The Conduit of My Record Player

If there is one thing many of us have in common this past year of staying home, it’s the new hobbies. It goes without saying that this has been a tough year for so many, but one thing that has helped me personally is to take an interest in what others are doing, in terms of new hobbies they have picked up, or perhaps made new commitments to. I’ve been doing this mostly in a more passive sense, as opposed to joining in or leaving comments and so on. It reminds me a bit of how I’ve always liked looking at décor, even if I’m not in the market for it in my own home. I love to see the different things people can come up with, stylish and cozy ways in which to create a retreat away from the world, to decorate a space of their own that reflects their personalities, interests or passions.

As for myself, I have a few projects going, but the one I love best doesn’t provide tangible results. This is because it involves the sharing of conversation with my teenage son, who has for years been a very devoted film aficionado, and recently had begun to invest in television. I’ve always said he is an old soul, and he continues to prove it with his love for shows such as Friends, Cobra Kai and Stranger Things—and that this last one’s Blu Ray case is designed to look like a VHS tape. Our shared watching experiences have provided absolutely endless conversation on too many topics for a small blog entry such as this, so suffice to say, to aim us in one direction: storytelling.

One of the stories I’m in the midst of seeing is within the visual pages of a show called Mad Men, which I never heard of until about a month ago. I agreed to give it a shot—Turtle didn’t think I’d get into it and, to be quite frank, neither did I—but there was something about it that intrigued me. Perhaps because it is set in the 1960s, an alien world of people who drink way too much and dress in a manner I wish we still did today. To be honest, I’m not a fan of the time, but I was also a little curious about getting a glimpse into the ordinary: not just the famous music festivals, protests or political shenanigans. Ordinary. What people wore; how they interacted with one another in everyday lives, not only specific occasions; products they owned or wanted to; what was perceived as good or not so good; how much things cost and so on.

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For the Record: The Day the Music Died

“For the Record” is a series dedicated to music
and the personal experiences that surround it.

I have an older brother who, when I was a child, I absolutely adored. It was through him I came to like the Beatles and he filled my information bank with trivia on the Fab Four and other musicians and bands he liked. He was given to talking about song lyrics, and I can recall him discussing with his friends the meaning behind Don McLean’s song “American Pie.” The conversation actually went on for years, at times including me, and the intrigue never left.

I happened to hear “American Pie” on the radio this afternoon and decided to write about it—at least as much as I know of or can recall being told. While many see the 1960s as an almost mythical period, others mark it as a time when the rise of rock and roll coincided with a decline in culture and society, symbolized, with reference to the 1959 plane crash that killed singers/musicians Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper, as “the day the music died.” The song’s lyrics also reference various other events that occurred throughout the subsequent decade in the land that birthed rock and roll. The music was majestic, often poetic and awe-inspiring, but what accompanied it was as frequently unholy and depraved, and the consequences were too often dire. Some say this is the flip side of the influence and authority the music held, and perhaps they are not too far off, given music and other celebrity lifestyles’ connection with politics and power.

I didn’t experience watching or hearing about any of these events as they happened, so none of them are personal memories, but I do recall the feel of first hearing the song, how poetic and terrible and wonderful it was at the same time. Like our earlier conversations, people are still discussing today what the song is all about, and what qualities it possesses that enabled it to succeed, despite being an eight-minute song at a time when three were the max. Below is a song breakdown of sorts, and I’d love to hear from anyone who has information to add to or correct something I’ve written below, especially if you’re someone who does know from the experience of living in the late 1950s and/or through the 1960s.

“American Pie” by Don McLean

Buddy Holly and the Crickets in 1957 (top to bottom: Allison, Holly and Mauldin) Image courtesy Wikimedia. Click for details.

A long, long time ago
I can still remember how that music
Used to make me smile
That of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper, pioneering acts of rock and roll in a time of greater “innocence” within American society. Their popularity was changing the face of music
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they’d be happy for a while
But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn’t take one more step
I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
Maria Elena Santiago, the pregnant wife of Buddy Holly, who died along with Valens and the Big Bopper in an Iowa plane crash
Something touched me deep inside
The day the music died
As a young teen McLean delivered newspapers, and on the morning of February 4, 1959, as he folded newspapers in preparation for delivery, he saw the news

Chorus:

So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Apple pie was used as a metaphor for things American
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
Chevy, short for Chevrolet, was the car to have because it was American made ~ a dried up levee indicates the end of production or an era, possibly the beginnings of shifting American production and jobs elsewhere, depriving Americans of the ability to make a living in an America that itself is no longer American made
And them good ol’ boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Possibly references the Depression and Prohibition eras that would have influenced Buddy Holly’s family life and upbringing, as well as that of Valens and Big Bopper. Valens, at 17, was the youngest of the three and not born until around 1940, but he still would have been influenced by the deprivations his family suffered during the time.
Singin’, “This’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die”
References the final line in Holly’s song “That’ll be the Day”: “That’ll be the day-ay-ay, when I die.”

Image courtesy Wikimedia. Click for details.

 Did you write the book of love
“The Book of Love” – 1958 song by the Monotones
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
References a 1950s song with a similar name, but also alludes to the reality that people were beginning more openly and often to behave in ways not sanctioned by the God their (larger) society worshipped, and the religious heritage their country was founded upon
Now, do you believe in rock ‘n’ roll
Also references a song, this one from the 1960s that asks, “Do you believe in magic?” The line itself referred to the magic of music, specifically rock and roll, that was able to stay with the listener, conjure up memories, be a part of their consciousness in a way that study of other art froms did not, at least for the common man
Can music save your mortal soul?

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For the Record: 5 x 5 Exploration – Bob Dylan

“For the Record” is a new series dedicated to music and the personal experiences that surround it. Today we kick off with a small series within a series highlighting five songs by five bands or artists as part of an exploration beyond those identified as our usual favorites. In this instance, Bob Dylan is an artist my older siblings related to much more than I did, so for much of my childhood all I really knew about him was that he existed within the rank of legend.

I liked music as much as the next kid, but heard it mostly on the radio; I didn’t own any—that was my oldest brother’s territory. He sometimes let me sit in his room as he listened to music, headphones in, eyes shut, hands linked together under his head as he lay on the floor. Oblivious to the danger to his hearing, he allowed me that sneak “peak” into his magical world by way of the sounds overflowing from his corner. Being much too small—in size, age, and family hierarchy—to really have any say in much of anything, I stayed in mine.

Continue reading “For the Record: 5 x 5 Exploration – Bob Dylan”

Overlooked Gems: Picks from My Playlist

Recent months have held a lot of talk about music in our house. Not that it’s a rare topic, but all the extra indoor time my teenage son had to spend spurred a bit of a shift for him. His passion is film, and this has not changed, and he has always loved music (who doesn’t?). However, he began to examine it a bit more lately, and we spent many hours discussing lyrics as literature, how they match the music, what the various rhythms spark in the soul and very much more.

It re-awakened a bit of something in myself as well. When I was a little younger than my boy is now, I was still discovering a lot of different styles and artists, then current or not, and had an older brother who played an instrumental part in this. By this time I’d long been introduced to the Beatles, who held my absolute and unquestioned loyalty. I’m serious about that loyalty thing: because I listened to almost nothing else except the Fab Four and sometimes the radio, I didn’t really know much about a great portion of the music world.

An afternoon nosing through my brother’s music library changed that because one book I settled in with contained photography of the sort that makes you contemplate life and the worlds of others. I wanted to know who these people were and what was important to them that they wanted to sing about to the world. I came to regard their creations as not unlike the poetry I read and wrote, and my period of examination began.

Fast forward now. My son loves the Beatles (something about the apple not falling far?), but can’t understand why my devotion seems to have shifted to Pink Floyd. I was rather tickled when he announced his love for Led Zeppelin’s “The Immigrant Song,” even though I suspected that might wane as the Thor Ragnorak movie he’d recently watched stepped aside for other films he considered higher caliber. “Now ‘Kashimir,’” I mentioned one day, “that is more than a song.” As time went on my recall drove me to play songs I loved but thought he would not likely hear on the radio, at least not as often as most artists’ and bands’ megahits.

And so I find myself here, making a list of songs that tend to be somewhat overlooked, even if they are nevertheless well known. They were at times the B-sides or what some regarded as fillers, though many took on a life of their own. In other instances they were quite famous, but just don’t seem to be recognized or played as much as their fellows, resulting in next generations making a lesser, or sometimes no, connection. Still others may be absolutely unknown by those who don’t dabble in music outside their own personal mainstream. There are probably loads of reasons why some truly great songs go overlooked, and I’d like to do my small part in changing that.

The following five choices, which will likely be joined by others, are in no particular order except what you choose.

 

“Letter to Hermione”  (David Bowie, David Bowie, later renamed Space Oddity) – Long before Hermione Granger and her friends inspired Muggle schoolchildren to cut classes and read books about the magical universe, David Bowie’s romantic breakup from a girl with the same name resulted in one of the loveliest set of lines he ever wrote. Revealed to the world in a song of loss, Hermione Farthingale unwittingly persuaded David Bowie to show the raw, awkward side, the one to which I related – and always remembered, despite the personas he’d developed that I later discovered (thanks to that music book). I didn’t know at the time I first heard the song, you see, that its confessional style was not at all Bowie’s preferred, which may be why it clung to me long after I found the rest of his catalogue. He has many musical acts of magic that combine so well with lyrics (especially within “Golden Years”), but this gorgeous, haunting act of wizardry has never left my mind.

 

“Fearless” (Pink Floyd, Meddle) – This may come as a surprise to some, given the disparate differences, but this one almost lost to “See Emily Play.” As a teen I had a curious fondness for Syd Barrett, and the circus-like music and sweeping melody that carried the lyrics of “borrow[ing] somebody’s dreams till tomorrow” intrigued me to no end. So what broke the stalemate? Well, when I hear “Emily,” I still feel why Past Me was so attached to it, but these days I go for Meddle a lot. Simultaneously introspective and ambitious, it energizes me yet still disperses calm. Within it, “Fearless” speaks to the understandable anxiety of standing by one’s conscience, and every single note plays this out in a perfect emotional match. It fit Past Me (within those teenage years of dissent), but is particularly relevant today. Honestly? Listen to the entire album.

 

“Isis” (Bob Dylan, Desire) – A lot of people don’t seem to know it because I simply never hear this song discussed or on the radio, but “Isis”—the story of a man married to Isis and what happens when he meets up with a mysterious tomb-raiding stranger — is one of those tunes that makes Dylan the absolute lyrical mage he is. Consider the following exchange were it to be in a novel:

She said, “Where ya been?” I said, “No place special.”
She said, “You look different.” I said, “Well, I guess.”
She said, “You been gone.” I said, “That’s only natural.”
She said, “You gonna stay?” I said, “If you want me to, yes.”

Sung in Dylan’s iconic, grainy voice (at times characterized as “like a dog with his leg caught in barbed wire”) with his distinctive pitch changes (also referred to as “affectation”), the song swings listeners around so much that mundane words become something special. None of the lyrics have the standard rhymes of some of Dylan’s other tunes, such as “Like a Rolling Stone” or “Tangled Up in Blue,” partly because it’s a folkie ballad backed up by an acoustic piano. But as the singer’s storytelling abilities are revealed, his voice also utterly brings to life the emotions the narrator feels, and we sense them too. We don’t need no rhymes.

“I Will” (The Beatles, The Beatles, commonly known as The White Album) – Even by the time my teenage years rolled around and the Fab Four were long in the past, people were still picking their favorite Beatle. (My teen son even made his choice.) Paul was definitely not mine; that honor went to George, who wrote, in my opinion one of the best Beatle songs ever. Still, this one confounded me as to why no one ever seemed to have heard of it, or it never came on the radio. Beautiful in its simplicity, it needs absolutely nothing else, not a single note or echo more than it contains to be the perfect song, love or otherwise, and the phrase “your song will fill the air” followed by “sing it loud so I can hear you” is bold but not ostentatious (unlike the nuance that generally comes with that second phrase when uttered today). John’s maracas along with Paul’s melodic “da da da da da” brings the song and its wonderful experience to a perfectly satisfying conclusion.

 

“Battle of Evermore” (Led Zeppelin, untitled album, commonly known as Led Zeppelin IV or Zoso, after a symbol on the album cover) – People are generally attracted quite a bit to alliteration, and “Battle of Evermore” showcases it stunningly, reaching into our past (e.g. with “angels of Avalon”; “dragons of darkness”), awakening us to what magic arises from that place. Inspired in part by reading of a series of Anglo-Scottish wars and Celtic mythology, Robert Plant and Jimmy Page’s ballad does utilize verbiage that might today seem a bit fantasy cliché but for the multitude of angles from which it comes at us. Their imagery, boosted by the pairing of words and duet singing (Plant and non-bandmember Sandy Denny), recreates a narrator and town crier, and we are the townspeople urgently listening for the outcome of events involving the Prince of Peace and Queen of Light.

The dark Lord rides in force tonight
And time will tell us all.
Oh, throw down your plow and hoe,
Rest not to lock your homes.
Side by side we wait the might
Of the darkest of them all.

 Adding connection to our experience is Page’s mandolin, filling in and around the voices, at times in turn, others together, as we tune in to a tale of spiritual warfare, the battle of good and evil fought on a plane we cannot see, but will be affected by nonetheless—forever.

“Battle of Evermore” might not, strictly speaking, fit into this list as it may not be quite as overlooked as it seems to me. Nevertheless, I have rarely (if ever) heard it on the radio and its visibility tends to be obscured by “Stairway to Heaven” and that song’s May Queen. However, it is a tale that touches the deepest parts of ourselves and where we come from.

Stay tuned for more to come from overlooked gems. 

And the Daffodils Look Lovely Today

I am so very, very sad to read that Dolores O’Riordan, lead singer for the Cranberries, has passed away. She had such a beautiful voice, whether speaking or singing, and I could listen to her for hours.

Her lyrics weren’t always about happy things, but that voice made you want to listen and be part of the joy of being alive, of experiencing something special in life. And for those who, like her, suffered from bi-polar disorder or depression, it lifted one up to want to be part of creating a beauty for others to experience.

Dolores O’Riordan with the Cranberries, live in Barcelona 2010-3-13, by Alterna2, via Wikimedia Commons

Some years ago I received a letter from a penpal in Russia. I was always so excited to hear from Natasha, who sprinkled her missives with “my darling” and “sweetheart” from day one. At one point she sent me a gorgeous samovar that I treasured deeply. I was absolutely smitten with its pretty lines and aura of loving that accompanied its gifting.

I was always so greedy about letters I received, and never could be one to put an unopened one in my purse to read later, at home. No, I tore them open and read at stop lights, my laughter or gigantic smile happily devouring contents. On this day I was so uplifted as I slowed to the red light at 4th Avenue, coming up from behind the post office, a Cranberries CD helping me pump out my emotion and anticipation as my voice used all its strength to release what I held inside.

Like a light switched off, my smile disappeared. Natasha wrote that she had discovered a lump in her breast while she was pregnant with her first child, one she had wanted so much that she refused medical advice to abort in order to receive treatment. She went on to briefly explain the situation but the words I recall most are, “ … and I believe I have a future.” They are imprinted in my mind, which is grand because later someone stole the box of letters that was my treasure chest from abroad, and even now I have to remember her words from the recesses of my mind, where she is still alive for me.

Also sealed into my mind are those songs I listened to as I drove, particularly “Dreaming My Dreams” on through the rest of the No Need to Argue CD. Somehow those vocal intonations reflected my heart’s song: the dread I felt, along with the future Natasha was so sure of. I knew someone in my own life who had recently beaten breast cancer, and so as my goosebumps radiated a chill through me, I poured my tension out, willing it to leave with the flow of song as it escaped my lips.

Continuing to drive, I thought of the narrator’s story in “Daffodil Lament” as she transitions from a period of stagnation, seeming hopelessness—“Holding on, that’s what I do, since I met you”—to a mindset of something brighter ahead. The music is symphonic and shifts with a movement replicating that period of time, and O’Riordan’s voice reflects this as she moves forward:

I have decided to leave you forever
I have decided to start things from here
Thunder and lightning won’t change what I’m feeling
And the daffodils looked lovely today
And the daffodils look lovely today
Look lovely today

 Has anyone seen lightning
Has anyone looked lovely

I thought this could very well be my friend’s song, addressed to a disease she stood up to, telling its combined forces that she would not be put down. The last two lines in the excerpt above reflect the storyteller’s determined strength against even thunder and lightning, as she admires the sustained loveliness of a genus representative of both death and good fortune. She chooses the latter and a new life, renewal, she determines to achieve.

Natasha did survive long enough to give birth and be with her daughter, Anna, for a bit, but eventually succumbed to her illness. The day I learned of her passing I also listened to O’Riordan’s amazing voice as she belted out her passions and I absorbed what I could to once more uplift myself, grateful and glad to be alive, even though my voice cracked a few times and, like the poetic music it is, O’Riordan’s voice lured me back to the song as I silently moved in candlelight.

Perhaps for the rest of my life I will always have that connection between my friend Natasha and the voice of Dolores O’Riordan, both of which are everlasting gifts whose memories and legacies enable me to pass a special part of who I am to my own child. A Russian friend told me, the day I sang my heart’s mournful melody in a way not quite like any I have ever before or since, that people in his country believe no one ever really dies as long as there is someone to remember them. I’ve gone back to that so many times in subsequent years, not only because it is such a comforting sentiment, but because I’m naturally inclined to believe the dead deserve our attention, not just for everlasting life, but because they once were. They shared this world with us, and in so many instances what they had with us.

My voice is nowhere near as beautiful as Dolores O’Riordan’s—not by a long shot. In fact, there are very few people I will sing in front of because, well, my singing leaves a lot to be desired. Simultaneously I have been either blessed or cursed with a physical recognition that flows within my veins, of the power it holds over me, of the lifeblood that is song for humans, and that most often simply bursts from my heart when it is caged. 

Today I will be lighting candles for Dolores O’Riordan, not because I knew her—I didn’t—but for the memories she contributes to and the gifts she shared with us, her own heart’s songs that memorialize so much of the struggles of life. We often wish to forget them, but she gave them attention because of their link to the humans we care about.

Thank you, Dolores O’Riordan, and rest in peace.

The fragrant Poet’s Daffodil (click)