December 04, 2008 Earworm

An old friend woke me from a sound sleep at 5:15 this morning, the commanding end to The Shirelles' "Soldier Boy" blasting my body into a sitting position. So vivid that I reached to shut off the clock radio before the whole could be disturbed. Having been set aside due to over familiarity, "Soldier Boy" must have felt it was time for an airing so, here we are.

A little googling about in search of a cosmic explanation as to why this record would so rudely remind me of its presence at such an ungodly hour provide no clues but I did learn that "Soldier Boy" has gained or maintained a major presence in the Chicano communities since its 1962 heyday. That is almost as mysterious to me as why it woke me up.

December 03, 2008 Earworm

Again, that addictive Facebook application has spun the circle back, bringing long ago faces, blurred by time, back into sharp focus.. It's been a chance to pull up a chair and watch the shenanigans unfold, this time without the roar of the music washing away the subtleties, and I am surprisingly pleased to realize that although we've all grown, we really haven't changed that much. The politics of pretty still remain but, without the arrogance of youth, the edges are somewhat dulled. The question of whether folks are simply sliding back into their old roles or if they just never bothered to give them up remains unanswered; the buffer the music once provided now replaced by a distance that provides a safety zone where everyone is able to apply whatever face they feel best fits the moment. Still, if you care for nuance, there are plenty of hints at what has become of those who, for what now feels like a only a moment, ruled our small little world. And it is on that nuance, that I set my drink, as I mentally stroll to the jukebox to once again play Big Country's "In A Big Country", and chuckle over a wonderful summation of everyone's behavior both now and then that was shared with me last night: "tossing the hair, rolling the eyes, denying everything".

December 01, 2008 Earworm

So, AlliB sent a clip from Rick Springfield's 1973 Saturday morning cartoon show, "Mission: Magic" to me this morning. Now I have Rick's "Speak To The Sky" stuck in my head.

Not a bad thing for a Monday morning following a long weekend, I guess...

November 26, 2008 Earworm

We approach the designated day of thanks and, unless you are a turkey or a totally self-absorbed meanie-head, surely you can find something for which to be grateful. If not, they may want to consider the idea that they're doing something wrong. Right?

The last Stax hit by Sam & Dave is an obvious choice for today so 1968's "I Thank You" it is. Now I want everybody to get off of your seat and get your arms together and your hands together...

If that doesn't work, flip the 45 and "Wrap It Up".

November 25, 2008 Earworm

Lacking liner notes that provide lyrics, I have tried to figure out all of the lyrics to Bernard Butler's "Not Alone" for about ten years. I'm still unclear of them all and today I realized why: I can't listen to it without getting lost in the beautiful noise.

It's a kiss-off to someone, and probably the boys of Suede, but it's really about the joy to be found in the noise, and thrill of realizing that the noise is coming from you. Joy and talent, not alone. Ever.

And speaking of not alone, I became a little less alone tonight when I picked up two puppies and my gaze was returned. My expression of joy was met with expressions that could only mean one thing: "What the fuck are you?!"

Priceless.

November 24, 2008 Earworm: we've some catching up to do

Wow. It's been a busy few days and every time I started to post, something came up to distract me. Still, the music went on and on in my head so here are a few of the standouts...

With the arrival of a posse of puppies, I found the strains of Paul Anka's "Puppy Love" in and out of my mind and was thankful that it was not Donny Osmond's version. Still, I like everyone too much to go with that and besides, the higher powers sent in The Jazz Butcher (and his Conspiracy) to set things right with "Domestic Animal". "Just a vague feeling that he could have been important once" is one of my favorite lyrics of all time and I can't imagine a better explanation of the instinctual thoughts running through the minds of the creatures with whom we share our lives.

"The Crash of Angel Wings" is from The Waterboys' 2006 album, "Book of Lightning", and answers the question of what they would sound like in a sing-a-long with the Jesus and Mary Chain. Delving deeper into the album would offer hints to what that collaboration would be like with Tommy Keene fronting the whole mess but that's another story. Kmatt was always a Waterboys fan and it is through her that I came to appreciate them. I'm glad that I was able to turn her on to this album and to return the favor. Yet another tune that will forever tangle us together.

"I'll Be Your Mirror" is, of course, best known by The Velvet Underground but there is a lovely version of it from '89 by The Primitives. If memory serves me, it started out as a b-side to a UK single but was so well received that it was tacked on to the US release of their second album, "Pure". Having had the pleasure of being a part of the dramas that always lead up to any artistic endeavor like Thomas' Dozol's photography exhibit that borrows the song's title, it felt good to have an opportunity to expose everyone to The Primitives' version. And a big thanks to Kmatt for jumping into the fray and weaving edges back together.

Dannyboy got "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" by Elton John in his head and tried valiantly to remember the title, the words, and to communicate the melody to me but, sadly, I drew a blank. Google helped solve the mystery but the song is from "Honky Chateau" which is not one of my favorite Elton albums, therefore it was stored away in the deeper recesses of my mind. We did end up spending the day with the Rocket Man's catalog and I fell in love again with "Song For Guy" from 1979's "A Single Man". As a tune for a fallen friend - the bike messenger employed by Elton's Rocket Record label who was killed while on the road - it can't be bettered as it always reminded me of passing city streets and country side, even before I learned of its inspiration. I also reunited with a song I'd once adored but let fall by the wayside due to over familiarity: "Philadelphia Freedom" may have been written for Billie Jean King's tennis team but it is a love letter to Philly soul as well and is a perfect example of why Elton's "Thom Bell Sessions" E.P. had to happen and worked so well.

Elton's duet album - an uneven project at best - reminded me that "Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing" is best left to Tammi and Marvin and that not even the voice of Marcella Detroit could save the arrangement she was forced to share with Elton. But, her voice did send me back to my first few weeks in Atlanta, when Shakespear's Sister was just getting started. "Dirty Mind" will always be remembered as one of the first records I bought in my new hometown but three years later, Shakespear's Sister would become forever the soundtrack to the summer of '92 when Viv and I were inseparable, each testing our own new boundaries, or lack there of, as well as new names. Without Viv, there would not have been a Pres in pres2go and, although he didn't actually stay, he would eventually, in a different way.

A random Facebook comment led me back to a 45 from my adolescent years, when my ears were still glued to a.m. radio. Although it always brings back memories of the time when Mommy was becoming Mom, it also has Ali B written all over it now thanks to a very nice rendition given during a wonderful weekend when much was consumed as well as exposed. And it wasn't tone deaf at all.

And now it's Monday and it's Rainy and I selfishly find the warmth in Karen Carpenter's voice as she shares my melancholy and I pass it on to a dear friend as another reminder that we have to find the best and the beautiful in the memories, no matter how much sadness surrounds them or us. "Rainy Days and Mondays" is still beauty and sadness after all these years, a jewel in the crown that is their self-titled album from 1971. It always makes me feel as if I'd just woken up from a nap in my mother's lap: safe, warm, and home. Like I imagine a newborn puppy feels as it dozes off with a full belly.

As we head into the holiday, I give thanks to, and for, all of you with whom I've had the pleasure of sharing a soundtrack and for letting me know that the earworm was missed during the brief hiatus. Thank you. Thank you very much.

November 18, 2008 Earworm

Our dog to human ratio skewed on Friday and even with Kmatt here for a visit, we're outnumbered. Granted, the five squeaking pups have enough to worry about just lifting their heads to eat, but their presence has dramatically altered the household, and they are in control. While we bi-peds still have the thumbs and the car keys, departures from the mothership are now carefully considered and even more carefully orchestrated, to the point that the thought of walking out the door is nerve racking.

On the other end of the spectrum, mother is holed up in a makeshift den, heat lamp and whelping box her primary surroundings, removed from any interaction with her own mother, Laney, and from her partner in crime, Mac: it's no longer the dog's life to which she's become accustomed but instinct and duty now rule her roost and she's admirable in commitment to the cause. Her brief breaks from her duties are only for necessities, augmented with a brief run through the house which appears to be an effort to confirm that the world in which she once lived still exists.

But the ones who have it the worst are Laney and Mac. Faced with a rare restriction, they stand outside the gate that guards the helpless and protector, they can only smell the air and strain to hear the cries of the strangers who have invaded their world. Realizing that they the focus has shifted to area which currently has no place for them, they act out in rude ways, demanding the attention that is normally only a palm away.

While preparing for a shower, I encountered Mac, rolling around on the spot I fill in the bed that is normally shared by all, co-mingling our scents, and alternately sighing and crying. Scooping up this 40 pound mound that usually consists of 90% canine bravado, 5% helpless puppy, and 5% indifference, I was rewarded with a rare kiss before he collapsed into fetal position, released a contented sigh, and drifted off to where ever he goes when receiving a heartfelt belly rub.

And that's why I've been singing Sinead O'Connor's "I Want Your (Hands On Me)" all morning.