I recall Ginuwine's rendition of When Doves Cry to be fitting; smooth, sexy, and quite palatable. Yeah, well......what's this song on Spotify? Furthermore, what's all this I run into when I do a Google search or check Youtube? At first, I thought that maybe I had just grown older and the song sounded like crap to me now. Then I thought maybe I just imagined what it sounded like back then.
But no; that's not the case. I found an old mixed CD and it's there; sounding as awesome as ever.
Here is the version which permeates the internet.
And here is the totally sweet version I burned and uploaded from my mixed CD. (Hopefully Prince and Ginuwine won't mind me posting this seeing as how I couldn't find it anywhere.)
Enjoy.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Sunday, September 04, 2011
The Summer of Divorce Court
Wow. This photograph was taken on July 28, 2004. That was seven years ago! It's really hard for me to believe that the Summer of Divorce Court was that long ago.
What was the Summer of Divorce Court? It was a magical time in the DC/Maryland area when young punk, ska, pop, and hardcore bands all covered a song by The AK's called Divorce Court. The song itself is a fantastic sing-along punk anthem with definitive Washington, DC flavor; it's about how the band would rather watch Divorce Court than see the Redskins suck. I'm not exactly sure who said it back then -- it may have been David "Spoonboy" Combs from The Max Levine Ensemble -- but it was proclaimed that everyone that plays that song is transformed into the AK's. No matter what house show I went to that summer, The AK's always played. There was always someone there to pick up the drum sticks and start shouting, "I love Divorce Court!"
The AK's played a reunion show last night at St. Stephen's Episcopal church in Columbia Heights and well, it was every bit as bittersweet and beautiful as it should have been; hot, sweaty, and full of all those sing-along punk anthems which I had nearly forgotten about. Like always, the magical part came at the end. The AK's played Divorce Court and then we all became the AK's. Instruments and equipment were being taken away as Spoonboy led a consecutive five rounds of Divorce Court. It was an absolutely silly thing but so gratifying that I never wanted it to end. Even when it did, the crowd started chanting, "IF YOU'RE NOT PUNISHED, YOU WILL BE PUNISHED" (another song) as they exited the building.
Anyhow, I'm thankful for the nostalgia opportunity.
If you've never heard Divorce Court, here is a version found on TMLE's website:
DIVORCE COURT
Long live the AK's!
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Bittersweet Feelings: Olivia Mancini and the Mates
Yesterday was a whirlwind of feelings; waking up at home, eating at a favorite restaurant, going on a date, having that date go ridiculously sour, having drinks at a bar with a cat, being social at a friend's stand up comedy event, and finally, topping all that off with an Olivia show. Seeing Olivia is always both comfortable and awkward at the same time but since all the bad stuff with grad school and relationships occurred last year, there are also feelings of sadness and bitterness. Maybe that's just a testament to the music, though; terrible things can happen but they don't seem to keep me away. I can feel awkward -- and gosh, I know I look awkward with my books and camera -- but I just deal with it and translate what I'm feeling into something slightly more tangible.
A lot of people associate music with bad feelings and things; that's normal. Thing is, music for me is people. I feel bad that I put so much meaning on music as a whole -- the music, the places, the roadtrips, the people, the experiences -- because the negative associations bleed into all of it. I guess I'm just not comfortable talking openly about it but Olivia reminds me of my various identities, what it was like to be happy, and what it looked like to appear normal (or at least socially acceptable).
The rest of the photos can be found here.
A lot of people associate music with bad feelings and things; that's normal. Thing is, music for me is people. I feel bad that I put so much meaning on music as a whole -- the music, the places, the roadtrips, the people, the experiences -- because the negative associations bleed into all of it. I guess I'm just not comfortable talking openly about it but Olivia reminds me of my various identities, what it was like to be happy, and what it looked like to appear normal (or at least socially acceptable).
The rest of the photos can be found here.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Milagres
Last week, I signed up for Google+ which somehow turned on my Gchat messenger. One of my old show buddies from up north messaged me to ask how I was doing. As we chatted, I found myself trying desperately to recall how we actually met but I couldn't. Shows, yeah...but what shows? How the heck did I end up staying at her house in Boston? It dawned on me that not only have a lost a huge chunk of my identity with show-going, but now I have forgotten so much of what I used to dwell on and meticulously document.
My musical intake has slowed to a trickle these days and it's probably not just me. I'm living in the post-hipster world of soccer fans and attachment parenting. The Arcade Fire won a Grammy; a sure sign that whatever you want to call the culture that I tried desperately to be a part of has now been dispersed amongst the normals.
I've been swept away from show-going and photography by adulthood, academia, and The Economy. I find myself grasping for people and things I think I might enjoy but nearly everything feels artificial to me. So.....what a blessing it is that sometimes little things come through my inbox, twitter feed, or even Flickr that I don't even have to question.
Milagres are people making music and photographs that bring me joy. I saw them randomly three years ago when they played at the Velvet Lounge in DC as the Secret Life of Sofia and they're one of the few bands I've kept on my radar but haven't actually had any interaction with. Earlier this year, I saw that they would be putting out an album in the Fall and I lived vicarious through Eric's wonderful tour photos. By chance, I discovered they were opening for someone at the 9:30 Club in DC last night so for the first time in a very long time, I took show photos.
I need to do things like this more often.
My musical intake has slowed to a trickle these days and it's probably not just me. I'm living in the post-hipster world of soccer fans and attachment parenting. The Arcade Fire won a Grammy; a sure sign that whatever you want to call the culture that I tried desperately to be a part of has now been dispersed amongst the normals.
I've been swept away from show-going and photography by adulthood, academia, and The Economy. I find myself grasping for people and things I think I might enjoy but nearly everything feels artificial to me. So.....what a blessing it is that sometimes little things come through my inbox, twitter feed, or even Flickr that I don't even have to question.
Milagres are people making music and photographs that bring me joy. I saw them randomly three years ago when they played at the Velvet Lounge in DC as the Secret Life of Sofia and they're one of the few bands I've kept on my radar but haven't actually had any interaction with. Earlier this year, I saw that they would be putting out an album in the Fall and I lived vicarious through Eric's wonderful tour photos. By chance, I discovered they were opening for someone at the 9:30 Club in DC last night so for the first time in a very long time, I took show photos.
I need to do things like this more often.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Obsessive Compulsive Admission
I am extremely embarrassed by the strange weight I place on live music and musicians. I am almost ashamed of the meticulous lists and organizational system of photographs on my computer. The half-finished scrapbooks and large laundry basket of photographs in chronological order make me want to cry. When I moved to Fairfax and started school at George Mason University, I finally let go. I stopped making lists and I let my organizational system go to hell. At the end of 2008, all of my folders were named New Folder (1), New Folder (2), and so on. I stopped going to every single show simply because I couldn't; I no longer had a vehicle and I lived too far out to Metro in.
When I got my car back, the drive wasn't there anymore. Now I only go see bands I am extremely comfortable with. And I've traded my camera for a book. That's right; I can go to shows without a camera now. In 2007, I went to 150 shows and I had a camera at 150 of those shows. I had to. I didn't want to miss anything; I wanted to be able to recall anything and have proof of it. I wanted to be an expert at something which I suspect only I cared about. After all, I still have yet to meet anybody with musical fingerprints even a little bit similar to mine.
The horrible point to all of this is that last night I was going through that laundry basket looking for photos from August 22, 2003 and I wanted to cry because I couldn't find them. I was looking for something tangible to hold onto but I couldn't find it. This indicates to me that the photos don't exist because back then, I did not make archival mistakes.
When I got my car back, the drive wasn't there anymore. Now I only go see bands I am extremely comfortable with. And I've traded my camera for a book. That's right; I can go to shows without a camera now. In 2007, I went to 150 shows and I had a camera at 150 of those shows. I had to. I didn't want to miss anything; I wanted to be able to recall anything and have proof of it. I wanted to be an expert at something which I suspect only I cared about. After all, I still have yet to meet anybody with musical fingerprints even a little bit similar to mine.
The horrible point to all of this is that last night I was going through that laundry basket looking for photos from August 22, 2003 and I wanted to cry because I couldn't find them. I was looking for something tangible to hold onto but I couldn't find it. This indicates to me that the photos don't exist because back then, I did not make archival mistakes.
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Way Things Used To Be: Babybird
Maybe it's my age, maybe it's my place in life, or maybe it's just the way things are in my culture right now...
I'm thinking back to the way things used to be in the mid-90s. I'm thinking about a lot of things but I'm specifically thinking about music. Throughout the majority of my teenage years, I listened to the radio and took notes.
I took notes. Who does that?
Seriously. Did you do that?
It started when I lived downstairs and I'd listen to the nightly countdowns on the DC pop stations. I'd call in and vote for my favorite songs, too.
At some point, I must have stayed in Charlottesville because I discovered that their pop station (Z95) turned into some nationally syndicated cooler pop station at night. I think it was called Music Channel One. After that, I would intentionally stay at my grandmother's house and play with the antenna on the radio in order to hear the station. I wrote down everything I liked and marked everything with checks, pluses, stars, and whatever notes I thought up. I also wrote down things I hated.
At some point, I came across 91.9 WNRN and it changed my life. The Ska Punks, No Losers show changed my life. Bartley changed my life. I would sit in my upstairs room adjusting the antenna and listening to the radio through the static. I always took notes and commented on Bartley's drunken antics. My mom would always get mad at me for staying up late and making long distance calls to a radio show that "sounds like it's being broadcast out of someone's basement".
In the closet at my mom's house is a big purple bin with all of my Notebooks in it. They're filled with diary entries, lists of music, and musical commentary. I haven't looked at them in years but now all of a sudden I want to.
Without a job or classes, I've been flipping through the internet and learning bits and pieces about things I only sort of knew. Old television shows, the Chernobyl disaster, how sweet oil works, polydactyl cats, King Missile, and......I just remembered something in those Notebooks that I never followed up on. Babybird.
Babybird. I remember their name written a handful of times in my Notebooks. I remember turning up the radio when they came on. I remember looking for their album at the old location of Plan 9 in Albermarle Square.
That's it. Blip. Gone.
They just popped into my head an hour ago and GOOGLE, WIKIPEDIA, YOUTUBE!!! away I went.
I didn't even remember what they could have possibly sounded like or what songs I used to like or anything really. I guessed. TYPE TYPE TYPE YOUTUBE
The sounds that fill my ears now are incredibly blissful and distantly familiar like an old middle school classmate.
These videos are quite obviously not my work but they were at one point part of the soundtrack of my life:
For the past hour or so, I've been listening to these four songs. I'm not really sure what I'm doing. I'm trying to remember them but I don't. I remember writing them down. And I remember that they were important and good because I wrote that they were. But I still don't remember them.
I am writing things less and less. I am not making lists of shows, I am not photographing everything under the sun, I am not documenting how my money is spent.
On the one hand, I am sad because there are so many things I won't remember because they're not documented.
On the other hand, I am starting to not care. This used to bother me a lot but maybe not so much now. I am glad that there's a box of books at my mom's house that enabled me to remember this band tonight but I'm also somewhat glad to be free from The Way Things Used To Be.
As far as Babybird, I am obtaining a cd straight away and making it brand new again; here's to driving with the windows down in spring of 2010!
I'm thinking back to the way things used to be in the mid-90s. I'm thinking about a lot of things but I'm specifically thinking about music. Throughout the majority of my teenage years, I listened to the radio and took notes.
I took notes. Who does that?
Seriously. Did you do that?
It started when I lived downstairs and I'd listen to the nightly countdowns on the DC pop stations. I'd call in and vote for my favorite songs, too.
At some point, I must have stayed in Charlottesville because I discovered that their pop station (Z95) turned into some nationally syndicated cooler pop station at night. I think it was called Music Channel One. After that, I would intentionally stay at my grandmother's house and play with the antenna on the radio in order to hear the station. I wrote down everything I liked and marked everything with checks, pluses, stars, and whatever notes I thought up. I also wrote down things I hated.
At some point, I came across 91.9 WNRN and it changed my life. The Ska Punks, No Losers show changed my life. Bartley changed my life. I would sit in my upstairs room adjusting the antenna and listening to the radio through the static. I always took notes and commented on Bartley's drunken antics. My mom would always get mad at me for staying up late and making long distance calls to a radio show that "sounds like it's being broadcast out of someone's basement".
In the closet at my mom's house is a big purple bin with all of my Notebooks in it. They're filled with diary entries, lists of music, and musical commentary. I haven't looked at them in years but now all of a sudden I want to.
Without a job or classes, I've been flipping through the internet and learning bits and pieces about things I only sort of knew. Old television shows, the Chernobyl disaster, how sweet oil works, polydactyl cats, King Missile, and......I just remembered something in those Notebooks that I never followed up on. Babybird.
Babybird. I remember their name written a handful of times in my Notebooks. I remember turning up the radio when they came on. I remember looking for their album at the old location of Plan 9 in Albermarle Square.
That's it. Blip. Gone.
They just popped into my head an hour ago and GOOGLE, WIKIPEDIA, YOUTUBE!!! away I went.
I didn't even remember what they could have possibly sounded like or what songs I used to like or anything really. I guessed. TYPE TYPE TYPE YOUTUBE
The sounds that fill my ears now are incredibly blissful and distantly familiar like an old middle school classmate.
These videos are quite obviously not my work but they were at one point part of the soundtrack of my life:
For the past hour or so, I've been listening to these four songs. I'm not really sure what I'm doing. I'm trying to remember them but I don't. I remember writing them down. And I remember that they were important and good because I wrote that they were. But I still don't remember them.
I am writing things less and less. I am not making lists of shows, I am not photographing everything under the sun, I am not documenting how my money is spent.
On the one hand, I am sad because there are so many things I won't remember because they're not documented.
On the other hand, I am starting to not care. This used to bother me a lot but maybe not so much now. I am glad that there's a box of books at my mom's house that enabled me to remember this band tonight but I'm also somewhat glad to be free from The Way Things Used To Be.
As far as Babybird, I am obtaining a cd straight away and making it brand new again; here's to driving with the windows down in spring of 2010!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Olivia Mancini
Olivia at DC9, 3/16/10
Olivia Mancini is so comfortable. I love that I can head into the city on a weeknight and sit in a corner with a book and sip tea while listening to her exude musical cuteness. If I owned pajamas, I'd consider wearing them the next time she plays.
I guess I'm just really thankful for this sort of familiar, low-key musical experience at this point in my life.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
The Moment
This post is about a "moment". You know what I'm talking about. Thee moment; that point in time where something in your brain just clicks! And there it is. Things are different.
I always thought about "moments" in relation to religion or alcoholism because that's where I've always heard the most stories. That moment when you found God. That moment when you knew you had hit rock bottom. One time my mom and I told each other we had never really had a religious moment.
Like, what if the moment is dumb? If you see Jesus in your grilled cheese sandwich, maybe tell no one...? Of course, the moment and the realization are so utterly profound and life-changing that you can't just keep it to yourself. Jesus is real, you proclaim. I know this because I saw him in my
grilled
cheese
sandwich. U h h h h g g g g g.
So yeah. Things are different now. Do you know how I know? Because something inside my brain clicked while I was watching an 80s cover band perform Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart on Halloween.
Eww. Grilled cheese sandwich Jesus like whoa.
I always thought about "moments" in relation to religion or alcoholism because that's where I've always heard the most stories. That moment when you found God. That moment when you knew you had hit rock bottom. One time my mom and I told each other we had never really had a religious moment.
Like, what if the moment is dumb? If you see Jesus in your grilled cheese sandwich, maybe tell no one...? Of course, the moment and the realization are so utterly profound and life-changing that you can't just keep it to yourself. Jesus is real, you proclaim. I know this because I saw him in my
grilled
cheese
sandwich. U h h h h g g g g g.
So yeah. Things are different now. Do you know how I know? Because something inside my brain clicked while I was watching an 80s cover band perform Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart on Halloween.
Eww. Grilled cheese sandwich Jesus like whoa.
Monday, February 23, 2009
House Shows, Train Rides, and Playgrounds
Normally I don't like to preface my dreams because I find that it's more fun for the reader that way but I feel like this one was kind of special. It's been about a week or so since I had it and I still keep coming back to it. It was a particularly colorful and adventurous dream; it perfectly embodied the spirit of all of the things I think I'm really about. The way I felt in the dream was nice; I felt like myself. That would be the self that goes on amazing solo adventures, meets a lot of new people, takes photographs, and feels an odd sense of peace and belonging in chasing something she can't really define. I falter at decision-making when it comes to nearly everything else because I'm never quite sure what I want or what I think or what's right.......but this thing that I am chasing and finding through music is something that feels more true than anything else. That's my calling. Not doing it is like going against my nature but yet here I am, not doing it for the sake of society and practicality. Are degrees and jobs and money really more important...?
There were three distinct parts to this dream: house show, train, & playground.
I was at a house show in the suburbs. The house was big and old with wood floors and a stair case that creaked when you walked on it. There were lots of art school-looking kids hanging around and drinking. The living room was dimly lit and there was a big oval-shaped rug on the floor. Kids were sitting on the floor listening to someone playing the guitar on the couch. The musician was a weird mix of Drew Danburry and Herman Dune.
After the show, the musician asked me to travel with him and I was so pleased I could have cried.
We sat on the ground in a large echo-y train station which resembled a Metro station in DC. We talked about our lives and I asked him about his wife. I think he said something like, "Yeah, she's there."
The train came. It was deep green lined with gold; very beautiful. The compartment meant for the musician and I was at the very end of the the train. It was tiny and consisted of two benches attached to the wall and a table between them. No room for anything else. I remember the benches being incredibly high and the musician had to help me up. We boarded the train from the right side and I sat on the left with my back to the end of the train.
The train pulled out and the musician and I made more small talk. I eventually fell asleep with my head on the table.
I awoke to feel a breeze. The musician was gone but the train was still moving along. The window was open and outside everything was beautiful and warm. I stuck my head out the window, closed my eyes for a moment, and smiled.
The sky was bright blue with a few fluffy white clouds and the sun was shining. There were miles of bright green fields; some of grass, some with great stalks of corn. In the distance was a clear and colorful city and giant windmills turning in the breeze. Everything was presented in layers of gently rolling hills. It was the most beautiful thing I'd every seen.
This was supposed to be Europe but I knew that it was a new sort of Europe. It was somebody's sustainable "green" vision of Europe. It was the future.
I stood of the little back balcony of the train and enjoyed the breeze until the train came to a halt in the middle of a corn field. From there I could see a playground in the distance and further, a city.
I was standing at the foot of a colorful piece of playground equipment. The metal bars, platforms, and slides were all shiny and painted bright shades of yellow, red, blue, and green. There were small children running around me and parents sitting on benches. Kids were laughing and playing and it just made me really happy. We were surround by corn on three sides and on the forth side was a grassy plain which showed the city in the distance. It was a large and colorful city; everything was in beautiful bright colors rather than drab shades of black and brown. The city matched the playground. I just stood there in the middle of things and looked around. I felt a sense of belonging in the fact that I didn't belong at all. That was exactly where I was supposed to be even though I was an outsider.
I think one of my favorite things in the world is when my practical and impractical worlds converge. I'm unsure of how else to express that; it's like I live two lives and sometimes one takes up more time than the other but they're both my life even though they're generally really separate. Examples of convergence would be taking Kristin to see shows even though she's someone I met through the honor society at LFCC or going to see Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin when I was at a conference in Seattle. I've always kind of wanted my show/music/photography/travel life to be a part of my education/work/family/day-to-day life but it seldom is. Convergence makes me giddy even if it's just someone making a comment about the band on my hoodie.
This year I made a promise to myself that I would go on a mission trip over spring break with LCM because I've never done anything like that before and I feel like it would be good for me. The trip was announced and I signed up; I'm going to Jacksonville, FL to do something with leftover crops. I honestly didn't think to look for shows because I was trying to be pure about this; this is about helping others, not me. The other day I happened to look at Casper and the Cookies' myspace page and lo and behold, they're playing Jacksonville the week that I'll be there. When I saw that, I was so happy I almost cried. Really. I almost cried. There is just so much joy involved in seeing the musicians I know and love as part of the other half of my life. You know, if Mason booked a band I know and love for an event here I probably would cry from happiness.
It's almost March and I've gone to a measly three shows. That's not enough adventure for me. I need more house shows, train rides, and playgrounds in my life.
There were three distinct parts to this dream: house show, train, & playground.
I was at a house show in the suburbs. The house was big and old with wood floors and a stair case that creaked when you walked on it. There were lots of art school-looking kids hanging around and drinking. The living room was dimly lit and there was a big oval-shaped rug on the floor. Kids were sitting on the floor listening to someone playing the guitar on the couch. The musician was a weird mix of Drew Danburry and Herman Dune.
After the show, the musician asked me to travel with him and I was so pleased I could have cried.
We sat on the ground in a large echo-y train station which resembled a Metro station in DC. We talked about our lives and I asked him about his wife. I think he said something like, "Yeah, she's there."
The train came. It was deep green lined with gold; very beautiful. The compartment meant for the musician and I was at the very end of the the train. It was tiny and consisted of two benches attached to the wall and a table between them. No room for anything else. I remember the benches being incredibly high and the musician had to help me up. We boarded the train from the right side and I sat on the left with my back to the end of the train.
The train pulled out and the musician and I made more small talk. I eventually fell asleep with my head on the table.
I awoke to feel a breeze. The musician was gone but the train was still moving along. The window was open and outside everything was beautiful and warm. I stuck my head out the window, closed my eyes for a moment, and smiled.
The sky was bright blue with a few fluffy white clouds and the sun was shining. There were miles of bright green fields; some of grass, some with great stalks of corn. In the distance was a clear and colorful city and giant windmills turning in the breeze. Everything was presented in layers of gently rolling hills. It was the most beautiful thing I'd every seen.
This was supposed to be Europe but I knew that it was a new sort of Europe. It was somebody's sustainable "green" vision of Europe. It was the future.
I stood of the little back balcony of the train and enjoyed the breeze until the train came to a halt in the middle of a corn field. From there I could see a playground in the distance and further, a city.
I was standing at the foot of a colorful piece of playground equipment. The metal bars, platforms, and slides were all shiny and painted bright shades of yellow, red, blue, and green. There were small children running around me and parents sitting on benches. Kids were laughing and playing and it just made me really happy. We were surround by corn on three sides and on the forth side was a grassy plain which showed the city in the distance. It was a large and colorful city; everything was in beautiful bright colors rather than drab shades of black and brown. The city matched the playground. I just stood there in the middle of things and looked around. I felt a sense of belonging in the fact that I didn't belong at all. That was exactly where I was supposed to be even though I was an outsider.
__________
I think one of my favorite things in the world is when my practical and impractical worlds converge. I'm unsure of how else to express that; it's like I live two lives and sometimes one takes up more time than the other but they're both my life even though they're generally really separate. Examples of convergence would be taking Kristin to see shows even though she's someone I met through the honor society at LFCC or going to see Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin when I was at a conference in Seattle. I've always kind of wanted my show/music/photography/travel life to be a part of my education/work/family/day-to-day life but it seldom is. Convergence makes me giddy even if it's just someone making a comment about the band on my hoodie.
This year I made a promise to myself that I would go on a mission trip over spring break with LCM because I've never done anything like that before and I feel like it would be good for me. The trip was announced and I signed up; I'm going to Jacksonville, FL to do something with leftover crops. I honestly didn't think to look for shows because I was trying to be pure about this; this is about helping others, not me. The other day I happened to look at Casper and the Cookies' myspace page and lo and behold, they're playing Jacksonville the week that I'll be there. When I saw that, I was so happy I almost cried. Really. I almost cried. There is just so much joy involved in seeing the musicians I know and love as part of the other half of my life. You know, if Mason booked a band I know and love for an event here I probably would cry from happiness.
It's almost March and I've gone to a measly three shows. That's not enough adventure for me. I need more house shows, train rides, and playgrounds in my life.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Department Of Ten Years Ago: Pat McGee To Play Mason Homecoming Concert
The culture at George Mason University makes me want to bang my head against a wall. I've found that decisions here are generally not the work of an entire organization but of one or two people that seem completely out of touch with popular culture and have no interest in fostering a sense of community. I give you Exhibit A: the 2009 Mason Homecoming Concert.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to ten years ago; someone booked Pat McGee to play at our homecoming concert.
Don't get me wrong; I like Pat McGee. Er, well I used to like Pat McGee, at least. I haven't really thought about him for oh, ten years or so. I honestly didn't know the guy was still playing. Back when I was in middle school, I heard the song Rebecca on WNRN and went out and bought the album at Plan 9. I'm pretty sure I saw him play at Trax at some point if that gives you any indication of how long ago this was. (Charlottesville talk for those not in the know.)
Now honestly......how many college kids that go to George Mason University have even heard of Pat McGee?
I could be completely out of touch with reality here; I have no clue what's on the radio these days.....but I do know what's playing in popular area rock clubs and the answer is not Pat McGee. Pat McGee is not talked about on the blogs and forums I frequent online, either. Pat McGee is probably not huge on Facebook. This really boggles my mind. It's kind of like that time Fighting Gravity got booked at that Virginia Community College conference in Virginia Beach and I was definitely the only one there that knew who they were. It was just awkward.
So who did this? Seriously; I want to know. Someone needs to 'fess up. Don't tell me this is the work of the concert committee; I'm supposedly on that and no one ever said a word about Mr. McGee. It would greatly surprise me if the girls in charge there have heard of PM and I'm almost positive that no one at those meetings would consider themselves fans.
Second question: how much is Mason paying this band? Don't tell me Pat McGee was a budgetary move unless he's playing for free. We could have gotten a bunch of local emo/metal bands (there seem to be a lot of these in Northern Virginia) or some indie bands or even a youthful hip-hop group. (We live so close to DC; I'd personally like to see a live go-go band. Is that in with the kids these days...? Do kids know what that is?) I've made a point to pay attention to the free music on this campus even if no one else does. The best thing I've come across was a hip-hop group that played a mix of covers and originals for a "rock the vote" type of event put on by the concert committee. It's true that people just showed up for the food but the band was good enough that some actually stayed; a feat I have yet to see accomplished by bands at other events. If people are into hip-hop, then why not book a hip-hop band?
I guess the bottom line is that I keep coming across instances like this where there's a chance to bring people together but it's completely wasted. That bothers me. In my mind, it's not about what I like but it's about what will foster a sense of community. Mason is so fragmented that I'm not really sure I have an answer as to how to do this but I'm fairly sure that Pat McGee is not it.
(**Apologies to Pat McGee; nothing personal. I still like your music and if I'm around, I'll try to catch the show.)
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to ten years ago; someone booked Pat McGee to play at our homecoming concert.
Don't get me wrong; I like Pat McGee. Er, well I used to like Pat McGee, at least. I haven't really thought about him for oh, ten years or so. I honestly didn't know the guy was still playing. Back when I was in middle school, I heard the song Rebecca on WNRN and went out and bought the album at Plan 9. I'm pretty sure I saw him play at Trax at some point if that gives you any indication of how long ago this was. (Charlottesville talk for those not in the know.)
Now honestly......how many college kids that go to George Mason University have even heard of Pat McGee?
I could be completely out of touch with reality here; I have no clue what's on the radio these days.....but I do know what's playing in popular area rock clubs and the answer is not Pat McGee. Pat McGee is not talked about on the blogs and forums I frequent online, either. Pat McGee is probably not huge on Facebook. This really boggles my mind. It's kind of like that time Fighting Gravity got booked at that Virginia Community College conference in Virginia Beach and I was definitely the only one there that knew who they were. It was just awkward.
So who did this? Seriously; I want to know. Someone needs to 'fess up. Don't tell me this is the work of the concert committee; I'm supposedly on that and no one ever said a word about Mr. McGee. It would greatly surprise me if the girls in charge there have heard of PM and I'm almost positive that no one at those meetings would consider themselves fans.
Second question: how much is Mason paying this band? Don't tell me Pat McGee was a budgetary move unless he's playing for free. We could have gotten a bunch of local emo/metal bands (there seem to be a lot of these in Northern Virginia) or some indie bands or even a youthful hip-hop group. (We live so close to DC; I'd personally like to see a live go-go band. Is that in with the kids these days...? Do kids know what that is?) I've made a point to pay attention to the free music on this campus even if no one else does. The best thing I've come across was a hip-hop group that played a mix of covers and originals for a "rock the vote" type of event put on by the concert committee. It's true that people just showed up for the food but the band was good enough that some actually stayed; a feat I have yet to see accomplished by bands at other events. If people are into hip-hop, then why not book a hip-hop band?
I guess the bottom line is that I keep coming across instances like this where there's a chance to bring people together but it's completely wasted. That bothers me. In my mind, it's not about what I like but it's about what will foster a sense of community. Mason is so fragmented that I'm not really sure I have an answer as to how to do this but I'm fairly sure that Pat McGee is not it.
(**Apologies to Pat McGee; nothing personal. I still like your music and if I'm around, I'll try to catch the show.)
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Someone Still Loves You National Eye
I sat in a cardboard box with my feet hanging out in my grandma's unused living room talking on the chunky portable phone to Phil from Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin. I had a lot of trouble hearing what he was saying; at one point I asked when he was coming east again and he told me he'd be in New York to see (garbled words) sometime in the spring with his girlfriend. I was a bit surprised because I could have sworn he said Bella Morte which is a goth band my best friend and I used to go in Charlottesville see when we were in high school.
"Whoa. Did you just say you were going to see Bella Morte?"
"No. I said Queen Eleanor and the (garbled words again)."
"Oh, ok." I didn't particularly care about the rest of the band name.
There was great amounts of silence in the conversation where I would say hello over and over again and then someone would answer me and pick up the conversation awkwardly. I finally realized that I was talking to Will now rather than Phil. At some point I figured that it would be easier to turn around and talk to the guys in person rather than on the phone since I didn't really know who I was talking to and when.
I managed to scoot my little box around with my butt still planted firmly in the bottom but now I was facing the hallway. The room was suddenly much larger and grandma's trunk that doubled as a table (and also to my knowledge still contains my childhood Lego collection) had been removed. In its place was a shiny red drum set. The various members of the band were doing whatever it is people in bands do when they're not playing shows. Will came over to say hi and I hung up the phone. We chatted for a bit before Phil came over and thanked me for the mixed cd. I asked him which track he liked best and he said he really enjoyed National Eye's Dread Flight of the Crimson Bee immensely. All of the other guys agreed. He walked over to a karaoke machine in the corner and turned the song on.
Will, Phil, and John Rob began to dance around the room. Well, not so much John Rob but Will and Phil got really into it. They were clapping their hands and shaking their butts like my little step-sister used to do when she was five.
I told them I was really super happy that they liked the song and I told them all about National Eye; how Rick and Gretchen were nice people and they had a really awesome cat named Harpo that thinks he's a people. I also remarked to the band member that was sleeping on the couch in front of the faux bay window that he looked a lot like Rick, actually. Gretchen appeared in the hallway and agreed with me. I looked down and Harpo was at my feet staring up at me.
Gretchen thanked me for sharing the music with the Boris kids and then went over and started talking to Phil. I walked down the hall and went into the pink bathroom.
I was washing my hands when I saw Gretchen in the mirror. She was standing in the doorway and excitedly speaking about something though I'm unsure what. I thought about it and took it to mean that National Eye and Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin were going to do a collaboration.
"Whoa. Did you just say you were going to see Bella Morte?"
"No. I said Queen Eleanor and the (garbled words again)."
"Oh, ok." I didn't particularly care about the rest of the band name.
There was great amounts of silence in the conversation where I would say hello over and over again and then someone would answer me and pick up the conversation awkwardly. I finally realized that I was talking to Will now rather than Phil. At some point I figured that it would be easier to turn around and talk to the guys in person rather than on the phone since I didn't really know who I was talking to and when.
I managed to scoot my little box around with my butt still planted firmly in the bottom but now I was facing the hallway. The room was suddenly much larger and grandma's trunk that doubled as a table (and also to my knowledge still contains my childhood Lego collection) had been removed. In its place was a shiny red drum set. The various members of the band were doing whatever it is people in bands do when they're not playing shows. Will came over to say hi and I hung up the phone. We chatted for a bit before Phil came over and thanked me for the mixed cd. I asked him which track he liked best and he said he really enjoyed National Eye's Dread Flight of the Crimson Bee immensely. All of the other guys agreed. He walked over to a karaoke machine in the corner and turned the song on.
Will, Phil, and John Rob began to dance around the room. Well, not so much John Rob but Will and Phil got really into it. They were clapping their hands and shaking their butts like my little step-sister used to do when she was five.
I told them I was really super happy that they liked the song and I told them all about National Eye; how Rick and Gretchen were nice people and they had a really awesome cat named Harpo that thinks he's a people. I also remarked to the band member that was sleeping on the couch in front of the faux bay window that he looked a lot like Rick, actually. Gretchen appeared in the hallway and agreed with me. I looked down and Harpo was at my feet staring up at me.
Gretchen thanked me for sharing the music with the Boris kids and then went over and started talking to Phil. I walked down the hall and went into the pink bathroom.
I was washing my hands when I saw Gretchen in the mirror. She was standing in the doorway and excitedly speaking about something though I'm unsure what. I thought about it and took it to mean that National Eye and Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin were going to do a collaboration.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
I Am Warm And Powerful - Updated!
My talented friend Meghan just updated the Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin fansite, iamwarmandpowerful.com with a completely new layout and her own original illustrations. There've been a few kinks to work out and the site loads kind of slow for me but the new content is great; particularly the Tape Club section. There's a good amount of stuff on there that served as an introduction to the band for me (Grace and Gwyn EP, Someone Still Loves You Michael Holt) but there's also a bunch of stuff I hadn't even heard before like the alternate version of Let's Get Tired or MC Migraine Head's Bitches In Holand. In addition to the weirdly awesome outer space/ocean themed illustrations throughout the site, there's a section of artwork and photographs submitted by the band themselves that's worth taking a look at.In related news, it's also worth mentioning that the SSLYBY Super Store has finally been updated to include hoodies and a totally sweet t-shirt featuring a kitty in a box...!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The Story Of Okkervil River
Let me explain something to you. Right now, I am completely useless. I am a lonely fat lump of nothingness that sticks close to the corner of the living room where I steal wireless internet and glance out the window to watch the neighbor kids smoke pot behind the shed. I'm like this because I don't have a car to take me anywhere or to sleep in. It is perhaps that last point that is crucial because if I had a nice comfy backseat to sleep in, I would have dreamed up some elaborate travel plans for this painfully extended break from My Education.
Anyhow, this evening my pan of eggs and grits was accompanied by the sweet sound of Okkervil River's Will Sheff reading from Tatyana Tolstaya's White Walls which contains the story of the band's namesake. I'll be honest; I haven't a clue what the story was about but oh, goodness; I turned into a pool of mush at the sound of Mr. Sheff's voice. As far as I'm concerned, the man could read from the back of a cereal box while sitting on the toilet and it would still be sexy.
I mostly ignored Okkervil River in 2008. After The Stage Names came out in the summer of 2007 and I finally saw the band perform in September of that year at Johnny Brenda's, I sort of felt that I could finally lay that particular excitement to rest. I didn't really think to listen to The Stand Ins until a few weeks ago when I was flipping through channels at the Jones' and came across the video for Lost Coastlines. There was a spark; a flood of familiarity.
Looking back, I realize that Okkervil River has a way of consistently evoking that spark. I don't quite understand how, but they're masters of taking me back in time to where they've made their mark before.
November 16th, 2005; 1:18am: Will Sheff may be the most amazing writer ever. Well......probably not but I sure do enjoy reading his lyrics, reviews, interviews, and articles. I sorta wish that as an artist, I was more like him.
I'm still really upset about missing Okkervil River. I want to meet Sheff and tell him how amazing I think he is.
I met Will Sheff in New York outside of the Bowery Ballroom. It wasn't quite by chance; I had some idea that I should be lingering around those parts but I really wasn't expecting to actually meet the man. I had come to town on a complete whim to see Pants Yell! play the Cake Shop due to Sterling's sweet talk the previous night in Philly. The whole trip was a disaster; I ended up stranded in New York with nowhere to stay so I wandered the Lowest East Side all night until the 6:30AM Chinatown bus back to Philly showed up. It was perhaps one of the most lonely points in my history of musical adventure but thankfully, it made for a good story.
Of course by now, that initial meeting seems more like a dream. I walked up to Sheff and was completely flabbergasted. I was of course surprised because I am never short on words but for some reason when I opened my mouth, this is what tumbled out:
"Wow. You're...really tall."
Oh, God. Seriously?! The sad fact of the matter is that I really met Will Sheff and that's really what I said. I'm pretty sure that other words came out of my mouth, but I don't remember them. They were all completely wrong and I looked like an ass. (I still managed to snap a fairly decent photograph, though.)
Oct. 15th, 2006; 9:09pm: I couldn't help it; after the show I walked back to the Bowery Ballroom and plopped down on the sidewalk amid smokers and drunken couples headed home early. I could just barely hear it.....they were playing Westfall. I was freezing cold, partially because of the weather but more so because of emotion. I adjusted my scarf, lowered my head, closed my eyes, & did my best to tune out everything except for that seemingly distant music.
Memories started to flood in. I thought of home and then I remembered that weekend in Arlington with my honor society friends. It was the first time in my life when I really felt like I belonged among people. I was listening to Okkervil River that whole weekend in preperation for their show at Iota. I played them in the car for Kristin, Shannon, & Liz on the way to see the Capitol Steps. I probably said something like, "Ahhhh! SO GOOD! Aren't they just amazing?! Listen to the lyrics..."
They probably responded with something like, "Oh, Katie! You and your music...!"
And that's how it was.
That weekend.......I knew it was too good to be true. Like mostly everything else, it ended abruptly and in tears. I had no cell phone at the time and had decided to not check my email for a few days but when I saw a computer in a classroom during a scholarly group discussion, I just couldn't resist. I checked my email and boom -- life had changed in an instant. Derek was dead.
My exit was strange. It was both fast and like slow motion at the same time. I had come with friends (a rare occasion, I assure you) but I floated off alone feeling even more numb than usual. Alone, alone, alone. Why always alone? Why did Derek have to fucking overdose on heroin and turn up dead in a bathtub in Virginia Beach? Why did he have to do it then? I felt like a child standing in front of some magnificent window display with a parent tugging at my arm to drag me away. "No, you can't have that."
No friends. No Okkervil River.
I opened my eyes and felt the cold again. The tears just kept coming. No friends. No Okkervil River. This time, I only had myself to blame.
As I mentioned before, I finally got around to seeing Okkervil River in September of 2007. I cried like a baby. I also managed to make an ass of myself once again.
It's 3:30am and here I am looking at photographs and thinking the 3
words which I joyously shouted in the frightened face of Mr. Will
Sheff Himself -- IT FINALLY HAPPENED. Without further explanation, he
was whisked away. If I had known that I would only get 3 words, I
would have chosen better. I would have picked the words I gave to
Brian; keep it magic.
Those were the words written in an email to Jonathan Meiburg after the show that night. I had met the polite and soft-spoken Mr. Meiburg after I had accidentally shouted in Will's face. I later noted of the incident that, "(Sheff's) eyes got big with surprise or maybe fear and he may have even taken a step back. Before either of us could respond, he was whisked away to the backstage area by another fellow and I never saw him again."
On the plus side, Jonathan really seemed to like my photographs.
Since then, I've mostly put aside the band and the handsome literary-looking man that I can't seem to speak to......but now I have started listening to the Stand Ins and it's beginning again. Poor me and poor Mr. Sheff; the next time Okkervil River comes to DC, I will probably give it another go. Perhaps the third time will be a charm and I'll manage to say something somewhat intellectual.
Anyhow, this evening my pan of eggs and grits was accompanied by the sweet sound of Okkervil River's Will Sheff reading from Tatyana Tolstaya's White Walls which contains the story of the band's namesake. I'll be honest; I haven't a clue what the story was about but oh, goodness; I turned into a pool of mush at the sound of Mr. Sheff's voice. As far as I'm concerned, the man could read from the back of a cereal box while sitting on the toilet and it would still be sexy.
I mostly ignored Okkervil River in 2008. After The Stage Names came out in the summer of 2007 and I finally saw the band perform in September of that year at Johnny Brenda's, I sort of felt that I could finally lay that particular excitement to rest. I didn't really think to listen to The Stand Ins until a few weeks ago when I was flipping through channels at the Jones' and came across the video for Lost Coastlines. There was a spark; a flood of familiarity.
Looking back, I realize that Okkervil River has a way of consistently evoking that spark. I don't quite understand how, but they're masters of taking me back in time to where they've made their mark before.
November 16th, 2005; 1:18am: Will Sheff may be the most amazing writer ever. Well......probably not but I sure do enjoy reading his lyrics, reviews, interviews, and articles. I sorta wish that as an artist, I was more like him.
I'm still really upset about missing Okkervil River. I want to meet Sheff and tell him how amazing I think he is.
I met Will Sheff in New York outside of the Bowery Ballroom. It wasn't quite by chance; I had some idea that I should be lingering around those parts but I really wasn't expecting to actually meet the man. I had come to town on a complete whim to see Pants Yell! play the Cake Shop due to Sterling's sweet talk the previous night in Philly. The whole trip was a disaster; I ended up stranded in New York with nowhere to stay so I wandered the Lowest East Side all night until the 6:30AM Chinatown bus back to Philly showed up. It was perhaps one of the most lonely points in my history of musical adventure but thankfully, it made for a good story.
Of course by now, that initial meeting seems more like a dream. I walked up to Sheff and was completely flabbergasted. I was of course surprised because I am never short on words but for some reason when I opened my mouth, this is what tumbled out:
"Wow. You're...really tall."
Oh, God. Seriously?! The sad fact of the matter is that I really met Will Sheff and that's really what I said. I'm pretty sure that other words came out of my mouth, but I don't remember them. They were all completely wrong and I looked like an ass. (I still managed to snap a fairly decent photograph, though.)
Oct. 15th, 2006; 9:09pm: I couldn't help it; after the show I walked back to the Bowery Ballroom and plopped down on the sidewalk amid smokers and drunken couples headed home early. I could just barely hear it.....they were playing Westfall. I was freezing cold, partially because of the weather but more so because of emotion. I adjusted my scarf, lowered my head, closed my eyes, & did my best to tune out everything except for that seemingly distant music.
Memories started to flood in. I thought of home and then I remembered that weekend in Arlington with my honor society friends. It was the first time in my life when I really felt like I belonged among people. I was listening to Okkervil River that whole weekend in preperation for their show at Iota. I played them in the car for Kristin, Shannon, & Liz on the way to see the Capitol Steps. I probably said something like, "Ahhhh! SO GOOD! Aren't they just amazing?! Listen to the lyrics..."
They probably responded with something like, "Oh, Katie! You and your music...!"
And that's how it was.
That weekend.......I knew it was too good to be true. Like mostly everything else, it ended abruptly and in tears. I had no cell phone at the time and had decided to not check my email for a few days but when I saw a computer in a classroom during a scholarly group discussion, I just couldn't resist. I checked my email and boom -- life had changed in an instant. Derek was dead.
My exit was strange. It was both fast and like slow motion at the same time. I had come with friends (a rare occasion, I assure you) but I floated off alone feeling even more numb than usual. Alone, alone, alone. Why always alone? Why did Derek have to fucking overdose on heroin and turn up dead in a bathtub in Virginia Beach? Why did he have to do it then? I felt like a child standing in front of some magnificent window display with a parent tugging at my arm to drag me away. "No, you can't have that."
No friends. No Okkervil River.
I opened my eyes and felt the cold again. The tears just kept coming. No friends. No Okkervil River. This time, I only had myself to blame.
As I mentioned before, I finally got around to seeing Okkervil River in September of 2007. I cried like a baby. I also managed to make an ass of myself once again.
It's 3:30am and here I am looking at photographs and thinking the 3
words which I joyously shouted in the frightened face of Mr. Will
Sheff Himself -- IT FINALLY HAPPENED. Without further explanation, he
was whisked away. If I had known that I would only get 3 words, I
would have chosen better. I would have picked the words I gave to
Brian; keep it magic.
Those were the words written in an email to Jonathan Meiburg after the show that night. I had met the polite and soft-spoken Mr. Meiburg after I had accidentally shouted in Will's face. I later noted of the incident that, "(Sheff's) eyes got big with surprise or maybe fear and he may have even taken a step back. Before either of us could respond, he was whisked away to the backstage area by another fellow and I never saw him again."
On the plus side, Jonathan really seemed to like my photographs.
Since then, I've mostly put aside the band and the handsome literary-looking man that I can't seem to speak to......but now I have started listening to the Stand Ins and it's beginning again. Poor me and poor Mr. Sheff; the next time Okkervil River comes to DC, I will probably give it another go. Perhaps the third time will be a charm and I'll manage to say something somewhat intellectual.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Meandering Connections To Guster's Goldfly
It's 2009, man. I'm still listening to Goldfly.
Why am I still listening to Goldfly? That album is a good 12 years old. I'm pretty sure I picked it up used at the old Plan 9 at Albermarle Square when I was in the 11th grade. I was in the 11th grade for about three months total. I was given the boot from Culpeper within the first week and turned down at both Madison and Liberty. At Liberty, they turned me down because I carried a Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox as a purse. When I went into the principal's office, my mom told me to take it back out to the car because it embarassed her but I refused. This principal reasoned that if I wouldn't listen to my mom, I probably wouldn't listen to anyone else. I knew this woman for all of five minutes but I didn't like her. She came across as an angry lesbian if I remember correctly.
I ended up at this other kind of school. I called it a hippie school but really, I did the research; it was a Waldorf school. I spent a good amount of time looking into the history of Rudolph Steiner's version of learning but of course after years of public education, it was inevitable that I would fail at that also.
The same thing that happened at Culpeper happened out in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, as well. I was going about this business of learning usless but interesting things; basic Spanish (which I already knew), ultimate frisbee, pretending to be making something out of clay, and being taught Chinese history by a 21 year old girl that went to film school in New York. I never understood the difference between loving someone and wanting to be someone so there was this amazing cute girl learning usless but interesting things by teaching them to a small group of teenagers and I was obsessed with her.
Goldfly came about after my favorable introduction to Parachute. I had this friend named Rachel and we would listen to Demons and Medicine over and over again and marvel at how great they were. I always felt like Demons was my song; I took the lyrics to heart back then. That was perhaps the very first song I heard that I really identified with. I thought so much of the words that they were used as my senior quote in the yearbook when I eventually did return to Culpeper.
I find a need to be the demon; a demon cannot be hurt.
I hear that song and I think, "Wow. Seriously...why did no one ask me about this? How come no one ever questioned this? As many people that dealt with me from family to teachers to administrators to psycologists to doctors.....why did no one ever think to ask about me in terms of music or writing? Why did no one think to ask what this meant to me?"
So I listened to Demons and never articulated my feelings for Laura..........or Ducky or Meghan or Maura or, you know, Scully from the X-Files. We all just danced around what I thought for sure must be lesbianism or at the least, bisexualism. Those that knew or figured just called it obsession. And I guess it was but no wonder! I kept it inside and in journals so how else would this thing find manifestation? No mental health worker ever brought it up. Not even in the hospitals. Those were all about cutting, Papa Roach, Linkin Park, and that terrible Butterfly song. Is that what teenagers were identifying with? If that "cut my life into pieces" song had been my Demons, would someone have paid attention? Man, mental health facilities were designed in really generic terms. I certainly hope it's not like that today.
I still sometimes think about Laura when I hear that album. I wonder what happened to her. She'd be about 30 or so now; the same age as Jorge Pezzimenti. I remember her pink scarf, her scale-y braclet, and her cute ears. I am fairly sure she was an indie girl before the term indie was widely used or had the same meaning as it does today. I remember being jealous of her usless but totally cool film school education. I also remember feeling offended that she was my teacher when she had absolutely no credentials whatsoever. I always thought that I could do what she does. To this day, I still have that perception about 75% of them time. Laura was proof that all you needed was an undergraduate degree in whatever and you could have a job with a title. Looking back, they probably paid her shit.
I was always hurt at the thought that she was probably not a virgin.
I don't remember the official reason why I left that hippie school. Hell; I don't remember the official reasons why I left Culpeper the two times I did. I just remember that I couldn't deal with seeing the girl I loved with some guy, I couldn't deal with this cute girl I was crushing on in a position of power over me, and I couldn't deal with not being able to convey my feelings to a woman via written words. Demons, indeed. Those were the roots of my actions and yet, they were never discussed. I was always too scared and too embarassed to define whatever I was going though. I hid behind what they called acts of "open defiance" so I wouldn't be hurt.
But I was always hurting. Never the way anyone else perceived, though. My senior yearbook also boasted another red flag quote that a young 6th grade version of myself adapted as her personal motto:
Trust no one but yourself.
Where was everyone? Why did I dwell on this for so long?
Did anything change...?
Eventually I forgot who I was and became an adult. I could tell a million old stories but few of them feel like me. Everything before 18 was something else. Well, almost everything. My musical past is still me. It always will be. Those are the things that always feel like me; from Salsoul Orchestra Christmases to driving with the windows down and listening to Journey to seeing the Pietasters for the very first time. Music is real, man. Demons is real.
Demons is a song about making someone believe lies. When I listen to it now, I am drawn to these words:
Honest is easy; fiction is where genius lies.
It made me think of two current and relevant things. One of those things is writing papers for college. This semester, Matt Bruno taught me how to write a paper for college. It's a lot like lying; I have to give myself another voice and talk about the things They told me I was supposed to learn. College papers are essentually fiction to me because even if I'm writing a first person reflective analysis, it's not completely me. This is the sort of fiction where genius lies because I'm pretty sure that this is how the Real World works. Matt asked me nicely to put my Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox in the car and since I'm now an adult, I listened to him. He was right. I got all A's in my first semester at George Mason University. I give him about 40% of the credit because after all, it was his version of me that wrote all those papers. Plus, it's his fault I'm in the program I'm in.
He would probably be cringing at my honest, meandering writing right now. You know, God bless that man for dealing with me.
The second thing is something I told Ben recently. I said that everyone should write autobiographies but change things to the way they wanted them to be. I feel like if we all did that, we'd have better self-esteem. We'd probably be happy in a smug sort of way and of course, we'd all be living out-right lies but.....wouldn't that be funny? I've long been a fan of doing things simply because "it would make a great story" but really, when will I ever get the chance to go dog sledding in Alaska during an advising meeting? Desperate times call for desperate measures. Just like the dreams I've interspursed with stories of bands, tours, and homelessness, I want my reader to stop and ask, "Wait. Did that really happen?"
And shortly thereafter, "Okay, you're clearly full of shit."
Why am I still listening to Goldfly? That album is a good 12 years old. I'm pretty sure I picked it up used at the old Plan 9 at Albermarle Square when I was in the 11th grade. I was in the 11th grade for about three months total. I was given the boot from Culpeper within the first week and turned down at both Madison and Liberty. At Liberty, they turned me down because I carried a Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox as a purse. When I went into the principal's office, my mom told me to take it back out to the car because it embarassed her but I refused. This principal reasoned that if I wouldn't listen to my mom, I probably wouldn't listen to anyone else. I knew this woman for all of five minutes but I didn't like her. She came across as an angry lesbian if I remember correctly.
I ended up at this other kind of school. I called it a hippie school but really, I did the research; it was a Waldorf school. I spent a good amount of time looking into the history of Rudolph Steiner's version of learning but of course after years of public education, it was inevitable that I would fail at that also.
The same thing that happened at Culpeper happened out in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, as well. I was going about this business of learning usless but interesting things; basic Spanish (which I already knew), ultimate frisbee, pretending to be making something out of clay, and being taught Chinese history by a 21 year old girl that went to film school in New York. I never understood the difference between loving someone and wanting to be someone so there was this amazing cute girl learning usless but interesting things by teaching them to a small group of teenagers and I was obsessed with her.
Goldfly came about after my favorable introduction to Parachute. I had this friend named Rachel and we would listen to Demons and Medicine over and over again and marvel at how great they were. I always felt like Demons was my song; I took the lyrics to heart back then. That was perhaps the very first song I heard that I really identified with. I thought so much of the words that they were used as my senior quote in the yearbook when I eventually did return to Culpeper.
I find a need to be the demon; a demon cannot be hurt.
I hear that song and I think, "Wow. Seriously...why did no one ask me about this? How come no one ever questioned this? As many people that dealt with me from family to teachers to administrators to psycologists to doctors.....why did no one ever think to ask about me in terms of music or writing? Why did no one think to ask what this meant to me?"
So I listened to Demons and never articulated my feelings for Laura..........or Ducky or Meghan or Maura or, you know, Scully from the X-Files. We all just danced around what I thought for sure must be lesbianism or at the least, bisexualism. Those that knew or figured just called it obsession. And I guess it was but no wonder! I kept it inside and in journals so how else would this thing find manifestation? No mental health worker ever brought it up. Not even in the hospitals. Those were all about cutting, Papa Roach, Linkin Park, and that terrible Butterfly song. Is that what teenagers were identifying with? If that "cut my life into pieces" song had been my Demons, would someone have paid attention? Man, mental health facilities were designed in really generic terms. I certainly hope it's not like that today.
I still sometimes think about Laura when I hear that album. I wonder what happened to her. She'd be about 30 or so now; the same age as Jorge Pezzimenti. I remember her pink scarf, her scale-y braclet, and her cute ears. I am fairly sure she was an indie girl before the term indie was widely used or had the same meaning as it does today. I remember being jealous of her usless but totally cool film school education. I also remember feeling offended that she was my teacher when she had absolutely no credentials whatsoever. I always thought that I could do what she does. To this day, I still have that perception about 75% of them time. Laura was proof that all you needed was an undergraduate degree in whatever and you could have a job with a title. Looking back, they probably paid her shit.
I was always hurt at the thought that she was probably not a virgin.
I don't remember the official reason why I left that hippie school. Hell; I don't remember the official reasons why I left Culpeper the two times I did. I just remember that I couldn't deal with seeing the girl I loved with some guy, I couldn't deal with this cute girl I was crushing on in a position of power over me, and I couldn't deal with not being able to convey my feelings to a woman via written words. Demons, indeed. Those were the roots of my actions and yet, they were never discussed. I was always too scared and too embarassed to define whatever I was going though. I hid behind what they called acts of "open defiance" so I wouldn't be hurt.
But I was always hurting. Never the way anyone else perceived, though. My senior yearbook also boasted another red flag quote that a young 6th grade version of myself adapted as her personal motto:
Trust no one but yourself.
Where was everyone? Why did I dwell on this for so long?
Did anything change...?
Eventually I forgot who I was and became an adult. I could tell a million old stories but few of them feel like me. Everything before 18 was something else. Well, almost everything. My musical past is still me. It always will be. Those are the things that always feel like me; from Salsoul Orchestra Christmases to driving with the windows down and listening to Journey to seeing the Pietasters for the very first time. Music is real, man. Demons is real.
Demons is a song about making someone believe lies. When I listen to it now, I am drawn to these words:
Honest is easy; fiction is where genius lies.
It made me think of two current and relevant things. One of those things is writing papers for college. This semester, Matt Bruno taught me how to write a paper for college. It's a lot like lying; I have to give myself another voice and talk about the things They told me I was supposed to learn. College papers are essentually fiction to me because even if I'm writing a first person reflective analysis, it's not completely me. This is the sort of fiction where genius lies because I'm pretty sure that this is how the Real World works. Matt asked me nicely to put my Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox in the car and since I'm now an adult, I listened to him. He was right. I got all A's in my first semester at George Mason University. I give him about 40% of the credit because after all, it was his version of me that wrote all those papers. Plus, it's his fault I'm in the program I'm in.
He would probably be cringing at my honest, meandering writing right now. You know, God bless that man for dealing with me.
The second thing is something I told Ben recently. I said that everyone should write autobiographies but change things to the way they wanted them to be. I feel like if we all did that, we'd have better self-esteem. We'd probably be happy in a smug sort of way and of course, we'd all be living out-right lies but.....wouldn't that be funny? I've long been a fan of doing things simply because "it would make a great story" but really, when will I ever get the chance to go dog sledding in Alaska during an advising meeting? Desperate times call for desperate measures. Just like the dreams I've interspursed with stories of bands, tours, and homelessness, I want my reader to stop and ask, "Wait. Did that really happen?"
And shortly thereafter, "Okay, you're clearly full of shit."
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