You think it won’t happen again. You think you’ve got it under control. But before you know it, you’re grabbing the apple or the pint of Ben & Jerry’s mint chocolate cookie, not caring that you’ll be kicked out of the garden or gain a hundred pounds. The future doesn’t matter, only the present. Right now, you have to grab Blonde on Blonde from whatever deep, dark place you keep it and listen to Dylan’s “Leopard-Skin Pillbox Hat.”
Well, you must tell me, baby
How your head feels under somethin’ like that
Under your brand new leopard-skin pill-box hat
Well, you look so pretty in it
Honey, can I jump on it sometime?
Yes, I just wanna see
If it’s really that expensive kind
You know it balances on your head
Just like a mattress balances
On a bottle of wine
Your brand new leopard-skin pill-box hat!
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
54/365 Love Shack
It’s a test for depression: If I can listen to this B-52’s song all the way through and not feel better, then I’ve got it bad. Bang, bang, bang on the door baby.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
53/365 Amsterdam Loeki Stardust Quartet
The first two CDs I ever bought were by the Amsterdam Loeki Stardust Quartet. I didn’t even own a CD player. This was back in the days when CD players were expensive, and I was poor.
I went to see these guys in concert and was completely blown away. I bought the CDs, had my friend Ken tape them for me, then saved them for the day I could afford to play them.
To hear these guys, go to their website, and click on Clips. I recommend the recording session for Fugue Around the Clock. I’m always amazed at how organlike recorders sound, each voice its own multinoted pipe. To hear a more modern, playful piece and an example of the instrument’s range (as well as some fun visuals), check out “The Jogger.”
I went to see these guys in concert and was completely blown away. I bought the CDs, had my friend Ken tape them for me, then saved them for the day I could afford to play them.
To hear these guys, go to their website, and click on Clips. I recommend the recording session for Fugue Around the Clock. I’m always amazed at how organlike recorders sound, each voice its own multinoted pipe. To hear a more modern, playful piece and an example of the instrument’s range (as well as some fun visuals), check out “The Jogger.”
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
52/365 Barcelona Nights
This song is the group hanging out at Wayne and Sue’s. It’s the tape that was in my car stereo when it was stolen. It’s the CD that years later Sergio brought us from Italy, thinking we’d like it. We did. We hadn’t heard it in so long.
[Click on first track of Ottmar Liebert’s Nouveau Flamenco for a sound clip.]
[Click on first track of Ottmar Liebert’s Nouveau Flamenco for a sound clip.]
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
51/365 Helplessly Hoping
Stand by the stairway
You’ll see something
Certain to tell you confusion has its cost
Alliteration much? This CSN song almost feels sappy, but manages to fall short of that for me. The three lines above are lovely in their movement from S to T to C sounds. I can listen to this over and over again, only to trip at the sound of goodbye.
You’ll see something
Certain to tell you confusion has its cost
Alliteration much? This CSN song almost feels sappy, but manages to fall short of that for me. The three lines above are lovely in their movement from S to T to C sounds. I can listen to this over and over again, only to trip at the sound of goodbye.
Monday, March 26, 2007
50/365 One Season
One season I was born
Fell down like an acorn
I am the only tree
And everybody leaves.
Chalk that up to “lines I wish I’d written.” The Roches were part of my college soundtrack. I loved them. Loved them. I’m a big fan of trios, and these chix have such interesting voices, their lyrics are fantastic, and there was always something so real—and thus oddly empowering—about them. I can’t pick a favorite Roches song, but this one does open with those lines, and the dissonant harmonies accompanying the dissonant subject matter shows (in my opinion) their incredible interpretation and abilities.
Fell down like an acorn
I am the only tree
And everybody leaves.
Chalk that up to “lines I wish I’d written.” The Roches were part of my college soundtrack. I loved them. Loved them. I’m a big fan of trios, and these chix have such interesting voices, their lyrics are fantastic, and there was always something so real—and thus oddly empowering—about them. I can’t pick a favorite Roches song, but this one does open with those lines, and the dissonant harmonies accompanying the dissonant subject matter shows (in my opinion) their incredible interpretation and abilities.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
49/365 Stand Up and Be Strong
Get up everybody, get off your ass
We gotta do something and we got to do it fast
Cause the people are hungry, starvin’ and the fuel is low
Don’t wait for Jesus, he ain’t comin’ back no mo’
We gotta sacrifice, have no fear
Shed no blood, shed no tears
We’ve gotta make our move, get out of our way
Cause we’ve been waiting way too long
We don’t weep, we don’t moan
We’ve got a mind of our own
That’s right, we can’t go wrong
If we stand up and be strong
I was at a Dave Grisman concert last fall when the house announced they’d just booked Keb’ Mo’. I tried to get tickets that night, but they weren’t on sale yet. Thanksgiving morning (the day they went on sale) I was bugging my brother-in-law for quiet computer access so I could secretly buy tickets as a present for Tim, who’s a big fan. I got front-row seats.
The concert was last night.
This performance by one of the blues greats may have spoiled me for any future second-row-and-back nonsense. Tant pis pour moi, eh?
He does killer ballads, and fast stuff slays me even quicker, like this call-to-action song.
[A note for Maureen: I shot my thong onstage during the first set when he played my favorite song, “Am I Wrong?” I’m sure he was wearing it during the second set.]
We gotta do something and we got to do it fast
Cause the people are hungry, starvin’ and the fuel is low
Don’t wait for Jesus, he ain’t comin’ back no mo’
We gotta sacrifice, have no fear
Shed no blood, shed no tears
We’ve gotta make our move, get out of our way
Cause we’ve been waiting way too long
We don’t weep, we don’t moan
We’ve got a mind of our own
That’s right, we can’t go wrong
If we stand up and be strong
I was at a Dave Grisman concert last fall when the house announced they’d just booked Keb’ Mo’. I tried to get tickets that night, but they weren’t on sale yet. Thanksgiving morning (the day they went on sale) I was bugging my brother-in-law for quiet computer access so I could secretly buy tickets as a present for Tim, who’s a big fan. I got front-row seats.
The concert was last night.
This performance by one of the blues greats may have spoiled me for any future second-row-and-back nonsense. Tant pis pour moi, eh?
He does killer ballads, and fast stuff slays me even quicker, like this call-to-action song.
[A note for Maureen: I shot my thong onstage during the first set when he played my favorite song, “Am I Wrong?” I’m sure he was wearing it during the second set.]
Saturday, March 24, 2007
48/365 Hallelujah
By the time I was in ninth grade, I knew my way around the alto line of Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus. Later, I was impressed by the Roches’ cover, as they made their three voices sound about as full as four parts, picking and choosing which needed to be there in each moment. Once, this Christian guy told me that he thought their singing this piece was sacrilegious. OK, maybe I’m agnostic, but I couldn’t disagree more.
Friday, March 23, 2007
47/365 Cry Me a River
You drove me, nearly drove me, out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I remember, all that you said
You told me love was too plebeian
Told me you were through with me and
Now you say you love me
Well, just to prove that you do
Come on and cry me a river
Cry me a river
I cried a river over you
There it is. One of my favorite moments in all of song lyrics: the rhyming of plebeian and me and. Arthur Hamilton, you are a genius! I bow in obeisance to a master of songbusiness.
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I remember, all that you said
You told me love was too plebeian
Told me you were through with me and
Now you say you love me
Well, just to prove that you do
Come on and cry me a river
Cry me a river
I cried a river over you
There it is. One of my favorite moments in all of song lyrics: the rhyming of plebeian and me and. Arthur Hamilton, you are a genius! I bow in obeisance to a master of songbusiness.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
46/365 Almost Cut My Hair
Almost cut my hair
Happened just the other day
It was gettin’ kinda long
I could have said it was in my way
But I didn’t, and I wonder why
Feel like letting my freak flag fly
I feel like I owe it to someone
The gods willing, today I’ll get my hair cut. It’s been almost 16 weeks since the last one, something unheard of since I got back into this habit.
The reason it’s been (and is) so long is that I have to drive more than 2 hours to see my stylist, and the winter got complicated, so my every-10-to-12-weeks got postponed to today.
Admitting that I drive 2+ hours to have someone cut my hair is a tad embarrassing. It’s a little neurotic. It could be about trust. It could be about loyalty. But I’ve never had a normal relationship with salon life.
I was a chubby kid with bad haircuts. When I finally talked my mother into letting me grow my hair out, beginning in about sixth grade, I just kept going. I became one of the kids with long hair. It wasn’t gorgeous-thick-TV-commercial long, but it was long. Once I stepped out of that salon sometime around 1973 or ’74, I didn’t actually step back into one until 1995. Think PTSD. (And yes—I exaggerate a million times a day.)
I’m sure I must have occasionally had a friend take a little off the ends. The only instance of this I remember clearly, though, happened the year after college, when I was doing volunteer service through a church organization. I asked one of my roommates to take a couple of inches off for me. By the time she was done, I’d lost 8 or 10. I was devastated. I was crying. But when we went to work the next day, nobody noticed. I mean, it was still below the shoulder.
The decision to cut my hair, I think, was based on two things. First, I was living in DC and trying to make the job jump from secretarial to editorial. I decided that my long hair wasn’t helping me any—that I needed a more professional (or potentially professional) look. The other was that my best friend’s mother had said to me—not in a critical way, just being observant—“You’re the type of person who will never cut her hair.” Yeah, that was probably it. I had to prove someone wrong. I owed it to someone.
My friend yh was living in DC at the time too. She had been a professional hairdresser in her former life. She could walk me through this.
yh told me to look at magazines and gather up some photos of haircuts I liked. I brought them to her. “This woman’s hair is wet,” she would say. “Keeping it wet all day would not be practical.” “This woman is standing in front of a fan. This, too, is a difficult look to maintain.”
We finally decided on the gradual chop to avoid shock. She cut it to just above my shoulder. I still have the braid she snipped off in a box somewhere (a distasteful thought to some—sorry). A relic.
It wasn’t long before I had the nerve to go shorter. For a long time I had a bob with a severe angle, the back shaved out. I loved having the hair off my neck. But I always kept the front long. I’m the type who needs a quick and obvious escape route.
For the rest of my time in DC, I would go to yh’s place in Adams Morgan, get my hair cut, sweep up the mess after. We’d get to spend great girlfriend time together.
And then I moved to Vermont.
Three major fears about the move: Can we make enough money to live? Will I ever eat Thai food again? Who will cut my hair?
Tim moved up 8 months before I did. At his company Christmas party, my hair was different enough to be a topic of conversation, and I was warned that no one up here would cut it that way.
Tim, though, had found Danielle.
In 1995, I walked into Danielle’s salon, the first time I’d been in one in at least 20 years. Tim was right. She knew what she was doing. And I, being both loyal and somewhat resistant to change, have seen no one but her since that day.
Unfortunately, she’s moved around the state a bit, which has necessitated these long drives. She was in St. Alban’s for years, so I would drive way up north. But I really don’t get my hair cut that often, so it was OK, and I used it as an excuse to spend the rest of the day in Burlington, being around actual people, commerce, and restaurants. My semicity fix.
More recently, she’s moved to Montpelier, our state capital. It’s a pretty town, and the only state capital in the United States without a McDonald’s. I can buy some decent dark roast beans at Capitol Grounds, which I have every intention of doing today. But I will be in the car 4½ hours, round-trip—both because I love Danielle and because I am a scaredy-cat who doesn’t want anyone else touching my hair.
My hair’s not as short as it used to be. Danielle talked me into growing it out in the back. But to keep it from looking too thick, she still shaves out the back underneath, and that’s my favorite part—feeling the smooth, graceful shortness that’s still mine, even if it’s my secret.
Not surprisingly, I’ve always loved “Almost Cut My Hair.” Here’s David Crosby going all acoustic on its ass.
Happened just the other day
It was gettin’ kinda long
I could have said it was in my way
But I didn’t, and I wonder why
Feel like letting my freak flag fly
I feel like I owe it to someone
The gods willing, today I’ll get my hair cut. It’s been almost 16 weeks since the last one, something unheard of since I got back into this habit.
The reason it’s been (and is) so long is that I have to drive more than 2 hours to see my stylist, and the winter got complicated, so my every-10-to-12-weeks got postponed to today.
Admitting that I drive 2+ hours to have someone cut my hair is a tad embarrassing. It’s a little neurotic. It could be about trust. It could be about loyalty. But I’ve never had a normal relationship with salon life.
I was a chubby kid with bad haircuts. When I finally talked my mother into letting me grow my hair out, beginning in about sixth grade, I just kept going. I became one of the kids with long hair. It wasn’t gorgeous-thick-TV-commercial long, but it was long. Once I stepped out of that salon sometime around 1973 or ’74, I didn’t actually step back into one until 1995. Think PTSD. (And yes—I exaggerate a million times a day.)
I’m sure I must have occasionally had a friend take a little off the ends. The only instance of this I remember clearly, though, happened the year after college, when I was doing volunteer service through a church organization. I asked one of my roommates to take a couple of inches off for me. By the time she was done, I’d lost 8 or 10. I was devastated. I was crying. But when we went to work the next day, nobody noticed. I mean, it was still below the shoulder.
The decision to cut my hair, I think, was based on two things. First, I was living in DC and trying to make the job jump from secretarial to editorial. I decided that my long hair wasn’t helping me any—that I needed a more professional (or potentially professional) look. The other was that my best friend’s mother had said to me—not in a critical way, just being observant—“You’re the type of person who will never cut her hair.” Yeah, that was probably it. I had to prove someone wrong. I owed it to someone.
My friend yh was living in DC at the time too. She had been a professional hairdresser in her former life. She could walk me through this.
yh told me to look at magazines and gather up some photos of haircuts I liked. I brought them to her. “This woman’s hair is wet,” she would say. “Keeping it wet all day would not be practical.” “This woman is standing in front of a fan. This, too, is a difficult look to maintain.”
We finally decided on the gradual chop to avoid shock. She cut it to just above my shoulder. I still have the braid she snipped off in a box somewhere (a distasteful thought to some—sorry). A relic.
It wasn’t long before I had the nerve to go shorter. For a long time I had a bob with a severe angle, the back shaved out. I loved having the hair off my neck. But I always kept the front long. I’m the type who needs a quick and obvious escape route.
For the rest of my time in DC, I would go to yh’s place in Adams Morgan, get my hair cut, sweep up the mess after. We’d get to spend great girlfriend time together.
And then I moved to Vermont.
Three major fears about the move: Can we make enough money to live? Will I ever eat Thai food again? Who will cut my hair?
Tim moved up 8 months before I did. At his company Christmas party, my hair was different enough to be a topic of conversation, and I was warned that no one up here would cut it that way.
Tim, though, had found Danielle.
In 1995, I walked into Danielle’s salon, the first time I’d been in one in at least 20 years. Tim was right. She knew what she was doing. And I, being both loyal and somewhat resistant to change, have seen no one but her since that day.
Unfortunately, she’s moved around the state a bit, which has necessitated these long drives. She was in St. Alban’s for years, so I would drive way up north. But I really don’t get my hair cut that often, so it was OK, and I used it as an excuse to spend the rest of the day in Burlington, being around actual people, commerce, and restaurants. My semicity fix.
More recently, she’s moved to Montpelier, our state capital. It’s a pretty town, and the only state capital in the United States without a McDonald’s. I can buy some decent dark roast beans at Capitol Grounds, which I have every intention of doing today. But I will be in the car 4½ hours, round-trip—both because I love Danielle and because I am a scaredy-cat who doesn’t want anyone else touching my hair.
My hair’s not as short as it used to be. Danielle talked me into growing it out in the back. But to keep it from looking too thick, she still shaves out the back underneath, and that’s my favorite part—feeling the smooth, graceful shortness that’s still mine, even if it’s my secret.
Not surprisingly, I’ve always loved “Almost Cut My Hair.” Here’s David Crosby going all acoustic on its ass.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
45/365 The Blue Danube
The other Pierre tune is Strauss’s “The Blue Danube.” For this number, Pierre needed two beautiful women. The three of us would lie backdown on the bunk: Pierre in the middle, Sandy on one side, me on the other. Sandy and I were instructed to inflate our cheeks with air, and hold it. Pierre would take a hand to each of our faces. He would begin to sing: Dunh dunh dunh dunh dunh . . . Then he would release air from the filled cheeks by squeezing, first one of us, pfft pfft!, then the other, pfft pfft! This exercise would exhibit both our vast musical abilities and maturity.
To simply jar your memory of this tune (and not link you to a nearly 10-minute version of the whole piece), I will refer you to a 30-second Monty Python short, “Exploding Blue Danube.”
To simply jar your memory of this tune (and not link you to a nearly 10-minute version of the whole piece), I will refer you to a 30-second Monty Python short, “Exploding Blue Danube.”
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
44/365 Symphony No. 40 in G minor, K. 550
There are a couple of popular classical pieces that I have associated with my college buddy Pierre.
The first is Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G minor, the first movement (Molto allegro). The piece would start, then Pierre, posing as a highly paid voice-over artist, would launch into his own commercial extolling the virtues of the Fiat X/19, the car he happened to drive. Each time seemed completely improvised, although it may not have been. It never failed to make me laugh.
I can’t hear the opening bars of this without thinking, “The Fiat X/19 . . . ”
The first is Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G minor, the first movement (Molto allegro). The piece would start, then Pierre, posing as a highly paid voice-over artist, would launch into his own commercial extolling the virtues of the Fiat X/19, the car he happened to drive. Each time seemed completely improvised, although it may not have been. It never failed to make me laugh.
I can’t hear the opening bars of this without thinking, “The Fiat X/19 . . . ”
Monday, March 19, 2007
43/365 Bruce’s Philosopher’s Song
I went to my mailbox on Friday and picked up an unexpected package from Dana. “As hard as it may be,” read the card, “please remember to take turns.” Inside was a Tim the Enchanter plush hat. It looks OK on me, but my hair’s a little long. It looks great on my Tim the Enchanter.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail has only Monty Python in common with “Bruce’s Philosopher’s Song.” But hey, I wanted to show off the plush hat. A gift like that’s a great way to start a weekend.
As a fan of the ridiculous and irreverent, I have always been a fan of the “Philosopher’s Song.” I am sorry that Schopenhauer was dropped from the official lyrics, as the ones I learned included him. It has gone from:
David Hume could outconsume
Both Schopenhauer and Hegel
to:
David Hume could outconsume
Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel.
As it then goes on to:
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel,
I feel deeply the loss of the lovely alliteration of Schopenhauer with schloshed as Schlegel, probably my favorite phrase in the song. I’m not “permanently pissed,” but schtill.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail has only Monty Python in common with “Bruce’s Philosopher’s Song.” But hey, I wanted to show off the plush hat. A gift like that’s a great way to start a weekend.
As a fan of the ridiculous and irreverent, I have always been a fan of the “Philosopher’s Song.” I am sorry that Schopenhauer was dropped from the official lyrics, as the ones I learned included him. It has gone from:
David Hume could outconsume
Both Schopenhauer and Hegel
to:
David Hume could outconsume
Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel.
As it then goes on to:
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel,
I feel deeply the loss of the lovely alliteration of Schopenhauer with schloshed as Schlegel, probably my favorite phrase in the song. I’m not “permanently pissed,” but schtill.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
42/365 Do I Love You Because You’re Beautiful?
Do I love you because you’re beautiful?
Or are you beautiful because I love you?
As a child, I watched the 1965 Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Cinderella on TV every year. What a great team those guys were. But what really astounds me is that they could pose such a profound philosophical—possibly biological—question right in the middle of a story aimed at kids. In the middle of a fantasy, no less.
Do we love the one we sexualize? Or do we sexualize the one we love? Pheromones/genitalia or heart/mind: Who is really the leader here? Because I want to sleep with you, do I somehow decide that I love you? Or do I love you and eventually think, Hey! I could sleep with you too! What a fabulous idea!
It’s amazing to me that Cinderella and the prince actually took time out to ponder this.
Or are you beautiful because I love you?
As a child, I watched the 1965 Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Cinderella on TV every year. What a great team those guys were. But what really astounds me is that they could pose such a profound philosophical—possibly biological—question right in the middle of a story aimed at kids. In the middle of a fantasy, no less.
Do we love the one we sexualize? Or do we sexualize the one we love? Pheromones/genitalia or heart/mind: Who is really the leader here? Because I want to sleep with you, do I somehow decide that I love you? Or do I love you and eventually think, Hey! I could sleep with you too! What a fabulous idea!
It’s amazing to me that Cinderella and the prince actually took time out to ponder this.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
41/365 Fell in Love with a Boy
Can’t keep away from the boy
The two sides of my brain need to have a meeting
Can’t think of anything to do
My left brain knows all of love is fleeting
When you’re someone who hardly ever listens to the radio—and then when you do, it’s NPR—you miss a lot of music. But NPR can still tip you off. It’s where I first learned about Joss Stone.
I think it was a CD review (The Soul Sessions, 2003). Her cover of “Some Kind of Wonderful” left me breathless. I had to hear more.
She was sixteen, white, and British. She didn’t sound like any of those things. Especially the first.
There are some classic tracks on the disc, but then there’s “Fell in Love with a Boy.” Dude.
But here’s the other thing about missing too much pop culture. I looked at the liners to see who wrote the song; the credit was Jack White. The only Jack White I could think of (besides my mother’s cousin) was White Stripes Jack White, and that didn’t seem likely—not that I really know his music. But sure enough, this is a cover of his apparently well-known “Fell in Love with a Girl.” Turns out I love it, and it couldn’t be more different from Stone’s.
Is it possible I could come to Jack White through Joss Stone?
The path of the musical journey twists and turns mysteriously.
The two sides of my brain need to have a meeting
Can’t think of anything to do
My left brain knows all of love is fleeting
When you’re someone who hardly ever listens to the radio—and then when you do, it’s NPR—you miss a lot of music. But NPR can still tip you off. It’s where I first learned about Joss Stone.
I think it was a CD review (The Soul Sessions, 2003). Her cover of “Some Kind of Wonderful” left me breathless. I had to hear more.
She was sixteen, white, and British. She didn’t sound like any of those things. Especially the first.
There are some classic tracks on the disc, but then there’s “Fell in Love with a Boy.” Dude.
But here’s the other thing about missing too much pop culture. I looked at the liners to see who wrote the song; the credit was Jack White. The only Jack White I could think of (besides my mother’s cousin) was White Stripes Jack White, and that didn’t seem likely—not that I really know his music. But sure enough, this is a cover of his apparently well-known “Fell in Love with a Girl.” Turns out I love it, and it couldn’t be more different from Stone’s.
Is it possible I could come to Jack White through Joss Stone?
The path of the musical journey twists and turns mysteriously.
Friday, March 16, 2007
40/365 Let’s Never Stop Falling in Love
And speaking of good lounge music, Pink Martini can deliver in multiple genres.
I know a falling star can’t fall forever
But let’s never stop falling in love
Olive or twist?
I know a falling star can’t fall forever
But let’s never stop falling in love
Olive or twist?
Thursday, March 15, 2007
39/365 Living Room
Sometimes those musical snippets heard between NPR stories can haunt you. I think that’s where I first heard Paris Combo. Luckily, you can look up said snippets online.
As soon as I found out that the CD I wanted was out of print, I had to have it. (Have you noticed a pattern? I’m working on this.) I kept ordering it from places who assured me they could get it, but couldn’t. It took me 6 months.
But if you’re going to dub your own living room Martini Lounge, you better have some good lounge music.
As soon as I found out that the CD I wanted was out of print, I had to have it. (Have you noticed a pattern? I’m working on this.) I kept ordering it from places who assured me they could get it, but couldn’t. It took me 6 months.
But if you’re going to dub your own living room Martini Lounge, you better have some good lounge music.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
38/365 Pfft! You Was Gone
I admit it. When I was a kid, I occasionally watched Hee Haw. It was no Laugh-In, mind you, but I liked Minnie Pearl, and I liked that silly song about love gone wrong.
Later I learned the song from a traditional bluegrass songbook, and the verses were completely different. Certainly it’s a song for which verse after verse can be written ad nauseam. But the chorus was always the same (with the possible exception of the use of was/were and the spelling of pfft!):
Where, oh where are you tonight?
Why did you leave me here all alone?
I searched the world over and I thought I’d found true love.
You met another and pfft! you was gone!
Later I learned the song from a traditional bluegrass songbook, and the verses were completely different. Certainly it’s a song for which verse after verse can be written ad nauseam. But the chorus was always the same (with the possible exception of the use of was/were and the spelling of pfft!):
Where, oh where are you tonight?
Why did you leave me here all alone?
I searched the world over and I thought I’d found true love.
You met another and pfft! you was gone!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
37/365 My Girl
I am unable to hear the first measures of the Temptations’ “My Girl” without thinking of my friend Wayne. It’s almost as if that song is the beginning of our buddy movie, the opening shot taken from a moving car on some road trip, speeding along some famous city bridge over water, sky bluer than blue. Cue title, opening credits (with a cast of close to a dozen).
Tim had started working at an activist organization in DC. This was a weekend staff retreat, families invited. I can’t remember where it was, but Tim and I went, and so did Craig.
Wayne had started working there recently, the same day as Tim, but he was a way-higher-up. I don’t remember if Wayne hosted the talent show, but he was the talent. He opened with “My Girl,” those perfect, immediately recognizable guitar notes grabbing everyone’s attention. His wife Sue sang with him. I didn’t know it then, but before long, I’d count this duet among my closest friends.
The other association I have with this song is a Baltimore news promo from the seventies about Channel 13’s weatherman, in which they substituted his name, Bob Turk, for the words my girl. Yes, advertising forever places connections in one’s mind, whether one wants them there or not.
But first and foremost, it is Wayne playing the guitar that night so long ago, Sue singing by his side, and everything that came after. I have really been missing them lately.
Tim had started working at an activist organization in DC. This was a weekend staff retreat, families invited. I can’t remember where it was, but Tim and I went, and so did Craig.
Wayne had started working there recently, the same day as Tim, but he was a way-higher-up. I don’t remember if Wayne hosted the talent show, but he was the talent. He opened with “My Girl,” those perfect, immediately recognizable guitar notes grabbing everyone’s attention. His wife Sue sang with him. I didn’t know it then, but before long, I’d count this duet among my closest friends.
The other association I have with this song is a Baltimore news promo from the seventies about Channel 13’s weatherman, in which they substituted his name, Bob Turk, for the words my girl. Yes, advertising forever places connections in one’s mind, whether one wants them there or not.
But first and foremost, it is Wayne playing the guitar that night so long ago, Sue singing by his side, and everything that came after. I have really been missing them lately.
Monday, March 12, 2007
36/365 Monkey See–Monkey Do
Do you want my love, peaches?
Do you want my rage?
Or do you merely like to see me shake my cage?
Your papayas get thrown at me
And mine get thrown at you.
I guess love is always just:
Love is monkey see and monkey do (that’s all it is, peaches).
The Youtube clip is 9 minutes long, but most of that is jazz improv. You can get most of the song up front. For monkey commentary, see today’s Alphabird entry.
Do you want my rage?
Or do you merely like to see me shake my cage?
Your papayas get thrown at me
And mine get thrown at you.
I guess love is always just:
Love is monkey see and monkey do (that’s all it is, peaches).
—Michael Franks
The Youtube clip is 9 minutes long, but most of that is jazz improv. You can get most of the song up front. For monkey commentary, see today’s Alphabird entry.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
35/365 Autumn Leaves
Daddy Sell, our high school choral director with the jazz moniker, loved this song. From my freshman year, the start of school meant covering “Autumn Leaves” with an almost pledge-of-allegiance regularity, until Daddy moved on to something else or you couldn’t really call it autumn anymore. Hey—I loved it too.
It was, of course, the French “Les feuilles mortes” (Jacques Prévert, Joseph Kosma), then Johnny Mercer wrote English lyrics. A floating-head a capella French version can be found by clicking here.
I don’t know how many covers I have in my collection, but there are two I listen to a lot. One—the fastest I’ve ever heard—is by Bill Evans. More often than not, when I head for Martini Lounge (aka my living room) at happy hour, a Bill Evans CD is the first thing I’ll play. I am in utter awe of him. Maybe someday I’ll attempt words about that awe, but it’s possible I will never be successful. Trust me. I’m in awe.
Possibly the slowest I’ve ever heard is the one by Eva Cassidy. Her cover of this song rips your heart out, stomps on it with stiletto heels, makes subsequent passersby see it there on the sidewalk and think, “Ew.” But it’s worth it.
It was, of course, the French “Les feuilles mortes” (Jacques Prévert, Joseph Kosma), then Johnny Mercer wrote English lyrics. A floating-head a capella French version can be found by clicking here.
I don’t know how many covers I have in my collection, but there are two I listen to a lot. One—the fastest I’ve ever heard—is by Bill Evans. More often than not, when I head for Martini Lounge (aka my living room) at happy hour, a Bill Evans CD is the first thing I’ll play. I am in utter awe of him. Maybe someday I’ll attempt words about that awe, but it’s possible I will never be successful. Trust me. I’m in awe.
Possibly the slowest I’ve ever heard is the one by Eva Cassidy. Her cover of this song rips your heart out, stomps on it with stiletto heels, makes subsequent passersby see it there on the sidewalk and think, “Ew.” But it’s worth it.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
34/365 My Sharona
For Lisa
Way back at the beginning of this project—oh so long ago, like, last month?—Otter did an entry about “My Sharona.” She mentioned how her coworker’s name was often sung to replace the title words.
My sister had Get the Knack back when it was released, in 1979. With the exception of her musical theater stash, her popular music collection was way more hip than mine. I loved all types of music, but admittedly, what I actually owned was a bit overpopped.
I borrowed this one a lot. I loved “My Sharona.” I just checked out the album playlist online, and I can remember only a few of the other tracks by title. Not surprisingly, the one I do remember is called “Good Girls Don’t.”
“My Sharona” is about lusting after a much younger girl. As someone who was interested in older guys, I had no issue at all with the theme.
But really, I can’t imagine what lyrics could have made me not like this song. The beat was great, it was in a minor key, and, of course, it was easy to parody, as Nick Cheronis (god love him)’s friends and foes did.
I told Otter I’d done the same thing with that song. I thought I could come up with all sorts of examples, but it turns out it’s really a spontaneous thing: You’re in a situation, you hear a four-syllable something that fits the beat and ends ona-ish, and out it comes. But it happens in the moment, then it’s over, and not many of those moments choose storage in my addled brain.
All I could come up with from my current life (which is part medical editor) is all those Latinate diagnoses you don’t want to hear: Car-ci-no-ma! An-he-do-nia! Mel-a-no-ma!
But as a teenager who could type like nobody’s business, the one oft-repeated, almost mantralike one, was this: Smith Corona!
I loved my Smith Corona.
“My Sharona.” I know. It’s only rock and roll. But I like it.
Way back at the beginning of this project—oh so long ago, like, last month?—Otter did an entry about “My Sharona.” She mentioned how her coworker’s name was often sung to replace the title words.
My sister had Get the Knack back when it was released, in 1979. With the exception of her musical theater stash, her popular music collection was way more hip than mine. I loved all types of music, but admittedly, what I actually owned was a bit overpopped.
I borrowed this one a lot. I loved “My Sharona.” I just checked out the album playlist online, and I can remember only a few of the other tracks by title. Not surprisingly, the one I do remember is called “Good Girls Don’t.”
“My Sharona” is about lusting after a much younger girl. As someone who was interested in older guys, I had no issue at all with the theme.
But really, I can’t imagine what lyrics could have made me not like this song. The beat was great, it was in a minor key, and, of course, it was easy to parody, as Nick Cheronis (god love him)’s friends and foes did.
I told Otter I’d done the same thing with that song. I thought I could come up with all sorts of examples, but it turns out it’s really a spontaneous thing: You’re in a situation, you hear a four-syllable something that fits the beat and ends ona-ish, and out it comes. But it happens in the moment, then it’s over, and not many of those moments choose storage in my addled brain.
All I could come up with from my current life (which is part medical editor) is all those Latinate diagnoses you don’t want to hear: Car-ci-no-ma! An-he-do-nia! Mel-a-no-ma!
But as a teenager who could type like nobody’s business, the one oft-repeated, almost mantralike one, was this: Smith Corona!
I loved my Smith Corona.
“My Sharona.” I know. It’s only rock and roll. But I like it.
Friday, March 9, 2007
33/365 The Candy Man
Not the Grateful Dead’s “Candyman,” released a tad earlier. The one Sammy Davis Jr. covered. The song written for the film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (my first experience of “What have they done to my beloved book?”).
Any time Tim hears this, or even mention made of it, his face twists in agony as he announces, “I had just forgotten that song.”
Any time Tim hears this, or even mention made of it, his face twists in agony as he announces, “I had just forgotten that song.”
Thursday, March 8, 2007
32/365 Bohemian Like You
A confession: I don’t have this song on a Dandy Warhols CD. I have it on a Buffy the Vampire Slayer CD. A couple of great mixes from the show were released, and this song’s on Radio Sunnydale. I love it, but no doubt because it’s such a tribute to the Stones. I’ve never followed up on whether I’d like anything else this group has done, having so many times liked a single but been disappointed with an album. Any Dandy Warhols reviewers out there?
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
31/365 The Logical Song
Phonological Loops’s take on “Breakfast in America” got me thinking about Supertramp in general and that album in particular. And, as you can see from previous entries, I’ve already been thinking about my friend Leyla, and she’s the one who introduced me to Supertramp. She gave me Even in the Quietest Moments, which she had pronounced “a good make-out album.”
Breakfast in America was hot off the press when I went to visit Leyla, who was in grade 11 in Toronto. It must have been springtime. It was 1979, and Pierre Trudeau, campaigning hard to stay in power, was speaking at her high school. She got permission for me to come to the school to hear him speak. Security was high. I had to leave my glasses case at the door.
I was the only one in the room who didn’t know the words to “O Canada.” (Now I know some of them.)
Mr. Trudeau was about to get ousted, but only for nine months.
Leyla was dating this guy Bill, and Bill had this friend Kevin. This really cute friend Kevin. This really cute socialist friend Kevin who was working to make sure Mr. Trudeau did not win the election. The four of us went to the top of the CN Tower one night. It was breezy and beautiful, and cute Kevin actually kissed me. I wonder what ever happened to him?
I had Supertramp so associated with Canada that it took me awhile to figure out they were British.
“The Logical Song” is perfect for the teenager about to get out in the world, that cynical warning of all that is to come.
But then they sent me away to teach me how to be sensible,
Logical, responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
Clinical, intellectual, cynical.
I am many of those things.
Breakfast in America was hot off the press when I went to visit Leyla, who was in grade 11 in Toronto. It must have been springtime. It was 1979, and Pierre Trudeau, campaigning hard to stay in power, was speaking at her high school. She got permission for me to come to the school to hear him speak. Security was high. I had to leave my glasses case at the door.
I was the only one in the room who didn’t know the words to “O Canada.” (Now I know some of them.)
Mr. Trudeau was about to get ousted, but only for nine months.
Leyla was dating this guy Bill, and Bill had this friend Kevin. This really cute friend Kevin. This really cute socialist friend Kevin who was working to make sure Mr. Trudeau did not win the election. The four of us went to the top of the CN Tower one night. It was breezy and beautiful, and cute Kevin actually kissed me. I wonder what ever happened to him?
I had Supertramp so associated with Canada that it took me awhile to figure out they were British.
“The Logical Song” is perfect for the teenager about to get out in the world, that cynical warning of all that is to come.
But then they sent me away to teach me how to be sensible,
Logical, responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
Clinical, intellectual, cynical.
I am many of those things.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
30/365 Layla
One night a couple of weeks ago, on our way home from the bar where Beatrix Kiddo holds forth, Tim and I got into a discussion about music. I guess Eric Clapton came up somehow, although I don’t think we’d heard him that night. Tim asked me to name the band who recorded “Layla,” and I was able to say, without hesitation, Derek and the Dominoes.
This somehow managed to impress Tim, as we are only in our midforties, and he wasn’t sure I had this one in the vault. Except when one of your best friends is named Leyla, then of course you do.
It was Leyla herself who spun the record for me in her pink-and-purple bedroom. I’d never heard of any Leyla but her, and I was impressed.
Deloney’s right—electric Layla’s the best version. (Where/when did he say that? I can’t find it now.)
Me, I apparently don’t have a rock-and-roll name.
This somehow managed to impress Tim, as we are only in our midforties, and he wasn’t sure I had this one in the vault. Except when one of your best friends is named Leyla, then of course you do.
It was Leyla herself who spun the record for me in her pink-and-purple bedroom. I’d never heard of any Leyla but her, and I was impressed.
Deloney’s right—electric Layla’s the best version. (Where/when did he say that? I can’t find it now.)
Me, I apparently don’t have a rock-and-roll name.
Monday, March 5, 2007
29/365 Monday, Monday
I was probably 9 years old when I found out about the Mamas and the Papas. Whether this memory was my first exposure, it’s hard to say. It was among the earliest. And who knows if I’ve got the details right?
My parents’ dear friends, whom we lived four hours away from, had a daughter just my age. Our moms had been pregnant together, and the two of us adored one another, even though we only got to see each other a few times a year. Leyla.
Leyla was the later-baby. Her sister was 15 years older, her brother 10 years. Her sister was already married and pregnant.
It’s her brother that’s a part of this memory, though—her brother Erol and his girlfriend Laura. They would get married and have a couple of kids together. They would get divorced.
When we were 9, Leyla’s father died suddenly, at work. He was young: forty-six, I think. Our family went up for the funeral, and I believe we actually stayed with Leyla’s family, in their house. I remember spending time there with Erol—could it really be on the occasion of their father’s death?—and he and Laura played records for us. One of these was the Mamas and the Papas. I remember dark, quiet evenings, and the Mamas and the Papas up in Leyla’s bedroom—us kids with Erol.
Erol died a couple of years ago, just like his father—suddenly, at work. He was about fifty. I didn’t ever really know him. But he was the guy who introduced me to Denny, Cass, John, and Michelle.
Oh Monday morning, Monday morning couldn’t guarantee
That Monday evening you would still be here with me.
My parents’ dear friends, whom we lived four hours away from, had a daughter just my age. Our moms had been pregnant together, and the two of us adored one another, even though we only got to see each other a few times a year. Leyla.
Leyla was the later-baby. Her sister was 15 years older, her brother 10 years. Her sister was already married and pregnant.
It’s her brother that’s a part of this memory, though—her brother Erol and his girlfriend Laura. They would get married and have a couple of kids together. They would get divorced.
When we were 9, Leyla’s father died suddenly, at work. He was young: forty-six, I think. Our family went up for the funeral, and I believe we actually stayed with Leyla’s family, in their house. I remember spending time there with Erol—could it really be on the occasion of their father’s death?—and he and Laura played records for us. One of these was the Mamas and the Papas. I remember dark, quiet evenings, and the Mamas and the Papas up in Leyla’s bedroom—us kids with Erol.
Erol died a couple of years ago, just like his father—suddenly, at work. He was about fifty. I didn’t ever really know him. But he was the guy who introduced me to Denny, Cass, John, and Michelle.
Oh Monday morning, Monday morning couldn’t guarantee
That Monday evening you would still be here with me.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
28/365 Mah Nà Mah Nà
It’s amazing what can be learned on Wikipedia, assuming it’s all true.
Apparently, Piero Umiliani’s nonsense song debuted in an Italian softcore-porn film in 1968 before it became a hit single ’round the world.
My first memory of it was a Muppet version on Sesame Street.
For the record, I think I was in third grade by the time our PBS station picked up Sesame Street. I was technically older than the target audience. But the Muppets were fabulous, the writing was sharp and witty, and I was drawn in all the same. This may actually have been my first guilty-pleasure TV show, the one you can’t admit publicly to loving. When the Electric Company showed up, all the better for the double feature. Does anyone remember “Love of Chair”? There were some brilliant comics working these shows.
A year or so ago I got to see Avenue Q on Broadway. This musical is Sesame Street meets Electric Company for adults. It was sublime. Don’t take your kids if you don’t want them to see the puppets-having-oral-sex scene or hear songs like “The Internet Is for Porn” and “It Sucks to Be Me” and “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist.”
Hmmm, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah. “Mah Nà Mah Nà.” I like that song.
Apparently, Piero Umiliani’s nonsense song debuted in an Italian softcore-porn film in 1968 before it became a hit single ’round the world.
My first memory of it was a Muppet version on Sesame Street.
For the record, I think I was in third grade by the time our PBS station picked up Sesame Street. I was technically older than the target audience. But the Muppets were fabulous, the writing was sharp and witty, and I was drawn in all the same. This may actually have been my first guilty-pleasure TV show, the one you can’t admit publicly to loving. When the Electric Company showed up, all the better for the double feature. Does anyone remember “Love of Chair”? There were some brilliant comics working these shows.
A year or so ago I got to see Avenue Q on Broadway. This musical is Sesame Street meets Electric Company for adults. It was sublime. Don’t take your kids if you don’t want them to see the puppets-having-oral-sex scene or hear songs like “The Internet Is for Porn” and “It Sucks to Be Me” and “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist.”
Hmmm, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah. “Mah Nà Mah Nà.” I like that song.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
27/365 Sometimes I Wish I Had a Gun
It’s my new favorite song, or at least the fave du jour. Sewa Yoleme totally came through on my birthday yesterday, not only sending Sting’s new John Dowland CD, but also John Waters’s A Date with John Waters. Waters is master of the mix tape (I refer you also to 2005’s A John Waters Christmas).
I wish I could you send you somewhere online where you can hear this jazzy tune, but alas, I cannot. However, you should check out the John Waters personal promo about the CD at Amazon.com.
Mink Stole, who has appeared in just about all his movies, sings this number. It’s basically a love song—about the love that would certainly exist between two people if the singer were appropriately armed.
I’d aim it at your arms
You’d wrap them ’round me
I’d aim it at your lips
And make you wanna kiss me
I’d aim it at your eyes
and feel the look of love
and we’d be having babies
Sometimes I wish I had a gun
Actually, depending on when it comes around, I can’t tell if she’s always singing “we’d be having babies” or is sometimes singing “we’d be happy babies.” No lyrics online yet either.
I like this verse too:
Sometimes I wish I had a gun
Cuz competition isn’t fun
I’d aim it at those other gals
And then see how fast they run
That John Waters. He totally gets love.
I wish I could you send you somewhere online where you can hear this jazzy tune, but alas, I cannot. However, you should check out the John Waters personal promo about the CD at Amazon.com.
Mink Stole, who has appeared in just about all his movies, sings this number. It’s basically a love song—about the love that would certainly exist between two people if the singer were appropriately armed.
I’d aim it at your arms
You’d wrap them ’round me
I’d aim it at your lips
And make you wanna kiss me
I’d aim it at your eyes
and feel the look of love
and we’d be having babies
Sometimes I wish I had a gun
Actually, depending on when it comes around, I can’t tell if she’s always singing “we’d be having babies” or is sometimes singing “we’d be happy babies.” No lyrics online yet either.
I like this verse too:
Sometimes I wish I had a gun
Cuz competition isn’t fun
I’d aim it at those other gals
And then see how fast they run
That John Waters. He totally gets love.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Thursday, March 1, 2007
25/365 Gypsy Eyes
How could such a straightforward drumbeat draw me in?
Well I realize that I’ve been hypnotized
I love your gypsy eyes, I love your gypsy eyes.
That’s it. Jimi Hendrix has hypnotized me. That voodoo chile.
Wikipedia claims this song is based on the field holler.
About a year ago, Tim told his Portland photo-studio coworkers that I was going through “a Hendrix phase.” Immediately, Louise burned me Electric Ladyland and Len sent Axis: As Bold as Love. How cool are these people? (And what kind of phase should I go through next?)
Well I realize that I’ve been hypnotized
I love your gypsy eyes, I love your gypsy eyes.
That’s it. Jimi Hendrix has hypnotized me. That voodoo chile.
Wikipedia claims this song is based on the field holler.
About a year ago, Tim told his Portland photo-studio coworkers that I was going through “a Hendrix phase.” Immediately, Louise burned me Electric Ladyland and Len sent Axis: As Bold as Love. How cool are these people? (And what kind of phase should I go through next?)
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