I mean, to know me is to know I love The Kinks. I remember in high school a stoner girl in gym class said she was going to see The Kinks, and she was super excited. Even though I probably knew a lot of their songs back then, I don’t know that I knew them, The Kinks. I was pretty Beatle-centric in high school though, and more than a little grumpy that there wasn’t any Beatles tour planned.
The Kinks can be very Beatle-esque with some of their harmonies, and general vibe, but they also have more of an edge, and are funny. I mean, how can you not laugh at “Superman” or “I’m an Ape Man?” My favorite song might be “Waterloo Sunset,” or, frankly, “Lola.”
Lola is just an amazing song. I realized when quite young that the woman, Lola, was probably trans, though I doubt I knew what trans was as a thing, but I knew that some men felt like women. And frankly I didn’t know it could happen in reverse, though I have spent a lot of my own life feeling more masculine than feminine. I would not call myself trans, but I would say that I understand that gender is fluid, and probably freaking hormonal as well. Plus, we’ve spent centuries demonizing “female” traits as weak or unserious, so it’s easy to imagine women attempting to be taken seriously would feel more masculine, or masculine leaning, and how any man wanting to have an emotional life might be afraid of being called weak.
It’s funny, this song has been in my head since I awoke this morning, and then, when I went to look up the YouTube video, I saw that Moby doesn’t like it.
But there it is, an article in the Irish Times about it:
Click the photo above to go to the article.
I love this, from the article:
“Who the f**k is Moby?” Ray Davies, of The Kinks, said on hearing that the musician had taken issue with one of the band’s signature hits.
“He’s someone who does quite well,’ his brother, Dave, explained. “I don’t know anything about the guy.”
HA! I feel the same. I have little to no experience of Moby, and what I have heard has not interested me. My gosh, how grown is Moby? Does he not understand that “Lola” being released, getting played, and becoming incredibly popular, in 1970, was groundbreaking? Yes, it’s a little bit funny, but The Kinks are funny. Funny people are better than serious ones, just sayin’ Moby. Often first forays into things are imperfect, and not what we would want maybe in a modern view, but to deny that it took on a lot of taboos and normalized them, I mean the song never gets worried about masculinity or societal norms. “That’s the way that I want it to stay, and I always want to be that way for my Lola.” Doesn’t sound anti-trans to me.
Here’s me and my dad when I am about four months old:
Which, if the woman I am meeting over Zoom tomorrow is my sister, would have made her about four years old then.
I have a younger sister:
And tomorrow I might meet my older sister.
My dad was a bit of a man-about-town, which I knew probably from the time I was about …. ten? I mean, as much as you know that kind of stuff when you’re ten. If we count all the times I knew, from say age four, that my mother was borderline murderously angry at my father, then there could be an entire Brady Bunch out there.
We knew my father’s mother was Irish, my father’s father, Pearce, British, my mother’s mother Irish with a little Scottish mixed in, and my mother’s father, Italian. A cousin or someone had told my sister there was a little French in there, so she had done Ancestry, confirming, oui, French, which I think makes us official European mutts, and, yes, there seems to be a sister. I was (in my head) bemoaning not being able to say brother from another mother, because I love stupid things and rhymes, when I realized I could say, sister from the same mister. Which is a very weird thing for me to think of, I think, in the circumstances, while also being exactly like me to think of. And there you go.
I am an adoptive mom, so if I have a sister out there who wishes to know me, she certainly should get to. It does bring up a lot of thoughts because I spent my entire childhood as a daddy’s girl, and there was another little girl out there. Hmmmm…. Complicated father-feelings, right? Was my dad aware? Was he letting another little girl grow up without him? As an adult who knew him (who is different from the little girl who knew him) I can imagine he would have done whatever he felt complicated his life the least. I’m so sorry not to be able to think there is a more stellar version of him who I can present to his daughter.
I mean, don’t ask me for a sweater or an Afghan, because I cannot make things out of yarn. But I am a knitter. By which I mean that I think I have a very relational brain. The old girl is always looking for how things relate to each other.
Which brings me to a new song that I heard a snippet of in a Facebook post, and I knew, as soon as I heard the snippet, that it was for me, and I loved it. It turns out, that I figured out (lots of outs!) over the last few days, that everybody loves it, and that’s okay, because it’s great. Everybody loves it, and I love it too, and, last night, in my sleep, my brain knitted it irrevocably to another song that I (but not everybody) also love.
Song #1: The New Song “I Just Might” by Bruno Mars
Oh sweet lord Bruno Mars. If you don’t love Bruno Mars, well I don’t even know. You must be a grumpy AF old white guy, that’s the only option. Or my mother, lol, but that’s a whole other story for another time. *sigh* Bruno…. Bruno brings it every single time, IMHO: the funk, the fun, the little bit of wickedly sexy. And this song also brings the “vintage.” It sounds like a song from another place in time, which isn’t the 1950s. The 1950s are probably my least favorite period in pop music since the 1850s, lol. Sure, “Duke of Earl” is a banger, but most of it is too… bland. This song from Bruno feels like the late 60s early 70s to me, so it doesn’t surprise me that my brain has knitted it to a song from Jefferson Starship, which also (because JS is made from Jefferson Airplane) spans that 60s-70s vibe.
Song #2:The Old Song “Lovely, Lovely Love” by Jefferson Starship
I was born to be a fan of Grace Slick. I mean she just embodied cool as a female performer, so I’d always been a fan of hers from the second I heard “Somebody to Love.” But this song is a Marty Balin song (RIP Marty). Marty was, I think, a romantic, and Bruno clearly is too.
Yes, when you first hear them you may be like, “What?” “Love Lovely Love” is a little bit overwrought, and it certainly does not have the pace that “I Just Might” has, but they do share a similar melody when you compare this section of “Love Lovely Love”:
Hey, why don’t you take Whatever you want from me? I’m in the mood For all the lovin’ that I can’t see. Is this for real now? Oh, I ask you now, can it be?
To this section of “I Just Might”:
Hey, Mr. DJ (Oh, oh, oh) Play a song for this pretty little lady (Oh, oh, oh) ‘Cause if she dance as good as she look right now (Oh, oh, oh) I just might, I just might make her my baby I just might make her my baby, hey
The lyrics, of “Love Lovely Love,” well Marty was definitely looking to get some, a lot, by the sounds of it. Ha! Could he put the word love in the title a little more?
And so is Bruno in many many of his songs, and that’s okay. I am still wishing uptown funk was gonna give it to me. Bruno, slide into my DMs please.
I first heard “Love Lovely Love” in a weird way. My college English teacher in the 80s was a graduate student who was, like Marty, also looking to get some, and after I met with him for the obligatory “Let’s have a conference to discuss your writing,” conference (a practice I did also for many years when I became a writing teacher, which we were all taught to do, and which was probably an ill-advised and awkward practice for everyone involved because of the intimacy it forced on teacher and student) he presented me with an “I want to get with you” mixed tape. To give you the short version, I had made the mistake of asking my teacher if the photo on his wall was Lene Lovich, and it was not, but it was Nina Hagen, and they’re not too dissimilar, and the teacher was thrilled that someone new some music beyond top-40, and he also thought I was cute, and, who knows, maybe I was, and he made me a mixed tape, which was a 1970s-1980s mating ritual that never should have gone out of style. I did not, by any stretch of the imagination, want to date this teacher, who was incredibly strange and had a blond mustache that he explained to me was groomed to emulate Fu Manchu. But that man was buying records from the UK before there was internet, when there was only college radio and moldy damp basement record stores under the El to find non-top 40 music. That teacher loved Jefferson Airplane and Jefferson Starship, and so did I, but I had a lot less access to collecting music as my mother had put her foot down on that when I was 15, so every album I ever bought had to be smuggled in and hidden so she would not find them and throw them away. Yeah. Cultural oppression! That’s what I grew up under. Anyway, I digress, and the point here is to say that the mixed tape that man made me was the greatest freaking mixed tape I have ever had, and I wish I still had it, and also his carefully-hand-written-on-a-sheet-of-notebook-paper track listing, and one of the amazing songs on that Memorex tape was, “Love Lovely Love.” If you come from the 70s and you want to get into a girl’s pants, you could do a lot worse than Marty Balin: “It’s No Secret,” “Plastic Fantastic Lover” “Come up the Years” “With Your Love,” “Miracles,” yeah, Marty was single-minded. The teacher was not, and while some of the songs definitely were trying to woo me, many more of them were just damn good music by any aficionado’s standard, because it was, for him, probably more about crafting the perfect tape than it was laying the perfect girl. Those kinds of guys, there is no perfect girl; there is only the perfect girl in that moment. Mixed tapes were always more about the guy than the girl the guys gave them to, but they were awesome.
Music is awesome. Marty Balin was awesome. Bruno Mars is a wonder, and sexy, and fun.
I have to wake up my daughter for school, so I’m going to go play a song for that pretty little lady. Who will not want to hear it, and who will not enjoy her mother’s eclectic taste in music (she likes Vocaloid! Lord save us!) And who will, someday, play me an old, old song by this creaky band called Jefferson Starship that the guy trying to get with her will have played for her, and she will play it for me, and it will all come around full circle. I hope.
I love music. I love listening to it, and singing, and I love going to see live music. I think if I were a single person with no one to be responsible for but myself, in a little house all-by-my-lonesome, I would play music a lot more often, and a lot louder.
I thought I might do some posts that don’t require quite as much explication/explanation, where I would just rattle off some songs I could listen to all day on repeat.
Okay, so, TODAY.
I’ve had so much editing to do lately that, ADHD brain being what it is, I have escaped to Starbucks lately to keep me from wandering around the house finding side projects in the middle of editing (like repotting half of my house plants, which are many). Last week I spent five days at about five hours each in Starbucks. I am now the “NORM!” of my local Starbucks. I buy food (reduced fat turkey bacon anyone?) and several drinks, so it’s not like I’m not paying for my seat. But last week I feel like I double-paid. Someone who worked there all five days that I was there is absolutely batty about the Taylor Swift album Fearless. I am not. Fearless is Taylor when she was in her country-music era(at least that’s how it sounds to me), and, even with earplugs in my ears (which I resorted to on day four), The songs all have the same style of singing and guitaring to them. Sorry Taylor, I respect you as a human, woman, and businessperson, and I love some of your songs (“Look What You Made Me Do”), but if I have to hear “Fifteen” again I am going to stab myself in the neck with a coffee stirrer.
Today I walked in to one of my all time favorite songs, though I think it is a sad song, and it inspired me to quickly (not going to be ADHD-ing away from work all day) pen this list.
What do these songs have in common? I could listen to each song, on its own, for literal hours, over and over, were I left to my own devices and my own schedule and life with no one around to annoy (and none of them are “Fifteen,” though I understand how she felt back then, and I probably did too).
LET ME GO
I tried, but could not bring, the best of everything…. This song has just always hit me right in the heart. Heaven 17, what a brilliant song this is. Do you feel the sadness?
THE CITY SLEEPS
When this came out I remember spinning the radio dial constantly in my car, trying to find it playing anywhere. I was blown away by the beat, the vibe, and the incredibly clever lyrics by MC 900 Ft Jesus. I also think I might have been the only one of my friends who liked it. Weird.
OH VERY YOUNG
You’re only dancing on this Earth a short while. So enjoy this great classic by Cat Stevens.
THAT’S THE WAY I’VE ALWAYS HEARD IT SHOULD BE
Apologies for making you break down and cry. Sometimes you gotta cry. Listen, growing up in the 70s was tough. No one spared us the sad songs for doo-wop like in the 1950s, and thank god they didn’t. When my parents weren’t speaking to each other, or us, they listened to “Yesterday When I Was Young,” by Roy Clark (and may god help us all!), and I listened to “That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be,” by the amazing Carly Simon.
LAURA
College of the Pacific, one of my favorite Dave Brubeck albums. “Laura,” one of the most beautiful melancholy jazz songs ever.
ALMOST BLUE
What the heck, let’s stay blue. “Almost Blue,” by Elvis Costello. I’ve seen EC about six times live, but I don’t think he ever did this. It’s fantastic.
ALMOST BLUE
Same song, different player. This is the amazing Chet Baker putting a hurting on “Almost Blue” the way only he can.
INSIDE OUT
You may never have heard of Spoon, but it’s time to change that. This song is dreamy, and melancholy. I invite you to float away.
NERVOUS SOUL
You may also not have heard of the Silverlake Chorus. This song is also sad, and dreamy. Enjoy, and harmonize!
DOGS
I saved this one for last because it is, apparently, seventeen minutes long. So we began with Heaven 17, and we end with 17 minutes of Pink Floyd‘s own, perfect brand of despair. To Taylor Swift when she was 15 let me just say, THIS is the song for when you’re in the throws of teen angst. If you can survive being a teen and listening to the album Animals on repeat, you can survive. This is my favorite Pink Floyd song of all time. .
Today my beautiful lady has been filled with what I believe are gerbera daisies. Cost for flowers, about $20 @ Trader Joe’s.
I had gerberas in my wedding bouquet by necessity and not choice. Unfortunately my April wedding came to be about two weeks after the ranunculus were spent and gone. I wanted ranunculus, because they have a wind-blown look. I wanted orange, and my sister had an orange dress. We both had our dresses made by Kevin Simon, who seems to have vaporized since she once had a very pricey store on Abbott Kinney Boulevard. Kevin made everything in linen, and she was a master of sort of vintage-farm looking clothing, like late 1800s. I loved her work and could not afford any of it, so I splurged on my dress and my sister’s, assuming I was only getting married once. A regular skirt at Kevin’s was over $500. My wedding dress and my sister’s MOH dress combined were $1000. The back bottom of my dress had tulle orange flowers pinned to it. My dress was linen with a silk slip, and my sister’s was orange silk. I’ve since lost about 70 pounds, and I left the dress at Goodwill in Delaware when I moved, but I kept all the organza flowers.
In any case, I do have to say I’m not usually a gerbera girl, except when needs must. But today the yellow (which is a lot lighter in real life) on the flowers screamed, “Butter!” at me, with just a hint of orange at their centers, and so I was compelled. Mixed them with orange and some green greenery, et voila!
The little pumpkin/squash you see there I plan to eat, not carve. LOL. Roasted pumpkin in things is divine! As are these lovely gerbera. Ranunculus are actually not great cut flowers, so droopy.
It is a blessing to have flowers anywhere in the world, of any kind, and especially on my very sunny kitchen counter. Buy the flowers, hold them high, and repeat after me, “Here’s to the times we bless others, and also to the times we bless ourselves!”
Have a wonderful week~
PS. Most flowers I buy last a full two weeks! Just keep the water clean and fresh.
I love music. I love listening to it, and singing, and I love going to see live music. I think if I were a single person with no one to be responsible for but myself, in a little house all-by-my-lonesome, I would play music a lot more often, and a lot louder.
I thought I might do some posts that don’t require quite as much explication/explanation, where I would just rattle off some songs I could listen to all day on repeat.
I have been told that, as a music lover, there are some odd things about me:
#1. If I love it, I want to hear it, over and over. I once played “Magic” by Pilot, for two solid hours (a 45 I’d pilfered from my friend) on my raggedy record player while in the Temple University dorms, in the middle of the day (who has classes from noon-3?) until another student showed up (and I was bouncing up and down on my bed at the time, as if it were a trampoline) and yelled at me to turn it the fuck off. It was… embarrassing. But that is 100% me; I cannot deny it. I no longer think beds are sturdy enough for adults to bounce on, but I could get that vibe again in a second.
#2. The second thing is that I can mix seemingly disparate music together. You will be able to tell when you take a look at today’s inaugural list (which, to be fair to #1, will start with Pilot). I am the same way with food. I am currently eating stir-fried cabbage for breakfast, with a big steaming cup of coffee with cream and sugar. I like strange tastes all in the same mouthful, or, as goes with this post, earful.
#3. I will merge songs in my head: two songs will become one the way I think of them. As an example, I often will sing, “Hotel California,” to the tune of, “If You Like Pina Coladas,” and use the chorus from the second instead of the “Hotel California” chorus. Try it. It is incredible. It’s my version of Laverne’s milk and Pepsi. If you are ever around me LIP, I will perform it for you, no charge. It works really well.
#4. I prefer vinyl. I am annoyed by vinyl, because you cannot make your own greatest hits like you can with a cassette tape or digital files, but I am addicted to the snap, crackle, pops. And there’s just something beautiful about an album. Us kids from the 70s, in the pre-MTV times, used to lock ourselves away with our crappy record players and our vinyl, and play side 1, and then side 2, or side A and then side B, and just pour over the album, look at all the liner notes, read the lyrics, check out all the band photos, basically memorize the thing. I could do that all night long. I still love it.
Okay, so lemme throw up ten today, and there’ll be more to come. What do these songs have in common? I could listen to each song, on its own, for literal hours, over and over, were I left to my own devices and my own schedule and life with no one around to annoy.
MAGIC!
Oh my gosh the lead singer is cute! I’m sorry world, but 1970s singers were the hottest… except for maybe Lenny Kravitz, and Bruno Mars. I love the strings in this, and I’m ready to hear it again, dormmates be dammed!
GOD SAVE THE QUEENS!
This was from a previous post, and, as it was already here, I’m including it in this list. What I had said last time was, “I need something like this right now. Something that feels punk, and resistant, and full of a big fuck you to oppressors everywhere.” Yep, still me; I’m still there, and, Vienna Vienna is not from the 1970s, but is pretty cute anyway. Can an old lady still find rock stars hot? It’s another thing I can’t seem to stop doing on repeat.
GOOD TIMES BAD TIMES
This is a live version, but I wanted one that showed the band, and not just an album cover and the music. Why? Because I’m still hoping to get trapped in an elevator for 12 hours with Robert Plant. I mean, come on. The guitar, the harmonies, the Plant… you could burn your fingers on this one.
TRYIN’ TO GET THE FEELING AGAIN
Apologies for making you break down and cry. Sometimes you gotta cry. But you sing your heart out while you’re doing it. I was so lucky to see Barry at the Hollywood Bowl in… 2011? He’s amazing, and so fun, and really talented. My brother, who played in a Rolling Stones cover band most of his life, liked Barry and introduced me to him when he gave me Barry Manilow II. It had “Mandy” on it, and “Avenue C,” and I was hooked. Love songs mixed with show tunes! What’s not to love?
I WAS DOIN’ ALLRIGHT
Sadly I cannot find a performance video of this one, but damn it’s good. This whole record is freaking amazing. Get it. Play it. It’ll make you feel like you’re walking on air.
I CAN’T BELIEVE
Tony Trischka and Skyline… the fabulous Dede Wyland on lead vocals. My boyfriend at the time was heavily into playing his mandolin, so we went to a lot of Bluegrass concerts. Sometimes I think Country music, the kind I grew up on, has lost its way, but not Bluegrass. I dearly love every Skyline concert we went to, and all their songs. I wish they were still together. I mean just listen to the instrumental section in the middle, and then Dede’s voice comes soaring back in like a bird. Wow.
COMME UN AVION SANS AILES
You won’t have heard of this, because you didn’t have Corrine Soler come and stay with you for two weeks in high school, but I did. And she brought me Poemes Rock by Charlelie Couture, which remains one of my top ten albums in my collection. I love it completely and treasure it dearly. If I was rushing out of the house due to natural disaster, I hope I’d remember to grab it, because I bet it is irreplaceable. You’ve probably long-since stopped reading this post, but you should hit play on this one. It’s surprising.
FUNKY MONKS
Funnily enough, one of my favorite of their songs appears to be one they rarely perform. Good-on the kid who requested it. I freaking love it.
KISS THEM FOR ME
Thought I’d finish off with two women. Siouxsie was one of my idols when I was in college. She’s incredibly beautiful, talented, and this song… what a delightful ear worm. It feels off-the-beat to me, but what do I know, but it is that off-kilter feel that it has that I cannot get enough of.
TOM’S DINER
No controversy here. Probably the entire world likes this one. This is a live version though. Badass.
Hopefully it won’t take me this long to come back with another bunch. I’d love to hear what you think about this set.
From the time I can remember, whenever I belonged to any group, I was, what my brother would call, a rah! rah!
My brother was definitely not a rah! rah! But, in his defense, organized things, like church and school, weren’t always that welcoming to the distracted kid who looked like he would have preferred to be anywhere other than there, and he would have.
I remember so clearly many aspects of 1976. I wore one of those mop hats Betsy Ross and the like wore, because my class was so often engaged in colonial reenactments at malls and nursing homes. I remember my friend, Krissi, who had Mr. Griffin instead of Mrs. Wentz, and her whole class did a huge lip-syncing performance, and Krissi got to be Elton John while another girl, who I was very jealous of, got to be Kiki Dee. Damn!
But my class was relegated to what Mrs. Wentz liked, and that was patriotism.
Well, that wasn’t that hard for me. I loved fireworks, something which, I must admit, years of dog ownership as an adult have soured for me. I loved barbecues in the back field with all the dads playing softball against all the sons, even if it did mean that the other daughters and I were stuck being beer-bringers, cheerleaders, and trash-picker-uppers. I was so proud a few years earlier for the Battle of the Sexes, where Billie Jean King roundly kicked Bobby Riggs’ old ass. I believed in feminism from the door, as much as a new human could. But the guys were not at all happy about Billie Jean King. They were pissed, and embarrassed, as if each one of them was Bobby Riggs. When our working class neighborhood had those ball games in the field I had an understanding that the guys needed those ball games. Those dads needed to clobber their young sons, and they needed their wives and daughters to cheer them on.
I have the photo of Converse at the top because we wore Converse and Keds, my brother and me, and I had a pair of Converse, I think they were Converse, in 1976 that were stars and stripes, and I loved them. I had a patriotic T, and I put crepe paper in my spokes, and biked in the 4th of July parade, learned all the patriotic songs (I was able to sing all the words to “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” just last night at the Hollywood Bowl), and I loved America.
My parents were blue-collar, a machinist (later a gunsmith) and a telephone operator, and they raised us on church, and baseball games, and love and respect of elders, and turkey with stuffing, and all that stuff.
As I grew up, though, that fit me less and less.
Sometimes, in my childhood, boys were just jerks, mean, violent. I never had a group of girls surround me on bikes and spit all over me, or throw worms in my long hair when it rained, or pick on my friend Richard, who was probably gay, and hit him, and hit me if I tried to stop them. But the boys did that. The boys told me I couldn’t play run-the-bases, or go in their fort, or go with them to the creek. Not my brother, my brother was always nice, but the boys the same age as me. In school the boys got angry when I got a higher score on the test, like it was a crime, and then would do something, “Race you to that pole!” to prove they could beat me. Or just knock into me in the hall, or hold my locker door closed when I was trying to get my books out. I loved my father and brother. I loved baseball and hockey and boxing. I wanted to hang out with the guys and the girls, but the guys weren’t usually welcoming, and they really didn’t want to hear my ideas on how to do things, at church or at school. And there were plenty of girls who were always ready to defend the guys being just as jerky as they wanted to be, if it meant they got asked to the prom. I also wanted to go to prom, but not that much.
As I grew up I was always more of a reader than most, and so I read the Sunday paper, and the Bible, and the school textbooks, and the encyclopedias that we had (I think we had through J), and the Atlas. I knew what the books said, and I knew what I thought about what I read. A lot of the guys hadn’t read, but they knew with certainty what they thought, and I had better not say different. And their girlfriends agreed.
In college, when I was living in an apartment near University of Pennsylvania, the neighbor guys threw ketchup and mustard on my apartment door, and banged up my bike locked up in the hall, because of my Geraldine Ferraro poster, which they tore down and tore up. Guys were always telling me I had too much to say, and too many opinions, and read too much.
Much later, when I signed up to adopt from China, I joined a Yahoo group for adopters-to-be, and quickly learned that a vocal group of waiting parents were fundamentalist Christians, and they didn’t want anyone using rainbows for anything, or to adopt while gay, or to really like China at all, which was, in the views they often espoused, a bad place full of bad people whose children needed rescuing.
I watched the Watergate hearings as a small child. When the cartoons were over on Saturday mornings, I stayed for the hearings until my mom shooed me away. I was so disappointed in Nixon. I thought Ford was a kindly but ineffective man. I thought Carter was great; I wanted to meet him. I despised Reagan, and both Bushes, and I was thrilled about Clinton, but more thrilled about Mrs. Clinton. I was devasted when Bill cheated on his wife.
I don’t know where I’m going with this except that, when I was young, I loved being a USA booster, and as I aged, I have felt more and more pushed out, like my kind of person wasn’t the right kind of American, and I’m white and straight! For those who aren’t, the pushing must feel so much more constant.
When I went to see Hamilton last fall, all my patriotism was re-awakened. My god what they did to get this country made! What they had the imaginations to plan for in the future, and what they were willing to give up to make this dream country!
But then, less than a month after I saw it, so many people voted for the wrong person. Now, I agree, we can compare and agree to disagree on John McCain and Mitt Romney vs. Barak Obama or the like. But we cannot do that on the current occupant of the White House. The man elected in 2024 has done nothing but egregious activities his entire adult life, and yet he brings out the patriotism in so many people, people, I would argue, who have no idea what patriotism is, and what it means to be an American in the America created by those founders whose stories are told in Hamilton. My father, who taught me to love baseball and boxing, and my brother, who taught me to love hockey and catch tadpoles, would have been horrified by elected officials being shot in their homes by a fake cop, and would have been disappointed in a president who could not bring himself to offer condolences to their governor. Where are men like them? Where are the real patriots? I feel like I’ve been in states of disbelief, grief, confusion, amazement, and panic since the fall election. I have moments where I want to take my small family, and our friends, and run for another country. But when you’re from the country that kicks everyone out, can you really ask another country to let you in?
I haven’t put out a flag for Flag Day or the 4th of July in years. I am an American patriot, but not for this version of America. And I wish I could have my pride and patriotism back. For me, it’s almost like the 4thof July has been sucked into “the upside down,” where everything I’ve loved about this country has been changed to its most perverse opposite. I know that what people like me lost from our country we lost in tiny little pieces, from, in my lifetime, the pardoning of Nixon foreword, in the name of trying to give space to two sides that are really not equal at all. As the short and fantastic film Here Be Dragons says, “Math class doesn’t give equal time to 2+2=5.” But we did. I lost my patriotism, and many lost much much more. I don’t think it’s something barbecue or patriotic sneakers or colored explosions can fix.
That is the wonderful duo of Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy.
My mother loved musicals when I was a kid, so I heard a lot of them. I used to ride my bike up and down our blue collar alley singing “Climb Every Mountain” at the top of my lungs…, you know, like all the cool kids. I once was a very high soprano, but now I am definitly a mezzo-soprano, if not a baritone.
Jeanette MacDonald went to school with my grandmother (one year ahead of her), which is what every old person in Philadelphia used to claim, but in our case it was true, and I know this because my grandmother, Sara, who never lied, and could not sing, told me she thought it was dumb, Jeanette doing all those “La la las” after school. My grandmother also told us that stolen flowers grow best, so there you go. My grandmother never knew her father, who ran off and joined the Canadian (French?) foreign Legion while my grandmother was still incubating inside her mother. Story goes her father got a new Canadian family, and died in WWI. So, of course, my grandmother had nothing to sing about and stole flowers. Of course. And so she walked home each day past Jeanette’s house where she could hear Jeanette singing. My grandmother wanted to play the piano more than anything, and knew a few tunes (“Jesus Loves Me,” “Cowslips,” and two-thirds of “Rose of Waikiki.”), but did not have the resources Jeanette had, and was certainly envious of those singing lessons, and the piano in the house.
In any case, family history and legend aside, my mother quite liked Jeanette MacDonald, and my mother was also a soprano. I remember the movies Jeanette made with Nelson Eddy were so corny, but she also made the movie about the San Francisco earthquake with Clark Cable, which was tragic and maybe a bit less corny, and had the stirring song about San Franciso in it.
In any case, I was a huge fan of her work, and I just loved this song that the duo did together, and “Indian Love Call,” (probably racist film and movie… but loved the song!)
and I also loved Rosemarie by Nelson on his own.
As corny as everything about them is, they had a tragic love life, if you read their Wikipedia pages, all brought about by the Hollywood studios trying to control them not getting divorced, which put Jeanette, who suffered with a weak heart, into a marriage of domestic violence. Really as tragic as their films often seemed! And they both died in their early 60s, which is also sad. They had money, fame, and privilege, but were denied the thing they wanted the most, each other.
“Will You Remember,” the first song inserted at the top of this post, has a habit of popping into my head on random, and I end up singing it for an entire week, in the shower, in the car, in my dreams. Hopefully you’ll find something to enjoy in these fantastic old tunes, and, if you do, join in, and see if you can hit those high notes!
May they be clasped in each others’ arms in the great beyond….
I love finding music I would not normally find. This musician, from Los Angeles, calls the music glimmer rock. All I know is that it is fantastic and over too quickly.
God save the queens!
I need something like this right now. Something that feels punk, and resistant, and full of a big fuck you to oppressors everywhere.
Duh, weirdos who want to go back to 1950, it’s not the conservative spending goals we dislike, it’s the hate and cruelty you seem to so enjoy.
Well, I don’t enjoy it. So god save the queens! Let’s play it again!
Try this one too!
Everything’s fine, when it’s clearly not.
Another sweet tune:
Truly, some people are not happy about things changing.
Well, not me. I may not get everything that’s below me in age, but I am here for it.
You should probably buy the EP, by the way. I did. All the cool weirdos did. I am here for the weirdos.
And, dammit, save the queens!
Hang tough all the wonderful DEI people, the women, the immigrants, the LGBTQii+, and all the allies too! I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this mess, but I do believe we will.
Or we’ll move.
Buy a copy of Vienna Vienna’s soon to be hit song “God Save the Queens” and the EP Wonderland!
I cannot believe how long it has been since I last did one of these posts.
Well, I’m back baby.
Again.
Listen, let this be a bit of information for all you scribblers of any sorts, you can always go back to it. You are the rules, so hop back in.
I got the vinyl going today, sitting at my desk with the front door open to let in the Los Angeles version of chilly weather. It’s delightful.
I rearranged my “office” a few weeks ago, and now the record player is right up against my desk. Let me get you a photo:
Oh, mama, lookie who is there, just looking at me. He’s positively smoldering at the sight of me! I honestly don’t know if I’m worthy. But he seems to think so.
I’m In You, the album you see there, is a very underrated album. First of all, 1970s albums that are less hard-rock, but still rock, have that sort of high-pitched, lightly plucked sound that I think of sort of orginating with Jefferson Airplane, like “Love, Lovely Love.” It comes across as a spring sound to my ears. So if you think of The Beach Boys and etc. as the sound of summer, Frampton could win for sound of spring, because he does that soft, twang guitar and laid back sound I just love. I grew up in Philly, where I always think the best season is spring, because it’s cool but not humid. Fall can be too hot and humid even as the leaves change, or freezing cold, but spring is delightful, and, I think, from the 70s to now, has probably shortened by a month or so as summer heats up sooner each year, in my anecdotal experience. If you’re lucky enough to live in Los Angeles you are luck to have that humidty-free, winter-is-not-here-to-stay feeling from, typically, November through July. July, August, and September, unless you’re on the Westside, you’re going to want to be indoors and as naked as possible, but the rest of the year you can float along on this light jacket daytime weather that turns to sweater weather at night, and it’s fantastic. IT makes me get a feeling in my skin that I’m young, that life is full of possibility, that the air smells of flowers. It makes me come alive. Like Frampton.
For this post I want to highlight not a single song per se, but the whole of I’m In You. The album has the gentle vibe of spring weather, full of possibility, but also chill. I want to highlight a song that really hasn’t ever gotten the attention it deserves: “St. Thomas (Don’t You Know How I Feel).”
I could argue that Frampton, who wrote “Do You Feel Like I Feel,” was a bit obsessed with the word feel, because he uses it at least 14 times in this song, but that just makes this song easier to sing along to. The point is not the lyrics. The point is the vibe. This song is a feeling more than a message. There’s a fantastic solo in the middle. And Frampton is a great guitar player. It’s a gentle rocking of a song. Take a listen and see if it doesn’t make you think of spring.
Did your blood pressure just drop five points? You know it did.
Of course, we cannot go forward without mentioning the title track. “I’m In You.”
“I don’t care where I go when I’m with you When I cry you don’t laugh cause you know me
I’m in you You’re in me You gave me the love, the love that I never had
You and I don’t pretend; we make love I can’t feel anymore than I’m singing”
And what I always just loved about this song, aside from the idea of me and Frampton being in each other, was the opening line, “I don’t care where I go when I’m with you,” that also ends the song, but I’m gonna make the guess that the final word of the song is “with” and the “you” is not sung, but played by the guitar, which is super cool, and makes it more emotional. It ends on that high note. Frampton seems to be merging the physical with the sound. It’s working for me:
Those 70s guys, damn:
How great was that? So chill.
I have to point out one more song on the album that I have never been able to get enough of, “Signed Sealed and Delivered.”
It’s a Stevie Wodner song, in case you didn’t know, and I am a huge Stevie fan from his 60s and 70s catalogue, and I love this song by Stevie, but I also loved the cover by Frampton. (By the way, my last “it should be half an hour” post was on the Red Hot Chili Peppers who also covered Steve beautifully: “Higher Ground.”)
But, back to Frampton:
I saw this comment on YouTube:
Peter Frampton’s 1977 – “Signed, Sealed, Delivered … I’m Yours” – on his album I’m in You. His version also contains instrumental elements from Wonder’s hit “For Once in My Life” Mick Jagger is featured on backing vocals. Frampton’s version was released as a single. Motown Soul delivered from England’s Peter Frampton. With this re-make of the Classic Stevie Wonder Hit, Frampton topped The Billboard “Hot 100” at #18, and #13 on the Cashbox Top 100, also #13 in Canada.
So, today, as I enjoy the “Punxsutawney Phil Was Wrong” feel of the great Los Angeles weather, I want to offer you the thought to give Frampton a listen. You think The Beach Boys own that nice-weather vibe, but spring is better than summer any day, and Frampton is a great ride you may have missed.
Check out his Tiny Desk concert too:
I don’t know Frampton, but his whole vibe is “gentle soul,” and I love that about him.
Dianne Pearce Writes 