Hey, Kass, "Live from Wolf Trap Park, it's the Chuck Mangione Show, Show"
Can't think of anything I've ever bought off an infomercial, even though the Gazelle was strangely tempting with that zealot Tony Little all creepy muscly, pony tailed and wildly jazzed about his product's unbelievable ability to tone and shape the average John and Jane's lumpy body into pageant worthy, tanned physiques. Neither have I been tempted by Franklin Mint figurines, don't wait -- call now, or bags you suck the air out of to make room for unnecessary acquisitions you can more efficiently squeeze in to your already cluttered life, or cooking appliances promoted by boxers, or hair extensions to make me more youthfully beguiling. Just don't want that stuff. Just don't need it.
I was hooked in to a Time-Life offer once, though. Probably six or so years back, up late one night or in the wee wee hours of the a.m. when only 7-11 workers, grocery "stalkers" and cabbies are on the clock, I was nursing Mason and watching TV. Incidentally, the boob tube was no doubt thusly named because for years nursing mothers have been kept company by spookily made up and coiffed evangelists, Jerry Springer and Montel in syndication, Mary Hartman Mary Hartman and The Facts of Life reruns.
During one of these lonely night time feedings (think Eric Carmen's "All by Myself"), I was sucked in by the faceless, velvety voice of a man telling me how I could recapture the inimitable musical excellence of the '70s. Wow! This couldn't be true! An entire decade of singer/songwriters belting out ballads, yacht rock and dabbling in styles that would later transition in to punk, disco and Rick Springfield. This was my chance to own a time capsule of of my pipsqueak years, 3-12, from Janis Joplin's death in 1970 all the way past Air Supply's "popularity". Interestingly, for as lameish, no, flat out lame, as their (A.S's) stuff was, it's surprising to discover those dudes met doing Jesus Christ Superstar, a considerably more edgy sound than their own work product.
Anyway, the decade included some of my all time faves. I have to stop here and pay tribute to my sister, Kass. Very vividly I recall being in awe of how she not only knew the every lyric to all Heart's songs as well as Queen, and much later Michael Jackson as well as many, many others, but she also sang out in such a liberated and enthusiastic way. Just very impressive for a little sister to witness. I wasn't jealous or envious she had this seemingly secret knowledge of how to remember and know who was who and what was what, I simply and sincerely admired it. Over the years, Kass has continued to introduce new sounds and musicians to me -- Tally Hall, Keane, Paula Cole, Alana Davis, Leslie Feist, Michelle Shocked, Sarah McLaughlin, Indigo Girls... the list goes on. Hmm, sounds pretty Lillith Fairish, all goodies, though.
While there is admittedly tons of intersection in the Venn Diagram of our separate music collections, I realize and appreciate she may never warm to "Jesus Built My Hot Rod", "More Human than Human", some of Liz Phair's in your face lyrics, Ben Folds, Foo Fighters, Chili Peppers or most of the louder stuff I like, but we can talk endlessly about where our tastes converge. It's cool.
Naturally, over time and with exposure to new and different things, tastes change, but coming back to the old stuff always feels good. And while I love Stephen Bishop's "On and On" because it is so 5th grade and full of a bunch of associations -- Halloween in Portland and the Dillon's haunted house; a funny little sink in Bennie's and my shared bedroom; ice skating with my neighbor pal, Amy Gilchrist; Nike shoes and rainbow patterned down vests -- he is not someone I would gravitate to today.
"Mrs Robinson" -- Australia 1971. Playground at the end of our cul-de-sac in Hobart, Tasmania. Lying on the cold merry-go-round looking up and wondering if I jumped straight up really REALLY high, if the world would spin a little under me, thereby causing me to land yards from where I launched myself. Home school. Auntie Jack. Drinking rose-hip syrup from a teaspoon. The play set on the hill in our back yard. Being introduced to milk in hot tea. Amelie's fabulously fancy Easter birthday cake with a huge egg in a cart. Vegemite. Meat pies for school lunch. My first grade teacher, Ms. Blackaquinn, wearing pretty shoes and micro mini skirts. Speedo swim caps and the high dive. Eucalyptus trees in the nearby woods.
Dang. Those 3+/- minutes of music bring on a whole cascading brain flood. Some are flashes. Some are attached to deeply detailed scenes on a loop. The brain is such a funky organ.
"Rhinestone Cowboy" -- Mom pregnant with sol. Forreston farm. A pair of Shetland ponies named Belle Star and Golden Bay. Ducks. Nana our St. Bernard. A toothpick rammed up my foot because it was camouflaged in impossibly high shag carpet. Sleeping in the back of our yellow Subaru during a middle of the night trip to Galveston for one of my dad's summer beach concerts w/ the DSO. The cotton gin near the general store at the edge of town. Nehi Grape soda. Volunteer fire fighters playing chess in front of the fire house. Reading all the Narnia tales and Laura Ingalls Wilder's books on the wrap around porch. The time it rained tiny black baby fogs. My mom making quiche the morning Sol was born at the house. Tightly braided hair and teeth so big they didn't really fit in my head. Sleeping with wet hair in front of a box fan in the middle of a sweltering summer. Rigging a pulley and rope deal to move a busted TV carcass from the back of the barn up to our club house in the hay loft. Eating cat food just for the heck of it...This particular list is infinitely long.
I was hooked in to a Time-Life offer once, though. Probably six or so years back, up late one night or in the wee wee hours of the a.m. when only 7-11 workers, grocery "stalkers" and cabbies are on the clock, I was nursing Mason and watching TV. Incidentally, the boob tube was no doubt thusly named because for years nursing mothers have been kept company by spookily made up and coiffed evangelists, Jerry Springer and Montel in syndication, Mary Hartman Mary Hartman and The Facts of Life reruns.
During one of these lonely night time feedings (think Eric Carmen's "All by Myself"), I was sucked in by the faceless, velvety voice of a man telling me how I could recapture the inimitable musical excellence of the '70s. Wow! This couldn't be true! An entire decade of singer/songwriters belting out ballads, yacht rock and dabbling in styles that would later transition in to punk, disco and Rick Springfield. This was my chance to own a time capsule of of my pipsqueak years, 3-12, from Janis Joplin's death in 1970 all the way past Air Supply's "popularity". Interestingly, for as lameish, no, flat out lame, as their (A.S's) stuff was, it's surprising to discover those dudes met doing Jesus Christ Superstar, a considerably more edgy sound than their own work product.
Anyway, the decade included some of my all time faves. I have to stop here and pay tribute to my sister, Kass. Very vividly I recall being in awe of how she not only knew the every lyric to all Heart's songs as well as Queen, and much later Michael Jackson as well as many, many others, but she also sang out in such a liberated and enthusiastic way. Just very impressive for a little sister to witness. I wasn't jealous or envious she had this seemingly secret knowledge of how to remember and know who was who and what was what, I simply and sincerely admired it. Over the years, Kass has continued to introduce new sounds and musicians to me -- Tally Hall, Keane, Paula Cole, Alana Davis, Leslie Feist, Michelle Shocked, Sarah McLaughlin, Indigo Girls... the list goes on. Hmm, sounds pretty Lillith Fairish, all goodies, though.
While there is admittedly tons of intersection in the Venn Diagram of our separate music collections, I realize and appreciate she may never warm to "Jesus Built My Hot Rod", "More Human than Human", some of Liz Phair's in your face lyrics, Ben Folds, Foo Fighters, Chili Peppers or most of the louder stuff I like, but we can talk endlessly about where our tastes converge. It's cool.
Naturally, over time and with exposure to new and different things, tastes change, but coming back to the old stuff always feels good. And while I love Stephen Bishop's "On and On" because it is so 5th grade and full of a bunch of associations -- Halloween in Portland and the Dillon's haunted house; a funny little sink in Bennie's and my shared bedroom; ice skating with my neighbor pal, Amy Gilchrist; Nike shoes and rainbow patterned down vests -- he is not someone I would gravitate to today.
"Mrs Robinson" -- Australia 1971. Playground at the end of our cul-de-sac in Hobart, Tasmania. Lying on the cold merry-go-round looking up and wondering if I jumped straight up really REALLY high, if the world would spin a little under me, thereby causing me to land yards from where I launched myself. Home school. Auntie Jack. Drinking rose-hip syrup from a teaspoon. The play set on the hill in our back yard. Being introduced to milk in hot tea. Amelie's fabulously fancy Easter birthday cake with a huge egg in a cart. Vegemite. Meat pies for school lunch. My first grade teacher, Ms. Blackaquinn, wearing pretty shoes and micro mini skirts. Speedo swim caps and the high dive. Eucalyptus trees in the nearby woods.
Dang. Those 3+/- minutes of music bring on a whole cascading brain flood. Some are flashes. Some are attached to deeply detailed scenes on a loop. The brain is such a funky organ.
"Rhinestone Cowboy" -- Mom pregnant with sol. Forreston farm. A pair of Shetland ponies named Belle Star and Golden Bay. Ducks. Nana our St. Bernard. A toothpick rammed up my foot because it was camouflaged in impossibly high shag carpet. Sleeping in the back of our yellow Subaru during a middle of the night trip to Galveston for one of my dad's summer beach concerts w/ the DSO. The cotton gin near the general store at the edge of town. Nehi Grape soda. Volunteer fire fighters playing chess in front of the fire house. Reading all the Narnia tales and Laura Ingalls Wilder's books on the wrap around porch. The time it rained tiny black baby fogs. My mom making quiche the morning Sol was born at the house. Tightly braided hair and teeth so big they didn't really fit in my head. Sleeping with wet hair in front of a box fan in the middle of a sweltering summer. Rigging a pulley and rope deal to move a busted TV carcass from the back of the barn up to our club house in the hay loft. Eating cat food just for the heck of it...This particular list is infinitely long.
posted by becky at 12:30 AM
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