the side streets of New York City, professional grade camera in hand, taking gorgeous shots of the oddities and regulars found in the everyday. This song and its corresponding video express so much romanticism for New York and for life in general, and both genuinely speak to me.
n. defiant or swaggering behavior
a pretense of courage; a false show of bravery.
Overtime very few have understood my connection to the oft-maligned Rush. According to their terrific 2010 documentary, Beyond the Lighted Stage, they are the third highest selling band of all time, just shy of the Beatles and the Stones. But as singer/bassist Geddy Lee jests, they are the world's most popular cult band. No one admits to liking them in the least, but many are quick to express their dislike. And many others I've come across would say they've never even heard of them. One evening last year, I was surprised to find myself in a detailed Rush conversation with an attractive Goth girl who expressed to me that they are her favorite band.
They are the band for the closet fan. They were never in the least cool, except to their fans and, much like the moody idiots who drool over the Smiths or those who can't get enough fuckin' Dead, Rush fans also have their stereotype. They are commonly understood to be socially awkward IT types who can't get dates. I, for one, am none of those things. Yet I own nineteen of their albums. Sure I've only seen them live once, which isn't particularly hardcore. Even though they released their last studio album in 2007 and are due a new one this year, since they formed in 1969 and put out their first couple albums in 1974, they are frequently considered classic rock. However, even the local classic rock station can't see beyond playing one or two predictable tracks.
Their loss, I say.
SINEQUANON
si·ne qua non
n. an essential element or condition
And finally, we have Sinequanon by Hybrid, that unappreciated British electronic act whose music is caught somewhere between the club and the concert hall. This track especially has the peculiar distinction of including not only Hybrid's brand of very listenable classical trance, but its paired with an extensive rap - in French. It's strangely beautiful to me, even though I don't understand word one. But the song's title cuts straight to my core. I feel we can all hope to be indispensable and necessary in our lives and in the world. Perhaps the goal is lofty. Maybe it's shrouded in vanity, but I think it's an integral part to striving to wake up everyday.
--
25 April 2011
double vision
part one: shoe box
a song that no one would expect you to love
Life is chock full of opportunities to ponder how others perceive us. Just this past Saturday night while hanging out with a group of acquaintances, weathered old friends, and a couple intimates, one particular person made an umbrella statement about my character and demeanor that sounded more like a version of myself I left behind many years ago.
For as long as I have been conscious, I have seen it happen again and again. Many approach me with caution. I know I am not easy. I don't squeeze down and vacuum pack down into a shippable box. I see it time and again. Hondas, Hybrids, and Hummers decked out in a variety of bumper stickers and other accoutrements like the automobile's required evidence of time spent in county. Most of these encounters leave me filled with disappointment, because getting a glance at one sticker, promotion, or quotation will often dictate the others, as if they were bought in a specialty box set. People too often base their personalities off of others. I don't mean others perspective, but others belief systems, others routines, others likes and dislikes. Are there really only a handful of genres of people, or are we too afraid to present the beautiful paradoxes, contradictions and hypocrisies that truly make up the human soul?
Perhaps when you first got wind that I was going to write thirty posts about songs of different distinctions and descriptions, you figured it would quiet down all of the usual meddling and find me shuffling through a bit of frivolity. Maybe this is too slippery a soapbox for this early in the week. Whatever the case, the idea of what others think has been on my mind lately, as I have had to swallow some pride and let some friends true colors dictate their exit from my life. So, what would they least expect me to be listening to as I walk in the other direction, not looking back? What shouldn't be on the iPod in such heavy rotation or what seems unlikely in the massive iTunes collection?
I suppose I could suggest an artist whose recent appearance on a friend's Facebook brought a few of us unlikely fans out of the woodwork. I actually first discovered her on a Celtic Christmas compilation I bought in 1995, which always feels appropriate to me since her voice and her music always seem to remind me of a chilly autumnal breeze across the open water or through a desolate field. A few of her more famous tracks are favorites of mine, as is this one: The Highwayman.
part two: kool thing
a song that surprises you that you like it
That said, who do I think I am? I have this great sense of where others may have gone awry with their tapping into the heart of me, but what hues do I feel reflect on the inside? What music would surprise my very soul if it were to fully awaken, seeing the full story thus far?
The kid in me would likely be surprised by all of the old school hip-hop that I love or the classic jazz that predates me by a generation. The adult in me, with all of my musical knowledge and ability to enjoy finer, harder to digest music like the more obtuse journeys of Tom Waits or the folk-less excursions of Joni Mitchell still loves disco, danceable pop, and other seemingly instant throw-away tracks.
As a consummate music fan, I have come to realize I can't turn my ears away from too many sounds. Obviously the pleasure chemicals respond more to certain combinations before others hit, but in context there's a time and place for a lot of the great music that exists.
Dance Anthem of the 80s.
a song that no one would expect you to love
Life is chock full of opportunities to ponder how others perceive us. Just this past Saturday night while hanging out with a group of acquaintances, weathered old friends, and a couple intimates, one particular person made an umbrella statement about my character and demeanor that sounded more like a version of myself I left behind many years ago.
For as long as I have been conscious, I have seen it happen again and again. Many approach me with caution. I know I am not easy. I don't squeeze down and vacuum pack down into a shippable box. I see it time and again. Hondas, Hybrids, and Hummers decked out in a variety of bumper stickers and other accoutrements like the automobile's required evidence of time spent in county. Most of these encounters leave me filled with disappointment, because getting a glance at one sticker, promotion, or quotation will often dictate the others, as if they were bought in a specialty box set. People too often base their personalities off of others. I don't mean others perspective, but others belief systems, others routines, others likes and dislikes. Are there really only a handful of genres of people, or are we too afraid to present the beautiful paradoxes, contradictions and hypocrisies that truly make up the human soul?
Perhaps when you first got wind that I was going to write thirty posts about songs of different distinctions and descriptions, you figured it would quiet down all of the usual meddling and find me shuffling through a bit of frivolity. Maybe this is too slippery a soapbox for this early in the week. Whatever the case, the idea of what others think has been on my mind lately, as I have had to swallow some pride and let some friends true colors dictate their exit from my life. So, what would they least expect me to be listening to as I walk in the other direction, not looking back? What shouldn't be on the iPod in such heavy rotation or what seems unlikely in the massive iTunes collection?
I suppose I could suggest an artist whose recent appearance on a friend's Facebook brought a few of us unlikely fans out of the woodwork. I actually first discovered her on a Celtic Christmas compilation I bought in 1995, which always feels appropriate to me since her voice and her music always seem to remind me of a chilly autumnal breeze across the open water or through a desolate field. A few of her more famous tracks are favorites of mine, as is this one: The Highwayman.
part two: kool thing
a song that surprises you that you like it
That said, who do I think I am? I have this great sense of where others may have gone awry with their tapping into the heart of me, but what hues do I feel reflect on the inside? What music would surprise my very soul if it were to fully awaken, seeing the full story thus far?
The kid in me would likely be surprised by all of the old school hip-hop that I love or the classic jazz that predates me by a generation. The adult in me, with all of my musical knowledge and ability to enjoy finer, harder to digest music like the more obtuse journeys of Tom Waits or the folk-less excursions of Joni Mitchell still loves disco, danceable pop, and other seemingly instant throw-away tracks.
As a consummate music fan, I have come to realize I can't turn my ears away from too many sounds. Obviously the pleasure chemicals respond more to certain combinations before others hit, but in context there's a time and place for a lot of the great music that exists.
. . .
Dance Anthem of the 80s.
21 April 2011
kid fears
a song from a band/artist you hated as a child
(topic altered to: a song you hated as a child)
One could hope that with age our standards become loosened from experience, our interests become wider, and our pursuits become more mature and full of more depth. As a child I only had the chance to become exposed to everything that funneled through the cultural siphon of the other people in my house. From them all I got a decent sense of what existed outside of the household walls and perhaps even beyond that stop sign down the block, but this was in a time before the internet and when a kid's only real resource of musical discovery was the local radio, bins of vinyl at the public library, and this sweet 1970s album reference guide with a laminated cover he nabbed at a yard sale.
None of that fully accounts for the fact that I was born in the late-seventies and really only started to discover music around 1981 or 1982 in a post-MTV culture that I consumed through Friday Night Videos that consisted of timely acts like Toto, Survivor, Men at Work, Laura Branigan, and Culture Club. This sort of easy to digest music pervaded through the eighties and really became my most formative musical impression. So much of this music still prevails in my day-to-day listens on the iPod in a way that a different generation would harken to a whole other set of songs that hit them deeply.
What this means is that even while I was reaching to discover music that came before and visited my birth and those hidden treasures hiding out on college radio, when I was a kid Journey, Stevie Nicks, and Tom Petty were still the center point of my musical compass. At the time I didn't have the patience for a lot of stuff I listen to now. I would say some of it was too adult for me, dealing with themes far beyond my years or sonically textured in ways that took too many listens to grasp. I will admit that I was much quicker to link myself to Led Zeppelin whereas the original blues they ripped off didn't get much spin. I loved the Eagles, but it took me through my teens before I could stomach much traditional country. And I sometimes thought ballads were just boring. Case in point - loathed the song then, love it now.
(topic altered to: a song you hated as a child)
One could hope that with age our standards become loosened from experience, our interests become wider, and our pursuits become more mature and full of more depth. As a child I only had the chance to become exposed to everything that funneled through the cultural siphon of the other people in my house. From them all I got a decent sense of what existed outside of the household walls and perhaps even beyond that stop sign down the block, but this was in a time before the internet and when a kid's only real resource of musical discovery was the local radio, bins of vinyl at the public library, and this sweet 1970s album reference guide with a laminated cover he nabbed at a yard sale.
None of that fully accounts for the fact that I was born in the late-seventies and really only started to discover music around 1981 or 1982 in a post-MTV culture that I consumed through Friday Night Videos that consisted of timely acts like Toto, Survivor, Men at Work, Laura Branigan, and Culture Club. This sort of easy to digest music pervaded through the eighties and really became my most formative musical impression. So much of this music still prevails in my day-to-day listens on the iPod in a way that a different generation would harken to a whole other set of songs that hit them deeply.
What this means is that even while I was reaching to discover music that came before and visited my birth and those hidden treasures hiding out on college radio, when I was a kid Journey, Stevie Nicks, and Tom Petty were still the center point of my musical compass. At the time I didn't have the patience for a lot of stuff I listen to now. I would say some of it was too adult for me, dealing with themes far beyond my years or sonically textured in ways that took too many listens to grasp. I will admit that I was much quicker to link myself to Led Zeppelin whereas the original blues they ripped off didn't get much spin. I loved the Eagles, but it took me through my teens before I could stomach much traditional country. And I sometimes thought ballads were just boring. Case in point - loathed the song then, love it now.
third prelude
As I look forward to the remaining thirteen song challenge posts, I see three that seem to wrap around the same general idea. For that reason, today I present a song challenge trilogy.
part one: play me.
a song that you can play on an instrument
Like many people my age I grew up in a time when music and art were two offerings during the regular school day, albeit still ones that would often feel like recess-lite. In elementary school art would have glitter, glue, and gray blocks of clay and music was code for recorders and piano led vocal instruction of some sort. I listened to far different music outside of school then in. Even then the music felt childish and pedestrian.
After the six month elective sampling during sixth grade we were supposed to select our track, whether it was art, music, or some third one I can't for the life of me recall. It was probably back alley smoking and impregnation 101. I liked art class, but the teacher was a bitch to me and I really hadn't honed my drawing or painting skills in the way that the top two or three prodigies did, so I picked band. No one went in with any fore-knowledge. It seemed to put us all on equal unsteady footing.
It was the eighties, so the saxophone seemed like an obvious fit to me. As awkward and insulated as I was at the time, I still wanted to pick something that might be hot with the ladies. If it was good enough for a Mickey Rourke movie and Baker Street then god dammit it was going to be good enough for me. I rarely liked any of the musical selections. I grabbed songbooks from the public library full of pop hits and even had a Best of 1987 collection for sax that saw some play until I started to realize that the echoing and honking of mistakes and learning alto sax from my upstairs bedroom was irritating my family.
I wouldn't practice at home very much after that.
But music has always been in my heart. I would pump our harmonium (aka small pipe organ) around the holidays, playing what turned out being some of the easiest music around. From this I essentially taught myself piano, or at least a vague sense of it. It's been nearly twenty years since I dropped out of band and quit playing the sax and probably a dozen or so since I tried piano. I tried to learn other instruments too, but evidently to no avail.
That being said, I don't know if I can reasonably play anything on an instrument anymore. With the loss of that part of me, I have strengthened any number of other skills, artistic and otherwise. Maybe with some sheet music reminders I could play a few bars of Angels We Have Heard on High or the excruciating Indiana Jones theme song that was our halftime show in the ninth grade.
Then again, maybe not.
part two: chop sticks.
a song that you wish you could play
I wish I could play guitar.
I tried to learn on a few occasions. At one point I felt hindered by my left-handedness, because no one else in the room was hexed in the same fashion. This was before I started to fully embrace my ambidextrous tendencies and ability to express different things with varying halves of myself.
If I could play guitar I would be able to be one of those people who could have an acoustic guitar sitting idly by when the whole gang is gathered around a campfire. It could be Indigo Girls and John Denver until sun up! Then again that guy is often a douche bag. Why is it that so many people who can play an instrument like that always seem to have this holier than thou attitude? Not all of them, mind you. I know people who can create music that aren't, but so many are, however.
We all have gifts to share. I have often wished mine to be the ability to hold a guitar and make more than racket emote from it. For those who can't the world has created Rock Band and Guitar Hero. Sure, I have had great fun with those, but to a point they are glorified air guitar. I see the romance in the instrument, though. Writing a poetic serenade for the love of your life or soothing the baby to sleep with its soft vibrating hum.
Instead I have words and image. And a recently discovered voice. And who knows what else.
part three: sweetest perfection.
a song that you wish you had written
I don't write music. I have tried. When I was a kid I would scroll out lyrics to theoretical songs, always pounding out ideas of how the other instruments would join in, leaving space for unforgiving drums and the timely and consummate guitar solo. These songs ranged from love songs to protest songs to completely esoteric babblings that sounded like pop songs to me. When I actually learned to read music I tried to write some melodies, but I became instantly bored with the process and really grew respect for blues and jazz musicians who could just jam off the cuff.
As I turned my guise more and more toward film and the creation therein, I became very envious of great writing and clever ideas. I went through all of the trials of any burgeoning creative, feeling threatened by the greatness of others and seeing only the paleness of self. I got over that concept over time and began to recognize that no one would ever assemble their ideas in quite the way I did and nor would I do like others, so what would be the point of seeing competition where there is collective.
So, I think the concept of wishing to have written a song, at least for a songwriter, could have similar dizzying effects. Or there is also the lighter thought that it could just spotlight one's fix on what makes for a great composition. I have many favorite songs. There are songs I like because of the way they make me feel, the texture of the craft behind it, the intelligible lyrics that overshadow the elementary melody, and on and on. There's just not enough space for all of that today.
Instead I will put the song that the iPod shuffled to on my way home from work last night and I was instantly gratified of its sheer existence. It has a complicated melody, beautiful lyrics, and a dark spirit with a positive intent and is indeed one of my favorite songs:
KING OF PAIN
part one: play me.
a song that you can play on an instrument
Like many people my age I grew up in a time when music and art were two offerings during the regular school day, albeit still ones that would often feel like recess-lite. In elementary school art would have glitter, glue, and gray blocks of clay and music was code for recorders and piano led vocal instruction of some sort. I listened to far different music outside of school then in. Even then the music felt childish and pedestrian.
After the six month elective sampling during sixth grade we were supposed to select our track, whether it was art, music, or some third one I can't for the life of me recall. It was probably back alley smoking and impregnation 101. I liked art class, but the teacher was a bitch to me and I really hadn't honed my drawing or painting skills in the way that the top two or three prodigies did, so I picked band. No one went in with any fore-knowledge. It seemed to put us all on equal unsteady footing.
It was the eighties, so the saxophone seemed like an obvious fit to me. As awkward and insulated as I was at the time, I still wanted to pick something that might be hot with the ladies. If it was good enough for a Mickey Rourke movie and Baker Street then god dammit it was going to be good enough for me. I rarely liked any of the musical selections. I grabbed songbooks from the public library full of pop hits and even had a Best of 1987 collection for sax that saw some play until I started to realize that the echoing and honking of mistakes and learning alto sax from my upstairs bedroom was irritating my family.
I wouldn't practice at home very much after that.
But music has always been in my heart. I would pump our harmonium (aka small pipe organ) around the holidays, playing what turned out being some of the easiest music around. From this I essentially taught myself piano, or at least a vague sense of it. It's been nearly twenty years since I dropped out of band and quit playing the sax and probably a dozen or so since I tried piano. I tried to learn other instruments too, but evidently to no avail.
That being said, I don't know if I can reasonably play anything on an instrument anymore. With the loss of that part of me, I have strengthened any number of other skills, artistic and otherwise. Maybe with some sheet music reminders I could play a few bars of Angels We Have Heard on High or the excruciating Indiana Jones theme song that was our halftime show in the ninth grade.
Then again, maybe not.
part two: chop sticks.
a song that you wish you could play
I wish I could play guitar.
I tried to learn on a few occasions. At one point I felt hindered by my left-handedness, because no one else in the room was hexed in the same fashion. This was before I started to fully embrace my ambidextrous tendencies and ability to express different things with varying halves of myself.
If I could play guitar I would be able to be one of those people who could have an acoustic guitar sitting idly by when the whole gang is gathered around a campfire. It could be Indigo Girls and John Denver until sun up! Then again that guy is often a douche bag. Why is it that so many people who can play an instrument like that always seem to have this holier than thou attitude? Not all of them, mind you. I know people who can create music that aren't, but so many are, however.
We all have gifts to share. I have often wished mine to be the ability to hold a guitar and make more than racket emote from it. For those who can't the world has created Rock Band and Guitar Hero. Sure, I have had great fun with those, but to a point they are glorified air guitar. I see the romance in the instrument, though. Writing a poetic serenade for the love of your life or soothing the baby to sleep with its soft vibrating hum.
Instead I have words and image. And a recently discovered voice. And who knows what else.
part three: sweetest perfection.
a song that you wish you had written
I don't write music. I have tried. When I was a kid I would scroll out lyrics to theoretical songs, always pounding out ideas of how the other instruments would join in, leaving space for unforgiving drums and the timely and consummate guitar solo. These songs ranged from love songs to protest songs to completely esoteric babblings that sounded like pop songs to me. When I actually learned to read music I tried to write some melodies, but I became instantly bored with the process and really grew respect for blues and jazz musicians who could just jam off the cuff.
As I turned my guise more and more toward film and the creation therein, I became very envious of great writing and clever ideas. I went through all of the trials of any burgeoning creative, feeling threatened by the greatness of others and seeing only the paleness of self. I got over that concept over time and began to recognize that no one would ever assemble their ideas in quite the way I did and nor would I do like others, so what would be the point of seeing competition where there is collective.
So, I think the concept of wishing to have written a song, at least for a songwriter, could have similar dizzying effects. Or there is also the lighter thought that it could just spotlight one's fix on what makes for a great composition. I have many favorite songs. There are songs I like because of the way they make me feel, the texture of the craft behind it, the intelligible lyrics that overshadow the elementary melody, and on and on. There's just not enough space for all of that today.
Instead I will put the song that the iPod shuffled to on my way home from work last night and I was instantly gratified of its sheer existence. It has a complicated melody, beautiful lyrics, and a dark spirit with a positive intent and is indeed one of my favorite songs:
KING OF PAIN
There's a little black spot on the sun today
It's the same old thing as yesterday
There's a black cat caught in a high tree top
There's a flag pole rag and the wind won't stop
I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain
There's a little black spot on the sun today
It's my soul up there
It's the same old thing as yesterday
It's my soul up there
There's a black hat caught in a high tree top
It's my soul up there
There's a flag pole rag and the wind won't stop
It's my soul up there
I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain
There's a fossil that's trapped in a high cliff wall
It's my soul up there
There's a dead salmon frozen in a waterfall
It's my soul up there
There's a blue whale beached by a springtide's ebb
It's my soul up there
There's a butterfly trapped in a spider's web
It's my soul up there
I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain
There's a king on a throne with his eyes torn out
There's a blind man looking for a shadow of doubt
There's a rich man sleeping on a golden bed
There's a skeleton choking on a crust of bread
King of pain
There's a red fox torn by a huntsman's pack
It's my soul up there
There's a blue winged gull with a broken back
It's my soul up there
There's a little black spot on the sun today
It's the same old thing as yesterday
I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain
King of pain
King of pain
King of pain
I'll always be king of pain
I'll always be king of pain
I'll always be king of pain
{fades}
I'll always be king of pain
I'll always be king of pain
I'll always be king of pain
18 April 2011
angry johnny
a song that you listen to when you’re angry
Most things aren't worth the energy we expel toward them.
I come from a long line of short fuses. I grew up in a highly tempered household, wherein an inconsistent variety of things could set off one or both of my parents. The floors and paths leading toward their vicinity seemed always paved with eggshells. These days their intimate relationships are few and short-lived and none of their children or grandchildren are anxious to spend any time with them.
They don't always yell and they don't always lose their temper and find things to fume about, but the anger and frustration always hums just below the surface like a muffled generator, constantly fueling the situation. My siblings and I all got hexed with some of the refuse of this upbringing. In our ways we have all done our part to scrub off this influence, but my brother is still a loud person and my sister is a bit of a paranoid. It took me many years to unlearn a lot of their reactionary tactics.
Now I am very chill and might not unleash anger and frustration enough. Although I wouldn't say there's much going on in my orbit that inspires me to get all worked up. Life is rather satisfying and I have become convinced that when it requires a constant fight and triggers issues, your relationships need an overhaul. I have lost many friends over the last couple years, but I don't get upset by it. Instead I feel relief that more of the negative influence and disingenuous people in my life are no longer sapping my energy. I am more selective about who I surround myself with and who I bring into the folds of my present existence.
I think it's better that way.
In my formative years, when I felt the most trapped and overly managed I found relief through some guitar rock, metal, and industrial music. It became a predictable revolt against the status quo that was my disappointing youth. When I first learned to drive and I had something to dwell over, I would crank something hard and heavy until the speakers in the car would buzz in pain. A lot of this music, though still hiding out on my iTunes and in my memory doesn't sound the same to me anymore, but is still a part of my whole. After some time I would begin to find comfort in more contemplative music, full of meaningful lyrics and a more adult spirit that stressed a clearer understanding of life's many potholes and hurdles and less of an us against them dynamic.
Most things aren't worth the energy we expel toward them.
I come from a long line of short fuses. I grew up in a highly tempered household, wherein an inconsistent variety of things could set off one or both of my parents. The floors and paths leading toward their vicinity seemed always paved with eggshells. These days their intimate relationships are few and short-lived and none of their children or grandchildren are anxious to spend any time with them.
They don't always yell and they don't always lose their temper and find things to fume about, but the anger and frustration always hums just below the surface like a muffled generator, constantly fueling the situation. My siblings and I all got hexed with some of the refuse of this upbringing. In our ways we have all done our part to scrub off this influence, but my brother is still a loud person and my sister is a bit of a paranoid. It took me many years to unlearn a lot of their reactionary tactics.
Now I am very chill and might not unleash anger and frustration enough. Although I wouldn't say there's much going on in my orbit that inspires me to get all worked up. Life is rather satisfying and I have become convinced that when it requires a constant fight and triggers issues, your relationships need an overhaul. I have lost many friends over the last couple years, but I don't get upset by it. Instead I feel relief that more of the negative influence and disingenuous people in my life are no longer sapping my energy. I am more selective about who I surround myself with and who I bring into the folds of my present existence.
I think it's better that way.
In my formative years, when I felt the most trapped and overly managed I found relief through some guitar rock, metal, and industrial music. It became a predictable revolt against the status quo that was my disappointing youth. When I first learned to drive and I had something to dwell over, I would crank something hard and heavy until the speakers in the car would buzz in pain. A lot of this music, though still hiding out on my iTunes and in my memory doesn't sound the same to me anymore, but is still a part of my whole. After some time I would begin to find comfort in more contemplative music, full of meaningful lyrics and a more adult spirit that stressed a clearer understanding of life's many potholes and hurdles and less of an us against them dynamic.
14 April 2011
happy together
a song that you listen to when you’re happy
In the same manner that everything tastes better when you're in love, when you're happy I feel like life becomes an extended montage sequence complete with some sort of bright, shiny example of positive musical energy in the vain of Katrina & the Waves or Kenny Loggins. When you are filled to the brim with happiness, it ekes out through various pores, out your fingertips, and via your tongue through all of the less inhibited and wonderful things you say. You don't necessarily even require happy, up-tempo tunes to fuel this happiness, because the mere existence of things like music, the four seasons, stray cats, and chilled beverages just add to your simple gratitude to be alive.
There are a million different ways to go with this, but for reasons both personal and aesthetic the song that evokes this feel for me comes from a band I grew up with and used to blast inside the closed confines of my childhood bedroom. My room had tarnished wood floors, a ceiling fan, ever-changing music and film clippings wallpaper, a classic New York skyline border, a high window that overlooked the roof above the garage and a door out to the balcony I shared with my parents. When the weather cooled in October or took a spring turn in February, both the window and the outside door would be wide open, blowing in the breeze and neighborhood noise. Wafting back might be someone of the likes of INXS, that brilliant often overlooked dance-rock band from down under whose compositional complexities truly reveal themselves after many, many listens.
In the same manner that everything tastes better when you're in love, when you're happy I feel like life becomes an extended montage sequence complete with some sort of bright, shiny example of positive musical energy in the vain of Katrina & the Waves or Kenny Loggins. When you are filled to the brim with happiness, it ekes out through various pores, out your fingertips, and via your tongue through all of the less inhibited and wonderful things you say. You don't necessarily even require happy, up-tempo tunes to fuel this happiness, because the mere existence of things like music, the four seasons, stray cats, and chilled beverages just add to your simple gratitude to be alive.
There are a million different ways to go with this, but for reasons both personal and aesthetic the song that evokes this feel for me comes from a band I grew up with and used to blast inside the closed confines of my childhood bedroom. My room had tarnished wood floors, a ceiling fan, ever-changing music and film clippings wallpaper, a classic New York skyline border, a high window that overlooked the roof above the garage and a door out to the balcony I shared with my parents. When the weather cooled in October or took a spring turn in February, both the window and the outside door would be wide open, blowing in the breeze and neighborhood noise. Wafting back might be someone of the likes of INXS, that brilliant often overlooked dance-rock band from down under whose compositional complexities truly reveal themselves after many, many listens.
12 April 2011
half moon
The song challenge is halfway there. Perhaps I could suggest that it's living on a prayer, but then I would have just gone too far.
☑ (01) a song that you love to dance to - DANCEHALL DAYS
☑ (02) favorite song to sing in the shower - HANDS CLEAN
☑ (03) a song that makes you think of your loved one - ENTRE NOUS
☑ (04) a song that you only know the chorus to - HALLELUJAH, CHORUS!!
☑ (05) a song that makes you think of kissing - LOVER'S SPIT
☑ (06) a song from that would be played when you kill someone - KILLING MOON
☑ (07) a song that reminds you of being warm - WARM SOUND
☑ (08) a song that you want to play at your funeral - LA GOLONDRINA
☑ (09) a song that makes you laugh - LAUGH, LAUGH
☑ (10) a song that gives you the chills - CREEPIN' MIDNIGHT
☑ (11) a song from your favorite band/artist as a child - LAST CHILD
☑ (12) a song that you would sing as a lullaby, but isn't a traditional lullaby song - SPEEDFREAK LULLABY.
☑ (13) a song that turns you on - ORIGINAL SIN
☑ (14) a song that makes you fall asleep - DON'T PANIC
☑ (15) a song that you know all the words to - THE CHANGELING
(16) a song that you listen to when you’re happy
(17) a song that you listen to when you’re angry
(18) a song that you wish you could play
(19) a song from a band/artist you hated as a child
(20) a song that no one would expect you to love
(21) a song whose title is a name you would want to have
(22) a song from your favorite album
(23) a song that you listen to when you’re sad
(24) a song that reminds you of middle school
(25) a song that reminds you of your first crush
(26) a song that surprises you that you like it
(27) a song that you used to love but now hate
(28) a song that you can play on an instrument
(29) a song that describes you as a teenager
(30) a song that you wish you had written
☑ (01) a song that you love to dance to - DANCEHALL DAYS
☑ (02) favorite song to sing in the shower - HANDS CLEAN
☑ (03) a song that makes you think of your loved one - ENTRE NOUS
☑ (04) a song that you only know the chorus to - HALLELUJAH, CHORUS!!
☑ (05) a song that makes you think of kissing - LOVER'S SPIT
☑ (06) a song from that would be played when you kill someone - KILLING MOON
☑ (07) a song that reminds you of being warm - WARM SOUND
☑ (08) a song that you want to play at your funeral - LA GOLONDRINA
☑ (09) a song that makes you laugh - LAUGH, LAUGH
☑ (10) a song that gives you the chills - CREEPIN' MIDNIGHT
☑ (11) a song from your favorite band/artist as a child - LAST CHILD
☑ (12) a song that you would sing as a lullaby, but isn't a traditional lullaby song - SPEEDFREAK LULLABY.
☑ (13) a song that turns you on - ORIGINAL SIN
☑ (14) a song that makes you fall asleep - DON'T PANIC
☑ (15) a song that you know all the words to - THE CHANGELING
(16) a song that you listen to when you’re happy
(17) a song that you listen to when you’re angry
(18) a song that you wish you could play
(19) a song from a band/artist you hated as a child
(20) a song that no one would expect you to love
(21) a song whose title is a name you would want to have
(22) a song from your favorite album
(23) a song that you listen to when you’re sad
(24) a song that reminds you of middle school
(25) a song that reminds you of your first crush
(26) a song that surprises you that you like it
(27) a song that you used to love but now hate
(28) a song that you can play on an instrument
(29) a song that describes you as a teenager
(30) a song that you wish you had written
the changeling
a song that you know all the words to
It was all good, fine fun before when I couldn't figure out what song I only know the chorus to, because with all of the music I listen to no one could keep up with every lyric to every tune to all of the songs I have just discovered, know vaguely, know well, and know incorrectly. There are a lot of songs that fit that characteristic. I would suspect that there are a whole lot of tunes that fit the new parameter as well. Some I know because I took the time to learn them, some I know because overtime I have overheard them, and others are just so freakin' obvious and repetitive that a baby could use them as their first sentence.
I just don't know if all of the words is a topic I want to delve into today. Not sure if I want to inspire responses such as yay, look at you, knowing all of the words to It's the End of the World as We Know it or some lesser gem. With as much time as I have spent doing and attending karaoke nights, I have heard a ton of generally bastardized versions of that R.E.M. hit, Total Eclipse of the Heart, Baby Got Back, a bevy of Beatles, anything Queen, and a ton of other songs to which people surprisingly know only the chorus much less the beat. I guess one classic that evokes a lot for me that a lot of people waste away a quality six minutes on, stumbling through seemingly unfamiliar verse after verse that I could do in my sleep is that old Eagles stand-by, Hotel California.
It was all good, fine fun before when I couldn't figure out what song I only know the chorus to, because with all of the music I listen to no one could keep up with every lyric to every tune to all of the songs I have just discovered, know vaguely, know well, and know incorrectly. There are a lot of songs that fit that characteristic. I would suspect that there are a whole lot of tunes that fit the new parameter as well. Some I know because I took the time to learn them, some I know because overtime I have overheard them, and others are just so freakin' obvious and repetitive that a baby could use them as their first sentence.
I just don't know if all of the words is a topic I want to delve into today. Not sure if I want to inspire responses such as yay, look at you, knowing all of the words to It's the End of the World as We Know it or some lesser gem. With as much time as I have spent doing and attending karaoke nights, I have heard a ton of generally bastardized versions of that R.E.M. hit, Total Eclipse of the Heart, Baby Got Back, a bevy of Beatles, anything Queen, and a ton of other songs to which people surprisingly know only the chorus much less the beat. I guess one classic that evokes a lot for me that a lot of people waste away a quality six minutes on, stumbling through seemingly unfamiliar verse after verse that I could do in my sleep is that old Eagles stand-by, Hotel California.
11 April 2011
don't panic
a song that makes you fall asleep
At first glance, a subject like a song that makes you fall asleep comes fully equipped with negative connotations. Tell me, please, what bores you to tears. I certainly don't see it like that, especially as someone who knows years of difficulty sleeping, whether from fear of his own subconscious, ill-fitting life choices, or myriad other reasons why closed eyes would be a rarity. Deep sleep is a very special circumstance one should never take for granted. I even find plenty to sing about seemingly passing out guilt-free in the middle of the afternoon, perhaps to the sound of the rain, the ceiling fan, or the soft breathing of your partner. Finding the right psychological head space to chill the fuck out is imperative.
In late-1993 I probably had fifteen or twenty CD's. Being a music collector, format changes have always pissed me off. There was no way I could afford to transfer my several hundred cassettes to CD. At that time I was trying to be selective about what I would have on CD and what would be more worthy of tape purchase/recording. I had my Pearl Jam, my Ministry, my They Might Be Giants, my Pixies, and my Queen. Then I discovered this band that didn't sound like anything else I owned, with perhaps the exception of those Cowboy Junkies and my then warbled 10,000 Maniacs tapes that made Natalie Merchant sound like she was immersed in water.
That band was October Project, an upstate New York group who once toured with Jeff Buckley before he sang his final Hallelujah and Sarah McLachlan before she became all successful and a complete yawner. Honestly, their entire first album suits my requirements for this post, but Grooveshark has only a couple tracks from it, to say nothing of a bunch of songs misappropriated to them. Needless to say, not many people know them. A couple years ago I was pleased to discover that a good friend of mine and lead in my theatrical horror show was himself a closet fan.
At first glance, a subject like a song that makes you fall asleep comes fully equipped with negative connotations. Tell me, please, what bores you to tears. I certainly don't see it like that, especially as someone who knows years of difficulty sleeping, whether from fear of his own subconscious, ill-fitting life choices, or myriad other reasons why closed eyes would be a rarity. Deep sleep is a very special circumstance one should never take for granted. I even find plenty to sing about seemingly passing out guilt-free in the middle of the afternoon, perhaps to the sound of the rain, the ceiling fan, or the soft breathing of your partner. Finding the right psychological head space to chill the fuck out is imperative.
In late-1993 I probably had fifteen or twenty CD's. Being a music collector, format changes have always pissed me off. There was no way I could afford to transfer my several hundred cassettes to CD. At that time I was trying to be selective about what I would have on CD and what would be more worthy of tape purchase/recording. I had my Pearl Jam, my Ministry, my They Might Be Giants, my Pixies, and my Queen. Then I discovered this band that didn't sound like anything else I owned, with perhaps the exception of those Cowboy Junkies and my then warbled 10,000 Maniacs tapes that made Natalie Merchant sound like she was immersed in water.
That band was October Project, an upstate New York group who once toured with Jeff Buckley before he sang his final Hallelujah and Sarah McLachlan before she became all successful and a complete yawner. Honestly, their entire first album suits my requirements for this post, but Grooveshark has only a couple tracks from it, to say nothing of a bunch of songs misappropriated to them. Needless to say, not many people know them. A couple years ago I was pleased to discover that a good friend of mine and lead in my theatrical horror show was himself a closet fan.
08 April 2011
original sin
a song that turns you on
A piercing screech arouses a demanding, throbbing bass line that struts forward at an aching crawl as Concrete Blonde's Bloodletting (Vampire Song) begins. The soft build awakens light, focused strokes of guitar and selective drum hits. From behind, the deep, seductive tones of Johnette Napolitano's impassioned voice enter the stage, stringing us along into her dark tale of primal interactions in the night. All of this is woven into the first minute. From the start the song pounds you into submission and ensures you forget everything but your desire.
A piercing screech arouses a demanding, throbbing bass line that struts forward at an aching crawl as Concrete Blonde's Bloodletting (Vampire Song) begins. The soft build awakens light, focused strokes of guitar and selective drum hits. From behind, the deep, seductive tones of Johnette Napolitano's impassioned voice enter the stage, stringing us along into her dark tale of primal interactions in the night. All of this is woven into the first minute. From the start the song pounds you into submission and ensures you forget everything but your desire.
07 April 2011
speedfreak lullaby.
a song that you would sing as a lullaby, but isn't a traditional lullaby song
My girlfriend recently introduced me to the ROCKABYE BABY! series of non-traditional lullaby albums geared toward the babies of parents in our generation, who would prefer their bæbes be lulled to sleep by variations on songs by the Cure and Journey than tunes both antiquated and disconnected from contemporary relevance. That said, with the aforementioned collection already tapping into thirty-some-odd unexpected artists back catalogs for alterna-lullabies, it's not the easiest task to find your own selection.
But I have. Alice in Chains were so quickly swept into the pile of filth that was the spotty collection of grunge bands that arrived on the airwaves in heavy rotation in the early to mid-nineties. I was already listening to music that sounded like this by the time everyone else and their mother decided to embrace it. I was ridiculously close to getting to see Pearl Jam's first tour through Florida for $9.95, but came from a family where guilt and rejection was doled out in bulk.
Alice in Chains were always one of the better bands of that period to me, in large part to the gorgeous harmonies of Layne Stanley and Jerry Cantrell, their solid song structure, and their abilities to rock as well as reflect. With that in mind, I choose "No Excuses" to soften into lullaby for my theoretical infant. This is the only Alice in Chains song I have ever attempted at karaoke and one that is well-suited to my voice as well as the purpose at hand . . .
No Excuses
My girlfriend recently introduced me to the ROCKABYE BABY! series of non-traditional lullaby albums geared toward the babies of parents in our generation, who would prefer their bæbes be lulled to sleep by variations on songs by the Cure and Journey than tunes both antiquated and disconnected from contemporary relevance. That said, with the aforementioned collection already tapping into thirty-some-odd unexpected artists back catalogs for alterna-lullabies, it's not the easiest task to find your own selection.
But I have. Alice in Chains were so quickly swept into the pile of filth that was the spotty collection of grunge bands that arrived on the airwaves in heavy rotation in the early to mid-nineties. I was already listening to music that sounded like this by the time everyone else and their mother decided to embrace it. I was ridiculously close to getting to see Pearl Jam's first tour through Florida for $9.95, but came from a family where guilt and rejection was doled out in bulk.
Alice in Chains were always one of the better bands of that period to me, in large part to the gorgeous harmonies of Layne Stanley and Jerry Cantrell, their solid song structure, and their abilities to rock as well as reflect. With that in mind, I choose "No Excuses" to soften into lullaby for my theoretical infant. This is the only Alice in Chains song I have ever attempted at karaoke and one that is well-suited to my voice as well as the purpose at hand . . .
No Excuses
It's alright
There comes a time
Got no patience
To search for peace of mind
Laying' low
Want to take it slow
No more hiding
Or disguising truths I've sold
Everyday
Something hits me all so cold
Find me sittin' by myself
No excuses that I know
It's okay
Had a bad day
Hands are bruised from
Breaking rocks all day
Drained and blue
I bleed for you
You think it's funny
Well you're drowning in it too
Everyday
Something hits me all so cold
Find me sittin' by myself
No excuses that I know
Yeah, it's fine
We'll walk down the line
Leave our rain
A cold trade for warm sunshine
You're my friend
I will defend
And if we change
Well I love you anyway
Everyday
Something hits me all so cold
Find me sittin' by myself
No excuses that I know
last child
a song from your favorite band/artist as a child
Being the youngest child in one's family affords you some interesting opportunities. I took mine up from the darkened corners, constantly observing and absorbing all of the pleasures, travesties, and events of my elder siblings. It can teach some surprising life lessons before you're prepared for them if you take on too much. And even though I know I had a precociousness about my maturity and plan of attack at life, ironically my parents always got on me for dragging my feet.
For me, if there's one thing that I most appreciated about being the youngest was the chance to peel my way through the other music collections in the family - whether it was my parents classic twang, harmless sixties pop, or Air Supply and company or my brother's affinity toward guitar driven rock and peculiar diversions like 2 Live Crew and David Allen Coe or my sister's tastes which always seemed heavily influenced by her cool best friend who brought along Depeche Mode, the Smiths, and Love & Rockets.
I aurally ate it all up and added the fuel of my own interests in Top 40 radio, hair metal, classic rock, and odd nighttime voyages to the Adult Contemporary end of the dial. I started asking for cassette tapes as gifts as early as the fourth grade, and the wonky way in which all of these early reels were heard was from a radio/tape alarm clock combo that I equally cherished and loathed.
These days I thoroughly adore my iPod, and I love my 135GB of iTunes, but there was something very direct about actually handling those records and tapes that I grew up using. I remember the intense worry that followed getting the tape incidentally wound up in the player, causing these threats of something irreplaceable being lost. There was sacredness to the whole matter.
I cherish these early listens, whether they were merely my favorites from the Casey Kasem countdown, Bryan Adams' "Reckless" album, tapes by INXS, Survivor, Journey, Heart, Ratt, or the Cars, these were the formative musical ideas I was digesting with great frequency. And I can say unashamedly that all of these are either replicated or represented on my iTunes nowadays.
But I am not sure if these fully encapsulate the era for me. If there's one band whose break-up truly upset me at the time and would ultimately inspire my taping over their tape that I bought with my hard won money, it would be Wham! I am a tad surprised that after all of these years, George Michael's poppy little musical project that briefly could still sound quite good, especially Everything She Wants.
Being the youngest child in one's family affords you some interesting opportunities. I took mine up from the darkened corners, constantly observing and absorbing all of the pleasures, travesties, and events of my elder siblings. It can teach some surprising life lessons before you're prepared for them if you take on too much. And even though I know I had a precociousness about my maturity and plan of attack at life, ironically my parents always got on me for dragging my feet.
For me, if there's one thing that I most appreciated about being the youngest was the chance to peel my way through the other music collections in the family - whether it was my parents classic twang, harmless sixties pop, or Air Supply and company or my brother's affinity toward guitar driven rock and peculiar diversions like 2 Live Crew and David Allen Coe or my sister's tastes which always seemed heavily influenced by her cool best friend who brought along Depeche Mode, the Smiths, and Love & Rockets.
I aurally ate it all up and added the fuel of my own interests in Top 40 radio, hair metal, classic rock, and odd nighttime voyages to the Adult Contemporary end of the dial. I started asking for cassette tapes as gifts as early as the fourth grade, and the wonky way in which all of these early reels were heard was from a radio/tape alarm clock combo that I equally cherished and loathed.
These days I thoroughly adore my iPod, and I love my 135GB of iTunes, but there was something very direct about actually handling those records and tapes that I grew up using. I remember the intense worry that followed getting the tape incidentally wound up in the player, causing these threats of something irreplaceable being lost. There was sacredness to the whole matter.
I cherish these early listens, whether they were merely my favorites from the Casey Kasem countdown, Bryan Adams' "Reckless" album, tapes by INXS, Survivor, Journey, Heart, Ratt, or the Cars, these were the formative musical ideas I was digesting with great frequency. And I can say unashamedly that all of these are either replicated or represented on my iTunes nowadays.
But I am not sure if these fully encapsulate the era for me. If there's one band whose break-up truly upset me at the time and would ultimately inspire my taping over their tape that I bought with my hard won money, it would be Wham! I am a tad surprised that after all of these years, George Michael's poppy little musical project that briefly could still sound quite good, especially Everything She Wants.
creepin' midnight
a song that gives you the chills
One of the key weaknesses of a lot of modern films is their quickness in getting to the moneyshot. The brain is a most powerful organ and one that I suggest demands ample stimulation. At some point in the mid-seventies the Hollywood machine deemed it imperative to hunt for the lowest common denominator and they have stuck with it ever since. When I was more deeply focused on a filmmaker's journey I saw myself rubbing elbows with the Steve Buscemis of the world at the Indie Spirit Awards, preferring eccentric button-down glory to antiquated coat and tails and tanning beds.
I think horror movies are the biggest victim of this tendency. I can assure you as someone who's held booms, script doctored, and co-produced for the least of them, seemingly everyone thinks they can make a horror movie. Sorry folks, but you're gonna have to do better than some schlocky latex, fake blood, and something about a vague ancient curse or conveniently invisible nemesis. Horror takes a certain character connection, storyline interest, and panache of execution and build. Give me context and psychological foreplay and I'll give you horror, full of chills, tension, and that insatiable unsettling visceral response.
In 2001, within weeks of September 11th I saw Tori Amos in concert at the Tupperware Convention Center just south of Orlando. The whole affair of getting from the parking lot to the building was full of an excess of police, pat-downs, and panic. The thought that terrorism could strike at any point was on everyone's tongue. Following a sit down opening act performance by the ever whiny, reasonably talented Rufus Wainwright, Tori hit the stage with a surprisingly chilly opener: her recent cover of Eminem's deep album cut, 97 Bonnie & Clyde.
For an album full of tepid Tori-fied covers, "Strange Little Girls" was a bit of a mess so far as her catalog goes, but this one stands out. She unravels all of the dark humor of the original in favor of a cold, brittle, bare bones song built on whispers and strings.
Whereas Amos streamlined her dark tune, Britain's Sneaker Pimps over-inundate and muddy their ironically titled Clean. The argumentation between the synthesizers, guitar, and bass never let up, creating a great, unnerving tension, and Kelli Dayton's powerful pipes are put to the test as she recounts some sort of questionable apocalypse.
As the dust settles, across the hill we can hear the heavy strumming of a banjo and the haunting harmonies of Alison Krauss and Robert Plant. The album they did together was something brought to music fans by the Gods, and the song Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us has always hit me a bit deeper than all of the rest. It's outwardly simple and straightforward, but I find the texture of it suggesting and building to something far more intense. Whether it arrives or not, we can be left unsettled and emotionally unprotected.
One of the key weaknesses of a lot of modern films is their quickness in getting to the moneyshot. The brain is a most powerful organ and one that I suggest demands ample stimulation. At some point in the mid-seventies the Hollywood machine deemed it imperative to hunt for the lowest common denominator and they have stuck with it ever since. When I was more deeply focused on a filmmaker's journey I saw myself rubbing elbows with the Steve Buscemis of the world at the Indie Spirit Awards, preferring eccentric button-down glory to antiquated coat and tails and tanning beds.
I think horror movies are the biggest victim of this tendency. I can assure you as someone who's held booms, script doctored, and co-produced for the least of them, seemingly everyone thinks they can make a horror movie. Sorry folks, but you're gonna have to do better than some schlocky latex, fake blood, and something about a vague ancient curse or conveniently invisible nemesis. Horror takes a certain character connection, storyline interest, and panache of execution and build. Give me context and psychological foreplay and I'll give you horror, full of chills, tension, and that insatiable unsettling visceral response.
In 2001, within weeks of September 11th I saw Tori Amos in concert at the Tupperware Convention Center just south of Orlando. The whole affair of getting from the parking lot to the building was full of an excess of police, pat-downs, and panic. The thought that terrorism could strike at any point was on everyone's tongue. Following a sit down opening act performance by the ever whiny, reasonably talented Rufus Wainwright, Tori hit the stage with a surprisingly chilly opener: her recent cover of Eminem's deep album cut, 97 Bonnie & Clyde.
For an album full of tepid Tori-fied covers, "Strange Little Girls" was a bit of a mess so far as her catalog goes, but this one stands out. She unravels all of the dark humor of the original in favor of a cold, brittle, bare bones song built on whispers and strings.
Whereas Amos streamlined her dark tune, Britain's Sneaker Pimps over-inundate and muddy their ironically titled Clean. The argumentation between the synthesizers, guitar, and bass never let up, creating a great, unnerving tension, and Kelli Dayton's powerful pipes are put to the test as she recounts some sort of questionable apocalypse.
As the dust settles, across the hill we can hear the heavy strumming of a banjo and the haunting harmonies of Alison Krauss and Robert Plant. The album they did together was something brought to music fans by the Gods, and the song Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us has always hit me a bit deeper than all of the rest. It's outwardly simple and straightforward, but I find the texture of it suggesting and building to something far more intense. Whether it arrives or not, we can be left unsettled and emotionally unprotected.
03 April 2011
laugh, laugh
a song that makes you laugh
“God is a comedian, playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.” -Voltaire
Laughter.
Infectious. Bellowing. Snorting. Child-like. Unrelenting.
Few things bring people together quite like laughter. It spreads like disease and fills a room with positive energy.
I have always enjoyed wordplay. And lyrical wordplay is a special creature all its own. I love cleverness put to music. An artist like Missy Elliott never seems to take herself seriously so everything she puts out seems to have a sense of humor. Other artists have this vibe too, like Cee-lo Green (and his deviation, Gnarls Barkley), the lighter side of Eminem, and even Lily Allen. See yourself through a songbook of Tom Waits, Joe Jackson, or Weird "Al" Yankovic, and you'll find plenty of gems, too.
That's one side of it for me, but in full force my humor is dark, twisted, and can not be fully shared with everyone. It is a special person with low inhibitions who gets to know the full breadth of the way my mind and imagination work. I understand the gravity of life, but take it in stride and not necessarily as others might think. In ways I am a contradiction in terms. I dream and work with both sides of my brain equally, sharing both the logical sense and the artistic. I weave myself through the world in the same fashion. I am very professional and responsible, on the one hand - quoting others and not being immodest - but I have a great ability to find the humor in damn near anything.
I think it helps create a pitch black sense of humor, which in my mind means all of the colors of the humor map are fully represented.
So, onto the music:
Country Death Song by Violent Femmes is like a backwoods blues song for the college radio, post-punk set with its limited chord progression and completely sober murder storyline.
On the other hand, we've got Know Your Chicken by oddball Japanese electronica duo Cibo Matto from their food centric Viva! La Woman album. It's not the strongest song of the set, but it's the most indicative.
“God is a comedian, playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.” -Voltaire
Laughter.
Infectious. Bellowing. Snorting. Child-like. Unrelenting.
Few things bring people together quite like laughter. It spreads like disease and fills a room with positive energy.
I have always enjoyed wordplay. And lyrical wordplay is a special creature all its own. I love cleverness put to music. An artist like Missy Elliott never seems to take herself seriously so everything she puts out seems to have a sense of humor. Other artists have this vibe too, like Cee-lo Green (and his deviation, Gnarls Barkley), the lighter side of Eminem, and even Lily Allen. See yourself through a songbook of Tom Waits, Joe Jackson, or Weird "Al" Yankovic, and you'll find plenty of gems, too.
That's one side of it for me, but in full force my humor is dark, twisted, and can not be fully shared with everyone. It is a special person with low inhibitions who gets to know the full breadth of the way my mind and imagination work. I understand the gravity of life, but take it in stride and not necessarily as others might think. In ways I am a contradiction in terms. I dream and work with both sides of my brain equally, sharing both the logical sense and the artistic. I weave myself through the world in the same fashion. I am very professional and responsible, on the one hand - quoting others and not being immodest - but I have a great ability to find the humor in damn near anything.
I think it helps create a pitch black sense of humor, which in my mind means all of the colors of the humor map are fully represented.
So, onto the music:
Country Death Song by Violent Femmes is like a backwoods blues song for the college radio, post-punk set with its limited chord progression and completely sober murder storyline.
On the other hand, we've got Know Your Chicken by oddball Japanese electronica duo Cibo Matto from their food centric Viva! La Woman album. It's not the strongest song of the set, but it's the most indicative.
02 April 2011
la golondrina
a song that you want to play at your funeral
“Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is because we are not the person involved” -Mark Twain
Whether or not we openly admit it we all muse our own deaths time and time again. We have pondered that great beyond from the earliest age that we had a concept that things don't always exist, at least in their present form, whether it was simply the melting of an ice cream cone in the hot sun, the aftermath of your parents' divorce, or an immediate death itself. Every time we step into a pessimist's shoes and see the worst of possible results and anytime we hold fear closer to our heart than ourselves, it is death with whom we dance.
That said, I have always been curious about the guest list at my funeral. We have such a strangely convenient world in regards to this sort of thing these days. I used to watch the funeral brigades in movies and wonder how all of those long lost folk knew to show up. The we hadn't talked in twenty years characters, for example. In the years since Myspace and Facebook, simply collecting one's past into one easy to contain space is easier than ever. Before these showed up I would often wonder whether the next time I would meet many of my favorite memories face-to-face would be when everyone looks like they're going out for Goth night.
If there's one thing that has always been important to me, it's the atmosphere of a gathering. Thinking about a funereal playlist is a much more taxing thing than I wish to undertake, but as I have been pondering this query a few songs come to mind. Years ago I had this idea that I wanted "Dust in the Wind" to play prominently, but that seems too obvious to me now. I won't explain my choices, but instead let them speak for themselves. What I have chosen feels like perfect exit music, providing a necessary coda as they spice up the end credits.
PURPLE RAIN - Prince & the Revolution
GOODBYE HORSES - Q. Lazzarus
OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY - Led Zeppelin
“Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is because we are not the person involved” -Mark Twain
Whether or not we openly admit it we all muse our own deaths time and time again. We have pondered that great beyond from the earliest age that we had a concept that things don't always exist, at least in their present form, whether it was simply the melting of an ice cream cone in the hot sun, the aftermath of your parents' divorce, or an immediate death itself. Every time we step into a pessimist's shoes and see the worst of possible results and anytime we hold fear closer to our heart than ourselves, it is death with whom we dance.
That said, I have always been curious about the guest list at my funeral. We have such a strangely convenient world in regards to this sort of thing these days. I used to watch the funeral brigades in movies and wonder how all of those long lost folk knew to show up. The we hadn't talked in twenty years characters, for example. In the years since Myspace and Facebook, simply collecting one's past into one easy to contain space is easier than ever. Before these showed up I would often wonder whether the next time I would meet many of my favorite memories face-to-face would be when everyone looks like they're going out for Goth night.
If there's one thing that has always been important to me, it's the atmosphere of a gathering. Thinking about a funereal playlist is a much more taxing thing than I wish to undertake, but as I have been pondering this query a few songs come to mind. Years ago I had this idea that I wanted "Dust in the Wind" to play prominently, but that seems too obvious to me now. I won't explain my choices, but instead let them speak for themselves. What I have chosen feels like perfect exit music, providing a necessary coda as they spice up the end credits.
PURPLE RAIN - Prince & the Revolution
GOODBYE HORSES - Q. Lazzarus
OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY - Led Zeppelin
. . . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)