A reader emailed me to ask if I like any music recorded and released in this century.
I said I definitely do.
And he challenged me to spend an entire week writing about music from the last ten years.
That week starts now.
The Mighty Regis is a band with a name that can probably beat the shit out of any other band names around. They're currently kicking ass and taking names on the Warped Tour, but I like to think they emerged fully formed from a dreamscape world where the Pogues are superstars and Sting realized that lute albums were pretentious (and instead released a record of stripped-down Johnny Cash covers).
This band can stomp, drink, ruckus, and raise hell (all in under two minutes). Cross them at your own peril.
"Get Drunk and Go Home" is a great lament about lost love filled with passion and energy (and several well-placed uses of the word "fuck"). You may want to play this 12 or 13 times in a row after hearing it -- I know I did. So raise a pint, talk too loud, and then get out of here already.
So I'd just finished a semester of reading Kierkegaard, which is a mind-f*ck even under the best of conditions.
And then I started listening to Another Grey Area. And repeating over and over again the title of one of Kierkegaard's books. Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing.
I needed a plan.
And then it hit me. I had to really want to get her back. Then, by sheer force of will, I could make it happen.
No room for doubts. No room for questions. Just want it bad enough.
But how?
I had no clue. But I know that Another Grey Area got me in the right mood. (And there's really no harm in that. It's like when actors or athletes listening to one piece of music over and over again to get them psyched, right? Right?)
So I started to listen to this record. Over and over again.
Often three or four times a day. (And a long-overdue apology to my roommates Eric & Dave -- the repeated listenings probably drove you crazy.)
I knew every strum and downbeat, every intake of breath, every backing vocal part, and every keyboard riff (and each and every click and pop on the deteriorating vinyl).
And although I was going to classes and doing some normal things, every spare ounce of energy and far too much thought went into willing myself to get her back.
Not by doing anything, just by wanting it.
My friends and roommates all told me it was impossible and I cheerfully agreed. I'd never get her back. I knew this.
Days blurred into weeks and into months. Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing. Graham Parker's Another Grey Area.
Ironies were lost on me -- including the irony that Kierkegaard's title meant something very, very different. (Plus, in all likelihood, Graham Parker would have been appalled that I was using his record as the musical and romantic equivalent of weight training.)
Things thawed between us. We started spending time together.
I remembered all the many little things I liked about her. (Presumably she remembered what she liked about me too.)
I ignored my still-strong desire to label the relationship. And I still listened to Another Grey Area several times a day and repeated the Kierkegaard title like a mantra.
Song titles and lyrics echoed through my brain. "No More Excuses," "You Hit the Spot," "It's All Worth Nothing Alone," "Can't Waste a Minute," "Crying for Attention," and especially "Fear Not." Clearly (at least to my 21-year-old lovesick brain), the record was a call to action.
I didn't eat much during this time. I certainly wasn't sleeping. I was concentrating. Every ounce of energy.
And then one night it happened.
If this had been a normal relationship or I hadn't been so obsessed, we would have been more responsible. Or at least I would have been. But I knew instinctively that having that talk would pull us back. And then it would never happen.
And purity of heart is to will one thing, right?
So, knowing I was being irresponsible, I plunged ahead. (It's not something I did before or have done since... and, like I said, I'm not proud of this.)
You can probably guess where this is going.
She got pregnant. And had no desire to be pregnant.
I certainly didn't want her to be pregnant (or at least not until years in the future), but was confused about what I was supposed to do. And I felt guilty because I had the chance to stop and be responsible... but chose not to. (And before anyone says she could have been responsible too -- I knew she never would be. I knew it was up to me.)
In the weeks that followed, I tried to get her to talk about it. She never wanted to. (In the years that followed, I didn't realize how big this event was, so I never told anyone until years later.)
And then it was over.
She wouldn't let me go with her. And after she just associated the entire event with me. She wanted to put it behind her and pretend it didn't happen. And if that meant having nothing to do with me, that was fine with her.
I had a million questions I never got to ask, but I was feeling so guilty that I just sucked it up. I put Kierkegaard and Another Grey Area away. I kept going to classes, started eating more regularly. Eventually I graduated.
She moved to another state to go to grad school. (And we wouldn't speak again for many years.)
Months after all this happened, I had another dream.
Graham Parker was strumming an acoustic guitar in a coffeeshop when I walked in. He nodded to me, then said "See? I told you you could get her back."
And I shook my head angrily. "You never told me what the cost would be."
Dream Graham Parker nodded, staring at me, weighing his words carefully. "There's always a cost," he said eventually. "The more impossible the task, the greater the cost. Hell, I'm just a songwriter -- not even that, I'm your dream of a songwriter -- but even I know that."
And then he started playing songs from Another Grey Area. Each one was slowed down and rearranged, the energetic calls to action now slow dirges. The hunger and yearning reduced to melancholy and loss.
Every step is another chance Every moment slips through our hands Every kiss is another flame I don't want to put out Every night when I fall asleep I know I never want to wake up Into a world where you're not around...
Smart guy, that Dream Graham Parker.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Recently, I listened to Another Grey Area. From start to finish. For the first time in 15 years.
From the very first note, I was 21 again. Determination and hope swelled up inside me. Purity of heart is to will one thing.
Fuck yeah.
I could do it. Even now after all these years, I could get her back. Hell, I could get anyone back. As long as I really, really, really wanted to. Purity of heart, baby.
All I had to do was listen to the record again. And again and again and again.
When the album ended, I turned it over. Picked up the tone arm. Then I asked a question my younger self never would have considered: What's the cost?
And I turned off the stereo. Sat in a silence made noisy by too many memories.
I know now I was selfish, blinded by determination. I'd harnessed energy in a way it wasn't supposed to be harnessed. Convinced I could do the impossible if only I wanted it badly enough, if only I ignored the costs. I'd sinned against the music gods and used Graham Parker for evil, not for good.
And I paid the price for it.
So now, after all this time, after everything... you still want me to tell you if the album's any good?
Damned if I know.
Most likely, I'll ever know.
But I'll tell you this: the record is burned forever into my soul. For better or worse.
Sometimes, it's impossible to look at a record objectively.
It's only now that people are starting to be able to evaluate John Lennon's Double Fantasy without the enormous sadness they felt at his death.
If you associate a certain album (or even a certain song) with a strong enough event than you might never be able to hear it without thinking of that event.
And so I confess (looking back after many years), that I used Graham Parker (or more specifically the album Another Grey Area) for evil, not good. I'm not particularly proud of this fact... but it is what it is.
So although Parker has made better albums, this one will always hold a special place in my heart.
To add a bit of context, Another Grey Area appeared long after Parker established himself as a legendary pub rocker (albeit with twitchy punk/new wave leanings), released an absolute masterpiece, jumped labels (with the nastiest kiss-off ever to a record company), and pumped out a slick attempt at superstardom.
Eventually, Parker would pass through all the major record labels, none of whom could make him a superstar. Eventually people would realize superstardom wasn't in the cards for Parker (which alone should prove to you we live in an unjust world). But back in 1982, Arista still believed they could do what Mercury couldn't (or wouldn't) -- and it seemed like Parker was mere months (or maybe even weeks) away from being a household name. So Parker jettisoned the Rumour (his longtime backing band) and enlisted the help of producer Jack Douglas (Double Fantasy) and studio vets including Nicky Hopkins and Hugh McCracken.
To this day, I still can't listen objectively... and I'll tell you why after this video where ice sculptures get decimated.
It ended badly. I won't give you details, but it ended badly.
She was working as a waitress and I'd think of the opening of Warren Zevon's "Lawyers, Guns, and Money" whenever I'd go see her. I'd overtip her on small checks, thinking to myself "I went home with the waitress, the way I always do." And how was I to know she was with the Russians too?
Anyway, she was sneaking around with her ex-boyfriend while she was stringing me along. I found out. And was heartbroken.
Because I somehow got it in my head that we were meant to be together.
And she moved on. Quickly. Because that's what she did.
And I moped around. For months. Because that's what I did.
I could tell you we were both very young. I could give you all sorts of proof why we were a bad match, citing psychological factors from our childhoods. But I won't. I'll just say it ended badly.
And that should have been it.
Except for the dream.
I was at a Graham Parker concert. Just in front of the stage. The show was amazing. Rock and roll that scorched your heart. And then, mid-song, he waved off the band, stopped the music, stepped forward, tipped his ever-present sunglasses down on his nose.
And looking right at me, the Dream Graham Parker said: "Stop moping about. If you want her back, get her back."
Smart man, that Dream Graham Parker.
The next day, I was in a used record store. And there between the Dolly Parton and a Ray Parker, Jr. albums was a Graham Parker record I'd never heard before called Another Grey Area. Remembering the dream, I bought the album. Took it back to my dorm room and forgot about it for a week.
When I finally listened to it, I was hooked. Every song reminded me of her. "Temporary Beauty" made me think of a conversation we had where I argued that she didn't need to wear a lot of makeup or look like everyone else and she got mad and said she did because she didn't think she was beautiful.
"Another Grey Area" reminded me of how stubbornly she refused to label relationships (and how desperately I wanted our relationship labeled).
I have a friend who moved into an old house in New England.
Built from hand-carved rock (carefully masoned to exact specifications) and rough logs (hewn smooth and placed exactly together), the house reportedly dated back to the early 1800s.
But one day a docent from the local historical society came by with a folder. Inside the folder were copies of old newspaper articles. The rock wall may have dated from 1806, but the original house was built in 1746. It burned at least once. And was rebuilt in four consecutive decades.
My friend kept the folder lying around for months. He never looked at it. He wasn't interested. "It's a house," he said. "It's old and drafty. What more do you need to know?"
One day, while trying in vain to fix on old boiler in the celler of the house, my friend leaned against a wall and it started to give.
He slowly pushed against the wood, locating a well-disguised seam. And as he prodded and pushed on the seam, the wood began to move. He pressed and pressed, but couldn't get it to move very far.
So he went upstairs. And opened the folder. Read through the papers.
The house had been home to the leader of a ring of spies whose failed coup attempt was front-page news for months in the 1850s. When the scandal first broke, the heads of six disgraced families took their lives on a single August night beneath what now is a mighty oak tree at the edge of the property.
After that, the house was a brothel for ten years. Then it was home to a brilliant but crazy poetess who took her own life in a satanic ritual (and whose body was not discovered for the next four years while eight satanists camped out in her living room). A minor treaty was signed there, ending a war few remember (because it vanished from history books when the new owner of the house took over the school board and had the war eliminated from the curriculum).
It was a house with many stories. And many secrets.
So my friend got some tools.
The wall became his weekend project.
He even hired a structural engineer. Spent two grand on seismic mapping. Found there was a small crawl space. Behind the wall.
Then he bought a sledge hammer. With one wall-placed blow, he smashed the wood, destroying decades of memories.
He could reach one hand in, up to the elbow, then the real wall jutted out. And he reached behind, grazing something.
Hours of stretching, reaching, almost grabbing.
And then, weeks later, combining a discarded crutch and an unused fireplace poker, he was able to grab. And pull. And reveal what had long been hidden.
The first three albums by Graham Parker and the Rumour. In mint condition. On vinyl.
Six months had passed since the wall first started to give way. He'd spent thousands of dollars. And hundreds of hours.
To get Howlin' Wind, Heat Treatment, and Stick to Me. "And," he told me, "it was completely worth it."
Holly Hughes, who writes the great The Song in My Head Today blog, wrote recently about a Kickstarter project to raise money for Don't Ask Me Questions, a documentary Michael Gramaglia (who made the great Ramones doc End of the Century) is making about Graham Parker. Kick in some money, get some swag, and help him finish the movie.
Kate Bush seemed to arrive fully formed. She was discovered by Pink Floyd's David Gilmour (who'd produce her first album, the hauntingly beautiful The Kick Inside) when she was 16. Her first single "Wuthering Heights" was written in a single evening. And her style, vocal abilities, and sensibilities were nothing like any singer or songwriter who'd come before.
Bush would go on to rack up massive chart success and inspire a devoted following that worshipped her every move and obsessed over the Meaning of It All. She drew inspiration from novels, movies, and the fine arts.
She seemed like she was from another planet. But she'd brought an important message with her to Earth. All we had to do was listen. And understand.
The fog closes around the car, bringing with it an eerie near-silence. Broken only by the cars that pass, unseen but heard.
The car slows from 25 to 20.
I glance in the rear-view, looking at the backseat for ballast we can throw overboard.
Instead, we start singing songs about the sea. Songs to guide sailors home in the harshest storms.
And the car sputters again. The gas gauge seems to drop second by second.
I wonder what will stop us first -- running out of steam or running out of gas.
The car slows to 15.
And I look up at the mountain.
There's sunlight. And snow.
For a few seconds we break through the fog.
The car seems energized, speeding back up to 20.
On the side of the road, a pair of eyes emerges through the fog. A wolf, watching us slowly move forward. Wondering what we're doing in his house.
Water crystals. Suspended in air. That's all it is.
"There's a magic in the fog," she says.
A magic.
In the fog.
And the car speeds up to 25 again.
Then coughs, sputters, and catches itself.
"We're in the fog now," I say. "Deep in the fog."
"So it will be all right."
And we say nothing for a moment. Until the little car pulls us up to the summit. Far above the valley.
The bigger mountains seem to smile at us from on high.
She smiles at me from the passenger seat. "And it will be all right."
The little car, overloaded, overpacked, crammed full, starts the long, slow, slide downhill.
And we know that we, like the raindrops suspended in the air, have crossed an important dividing line. And we will flow out to the ocean.
And every mile of the way there, we'll bring our own magic. And we'll bring our own fog.
With a major hat-tip to the amazing Beatle-obsessed Hey Dullblog, here are two Beatle-related items:
A 1999 interview with Jack Douglas, producer of John & Yoko's Double Fantasy album. Among the amazing facts -- Paul McCartney called the studio during the recording sessions; he and John were planning to get together to write songs together, but Yoko made sure John didn't get the message. (This is interesting in light of another report that John was supposed to come to New Orleans to work with Paul on the Venus & Mars album in 1975, but Yoko became pregnant and vetoed the idea.)
Speaking of Paul McCartney, Geoff Geis, has put together something he calls "Fast RAM" or "Ram on 45." The concept is simple as Geis explains: "My buddy Dan C proposed that people in the era of Ram were so drugged-out that slow music appealed to them more." So he recorded McCartney's Ram album at 45rpm instead of 33 1/3. And the results are surprisingly fun and entertaining. Check it out here.
Surely this is why the Internet was invented!
Updated: Commenter David pointed out that, in the comments to Geoff Geis' blog entry, commenter Alan Benard pitch-corrected the Fast RAM to be less chipmunky. You can hear (or download) the pitch-corrected first side here.
No major spoilers... but this will probably make more sense if you've already seen Inception.
Now Inception is not the best movie ever made. Not by a long shot. But it may be the best movie ever made for a mass audience.
Even if you haven't seen the movie, you probably know something about it. You may have seen the trailers or heard your friends talking about it. You've probably seen the couple sitting outside the cafe as their physical world literally explodes around them. You've heard that it's about dreams. And dreams within dreams. And the dreams within dreams within them.
You may even think the movie is about lucid dreaming, going into other people's dreams, and creating dreamscapes. Hell, you might have heard that the plot involves manipulating a man who's inheriting a huge corporate empire to make him sell off certain key assets.
You may know that the movie deals with the nature of reality and the dangers tof not being able to distinguish between reality and dreaming (or, worse still, when deciding you'd rather live in a dream world than in the real world).
And the movie touches on all those things.
But that's not what it's about.
Sure, Leonardo Dicaprio lays out all sorts of rules about how this process works. (But then he breaks most of them.)
And there's something about Leo's wife and a dark secret in his past. And Ellen Page. And Joseph Gordon-Levitt (who has to be Timothy Hutton's son, no matter what anyone tells you).
But that's not the core of this movie.
And it's not a perfect movie. The balance between over-explaining things and creating an incomprehensible Vanilla Sky mush is off. And (aside from Dicaprio) none of the characters has enough depth. And the team's skills and character flaws don't come into play as strongly in the dreamworlds as they could. And some of the setups aren't paid off very well.
But...
None of that matters.
Because that's not what the movie's about.
This is a movie about making movies. Or, to put it another way, it's a movie about what storytelling is and what it means.
The key moment in the movie might be when Page asks how someone can design a dreamscape that's realistic enough to draw the dreamer in. Dicaprio tells her (and I'm paraphrasing here) that details aren't important -- what matters is to set up the general framework and then make the dream emotionally powerful. After that, the dreamer will fill in the details and bring his own take to the dreamscape.
The plot plays out in a series of twists and turns in the movie, punctuated by breathtaking visuals. Like Dicaptrio, writer/director Christopher Nolan sets up a series of rules for his worlds and then gleefully and purposefully breaks most of them.
Because it doesn't matter.
In the very last scene of the movie, something extraordinary happens.
After the roller-coaster ride of the plot has mostly played out, there's one last thread that Nolan has to tie up. And that thread is far more important than any of the chase scenes or the exploding worlds, or the struggles with the bad guys. I promised no major spoilers, so I won't give away what the scene is (or what it may or may not mean).
And anyway, what exactly happens is not what the scene is about. And ultimately, not what the movie is about.
Everyone who watches that final scene will overlay it with his or her experiences, triumphs, disappointments, and desires.
And that's what matters.
Forget what the final scene is or isn't showing you.
Take care of the emotional response and the dreamers will fill in the details themselves.
The brilliance of Inception is that, in that final scene, the audience has an amazing, strong, shared emotional response that is palpable. The details can fade away (and you can leave the theater and over-analyze and over-intellectualize what specifically that final scene means), but what's left is a powerful emotion. The yearning. The wanting.
The emotional response that's more important than minor flaws in the plot or the characters.
And isn't creating that powerful emotional response what great storytelling is all about?
And then it hit me. I had to really want to get her back. Then, by sheer force of will, I could make it happen.
So although Parker has made better albums, this one will always hold a special place in my heart. 
Sure, Leonardo Dicaprio lays out all sorts of rules about how this process works. (But then he breaks most of them.)
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