Angry at the Birds

     I don't look for sadness, but I love being touched by music. I've had periods where it felt good to embrace self pity, sure, because I've been through heart break and I've been young and naive and didn't hold back when I probably should have. When it was all over, though, I realized how selfish and foolish I'd been to let the pity in for as long as I had. As I've grown, I've learned to be open less foolishly.
I've also found sadness when loved ones have fallen ill as they approached the end of their lives. Initially, you want to stay away to protect yourself from hurt. Never do that to yourself. Embrace often. You'll find endless opportunities to regret the hugs you didn't give or take and the stories you could have heard.  Be there. Be present. Lend a hand because your loved ones may not know they need it. If you can be there to support a friend when they're down and you do so before they have to ask, you've really helped. I have learned that there's a vast difference between being sullen, sad, and drowning in depressing thoughts versus being touched by the beauty of being a part of someone else's life and how full you can feel by letting them be a part of yours. It feels just as good to let the experience of others touch you when you can identify with their interpretations.
     Last week, I heard an episode of the NPR podcast All Songs Considered. On it, Robin Hilton played a song called "Doing the Right Thing" by a band from North London called Daughter. The video is below but be warned that you should grab an unopened box of tissue before hitting play.

     Now, I'm very sorry to put you through that but I'm also happy if you felt the same as I did. I've seen the video three times and, all told, listened to the song at least 8 times. Every time I hear it, I'm left physically shaking and without control over my tears, which flow like the rain we're experiencing today in Sacramento. It's thunderous outside and very wet and my face feels the same. Again, I don't feel like I'm enjoying the sadness, necessarily (though isn't a good cry therapeutic to the nerves?). I do thrive on being touched by music, lyrics, and the image portrayed in this video. I can't think of a time when I've felt more touched by the music, lyrics, and meaning of a song.
     I've been there when my grandfather lay in bed, shaking with weakness and grasping at any recognizable thought he could make sense of. His sickness in his final days, as his body slowly shut down, sapped him of the personality I grew up with. He changed from the patriarch of the family who had built an empire to a man who needed those around him to make it through the day. As I held his hand, he called me by his own son's name, though my uncle had died when I was two. There were times when he was so physically weak from a bad heart that he couldn't walk from bed to bathroom without assistance, which I learned the hard way. I'll always wonder if I could have done more but I'll never regret being there whenever I could. I always credit my grandfather for my sense of humor and my ability to keep a straight face when I'm joking around.
     When my great grandmother died, the only thing I could think about in my mourning was how overjoyed she was in her final years by simple things we of the outside world were taking for granted. One story, in particular, that she loved to regale me with were of the family of doves that made their nest on the balcony of her room at the assisted living home. She had watched them build the nest and huddle together. You could hear her face turn up in an over-sized smile as she told me that the eggs had hatched and later how the young chicks fought like teenagers.
     I was living on my own and far away for the first time. Deep down, I knew I'd rather have been with her or near her, but I'd often get caught up in my own selfish world. Speaking to her on the phone was always a delight. The following year, when the doves didn't return to rebuild and start again, I found it almost shocking that she wasn't more affected by their absence. She was much more grounded than I. I had had hoped for at least one more year of stories of the doves and their antics. She was much more ready to let go of them than I was. In hind sight, I not only wanted something more than a TV she could barely hear to entertain her. I wanted to hear the joy in her voice because, to me, it kept her alive. I suppose that's why, when she passed that year, I found myself angry at the birds yet ready for her to go because we had shared something special towards the end, after sharing so much love and wonder in my life to that point. Her life and what she gave me with it touched me, which I could never feel sadness over.

Thoughts at the End of Monday

I love being the kind of man who comes home, places his keys and wallet in the same place (usually), hangs his leather jacket with the ancient church pamphelets tucked in the inner breast pocket (all of which I inherited as a package deal from a late friend; an older, wiser dude), hangs his hat next to the jacket, greets his wife and pets, and promptly knocks out a few chores before sitting down to a home cooked meal.

There are other variables to this routine that come in and out of the ebb and flow of my weekday. For example: attending class when appropriate, stopping to get worms for the gecko, plucking grass and weeds for the tortoise, picking up the wife's perscriptions from the pharmacy (soon to be obsolete thanks to mail-order autofill service), picking up and dropping off piles of various books and media at the library, and perhaps picking up dinner. All in all, though, these tasks are merely off-shoots and repeats of a short list of situations that I've grown comfortable with and cycle through in my not-young-anymore age.

My wife loves me, I love her. My pets seems to adore me (although we live with two members of a species I'm convinced knows nothing of love nor do they care to learn: felines), and I'm tickled pink by them (yes, even the cats, but especially the dogs). My career is another story, but I'm always a work in progress in that department and I'm not settled just yet. I have friends (perhaps not many but just enough) that I consider simply the best people I could have in my life and if you knew them, you might just envy me. Unfortunately, I may not have the time I'd like to to spend with them, but when we do get to come together, it's always a grand event.

My hair may have given up on me long ago, but I can grow one hell of a beard to counter what my scalp may lack. I certainly have many more reasons to be thankful than I have reasons to complain. One does find a way, though. I'm conscious that I should truly minimize my bitching, but how could I appreciate the good in my life if I don't acknowledge the bad, right? Let's not dwell on that just this moment, though. I enjoy myself enough to make up for what others might not see in me. I consider myself a music aficionado who is absolutely starving for more knowledge and when I find it, I gobble it up hungrily.

All of these extravagant words simply to say that I appreciate life, all who I share mine with and...say...heard any good tunes lately? Whenever I have thoughts loud enough to be written out, I think of this song:

Thinking Aloud

...or somewhat quietly, I suppose, considering I'm putting this on paper rather than going out to shout it out.

I had an opportunity to share "kanske ar jag kar i dig", a wonderfully beautiful Jens Lekman song, with some friends today and was delighted to see their elated reaction. That reaction is like a drug for me.

Whenever people ask me for music recommendations, There are usually several things that happen. It's like a few generators turn on in my head to begin cranking out recommendations. One generator pops out music I love but no one has heard about. The more obscure, the more excited I get and the more I can see the little box generator hopping around in my head (Not sure if you've seen a small generator in motion but when they reach the end of their use and are being kept alive with duct tape and wd40 they tend to creak and shake about a bit more than usual).

Other generators pop up with safe recommendations everyone knows (classic rock, music from 10+ years ago, etc). I don't like to rely on these songs, but I'll often throw 2 or 3 into the list to help hook people into the rest of what I've got to share.

There's always a third generator. It rarely performs but when it does it's the most efficient beacon of energy I know. It's gold plated and pops out only one song every once in a while and that is the cornerstone song, the lone patch on a denim jacket, THE gold star song that links me to this person and represents our history together OR merely hits just the right spot lyrically or harmonically in a way that I KNOW will touch them just as much as it did me. When that generator does kick into life the rest of the tracks simultaneously seem more AND less important. More because the one song makes everything shine a little brighter and less because, metaphorically speaking, when you meet a room full of celebrities like Jimmy Fallon, Steven Wright, Graham Norton, Jann Arden, and Gayle (Oprah's best friend) and all of a sudden you realize that Tim Curry is sitting in the corner trying not to be bothered. The only thing you'll be thinking about is trying to have a 5 minute conversation with Tim Curry without telling him how much you adored him in Rocky Horror but find it hilarious that the same actor who plays Frank N Furter was also the bad guy in Congo. That conversation would make your day, week, life.

I've been digging on a GREAT upcoming album from a band called Landlandy. Their song "The Globe", for some reason, is touching and amazing. My first media addition to a blog entry!

I'll leave you with that note and a chance to listen in.

Your turn...

THIS is what keeps me awake at night?

I can't sleep at all right now. Passion for music and a need to get a good grade on my next English Writing assignment are creating far too many busy thoughts in my head. The essay I'm working on is supposed to be a "collage essay" and we got to pick the topic, so I went with "Is the album a dead art form?" Collage essays are made up of several sections which have a linking theme, but could easily be extracted and make up their own story.  Once the sections are woven together, they draw a big picture. It's definitely a challenge to me and, from what I'm reading on our online forums, a challenge to many of my classmates.
Some of the ideas I've fed to my instructor got her seal of approval, but because this form of writing is so new to me, some of them are not. I'm finding it hard to let go of old writing habits, which are based on her requirements for other essays (research essays, comparison essays, etc, etc.) One of her recent responses to my ideas for the essay are causing me to doubt that I'll be able to bring this all together and my gears are cranking as I reformulate my game plan.
This is only part of what's keeping me awake at this ungodly hour. Because my essay revolves around something I feel highly passionate about: music, the ideas behind my thesis are haunting me.  Let's zoom out a bit, assuming that yes, the age of the digital single is here and the age of the LP album is in the past (or at least has been put on the back burner and is only enjoyed by a small group of consumers). The bigger picture is that rock is dead. Lenny said it, Morcheeba said it, in a way The Buggles said it too (amongst many many others). SOme of those who recognize that rock has "died" are rockers themselves. I've tried to brush that idea under the rug my whole life because of bands that (to me) keep RAWKIN like Queens of the Stone Age, White Stripes (and for the love of music, Dead Weather), Aerosmith, Heart, Nico Vega...but the idea keeps coming back to me.  It's covered in dust from all of the times it's been reswept under that rug, but it's right there...don't look...it's staring at me now.
Ok, so some of you have grabbed your pitchforks and torches and are ready to run me out of town on a rail already because you're thinking exactly what I'd think if I were reading this: 'Rock isn't dead!  You just proved it with those bands you listed!' Let's be honest with each other.  Maybe we can reach a happy medium that will allow me to get back to sleep after I post this and we can both move on with our lives. Let's say Rock isn't dead.  What, then?  Rock certainly isn't what it was in the days when bands like Boston, ELO, Heart, Queen, Aerosmith, Dio, Nirvana, Silverchair, or even the previously mentioned White Stripes were at the top of their game. If it didn't die, it's got some awful disease and needs a transfusion of blood.  Consumers certainly need to be re-educated on the value of a good Rock out.
There is still some pretty kick ass rock out there, but unfortunately for the musicians who create it, it's not being pushed anymore.  It's no longer on MTV or VH1. It's very rarely (if at all) found in the top 40. You've got to dig. The same can be said for all good music. These days, in order to find good, heart wrenching, moving, well written, rock your socks off music, you gotta dig. The right kinds of musicians are ok with that. If they're good enough, they quickly gather an army of loyal fans who will follow them to the ends of the earth (which is a metaphor for that day when your favorite rock band's greatest hits records hits the shelves or the one song that made it onto the radio gets layered into the background of an american truck commercial). Sadly, the common consumer has no interest in digging. We live in a society filled with people trained to expect and demand instant gratification. Good luck getting them to dig at all, let alone buy an entire album on itunes.  They're going to buy that one song they heard on that twilight soundtrack and look no further into the artist behind it. Corporations are killing rock and roll. They're killing music in general.
Remember record stores? Out of high school, I worked for a store that sold books, music, movies, and had a cafe. Greatest time of my life, although the pay was shit. Here we are 13 (christ) years later and that store, that had branches all over the country, has gone belly up (it was Borders, if you didn't already know). Tower records? I've seen stickers on albums bought at Tower records in my parents mucis collection, on VHS' I've borrowed from co-workers, and on many an album in my own collection my whole life...GONE. Remember going to the record store with maybe an album or two (or perhaps a few artists) that you wanted to check out? You'd search for them in the bins or perhaps discuss them with one of the clerks and maybe get some guidance towards other similar (or maybe better) albums or artists and make truly eye opening discoveries. There are still record stores and this is still possible, but I'd wager that the percentage of people who'd rather log into amazon and look at what's hot or trending or just using Amazon's recommendation algorythm to find your new music is much greater than those who still yearn for the social experience of spending an hour or two at Dimple or Amoeba records.
Rant over. More on this at another time. Thanks for following along and may you either never lose that passion for music or may you find the inspiration to get into it

Let us be lovers we'll marry our fortunes together...

To me, Simon & Garfunkel's song "America" has always been a bittersweet, meloncholy anthem to love and lost love; of self discovery and loss. Of course, I'd heard it a few times growing up, but the moment it planted itself firmly in my memory as really significant haunts me everytime I hear it. In my mind, I go back years...many many years...and think of a rainy day in a second floor apartment on the corner of two busy streets. This apartment was the source of many unforgettable memories and a handful of those I wish I could forget. Many nights were spent wasting hours enjoying music (alone or with company), relaxed in bed while the chirp and whistle of the cross walk signal chimed in the background. This particular day, my window was open, it was raining, and we had S&Gs greatest hits playing while we listened to tires and feet cross over puddles and wet pavement outside. We were lost in the music, lost in thought, perpetually lost in foolish lust in a costume of love. It was certainly only a moment as time would tell. Memories always seem so much more romantic when set to the right music. Rain didn't hurt, either. I'm so happy with my life now. I'd never say my life is perfect. It's ever changing and I'm ever changing with it. I'm always trying to make the right choices to ensure that I enjoy every moment of it. I'm thankful I had the chance to cross paths with some of those who have fallen off my radar long ago. Without those moments and those I (perhaps foolishly) shared them with, I wouldn't be the whole me that I am today.