What I Have To Show For It

Remember when I started a blog?

I know, it's been a while. In fact, it's been a while since I wrote as regularly as I determined to when I set off into the "blogosphere" (who came up with that word? that word is ridiculous). In terms of "sorry", I do not regret the other things I have done in lieu of upkeep my poor little page. But I do apologize if you were waiting for something and it never came.

Here it is!

I've been very busy with my real writing project. It has swollen to enormous proportions since I grafted the original draft to the current draft. In fact, it's almost long enough to be classified as a novel. But there is still so much work to be done on it that I'm slightly staggered. So tonight I'm here, treading water, writing without actually drafting. That is how I tend to handle things by which I feel overwhelmed: do something- anything- else until you can't live with yourself unless you tackle your project. I read it a couple of passages out loud to some family and family friends while I was on vacation a few weeks ago, and it seemed to go over well. Maybe I'll take a page from  copy what my novelist friend Leri Lake did at the beginning of the year on her blog, and take a page from (nope, couldn't resist after all) my own manuscript to show you. Might be good luck.

I think I have a new working title. Well, subtitle really, and that leaves us with a novel in progress tentatively titled: The Book of John: The Battle Hymn.

I can't stop thinking about it. I'm trying to see the end before I think about the aftermath. It's so important for me to do this one thing that all other things are on hold until I get it finished. My routine is so precarious- every day feels like all-or-nothing. Either I hit all the marks I wanted to: exercise, dinner, writing, time with Bryson, or I totally surrender and watch Netflix on my iPad all evening. But everywhere I turn I'm reminded of what I should be doing. Like now, with Spotify on while I scrape for anything else to muse about with you, all I want to hear is my soundtrack playlists.

Aren't you glad you tuned in for this?

I am. It means a lot that you're here. It means a lot that you are still listening, still waiting. I'm grateful.

In fact... here. Here's a scene that might possibly (anything could go on the chopping block come the third revision, but I like how this goes for now) be found near the beginning of the book. Lucy, my protagonist, is on her way to join her friends, including her boyfriend Earl, at band practice when a stranger stops her to ask a few questions and then says something that really gets her attention:

[H]is eyes met mine again. “You’re a special sort, I can tell, my dear. Be aware of what truly defines you, in this cacophonous world. Other people will try to substitute their image for yours. Don’t let them.”

At this point my latent weird-ometer began to read positive, so I smiled and told him well, thank you for that thought, you have a nice day now. He gave me a smile. It was like a baby’s smile, absolutely pure and fond and full of goodwill. He gave a short bow, thanked me for my time, and we mutually turned from each other.

Then, I thought I heard him say “Good luck, Lucy.”

“I’m sorry-?” I began as I turned once more.

But he was gone. I mean, gone. My stomach dropped a little and my skin prickled. I must have imagined… what? That a stranger had said my name? That a stranger had been talking to me a moment ago, and then vanished?

My cell phone vibrated. I pulled it from my back pocket. It was Earl. I picked up.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he replied accordingly. “Are you on your way?”

“Yeah,” I said, still a little dazed. “Just stopped for a minute to get a snack. I’ll be there in a few.”

“Okay. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You sound a little… I dunno, not alright?”

With the phone to my ear, I shook my head and blinked several times, hard. “I’m fine. I just- something weird just happened. I think. I’m not actually sure. If it’s still bothering me by the time practice gets over, we can talk about it.”

...By the time I got to the Jukebox, I had forgotten most of the details of the incident. I knew there was a man but I couldn’t say what he looked like. I knew he'd asked how to get to the church, and that I told him. And that was all I remembered about it for a long, long time.

There, what do you think? 

No? Not enough? Okay, you glutton. I'll throw ya one more bone. 

Dad asked me to find him three songs that would take you to heaven or raise hell played in tip-top stereo sound in the great big musical box that used to be the truck I drove to school. Here ya go (warning, they will sound considerably less epic on your computer speakers):

Old School:

1) "Second Home By the Sea" by Genesis

2) "2112 Overture/The Temples of Syrinx" by Rush

3) "When the Levee Breaks" by Led Zeppelin 

OR 3) "'Heroes'" by David Bowie (duh)

New School (AKA The Ones Dad Might Not Like, But I'd Love To Hear Them Properly):
1) "Get Lucky" by Daft Punk (yes, really)
2) "'Til The End" by Yann Tiersen
3) "Aya" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

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

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

Top Track: "Roadhouse Blues"

I'm working on the novel tonight.

It all started with a memory. It's a memory I knew would be useful even as it happened. So I cast it in bronze and ran my fingers over it for years, waiting for it to tell me why. It's beautiful, not so much because of who was there, but because of who I was then. I won't tell you what it looks like, or it won't be new when you read it in its new fabricated context. But because I am there tonight, I will take you there, if you close your eyes and promise not to peek.

You'd feel the heat of mid-summer. You'd smell the musts and secret smells of a worn old building. You'd feel short carpet worn to felt beneath your fingers if you sat on the floor. If you hugged the same person I did that day, their hair against your cheek is damp from a recent shower, and smelling of a familiar drugstore shampoo. You'd have a smile on your face because nothing existed outside of this moment, past or future. You are heedless of anything sad or scary or uncomfortable that lurks only about half a month away. Right now, you feel like Henry David Thoreau, sucking the marrow of life.

And best of all, you're hearing this: The Doors: "Roadhouse Blues"

It might be the first time in your life you've ever heard The Doors and liked it. And you'll never forget it.

I think this song is off the chain. "Roadhouse Blues", that is. And in typical non-musical fangirl fashion, I cannot articulate why. It could be the piano, rolling along nonchalantly with an occasional high-five to the harmonica. It could be the way my head wants to nod with the jaunty rhythm. It could be that raspy screech so unlike anything else in the song: "SAVE MY CITY!" or it could be the quintessential bluesy structure of the lyrics, repeats and rhymes- so simple but somehow profound. More likely it's the sum of all these parts that makes this song into one of those songs that to me, is so satisfyingly classic rock 'n roll, I could listen to it on repeat a dozen times at least.

That's the kind of passion I'm trying to recreate in my own way. That's the kind of richness I want to share, the way I feel about music, almost as if it really COULD "save your mortal soul". It's hard, like catching the proverbial lightning in a bottle. But if I can do it, it will be worth it.

Incidentally, I still do not habitually listen to The Doors. My knowledge of them is quite cursory. My favorite time to hear them is under the summer sun, on my parents' boat, smelling like sunscreen, and sitting contentedly on damp towels while we eat lunch. But they are growing on me.

I had the day off yesterday and found this little jewel in my feed on Twitter. Enjoy.
Jim Morrison on Why Fat Is Beautiful

Turn That Darned Thing Down, Part Two: Filler Tracks

Yes, this is a filler post. Another one. You can always tell the filler tracks. These are different from the excellent tracks that couldn't fly on the radio. These are the songs nobody plays live if there is enough material to go without them. Sometimes it means they're trying to keep you interested just long enough to get to something really great, and it can be better than nothing.

I'm flinging you filler because I'm working on something really great, when I'm writing and not writing blog posts. It's a story several years in the formation and I'm trying to make this year MY YEAR, the one in which I finally wrestle the sprawling story out and make it into something beautiful. Since starting writing here, it's been rather as though I think somehow that this, spitting out a few hundred words every week here in cyberspace, is going to get that story written. It won't. It helps. But the bottom line is that no amount of blogging is going to write my novel. Not this one, anyway.

So tonight, even though I owe you a post (or two?! time flies) I am going to have to insert a filler track while I tackle the bigger project. I'd like to mention that you can get a taste of said project by visiting the playlists I call The Book of John on my Spotify page. But that's all I will say about it right now.

If that isn't a great demonstration of what it's like to get a filler track when you're listening to an album that's otherwise pretty solid, here are a few more examples (and, as my sister and I determined years ago, they are debatable). I've called the list Polyfil after the coarse polyester mock cloud that I put in stuffed animals. It's cheap and hypoallergenic, like filler tracks.

For Your Playlist: Side C
1. "Andy, You're A Star" by the Killers
Yes, I love the Killers. And not everybody debates the merits of this song, as evidenced by the kind of cool bluegrass cover attached to the end of the playlist.

2. "Slow Down" by Ozzy Osbourne
Albums in the Eighties, especially by metal bands, are absolutely rife with filler. In fact, it may be argued, that in the Eighties, especially from some metal bands, you got entire albums made of filler. (Alice Cooper, I am looking at you. Lovingly.) Just goes to show you, it's important to try to stay relevant.

3. "Valle Mistico (Ruben Song)" by Conor Oberst
I'm sure Conor Oberst himself wouldn't consider this filler. I'm sure to him it has some higher purpose. All I hear is three inept horn blasts.

4. "Swollen Summer" by The Bravery
... I wouldn't underscore such lyrical brilliance as "Feels like a swollen summer, feel like I'm getting dumber" by making it the chorus of a song I was working hard on.

5. "Riding on the Wind" by Judas Priest
It's easy to pick on the Eighties metal. And I love Judas Priest, and Ozzy Osbourne, and Alice Cooper. But Screaming for Vengeance was such a sweet album and this is the track that struck a false note, to me. Formulaic, and hypermasculine. Le sigh.

6. Any song besides this one on the album it came from, which was 1987's Whenever You Need Somebody
See what I did there?

Until next time, turn it up to eleven. There IS some good stuff around the corner, so stay tuned.

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. 

Guest Post: Allex shares Bright Eyes (AKA Conor Oberst Part I)

Welcome back, everybody. Or, shall I say, welcome me back, everybody. Last week got away from me so consider it my Spring Break (haha) or like those times when you were a kid, tuned into PBS only to see that they are running a telethon and disrupting regularly scheduled quality programming.

Fortunately, to make up for it, I have a treat for you. I give you now the gift of hearing from my own dear sister, the indefatigable Allex Adams. Our music collections, not unlike our earth-suits, share a lot of basic genetic material, but the results are still very different to the eye and to the ear (see this year's Valentine's Post). She's passionate about art and music, and that is why I asked her to post on the subject of Bright Eyes.

To be fair, it was I who brought the first pinch of it into the house. It was "Bowl of Oranges", and a recommendation from a high school boyfriend with impeccable music taste of his own. I liked the song but I didn't really take it and run. To this day, I prefer the solo work of Conor Oberst, the driving force behind the machine known as Bright Eyes. The exception is Cassadaga, and I will probably cover that by itself in a later post. But I wanted a fresh voice to help me ring in the artist, and there is nobody better qualified to talk about it than my sister. So, without further ado, I present...

Here is a list of criticisms about Bright Eyes that I won't hear, and won't respond to:

"I can't stand his voice!"

"It's way too depressing!"

"Conor Oberst writes girl music."

"Oh."

Now, I'm not ignoring the early Bright Eyes canon- rough, ratty, and reeking of horrors most prepubescent... but paddle past the year 2000, and here is the awakening spirit of discovery and disappointment, the kind that defines love itself. That's my message to the critics. Listen to Bright Eyes the way you fall in love, not the way you sense sound. For me, Bright Eyes adoration didn't really begin until I met a boy; soon, a thirst first whet by a song or two over the course of a year or so would be quenched.

One year- one year!- passed since first asking him- him, the tall dark handsome Rivers Cuomo-tribute type!!- for a Bright Eyes education. But finally Sean handed me that holey, holy plastic bag of CDs. He loaned me every single one he owned AT THE SAME TIME, under the assumption that I would upload them all to my digital library at home, return them to him at school the next day, and then I could pick at what I wanted, when I wanted. In retrospect, that would have been very considerate of me...

But that is not what I did!

Instead, I allowed the unexpected downpour of Sean's music to fill a baptismal font of Conor Oberst's grey matter, immersing myself deep into each album individually with the volume at 11 and the liner notes always open. I drowned, promptly. Bright Eyes was heaven's big church band conducted by the new president of the Lonely Hearts Club; the lyrics so true they hurt. I had inherited six Bright Eyes albums all at once, and I couldn't breathe until I knew every single word by heart. 

When I came up for air five months later, my hair had grown long, and my lender's opinion of my borrowing skills was irreparable. But the love between Bright Eyes and I is the kind you take a few losses for.

If I get to pick a few songs, it'd be these, and in this order: (Listen along at The Moon Forces Metal: Bright Eyes)

For Your Playlist: Side A
1. "An Attempt to Tip the Scales" from Fevers and Mirrors
2. "From a Balance Beam" from LIFTED: Or, The Story Is in the Soil; Keep Your Ear To The Ground
3. "First Day of My Life" from I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning
4. "Theme from Pinata" from Digital Ash in a Digital Urn
5. "Happy Birthday To Me (Feb. 15)" from Noise Floor: Rarities

For Your Playlist: Side B (chosen by your humble hostess from a mix CD Allex made me in 2008)
1. "Method Acting" from LIFTED (warning: some strong language in this one)
2. "Landlocked Blues" from Motion Sickness: Live Recordings
3. "Down in a Rabbit Hole" from Digital Ash in a Digital Urn
4. "No One Would Riot for Less" from Cassadaga
5. Bonus Selection: "From A Balance Beam" by the Vitamin String Quartet's Tribute to Bright Eyes

A big vote of thanks to my talented sister, I think, is here due. You may pause the music to applaud... and now resume. Til next time, happy listening! Speaking of next time, get ready to hear my take on the talent behind Bright Eyes in the next post.

Sounds Like Spring 2013

I thought I'd do something a little different tonight and talk a little about life and what's happening, and then what I want it to sound like.

So, as of today, my wonderful Prince Genuine and I have been married 3 months. It's pretty amazing so far. I do believe I've never been so humbled to live with someone. Sometimes I think he shines so bright with kindness and goodness all my flaws are lit up like in the most brutal cosmetics mirror. And sometimes I think he got pretty lucky, too. (He tells me so regularly.)

He recently got a new job at a a prestigious financial advising institution, which was well deserved and hard-earned. I am 100% proud of him. It does require him to commute to north Scottsdale on the daily, though, which is sort of problematic. We will likely need to relocate ourselves when our lease here in Mesa is up. I for one am excited about this on several levels. I'm ready to try something new. He's ready to be done with school and moving on with his career.

We got called in our ward (local church unit) to teach the 4-year-olds. It is unlike anything either of us have done before but it's a great time. We have 5 kids: Sydney, Danielle, Kaylie, Rian (boy) and Rigby. I love them all equally but I love one Rigby more equally than the rest. The kid is a hoot. I hope I get one just like him, when it's my turn. He will be guest-blogging with me in a month or so, with his mama's permission.

The novel is hibernating. I was doing a little studying in a neat little book on character development (context: writing fiction) by the revered Orson Scott Card, and I realized my first draft had it only half right. So I've cracked a new notebook and there are a few hundred words. I think about it in my spare time but I concentrate a lot of energy here on this blog. Thank you for reading it.

Speaking of blogs, here is the point where I will pay my dues and respects to the Blogger Meetup I attended last month. It made me feel so legitimate on one hand, and so inexperienced on the other: out loud, "Look, I'm a blogger! I go to blogger things and network with other bloggers and talk about blog stuff!" versus inner "You've been blogging since 2002?! I've had mine since, um... mid-January? Should I even be here?" It was really fun, though, to hear from other people like myself who want to scrawl on their wall of cyberspace. Ladies, I admire and salute you all. This blog is not a "lifestyle" blog, we're just moonlighting as one tonight, so please forgive me for not listing each of you or putting up pictures. My time is running short and I have one more pressing thing to cover. But I am really looking forward to seeing you all again, and I have some ideas how to give you the shoutout you each deserve. Rock on.

Springtime has historically produced my best playlists. I'll post a few of the venerable ones next month, because it's April seems to spawn them prettiest, but here's one I've made for this new season, which has arrived in a very very sunny burst of heat.

You can find it on Spotify here: Sounds Like Spring 2013

For your playlist:
1. "Blue on Black" by Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band
Heard this song for the first time in 2007 and never could part with it.
2. "Desolation Row" by My Chemical Romance
The best part of The Watchmen was the end credits: a) because the movie was over, b) because of this song
3. "Guns and Horses" by Ellie Goulding
I don't know why I like Ellie Goulding so much. I think the vox here are really good. Don't love her new album, though.
4. "I Love To Boogie" by T. Rex
T. Rex is the only band in my arsenal allowed to say the word "boogie" besides David Bowie in "Starman".
5. "Born on the Bayou" by Creedence Clearwater Revival
CCR is the backbone of my subteen childhood. It's good for the soul.
6. "Velvet Goldmine" by David Bowie
This is a c-side from Ziggy Stardust. Not included in the release.
7. "Wildflowers" by Dolly Parton featuring Linda Ronstadt
Love the lyrics here. Not a huge Dolly fan but a spring playlist needs a feminine folk song.
8. "Beat the Devil's Tattoo" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
This is where it gets dark. Hey, it rains in the springtime too.
9. "Too Many Angels" by Jackson Browne
I subconsciously collected a large number of songs with lyrical motifs of heaven/hell/angels/devils.
10. "If You Could Hie To Kolob" by the Lower Lights
If you haven't heard of the Lower Lights, you should. Go find more.
11. "One Day" by Matisyahu
Springtime means positive thinking. So does Matisyahu. I don't know if this guy can write a dark song.
12. "Going to California" by the Vitamin String Quartet (in lieu of having any Led Zeppelin on Spotify)
One of my favorite Zep songs (some foreshadowing here). VSQ does a pretty nice job of it, though.

Next week: guest post by my sister, the lovely and cunning Miss Allex. Stay tuned!

"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. :)

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)