When I think of Ed Sheeran, I think of Van Morrison. It's hard not to, the physical resemblences are hard to miss: both are red-headed Irish guys (Morrison was born in Ireland, Sheeran is English-born but of Irish descent), Ed looks like a young Van facially, and both are singer-songwriters. Superficial, yes, but pop music is nothing if not superficial at least on the surface (I feel like that last thought could have been culled from Yogi Berra).
The dude shot to fame with that song about the crack whore (yes, if you pay attention to the lyrics, it's a lovely tune about crack addiction), but I like his follow-up single "Lego House" better, especially the music video that combines the actual music video his record company made (starring Ron Weasley) and a fan-made video out of, well, Lego animation. It's kind of a trip.
It's one of those songs that gives you hope, in a landscape dominated by Train and Nicki Minaj and Taylor Swift (all artists who, while not necessarily terrible, are a little overplayed on the radio, as I'm sure Mr. Sheeran will be before I finish typing this sentence). It's a song that you can actually relate to, that isn't about partying all the time but about the fragile nature of interpersonal relationships. Because you know what? Those can break down at any time.
Facebook is both a blessing and a curse, in that you can share everything about yourself with total strangers but you can share everything about yourself with perfect strangers. I've seen it numerous times and been guilty of it myself, enough to feel like privacy is almost more of a choice than a right in the digital age. We live in a time where you are almost expected to divulge everything you're thinking or going through on social media, and while that can be healing it can also lead to places you don't want to go. You can vent about someone or something that "did" you "wrong," and you'll feel good for about five minutes until you realize that the other person or entity might see that, and you have to deal with the repercussions. That's why I've backed off talking so much about personal things on Facebook or other social media, unless I have the assurance of anonymity that is all too rare in the information age.
Suffice it to say, a friendship is broken, and in the past my efforts to fix it would've led to simply more hurt feelings and the all-too-common occurance of an absence in my life where once there was a presence that I might not have realized could be gone. Just because you're hurt doesn't give you the license to take it out on who hurt you, even if (like I said) it makes you feel better for about five minutes. The world can be a crazy, scary place, and if you're lucky you can have people in your life that will see you at your worst and still be ready to call you a friend. This has really gotten away from the song I was talking about, but that's how these things go sometimes; you start off in one direction then you go down a side street. I think that's what makes music so important to me and others like me, it helps bring you to places you might not otherwise go. As I've heard "Lego House" on the radio or seen the video on TV this past month, I've been more than happy to let it wash over me, clean out the areas of my brain polluted by my own self-doubts and recriminations over actions that hurt someone I care about and for which I am truly sorry.
So I'd like to think that, when I hear this song again (and it's beginning to get regular rotation, so it's a certainty), I'll feel that same sense of regret tinged with happiness for what once was and could have been. I don't know what the future holds, but I look towards it anyway. And Ed Sheeran, whatever else he does with his career (he might have the longetivity of a Van Morrison, or the brief flicker of so many other bright young songwriters before him), has left me with a song that I can listen for and to when life seems overwhelming, and that's a good thing.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
The Decemberists, "Grace Cathedral Hill (Live)"
Some people have church; I have bookstores.
I realize some people will find that blasphemy, but it's true; my place of worship is amongst a row of dusty old paperbacks or brand-new hardbacks that someone read once, or bought for a friend who didn't want it, or just wanted to give back after enjoying said book and hope that someone else would find it amongst the stacks of other volumes and give it a try. There are few such places where I feel like I can spend hours (literally; ask anyone in my family who's ever made the mistake of accompanying me to Books-A-Million or a thrift store in the past, they'll testify to that) just roaming around, looking for something in particular or nothing in general. It's pretty damn relaxing too, if you're in good with the owner of a small bookshop and they let you use the restroom if you have to.
Every Saturday, it seems, I go out early to enjoy a day hitting up various locales in the greater Clemson/Anderson area. After a long week at work or in my personal life, it's my own mini-vacation. Sometimes I have a book in mind that I'm looking for, but more often than not I'm just winging it, seeing what's out there and hoping to stumble across something that will divert me for a few hours, entertain me or educate me (or both). I've been a reader for as long as I can remember, it's one of the things I got from my mom. And it's something that I wonder about sometimes.
To be a reader, a real dedicated reader of books (not just fiction, but non-fiction, essay collections, science books, sports books, and so on), you have to be comfortable with being alone for large chunks of time. Readers are not necessarily social creatures. We tend to hide away from fun, natural light, and conversations. We're happiest, it seems, thrust into a fictional world that only exists on the printed (or electronic) page but which comes alive in our vivid imaginations. Bookstores, however, almost force us out of our shells, because we have to be polite when we ask someone who's standing between us and that Graham Greene novel we want to move out of our way. Or we could just wait till they move on to the James Patterson section, whatevs. To each their own.
The Decemberists seem like a "literary band," which is a nice way of saying "educated douchebags with guitars," because most bands are just douchebags with guitars (tell me you don't die a little inside when you read about how Keith Moon was an abusive prick away from the drum set or that Jim Morrison really believed his poetry was good. Tell me that doesn't make you re-think celebrity hero-worship). But I like what I've heard of them, and "Grace Cathedral Hill," the live version off their live album, made me think of this topic when I was driving to work today. There's a difference between being lonely and loneliness, and to me bookstores (be them big chain places like BAM, where I'm more likely to cruise around the pop-culture or sports sections, or the little neck-of-the-woods places like McClure's or McDowell's) are ways of being alone together, with fellow converts to the religion of the printed word.
McClure's is in Clemson, off the main drag and full of goodies in all the subjects I love. Back when I needed money, I'd take in books there for sale or donations, and sometimes I still see books that I had to part with (or was all too happy to be rid of, in some cases) still on the shelf, waiting for a second (or third, or fourth) home. It's usually a good way to kill time if I have a particularly brief lunch and still have time before going back to work. McDowell's is more for the weekends, because it's in Anderson and way past the mall (which has BAM now). It's this little house just off the highway, a co-worker told me about it and when I found it I was in reader-heaven. It's literally stuffed with books, you can't turn around without finding more than you thought could be in a particular section. If the term "book-gasm" doesn't exist, it should to describe both McClure's and McDowell's. And no, I wasn't paid for those endorsements.
Of course, there are other book-buying areas out there; I sometimes stop at a spot just before you get into Anderson, it's more geared towards mystery-book readers and so, but their tiny non-fiction section has yielded some wonderful finds (and I was a little miffed when I saw a copy of Inherent Vice, which I'd bought new elsewhere, there on the used fiction shelf last weekend). If I have to go to Easley for any reason, I usually stop in a place that's next to the railroad tracks. Odd thing is, every book I've bought there usually ends up unread and donated elsewhere (the trend began when the owner was kind enough to let me use the facilities and, common courtesy being what it is, I bought a copy of The Guns of August even though I'd read it, just to be nice. Ever since, when I get home with a book that I bought there, I automatically lose interest. I don't know why). There are chain bookstores, of course: BAM, which used to be in a shady strip mall in Anderson before it moved into the Mall and got nicer (but I miss the old, seedy location); and Booksmith, in Seneca, which has been more of a lurking destination than a buying one (though I occasionally do feel like committing to a purchase).
You might think I'm wasting gas and money, and you could be right. None of the books I've bought and read have led me to a higher-paying job, a relationship with a beautiful woman who finds my Monty Python-quoting hilarious, or much else that I might want. But until any or all of those things do occur, I can always get away from my troubles for a few hours every Saturday, whether I buy anything or not. Religious experience? Perhaps.
I realize some people will find that blasphemy, but it's true; my place of worship is amongst a row of dusty old paperbacks or brand-new hardbacks that someone read once, or bought for a friend who didn't want it, or just wanted to give back after enjoying said book and hope that someone else would find it amongst the stacks of other volumes and give it a try. There are few such places where I feel like I can spend hours (literally; ask anyone in my family who's ever made the mistake of accompanying me to Books-A-Million or a thrift store in the past, they'll testify to that) just roaming around, looking for something in particular or nothing in general. It's pretty damn relaxing too, if you're in good with the owner of a small bookshop and they let you use the restroom if you have to.
Every Saturday, it seems, I go out early to enjoy a day hitting up various locales in the greater Clemson/Anderson area. After a long week at work or in my personal life, it's my own mini-vacation. Sometimes I have a book in mind that I'm looking for, but more often than not I'm just winging it, seeing what's out there and hoping to stumble across something that will divert me for a few hours, entertain me or educate me (or both). I've been a reader for as long as I can remember, it's one of the things I got from my mom. And it's something that I wonder about sometimes.
To be a reader, a real dedicated reader of books (not just fiction, but non-fiction, essay collections, science books, sports books, and so on), you have to be comfortable with being alone for large chunks of time. Readers are not necessarily social creatures. We tend to hide away from fun, natural light, and conversations. We're happiest, it seems, thrust into a fictional world that only exists on the printed (or electronic) page but which comes alive in our vivid imaginations. Bookstores, however, almost force us out of our shells, because we have to be polite when we ask someone who's standing between us and that Graham Greene novel we want to move out of our way. Or we could just wait till they move on to the James Patterson section, whatevs. To each their own.
The Decemberists seem like a "literary band," which is a nice way of saying "educated douchebags with guitars," because most bands are just douchebags with guitars (tell me you don't die a little inside when you read about how Keith Moon was an abusive prick away from the drum set or that Jim Morrison really believed his poetry was good. Tell me that doesn't make you re-think celebrity hero-worship). But I like what I've heard of them, and "Grace Cathedral Hill," the live version off their live album, made me think of this topic when I was driving to work today. There's a difference between being lonely and loneliness, and to me bookstores (be them big chain places like BAM, where I'm more likely to cruise around the pop-culture or sports sections, or the little neck-of-the-woods places like McClure's or McDowell's) are ways of being alone together, with fellow converts to the religion of the printed word.
McClure's is in Clemson, off the main drag and full of goodies in all the subjects I love. Back when I needed money, I'd take in books there for sale or donations, and sometimes I still see books that I had to part with (or was all too happy to be rid of, in some cases) still on the shelf, waiting for a second (or third, or fourth) home. It's usually a good way to kill time if I have a particularly brief lunch and still have time before going back to work. McDowell's is more for the weekends, because it's in Anderson and way past the mall (which has BAM now). It's this little house just off the highway, a co-worker told me about it and when I found it I was in reader-heaven. It's literally stuffed with books, you can't turn around without finding more than you thought could be in a particular section. If the term "book-gasm" doesn't exist, it should to describe both McClure's and McDowell's. And no, I wasn't paid for those endorsements.
Of course, there are other book-buying areas out there; I sometimes stop at a spot just before you get into Anderson, it's more geared towards mystery-book readers and so, but their tiny non-fiction section has yielded some wonderful finds (and I was a little miffed when I saw a copy of Inherent Vice, which I'd bought new elsewhere, there on the used fiction shelf last weekend). If I have to go to Easley for any reason, I usually stop in a place that's next to the railroad tracks. Odd thing is, every book I've bought there usually ends up unread and donated elsewhere (the trend began when the owner was kind enough to let me use the facilities and, common courtesy being what it is, I bought a copy of The Guns of August even though I'd read it, just to be nice. Ever since, when I get home with a book that I bought there, I automatically lose interest. I don't know why). There are chain bookstores, of course: BAM, which used to be in a shady strip mall in Anderson before it moved into the Mall and got nicer (but I miss the old, seedy location); and Booksmith, in Seneca, which has been more of a lurking destination than a buying one (though I occasionally do feel like committing to a purchase).
You might think I'm wasting gas and money, and you could be right. None of the books I've bought and read have led me to a higher-paying job, a relationship with a beautiful woman who finds my Monty Python-quoting hilarious, or much else that I might want. But until any or all of those things do occur, I can always get away from my troubles for a few hours every Saturday, whether I buy anything or not. Religious experience? Perhaps.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Fun., "Carry On"
There are songs that you like because they're sad and you (as a reasonably well-adjusted and happy individual) can laugh them off because, well, it's not about you. Then there are songs that you hate because they're so damn cheery and you're miserable enough without being reminded that somewhere, in some place, someone is having way more fun than you. Then there are songs that, when you're in a lousy mood but not in a cutting-my-wrists-to-Radiohead way, can promise that, whatever the trials and tribulations you go through, tomorrow is just around the corner. And sometimes, they come from the most unlikely sources.
Fun. were not much "fun" to my ears after being subjected to the far-too-many-times-on-the-damn-radio frequent airplay of "We Are Young" (a song that until recently I still didn't like, though time has passed and I appreciate the song a bit now that it's not every damn where). I wasn't too sure about "Some Nights", though I thought it was weird using Civil War imagery (as a "War Between the States" aficionado, I do like a good ole fashioned shoot-out between Blue and Gray). But their most recent single, "Carry On," kinda hits for me right now.
I won't go into it here, because some things are not fodder for "Trevor's gonna blog about it!" Some things just are, and as Jimmy Buffett once said, it's my own damn fault. But anyway, I can say that, in the past, I have had many, many, many crappy times where music has helped me through, and this is one of thoses.
While I won't talk about the specifics of what I won't talk about (trust me on this one), I will generally allude to the growing sense of unease as I pass from my early thirties towards something that I grew up believing was supposed to be "grown-up life." When I was young (no, that wasn't a cue for that song), I thought that age brought maturity, responsiblity taking over for fun times, the assurance that somewhere out there was a life that you could live and look back on and say "that was like a movie." Perhaps it was the Reagan Era's version of "Good Feelings," that as long as you had money and stuff you'd be alright. I know people who still cling to those notions, and while I don't begrudge them much their money or stuff, I do know that often times happiness doesn't come with a price tag (at least not an actual price tag).
But as I've gotten older, my "wiser" quotient seems to fluctuate between Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker as a punk-ass wannabe Jedi. And when I fuck up, my go-to response of humor doesn't quite cut it anymore. At least not with the people who matter.
Bad times, yes, but they will pass, maybe not today or tomorrow, but they will. I think my worst time as a person was after I got fired from my library job. I didn't have a breakdown per se, but anyone who knew me back then would probably say I was "worrisome" at the least. But I got up each morning out of bed, went looking for a job, found two jobs, and have managed somehow not to screw up majorly. A little here and there minor screw-ups, but nothing major.
I would say to anyone reading this, if you're down and weary: this too will pass. I think it's fair to say that bad times exist to remind us to cherish those fleeting "good times" we have, those that get us through when everything seems against us or we're not sure what to do because nothing has seemed to work so far. It's not what happens to you but how you deal with it that defines you. Granted, I'm pretty crappy at dealing with some things (there I go, alluding to "it." No, I won't say what "it" is). But I'd like to think that I can do better. I'm working on it, reading lots of books about how to live. Two of them by Phil Jackson, of all people (if you haven't read Eleven Rings or Sacred Hoops, do so now. Though a lot of Hoops is covered by the first few chapters in Rings, you still get a good reading experience). Perhaps I can make amends someday, perhaps not. But I will carry on.
Fun. were not much "fun" to my ears after being subjected to the far-too-many-times-on-the-damn-radio frequent airplay of "We Are Young" (a song that until recently I still didn't like, though time has passed and I appreciate the song a bit now that it's not every damn where). I wasn't too sure about "Some Nights", though I thought it was weird using Civil War imagery (as a "War Between the States" aficionado, I do like a good ole fashioned shoot-out between Blue and Gray). But their most recent single, "Carry On," kinda hits for me right now.
I won't go into it here, because some things are not fodder for "Trevor's gonna blog about it!" Some things just are, and as Jimmy Buffett once said, it's my own damn fault. But anyway, I can say that, in the past, I have had many, many, many crappy times where music has helped me through, and this is one of thoses.
While I won't talk about the specifics of what I won't talk about (trust me on this one), I will generally allude to the growing sense of unease as I pass from my early thirties towards something that I grew up believing was supposed to be "grown-up life." When I was young (no, that wasn't a cue for that song), I thought that age brought maturity, responsiblity taking over for fun times, the assurance that somewhere out there was a life that you could live and look back on and say "that was like a movie." Perhaps it was the Reagan Era's version of "Good Feelings," that as long as you had money and stuff you'd be alright. I know people who still cling to those notions, and while I don't begrudge them much their money or stuff, I do know that often times happiness doesn't come with a price tag (at least not an actual price tag).
But as I've gotten older, my "wiser" quotient seems to fluctuate between Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker as a punk-ass wannabe Jedi. And when I fuck up, my go-to response of humor doesn't quite cut it anymore. At least not with the people who matter.
Bad times, yes, but they will pass, maybe not today or tomorrow, but they will. I think my worst time as a person was after I got fired from my library job. I didn't have a breakdown per se, but anyone who knew me back then would probably say I was "worrisome" at the least. But I got up each morning out of bed, went looking for a job, found two jobs, and have managed somehow not to screw up majorly. A little here and there minor screw-ups, but nothing major.
I would say to anyone reading this, if you're down and weary: this too will pass. I think it's fair to say that bad times exist to remind us to cherish those fleeting "good times" we have, those that get us through when everything seems against us or we're not sure what to do because nothing has seemed to work so far. It's not what happens to you but how you deal with it that defines you. Granted, I'm pretty crappy at dealing with some things (there I go, alluding to "it." No, I won't say what "it" is). But I'd like to think that I can do better. I'm working on it, reading lots of books about how to live. Two of them by Phil Jackson, of all people (if you haven't read Eleven Rings or Sacred Hoops, do so now. Though a lot of Hoops is covered by the first few chapters in Rings, you still get a good reading experience). Perhaps I can make amends someday, perhaps not. But I will carry on.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Talking Heads, "Once In a Lifetime"
Last December, we were all eyeing the calendar nervously, awaiting the 21st like a lot of people eye an upcoming high school reunion if they've never managed to leave their parents' basement and the best job they can manage is assistant manager at Sewage Control: with dread. I want to say that I was calm, cool, and dismissive of such madness, having lived through Y2K with nary a scratch. But there was a small part of me (the part that still gets spooked by old episodes of "Unsolved Mysteries") that thought "uh oh, what if this is the end?" So I made a list of things that I wanted to do in case the world didn't end, in the thought that, if it did, I wouldn't have to.
Stupid fuckin' Mayans...
One of the things I wanted to achieve (and I believe I wrote about it here before, so excuse the repetition) is to purchase and read Moby-Dick in its entirity. Thanks to the fact that the Mayans couldn't find their ass from a hole in the ground, I set out on December 22 for the nearest Books-A-Million to get a full-on, Penguin-edition-with-intro-from-Nathaniel-Philbrick copy of "The Mobes" (as I like to call it...no, not catching on? Okay) and start pounding away at all 625 pages of it.
Last weekend, not this past one but the one before, I finished the damn thing...and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
"Moby-Dick" of course is a story of boy meets whale, boy tries to kill whale, all but one crew member perish (hey, if you didn't know how the story ends, your cultural education is sorely lacking. It's like being shocked at the end of Titanic. "What do you mean, they hit the iceberg?"). It's also one of the best double-entendre titles in all of literature. And, as a Bachelor of the Arts in English, I have plenty to say about it. Read on, if you want to hear:
First things first, don't skimp on the el cheapo versions if you want to experience Herman Melville's story. Go for the ones that are big and thick (no pun intended). As someone who's been a lifelong reader, I love the feel of books, the way that you have a sense of accomplishment when you get past a certain point in page-count for the day or in terms of where you are in the story. I'm sure someday I might splurge for a Kindle or something, but so far I'm good with the old-fashioned version of books. You can't dog-ear a tablet.
Secondly, the story itself: sure, the ship sinks in the end, but the voyage it (and you) goes on is worth all the overlong examinations of just what whales are and what they mean. Ishmael, the main character, is probably one of the weirdest but most endearing narrators in all literature; he's just a guy in need of a job (with perhaps an unhealthy obsession with sperm whale anatomy) who signs up for the Good Ship Lollipop of possibly Satanic captains with their own unhealthy obsessions with sperm whales (and their own anatomy). He kinda disappears as a main character midway through, and even seems to be unusually aware of things that, if he were simply as he presents himself (a crewman on a whale boat), he would have no way of knowing about. But it's a novel, not a non-fiction story, and you can kinda do whatever the hell you want in a novel. As long as the reader is willing to follow along.
The language of the book can be daunting if you have no previous exposure to nineteenth-century literature (I honestly think that, if I didn't already have an appreciation for Jane Austen and one or two of the Bronte sisters, I would've been hopelessly lost). Melville has a lot to say (about six-hundred pages' worth), and sometimes I had to take a break from the book because I needed a rest (thus why it took me almost five months to finish). But it's one of those books that you can put down for a time and pick back up with very little lost in terms of finding your way back around. For such a thick book, the chapters themselves (when it's not Ishamel telling you more than you ever wanted to know about what's inside a sperm whale, for instance) are pretty short, almost alarmingly so; I'd start a chapter on one page, turn to find it concluding well before the end of the next page, and wonder what the hell happened. But you get used to it once you really get into it.
So my review (and thus, the reference to the Talking Heads song in the title of this essay): reading "Moby-Dick" can definitely disorient you by being possibly the most difficult book you'll ever read. But do try and pick it up at least once or twice, and stick with it if you can. I doubt I'll ever feel the urge to read any more Melville, but "Moby-Dick" does stand up as being a classic (and not just in the way that Mark Twain defined a "classic" as a book that everyone agreed deserved the title but no one bothered to actually read). Put aside some time for Ahab, he'll lead you to ruin but you can always come up for air. It really is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and you can impress friends at parties.
Assuming that the parties you go to are attended by fellow English majors...
Stupid fuckin' Mayans...
One of the things I wanted to achieve (and I believe I wrote about it here before, so excuse the repetition) is to purchase and read Moby-Dick in its entirity. Thanks to the fact that the Mayans couldn't find their ass from a hole in the ground, I set out on December 22 for the nearest Books-A-Million to get a full-on, Penguin-edition-with-intro-from-Nathaniel-Philbrick copy of "The Mobes" (as I like to call it...no, not catching on? Okay) and start pounding away at all 625 pages of it.
Last weekend, not this past one but the one before, I finished the damn thing...and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
"Moby-Dick" of course is a story of boy meets whale, boy tries to kill whale, all but one crew member perish (hey, if you didn't know how the story ends, your cultural education is sorely lacking. It's like being shocked at the end of Titanic. "What do you mean, they hit the iceberg?"). It's also one of the best double-entendre titles in all of literature. And, as a Bachelor of the Arts in English, I have plenty to say about it. Read on, if you want to hear:
First things first, don't skimp on the el cheapo versions if you want to experience Herman Melville's story. Go for the ones that are big and thick (no pun intended). As someone who's been a lifelong reader, I love the feel of books, the way that you have a sense of accomplishment when you get past a certain point in page-count for the day or in terms of where you are in the story. I'm sure someday I might splurge for a Kindle or something, but so far I'm good with the old-fashioned version of books. You can't dog-ear a tablet.
Secondly, the story itself: sure, the ship sinks in the end, but the voyage it (and you) goes on is worth all the overlong examinations of just what whales are and what they mean. Ishmael, the main character, is probably one of the weirdest but most endearing narrators in all literature; he's just a guy in need of a job (with perhaps an unhealthy obsession with sperm whale anatomy) who signs up for the Good Ship Lollipop of possibly Satanic captains with their own unhealthy obsessions with sperm whales (and their own anatomy). He kinda disappears as a main character midway through, and even seems to be unusually aware of things that, if he were simply as he presents himself (a crewman on a whale boat), he would have no way of knowing about. But it's a novel, not a non-fiction story, and you can kinda do whatever the hell you want in a novel. As long as the reader is willing to follow along.
The language of the book can be daunting if you have no previous exposure to nineteenth-century literature (I honestly think that, if I didn't already have an appreciation for Jane Austen and one or two of the Bronte sisters, I would've been hopelessly lost). Melville has a lot to say (about six-hundred pages' worth), and sometimes I had to take a break from the book because I needed a rest (thus why it took me almost five months to finish). But it's one of those books that you can put down for a time and pick back up with very little lost in terms of finding your way back around. For such a thick book, the chapters themselves (when it's not Ishamel telling you more than you ever wanted to know about what's inside a sperm whale, for instance) are pretty short, almost alarmingly so; I'd start a chapter on one page, turn to find it concluding well before the end of the next page, and wonder what the hell happened. But you get used to it once you really get into it.
So my review (and thus, the reference to the Talking Heads song in the title of this essay): reading "Moby-Dick" can definitely disorient you by being possibly the most difficult book you'll ever read. But do try and pick it up at least once or twice, and stick with it if you can. I doubt I'll ever feel the urge to read any more Melville, but "Moby-Dick" does stand up as being a classic (and not just in the way that Mark Twain defined a "classic" as a book that everyone agreed deserved the title but no one bothered to actually read). Put aside some time for Ahab, he'll lead you to ruin but you can always come up for air. It really is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and you can impress friends at parties.
Assuming that the parties you go to are attended by fellow English majors...
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Bob Dylan, "Subterranean Homesick Blues"
Tomorrow is Bob Dylan's birthday. I saw the man in concert once (Elvis Costello shared the bill and did an amazing solo acoustic show, Dylan did a full band, but I found EC's portion of the concert better), and he looks every bit of his seventy-two years. He didn't live the rock-and-roll lifestyle so much as embrace the role of "voice of a generation" and all that entails, from the early Sixties onwards.
The dude has been an icon since he was twenty-two. In case you ever want to feel bad about your lack of forward momentum in life, look up the stats: a folk-singing icon at twenty-two, a rock rebel at twenty-four and twenty-five, and reclusive balladeer from twenty-five to pretty much now, albeit more in the public eye since his return to performing in the Seventies. The man has been at the forefront of so much that I think you can safely assume he has fans not just for himself, but for each version of Bob Dylan that's been floating around since the Woody Guthrie days of 1962-1963.
Me personally, it's all about the electric period, that first burst of rock energy that came alive with Bringing It All Back Home and this song in particular, "Subterranean Homesick Blues." In a prototype of the music video, Dylan drops cards bearing lines from the song at a rapid pace, an iconic technique that would be borrowed for everything from other artists' videos to ads for cars (no, really, I saw a local ad with a weatherman doing much the same thing, dropping cards that built on the promise of really good deals on cars. I'm guessing the homage was not intentional). Bob Dylan was punk before there was even a thing such as punk, because he defied what his audience expected of him at the time.
From 1965 to 1967, he toured with the Hawks, who, when he suffered a mysterious motorcycle accident, would start jamming with Bob in Woodstock, New York. Eventually to become The Band, they went on to achieve their own success with the trio of voices now sadly all gone: Richard Manuel, Rick Danko, and Levon Helm. The pressure on Dylan was intense, and hatred over his "new direction" so fierce that he could very well have been another victim of the wave of assassinations that swept the world in the Sixties.
What amazes me is that he not only survived that intact physically but also mentally (though I'm sure the drugs he took and probably still takes helped a lot). In an era where people can become famous for just being famous, Bob Dylan actually stands out as someone who, except on rare occasions, never really settles for being "Bob Dylan." He's not willing to sit still and let others define him, even if (like me) they like the older version of him, from back in whatever particular era his music spoke to them. For me, it's hard to top his mid-Sixties period (culminating in Blonde on Blonde) and honestly, if I had to live with only the three albums he put out from 1965 to 1966, I'd be good.
The dude has been an icon since he was twenty-two. In case you ever want to feel bad about your lack of forward momentum in life, look up the stats: a folk-singing icon at twenty-two, a rock rebel at twenty-four and twenty-five, and reclusive balladeer from twenty-five to pretty much now, albeit more in the public eye since his return to performing in the Seventies. The man has been at the forefront of so much that I think you can safely assume he has fans not just for himself, but for each version of Bob Dylan that's been floating around since the Woody Guthrie days of 1962-1963.
Me personally, it's all about the electric period, that first burst of rock energy that came alive with Bringing It All Back Home and this song in particular, "Subterranean Homesick Blues." In a prototype of the music video, Dylan drops cards bearing lines from the song at a rapid pace, an iconic technique that would be borrowed for everything from other artists' videos to ads for cars (no, really, I saw a local ad with a weatherman doing much the same thing, dropping cards that built on the promise of really good deals on cars. I'm guessing the homage was not intentional). Bob Dylan was punk before there was even a thing such as punk, because he defied what his audience expected of him at the time.
From 1965 to 1967, he toured with the Hawks, who, when he suffered a mysterious motorcycle accident, would start jamming with Bob in Woodstock, New York. Eventually to become The Band, they went on to achieve their own success with the trio of voices now sadly all gone: Richard Manuel, Rick Danko, and Levon Helm. The pressure on Dylan was intense, and hatred over his "new direction" so fierce that he could very well have been another victim of the wave of assassinations that swept the world in the Sixties.
What amazes me is that he not only survived that intact physically but also mentally (though I'm sure the drugs he took and probably still takes helped a lot). In an era where people can become famous for just being famous, Bob Dylan actually stands out as someone who, except on rare occasions, never really settles for being "Bob Dylan." He's not willing to sit still and let others define him, even if (like me) they like the older version of him, from back in whatever particular era his music spoke to them. For me, it's hard to top his mid-Sixties period (culminating in Blonde on Blonde) and honestly, if I had to live with only the three albums he put out from 1965 to 1966, I'd be good.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Marvin Gaye, "Got to Give It Up, Pt. One"
Let me be upfront about this: I love music so much that it pains me that I can't express my love for it in the manner I'd chose to. Or manners: I can't play an instrument or sing to save my life (though I can sing to annoy people with my voice and I used to play the hell out of an old three-stringed guitar that was in my family since the Seventies and looked it). I also can't dance. At all. I make Carlton Banks look like Barishnikov, basically. Whenever I've broken out in a dance on the floor, people have wondered aloud if I'm suffering a seizure. I'm not even sure if I'm kidding about that.
But still, I love music, and expressing my love for it is hard to do if I can't at least try to boogie down with my bad self from time to time. Mostly in the privacy of my own room, where (back when I had a CD player) I could blast music and just let myself go, free from the shame that someone could be watching me (unless someone was watching me...I don't know much about our neighbors, there could be some real pervs out there). But since the death of my old laptop and my inability to start up a new iTunes account, I've pretty much had to confine myself to head-bopping along to whatever CD I've got going in my car. Dancing in the car is not only not what a car was built for, it can actually be dangerous for you and your fellow drivers. Imagine the pile-up if "Got to Give It Up, Pt. One" by the immortal Marvin Gaye came on over the radio and you just let loose. You'd be on the news, and not in a good way.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my ability to dance isn't that great; I am white, after all (just kidding, some white people have rhythm. Justin Timberlake, for one...and some other guy, but really it's just JT). But I do remember in the past, way back in the Eighties, when my aunt and her friend would be out in the driveway trying to break-dance, and I'd try to join in. The song I associate most with that was Billy Ocean's entire body of work ("Caribbean Queen" and "Get Out of My Dreams (Get Into My Car)"). For a brief moment, I could convince myself that my moves would impress the cast of Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo, but I was really just fooling myself.
(Sidebar: Everyone jokingly refers to Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo as the best sequel ever, but no one seems to remember the original. Was it denied a place in mock-hilarity history because of its bland name, or its inability to rock the "Electric Boogaloo" tag early, as a pre-emptive strike on the sequel's claim to fame?)
Anywho, I long to dance, to dance in a way that doesn't embarass myself or those around me. But it's just not to be. And I think, in the long run, I'm okay with that. I even refer to my style of dancing (if it can indeed be called that) as "happy dancing," because I'm just happy to be moving. Too many times I've been at dances (okay, none since high school) where I could've got up on the dance floor and made an ass of myself but I didn't. My rep in high school wasn't the greatest (I was already regarded with disfavor for the crime of having glasses and actually reading books...for...fun), so it wouldn't have been that bad to get up at the prom and at least try a slow dance with one of the two girls I was kinda into at that time. But alas, I did not.
Happy dancing, by the way, is a pretty good name for a mix CD you make for someone special. But I already did that, so don't copy me, fellow using-music-to-express-feelings emotionally-awkward young men.
Marvin Gaye is, to me, the greatest soulful singer of all time (Al Green is the greatest living one). What draws me to this song is the utter incongruity of his claim to being a shy wallflower when it came to dancing (anyone who thinks Marvin Gaye was ever shy about the ladies needs to get their head examined). But once he does start dancing, wouldn't you know it: He's a hit with the ladies. That's every nerdy white boy's fantasy, and it's only just out of reach because when we do actually break out the moves, we look more like a fish flopping on dry land. But we can dream, oh how we can dream. Music gives you the soundtrack to such imaginings, and it doesn't matter how clumsy we really are, hitting everyone and looking like Michael Scott instead of Michael Jackson. We're our own bosses of dancing.
But still, I love music, and expressing my love for it is hard to do if I can't at least try to boogie down with my bad self from time to time. Mostly in the privacy of my own room, where (back when I had a CD player) I could blast music and just let myself go, free from the shame that someone could be watching me (unless someone was watching me...I don't know much about our neighbors, there could be some real pervs out there). But since the death of my old laptop and my inability to start up a new iTunes account, I've pretty much had to confine myself to head-bopping along to whatever CD I've got going in my car. Dancing in the car is not only not what a car was built for, it can actually be dangerous for you and your fellow drivers. Imagine the pile-up if "Got to Give It Up, Pt. One" by the immortal Marvin Gaye came on over the radio and you just let loose. You'd be on the news, and not in a good way.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my ability to dance isn't that great; I am white, after all (just kidding, some white people have rhythm. Justin Timberlake, for one...and some other guy, but really it's just JT). But I do remember in the past, way back in the Eighties, when my aunt and her friend would be out in the driveway trying to break-dance, and I'd try to join in. The song I associate most with that was Billy Ocean's entire body of work ("Caribbean Queen" and "Get Out of My Dreams (Get Into My Car)"). For a brief moment, I could convince myself that my moves would impress the cast of Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo, but I was really just fooling myself.
(Sidebar: Everyone jokingly refers to Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo as the best sequel ever, but no one seems to remember the original. Was it denied a place in mock-hilarity history because of its bland name, or its inability to rock the "Electric Boogaloo" tag early, as a pre-emptive strike on the sequel's claim to fame?)
Anywho, I long to dance, to dance in a way that doesn't embarass myself or those around me. But it's just not to be. And I think, in the long run, I'm okay with that. I even refer to my style of dancing (if it can indeed be called that) as "happy dancing," because I'm just happy to be moving. Too many times I've been at dances (okay, none since high school) where I could've got up on the dance floor and made an ass of myself but I didn't. My rep in high school wasn't the greatest (I was already regarded with disfavor for the crime of having glasses and actually reading books...for...fun), so it wouldn't have been that bad to get up at the prom and at least try a slow dance with one of the two girls I was kinda into at that time. But alas, I did not.
Happy dancing, by the way, is a pretty good name for a mix CD you make for someone special. But I already did that, so don't copy me, fellow using-music-to-express-feelings emotionally-awkward young men.
Marvin Gaye is, to me, the greatest soulful singer of all time (Al Green is the greatest living one). What draws me to this song is the utter incongruity of his claim to being a shy wallflower when it came to dancing (anyone who thinks Marvin Gaye was ever shy about the ladies needs to get their head examined). But once he does start dancing, wouldn't you know it: He's a hit with the ladies. That's every nerdy white boy's fantasy, and it's only just out of reach because when we do actually break out the moves, we look more like a fish flopping on dry land. But we can dream, oh how we can dream. Music gives you the soundtrack to such imaginings, and it doesn't matter how clumsy we really are, hitting everyone and looking like Michael Scott instead of Michael Jackson. We're our own bosses of dancing.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Happy Birthday, Thomas Pynchon!
I still have no clue if I ever got what Gravity's Rainbow is about, but I love it for its weirdness anyway...
It's been a while since I put up anything here, and there's a good reason for that: I'm inherently lazy. As a writer or writer-to-be, this could be seen as a non-desirable trait, but there it is; sometimes the muse is alive and well, other times it's buried in Cheetos dust and too many afternoons spent watching No Reservations marathons. I can't be "on" all the time, people.
I will say that, in the absence of having anything to say, I've done a lot of reading the past few months, or perhaps more accurately, buying books that I will either eventually get around to reading or actually managing to do so before now. Don't worry, financially-minded friends; most of the purchases have been at used-book stores, the opiate to bookish masses like myself who a.) like trying to find obscure books that might not be at the megachains or library and b.) are kinda cheap. Not in a bad way (I suppose I'd spend money on surgery, if it were totally necessary), but cheap nonetheless.
But I think it's time to scale back on such non-extravagent spending sprees. I've been lucky in that my tax return hasn't been wasted on rims for my car or a grill for my teeth (or is it grills for my car and rims for my teeth? My knowledge of culture doesn't really extend past 1997). But that luck could easily run out, especially considering my automotive woes in the past (blown tires, exploding engines, terrorists demanding that I drive them to the bank...oops, shouldn't have told about that one). So I have to be careful.
One of the things I've noticed is that, for all the books I have bought, very few have been read yet by me. It's a pattern that usually occurs when I get home and the "new book" smell (or "very old book smell") wears off and I put it aside for something more substantial, like the second volume of Edmund Morris' bio of Teddy Roosevelt, or another collection of Get Fuzzy comic strips. But I've read some good ones: Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien springs immediately to mind.
Anyway, that's it for now, folks; hopefully I can go back to New Orleans in June (if not, Myrtle Beach will have to do, but I'm taking a vacation this summer. An actual vacation, not a "sit on my ass at home" vacation). So there's an incentive to save money instead of spending it. Will I manage to do so? Only the fates know for sure.
It's been a while since I put up anything here, and there's a good reason for that: I'm inherently lazy. As a writer or writer-to-be, this could be seen as a non-desirable trait, but there it is; sometimes the muse is alive and well, other times it's buried in Cheetos dust and too many afternoons spent watching No Reservations marathons. I can't be "on" all the time, people.
I will say that, in the absence of having anything to say, I've done a lot of reading the past few months, or perhaps more accurately, buying books that I will either eventually get around to reading or actually managing to do so before now. Don't worry, financially-minded friends; most of the purchases have been at used-book stores, the opiate to bookish masses like myself who a.) like trying to find obscure books that might not be at the megachains or library and b.) are kinda cheap. Not in a bad way (I suppose I'd spend money on surgery, if it were totally necessary), but cheap nonetheless.
But I think it's time to scale back on such non-extravagent spending sprees. I've been lucky in that my tax return hasn't been wasted on rims for my car or a grill for my teeth (or is it grills for my car and rims for my teeth? My knowledge of culture doesn't really extend past 1997). But that luck could easily run out, especially considering my automotive woes in the past (blown tires, exploding engines, terrorists demanding that I drive them to the bank...oops, shouldn't have told about that one). So I have to be careful.
One of the things I've noticed is that, for all the books I have bought, very few have been read yet by me. It's a pattern that usually occurs when I get home and the "new book" smell (or "very old book smell") wears off and I put it aside for something more substantial, like the second volume of Edmund Morris' bio of Teddy Roosevelt, or another collection of Get Fuzzy comic strips. But I've read some good ones: Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien springs immediately to mind.
Anyway, that's it for now, folks; hopefully I can go back to New Orleans in June (if not, Myrtle Beach will have to do, but I'm taking a vacation this summer. An actual vacation, not a "sit on my ass at home" vacation). So there's an incentive to save money instead of spending it. Will I manage to do so? Only the fates know for sure.
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