Dedication: To My Dad (and all other dads who love Led Zeppelin)

My dad, very famously, hung onto his bell-bottom pants well into the Eighties. He once explained to me that he realized the whole bell-bottoms movement illustrated to him that Fashion was fickle, and the rules change on an unfair dime, so wear what you want whether it's trendy or not ("There was an Alice Cooper album that came out around that time called 'Flush the Fashion'... I took it to heart." -Dad). When bell-bottoms returned to the mode, he triumphantly held it over my mom ("See? Everything cycles back." -Dad) who had made him get rid of them, at some point ("Yeah, but never exactly the same way." -Mom).

Well, like father like daughter. I still internally mourn the return of skinny jeans because I love living in "flares". I got my first pair when I was twelve, I think, and fact: I still own a pair, purchased new in the last 9 months. I was a little more sensitive about my clothes when I was a middle-schooler, before I realized I could always just Flush the Fashion. A boy in my seventh grade once said to me, "Hey, Brooke! The Seventies called. They want their clothes back."

I took this arrow to the heart and laid bare my hurt (and confusion) to my father that night, who said "Well, you just tell him, 'Hey Trey, Led Zeppelin called. They said they like my clothes.'" 

Since we all know comebacks are a dish best served cold (right? oh, wait), I did tell that to Trey, the next day. He made a surprised face and said, "Your dad likes Led Zeppelin?" (In retrospect, since I was a bespectacled twelve-year-old grammar nazi with tucked-in t-shirts, he probably figured my dad was essentially pre-time-travel-encounter George McFly .)

I know it might seem that way, but I've inherited a lot more from my father than my passion for music. I look just like him, for starters. I have my dad's face, transposed onto a girl's body, with a reasonable filter of Mom. We've got the same green eyes and skinny, tan-resistant legs (by the way, thanks again to Trey for the comment "Day-um, girl, you got some white legs," which signified the end of my wearing shorts for the next seven years). We both are good listeners. We both have weird senses of humor. Neither of us have much use for the insincere. We both have warm hearts and we both love the Gospel. We both have testimonies of the good that comes from sharing it, he from his mission, me from my missionary experiences. I hope when I grow up I also develop his patience, his determination, his aptitude toward forgiveness, and his love for his children.

He doesn't always say the right thing, but when it matters most, I can always count on him for sage advice. He's a wise man, longstanding affection for bell bottoms notwithstanding. I thank my mom for taking a chance on the bachelor whose silverware was rusted together from disuse, who bought dog food weekly from a convenience store, and who unceremoniously dumped crumbled Doritos on top of the first meal she ever cooked for him. And I thank my dad for being the guy he is, because it definitely helped to make me the girl I am.

Yes, my dad likes Led Zeppelin. In fact, I think all dads like Led Zeppelin, and definitely, all dads who like Led Zeppelin should make it part of their child's education and upbringing. The future will probably be a little more secure if the upcoming generations know the virtues of Led Zeppelin. And friends, I am here to report it is capable hands.

As evidence, I submit Rigby, heretofore known as "The Boy" on the Internet. Named by his bodaciously cool parents, Adam and Lydia, after a Beatles song, Rigby charmed me into oblivion one of the first times I met him. We had a conversation a few months later that went something like this:

Me: (fiddling with the music) How about this band?
Rigby: (listens for a moment; lights up) Yeah! Led Zeppelin!

Me: Led Zeppelin? Why are they your favorite?
Rigby: (grinning) Because of "Black Dog".
Me: "Black Dog"? Is that your favorite Led Zeppelin song? Will ya sing it with me later?
Rigby: (nods, plays with Gameboy Color)
Me: When do you like to listen to Led Zeppelin?
Rigby: When I'm with my dad in the car.
Me: Do you sing real loud with it in the car?
Rigby: (flops his head in an emphatic nod, smiling) Yeeeeaaah.
Me: Any other songs you like?
Rigby: "Rock 'n Roll". (EDIT: He is also known to cite, among others, "The Rain Song" and... "Going to California" if I'm not mistaken?)
Me: What would you say to a friend who said he didn't like Led Zeppelin?
Rigby: (stumped, avoids the question by further playing with Gameboy Color)
Me: You probably wouldn't have a friend like that, huh. We don't associate with those kinds of people.

Then we put on "Black Dog" and had ourselves a good old time. Watch an earlier "Black Dog" jam sesh here.

Yes, thank heaven, stairway included, for Led Zeppelin. And bell bottoms. And especially, for good dads.

Since Spotify does not have Led Zeppelin (boo!), I have put together a makeshift (very makeshift) list, similar to the one for Mother's Day, that further represents me and my papa bear. You will find it here: Dad

For Your Playlist: Side A
1. "Be Free" by Loggins & Messina
2. "Far Cry" by Rush (live 2008 version)
3. "The Pretender" by Jackson Browne
4. "John, I'm Only Dancing" by David Bowie
5. "Rich Girl" by Hall & Oates
6. "Cosmik Debris" by Frank Zappa
7. "Mistral Wind" by Heart

For Your Playlist: Side B
1. "Harvest Moon" by Neil Young
2. "Pancho and Lefty" by Merle Haggard
3. "Victim of Changes" by Judas Priest
4. "Enter Sandman" by Metallica
5. "Shape of My Heart" by Sting
6. "Dogs" (live version) by Roger Waters

"I have no time for your cynic's mind": Mumford & Sons (Concert Post)

So, how was Mumford and Sons round two?

Everybody who's known me longer than a year or two (or knows me really well) knows I saw Mumford and Sons in 2011 when they last came to Arizona, for their Railroad Revival Tour. It was one of the best concert experiences I have ever had, although about 90% of the rest of the attendees would disagree. I got lucky and wriggled to the front long before the Gentlemen of the Road took the stage- I'm not one of those jerks who lunge through the crowd at the last minute, drunk and/or toting a girlfriend who whined about not being able to see. (Obviously I wouldn't be toting a girlfriend in any condition, but you know the front-row usurpers I mean.) Short people  single girls have it easy at general admission shows. Look up (way up) from under your lashes at just the right tall wifebeater-clad bro guys and you practically part the red sea, because you take up so little space that nobody minds if you stand in front of them, and they like to feel gallant. Mumford & Sons held their last Arizona show in a parking lot between some apartment complexes and the railroad tracks- and they probably oversold it just a little. I hear the people in the latter half couldn't see a darned thing.

But I was there, all by myself, and by the time the first two acts- the fabulous Old Crow Medicine Show and the breathtaking Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros- finished, I was about three or four "rows" back. Alex from ESMZ even hopped over the fence to fraternize with us and I gave him something like a slow motion rapturous high-five. (Side note, I still don't listen to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros very much but they blew my mind with their live show.) We'd been standing for at least three hours by the time Mumford & Sons took the stage but the moment they did, a kind of euphoria swept the crowd. 

They were a much younger band, then. I know it was only two years, but it makes a big difference in band years. Musically speaking, they were not so good as they were on Wednesday, I think. Not that they were bad, mind. Not even close to bad. But I was still in shock of the Edward Sharpe business and the thought crossed my mind that they were good in concert, but not maybe great. But the spirit of the audience rose and rose, and we sang along, every word we knew. In fact, so many voices joined in the singing that more than once the audience drowned out the band. Yes. Just like how it happened according to Beatles lore, with screaming overpowering the amplifiers, only this audience was singing. 

A girl a few paces from me actually cried. I watched her passionately beat her fists in the air and bawl out the lyrics to "Winter Winds" as tears fell from her eyes. I've never seen that before.

Nor have I ever seen, before or since (although this is very circumstantial), how a crowd of people actually formed on the rooftops of the aforementioned apartments throughout the night. It gave one a feeling of being completely and utterly surrounded by music lovers, and that can really go a long way to connecting you to the music. 

The boys debuted "Lover's Eyes" that night, which would appear on Babel and it was so wonderful I paused to make a note of the lyrics. "Lord, forget all of my sins/Or let me die where I lie/Beneath the curse of my lover's eyes." Quintessential Mumford. Ok, so they never deviate from their favorite rhyme scheme. Ok, so sometimes they wax a little cheesy. But the lyrics (and the banjo/mandolin usage, and the fact that Marcus plays the drums and sings at the same time) are my favorite part of the Mumford and Sons act. I love, and always have loved, the way they capture what you might call big little moments. 

I've read criticism of Babel that complained that it was still playing the same everyman archtype- an average man's interactions with God and love, more melodramatic than momentous- that Sigh No More did. I think that if you've ever felt how big small moments can be, you know how much they resonate. Some people do not understand how strong such a frail thing as faith can feel, when you exercise it. That is what M&S's more spiritual songs make me think of: that moment when you discover, or rediscover, the power of small and simple truths. I can't even tell you how it felt, in my personal experience, to have left a bishop's office with a temple recommend in my hand after several years without. But the boys captured it to a degree when they wrote "The Cave". To most people, it was a little moment. To me, it was huge, swelling: "'Cos I need freedom now/and I need to know how/to live my life as it's meant to be." Mumford & Sons is, to me, the soundtrack to both struggles and, more importantly, second chances.

Anyway, the best part of the entire evening in April 2011, the night before my epistemology final, was the very end, when everyone on the train- all three bands, families, crew, everyone- got onstage together to sing a couple of songs, including "This Train Is Bound for Glory" by Woody Guthrie. The song lasted about eight minutes and it blew my mind. It was so genuine. Even the children up there with their parents were singing and wriggling with camaraderie. This, I remember thinking, was how music should always feel. Like being together joyfully with your loved ones. Oh, and the bearded, strumming ghosts of the folk singers who came before you. 

There was no such grand finale to the show on Wednesday. But that was ok- after a dynamite closing number ("Dust Bowl Dance") the encore was 2/3 acoustic (an intimate cover of "I'm on Fire" by Springsteen, & "Reminder", plus a full-throttle rendition of "The Cave"). I wasn't in the front- I was in the back, on the lawn, where the dust and grass and marijuana smoke were tickling my allergies. But that was ok too- I was with my irrepressible husband, and my friend Caitlin and her sister Tory. The unified crowd did not overpower the band this time. But that was ok too- it let their musicianship really show through, and I was proud that they, like me, had grown into themselves since the first time we met. I still thrilled and my heart felt full to bursting. What more could you ask from a band, or from a show, than to be sorry when it's over? 

In answer to your question, the second time was still really awesome. But I'm glad I've seen them twice.

If you've never heard Mumford & Sons (where have you been?) here's my favorite picks, even though they only have 2 albums and an EP or two's worth of material available. No Time For Cynics is the name of the Spotify playlist, and these are the tracks:

For Your Playlist: Side A

1. "I Will Wait" from Babel (I was disappointed with it as a single but it grew on me in a big way)

2. "The Cave" from Sigh No More

3. "Roll Away Your Stone" from Sigh No More

4. "Below My Feet" from Babel (My favorite)

5. "Dust Bowl Dance" from Sigh No More 

For Your Playlist: Side B

1. "Awake, My Soul" from Sigh No More 

2. "Lover's Eyes" from Babel

3. "Not With Haste" from Babel

4. "Devil's Spoke/Sneh Ko Marg" from the Dharohar Project EP with Laura Marling, & Dharohar Project

I actually wanted to make it "To Darkness" which is the early version of what became "Broken Crown" on Babel but Spotify's copy is missing the last half of the song... :(

Bonus tracks:

5. "Janglin'" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

6. "James River Blues" by the Old Crow Medicine Show

7. "I Will Wait" cover by Gavin Mikhail

Covers are a good way to tell if you like the song itself- more on that in another post. I thought this was a beautiful cover of a beautiful song.

My prince & me, 6 months 

"Now you can have butterfly shoes AND go to Mumford & Sons."

Dedication: To My Mom (Or Why A Rock & Roll Baby Has Country Roots)

Saturday mornings at 2045 N. 63rd Place.When my siblings and I had squeezed all the possible life and enjoyment out of non-cable kid-oriented programming, it was time for chores. We'd shuffle and lollygag like any children might, I guess, but eventually (around 10:15, maybe) we'd find ourselves with our little shoulders to the wheel.

I can't recall anybody having specific, regular chores we did every week. But I remember feeling like I did a lot of dishes. Standing on a wooden stool, up to my elbows in soap suds, and with the belly of my shirt getting progressively wetter, I usually passed the time imagining myself horribly misused, like some nine-year-old Cinderella. The kitchen faced eastward, toward the back yard, where four citrus trees- tangelo, lemon, tangerine, grapefruit- stood in a row along the cinderblock wall on the other side of the lawn (and in the summertime, the above-ground pool), punctuated by a sandbox and swingset on one end, by a trampoline on the other. My parents basically built the landscape, front and back, up from the wild wild western nothing, and the backyard was everywhere to me- it was Africa, it was Floren, it was the doomed Titanic, it was New York City... and it shimmered and mocked me behind the window where I was slaving away over dirty dishes.

My fantasies and daydreams had to fight through one significant distraction: Mom's music. The stereo supported six CDs and I do believe we listened to the same handful of albums every week (except at Christmastime) for seven or eight years. Creedence Clearwater Revival, Van Morrison, Sheryl Crow, Sting, Chris Isaak, and Lyle Lovett were the voices of Saturday. This was before I even liked music, much less knew the difference between thumbs up and thumbs down over it. And they also had to fight over the sound of the vacuum, or over the sound of Mom singing along.

There are minutiae-sized holes in the tapestry of the memory that bother me, like what all was on the windowsill of that kitchen window, or what kind of dishes I was washing, or what anybody else was doing (although I can tell you we preferred sectional couches in the family room- first a smushy second-hand brown one, then a mottled multicolor/green one). But all I really need to remember is the most poignant part of Saturday morning chores: Mom.

Sometimes she'd stop whatever she was doing and shout for us all to come join her, and she'd turn up the stereo and sing and dance to "Brown-Eyed Girl". Being old enough for this moment to brand itself into my memory, I was definitely old enough to think I was too cool for dancing in the family room with my family. I was still young enough to not notice that Mom doesn't really sing that well, though- a nonjudgment that persisted with me for a long time. After all, what child, having been born of goodly parents, does not think of being sung to by Mom as a distinct pleasure in life?

Anyway, I think usually I stayed right where I was at the sink, imagining myself the only one who did any work around here, while my hoodlum family played and frolicked (and maybe half an hour later I'd be done with the dishes). I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd gone running to Mom then as I did to Dad when he came home and showed her I loved her by dancing with her and singing out loud too. At risk of waxing sentimental, I wonder if she didn't stand at the selfsame kitchen window more often than we were aware, watching over us through our treacherous journeys through Wonderland or Oz or wherever the backyard was that day.

I can say this: my mother's everyday efforts made my childhood idyllic, safe, and happy. She taught me, she loved me. If I didn't know it then, I know it now. To this day when I do dishes, by myself, I sing "Brown-Eyed Girl" and hope that someday I will have a household just as warm, lively, and rich with love of the Lord and of each other.

It was both Mother's Day and my mom's birthday this month, and though it's late, I hope you don't mind the proverbial trip down memory lane, but this merited a double LP-style list called M<3M.

Side A: Our Old Playlist (Sounds of Saturday Morning)
1-3. Creedence Clearwater Revival: "Susie Q", "Lookin' Out My Back Door", "Hey Tonight"
4-6. Van Morrison: "And It Stoned Me", "Have I Told You Lately That I Love You", "Brown-Eyed Girl"
7-9. Sheryl Crow: "If It Makes You Happy", "Maybe Angels", "A Change Would Do You Good"
10-11. Lyle Lovett: "Don't Touch My Hat", "Fiona"
12: Sting: "If I Ever Lose My Faith in You"

Side B: Our Karaoke Music (Sounds of Sharing Music with Mom)
13. "Delta Dawn" by Tanya Tucker
14. "I'm Trying To Be Like Jesus" by Janice Kapp Perry
Ok, so we didn't hear this one on the radio but this is one song I loved to hear Mom sing to me.
15. "Sold [The Grundy County Auction Incident]" by John Michael Montgomery
16. "XXX's and OOO's (An American Girl)" by Trisha Yearwood
17. "Real World" by Matchbox Twenty
18. "Everybody's Free (To Feel Good)" by Sun Tan
19. "Lucky Denver Mint" by Jimmy Eat World
20. "Bring Me To Life" by Evanescence
21. "Bubble Toes" by Jack Johnson
22. "The First Single" by The Format
23. "Pepper" by a band with a distasteful name (sorry guys. that's what you get)
24. "Selfish Man" by Flogging Molly
25. "Life Less Ordinary" by Carbon Leaf
26. "Mama, I'm Coming Home" by the Vitamin String Quartet

"Open Up My Eager Eyes": The Killers

My first apartment, the one I moved into in fall of 2009 (oh strange year), spent several months in bleak sparsity. I guess when your life is complicated you can't even unpack your heart in your own space. But eventually, and with a giant push from my amazing mom, it came to look, feel, and be livable. I couldn't paint them (though I know from creepy peering from the sidewalk as I pass by that tenants since me, did) but the walls did get a kiss of me as I resurfaced.

Of course there were the albums, one Flogging Molly and two Bowie, on the south wall of the living room, and I think it was Bowie too, in poster form, on the wall opposite ("It's 1986 David Bowie from the movie Labyrinth, Brett.") The east wall was mostly window, but the west wall, right next to the niche where my stereo sat, I put up The Killers. 

No, there is no significance to the fact that it was the west wall. I'm just giving you a little sense of perspective. :) I bought it at their show at Comerica Theater (FKA The Dodge) in Phoenix in October 2009, along with a gray (how original!) tour shirt that I still wear on the regular. A word about the show: the crowd sucked, the band was all swagger and effort, and I sang my heart out.

I once read a critic's highly memorable quip that The Killers are not nearly as important a band as they think they are, and that is what makes them so lovable.It's true, nobody does bombast like The Killers. Remember that boy-band smack-talk battle they had with The Bravery back in 2005? Barely one album out and they thought they were legitimate enough to have a Vs., like Rolling Stones Vs. Beatles or Judas Priest Vs. Iron Maiden or any other contemporaries with overzealous fanbases. The magazines laughed, and so did I... (incidentally, I think The Killers unquestionably came off conqueror). But I like the Killers, a lot. Even if they have a track that made last week's reflection on filler songs.

I passed on the solo project by Brandon Flowers, which was hailed as "Sam's Town Part II: This Time Without the Hits" by another critic- dang, they love to rag on these guys. Gotta be tough to be The Killers, that's for sure. And I didn't ever buy into 2007's Sawdust, a compilation of B-sides and off-cuts. But I do own, one way or another, all the remaining releases. High school would simply have not been the same without that debut album, Hot Fuss on everyone's minds. Sam's Town never grabbed me til later, but my most-played album of the bizarre winter of 2008 was easily Day & Age. And yes, even though it sounds like Killers-do-Springsteen-in-Las-Vegas, I enjoy Battle Born. In fact, it's how much I am enjoying listening to Battle Born the last few days that makes me post tonight on The Killers, when I have accolades for new Hall of Fame members RUSH, and a truly delightful "guest post" on Led Zeppelin. 

I don't think I know of any other bands that are so exquisitely fun to sing along to in the car, for one thing. Brandon Flowers' voice sometimes bawls and sometimes trembles, and yet it is a pretty voice, and I LOVE singing along. I surprise myself by knowing all the words to all the songs. Windows up or windows down, it's me and The Killers, live for one rush hour only. 

But I think in the end, I love them because we've gone through a lot together. We both take ourselves too seriously, both like to contemplate dark subjects (sometimes things outside of our own experiences), both love David Bowie and the Smiths and other New Wave pioneers. (And, at least in the case of Brandon Flowers, we're both Mormon! See Exhibit A.) Since their emergence I have in some respects carried them with me through everything I've done and seen. The "keep on going, you are awesome" sort of songs critics disdain as self-indulgence, I have always taken to heart as a pep-talk, from the Killers to me.

It's breaking my heart that I didn't realize they were going to be in Tucson so soon (May 4). I could have made arrangements for that, if I'd known even a month ago. Such tragedy! Well, I am hopeful that they will outlast their internal conflicts long enough to make one more lap of the US. I'll be there next time. 

And I do not know why I pay so much attention to what the press says about The Killers. Of course in the end it's your ears that form your opinion, no matter what critics have to say, and that is true on many fronts. I would like to submit, though, something that a cranky old blogger that I follow has been known to reiterate from time to time: when they heckle and criticize and talk... you know you've made it. Congratulations, guys. You made it. ^_^

This playlist is sort of unique. It is made of both favorites and significant songs. Not all of these selections are "the best" Killers tracks, but the ones that aren't are still the ones that call to me because they mean the most, for whatever reason. Here you go: My Eager Eyes: The Killers 

For Your Playlist: Side A

1. "Mr. Brightside" from Hot Fuss

2. "Sam's Town" from Sam's Town

3. "This Is Your Life" from Day & Age

4. "Miss Atomic Bomb" from Battle Born

For Your Playlist: Side B

1. "A Dustland Fairytale" from Day & Age

2. "Bones" from Sam's Town

3. "The Rising Tide" from Battle Born

4. "On Top" from Hot Fuss

Bonus tracks: "Tranquilize" (featuring Lou Reed) from Sawdust, & "Crossfire" from Flamingo by Brandon Flowers. In keeping with my penchant for songs that mention heaven, hell, devils, angels, etc., "Crossfire" filled me with joy the first time I heard it, which was on the way back from the gym late one night, after stopping on a bench to look for a fresh soundtrack for the walk home.

And if you have time for just a little more Killers, (which might make you a bona fide Victim) I suggest listening to this fabulous cover of an excellent Bright Eyes song, and watching the video that started it all: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gGdGFtwCNBE

Getting Lucky

Facebook already knows this, but last week my Prince Genuine, AKA Bryson, set his mind to it and got us tickets to the Mumford & Sons gig in June. That is to say, he called a radio station 26 times to become Caller Number 8 and thereby score a couple of tickets. What a stud! He told the DJ, "My wife will be so happy!"

I am so happy. We had just been talking the night before about how, as much as we would like to go, neither of us were comfortable spending so much on one evening's entertainment. I told him wistfully that I would rather have Mumford & Sons tickets than butterfly shoes. But I understood if it couldn't happen.

Well, he wasn't about to give up without a fight. We got lucky this time.

More than lucky, I feel blessed to have a man who takes time out of his day (especially these busy days with precious little time) to make me happy. Blessed to be married to a man to whom I am not just "enough", but "everything".

On the one hand, I went through a ton of frogs (and toads, and newts, for that matter) before I found my Prince Genuine. You might say that he is a reward for persevering. On the other, if you know me in person, you may know that I seemed to deliberately seek frogs and toads and newts, so any misery I experienced as a result was self-inflicted. Then you might say he's a reward for breaking the routine of looking for a mate in the swamp. Either way, he is a reward, and reward means BLESSING.

I hope I never forget, even for a day, or for a moment, that he is a great blessing to me, warts and all. :)

He hasn't been to that many concerts. Mumford & Sons will be our second together. I am pretty stoked about that. I hope it's as great a show as the one in 2011.

His birthday is coming up at the end of the month. What do you get the man who called from the parking garage at work to say "I won us the tickets to Mumford & Sons; I guess you get your butterfly shoes after all"?

If you are looking for a new original playlist tonight, you should go to my blog-friend Jen's page, where I am guest-posting (thanks for the opportunity!!) this evening while she is on "maternity leave." (Personally I suspect the baby is waiting to be born so I can finish the toy I am making for her- she's a few days overdue.) Or you can skip to the nursery-themed list Babycakes.

If, however, you want to hear the happiest thoughts I had in 2009, I have drafted a slightly-revised (track 1 & 7) version of an enduring mix I made on this day that year. It was a really hard year in many ways, but Stir-Fry and Cult Films (April 2009) was one of the easy days: laboring over a clumsy stir-fry supper, talking about music and midnight movies (most especially Harold & Maude) with a new friend. I still listen to this mix. it's one of the rare occasions when I think I got just the right balance and just the right mood, with only the positive memories framed in it. Enjoy!





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

"Hallelujah, lock and load!": My Chemical Romance

"Bad news from the Zone, tumbleweeds."

News broke last week, I think it was, about the disbanding of My Chemical Romance. I did not cry, and it did not ruin my day, but it did give me a kind of saggy feeling in my heart, and I had to text a few people to spread the news.

Yes. This may discredit absolutely everything I have said so far but I am about to tell you the truth: I thought My Chemical Romance was pretty awesome.

There are a lot of elements I like about their music. But I think it's something about Gerard Way's vocals that especially engage me. In my private mental world, when I close my eyes and pretend I'm a rock star on a big stage, strutting and sneering and crowing, he is what I sound like. He's my secret alter-ego. Eyeliner, gothy rendition of a Sgt. Pepper uniform, and that sharp voice- like crossing Brian Molko's pipes with a cheese grater and a jet pack. (I know, this fantasy might sound weirdly anticlimactic. Kind of like if you found out that Rob Zombie wears footy pajamas. Of course, you might think that would be awesome. In which case, I will imagine you in the audience next time I imagine I am Gerard Way.)

It definitely happened slowly. I really rather liked "Helena" from Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, which was arguably their breakout song from their unarguably breakout album. I was crazy about the video. (It was that one and The Killers' "Mr. Brightside" that I ended up buying- when you love something, you'll pay for it even if you could get it for free on YouTube.) But even now I'm not sure I'd like, heartily recommend Three Cheers. It's very.... Oh, yes. Emo. That is the word. The ugly word that turns every thinking person off of a band. But honestly, what else could you call an album that has songs like "It's Not A Fashion Statement, It's A Deathwish" or "Thank You For the Venom"... which is our title track tonight, by the way, and also a decent tune. It's a good example of its kind, though, for what it's worth.

I think what clung to me about that album, besides the aforementioned video, was a track called "Ghost of You" that I really liked, without even knowing the artist. I remember waking up from a dream the morning after my eighteenth birthday with that song in my head. I asked my sister if she knew it and I hummed a few bars. She raised an eyebrow and said "That's MCR."

Huh?

"My Chemical Romance."

Oh. Tres embarrassing. I wasn't an emo kid. I didn't like that stuff. I decided to tell no one.

But that kept happening. Every time I heard an MCR song I always found myself going "This ain't half bad" and then groaning when I found out the artist. So at last I caved and bought The Black Parade.

Which is a very different animal from Three Cheers.

The Black Parade is a cool little gem. It moved away from the melodrama on the previous album and moved more toward a concept album, lyrically. (I heard of a critic saying Roger Waters should sue for the story rights.) And it moved away from definitive "emo" and leaned toward glam rock, sonically. Don't get me wrong, it's still rough and punky but there's some extra swagger in there and it's great. Inexplicably great.

After I quietly came to the realization that I may in fact, LIKE My Chemical Romance, I confided this to my friend Alex, who has excellent and eclectic taste of his own. I knew he wouldn't judge me, see. In fact, he went out and listened to the album and came back as favorably impressed as I had. That made 2 of us, secret fans of the former emo band My Chemical Romance.

And then came Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys. Which, I think, was even better than Black Parade. The whole album I love unabashedly. But if you don't believe me, listen to "S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W" which sounds a little like a nursery rhyme from the dystopian post-apocalyptic future... Which is the setting of the album, by the way. This album also contains the unexpectedly beautiful "Sing" which that abomination Glee took and made into a super hit. (It's ok, I guess. You gotta sell out sometime, huh, guys? "Gimme gimme some of that vampire money, c'mon!")

The handfuls of music they released last year lean toward the earlier stuff, which as I mentioned, leaves me kinda cold compared to the concept albums. For being a return to that form, I'd venture to say it's better than the older work- they've learned a few tricks in the last few years. But it's too late for me, I'm already their fan. I would have borne with whatever they flung me, and given it a fair chance to grow on me.

And now they are no more. Yes, it's over. And I am sad. Maybe most sad that I didn't run off impetuously to Los Angeles to see them the last time their tour brought them close to me, which was for Danger Days. Alex and I toyed with the idea but ultimately we didn't. And now, there is nothing else to do but step up and say yes, I liked that band. I liked them a lot. I genuinely hope that we have not heard the last of these guys.

"Keep your boots tight, keep your gun close, and die with your mask on if you's got to."

Their body of work is available to hear on Spotify, with the exception of what came before Three Cheers (an album called I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love).


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

The Next Day Revisited

David Bowie sat on the passenger's side and the two of us reveled in his latest album all the way home and then some. It finally arrived, you see. A solid three weeks of extra waiting was well worth it.

I think I waited because it would mean just a little more. If The Next Day ended up being his real final album, for some reason (and anything seems possible now), I would want it to be the one I bought fresh off the presses, as it were. (Which cliche led me to a quick YouTube education in how a vinyl record is made. It's pretty cool.) In that way, I feel like I have participated in my favorite artist's legacy just like his first fans, people who were teenagers before my own father was born, did. I went down to the record store the day it came out, with all my heart and all my change, and bought the big beautiful double vinyl with my name on it to mark it as a pre-order. David Sedaris mentions in his story "The Smoking Section" that if he'd had his way as a kid, his room would have smelled like a newly-unwrapped vinyl records: "that is to say, like anticipation." Bearing this in mind, when I got back to the car, I slit the plastic wrap and put my nose close and breathed deeply... yup, that's anticipation. That's Charlie Bucket using every other sensory organ to enjoy his yearly chocolate bar before giving it over to his taste buds.

It came with a CD version, which was pretty nice. And so it was that the big beautiful double vinyl with a large white square over Bowie's 1979 face, rode a contented shotgun to me as we wheeled around the neighborhood. The music on the record sang vicariously through the digital incarnation, louder than my gruff diesel engine. And this is how it went:

1. "The Next Day"
blasts fearlessly, charging, stomping. I love how the words you hear the most clearly at first are "Listen" and "Here I am". This is a great opening track. But it doesn't make sense as a single. (Basically none of them do.)

2. "Dirty Boys"
versed in burlesque horns, choruses with more melody. Couplet-rhymed verses. Parallel-structured chorus. Half sleazy and half hopeful. Another song that I'm increasingly loving with every listen.

3. "The Stars (Are Out Tonight)"
makes sense now. Somehow, contextually, this song packs a fiercer punch. Sounds darker, more desperate, more cynical. Also I notice for the first time with a chill the line "but they know just what we do when we toss and turn at night". Ew. That's actually a really creepy thought.

4. "Love Is Lost"
smolders. This is the point where I turn it up a little to snuggle deeper into the music. The second verse mystifies me, but it's the rising finish that gets me. The repeated chorus: "What have you done? O what have you done?"

5. "Where Are We Now?"
has also found power it lacked before in context. After the intensity of the previous track, the softer vocals feel balmy. This is still not the strongest track of the bunch but it works so much better alongside its fellows.

6. "Valentine's Day"
sounds much better the second listen-through. One of the most obvious allusions to real life social events, this song chronicles a high school gunman. The guitar on this one sounds lush and conversational to me, somewhat incongruous with the dark lyrics.

7. "If You Can See Me"
was labeled by another reviewer as "interesting but un-listenable". I disagree. It is almost tuneless and the vocals skitter without range. But the lyrics are really fascinating. The result is a kind of discordant, urgent tangle not unlike some parts of Earthling's "Dead Man Walking", with what might be a slam poet's rant for lyrics. Honestly, I like it.

8. "I'd Rather Be High"
sounds as psychedelic as the title might imply, melodically. Initially I was not that stoked about it, but it's rapidly growing on me, and I love this: "I stumble to the graveyard and I lay down by parents, whisper 'Just remember, duckies, everybody gets got.'"

9. "Boss of Me"
swings, lazily but resolutely. It reminds me of "I've Been Waiting for You", the Neil Young cover on Heathen only more... Bowie. I dunno. I like this song more each time I hear it, too, but I'm still figuring it out.

10. "Dancing Out in Space"
has a beautiful melody. Yearning, but not sluggish. The rhythm of the vocals in the chorus contrasts sharply with that of the verses, rather like in "Dirty Boys" and I think it's a good effect in both cases. If I picked one word out as David Bowie's favorite, it's "star" or "stars" and this song with its astral setting and mood doesn't deviate.

11. "How Does the Grass Grow?"
remains sort of inaccessible to me. This is the only track I can say I like about as much as I did the first time, when everything was a happy wash and only a few things stood out in bolded caps. This isn't one of them.

12. "(You Will) Set the World on Fire"
... no words. Just a huge smile on my face and my heart skips a beat. This is what the kitschy song "New York's in Love" from Never Let Me Down meant to be. "I can hear the nation, I can hear the nation cry..." I'm adopting this as my secret theme song. (Don't judge me. You know you have one.)

13. "You Feel So Lonely You Could Die"
takes the mood abruptly very low. Might check the liner notes to make sure this wasn't penned by Morrissey. And yet, is that a little bit of snark I'm detecting? Can't quite tell if he's joking with me yet, with the melodramatic title and doo-wop ooohing and ahhhing. I confess, I can't spend much time on this song because the next one blows my mind.

14. "Heat"
closes the album with a slow, ominous heartbeat. At once I am reminded of Heathen and Outside and yet, it would be out of place on either one of these. Brooding. Haunting. Dark. But beautiful, especially when the violins start in as the pressure builds. The fact that there are bonus tracks is almost disappointing because I'd be glad to let the phrase "my father ran the prison" echo in my brain for a while.

Bonus tracks:
15. "So She" -charming and kind of cartoony. I can tell why this is an outtake or bonus. This isn't what we've just been hearing. A cousin, maybe, but not a first cousin.
16. "Plan"- instrumental echoing the mood of "Heat", which isn't a bad thing. Like other reviewers I felt this one suffered from being too short!
17. "I'll Take You There"- See, now this one sounds like a single to me. Politically-charged much? Yes. Unless my powers of interpretation are radically failing me, it's about illegal immigration, from the immigrant's perspective. But it's punchy and appealing. I'm not sure why this one didn't make the regular track cut. The smoky lyrical mood and fierce music fit with the rest, in my opinion.

So. Now it's been a few weeks and a few listens. The shock and thrill of a broken silence is abated (a little ^_^) and you know what I think? I think it's a great album. I think it's better, richer, than Reality and more realized than Heathen, both of which I love. It reminds me of my favorite album, Lodger, with its varied musical influences plain as genetics on a face. It reminds me of Scary Monsters because it has so much to say and it will take a long time to digest all of it. Most of all, I love it because it's classic Bowie. To explain further, I'd probably need to be able to play an instrument. But if, by chance, you are a Bowie fan too, then I wouldn't have to explain. We could just look at each other and go "I knooooowwww...."

You can listen to the album in full on Spotify, of course. I won't bother linking to it. You know where to find it. And you should find it. Tell me what you think, especially if you are predisposed to liking/loving Bowie.

Easter Thoughts- A Spiritual Post

One of the reasons other people blog is to keep a journal online. This isn't really my purpose on here. I'm here to talk about music and hopefully connect with some cool people who want to talk with me about it. But there is something on my mind today. 

So, I made a playlist. 

It's Easter Sunday. My sweet Prince Genuine and I had our hands full with a few sugar-addled four-year-old's in Primary today. Although they ran slightly amok in class (I told them we could play duck-duck-goose on the condition we did it in slow motion; turns out nobody could agree on the rules) they were mostly quiet for Sharing Time. That may have been because the Presidency brought in some guest speakers with hand towels and robes on, and held a mock hearing with the speakers acting as witnesses of the Living Christ. We heard from Mary Magdalene (I would love to name a daughter "Magdalene"), Peter, "Abner A. Nephite" (SPOILER ALERT: I'm MORMON! ^_^), fourteen-year-old Joseph Smith Jr., and Thomas. 

I listened and for the first time in a long time it really really hit me: exactly what we mean when we celebrate Easter. 

There's been a lot of unrest in my social networks this last week. And it is really weird to find myself on what looks like the unpopular side of a fierce quasi-political argument. A debate of sorts broke out in the comment section of one of my posts on the subject. (A post I made, by the way, after deciding that representing my convictions was worth the risk of strangers arguing up my newsfeed. Bear with me here, I'm not going to talk about that subject. Just something else I noticed through it.) I realized how utterly uncomfortable I am actually debating. I realized I have a lot of friends whose intellects I respect, even if their perspectives and beliefs are quite different from mine, and I realized I am simply not equipped to "back it up" if I try to approach it from a logical standpoint. I may have studied logic and philosophy but I am truly humbled by the ability some people have to rationalize and debate. My thinking cap goes off to those people.

And so today, listening to our volunteer "witnesses" repeat over and over again that they had seen Him, I thought about that. I thought about how truly strange it is that I profess to believe that a person half a world away was killed, and three days later rose from the dead. Suspend for a moment everything else associated with Christ, and boil it down to that one statement and let it alone sink in: I believe that a man laid down his mortal body and raised it up again three days afterward. 

There, I said it. 

I am a thinking, sentient creature. I have no problem acknowledging a strong argument even if I disagree with the conclusion, just like I don't mind dismissing a weak argument even if I favor the conclusion. Intellectual integrity, I once heard this called, and there are not very many phrases that give me more satisfaction. I am not the smartest person I know, but the cogs between my ears grind and click just fine. And yes, I believe that Jesus Christ rose from the dead. We are separated by just under two thousand years. Even most of His contemporaries didn't believe it. But I believe it.

MORE than that. I believe that He rose from the dead, and that He is the Son of God. I believe He is as real as I am, or as my husband across the room. I believe that He was born to a mortal mother to walk with us and show us how to serve, that He was perfect in His obedience. I believe that because perfect obedience is the only thing that could justify imperfection, He atoned for me, and you, and all of us, in a garden, knowing that some people would reject this freely-offered gift even as they rejected His messages or friendship in the flesh. And I believe those witnesses, both ancient and modern, who saw Him. I believe I owe Him my very best self, and I have promised to do my very best each day to be like Him, even though sometimes my best is no more than a couple of mites. 

Crazy? Sounds like it. Outdated? Sounds like it. Impossible? Not to me. And not to my Savior.

All that use of "belief"- suffer me now to say instead that I know. I know. I know He lives, and I know that without His tender mercies my life could have ended there, somewhere in the midnight years between adolescence and a year ago. And it brings me an indescribable peace to know that I don't have to defend this to myself. This is not opinion, to me. I do not need great powers of debate, rationalization, statistics, skepticism, cynicism to proclaim that this is what I believe. I could not defend it with such powers if I had them, and to do so would be a disservice to the art and act of faith. 

And so, it is to anyone else who opines that the human brain knows but little, and the heart perhaps knows even less, but what the heart knows is indubitably truer than what the brain knows... and to anyone who is celebrating Easter because it means He rose again and that He will come again someday... I dedicate the playlist Isaiah 54: 4-5. 

Conor Oberst Part II: A Concert & a Kiss

The short hipster guy in a button-down shirt seemed disappointed when I turned down his invitation to come back to the hotel where he and his friends were staying. I told him I had people I was with but it had been nice talking to him. If only he'd known what a real fan's after-party consists of. Me, I know the secret:

If the venue is small and the crowd is fervent, there is a possibility that after the show is over, the artist will come 'round the back or side to mingle for a few minutes. This trick I learned from the same ex-boyfriend who, incidentally, introduced me to this artist's music originally. (Our lives have diverged for good, now, but I will be grateful to him for several things, this among the more frivolous ones.)

I will admit, there was no way to be sure that Conor Oberst would do that. He has a reputation for being surly and detached from fans. He hates it when people sing along at shows, so to be contrary he alters the words a bit for live performances. He shuns the laud and hullabaloo of being an icon, so he only releases albums under the name "Bright Eyes". And he never smiles onstage.

Well, this was 2008, and he'd done the first thing, releasing a "solo" and eponymous album that I really really liked, earlier that year, so put one tally under "Never Say Never". This was a warm night in Tucson, AZ, at a pretty venue called The Joint, and he had not only smiled, he'd been so stumbling drunk, he looked like he was having fun. He didn't even seem to mind when those of us who didn't know better (like me) unfolded our arms to sing along with whatever songs we knew. So now all bets were off.

The show was rock-solid. Conor Oberst, who I'd never really cottoned to until I heard this album made with "The Mystic Valley Band", delivered. He passionately bellowed into the microphone and strummed away on his guitar like the chords could bring world peace if he just hit them hard enough. He tried a few times to stand up on an amplifier, alarming us a little with the way he wobbled and swayed in his alcohol-fueled exuberance. But what should have been a slightly disturbing spectacle starring an artist who sometimes gives too much fuel to his inner demons, was instead almost transcendent. It was beautiful. With his eyes closed and a hint of a blissful smile as he sang "Danny Callahan", he was beautiful, and it moved me deeply.

So I, the undeserving fan-initiate, stood pressed against the ropes under the watchful eye of a few security guards after the show, eyes trained on the back door of the venue with absolute precision. Sure enough, he came stumbling out and the crowd (mostly female) of superfans around me erupted in a cooing euphony like so many happy pigeons. "Connor, Connor, Connor" they murmured, and sure enough again, he moved toward us. Hands thrust in his direction and he took them and shook them and muttered generally good-natured responses. It was pretty clear he was still very disoriented. It may have been my idea but I pulled out my ticket stub (thank goodness I found a pen, after fishing around in my purse for a moment longer) and held it toward him.

He moved toward me, as if nothing would please him more than to sign my scrap of paper. The pen nearly didn't work but after a moment of confusion it did and he handed back the ticket. I touched his hand and leaned close over the rising swell of fangirl voices, and told him the only thing I really felt like I had of value. The only thing any of us, really, have the right to say to a stranger who has impressed us.

"Conor, you did really great tonight. I mean it, you were great. That was a wonderful show."

Our proximity turned into a hug at that moment. I felt his cheek, bizarrely soft and smooth, brush mine as he told me, "Thank you, thank you. You're a sweet, sweet lady." And then he kissed me on the cheek, as his bodyguards pulled him away from me.

I think for a moment I blacked out. But I was taking up space now that I'd had my turn, and I didn't want to get jumped and have my cheek torn from my face as the girls near me took up the incredulous cry of "He kissed her!" So I fled, to the car where my sister, mother, sister's then-boyfriend, etc, were waiting. I was dizzied with the impact of being starstruck. "He kissed me!" I said breathlessly, grinning, and flashing my signed ticket.

My sister's face broke like I'd dropped something made of porcelain and dreams. She'd been toward the back of the throng and hadn't even gotten close enough to look into his face. The triumphant feeling drained from me instantly, and I gave her my lasting prize, the ticket I didn't deserve to have signed. If I could have transferred the kiss from his lips to her face too, I would have done that, because no matter what, I love my sister more.

We saw Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band again in the spring, in Tempe, but things were different this time. He looked healthier, to his credit, (much more sober and characteristically grim) and performed a good set, but the magic was comparatively absent. I felt torn, glad for his sake that he was in better physical form and mental state, and favorably impressed with the new material performed that night, but sad that something had to be missing.

Conor Oberst, wherever you are, and in whatever incarnation you are right now (Bright Eyes, Mystic Valley Boy, Monster of Folk, or Desaparacido), hi. I hope you are well. You don't remember me but I remember you. I didn't deserve to be the one you kissed, like Arizona doesn't deserve to be a state you shun (most of the people who rabidly adore you are on your side about the whole immigration business- why are you punishing them?). But I'm really glad it happened, like I'm glad you brought the magic to the stage that night. I still listen to the Mystic Valley Albums when it's springtime and when it's autumn, especially, and my friend Rob called the MoF album the best one he'd heard in 2010. And with the sincerity of someone who you only managed to win over by being yourself, rather than Bright Eyes, I'll stand by what I said then: you do a great job doing what you do. "I don't wanna dream if it won't come true."

"Nikorette" by Conor Oberst & the Mystic Valley Band

Fashion vs. the Devotee: Why I Still Rock the Band Shirt

So, I didn't mention it, but I turned 24 years old a couple of weeks ago. Twenty-four. That's older than I have ever been before, on the outside. And I look almost the same as I did when I was sixteen.

That isn't because I haven't grown in ten years. It isn't because I've cycled through all the hair colors from dark brown to blonde to lavender & peroxide to dark brown again, or even because I've gotten back into bangs like when I was a sophomore/junior in high school. It's because on my days off, in my natural habitat, I still dress like I did then. Or, less kindly, like a thirteen year old boy.

BAND SHIRTS! Despite my best efforts, they still dominate my wardrobe. And I'd like to take a moment to honor the fallen warriors, the ones I finally forced myself to get rid of, because the ratio of band shirts to grown up clothes. Gone but not forgotten are: my very first Bowie shirt, Shins shirt with the squid on it, the Morrissey shirt, the Dirty Diamonds tour shirt from the Alice Cooper concert of 2005, my Flogging Molly shirt from '07, the Snakes and Arrows tour shirt from the Rush concert of 2007 (I really regret getting rid of that one), the Hot Hot Heat shirt from the concert I never went to, two Jimmy Eat World shirts ('02 and '08), the Ozzy Osbourne shirt claimed in '11, and the Roger Waters tour shirt from 2006, although technically that one was simply returned to its rightful owner (my dad), and the purple-themed Apocalyptica shirt that I lovingly shredded and made into a hardcore swimsuit cover-up.

But these are the minority. For every one I got rid of, another remains. I get them at concerts, mostly. I used to joke that I only shop at merch stands. Dad taught me that if you don't get a shirt with dates on it, you might as well have just bought it in a store. If you want to prove you were there, you need the hard data, because they don't (usually) sell tour shirts in stores. I subscribe to this, as my wardrobe resolutely declares. Unfortunately for me, not much looks sloppier on my fun-sized frame than unisex T-shirts, and guess what? They pretty much don't make girly-fit tees with tour dates on them. I cringe at myself in the mirror sometimes.

Still, on my days off you'll still see me in my ragged, cozy, sometimes oversized band shirts. It's entirely silly on a 24-year old who has a job and a husband and a class of 4-year-olds to teach on Sunday. Sometimes I wish I liked the benign, expensive pretties at Anthropologie like my friend Caitlin. Sometimes I wish I could get into scarves like my friend Francesca, or wear tutus and bomber jackets like my eccentrically-clad cosmetolog(art)ist sister Allex. But I can't. I cling to my band shirts in a way most of them (the M's, L's, and XL's I had to buy because the XS/S were sold out already) never will cling to me in return. I'm not a celebrity so it's not cool, I'm just a twenty-something in a baggy Mago de Oz shirt, and eventually it will look like I never bothered to look around and see what responsible adults are wearing and follow suit. Sometimes this bugs me. And sometimes, I think:

Whatever. That's fine.

My husband thinks I'm cute, and I know when to reach for Ralph Lauren over Rolling Stones, or the Killers over Calvin Klein, so it's no-harm-no-foul til I get sick of wearing them when I'm pregnant. I love my band shirts because most of them have stories. I snagged the last one at a show held in a parking lot between a street and a train track, or I watched the mailbox for two weeks while it shipped from Finland. They mean something to me. I love my band shirts because I love the bands, and I'm okay with postponing looking like the style magazine with which I amused myself at work today. It may not be popular, it may not be stylish, but I can live with that, because my bands are in my heart and I'll wear them on my sleeve. Being a musician may mean you set trends in fashion, or at least rock them, but being a fan just means loving that musician enough to give them the space across your chest or back.

So, if you're too old for your band shirts, seize the day. Reach into the back of your closet, where you know you stashed that one you cannot bear to part with. Love what you see, and love what you heard. Find your tour date and smile. And Judas Priest, comrade, put it on!

"Friends, they may think it's a movement. And that's what it is."

The epitome of the band shirt. This is a shirt my dad bought when he saw the Rolling Stones in '81, when he was younger than I am now. Pretty well preserved, isn't it? I wore this shirt to Scottsdale Fashion Square and got kudos from someone in the Bulgari store. Boo-yah. 

"We never change our tune, we change ourselves": Poets of the Fall

It's possible that it's just the hipster in me, but I love having a band in my Top 10 that nobody else this side of the Atlantic knows about. It gives me ample opportunity to be the harbinger of good music. It helps a lot when the band you wrap up with a bow and present to people with that "I-have-something-you-will-like" kind of glee... is actually something wonderful. I have probably put Poets of the Fall on every single mix I've made since I discovered them in 2008. I've never found them to be a bitter pill for anyone so far.

Oddly enough, one of my favorite memories about Poets of the Fall includes none other than the German exchange student Christian, mentioned in my last post. It was I who infected him with Poets and it was he who suggested that we celebrate his first American Halloween by dressing as the characters from the (iconic, fabulous and really cool) music video for "Carnival of Rust". I hadn't really dressed up for Halloween in years, but I told him that if he was serious, I would make it happen. In retrospect, that project was the highlight of our acquaintance. Together we tracked down a sandy-colored sport coat for him, and a gas mask for me. He wore slacks and a hat he already owned. I borrowed a dress from my sister, and a large porcelain dolly from my grandma, and made myself an oversized pinwheel lollipop.

Christian expressed some concern that we would not be recognizable. I had already resigned myself to this and didn't mind, but one afternoon a few days before our party debut, I cut out of red and black felt, in Gothic lettering, the letters to spell "Carnival of Rust" and pinned them across the yoke of his jacket. And intimacy, thy name is applying makeup to another person! (Or otherwise using another person's earth-suit as your canvas.) It was with great tenderness and delight that I painted his face white with powder from Hot Topic and black with who-knows-what to crack the mask like porcelain.

And thanks to whoever took this picture. It's somehow the only one I have of that night.

At the themed milonga we walked before the judges for the costume contest, competing for best duo, and Christian now told me he was afraid we would be passed over: "They will think we are too creepy!" By this, I think, he may have meant "too obscure a reference", but lo, the first prize went to "Those two, whatever they are." Never a prouder moment that year. We took our spoils (a bottle of wine and a big bag of peanut M&M's) back to his house and consumed them according to our appetites (wine for one, candy for both) and talked about linguistics and philosophy and language barriers. Some of my favorite topics, apart from music.

This would have been a postlude to what I thought of as our friendship. What a way to make a last stand!

At another party we attended, Christian got so tired of being asked to explain his costume (which did seem to disturb the slightly buzzed state university students in their ironic half-costumes and skimpy princess outfits), that he took to simply saying "I'm a creep!" I think, this time, he may have meant "I'm an eerie living fortune-telling mannequin from a steampunk music video by an amazing Finnish rock band- you wouldn't understand." I myself never minded being an obscure reference for Halloween. The truth is, in those times of trying to fit into social circles where I didn't really belong, I wouldn't have been any more identifiable if I'd simply gone as myself.

Thank goodness for the lessons we learn from times like that. :)

I've shed a lot of who and what I thought I was during that period of my life, but the Poets of the Fall remain with me. They are my underdog band, the band with a devoted hometown crowd in their Scandinavian sector, the band with a handful of loving constituents here in on American soil. This is the band for whom I'm Jenny Appleseed, planting bits here and there, waiting for a legion of fans to grow (and a North American tour to be announced). If I had the cash I'd just go to them and hold the proverbial poster proclaiming my love in miles traveled. I listen to the Poets of the Fall because they are unique and uplifting, and I listen to them often.

The Spotify list is called "We Never Change Our Tune".

For Your Playlist: Side A
1. "Lift" from Signs of Life
2. "Carnival of Rust" from Carnival of Rust
3. "Dreaming Wide Awake" from Twilight Theatre
4. "Sorry Go 'Round" from Carnival of Rust

For Your Playlist: Side B
1. "Cradled in Love" from Temple of Thought
2. "The Ultimate Fling (The Director's Cut)" from Revolution Roulette
3. "Don't Mess With Me" (live) from the Carnival of Rust EP
4. "The Beautiful Ones" from the Lift EP

You can't listen to much of them on Spotify. As such, only half of these songs were in my original Poets of the Fall sampler list, but the ones filling the gaps are still pretty good, especially the live version of "Don't Mess With Me". PotF have 5 albums to date and they're each worth every cent, in my opinion. It's really hard to pick a favorite. They are all clearly the same band but each has kind of its own nuance, like a set of siblings that strongly resemble each other but are not quite twins:

Photo by Tami Webb

By the way, one of these is my wonderful Prince Genuine, and yes, I introduced him to Poets of the Fall too, and yes, he also likes them a lot. His favorite song is "Lift" which was kind of what I was hoping. :)

"Sweetheart, wake up": Yann Tiersen

Christian K. and I had, it turns out, very little in common. In the height of our friendship I thought there was more (you know how it goes), but it all boiled down to about four things. One of them was Argentine Tango, which we both discovered that year, at about the same time- he became known for his intensity and sense of adventure on the dance floor, and I'm pretty sure he charmed every last one of us. Another thing was grammar. Christian was from Germany, attending a year at my American "uni-wer-sity", and he found my conversational English, generally clear of "like" and "y'know" and "um", refreshing. A third thing, as it turns out, was my friend Caitlin, although of course my relationship with her was/is considerably different! (And I hope I don't embarrass my good friend by referencing this- we were all crazy in love, if you recall, in 2009.)

We shared one other major interest, and that, you may have guessed, is music. It was probably Christian with whom I first danced a tango to the piano version of "La valse d'Amelie", and it was definitely Christian who passed to me my first taste of Yann Tiersen.

Yann Tiersen is a French composer/musician best known, perhaps, for his remarkable soundtrack to the equally remarkable film Amelie. As the story goes, he was a little musical prodigy as a kid until one day, sick of playing classical music, he simply smashed his violin to bits and took up guitar for a while. Luckily, he still plays the violin (beautifully) as well as the piano and a number of other instruments. His recent material is a kind of dark, heavily-layered, and foggy, as if progressive rock and alternative rock had a baby. I've heard it compared to Godspeed You! Black Emperor. His earlier work fits pretty easily under the classical handle, but it's classical music written for a contemporary pop-music audience- bright, whimsical, wistful, dreamy. I could listen to Yann Tiersen for days and days and not get tired of him. I saw him on tour for Dust Lane (released in 2010, show was in 2011- a dark, personal album about love and death) and it was one of the coolest and most different concerts I'd ever seen- it felt like having four walls of music built up around you as you stood still. He seemed so sweet and humble, a man of few words (specifically, "Thank you") with a scruffy face and worn out Converse kicks, who could make his instruments sigh and sing.

So wherever you are now, Christian, you crazy kid, I hope you're still dancing, and Tausend Dank. And while I am at it, I'll thank Mike H., who burned me the Amelie soundtrack, and Jacob D., who gave me more Tiersen than I could digest in six months. Almost.

And it is with great pleasure that I now turn it up on your radio (on my Spotify as "Sweetheart, Wake Up"), and you'll thank me later.

Yann Tiersen makes me wish I didn't suck so bad at playing the violin.

For Your Playlist: Side A

1. "The Neighborhood" from The Lighthouse/Everything Is Calm

2. "La valse d'Amelie (version orchestre)" from Amelie from Montmartre

3. "Summer Nursery Rhyme No. 2" from Rue des Cascades 

4. "Bagatelle" from L'absente

For Your Playlist: Side B

1. "Deja Loin" from C'etait Ici

2. "Sur le Fil" from C'etait Ici

3. "Au Dessous Du Volcan" from Tabarly

4. "Amy" from Dust Lane

"Wear A Tall Hat"- T. Rex and Marc Bolan

It's late February and I'm noticing that it's unseasonably chilly for Phoenix. Seriously, the breeze that blew through here on Sunday was like a postcard from my hometown up north. There's still frost on the car when I leave for work in the morning. I suppose this lingering winter is better than the record-busting heat we had last summer, and I suppose as such that a little gratitude is in order. But I'm looking forward to spring. Spring in Phoenix, pollenfest notwithstanding, is a beautiful thing. Temperatures are blissful and the air smells like the newborn orange blossoms. Springtime means trying new cookie recipes and listening to bright, playful music with the windows open. And I haven't made a springtime playlist for a long time that has been without a pinch of T. Rex.

T. Rex might seem like an obvious and natural extension of my Bowie enthusiasm. There is a lot of overlap in the fanbase. Bowie himself was a fan of Marc Bolan. They were on-again, off-again best friends and bitter rivals since they met in the '60s, when Bowie still went by Jones and Bolan by Feld. Marc Bolan found success much sooner than Bowie with his band Tyrannosaurus Rex, later shortened to T. Rex.

Their aim was to be "bigger than the Beatles", and by some accounts, for a while at least, they succeeded. T. Rex, at the forefront of the rising wave that was glam rock, made some really fun music. Their songs contain a kind of wacky sci-fi-laced sexuality, mixed with the swinging rock and roll jive that's so characteristic of the rock of the 1950's and pop of the '60s. In fact, Bolan's voice suggests to me something of Buddy Holly. (That exaggerated vibrato? Tell me that's not a Holly-ism in platform boots and satin bell-bottoms.)

Marc Bolan: the reincarnation of...

...Buddy Holly?

Another thing Bolan shares with Buddy Holly? A fatal accident. Nothing catapults a band to cult stardom than the tragic demise of the charismatic So-and-So from Such-and-Such (I can hear my dad saying this about a certain Seattle band from the '90s... ha ha). T. Rex hadn't changed remarkably much, stylistically, between their emergence and Bolan's deadly car accident in 1977, so I'm not sure how long they would have been able to compete in the face of things like New Wave and post-punk. But whatever "could have beens" exist or don't exist, T. Rex's catalog is still smart and funky, and their following is absolutely rabid.

Fun fact: the sycamore tree in southwest London, blamed for decades as the tree that took out MB, was slated to be felled by city ordinance, but the TAG (T. Rex Action Group) purchased the land upon which it stands to save it. There's a bronze bust of MB there now, and a plaque, and ribbons festoon the tree. The site is now recognized as a "Sight of Rock and Roll Importance" according to the English Tourist Board. You have to write to TAG and donate to them to legally display a picture of it, so you'll just have to google it yourself. :)

I think it's this combination of that old-school catchiness and the glam-rock brightness that I really like about T. Rex. The music is effervescent and the lyrics are silly and sly, and I find it refreshing. It's a sort of energetic twist on a classic feel-good structure. 

For Your Playlist: Side A

Bolan & girlfriend Gloria Jones... awwww...

1. "Bang A Gong (Get It On)" from Electric Warrior

2. "Ride A White Swan" 

3. "Dandy in the Underworld" from Dandy in the Underworld

4. "Baby Boomerang" from The Slider

For Your Playlist: Side B

1. "Country Honey" from Tanx

2. "Jupiter Liar" from Futuristic Dragon

3. "Girl in the Thunderbolt Suit" from Bolan's Zip Gun

4. "The Avengers (Superbad)" from Zinc Alloy and the Hidden Riders of Tomorrow

Check it out on my Spotify under the title "Wear A Tall Hat". 

And in closing, I'd like to dedicate this post to the lovely blogger Ashley G.. She and I got to talking at the blogger function held at Sweet Cakes in Mesa on Friday night, which was hosted by Katie and Camille. She told me she doesn't like classic rock, which shocked the daylights out of me, but said she really liked "oldies". So, Ashley, I give you T. Rex. An excellent cocktail of both. As for all the other lovely ladies I met, if you're out there listening right now... thanks. For those about to blog, we salute you. 

Introducing the Band- Or, Reflection on the Difference Between Writers and Rockers

"I want the style of a woman, the kiss of a man/ Introducing the band!" -The London Suede

Today I read a post by a dear friend of mine, one Elizabeth Barrett, and it was so charming I decided to file away the post I was anticipating to write tonight in favor of acknowledging hers. If you'd like to read the "parent post" (and you should- it's darling) you can do so so here. If you choose not to (shame on you- it's darling) I will summarize crudely and say that it is an essay exploring a particularly shy aspect of her personality, and the vehicle is a reflection of a memory of some concerts she saw- particularly primo seats for Neil Diamond.

I don't listen to Neil Diamond and I don't think anybody would have guessed from looking at my rock pedigree that anyone in my family did. But my dad famously (according to his sisters, who report this story with an all-knowing smugness of which only we older sisters are capable) got bounced from a Neil Diamond concert for attempting to get onstage and interact with the singer. The story goes something like that Dad suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to take home a souvenir from the show, and the story says that the selected item was Mr. Diamond's belt. I find this last part especially odd. It is disconcerting, to say the least, to imagine your dad grabbing at another man's belt onstage. Especially if that man is Neil Diamond, and Dad's record collection tends to have things like Frank Zappa, Judas Priest, or (on the other hand) Jackson Browne. But this story gives me context to appreciate the fan fervor in The Other Elizabeth Barrett's story.

Except I think even my dad would have been tired long before the 20th "Bah-bah-bah" of "Sweet Caroline". And he doesn't really put his hands in the air for concerts anymore, either. It has less to do with getting into it, I think, than with not feeling particularly demonstrative. I thought for sure he was miserable during the Bowie concert, but as I was bouncing along radiantly back to the car with him afterward, he said "That might have been one of the best shows I've ever seen."

Me, I do put my hands in the air. My fan fervor can become an uncontrollable fan frenzy. I don't mosh but sometimes I wish I did... instead, I do what little people do: squeeze to the front of the crowd, very politely, and open my eyes and ears as wide as I can, and hyperventilate into the music. The time will come, I'm sure, when this will not thrill me so much as it does now, and it will likely have to do with significant hearing loss at an early age. But for now I will clap and cheer and sing my heart out. I once held hands with a stranger at a folk-rock concert, and I saw a girl a few feet from me singing and crying at once at another (also folk-rock...). I have no problem letting it tear through me.

But that's because music brings this out of me. That's because true artists have the power to captivate and pull things out of you that, short of religious experience, don't often surface. That's why Jim Morrison could hold the Coliseum in the palm of his hand, and start a riot with a word.

I genuinely used to dream of being a rock star. I'd performed quite a lot as a kid for church and school functions, such that by virtue of the demand I received I thought I was good. I don't remember stage fright except as an affectation- being shy and nervous was something people demonstrated because it was done. But eventually I started to grow up and started to feel it. Oddly, it wasn't really so much for when I was singing for an audience (of course, that happened less and less) as for when I was speaking to one. When I was just saying what was on my mind. My heart still pounds and my face flushes and I twitch my feet if I'm sitting down or twist my hands if I'm standing up. When I give my own gift, my own thoughts, to a crowd, I lose all my internal composure and just pray it doesn't sound like word vomit.

But I think maybe it's less that I am afraid people will think I'm foolish, off topic, etc, than that I won't do justice to what I want to tell them.

I'm content to be a face in a grocery store. I hate playing Speed Basketball because there will come a point where I, absolutely spotlit, will hold up my team with my ineptitude for minutes that seem like eternity.

But when I'm at a rock concert, I'm part of the music. I don't hold a candle to the artist's charisma, but I will absorb and learn from it and someday maybe I will speak my own mind, present my own art, with as much power and conviction. I will learn how to help people feel that way, like they can throw up their arms and repeat the chorus til they collapse, and together we will have no inhibitions.

"I need you to believe in not me, but my words." -Taylor Mali

And for laughs: Tim Minchin- "Rock and Roll Nerd" (Disclaimer: PG-13 for strong language)

"Je nage, mais les sons me suivent": Arcade Fire

"Je nage, mais les sons me suivent": "I swim, but the sound follows me"

You already know I was hopelessly devoted to David Bowie. I'd say there is a distinct possibility that I would never have really, genuinely allowed myself to love anything else if he himself hadn't made any recommendations. I read in an interview from around the time of Reality that David Bowie thought that Arcade Fire showed some promise. (Yes, it's time to deviate from the old school pattern and talk about something 100% Made In the 21st Century.)

In 2007 I read a review in a magazine about Neon Bible, and the review was more than favorable- it glowed. I recognized the band's name from the Bowie interview from a few years before. I bought the album. For several weeks, while I worked on my epic final project for my high school art class, I don't remember listening to much else. I didn't buy Funerals for another year or so, but I did get The Suburbs on the day it came out. I guess that means that in a way I've been on their team from the beginning, before anybody knew who they were, before they ironically won Album of the Year at the Grammy Awards for The Suburbs. Which doesn't make me any more or less of a fan than anybody else, by the way. It just makes them more special to me, because I feel like I've been watching them grow for a while.

In 2011, which was for me the Year of Concerts (more on that another day), my friend and even bigger music fan Rob went to see them at the Comerica Theater (FKA The Dodge which is where I saw Bowie). The Local Natives opened for them. They were pretty good. The weeknight crowd was sluggish, as usual. I perceived that AF felt that vibe too. There came a point at which I felt like they just sort of dismissed the tepid crowd and began to just play for themselves tonight. I could have sworn I watched the decision cross Win Butler's face, and they just started to pretend we weren't even there. And then the energy tripled. Not ours. Theirs. Have you ever felt like music is moving through you? Making something more out of you, like you're the giant wand through which one of those enormous Ren-Faire bubbles is being blown? That's kind of how I felt. Regine wailed "Sometimes I wonder if the world's so small/ That we can never get away from the Sprawl" like she was singing to God Himself.

That's what I love about Arcade Fire. Even at their lowest key, they are passionate. That first summer after high school graduation, the first summer my family went to San Diego for a few days to vacation, I walked along the sand in the dark with "Ocean of Noise" from Neon Bible in one ear, and the Pacific Ocean in the other. I waded out a little further toward the water and let the tide exhort me up to my knees, hearing the rasping boom of waves and the mournful horny outro before "The Well and the Lighthouse" broke in with its heart pounding. I felt passionate and tremendously big and hopelessly small all at once. I think I will replay that scene every time my path leads to a moonlit oceanic beach, for all my life. It's the little moments, without any especial significance, after all, that make up a life, and sometimes you have to see the beauty and the dramatic in the regular.

Which, incidentally, is what The Suburbs conveyed to me.

You can find all their albums on Spotify or any kind of record store you like. Since there are only three, (and there are only three full ones so far, not counting the EP that preceded Funeral) there is not a lot of material with which to make a mix tape. Furthermore, to try to compile a "Best Of" for Arcade Fire is, in my opinion, sort of detrimental to the body of work, since the tracklist on every album sounds so good in its original format.

However.

If you insist on only a taste, here are a few video-based suggestions:

1) "Sprawl II: Mountains Beyond Mountains" from The Suburbs
2) "Neon Bible" performed in an elevator from Neon Bible (and you haven't seen anything til you've seen a 7-8 person band making music in an elevator)
3) "Wake Up" featuring David Bowie from Funeral

"Brats in battalions were ruling the streets": Alice Cooper

First and foremost, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALICE!! I know, it was yesterday (2/4) but our adorable mutant rocker next door turned 65 yesterday, per my mathematics. I hope it was a great one!

There is a journal entry of mine from ages ago (I was probably twelve) in which I, quite gravely and quite hilariously, declare before the record for future generations, that I will never get into music by people as obviously deranged and terrifying as Alice Cooper. The inspiration, I believe, was this: Alice Cooper Marriott Commercial

I explain in my journal that there is a clear and distinct difference between cool freakiness (as exemplified by my middle school posse and myself, since everyone becomes self-consciously awkward and apart at that age) and bad freakiness, like a grown man who wears streaked makeup and chains and calls himself by a girl's name.

I've retracted a lot of promises I made to myself before I was 16, some of them for the worse, some for the better and some for the heck of it. My dissipation of the anti-Alice Cooper pact occurred that fateful night when Dad gave us the tapes. Among them was Alice's From The Inside album, which he gave to us with an admonition to skip a few tracks. Once I took a break from my constant Bowie-ing, I gave it a listen, and I liked it.

It took a couple years for Alice to really work his way into my playlists, but when he did, boy howdy! There are tapes and tapes from that time, loaded with pieces of Billion Dollar Babies, Killer, From the Inside, and of course, "Poison," of which I could not get enough. It helped that I discovered his radio show, Nights With Alice Cooper (to find a station, click here), and fell in love with his sense of humor. He became my kind of rock & roll sailor uncle, in the sense that I felt like I was sitting at his feet each night listening raptly to stories of legendary people and legendary times. I saw him in concert in Las Vegas promoting his Dirty Diamonds album in October (the 17th, I wanna say?) 2005 with my dad & little sister. Our seats weren't all that great and the acoustics at the Joint were, somehow, even less great, but I had a ball just the same. I wore the concert shirt under my school uniform for the rest of the week, despite its being an XL (all the appropriate sizes were sold out- that shirt hugged my curves like a muumuu).

I think what I love about Alice Cooper is the absolute silliness. He can write a perfectly dandy rock song and yes, it is about a gambler in an insane asylum. He can write a concept album about being sent to to H-E-double-hockeysticks and when it's over you don't feel like he took you there, can you feel me? At the end of the day, Alice Cooper is all about vaudeville, caricature, and gag-grotesque, with a little bit of genuine heart thrown in for good measure (he's included a softspoken ballad on every album starting with "Only Women Bleed" on Welcome To My Nightmare, if I've got my facts right). And you know what? I love the streaked makeup and leather and chains, and his hard-earned girl's name.

He rounds out the Triumvirate of my All-Time Favorite Classic Artists, and are a few reasons why:

For your playlist: Side A
1. "I'm Eighteen" from Love It To Death
2. "Welcome To My Nightmare" from the album of the same name
3. "Generation Landslide" from Billion Dollar Babies 
4. "Poison" from Trash (of course)

For your playlist: Side B

1. "Perfect" from Dirty Diamonds
2. "Wish I Was Born in Beverly Hills" from From the Inside

3. "I'm the Coolest" from Alice Cooper Goes To Hell

4. "Halo of Flies" from Killer

I have posted this playlist, plus one super secret bonus track by Alice and one of his shock-rock heirs, on Spotify under the name Brats in Battalions: Alice Cooper. <3 Follow me on Spotify to join the listening party, and show me your supportive rock-n-roll devil horns by subscribing to me here if you like what you've heard so far.

Up next: an artist renowned for both his opaque songwriting and his distinctively weird vocals (but who still sold prodigiously in countries where they don't speak English). Guess who?