The Average Blogger

Soaking It In

I've been lapping up a lot of pop culture this week. TV, music, theater, books. 

SiriusXM was doing a free preview through Presidents Day.  I am intrigued. I liked it a lot. I'm not sure I liked it $120-a-year-a-lot, but I'm definitely thinking about it.  The problem is I can see where I'd spend the entire rest of my life listening to the same music I listened to my senior year of high school, rather than actually broadening my horizons. On the other hand, I heard a lot of songs that I hadn't listened to SINCE high school, so that was kind of nice. 

Saturday was Valentine's Day.  Not Your Average Blogger got The Third Man and chocolate. The Young Prince got some Doctor Who toys and some jellybeans.  I got 4-for-1 movies with Heart and Souls, The Matchmaker, Kissing a Fool and Playing for Keeps, plus a box of M&Ms. Then we all three of us went to see Chicago at the National Theater. It was really good. This was the first time I've seen a performance where Roxie blew Velma out of the water—and it's odd, upon thinking about it, given that the whole play follows Roxie's story arc more so than Velma's.  Billy Flynn was played by John O'Hurley (Peterman from Seinfeld,) and he was great.  All in all it was a fantastic show, and except for the terrific snowstorm we walked around in getting to the theater, it was a great Valentine's Day.

Sunday night we watched the whole SNL special. The musical acts were awful.  The Californians was too long. There were a couple other lags.  But coordinating 40 years and that many people into 3 and a half hours was really impressive. I think maybe my favorite bit was the video commemorating the better instances where actors broke character, esp. the bunch in a row of Fallon and Sanz.  

Since Sunday was eaten up with the special, that meant Monday (Presidents Day, a holiday for NYAB and the YP, but not for me) was Downton/Dead/Saul fixes. 2 out of 3 weren't bad.  I spent more time making fun of Walking Dead than enjoying it. Maybe it'll pick up next week.

On the book front: I finished Karen Abbot, and enjoyed it immensely. I also did a little research for my own book and found a memoir by a guy who was in the same company as my murderer, and was happy to see it was on file in our library reference section. I went in Sunday and scanned the book; there were some good bits I can appropriate. 

Today was a snow day.  I had some banked hours, so I spent the day cleaning the house and then we took the snowblower out for its maiden voyage. MONEY WELL SPENT.  Omigod, we blew the whole driveway clean in 15 minutes and I didn't come in and drop dead at the end.  I don't know why we waited this long to get one, I really don't.  So that means two good things came out of this bathroom remodel.  Huzzah! 

The YP's school has already declared tomorrow a snow day as well, but I am pretty sure all our offices will be open. I'm not sure what the plan of attack is.  I know the kid has some writing to do, though. And some reading! 

I Dig Music. I'm on Drugs!

Well, no, not any fun drugs. Not this week, anyway. But I only have two chapters left on the book rewrite -- and I only have two and a half weeks til my parents arrive with a new four-footed family member in tow (which is a whole 'nuther blog post that will be written upon said member's actual arrival,) so perhaps I should be scouting around for some?

One of my projects is to listen to every album on my iPod.  I'm doing it partly because I don't really know what all I've got on there, and partly to look for songs that needs to be redone because they skip, snap, hiss, or ortherwise act like some kind of angry wild animal. 

I've been at this for ten months. I'm almost through the album names starting with G.  There are a lot of Greatest Hits, y'all. 

Ten things I have learned:
1: I can live my whole life never hearing another Kanye West song.  Ditto Prodigy and probably Moby. On the other hand, Emmylou Harris is ethereally amazing and I don't want to live in a world without Steely Dan.
2: Without En Vogue, the Spice Girls don't happen.
3: My kid has a truly gorgeous singing voice and a truly hilarious backseat chairdancing stage presence.
4: Most of the stuff I love best has less to do with true artistic merit and more to do with what was going on with me when I first heard it.
5: There's an art to doing a really good soundtrack, and even greater skill is required to do a really engaging soundtrack.
6: Live recordings are rarely mediocre; they are either phenomenal improvements on the studio versions or they are absolutely dreadful and should never have been sold for money to suckers.
7: Listening to angry music in rush-hour traffic is not cathartic; it just makes me want to smash my car into someone or something that much harder.
8: I can probably find an artist I like in just about every genre. But finding them could require sifting through a lot of stuff I hate, and odds are that I'll wind up liking something only because it's derivative of some other artist I'm already familiar with.
9: Even without sampling, I can now draw direct lines in even more instances where Artist A stole something from Artist B and just changed the words or the chorus or the intent.
10: I have entirely too much music stored in my little handheld device. At this rate, the Young Prince will be in junior high before I've finished listening to everything -- and that's assuming I never buy anything else. I find that a tad unlikely. 

If It's Too Whiny, You're Too Old

A few weeks ago, my friend Owl and I were talking about music, and he brought up Tracy Chapman.  I was a little surprised by this, given that I know Owl is not by any stretch what you'd call a touchy-feely PC Socially Conscious type, and said as much. He admitted he didn't remember much of her music, but that a couple of her songs had really grabbed him.

Personally, I've intentionally avoided listening to a lot of that stuff as my patience and tolerance dwindled for passionate yet muddled thinking, abdication of responsibility, insistence that the System, Government or Man should do something, etc.

Tracy Chapman, Suzanne Vega, 10,000 Maniacs -- I must have driven my parents up a fricking tree.

And it's a bit insidious, how the folkies play it. Some songs are flat-out fantastic. Some of the messages are fairly hard to argue with.  Unrequited love? Yeah, been there.  Man done ya wrong? Come wallow in my slough of despond.  Child Abuse Is Bad! So Is Illiteracy! No kiddin'!

But even when I was 17 I remember listening to the line "why are the missiles called peacekeepers when they're aimed to kill" and thinking, "Well, that's marginally clever wordplay, but does anyone really not understand the concept of Enforcing the Peace? Do people really listen to this and turn activist? How 'bout we just call the missiles 'death dispatchers', will that make you happy? Of course not. Now stop it," and hitting the fast forward button.

You can see that at 17 my snark was unrefined and unrestrained -- and that I have not changed much.

But at 17, I also liked some of those songs. And while I knew they were more manipulative than a John Irving novel, I kind of enjoyed the soaring melodies and overwrought lyrics contrived to get people fired up and inspired. I wasn't about to run off and hoist a picket sign, but I was OK with singing along with some of the tunes while driving on the interstate.

I hadn't really listened to the album since then. So I wondered if, at my advanced age, the same things would still make me cringe or sing along.

Turns out I haven't changed VERY much in 22 years.

The album basically breaks down as an almost perfect bell curve: Three great songs, two I find jaw-clenchingly irritating cos of the lyrics and six that fall in the general "well, I probably wouldn't change the station but they range from Eh to Ew."

Unsurprisingly, the ones that hold up are the love songs. "Baby Can I Hold You," "If Not Now..." and "For You" are soulful evocative pieces that get you Right There.

And then there are the baddies. Le sigh.

The first time I heard the first chords of "Talkin' Bout a Revolution" I thought it had promise.  Then she hit the chorus:

Don't you know you better run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run
Oh I said you better run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run

And I just burst out laughing. Oh, Tracy. I hope you paid that word time and a half for all the overtime you made it work. Then I listened to the rest of the lyrics and while I suppose my white guilt was supposed to kick in, my white hostility did and I hit the fast forward button every time after that.

It's only gotten worse as I got older.

Don't you know you're talking about a revolution
It sounds like a whisper
Don't you know they're talking about a revolution
It sounds like a whisper

This song came out in 1988. I'm not really sure what revolution she was talking about -- it's not like there was a big change in the political structure; George Bush won the presidency, the Democrats were already in charge of Congress, so whatever she was talking about didn't get much louder than a whisper.

While they're standing in the welfare lines
Crying at the doorsteps of those armies of salvation
Wasting time in unemployment lines
Sitting around waiting for a promotion

See, it's lines like these that piss me off.  What the fuck good would a revolution do someone who's getting welfare? What do you think that revolution is gonna do to your gravy train? Ditto unemployment benefits. And hey, maybe if you were busting your ass instead of sitting on it, you'd actually get that promotion.

Poor people gonna rise up
And get their share
Poor people gonna rise up
And take what's theirs

Well, poor people don't have much, taking what's theirs shouldn't be too much of a hassle. But we all know what this really means is they're not going to take what's THEIRS, they're going to take what's MINE and say it's theirs.  Good luck with that, kids.

Finally the tables are starting to turn
Talking about a revolution

I can't figure out what sociopolitical/cultural uprising she was referencing here. Again, nothing "turned" the year she wrote that song. But I bet she was really disappointed with those turning tables in 1994.

"Why?" is the second-worst song on the album, with the aforementioned Peacekeeper lyrics.

Why do the babies starve
When there's enough food to feed the world

Hi. Try the class down the hall, Macroeconomics 101.

Why when there're so many of us
Are there people still alone

Choice, man!

Why are the missiles called peace keepers
When they're aimed to kill

Yeeeah, covered this one already.

Why is a woman still not safe
When she's in her home

Cos she doesn't own a gun?

Love is hate
War is peace
No is yes
And we're all free

And this is where I turn the song off, lest my head explode and make a big mess inside my car or on my couch.

The rest of the songs are the big fat middle of the bell curve. "Fast Car" is the song everyone knows by her and it's interesting to me that this would be the next track after the commie Revolution screed, because this one totally halted my knee-jerk "Oh, Shut. Up." reaction. I mean, "Fast Car" is all about busting your ass to do better and get farther, and figuring out -- perhaps belatedly -- that you've got to kick that draggy no-'count man to the curb -- or I guess, to his car, while you wave from the curb -- if you want to get anywhere. Now, I'm probably ignoring the deeper meaning here, which seems to be that attempting improvement is pointless, because even if you do drag yourself up, something will always drag you down. Yeah, fuck that noise.  Let me persist in my delusion.

"Across the Lines" and "Behind the Wall" are the kinds of obvious causehead songs I was talking about above. Racial strife is bad!  Plenty of blame for both sides! Domestic abuse is bad! Police who won't help are baaaaad! Well, duh.

Frankly, if the little black girl and the screaming Wife had scrounged up guns somewhere, these songs would have very different endings. Of course, they'd also probably be sung by Miranda Lambert.

"Mountains o' Things" starts out as a universally sympathetic middle-class song.

The life I've always wanted
I guess I'll never have
I'll be working for somebody else
Until I'm in my grave
I'll be dreaming of a live of ease
And mountains
Oh mountains o' things

Hey! I'll never own my own business either! And I want stuff!

Sweet lazy life
Champagne and caviar
I hope you'll come and find me
Cause you know who we are
Those who deserve the best in life
And know what money's worth
And those whose sole misfortune
Was having mountains o' nothing at birth

Whoops, I guess you weren't singing the suburban middle-class white chick blues after all, were you?

Oh they tell me
There's still time to save my soul
They tell me
Renounce all
Renounce all those material things you gained by
Exploiting other human beings

Soooo ... does this mean all those poor people I see shopping at WalMart have to return those flip-flops and beach towels and whatnot? Or is it only people like me who should be shopping elsewhere?

Consume more than you need
This is the dream
Make you pauper
Or make you queen
I won't die lonely
I'll have it all prearranged
A grave that's deep and wide enough
For me and all my mountains o' things

Well, that's just silly.  You should put it in a trust. You never know when you might get resurrected or zombified.

Mostly I feel lonely
Good good people are
Good people are only
My stepping stones
It's gonna take all my mountains o' things
To surround me
Keep all my enemies away
Keep my sadness and loneliness at bay

Hmf. Seems to me if they're amenable to being stepping stones, they can't be THAT good. Unless it is working out OK for them too, in which case, hey! What's the big loss? Faulty argument, Chapman. And if you want to keep enemies at bay, well, again -- guess what! WalMart sells guns!

Finally, "She's Got Her Ticket" and "For My Lover" are the ones that just don't hold up with time. "Ticket" is a nice little anthem encouraging and espousing the idea of dropping out of one's existence in search of a better one.  I think I was OK with this at one point -- before I realized that many of the folks who do that end up like the ones hollering for a revolution. 

As for "For My Lover" -- assuming I understand this song correctly -- it's basically some chick doing time so her man could get off scot-free. (There isn't really any indication of his guilt or innocence that I could divine.) At 17, yes, yes, I knew that depth of feeling and strength of character and anything-for-you passion. Now? Yeah, not so much.  First off, jail? Moi? Srsly? Secondly ... I don't think even my husband is worth taking a fall for -- and the point there is, my husband would never let me take the fall for him.  Any guy who would? DEFINITELY not worth it. "Hey, honey, I killed six people, and I'm sure to go to jail. Why don't you tell them YOU did it??"  Mmmm, naaah.

I guess this comes off as old and angry and out of touch.  Which is fine. Oftentimes I am old and angry and out of touch.  But most of the time I like to think of it as smarter, less enabling and ... well, actually, I'm OK with being out of touch. That part suits me fine.

Dear Sir or Madam, Will You Read My Book?

So, Saturday night we took the kid to see Paul McCartney.  I am so glad we went. This has to be one of the best shows I’ve ever seen, and I’m so glad I can say I saw the legend live. Not Your Average Blogger said he thought this show was better than the last one he saw in the early 90s. And I think in later years the Young Prince will be glad he went.  He was pretty excited to be there that night, until he got tired and couldn’t quite fall asleep for all the noise.

Getting there, however, was right on par with our usual misadventures.  Friday night leaving work we heard something odd go “ping” in the parking garage, and then noticed a strange thumping sound. I looked out the windows but the tires weren’t flat, nor did they appear to be falling off, so we continued on our merry way.   Saturday afternoon before we left  at 5 p.m. for the 8 p.m. show, I checked again, and all looked OK. 

We were about 30 miles from home when I heard something go “thunk” against the wheel well, and then the thumping got much louder and I made NYAB pull over.  To discover we’d had a blowout.  Our best guess is that we ran over something in the parking lot Friday and then through some bizarre set of circumstances blew it out of the tire again on Saturday.

Well, no problem, sez I.  “What are you doing?” asks NYAB. “Changing the tire, duh,” I say.  Which requires tearing up the trunk – and my beautiful air compressor “fell” out of while we were chucking umbrellas and what not into the back seat with the Young Prince. (By “fell” I mean, “someone dropped it.” Sigh.) I get the jack out and notice the jack handle is missing.  I get out the spare doughnut tire thingie and realize the jack handle is not with the tire, either – which means not only can’t  I figure out a way to get the car jacked up, I can’t even loosen the lug nuts on the tire. Well, frack.

So we call AAA. For whatever reason I have a mental block about what my work cell phone number is, and as I go to read it to the AAA operator, I hang up on her, and NYAB gets very snippy with me.  Fine talk for someone who can’t keep his jack handle in check.  I call back, they find my record, get my phone number and say someone will be there in 30 minutes. They also ask me about 20 times which way we are headed on the interstate and which exit we’re near.  I tell them, “eastbound. About a half-mile before Exit 52.” 

Fifteen minutes later we get a call from the driver, who says, “Where are you? I’m going westbound and just got off at exit 52.”  Durrrh.  He says he’ll get back on and go to the Manassas exit.  We all see him and wave as he is on the freeway going the other direction. I don’t think he saw us.  Twenty minutes later he finally comes up behind us, and gets out his equipment.

And asks, “Do y’all have a jack handle? One of the other drivers stole mine out of my truck.” 

Seriously!?!

I say, “No! That is why we called!”  Fortunately, he had a mop handle and a dremel-like thingie to loosen the lug nuts.  So he gets the spare put on, and I’m looking at it and it looks godawful low.  AAA guy agrees.  “Oh, but I don’t have air in my truck,” he says.

Well, fortunately I do, though I have my doubts as to whether it will work after bouncing off the pavement 40 minutes previous. Turns out it’s fine, all that broke was one of the flashers and after five minutes of running the tire is up to correct pressure.

I think the AAA guy was a little impressed, but also seemed to wonder what kind of weirdoes we were to have an air compressor but no jack handle.  Fine talk for someone who seemed woefully unprepared to deal with car emergencies...

So we got back on the road – in a half hour! Not bad! – and NYAB says, “Err, the show is not at 8. It starts at 7:30.”  And he is starting to get a little frothy that we are going to be late. I’m all, “What is your problem? So we miss the opening act and intermission sound check. Big deal.”  And he is all, “There won’t be an opening act.” So I BlackBerry it and the Baltimore Sun tells me that yes, some outfit called Thievery Corporation is opening. Again I say, “No sweat.’

And then we sat in traffic a goodly part of the trip and made it to the stadium and  dawdled in a line to park, though it was impressively set up.  When we finally got out of the car, it was a straight shot to the front door. Very nice.

Got in to the stadium and bought our shirts and found our seats and so on and so forth. We are plunked down and all set at 8:15 or so, and then NYAB decides to go get some water so the kid won’t howl about being thirsty.  He leaves and I start to look around. I see two guys up on stage fiddling around with things and start explaining to the YP that at some point they’ll be done and all the lights on stage will go out, and then a while after that all the stage lights will come on and people will cheer and the show will start.

Then I turn to the guy next to me and ask, “How was the opening act, anyway?”

He gives me a kind of amused yet bewildered smile and says, “That’s ‘em, right there. They’re still playing. I have no idea who they are, though. I didn’t catch the name.”

I’m not even kidding when I tell you I thought they were doing a sound check and we were just listening to the usual piped-in pre-concert recording stuff.  Heh. 

Eventually they did pack it in, and the video monitors started showing a bunch of scrapbook-type material from McCartney’s career.   And it suddenly hit home that 90 percent of what I was looking at happened before I was born.  I don’t know why I’d never really assimilated that before.  I mean, the music was always playing in our house. Wings was big on the radio when I was being ferried around to preschool and my first swim lessons.  All that solo stuff? I was around for that.  My wedding? Walked down the aisle to In My Life.  But the Beatles as a living breathing cohesive unit, per se? Nope. I was still percolating when they split up.  Which basically means I was there to see a man who’d had an entire career before I’d even been born.  I goggled a little.

And then the show started. 

In Joe DiMaggio’s last season in 1951, someone asked why he didn't coast a bit, take it easy. And he said,  "Because there may be some kid who never saw me play before."

McCartney seems to subscribe to that philosophy as well. I gotta say, both Bicknell kids who never saw him play before were knocked out.

It was fantastic. He looked great, he sounded great, he bounced around and was funny and energetic and engaging and perfectly perfect.

I think the YP’s favorite parts were when he recognized Blackbird – which has been his lullabye since forever – and Band on the Run, and then later – after being a little out of sorts at not being able to get comfy and sleep, and after he had given up trying and was sitting there sort of glowering – he recognized Live and Let Die and brightened a bit, and then he was caught completely by surprise at the endless mad fireworks and went to all smiles in less for the rest of the night.

Things I noted:
**  It’s been a while since I attended an arena concert. I was amused to pieces by the thousand points of cellphone light in the audience that a: indicated people taping the show, and b: have replaced lighters as encore alerts.  
**  Apparently the only stuff people sneak in to smoke anymore are cigarettes.  Not a whiff of anything stronger the entire time we were there – not even in the two-hour wait to get out of the parking lot afterward.
**  Never, not once, in the entire time he was on stage, did McCartney take a drink of anything.  No plastic water bottles, no coffee cups, no bourbon ... And he was sweating like crazy, and not skimping on the vocals. I have no idea how he did it. Mindblowing.
**   There’s something a teeeeeensy bit creepy about a 67-year-old man singing, “She was just 17…”  -- it might be time for a little self-deprecating humor lyric change there.
**  On the other hand ... McCartney IS 67.  Everyone else in his band has got to be at least 10 years his junior. They were working to keep up. It was awesome.
**  I love concerts where people all sing along, and it sounds good.
**  I am still amused by those obnoxious dorks who stand up and jump around even though everyone else around them is sitting down and wishing they could see and hear around the looly.  Watching those guys – esp. ones clearly in their 20s – takes me back to when I first got drunk in public. Heh.

Annnnd, the set list:
Drive My Car
Jet
Only Mama Knows
Flaming Pie
Got To Get You Into My Life
Let Me Roll It
Highway
The Long and Winding Road
My Love
Blackbird
Michelle  (Dedicated to La Obama, special for DC)
Here Today
Dance Tonight
Calico Skies
Mrs Vanderbilt
Eleanor Rigby
Sing the Changes
Band on the Run
Back in the U.S.S.R.
I'm Down
Something
I've Got a Feeling
Paperback Writer
A Day in the Life / Give Peace A Chance
Let It Be
Live and Let Die
Hey Jude

Encore:
Day Tripper
Lady Madonna
I Saw Her Standing There

Encore 2:
Yesterday
Helter Skelter
Get Back
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)
The End

And then the kid staggered back to the car and passed out while we waited an hour before even bothering to start the engine, so packed was the parking lot.  Heh. We got home around 2:30.  I guess there were a lot of people very unhappy with the parking and the parking fee and the rest of it, but … eh. I think it was all well worth it.

Excellent, excellent.

Working for the Weekend...

So, last weekend was a weekend of rest.

This weekend, we have Not Your Average Blogger's sister, Indiana, and her son, Eddie, visiting.  It's been a quiet sort of visit with hours of euchre and poker, punctuated by golf and ice cream.  If we get off our asses we will see the Museum of American History this afternoon.  Then again, maybe we'll take naps instead.

Next weekend is the big high school reunion proving I am old and every bit as uncool as I was 20 years ago. Hopefully it will also prove I have a much better sense of humor about it.  It's shaping up to be a whirlwind schedule.  We (meaning me, NYAB, the Young Prince, and our faux pair,) leave Thursday night and drive to Fayettville. Friday I will get up early and do the 5 a.m. stuff for work, then we will drive to Orlando.  Friday night we are going to swank it up in a Disney resort and I'm very excited to see my friend Bald Owl for the first time in 20 years and assuming all goes well, have the longest In Real Life conversation we've ever had.  This won't take much doing, as the longest IRL conversation we've had to date probably consisted of, "Are you using that chair?" "Uh, no, you can take it."

Saturday we spend the morning at the Helliest Place on Earth -- taking the monorail from our hotel concourse right into the park! -- and then leaving late afternoon for the drive to Plant City and our PC-posh hotel (hahaha! where we have a suite! hahaha! assuming they didn't screw up the reservation! hahaha!) and a visit with the neighbor who watched me be uncool through high school.  Then NYAB and I will hit the reunion while the YP and the faux pair live it up in the hotel pool, or with the DS player, or ... I don't know. Hopefully they don't set the building on fire.

Sunday we leave early-early and drive northish to Atlanta-ish, where we will have dinner with friends Kat and Harold and hopefully JC.  I haven't seen Kat since she left Texas, Harold since I left Florida, or JC since I got married. So that should all be very entertaining.

Monday we drive home.

Then a week of work.

And then, on August 1, we take the YP to his first big-league arena-venue musical extravaganza: We're sitting in not-nosebleed seats to see Paul McCartney.  I've never seen him in concert either, so at least one of us will appreciate it. NYAB saw Sir Paul before, but that was when he was married to his previous wife and I'm sure he will have more fun this time -- or at least he will say he did. At first I was waffling on the wisdom of this purchase, but when it occurred to me we've spent a lot more money on Red Sox tickets than we'd be spending for this, I couldn't resist.

What better way to kick of congressional recess?

Chortle

By special request -- last night's one-night-only performance.  You can hear at the beginning that the little sister of one of the YP's friends was very excited to see the YP. Hee.  You'll also note that at 2:07, he is he ONLY one who remembers the words, and that at the end, he is the only one who bows.

There was another song, but I think 3 minutes of this is probably already too much.

So .. yeah. Fenway may be out, but Broadway might still beckon? 

Generation Chasm

Me, looking at my laptop: Huh. Lunar cycle starts tonight. Gonna be dark when I leave for work.
NYAB: What's that mean?
Me, singing: I light my torch and wave it for the new moon on Thursday....
NYAB: I have no idea what you're doing right now.
Me: It's a song. Well, it's actually New Moon on Monday.
NYAB: And I would know this because... ??
Me: Because ... it's a song? Top 40?
NYAB: Is it by the Mamas and the Papas?
Me: Mmmm, not quite. Duran Duran.
NYAB:  Well, that explains that, then.   (Proceeds to sing "He's So Fine, du-ran-du-ran-duran.")

Musical Meme-age

Two very similar memes are making the rounds on FaceBook:

Think of 15 (one says albums, one says songs) that had such a profound effect on you they changed your life or the way you looked at it. They sucked you in and took you over for days, weeks, months, years. These are the albums that you can use to identify time, places, people, emotions. These are the albums that no matter what they were thought of musically shaped your world.

Thinking about all this really hammered home again the huge debt of gratitude I owe my parents on a musical front. They never flinched at buying me new stereo equipment, from my first tiny, tinny turntable up through a 5-disc CD player after I graduated from college. Music was inescapable in our house, and there were times when friends of mine were horrified to learn I wouldn’t listen to something or other because, “Oh, god, my parents have been playing that for months. SO sick of it.”

Songs are easier. Songs first.  And apparently I am a relentlessly cheerful person, given the majority of these are major-chord 4-4 fasties.  Is it odd that there are artists on this list not on the album list and vice versa? I hope not.

Silly Love Songs (McCartney)– You have to admire McCartney thumbing his nose at Lennon. And this song was on the radio every single time my mom drove me to swim lessons when I was five, so it is indelibly synched up with my mom, her orange Camaro, the San Fernando Valley, and the smell of chlorine.
Something About You (Level 42) – not all that great a song, but it has sentimental value.
New Song (Howard Jones) – Always cheers me up.
Morning Fog (Kate Bush) – Hope. Renewal. Nuff said.
Long Gone Long (Rainmakers) – Resonated with my small-town high school experience.
Standing There (The Creatures) – For when I want to be fierce
Here Comes the Flood, (Peter Gabriel, acoustic version.) For sort of the opposite reasons as Morning Fog, but I still find it a song for bravery.
Can’t See (Oingo Boingo) – Always makes me cry.
Only Makes Me Laugh (Again with the Oingo Boingo)– When I couldn’t stand myself in breakup misery mode any more and was done with the crying already, this song was good for what ailed me.
It Must Be Love (Madness) – Meant to be sung loud and offkey.  (Curtsies to Heather H. and John B.)
Rosie (Jackson Browne) – I just love this song. It’s perfect on so many levels. 
In My Life (Beatles) – Best day of my life up to that point.
I Will (Beatles) – Pretty much the only lullaby I ever sang to the kid.
Danny Boy (Erm, yeah. Frank Patterson? Chieftans?) – Pretty much the only lullaby JB ever sang to the kid.
Dunford’s Fancy (Waterboys) – If my kid gets married and there’s a mother-son dance, this will do.

Albums of personal relevance is a tricky category, because I don’t necessarily interpret that to mean “albums I love.” These are not all albums I love, by any stretch, and in fact some of them I don’t listen to at all anymore. But they all marked turning points in my development as a human being.

Tales From the Ozone -- Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen
An early childhood memory. The album cover was so incongruous with what I thought the music looked like. I know that makes no sense, but that is the best I can articulate it. This might have been the first album to which I memorized all the lyrics. Honestly – and yes, this is shallow, -- discovering what Commander Cody and Bob Dylan actually looked like were two of my biggest disappointments in early childhood.  I still like Western Swing. Am not so much on the Dylan. (Curtsies to parents)

That Was the Year That Was
God bless him, Tom Lehrer taught me more about 1960s history than any schoolteacher ever could have hoped to. I listened to this album over and over during summers at my grandmother’s house, and then I’d go up and ask her random questions about it, yet she never seemed to miss a beat. (Like, what’s a Good Humor Man? And what’s he got in common with an usher and a nurse?) And another generation is sopping it all up as we speak. (Curtsies to parents and grandparents.)

Double Fantasy -- John Lennon
I think this and Blondie’s Autoamerican are the first two legitimate music albums I remember specifically requesting my own copies of rather than cadging from my parents or studiously ignoring. The Beatles and assorted afterwork was pretty much always the domain of my dad and sort of absorbed by me as just part of the safe and cozy landscape of home. But it was sort of hard to be alive and listening to music in December 1980 and not know the significance of this album.  On a personal level, this was the first album where I first really understood that song sequencing – pre-CD, anyway --  was really a manipulative little bugger. It was hard to skip the needle over that Ono crap, but it was even harder to sit there trying to listen to it.  Watching the Wheels is still a great song.

Sports -- Huey Lewis and the News
I’m amused and somewhat embarrassed to admit that Huey Lewis was the object of my junior high crushdom.  So bland and square and Is That Your Dad. And yet MTV ate him up with a spoon and so would have I.

Then again, I met him years later in the parking lot of the USF Sundome one night when his concert had let out and I’d had a late class and my car was being cranky about starting, he was a perfectly wonderful gentleman and warm human being, going so far as to offer me a ride home. So maybe my instincts were right ….

Hounds of Love -- Kate Bush
One of the first albums that I listened to over and over again and found something new in each time, rather than listening to it for comfort. Also notable for being one of the first albums my mother absolutely hated and wanted to pitch through a window.  This and Laurie Anderson’s Home of the Brave were touchstones around the same time. (Curtsies to Troy D.)

So -- Peter Gabriel
I am always proud to announce that In Your Eyes was one of my favorite songs before it was made popular by Say Anything.  And Mercy Street sent me on a poetry reading binge that probably made my teen angst unbearable but also got me fairly high marks in all those stupid wimminz lit classes I slept through in college.

Madness -- Madness
So many lovely songs. And my entrée into the discovery of so many lovely British pop culture things, including the Young Ones.

Vocalese -- Manhattan Transfer
Intricate, clever, and helpful when you’d rather have lyrics than hum. This was what set me in the way of thinking that covers should never be simple rehashes where the song is performed exactly the same way it was originally, they should bring something new, they should be whole different songs, with different tones and experiences behind them. (Curtsies to parents)

Heaven or Las Vegas - Cocteau Twins
I saw Blue Bell Knoll pop up on a lot of lists, and that one is good, but this was one of my favorite albums for illicit-substance-partaking. New Year’s Eve 1990, playing on a small boom box as I sprawled on top of a construction-site freeway piling and stared at the full blue moon with this huge ice ring around it. I didn’t see God or anything, and can’t vouch for his existence, but I did get as close as I probably ever will to feeling like I had a tenuous grasp on a broader celestial plan.

Of course, then my dickhead psychotic boyfriend got so drunk he passed out and that left me with the choice of staying with a bunch of drunken buffoon college boys in suburban Whittier in a house that for all I knew was not owned by anyone present, or try to find my way home despite the glitter trails each of the highway reflectors gave off. I spent that whole hour-and-a-half-long drive bargaining with that God I hadn’t seen that I’d never be so stupidly irresponsible again if he’d just let me make it home without getting dead or arrested, and am pleased to say that both ends of this bargain were honored.

OG: Original Gangster
The first time it occurred to me that I might not be quite as liberal as I’d always assumed. We were driving through parts of Los Angeles in April 1992 to pick up a friend who’d gotten stuck on campus and seeing buildings on fire, people running around with looted furniture and televisions, and police and fire trucks being obstructed.  This Little Blonde Girl was appalled.  And while my Korean Boyfriend still claimed sympathy for the oppressed, all I could think was, “Hm. Here we are together in a car in a dangerous area and gee, could we be bigger targets? And for what? A Toyota? Get a grip, folks.”

Lyle Lovett and His Large Band
Making the discovery that alt-country was smart and funny was almost as big a shock as discovering that not all male high school athletes grew up to be categorically stupid fuckwits. I discovered this album after Road to Ensenada came out, but I like it better.

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy
A culmination of many fond hopes – the discovery of a place and a band devoted to the resurgence of swing music, swing dancing, and Manhattan cocktails. And then Jon Favreau came along and made it all trendy and shit.

Rock Spectacle -- Bare Naked Ladies
My introduction to BNL, and my soundtrack for adjusting to life in Sarasota, wherein all the good things I thought would happen didn’t, and all the good things I was sure would never find me did.  (Curtsies to Mark P. and John B.)

Running on Empty -- Jackson Browne
The first road trip I took as a married woman (ahem, that would be my honeymoon,) had this CD in heavy rotation. As has pretty much every roadtrip since. (Curtsies to John B.)  

Ta-Dah -- Scissor Sisters
I’m not sure I should really include this, as there was nothing particularly life-altering about the music on the album. More, it marked a determined end to my self-imposed exile from buying music and starting to dip my toe back into more current streams. And, there was nothing funnier to me at the time than hearing my kid croon to himself at odd times, “I can’t decide whether you should live or die…” (Curtsies to Mary H.)

All of Life's Riddles Are Not Answered in the Soundtrack*

I've been trying for days to figure out a way to flesh out this blog entry I want to do about music in movies, but I'm failing. Maybe y'all can help out.

Basically, I was thinking about how certain scenes in certain movies will take an unsuspecting innocent song and completely and utterly turn it on its head for the viewer forever.

For example, Singin' in the Rain.  Happy, cheery, dude-in-love song, yeah? Yeah, until you see A Clockwork Orange.

Or the latter-day cousin to that, Reservoir Dogs' treatment of Stuck in the Middle With You.

Or David Lynch using In Dreams in Blue Velvet.
Well, pretty much any song in Blue Velvet.
OK, pretty much any song in a David Lynch movie.

Conversely on Orbison, the saccharine in the hooker movie with Julia Roberts sorta tanked Pretty Woman for me.

Hm. Why is it that 75 percent of the examples in my head are hideously violent?

I guess you could say that Lloyd Dobler hijacking In Your Eyes in Say Anything is part of this list, except I think I was the only person on earth who liked that song before the movie came out ... and it didn't really change how I think of the song in my head, since the emotion on film was meant to reflect the emotion of the song. But hey, I know a fair number of people who have come to view that scene as not romantic and brave but actually a little obsessive and creepy.

Anyway, I can't really pull this around to having a point. What have you guys got for me?

*Extra points to anyone who knows the quote I'm quasi-referencing in the title. Except you, NYAB.

Soundtrack of My Sex Life

Yes, I am ignoring USC's dreadful performance last night. Moving on.

A meme, of sorts and modified:

First slow dance: True, Spandau Ballet
First kiss: Out of Touch, Hall and Oates
First public humiliation in front of all my friends at a school dance: All Night Long, Lionel Ritchie (why, yes, I am glad I disliked that song anyway...)
First REAL kiss: Something About You, Level 42
First makeout session: Dr. Who theme (why, yes, my parents did think we were innocently watching the show...)
First heartbreak: Why You Treat Me So Bad, Club Noveau (Why, yes, I was maudlin...)
First unrequited: Shinedown, Sandi Patti (Except, not that version. We were playing it in marching band. Don't ask.)
First song sung to me: Fragile, Sting
First trip all the way around the bases: I Can't Wait, Nu Shooz
First song turned up by boyfriend's roommates to drown us out: New Years Day, U2
First song used to emotionally manipulate ex-boyfriend: In Your Eyes, Peter Gabriel
First (and, thank god, last) tragically bad relationship with complete psychotic: The whole stinking album of Ritual de lo Habitual, Jane's Addiction
First returning home after college and wowing the hell out of that unrequited back in high school: Love Is, Alannah Myles
First Live-In: Romeo and Juliet, Dire Straits (Why, yes, that probably should have been foreshadowing...)
First (and so far, last) Move-Out: Useless, quickly followed by Only Makes Me Laugh, Oingo Boingo
First "Hey, this will go nowhere but it might be fun in the short term": Could You Be Loved, Bob Marley
First NYAB concert: Ice Cream, Sarah McLachlan
First NYAB gets that look I'd been waiting for: London Rain, Heather Nova
First NYAB fight: Hey Jealousy, Gin Blossoms (Why, yes, that did of course instantly stop the fight when it came on the car radio because we both cracked up)
First (and last )Wedding: In My Life, Beatles
Quickest Reminder of All That's Good: Better Days, Bruce Springsteen