Tag: music

Will November Spawn A Monster?

It’s Election Week for potentially the most consequential presidential election in my lifetime thus far. Well, I could also make the case that the 2000 election with its Supreme-Court-adjudication ending was pretty damn consequential too but at least, then, while I wasn’t thrilled with the election outcome, George W. Bush wasn’t vowing to become a dictator on day one. So, there’s that. I know the American population is stressed out right now and for good reason. Half of us feel we need a W to return to being the great nation we believe we once were and the other half are fearful that if we don’t win there will be no democratic nation left, period. The news is all over the place. The polls have us biting our nails. I see countless posts on social media from residents of other nations begging us to make the right choice. It’s been a lot and, frankly, I am exhausted.

I feel I’ve done all I can do to contribute to the outcome I would like to see on Tuesday night, or whatever day the election is finally decided. I live in Colorado where registered voters receive our ballots via mail. Most people I know do not vote in person and haven’t since ballots began being mailed to us in 2013. As a full-on introvert, there was no way I would be doing any in-person canvassing, so I had to find other ways to engage in the election process. Last presidential election, I did hours of texting for my candidate, but it turns out there was a limit to how much abuse I could handle from strangers in Ohio, so I decided to forgo that option this time around. Instead, I donated way more money to both the presidential race and the down-ballot races than I had planned to. What can I say? I was getting so many texts and emails it became impossible to ignore them all. I mean, Mark freaking Hamill texted me personally, well sort of personally, and how do you say no to Luke Skywalker? Then, I also ordered 300 get-out-the-vote postcards and requisite stamps and sent those out to Ohio because that seemed less likely to damage my psyche. And after that I requested 200 more and dutifully filled those out with colorful Sharpie markers and sent those too. I made sure my Gen Z sons ordered and received their ballots while at college in Washington and walked them through the ballot process, discussing all the state and local amendments and propositions. I put a sign in our yard and in our window. And I submitted my ballot early, and it was counted on October 23rd. Since then, I’ve been holding my breath. I have a bottle of champagne in the fridge in case I get to celebrate this week, but I also have a bottle of vodka in the freezer in case things don’t work out the way I hope. The election now rests in the hands of my fellow citizens who have yet to make their voices heard. I hope they have done their part to contribute to the outcome they would like to see.

Today, being the 80’s alternative Gen Xer I am, I listened to the new album by The Cure on repeat and that’s when it hit me. The true Gen X way to celebrate or mourn anything (in the absence of an 80’s arcade, shopping mall, or folded note on college-ruled paper) has to be done via music. To that end, I’ve decided tonight I am going to make election playlists to accompany either my champagne celebration or my vodka bath on Tuesday evening. Back in the day, I would have pulled out the old double tape boombox and press play and record simultaneously to create a couple mix tapes. Now I will just drag songs into a playlist, which will be infinitely faster and may represent progress. Either way, I figure this activity will keep my mind occupied tonight, which means I then have only one more evening of anticipation to endure before I get to watch Steve Kornacki ratchet up my anxiety at the big board Tuesday night. No one knows where we’re headed. Based on current polling, this race is the closest in years and the stakes feel overwhelming. When the Electoral Map is decided, I just hope I don’t end up swigging from a chilled handle of vodka singing REM’s It’s The End Of The World As We Know It because I’m pretty sure I will not feel fine about it.

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May These Memories Break Our Fall

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, sometimes you gotta say ‘What the fuck,’ make your move.” ~Risky Business

On the 2nd of January, I said “What the fuck, make your move” and clicked Purchase on two resale seats for an Amsterdam date on Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour. Buying resale concert tickets can be risky business, indeed, but missing this record-breaking concert event would be something I would regret, I told myself. I have grown to loathe feeling regret and avoid it when possible. So, I sold my soul to the demon I despise and paid StubHub a ludicrous sum, rationalizing I had no other choice. It was a personal imperative. For the past few years, Taylor Swift had been propping me up as I dealt with a lot of real life shit. The Tortured Poets Department became the final rung on my climb to catharsis. This concert was going to be a full-circle moment in part of my life’s journey, the launching pad for the next phase of my life.

In the months leading up to our tour date, we told our dirty little secret only to a select few because you never know if you’re actually getting inside a concert with a second-hand ticket. As I stood at our kitchen island making friendship bracelets and changing my mind umpteen times about which era I would choose for my concert attire, in the back of my mind the nagging thought we might not gain entrance at all swirled. I made my peace with the notion of listening to what we could hear from outside Johan Cruijff Arena and being grateful to be part of the tour in whatever small way we could, all while quietly reassuring myself seeing this concert live was a destiny that would be fulfilled.

At 5:30 pm on July 5th, wearing a black skirt, a “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me” sequined t-shirt, and rhinestone sneakers, I crossed my fingers, scanned my ticket, and pushed through the turnstiles of Ajax Arena. Steve and I seeped into a throng of Swifties inside. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and looked around. It was perhaps the most gentle and respectful crowd that arena has yet seen, fans politely inching past each other towards their designated spots. I’d chosen seats in the lower part of the upper deck close to the midpoint of Taylor’s massive stage. On one side of us were the New York City Gen Z’s from whom I’d bought our tickets and on the other side was a Belgian couple in their forties with their two teenage daughters. We exchanged some bracelets and easy conversation. Paramore, the opening act for the European leg of the tour, did their best to work the stage and warm us up for Taylor, but not a being in the place needed warming for Taylor. We were ready for it.

The clock appeared on the massive screen that ran the length of the stage. When it hit 13, the crowd began counting down aloud. I got goosebumps. The dancers appeared with their pastel parachutes undulating like flower petals in a breeze until they eventually settled into their spots, bent down, and allowed the fabric to carpet the floor. When the dancers stood again and revealed Taylor among them like Venus in the shell in Botticelli’s famous painting, the crowd roared. I teared up. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but I was really there. This was really happening. I took a minute to survey the arena. Fifty-five thousand Swifties in all their Eras glory, singing along to “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince.” I was enchanted. “Here we go,” I told myself as I settled in for the three-plus story hours of love, heartbreak, drama, revenge, and redemption. I reveled in every minute of the show, taking care to be present by limiting my desire to record the moments on my phone. When the crowd began jumping to “You Belong With Me,” you bet your ass I jumped too. Well rehearsed, I shouted along during the fan participation parts, yelling “one, two, three, let’s go, bitch” during a break in the intro to “Delicate” and inserting my triple claps in “Shake It Off.” When Taylor got to the acoustic set, I allowed myself a moment to record the crowd. I said, “Remember this moment” in the back of my mind. And when she’d reached her last song and the band played the first notes of “Karma,” I gave up and let the emotion roll over me. The night had been timeless, but it caught up and it was time to grab our souvenir merch and head to the exit. So I closed the chapter on this era and stepped outside and into my next era.

Eras Tour Stage
Lover
Make the friendship bracelets
You Weren't Mine To Lose
Smallest Man Who Ever Lived
I can do it with a broken heart
The kingdom lights shined
Karma

It’s been 27 days since our Amsterdam concert, and I’ve been struggling for all 27 of those days trying to decide what to write about it in this post. The Eras tour has a film. When it wraps, it will have been seen in person by a staggering 10 million people, give or take. It has been reviewed innumerable times and myriad ways by Swifties, celebrities, bloggers, and publications. YouTube has countless videos of the show. Taylor Swift made the cover of Time with her ragdoll cat, Benjamin Button because of this tour. There is little I can say about it to add to what already exists in the world. There is no way to encapsulate the experience of standing among tens of thousands of fellow fans, belting out every word to every song, and vibing with strangers you’ll never meet whom you know somehow understand a part of you even some of your closest friends don’t get. It was worth every penny we spent, and I’d spend them all again. Taylor’s Eras Tour story will end in Vancouver on December 8th, and I will forever be grateful that as a middle aged, relatively new Swiftie I decided to ignore the haters and give myself the opportunity to be part of it. Life’s short, people. So, as Taylor says, “Make the friendship bracelets. Take the moment and taste it. You’ve got no reason to be afraid.” After all, taking a risk is only risky business until it pays off.

“Hold on to spinning around, confetti falls to the ground, may these memories break our fall.” ~Taylor Swift

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Taylor Swift’s Positive Lesson In Negative Experiences

I’ve spent the past two and a half weeks absorbing Taylor Swift’s latest album, The Tortured Poets Department: The Anthology. With 31 tracks, it’s been a full-time job. One song, in particular, I cannot stop thinking about because of how true it feels for my life as well. thanK you aIMee is about a person (or persons) in Swift’s past whose cruel behavior pushed her to her breaking point and ultimately served as a catalyst for her extraordinary success.

All that time you were throwin’ punches, I was building somethin’, and I couldn’t wait to show you it was real…I pushed each boulder up the hill, your words are still ringin’ in my head…I wrote a thousand songs that you find uncool, I built a legacy that you can’t undo, but when I count the scars there’s a moment of truth, that there wouldn’t be this if there hadn’t been you. ~Taylor Swift, thanK you aIMee

People have spent a lot of time surmising whom the song is about. The identity of the bully/bullies makes no difference to me as a listener. I simply appreciate the emotional intelligence Taylor exhibits in knowing that sometimes the people who were the worst to you and caused you the most heartbreak and stress were actually the ones who offered you the opportunity for the most auspicious growth. I suspect everyone, at one point or another, had someone whose negativity, crappy behavior, or downright bullying abuse became the catalyst for growth. In those moments of anguish, did you fold or did you find a way forward? Do you have someone who you, perhaps somewhat regrettably, owe at least a mental debt of gratitude for the pain they caused you?

I’m 15 days away from the ten year anniversary of the day I woke up and saw my life clearly for the first time. That day changed me irrevocably for the better. Yes. For a while I was reeling, spinning through anger, pain, frustration, and confusion. Then I realized I couldn’t live where I had been, so I needed to find my way forward to a new reality. I’ve been in weekly therapy since. I’m still slaying my dragons, but every single day I wake up grateful I’m no longer living unconsciously. This doesn’t mean I behave well all the time. I don’t. It’s hard to break old, deeply worn patterns. That said, I’m awake now and that is only because of one huge argument on my front porch right after our youngest’s 11th birthday party. Every single day, however, I am grateful to that person for helping me see what I had never seen before. It shook me in the best way possible. I would not go back and undo that hurtful moment for all the money in the world. No matter how much pain and work have gone into the last ten years, I’m a healthier me now for the struggles I’ve endured. Not quite out of the woods yet, but definitely better armed and more at peace.

‘Cause I’m a real tough kid, I can handle my shit, they said “Babe, you gotta fake it ’til you make it” and I did. ~Taylor Swift, I Can Do It With a Broken Heart

(PS…I also have to shout out Taylor Swift for writing songs with a huge range and depth of human emotions. She’s teaching this old dog all the feels I never knew how to feel.)

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The Troubadour of Sterling Ranch

Photo by Jefferson Santos on Unsplash

One of the first things I noticed as we were settling into our new neighborhood two summers ago was a curious neighbor. I don’t mean curious in the way that he was curious or nosey. I mean only that I found him curious. I didn’t know what to make of him. He was decidedly hard to miss as I made the left hand turn leading towards our home. There he was. Standing on the sidewalk, playing his guitar and singing, smile broadened across his friendly face. The first time I saw this, I thought it was a little odd but I figured it might be a one off. Perhaps I was missing something. Maybe there was a reason he was out there playing and singing. Maybe he was waiting for someone and planned to greet them with a song. That made sense to me, so I went with that thought.

But as I continued to drive back and forth in the coming weeks as we settled into our new home, I noticed he was out there nearly every time I drove by. I eventually made my peace with the idea that this was a regular occurrence, but I struggled to understand why. My introvert self was deeply confused by this blatant display of extrovert power. What did he want? Was I supposed to acknowledge his playing? Was he playing for himself? Should I wave? He couldn’t wave back. Should I just smile? Nod a visual acknowledgment of his existence? In my 52 years, I’d never encountered a situation like this with a neighbor standing on a residential street singing to no audience in particular. Sometimes on walks with my dog I would see he was out there and panic. What do I do when I walk by? Should I stop? Is that what is polite? My mind could not fathom a situation in which a person would do such a thing. It felt so awkward to me because I didn’t understand why he was doing it and felt confused about what I was meant to do when I saw him. When I found myself driving by him, maybe for the third or fourth time that day, and running out of what I felt were legitimate ways to regard him, I would avert my eyes. And while I was thinking he was this crazy guy out there singing to himself, he probably was thinking, “How many times is she going to drive by today?”

Over the intervening years, I’ve accepted something about Chris. He is out there, in all sorts of weather on all sorts of days, because he is doing what feeds his soul. Who does that? You rarely see a grown adult performing and smiling on the street without a tip jar out for collection. It was a foreign concept to me. I know people who like their jobs, but I don’t often catch them executing their job on a public street. Granted, it’s a bit easier for a singer/songwriter to share the joy of what they do with others than it would be for, say, a teacher. You don’t often see elementary school teachers standing on the street reading aloud from The Giving Tree or whatever. So the more I thought about Chris and his playing and singing, the happier it made me. Here was someone following their damn bliss. It was so brazen. Chris is out there living his best life in plain view of everyone else. Once I got over my introvert conundrum regarding how to approach the visual of this happy individual singing his heart out, I decided he was inspiring, actually. And when I checked out his website, which was shared with me by our neighbors, I decided he was even more inspiring because not only is he a songwriter and performer, but he is also a poet and a published author. He’s a busy guy.

Chris is busy making the world a better, more positive place. It’s no wonder his behavior confused me. You don’t see much of it these days.

Rock on, Chris! We appreciate you.

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From Darkness To Light, or Here Comes The Sun

I love listening to music. I like it so much that it is difficult for me to listen to books or podcasts because there is no time for them. When I am in my car driving to one of my gazillion errands or wearing headphones while doing work around the house, music is what keeps me going. It transports me. And I need to be transported out of my busy, monkey mind most days.

For most of my life, I have liked music other people consider dark. Maybe even too dark. I like depressing lyrics, songs about heartbreak, music that makes me feel part of a bigger whole. When a friend told me that she loved “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves, I mentally rolled my eyes. I just can’t get behind that. I never really thought much about my proclivity towards dark, brooding bands with melancholy and depressive lyrics until other people pointed it out as something odd. It didn’t feel odd to me. It simply was what I liked. Recently, though, I realized sad songs are what I relate to. They make sense to me. I can inhabit them because they seem to reflect my experiences. Happy songs? Well, I just haven’t lived from that walking-on-sunshine place yet. But play me a song about a broken relationship, a girlfriend in a coma, or some serious self-loathing, and I can meet you there.

Here are some miserable (but great) song lyrics that have resonated with me, so you can see what I mean:

“I never thought about love when I thought about home.” ~The National, “Bloodbuzz Ohio“

“I know I’m unloveable, you don’t have to tell me…I wear black on the outside ’cause black is how I feel on the inside.” ~The Smiths, “Unloveable“

“And at once I knew, I was not magnificent.” Bon Iver, “Holocene“

“Going out of my mind, never getting what I wanted, getting what I needed, I left myself behind.” CHVRCHES, “Get Out”

“Take a good look at my face, you’ll see my smile looks out of place, if you look closer it’s easy to trace the tracks of my tears.” Smokey Robinson & The Miracles, “The Tracks of My Tears”

“Start asking for forgiveness in advance, for all the future thing I will destroy. That way I can ruin everything.” Julien Baker, “Hardline”

“The best of us can find happiness in misery.” Fall Out Boy, “I Don’t Care”

Depressing, right? There are a lot of songs about misery and pain. They are easy to find. When I first started getting into music in middle school, I gravitated towards gloomy songs because it was easier to sing along with something that resonated with me than something that felt shallow to me. I know dark doesn’t directly translate to deep or anything, but with dark you are in the ballpark. Or, at least, that is what I would tell myself; the mournful songs mean I’ve lived sadness and delved into the depths of human misery. That’s kind of deep, right?

Over the past few years, I have noticed I’ve begun to find some positive, happy songs that suck the depression right out of me. I think this is a good sign. I suspect it means I am growing, and my outlook is changing. I’m not sure I will ever walk away from my depressing songs because they are part of me still but, if I can get to a place where happy songs reflect my inner life as much as gloomy ones, I’m on the right path.

And, to end on a positive note because I am heading in a positive direction, enjoy some of these lyrics from a song that inspires me in all the best ways:

“I used to lay low, hiding in the shadows, so don’t give me dark days, I already had those. I’m just trying to figure out how to be myself right now. I don’t wanna lay low, hiding in the shadows. So I wake up, I get out of bed. Stay up, stay out of my head ’cause it’s dangerous and I don’t wanna lose my mind, no. I just wanna shine like the sun when it comes up, run the city from the rooftops ’cause today’s gonna be my day. I just wanna climb to the top of a mountain, standing tall when I’m howlin’ ’cause today’s gonna be my day.” Fitz and the Tantrums, “I Just Wanna Shine”

Suck on that, misery!

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What Difference Does It Make

Something British that I truly enjoyed last night
Something British that I truly enjoyed last night

“One must hop toward the light rather than sit in a shadow and wonder why it’s dark.” ~Bunny Buddhism

I’ve been a regular concert goer since I was a teenager. I saw my first concert (The Police on their Synchronicity tour) when I was 15 years old. My friends and I were in the rafters in seats labeled on the printed tickets as “Possible Obstructed View.” It didn’t matter. When Sting took the stage and I saw the tiny dot that was HIM, the magical concept of the concert was solidified. I was taken in hand by the spirit of live music. Game over.

Last night I had the opportunity to see in concert an artist I’ve followed since I wore black on the outside because black was how I felt on the inside. As much as I adored Sting and The Police (and I’ve seen Sting, either with or without The Police, approximately nine times), The Smiths were my anchor, Morrissey my preacher. Need a pithy lyric? I’ve got an entire cache of Smiths’ lyrics stored in my brain, the same brain that can’t remember my own phone number some days. After two failed attempts to see the Moz (he cancelled the shows both times), yesterday afternoon I started to believe it might be my night. I crossed my fingers and hoped the third time was a charm. Please, please, please let me get what I want. Lord knows, it would be the first time. To celebrate the evening’s potential, my friend Heather and I had dinner at the British Bulldog. We were taking this experience as seriously as Morrissey takes his PETA affiliation.

When he finally took the stage last night in the Ellie Caulkins Opera House, all the self-inflicted misery of my teenage years resurfaced. The show started out better than I could have hoped with Hand in Glove. His voice was spot on, clear, smooth, and without any hint of the ill effects of high altitude. Having resigned myself long ago to the knowledge that I would never hear a Smiths’ song live, I could not have been more happy to be wrong. As the concert progressed, however, I found myself becoming increasingly agitated. A steady dose of morose songs are the norm with Morrissey, but his solo catalog also includes musically upbeat tunes…even if they are accompanied by lyrics that are she-was-found-face-down-in-a-bathtub-of-vodka level of depressing. I kept waiting for the uptempo songs. They did not arrive. Worse than that, I was seated next to an aggravating couple that included a gentleman who believed he himself was Morrissey. He sang each and every word quite loudly and with the utmost conviction of his own vocal talent. I wanted to kick him in the eye. I was not surprised when Morrissey performed Meat Is Murder while onscreen a graphic, five-minute long film of the industrialized food machine abusing and murdering animals played for our edification. I gave up hope and focused instead on my double vodka and soda. At least there was a chance for temporary mental respite at the bottom of my plastic cup. I checked my phone for the time and found myself disappointed that it was only 10:11. All I could think was heaven knows I’m miserable now.

Toward the end of the show, Heather and I checked out. I think we might have left if it hadn’t been for some sort of misguided optimism that perhaps Morrissey would come out of his self-indulgent drama long enough to play something lively and redeem the show. I know Morrissey was simply being Morrissey. It’s not his fault that I didn’t get the concert I had hoped for. He was the same Morrissey he has always been. I have changed. My mentality has caught up with my biology. I’m older now and have less tolerance for intentional misery. I am weary and wary of wallowing for wallowing’s sake. Life is short, and our thoughts determine our relative level of joy. Based on that notion, Morrissey must be the most disconsolate man on earth. Don’t get me wrong. I will always enjoy his songs because they are wry, poetic, and clever. He rests on the other side of the scale from brainless, pop fluff and creates a necessary balance. Somewhere along the line, though, I decided that choosing to live in misery doesn’t make you deep. It just makes you dark. I will never see another one of your shows, Morrissey, but I’m still fond of you.

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