Living in Dreamtime...

It's time to wake up.

I learned her history later. Much later. Far too late.

Her world was oddly compelling, a fantasia of emotional excesses and sensual delights. I saw her after class once slowly running her hand over the bark of a tree, just to feel the texture on her palm.

She told me she liked songs that were blue. "Oh, you like the blues?" No, she said. Songs that were blue. And she told me she saw colors in songs and sometimes tasted them too. I loved this metaphor for music; I didn't realize at the time that she meant it literally.

So when she called me in the middle of the night to go walking in the rain, I went. And I brought an umbrella. She wanted to throw it in the trash, then relented and let me hold onto it as long as I didn't open it. "I didn't know it would be so smooth and triangular," she said as she raised her head up to meet the falling raindrops.

She had a soft beauty that engulfed everyone she met and a sharp temper that pushed away everyone who got close to her. Her eyes twinkled and seemed to change color depending on her mood. She morphed from day to day (and sometimes from hour to hour), seemingly existing less in this dimension than in some other magical dimension I could never quite access.

Her compliments were life-affirming with a depth that was almost unfathomable. A few compliments from her and a doubting man would not only believe, but testify.

But her scorn was equally deep -- and often based on nothing that could be seen from a normal, earthly plane.

Here's what she didn't tell me, what I wish I'd known: she ran.

Starting when she was 6, she would run away. Whenever things got difficult (and that happened more than anyone knew), she'd take off. At first it was to a cave in the woods by her house. Years later it was ping-ponging between her divorced parents. Later, it was going around the world, leaving dust trails in her wake and confused people looking at the tracks she left on her way out.

But no one told me. Least of all her.

And when the closeness got too much for her, she did what she always did. She ran.

And I looked back at the shattered wreck she'd left behind and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Years later, I still don't know. And if there's a happy-ending machine in this story, I clearly didn't know how to operate it.

But last night it rained. And I went out for a walk with no umbrella, feeling the raindrops, trying to understand if they were smooth and triangular. And I came home and listened to some of her favorite songs just to see if I could tell which ones were blue. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)

Like a Bad Dream

Any song with a kazoo solo is okay by me.

To paraphrase Craig Ferguson, this is not a great day for America.

Even 29 years later, we can still dream, right? (Embedding's disabled, so you gotta click.)

Just ask Mike Scott from the Waterboys. Even if the harmonies were slightly off.

RIP John.

Overnight Muppet Sensation

Just to review...

In the last two weeks, more than 10 million people have gone to YouTube to watch the uber-genius spectacle that is the Muppets performing "Bohemian Rhapsody."

In that same time, my small hill of dirty laundry has grown to a mighty mountain (but luckily not big enough to require recruiting sherpas).

So this weekend I decided to finally tame laundry mountain (by strategy).

And yet...

Apparently, the time and energy I have available for doing laundry is limited.

Especially when I'm busy remixing Muppet video to tell the story of Rolf's showbiz dreams (complete with new power-pop soundtrack and cameos from Big Bird and the Yip-Yip Martians):


I like to think the laundry will understand.

Hear the Angels, Join the Choir

File this under Guilty Pleasures.

I'm not a huge heavy metal fan. And when you get past David Bowie and Mott the Hoople, I'm not big on glam.

So how do I explain this:


Angel was a heavy metal glam band from Washington DC led by Punky Meadows and the late Mickey Jones. The band was discovered by Gene Simmons from Kiss and eventually signed to Kiss's label Casablanca Records. They had absurdly long hair and their gimmick was that they always wore white. And they appeared in the 1980 movie Foxes (starring Jodie Foster, Laura Dern, Randy Quaid, Cherie Currie, and Scott Baio) essentially playing themselves.

To my mind, almost all their songs sounded the same -- and although it was interesting to hear a glam version of the Young Rascals' "I Ain't Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore" once, it didn't seem like it was something I'd need to hear again and again (it stalled out at #44 on the Billboard Hot 100, so I guess I'm not the only one who felt that way).

And then, in the late 70s, one of their songs snuck onto the radio around Christmas. It didn't really sound like any of their other material. And I couldn't get enough of it. Back then, DJs used to identify the records they played, so at least I knew the name of the band (Angel) and the name of the song ("The Winter Song").

But these were the pre-internet days, so I didn't have any idea what album the song was on (or what the cover looked like). And I didn't have any friends who liked the band, so I couldn't borrow the album from anyone. So I did what I always did -- I spent months searching through the various used-record stores in town until I found it. One scuffed-up copy with a big scratch at the end of Side One. But otherwise, the album was in good shape.

So, ignoring the hideous cover, I plunked down my 85 cents and bought the record.

I listened to the entire record once. But I've listened to "The Winter Song" (last track on Side Two) dozens of times.


God help me -- I love the sleigh bells, the cheesey 70s synths, the "little drummer boy" rhythm, the choir, the call-and-response in the later choruses, the layered sound that slowly fades off to infinity, and the way the song always makes me think of a fresh snowfall.

I'm pretty sure this confession should cost me every last shred of street cred I've ever imagined I had (or might have in the future). But it's the holiday season -- and everyone has a few guilty pleasures.

I told you one of mine; tell me one of yours.

The Piano on the Lake

Maybe the fish can play it now.

All through her childhood, the piano was there.

It dominated the living room and drew everyone who walked into the house towards it.

Her father, a famous jazz musician, got the piano as a gift from Miles Davis after filling in at the last minute on a European tour.

Growing up, I remember the sounds of the piano. The entire house exuded music. Every day there'd be glissandos and counter-melodies drifting through open windows out into the street. If I'd walk by in the evenings, I could see her in the living room, practicing. I sensed her feet pressing on the pedals as the music increased in volume.

During High School she'd complain that she'd rather go out skating on a frozen pond but her father made her stay inside at the piano. When she'd look out the window at people walking by carrying ice skates, it was almost too much for her to take.

A few years after she finished college, her father died and her mom sold the house. She took the piano. Dragged it with her to 14 apartments and 3 houses in 6 states. The piano lasted longer than both her marriages.

She said as long as she had the piano a part of her father would always be alive.

Then, last winter, she was moving again. With the piano and all her stuff packed in a U-Haul Truck. On a mountain pass, another car skidded into her lane and she swerved. The other car righted itself and was soon gone in the night. But she fishtailed and spun around, striking a guardrail.

The back of the truck opened and the piano came crashing out, down a ravine, losing its legs. Eventually, it came to rest on top of a frozen lake.

She stood by the edge of the road, marveling at the weird moonlit sight of the grand piano on the lake, a gift from Miles Davis long ago. And she heard a slow crack that grew in volume. But her feet were nowhere near the pedals.

And she watched, mesmerized, as the piano slowly sunk below the ice until it was swallowed up by the lake.

The next week I ran into her on a street in our hometown. I hadn't seen her in over 15 years and was pleased to see she looked lighter and happier than she'd ever been. She told me the story of the piano and the lake. She had no sadness about it, just a general sense of relief.

We said our goodbyes and I knew she'd been wrong about needing the piano to keep a part of her father alive. As long as she had music, part of him will always be alive.

I turned to go back to my car and she continued down the street, carrying her new ice skates, walking out in the crisp winter air to the frozen pond down the block from where we grew up. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)

More Bah (and More Extra Humbug)

So many anti-Xmas songs, so little time

Swedesplease has a great post up with lots of cool Swedish Christmas songs, but the one that sticks out for me is "iPod Xmas" by Hello Saferide. A great holiday heartbreak song. Jump over there and give it a listen.

Quote from the lyrics:
"And for present, you fuck, I got an iPod Nano
With your name written on it..."

And of course what would the holiday season be without "Father Christmas" by the Kinks?


Or "Silent Night" by the Dickies?

Bah (Now with Extra Humbug)

Bah and/or humbug.

Ah, the holidays.

The wall calendar mocks me with its scenes from November and my reluctance to flip it over to the last month of the year. While the news is filled with stories of Goldman Sachs executives spending their multi-million-dollar bonuses on tropical vacations (and guns), most people I know are broke. And it was 80 degrees yesterday.

Plus, people drive like idiots and you don't want to be anywhere near a mall for the next three and a half weeks.

None of which makes me feel very Christmas-y, despite the fact that Christmas music is everywhere (on streets, on the radio, in stores, and in nearly every music blog in the universe).

There's only two things to say to that.

Bah. (With the Sex Pistols)



And humbug. (With the greedies, featuring Paul Cook and Steve Jones from the Sex Pistols plus with Phil Lynott, Brian Downey and Scott Gorham from Thin Lizzy).