Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts

Thursday, June 24, 2021

The Witness of Change

 This is me, being 32.


This is me, holding a secret - or at least, a social media secret. 


See, this is me, being 36 weeks pregnant. A fact I kept off the Internet. At first non-intentionally, and then just because I could. Because I’d gone months without posting a staticky sonogram, or an artful shot of my gently swelling stomach, and why not keep it up?


Before I gave birth to Alex, the author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie also had a child. She never announced it, did no publicity, and chalked it up to not wanting to “perform pregnancy,” a phrase that lives rent-free inside my head. I did not want to perform pregnancy. I was already a vessel to my wonderful baby boy, I didn’t want to become only a vessel to the world at large as well.


And although the pregnancy was just over half of this past year, it still seemed interminable. I look back at pictures from the before times, and wonder if it was all a glorious dream. Was there ever a time I wasn’t miserably pregnant? Truly, honestly?


And yet, as 31 dawned, I wouldn't ever believe I’d be in this precise place when it set. Life was drastically different. I had absolutely zero plans of being pregnant. I would have broken down sobbing to know that I went back to teaching. And I would have guffawed in your face to think that Texas, of all the miserably backwards places,* would be the closest I’ve ever felt to home.


As I type, I’m staring at my beautiful baby boy, all wide eyes and solemn stares. I’m coming off my best educational year ever (yes, this COVID-soaked, hybrid-teaching chaos of a year), hyped about unit plans and even data collection, spurred on by a teaching partner so amazing I’m still pinching myself that she’s real. And I’m sitting in a house with year-round Halloween decorations and a room dedicated to instruments.


There were two songs on constant rotation this year. This kick-awesome RatM anthem was one, as I re-entered education and took my power back after a disastrous school placement. And then, once it dropped, I became obsessed with this incredibly smooth Anderson .Paak/Bruno Mars collaboration. I mean, watch each and every video. It's astounding.


I enjoy those as a representation of my life. I'm deeply satisfied right now. Yet, as with everything, there’s room for better.


32, I took that power back, but I'll still leave the door open for more.


31. 302928272625.


*and yes, I do still find it politically and infrastructurally backwards, thanks to mewling conservative sycophants of a governor/other state reps. Vote them out! But this is a beautiful place! But down with misguided libertarianism! Oh, the conflicting feelings! My emotions!



Wednesday, July 8, 2020

Young, scrappy, and hungry? One out of three ain't bad.

It’s hungry. I’m always hungry.

Some background before I get into everything: I’m a recovering Broadway addict, the kind who no longer keeps up with the trades, but who still jams out to The Last Five Years every now and then. I also enjoy rap music (Kendrick deserved that Pulitzer, though he got it for the wrong album). All things considered, it seemed like Hamilton would be right up my alley. But I’ve never so much as listened to the cast album. I decided early on I didn’t want to experience any of it until I could see it in person.

Disney+ provided that opportunity, and here’s the thing.

Deep breath. I can do this. Here we go.

I didn't particularly like Hamilton, and I'm scared to admit it. 

Parts were good! But I don't understand why this was such a Broadway darling, or why it set the world on fire. Is it because Broadway fans/white kids had never heard rap before? That's all I can think of. I'm honestly at a loss to understand the zeitgeist. It makes me feel old and a little afraid.


What I enjoyed:
  • Many of the lyrics were clever and well-formed. The music was also catchy. Damnably catchy. Lin Manuel-Miranda is a fantastic musician/songwriter. I can’t get the songs out of my head. Granted, the main refrains did play approximately one billion times throughout the show, but still. They are deservedly earworms.
  • How unabashedly it gloried in the history of founding a nation. As much as I will point out the many, many, many flaws in our political systems, I am at the core patriotic. I think it’s inconceivable that America exists as a nation. It shouldn’t. And yet, there’s something to the krazy glue and luck and sheer will that holds the states together, and I enjoyed Hamilton giving some credence to that.
  • On that note, I loved the cabinet meetings/rap battles. Far and away the most engrossing part. I wish the entire play had been three hours of that. I would have been on the edge of my seat. Show me more debates about the treasury! I’m into it! Get more into your talking points, and make those personal jibes! Love. It.
  • These performances: Daveed Diggs as Jefferson, Jonathon Groff as King George, Renée Elise Goldsberry as Angelica. Also, the true star of the show, Mr. Leslie Odom Jr., who made Aaron Burr come across as sensible and pathos-inspiring. I think I agreed with everything he said? Is that true? Maybe?

What I did not enjoy:
  • The plot treatment, how it told without showing. Parts of it felt like a high school history project (granted, the best high school history project ever), because it quickly highlighted events without giving them much personal time to breathe.
  • The choreography. I’m of the opinion that movement should serve the play. It should enhance what’s happening in the narrative. Since the narrative was thin, a lot of the movement seemed superfluous. It was distracting. Flailing. And far too often they relied on the stage turntable to add visual interest.
  • The treatment of women. Put down your pitchforks, fans! But to me, any strength or sassiness on their part seemed shoved in the story to curry favor, and any later acknowledgements of the sister’s actual accomplishments seemed in service to preserving the legacy of more "important" men.* 
  • On that note, the end enraged me. I was a frowny pants during the final number. So glad to hear 30 seconds of Eliza's story, which is basically that she bolstered Alexander's history? Cool cool cool. 
  • Lin-Manuel Miranda as Hamilton. He doesn't have a great vocal or acting range. He's talented! Adorable and charming! But I kept imagining Daveed Diggs in the role. How would it have changed if there was a performer with raw charisma and magnetism? Would I have been more impacted by Hamilton’s pride? Would I have understood his “tomcatting,” a plot point Miranda was too much of a cute muffin to pull off? So much of the characterization was left to the audience to create. A stronger performerlike Goldsberry, who completely owned every line and made me an Angelica fan based stage presence alonecould have sold the role much more successfully.

And yet. I’ve woken up every morning for the past three days with songs reverberating through my head. I've found myself going down YouTube holes and reading articles to try and understand. I want it to stop taking up my mental space, but it's there. Lurking. "La da da da daaa, da da da da dai yuh dum." Please. Make it stop. So does Hamilton win this round? Perhaps, perhaps.

But until I completely and utterly surrender to the hivemind on this, I will claim this as my favorite song from the musical (click on it, please click on it, you'll be so happy you did):


And this as my chosen Hamilton, and what I will picture any time people bring it up in conversation. In turn, I'll contribute by discussing how great Dave Grohl was at the Constitutional Convention:




* Background on why this is a plot point I'm sensitive to, and why it infuriates me. In grad school, I noticed that every one of my male professors had a female graduate assistant (meanwhile, most of the female professors didn't have any assistants that I knew of... hmmmm). It opened up my eyes to see how those professors heavily relied on the organization and precision of hard-working women. And yet, when high-profile promotions or openings came up, the professors more often recommended the few male students, impressed with how "assertive" and "straight-shooting" they were. Once I noticed it in my industry, I noticed it everywhere. 
I'm tired of women's labor being in service to old white dudes.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Black Days

I was raised a sheltered kid. I listened to a capella jamz (ugh) and showtunes. In high school I "rebelled" against that upbringing by listening to classic rock and only classic rock. If the band had a hit in the past twenty years, I wasn't interested. In college, I became immersed in the local band scene, and naturally grew into an indie rock chick, black-framed glasses and cardigans and all.

Which is all to sayI didn't know the music of my youth. I'm pretty sure grunge was banned in Davis County. Apparently a few counties over accidentally booked Rage Against the Machine once, and that is still the terrifying stuff of local legend.

Chris Cornell first consciously entered my brain when I was 20. I sat on a couch in Provo with two boys that I loved, loved at different times and the same time.* We watched skate videos and "Like a Stone."



I was not a rocker at that timethe hardest music I listened to was The White Stripesbut I was immediately drawn in by Cornell's voice. I'd later learn to appreciate Morello's guitar skills, but the sheer melancholy of Cornell's singing floored me. I watched that video and saw and heard true despair. I didn't know a voice could rock while carrying that level of sincere emotion.

A few months later, I made a new friend. The first time we hung out we had a massive music swap, where I foisted Andrew Bird and Rilo Kiley on his iTunes. In turn, he filled a USB with all the 90s music I missed. He gave me entire catalogs of Audioslave and Temple of the Dog and Soundgarden. He told me to listen to Superunknown, that it was an album everybody should experience.** When I got home that night I turned it on. My bud Ashley came in and said, and I quote, "This is not Cat music."

No. It wasn't. But even I couldn't resist blasting "4th of July" at full capacity, because that song was magic.



That new friend who gave me Soundgarden? His name was Taylor McCarrey. I soon saw the beauty in his childhood music, fully embracing those 90s guitars. When we were still dating, we moved to Seattle. He was depressed. I was frustrated. We both experienced some extreme growing pains that summer. We visited Volunteer Park, and I felt a kinship with the "Black Hole Sun."



I'd never put Chris Cornell or any of his projects in my top lists when it comes to music, but I can't deny that he has had an indelible effect on my life. My sorrow at his passing blindsided me. His voice was there during the most pivotal times. Its raw emotion still haunts me. There's something warm and unnerving about the edge, that soft blanket lined with sandpaper. I can't shake it, and I wouldn't want to.



*It was as dramatic and painful and beautiful as it sounds.

**He also said the same about Stone Temple Pilot's Purple and Songs for the Deaf by Queens of the Stone Age. What can I say, my husband is a wise man.

Monday, April 13, 2015

Oh, I Remember Yesterday


This song is fall 2007. My best friend had given me Pinkerton. Sometime after the album gifting, we had what I'll awkwardly call physical contact (NIGHTS OF INTENSE HAND-HOLDING!). During the following four weeks of our non-relationship, I watched this video over and over and over and over, volume up to eleven in my sad little hermity room. Oh, I'd be so good for you, and you'd be good for me.

A month after first contact (is that copyrighted? Somebody get Roddenberry on the line!), my friend asked me if we could go back to that, to just friends. I smiled and said yes. Two minutes later I drove down the street, passing his car while secretly blasting "Song for the Dumped." Freshman Cat was as classy as shut-your-mouth. At one point, our cars were next to each other. I smiled, one of those over-enthusiastic smiles that every girl has, the smile that shows no, you're totally fine, aw you're so nice, everything is happy and sunshine. We exchanged waves. Meanwhile, my toe was tapping the "give me my money back" beat on the brake pedal.

It all worked out in the end. We didn't talk for a year and a half, then after a chance meeting in the Wilkinson Center we picked up right on our friend path (with only the occasional moment of uncomfortable sexual tension). Now we are both married. We talk occasionally. It's all copacetic. 

Except, in all truthfulness, one of my greatest moments of personal shame revolves around this guy. For the record, hey Andy. I'm sorry about the Sufjan concert. I was a major jerkwad.

I had a point when I started typing, I swear. Not much of one, but a point.

I miss blogging. Not my personal blogging, mind you, but that era. The rule of the blog, when everyone had some little corner of the Internet. It wasn't as raw as LiveJournalno, what could be?but it had the same confessional, glimpse-behind-the-curtain effect. When you became friends with someone on Facebook, you'd check for the blog link, and over half the time there was something there. It was my chance to check out the psyche of the dudes I had crushes on. To judge their grammar. To peek at their music tastes. To roll my eyes at unabashed churchiness. To gawp at artistic talent. There was a thrill of excitement when new friends (and "special" friends) became followers on the blog.

Essentially, I miss being able to read honest stories about the people I liked/found interesting/respected. 

Part of me wonderswas there really this short timespan where people were writing freely? Was there actually an embarrassment of riches in blogland? Or, like everything, did it just feel new and special because I was eighteen and everything was new and special? Do those connections still exist, and are they just called Twitter and Instagram?

I still listen to Weezer more often than not.* I'm pretty painfully unhip now. My last concert was the Stone Temple Pilots with lead vocals by Chester Bennington (weird crowd, good show, and made me feel like an aging grunge fan in the worst way)(particularly odd considering I wasn't an original grunge fan, it's a new development thanks to That Man I Live With and Married, so this onetime indie chick is now just the mainstream of twenty years ago). I find myself gravitating towards the bands I listened to in college, all of five years ago, back when I was cool. Just leave me in my enclave with Ben Gibbard and Jenny Lewis and Rivers. We're good here.

It doesn't help that I lost my entire iTunes library in 2012. Now my beloved 160GB iPod Classic is a relic, a musical time capsule of my tastes. Nothing goes on for fear of losing what I have. When it dies, I will mourn. I will also forget well over 70% of the music I once owned.

Also, what do the kids listen to these days? Robot music, right?

But back to the point, why did blogging die? If people maintain blogs nowadays, it's designed and photo-heavy and "curated" (gag) to death. The words are gone. As a words person, I weep. I weep for honesty. 

Look at that sidebar, will you. Lists of names, links that date back years. All empty houses on the Internet. Abandoned buildings. And here I am, occasionally donning my explorer cap and poking in, willing there to be something different, something new.

In the true spirit of college Cat, I wrote this while procrastinating other writings. Real writings, for real places, because I'm a real person now. It doesn't feel the way I thought it would.

Welp. Better get back to it.

*Especially since their latest album, Everything Will Be Alright in the End, was seriously amazing. Best since Pinkerton, and that's coming from someone who actually liked "Hash Pipe" and Make Believe and went on record with favorable reviews of the Red Album. Please, please, everyone. Listen to EWBAITE. It's Rivers at his angry best (and even sweeter for us, the audience, being the subject of his wrath. Jilted Rivers is the best Rivers).

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Laying Down Track

A few days ago I finished This Is A Call, the unauthorized biography of Dave Grohl, written by Paul Brannigan.

It didn't offer much by way of new or enlightening information about Sir Davy Groltonmost of the best bits came from previous interviews and the documentary Back and Forth, filmed during the recording of 2011's Wasting Lightbut it did offer a clear musical road map.  It's obvious that Brannigan is a music critic.  One who loves and admires Grohl, but who views Grohl's life through the increasingly analytical lens of the soundtrack.  Childhood is told by dissecting the set lists of Bad Brains and Teen Idle concerts.  Rise to stardom is told in the recording studio.  Emotions are interpreted through chord progressions.

This hyper-observation of Grohl's musical landscape extends to discussion of Foo Fighters albums.  Each album is treated to pages-long reviews of the track list, the critical reception, and most interestingly, the recording process.*  Lined up one right up against the other, it's clear to see the evolution of all Foo Fighters albums, the way that the band, and Grohl, forces change and growth.  Grohl himself stated in an interview with Brannigan, "It seems like every album we've made is a result of the one that came before it, or in response to it."  There's no complacency.

I couldn't help but think about that as I watched the trailer for the new HBO mini-series following the Foos, Sonic Highways.



In This Is A Call, Brannigan intensely spotlights each Foo Fighters album.  One was completely recorded by Grohl himself.  Another was in a major studio, while the next was in Grohl's basement.  This one was acoustic.  That one was laid down on tape.  For the new record, the Foo Fighters visited eight cities and eight studios, recording songs with guest artists to try to capture the beating musical heart of America, filtered through the amplification of a unique Foo Fighters sound.  Which is a beautiful idea, and a beautiful method for a band continuing to push against boundaries.

I find that remarkably admirable.  It's easy to excuse laziness, especially after experiencing success.  With his fame and wealth, it would be simple for Grohl to merely churn out some the same grunge-inspired rock album, mix it by the best producer the studio can buy, and call it good.  But Grohl pushes for more.  He isn't resting on creative laurels, he's using his good fortune to continue to challenge himself.  I don't know if I would do the same in that position.

It reminds me of a favorite quote from writer John McPhee: "Your last piece is never going to write your next one for you."

On the one hand, that can be an exhausting viewpoint.  It could be interpreted that nothing is ever going to be good enough, so why try, life is pain and struggle.

But on the other hand, how inspiring!  That even those at the top of their field are constantly striving to improve.  It means that there's some recourse for the rest of us.  No one is ever perfect, so KEEP TRYING.  Keep working, keep pushing, and keep improving.  There is no capstone.  There is no limit.  And there is nothing to hold you back.

*It's actually pretty telling that discussion of the 2002 album One by One covers over twenty pages, while Grohl's divorce from Jennifer Youngblood is introduced and concluded in one sentence.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Bird Watching

Hi.

My name's Cat, and I've been pretty depressed lately.

I know.  SHOCKER!  It's not like it's been pretty easy to decipher that fact if you've been following my blog, or are friends with me on Facebook, or if you're one of those near-mythical "real life friends" (seriously, do such things exist anymore, or are they just relegated to icons between ads on Facebook?) (I kid, I kid, you know I love you, people I have actually interacted with in the physical world).

But I've been alluding to it as if it's over, or close to over.  You know, I'm "coming out of a funk."  Or, "the last few months have been hard, but it's getting better," or even the more cynical but no less silver lining-ed "it's tough now, but I still have so much good in my life."

Well, I lied.

I'm not coming out of it.  It's not getting better.  And yeah, there's good in my life, but that just makes this pervasive darkness even more oppressive.  Of course there's good in my life, so where do I get off feeling so crummy?  Seriously.  What an ungrateful little turd I am.  Man, I suck.

My life, as depicted by http://thankyoucorndog.tumblr.com/.

This comic describes my feelings.  When I talk to people about my sorrow, it turns into a laundry list of why I shouldn't be so sad.

"But Cat, you're so smart!"

"But Cat, look at all you're doing!  You're owning grad school!"

"But Cat, look at the opportunities you're getting!"

"But Cat, you have a loving husband and a really good life!"

"But Cat, there are so many people that love you!"

"But Cat, you are really so blessed!  Look at all you have!"

But, dear friends and family. But, while that is all true and well and good, but.  But that doesn't automatically make me happier.

If anything, it makes me worse.

Because those reminders and encouragements only add to the mental tally, and yes it is a constant tally, of things I'm doing wrong.  It becomes another failure.  That Cat, having all these lovely things and yet somehow, selfishly, brokenly, remaining depressed.

I'm trying to pull myself out of this mire.  I'm chasing that freaking bluebird of happiness with a titanium butterfly net, tricked out with rocket launchers and an army of drones in the handle.  And there are times when that lovely little creature will circle around my head, nearly landing on my shoulder but not quite there yet.  It's there on a sunny afternoon when I sit by the Charles and feel my skin tingle under the sun.  It's there when I dance to The Ballad of Mr. Steak with wild abandon during a Kishi Bashi concert, arms flailing underneath colored lights and layered sounds.  It's there while watching Veronica Mars and having good conversation with fine folk that give me hope in humanity and my place therein.

But for each time the bluebird almost lands, there are tenfold moments where it flies into a thorny hedge and refuses to budge.  These are the times where I stare into the void of a growing inbox of requests and freeze.  When my hands linger over a chapter to be edited, or a writer to be researched, or a TV show that I've watched and taken notes on and elucidated my thoughts in outline format, or even just the thought of moving that dang ol' dishrag off the counter and hanging it on the rack, and yet the next step halts.  

It's times like today, where I lie on the couch watching Party of Five* and eating Cheetos Puffs.  The cheese-spun cylinders make me feel marginally better, right before making me feel exponentially and inevitably worse.  You know how it is.  Curse you, sweet sweet snacks!

Today is extreme.  Usually it's just this heart-squeezing, gut-tearing feeling of misery and loneliness and failure that never really goes away.  

I keep telling myself that fessing up to it is better than gulping it down and pretending it's not there.  You know, saying outright that yep, I'm basically a champ at the whole self-loathing thing.  I recognize this and want to change, and like any good addict admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.

And blast it all, I'm trying to recover.  I'm doing the exercises, eating the healthy foods**, seeing the therapist, making the happy lists.  Pushing myself to get out and socialize.  Forcing myself out of the solitary comfort zone my jerkbrain prescribes.  Doing all the maddening suggestions that well-meaning people give me when they try to help.  I mean, I still find myself crumpling on the ground almost every day, but I'm giving it the college try!  Happy face!  Attempts!

I'm still chasing the bird, but I'm running through quicksand, and for all the leverage I get I still am sliding down, sucked into the depths.

So what, right?  What now?  Why write this?  Why talk about this?

Because somehow, it's making me feel better.  Writing is a great way to figure things out.  It's why English teachers assign essays.  Well that, and the feeling of enjoyment we get from hearing the groans.  Sweet music to the ears! 

"The shortest distance between a human being and the truth is a story."  Anthony de Mello.

Right now, my story is sadness.  And anxiety.  And defeat.  And by writing about it, I hope to see the truth in this experience.  I want to be able to figure out what this means, to see patterns in my malaise.  If all goes well, these words will form a ladder to tug me out of the sand.  They will shape into wings where I can catch that damn bluebird in his own turf.

*What a truly terrible TV show, by the by.  Full House on steroids and with an over-inflated sense of importance.  And yet, there's something about Matthew Fox's hair on this show.  I can't look away.  I want to, believe me I want to, but every time I try stupid Jack is there with his stupid 90's mane waving in the non-existent breeze and whispering Caaaat.....loooook at meeee.....Caaaaat....

**Most of the time, all Cheetos cheats aside.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

Quarter of a Century Man*

I am, I am.


This is me, being 25.

At 25, I woke up early.  At 6:30 AM, when I was technically still 24, with only a few precious minutes before entering the 25th anniversary of my time here on earth.  Sun squirmed its way between a gap in the window and the Batman blanket I've been using as a heavy duty curtain, touching my face with the illusion of a warm day.  For a moment I was still, nestled in bed and squinting at a mix of sky and branches and houses.

At 25, I decided to treat myself to a bagel for breakfast.  Apparently, food is just as important to me as when I was 24, or 16, or 5.  Indeed, the desire and appreciation for food runs much of my daily life.  At 25, there is rarely a moment when I don't have a niggling yen for one (or both) of two things: guacamole, with the rich avocado punctuated with sharp garlic and juicy ripe tomatoes; or the Lucknow Special from Pronti Bistro.  Chunks of lamb with mushroom and feta, slathered in tamarind and mint yogurt sauce, gently couched in warm flatbread.  It's the type of meal that makes the entire world OK, opening windows of peace and harmony and happiness (only to prompt feelings of crushing loss when it is eaten and gone).

At 25, I carefully selected the first song of my new year.  I was torn between old favorites, songs that dominated this past year, or something peppy and delightful.  I ended up with "The Wind" by Cat Stevens.  A perfect choice.



At 25, I'm coming out of a season of penetrating sadness.  But the weather is slowly warming, and is nursing my heart along with it.  One thing people don't tell you when you finally chase your dreams is that the chasing action does not instantaneously eradicate all the fears and insecurities that kept you from the dream in the first place.  Oh, it can assuage them for a bit.  For a time, your confidence will be boosted by the pure adrenaline rush of finally doing it.  And then the novelty wears off and you are left with a dream that has become mundane reality, but with an added pressure layer of hopes and expectations crusting the top of it.  And wrestling with a dream made actual can leave you staring at the void, feet dangling off the edge of the cliff as you grasp for a trail.  For somewhere safe and sure to place your footfalls.  And sometimes, you'll have to off-road it for a while, forging your own path until a trail is made.  And it's difficult.  But somehow it can be done.  Or so I repeat to myself in the malaise-worthy mornings and headache-inducing nights.

At 25, I'm hopeful.  Hopeful that the best is still ahead.  That there's a bright, comfortable future in front of me, full of books and armchairs and sunlight.  The meals will be catered and the television will always be set to the best channels (what CBS? No such thing).  There will be rooms and people and a home full of light.  There will be deeply satisfying work, and even more deeply satisfying love.  This is the richness I see for myself, and as for 25?  It's just the beginning.

*That phrase always makes me think of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.  Specifically, the scene before this song.  I tried to find the actual point where Mr. Twimble discusses his 25-year status in the company, but alas it is not to be.  Yes, we have a grand overarching technological network that spies on us and has billions of cat videos, but it can't be bothered to include a thirty second clip of a Pulitzer prize-winning production.  This is the world we live in.

Monday, December 2, 2013

Same As It Ever Was

So, yesterday was fun.  If the looming terror and guilt about this wretched place and my wretched reasons for being here hitting me in one fell swoop can be termed as fun.

The worst of it happened right before church, and I felt so bad for the Primary class I teach.  I wonder if those five-year-old boys noticed their teacher staring out the window in a catatonic state.   I can imagine it now: "Hey, Sister McCarrey, are you going to teach us about not taking the name of the Lord in vain?"  "There is no hope or justice in this world, little ones.  Only darkness and loneliness forever.  So give up now, because nothing good will ever happen to you, and the more you work for something the worse your life will be.  Leave me to my solitude, small creatures."

But in all honesty, I hit a wall yesterday.  I've basically decided where I want to end up, and what I want to be doing, and how to get there.  And now that I see a clearer picture of my future, a picture un-tinged by romanticized filters, I just want it NOW.  Don't care how.  Just now.  Except that's impossible.  The soonest I can get what I want is in a year.  That makes the youngest child in me want to scream and kick my feet (acceptable behavior?  I'm still weighing my options...).

But last night, after the weight of it all had dissolved into exhaustion and a tears-induced headache, I remembered something.  I remembered David Byrne.




I have listened to this song an embarrassing amount of times since last night.

It struck something.  This knot of frustration and anger that had been twisting inside of me just snapped.  TWANG.  Gone.

There's this moment, when Byrne is questioning different things, when he throws his fists in the air, shouting:

"You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong? 
You may say to yourself, my god, what have I done?

Chills.  It's as if my entire experience was wrapped up in twenty-one words.  And suddenly, I was not alone.  This experience was not unique. Logically, I knew that.  I mean, it makes sense.  Everyone has difficulties, everyone has doubts. People have done this before.  And so will I.  And I know that.

But it felt good to have Talking Heads remind me of that.  It felt good to listen to David Byrne describing the slip underwater.  Joining the current, not to drown but to enter the constant stream and flow of humanity.  To know that this too will pass.


Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down 
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground 
Into the blue again, after the money's gone 
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground 
Into the blue again, into silent water 
Under the rocks and stones, there is water underground 
Letting the days go by, into silent water 
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground 
Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was 
Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was 

Time isn't holding us, time isn't after us 
Time isn't holding us, time doesn't hold you back 
Time isn't holding us, time isn't after us 
Time isn't holding us... 
Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, once in a lifetime  
Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, once in a lifetime

Friday, August 17, 2012

Route 66 Kicks

Taylor and I are infected.  Full-on possessed by the virus known as the travel bug.  While we are usually home bodies who love our apartment and city, every month or so we get restless.  Our feet itch to move somewhere, our eyes get bored with the familiar landscape and complain, wanting to see new things.  What whiny bodies we have.

While we love traveling far and wide (as our recent vacation proved), we are also advocates of the good old fashioned road trip.  There's nothing that compares to you, the car, a sack full of sunflower seeds, an ever-changing view and some great tunes.

Those tunes have been a source of some contention... no, let's say slight disagreement... between Taylor and me as we've honed the art of our road-tripping.  While I think there's nothing better to cruise to than Elephant by the White Stripes, Taylor hates Jack White (I KNOW!) and thinks the perfect road album is Jimmy Eat World's Clarity.  Gag.  What-the-I-don't-even.

Luckily, we've found some albums that we agree on.  Road music that represents us both pretty well, and that perfectly complement the wide possibility and endlessness of asphalt.

Songs for the Deaf - Queens of the Stone Age



This is usually the first album we listen to when we get on the road.  And it's PERFECT.  Taylor introduced me to QotSA, and it might have ruined other music for me?  Because it's awesome?  Because it combines interesting musicality, harmonies, hypnotic rhythms, and turns it all up to eleven in a way that shouldn't work but totally does?  Seriously, they are so interesting to listen to and punch you in the face with such awesomeness that all other music sounds precious afterwards.  Like, 'aw, look at the cute little chord trying to be a song.  Maybe when you're older.' 

Sorry, weird rant there.  Anyway, this album was designed to fit the drive from LA to Joshua Tree, so it was created to be road music. And boy howdy does it deliver!  It's perfect for long, twisting roads through deserts at break neck speeds, while adding this sense of urgency and making you feel completely unconquerable.  Like I said, perfect.

 One Fast Move or I'm Gone - Ben Gibbard and Jay Farrar



Another classic desert drive accompaniment, this album adds a literary epic-ness to your journey.  All the lyrics are taken from Jack Kerouac's "Big Sur" and set to music by Ben Gibbard and Jay Farrar. The result is this sprawling album that sometimes makes you feel invincible, like there's nothing but sky and tumbleweed and you, ruling all you see.  But other times it brings your mortality crashing down, reminding you that you are a wandering vagabond with no home, no love, and no reward in Heaven. Much more appealing than it sounds, I promise.

After listening to that I always try to sneak in Mermaid Avenue by Billy Bragg and Wilco, just to even out the Uncle Tupelo-does-Americana dynamic.  But somehow it never works, because Taylor always suggests Rilo Kiley, and who am I to say no to that?

More Adventurous - Rilo Kiley





I can't even express how much I'm in love with Jenny Lewis.  I love her.  I just do.  It's a thing, and it's not going away, so there.

Rilo Kiley is my favorite, and this is my favorite Rilo Kiley album by far.  It's great, because it has their folksy semi-country songs, but blends them with pop sensibilities (courtesy of Blake Sennett's guitar).  Honestly, this is a meal of an album.  It's rich, and filling, and satisfying.  It has the variety a mix CD without the trouble of making one, which is a relief for the lazy vacationer in me.

Demon Days - Gorillaz



Somehow, we always end up with at least one Gorillaz album on the trip.  Apparently, if I choose the album it's Plastic Beach, and if Taylor chooses it's Demon Days.  I think we listen to Demon far more often, which is fine by me.  What a great, dancey album.  If you don't awkwardly wriggle in your seat, trying to shake your groove thang, something is wrong with you.  Really, you should get that checked out.

Transatlantacism - Death Cab for Cutie



This video captures the essence of driving in Washington.  The horizon, the stillness, the soft evergreen of evening.  I love it.

This album goes into the surreal side of road-tripping.  The quiet, introspective times.  It's when we've been on the road awhile, and now we're just driving.  No conversation, just holding hands and listening to Ben Gibbard.  I might be reading, Taylor might be staring out the window, but this music holds us together.  When "Passenger Seat" comes on, it's a vision of our future.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Bird Songs, pt. 2

It had been three years. Three years since I'd seen him live. But last night, all that was remedied. Last night, I sat in the presence of Andrew Bird again.

I have to admit, I was a little nervous. Last time was so incredible, but I'd changed. The music had changed. What if it wasn't as good? What if the larger venue and the passage of years made me lose some of that connection and glory from the last concert?

Well, good news. As soon as he started playing, I was transported to that same ethereal plain. I was lost. I was ridiculously giddy and yet superbly at peace. I was the music's, and it could do whatever it wanted with me.

Honestly, I loved every moment of it. It's the strangest thing--hearing Andrew Bird live completely transports me. Every time, there's these moments where I feel completely transcendent. The combination of the layers of sound he creates, his incredible voice, the beautifully designed set and lights--it's heavenly. Listening to him, I have these strange moments where I feel like I'm one with the world and nature and that everything falls into place and moves to the rhythm of the earth. It's profoundly peaceful. Odd? Maybe. I'll give you that one. Inspiring? Incredibly so.

Here's some favorites parts of the concert, with videos stolen from other performances.

-I melted into a puddle when he announced "Why?" as the second song of the night. So early? What? YES.



When he does that live, I..... I don't know. My brain short circuits. It races around the theater ceiling a few times and then explodes. It's awesome.

-This was the first song with the live band (go Dosh!), and it was unexpectedly delightful. One of those cases where something I didn't love on the album becomes a new favorite. It felt like a party onstage.



-But my personal highlight came the first time he pulled out his guitar. That lovely, golden glowing guitar that I covet in my dreams. That might have been good enough, but then he stepped forward and said "Here's a little song called 'Measuring Cups.'"



It's my favorite Andrew Bird song. He never plays it live anymore. And at that moment, that ridiculously perfect moment when he did, I almost wept.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

It's The Livin' and Learnin'

Sometimes, I am deeply unsatisfied.

Not with the essentials in life--those are quite nice--but with certain particulars. Namely, my job.

Now, don't fret. All is not lost. My tutoring gig is not the exquisite torture it once was. In fact, it's quite survivable now, thanks to some endearing kids that somehow manage to make me chuckle. But reason number one? Listening to this song every day on my trek to work:



That always boosts my spirits. And not just because DBT's singer slightly reminds me of my dear friend Al, but because it reminds me that "nobody told me that it'd be easy/ or, for that matter, it'd be so hard/ but it's the livin' and learnin'/ it makes all the difference/ it makes it all worthwhile." Sometimes I need to hear that, set to upbeat guitar chords. Sometimes I just need to know life sucks, but you deal with it.

Especially when I've been plagued with the yearning that's been haunting me lately. You see I want something.




That. That's all I want. I want my own space, a space I can fill with book posters and writing tips and rules on the wall. A space with my handwriting on the board. A space where I can put my bookshelf filled with books for my kids to borrow. I'll even put my John Green novels on there, despite the fact that the students will trash them, because I love the stories so much that I know it's more important to share them than it is to keep them pristine. That is, as long as they come back to me in the end.

Speaking of which, that's what I want more than anything. My own students. My own minds to fill with my own lessons. My own teachings echoing around a classroom that I design and I control. My own classes with students that are my responsibility--report cards, conferences, keeping after class, encouraging comments in red ink. Keeping them after class to say I know they can do better. Watching their knowledge grow from day to day. Watching student interest and behavior morph. Observing the frantic stretchings of adolescents as they struggle into adulthood, as they take on their own ideas and beliefs.

I miss that. So much that it's a constant gnawing in my stomach, that proverbial ache that won't go away. I'm a teacher. And I want my classroom.

Non-related side note for all those who made it to the end: Yes, I got married recently. My friend Luke took my bridals, and posted some on his blog. You should go there and check it out. A) I look awesome, B) Luke is a freaking wizard, and C) He referenced the White Stripes. Could it get any better? All right. Requisite marriage talk over.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Sifting Through SIFF and Additional Birdsongs

Today, I did something delightfully indulgent. I treated myself to an afternoon showing of the movie Norman at the Seattle International Film Festival. Worth it? Most definitely.


First off, I had been aching to go to SIFF ever since it started about two weeks ago. It was like what happens every January around Sundance--I feel this inexorable pull, this need to just see one show, to at least experience part of the artsy fartsiness. Every year I don't make it to Sundance I feel depressed, and I think having another film festival in my backyard that I wasn't taking advantage of was getting me down.

But why Norman? Well, that's when the fangirl comes out. Andrew Bird wrote two original songs and did all the scoring for the movie. I LOVE Andrew Bird. Love love love love love love love him. So yes, that was the deciding factor for me to man up and forage into the festival. And by "forage", I mean grab a cheap student ticket and sit in a half-filled theatre at one in the afternoon. Oh yes. I am living on the edge.

Norman was fairly good as far as movies go. It centered around Norman Long, a high school senior whose mother died in a car crash and whose father is dying of cancer. The film deals with themes like run-of-the-mill teen angst about not fitting in and lying to classmates, but with darker edges of self-esteem issues, suicidal impulses, and coping with responsibility. It felt a lot like last year's Easy A, if that movie had been about cancer and suicide and starred a depressed boy instead of a precocious chick. Do I think it will get picked up for distribution? Honestly, no. And if it does, it will undergo some vast changes (unfortunately, I think Bird's score would be one of the casualties). But was it a good movie? Yes. I'm going to say yes. It wasn't great, and needed some more work to tighten up some pretty wide tone shifts, etc., but overall it succeeded.

All the credit for that success goes to Dan Byrd, who played Norman. Byrd is best known for playing light, comedy roles, like the son on Cougar Town or the gay guy in Easy A. He shows off some serious acting chops in this role, making me laugh out loud and almost cry within moments of each other. He brought an intensity to Norman that had me completely caught up in his plight. Despite showing off an ability to emote with scenes of him handling near impossible loads, Byrd still brings his unique humor, with wry line delivery that makes his character surprisingly likeable. This is in addition to some other great performances, especially Richard Jenkins as his dying father and Adam Lambert as the classic profound English teacher. Oh, and the hot chick from Everwood plays a love interest. That's probably important or something.

But on to the score. I first became obsessed with Andrew Bird my freshman year of college. When I say obsessed, I mean obsessed--I completely immersed myself in his music. And I would walk around campus, his songs my own personal soundtrack, and think about how perfect and under-appreciated Andrew Bird was, and how if I ever made a movie it would have Andrew Bird songs. So I made up scenes in my head, small snippets and vignettes, and set them to his melodic voice, dreaming of a day where he would be known (well, that, and of the day that we would meet and he would fall madly in love with me. Naturally).

I think it's important to note that in my freshman imaginings all I thought of were scenes. There was never a whole movie, never a coherent storyline. Andrew Bird's music is incredible, atmospheric, and powerful. And a little much for an entire movie.

I'm willing to make concessions on this point. My love affair with Andrew Bird's music is very intense, and that, coupled with his lack of western touring of late, left me distracted every time the music swelled. The whistles, the strings, the swooping layers of sound--they were classic Bird traits, and I found myself focusing on them rather than the action in the scene.

But, all that fandom aside, there were several moments where the music didn't fit the tone. Most notable among these was a humorous scene where father and son drink some celebratory scotch, but the addition of an insistent violin chorus makes the exchange more unsettling than called for. Once again, it wasn't always that distracting. The opening credits, scored with a whistled introduction, and two new songs (credited as "Night Sky" and "Arcs and Colombs") used during romantic interludes were well-placed. And there was a standout moment with the song "Dark Matter," which was used perfectly in the film. Makes sense, since director Jonathan Segal has cited that song as his inspiration for working with Bird.

Regardless of any missteps, it was nice to spend an afternoon with Andrew Bird. I've missed him. It was also nice to have some time to indulge my inner snob. It doesn't get much more pretentious than seeing a movie at a film festival, all because your favorite indie musician did the music. All I need is a vintage scarf and a hipper-than-thou attitude and I'll be set for life.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Worshipping at the Culture Altar

Last Monday I went to the EMP. That stands for the Experience Music Project, and is this fantastic museum-ish thing right in the shadow of the Space Needle, a gathering ground for music and science fiction and pop culture. Basically, it's a building that was created for me. It's a haven, housing my every interest and love and desire. I think I spent three hours there and was loathe to leave.

Right now they have two music exhibits. One traces the career of Jimi Hendrix, and made me weak in the knees. The other was entitled "Nirvana: Taking Punk to the Masses," and was a more incredible and intimate portrait of the Gods of Grunge than I could even imagine. That exhibit left me speechless, and has even invaded my subconscious. Then there was the Guitar Gallery, tracing the development of that sacred instrument from its inception and blues roots through the invention of the electric and amplified rock and fuzz, which made me stand silently, staring, with tears in my eyes.

The entrance to the EMP.

Classic white Fender Strat, used by Hendrix at Woodstock.

Set piece from Nirvana's In Utero tour.

One of Kurt Cobain's guitars.

But the single greatest thing about the EMP was their focus on the collection of oral histories. That aspect fascinated me. I feel really strongly about this, so I'm going to say it again, with emphasis. The oral histories fascinated me. The sheer spectrum of interviews they had collected was vast--they had an entire gallery called "Sound and Vision" that was filled with headphones and computers and mp3 players with files from musicians and actors and producers and authors, all sharing their experiences. These snippets of history were pure inspiration to my soul (especially the few moments where Ray Bradbury discussed the writing process. That alone was worth it). There is something different, something magical about hearing something from the source. This desire to hear stories is what first drew me to journalism in my youth, and continues to make me an enthralled observer of life. So having all those interviews at my fingertips was a rather gleeful experience.

Somewhat surprisingly, there was something I liked even more than interviews with the established and famous. In "Sound and Vision," they had a room where visitors could tape a short segment where they talked about basically anything: how you discovered a band you love, a book that changed how you think, a favorite movie, etc. Outside the room, there was a small screen set up where you could watch the interviews. This man-on-the-street collection even extended to the Nirvana exhibit, where they had a special room with an adjacent booth where fans could record their stories about how they connected with Nirvana.

I could have listened to those casual interviews for days. In fact, I am completely, 100% planning on going back and spending hours in those rooms alone. There's something about hearing other people's stories. You know, people that aren't famous or accomplished in any other way. They have more to prove, are more eager to please, and their desperation to leave their mark makes those snippets far more entertaining. In this world, everyone, and I include myself in this statement (I have a blog, don't I?) is looking to make their mark on the world. Looking for their claim to fame, as it were. And those brief interviews, where people were laying their passions and drives and obsessions on the line, left me completely transfixed. Yes, there was no reason I should listen to these people, but they were there. Telling stories. Sharing small pieces of their identity with an anonymous public.

They were me. I saw myself in them, identifying with their strange, almost compulsive need to share moments that, however trivial they seemed, were nonetheless important to the teller. I chuckled as they laughed, agreed when they credited music or movies with shaping their life. Stories. Connections. A method of bonding despite having no solid foundation, except what existed through mutual appreciation. That's what the EMP was doing--in some colossal scheme, they were creating peace through the collection of oral histories. And that is a cause I can completely support.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

The Loneliest Thing in the World...

... is a single person riding a tandem bicycle. A.k.a. what I saw as I walked home. Poor guy. I felt so bad for him.

In happier news, I survived today! And you know why? Because of the Flaming Lips. That's right ladies and gentlemen, the Flaming Lips saved my life. Not only did they save my life, but they enriched it. I must have listened to "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots Part 1" about six times in the past twelve hours. And I'm not ashamed to admit it. Come on! It's incredibly infectious music.

I think this comic from Questionable Content sums it up pretty well:


It's true! You just have to be happy when listening to the Flaming Lips.

To go on yet another small tangent, I had a throwback today. I had to complete a seventh grade writing assignment as if I were a seventh grader. In reality, I completed it like I was a fifth or sixth grader, but I think it evened out, as I was an incredibly advanced writer. Of course. Smarmy smarmy smarmy.

But honestly, it was fun to remember those days. Back then, I was destined to be an author. Writing was my passion, and I thought I was the bee's knees. But my stories were riddled with cliches and crutches. They all involved two girls as the main characters, and their names always started with 'K' and 'C', because my name started with 'C' and my best friend's name started with 'K'. One girl (me) was always a sassy tomboy, and the other would be nervous and shy. And I swear, every story alluded to the main character having a crush on a boy whose name started with 'M' and who played soccer.

Man I was subtle as a kid.

It was fun to relive those days. To turn off my brain and just write as over-the-top and exaggerated as I could. I had talent, I tell ya, pure talent! Or I just read way too much. Sigh. Those were the days.