During a morning walk, a turn of brain had me switch from the audiobook for A Dance with Dragons (why, Roy Dotrice, must you lose track of your character voices from book to book?) to the two songs on my iPod by Neil Sedaka.
I know he’s recorded a lot more songs in his long career. I recall an odd love duet with his daughter. What trips me out about “Calendar Girl” and “Breaking Up is Hard to Do” is the forced cherubism. “Though sad inside, I shall for the sake of commerce and Tin Pan Alley heave a superhuman effort into PROJECTING MIRTH THOUGH ITS FORCE MAY REND TIME/SPACE ASUNDER!”
Let’s focus on his shout out to “December” in “Calendar Girl”. He uses the word “‘neath”. He could have used “beneath” and it would have still flowed. But no, he formally sat at a table, wrote the word “‘neath” on the music sheet and thought “How winningly informal and crafty. I shall keep it.”
He gives out a “Whoo!” at the start of the bridge (at 1:26 in the clip below) that is hilarious. “Holy Christmas on a cracker, I got so much groove I don’t know what to do but whoop in exultation!”
Drafting this on my phone, its AutoCorrect suggested “Meat” for “Neil”, “Defamation” for “Sedaka”, “Shop” for “Whoo”. Good summary, phone! Somewhere out there my smartphone has a funnier, more concise blog than mine.
Largely house-bound day, about 5:30 p.m. I rustled the family up, insisting on a field trip to the record/CD store while they still exist. Music Millenium (“A place where the music and the people still matter”). I was on the hunt for a next opera CD.
I’d taken the kids there before, but it was several years ago and they had no memory of it. They found the candy section right away and started bargaining. “Can we get candy instead of music?” “NO! Go look around.”
We went separate directions. Where is the opera section? Over in classical, duh. Down the stairs, then some other stairs. Gotta open a door then down OTHER stairs to get into the classical room, then opera is in a closet of THAT room. Like finding a brightly lit opium den.
Got there, browsed a bit, took some tips from the “Opera 101” book I’m reading. Side track: the author is bugging me. He loves using the phrase “the fact that”, once using it in consecutive sentences (*wince*).
I’ve already got Maria Callas in Norma, the first opera CD I bought (bet Fanny Chicken can suss out why) and have listened to Callas’ studio recording of Carmen loads of times, leading to seeing it a few weeks ago. Thanks, T! Madama Butterfly probably the next opera I’ll attend, probably in a few weeks. Found a recording of … Maria Callas performing THAT, nabbed it. Double CD (w00t!) with a bonus CD-ROM of material (wh@t?).
Back in the day (as kids like to say, I’m trying to reach their demographic – how’s that coming across? Cool? Kinda molester-y?) I really like the interactive CD-ROMs put out by Peter Gabriel (still think about those), Sting ‘All this Time’ (Andrew & I joke about that one), and Prince’s ‘Interactive’ (wish there were a smell-o-vision feature). Haven’t tried the opera CD-ROM, but it’s probably documents, not interactive games like “coax the diva to the stage after she received an underwhelming bouquet from her new paramour”.
Also got a Callas opera buffet CD – more than 100 songs over 6 CDs! – that I’ll use as a reference when the various operas get a mention in the Opera 101 book. Small doses. Looking at the track lists made me woozy what with all the languages that weren’t American.
The Madama Butterfly did not have a price tag on it. Asked a clerk in the middle of the store for a price check. Clerk got nervous. “That’s from the opera section.”
“Can you look it up here?”
“Yes. But, it’s from the other section.”
[Non-verbal ??? on my face]
“There may be a special deal or something. They would know.”
“I assumed the whole store would be connected to the same system.” What is up with this opera ghetto treatment?
Clerk scanned it, $23.99. Thanked him, still baffled. But there are old-school rectangular red or white or orange price stickers on the CDs at Music Millenium, and the clerk wanted to make sure I was getting any sale they might be having that would not be reflected in the computer system. So, sorry for my faces, brother. It was $23.99 in the opera/classical register, too, this time.
Daughter got the new Muppet Movie music CD. Son picked nothing. Spouse got a few CDs including a greatest hits of Pink Martini. A new Decemberists CD sits in our home, so far unopened this last month. Tough for parents to find time to listen to new music, but why am I reluctant to seek out music by local artists? I have this threshold for only listening to artists after they hit the mainstream. Never hire me to be an A/R guy, I’d never go anywhere to seek out prospects.
Also picked up the new Patton Oswalt CD. No idea he had one. Why didn’t he tell me?
Got this book for Christmas. Doesn’t cover ‘Carmen’, but I’ll be reading it in 2012.People who know or like opera may want to avert their eyes, I’m about to fling ignorance around like water off a wet dog.
I had only seen three operas. In the late 70s or early 80s I saw a family friend in the female lead of Pirates of Penzance. In the 90s I saw another friend in Candide. Around 1990 PBS aired all of Wagner’s Ring cycle done by the New York Metropolitan Opera. I made it through the first show, and part of the second, then interest waned. A foreign language! Subtitles? German? Even as a fan of Norse myths it was too slow, too much work.
Julia Roberts about to bug the shit out of me.So, in the dark I remained. Yet, I knew enough to get PISSED at Pretty Woman during the scene where the prostitute (Julia Roberts) is told by her aristocrat Wall Street tycoon john (Richard Gere) that people either get, nay FEEL, opera or they don’t. And only the first time. After that, they may LIKE opera, but they have a never-to-be-remedied manqué soul or something like that. Sure as shit, arriviste Julia Roberts weeps at the opera. Her first time. Ah! See? Heart of gold! What if it were a bad production, Richard Gere, and she were turned off by that? Eh? Even though I didn’t know opera, I knew enough to think: “Stop! In the name of Art! Fuuuck YOOOUUU, Pretty Woman!”
I didn’t (and still mostly don’t) like musicals. And operas amplified what I didn’t like about musicals. As a story conveyance device, they were terrible. Rarely showing anything. Flooding the audience with repetitive wordy words, in a foreign language, and not offering much wisdom. Do operas even try have a message? Modern operas, maybe. There’s a new one about Nixon going to China. Watching Pat Nixon sing songs might be funny. Otherwise, whatever.
But during 2011, something clicked, and I got interested (though still intimidated). I finally got that operas were not meant to be didactic, they were pageants for humans to stand in defiance of nature’s amoral flow. That flow will always prevail, but the demiurge to create a moment and marker was important. Melodrama was inherent. We, as humans, would never win, but identity is conflict, and maybe we would find something of ourselves in that temporary stand. And then the catharsis thing and watching people we empathize with suffer as scapegoats for the expiation of our sins (“Die before me Carmen, so that I may mourn the zesty side of me that yet dreams!”) and on and on.
I also got interested in the biography, glamor, and drama of Maria Callas. To be a strong opera performer, compelled to master that moment before a crowd, demands a strong ego. The appeal of the diva will probably be a necessity for holding MY attention. I doubt male vocalists will have that hold for me.
Asking for guidance on Facebook, one friend affirmed Callas was a good start (I already had been listening to her in Norma). Another friend suggested Carmen as the opera to get to know. Snorkeling gear on loan from Parnassus, I leaned off the edge of the boat and flopped in. Read a plot synopsis, then a couple. Read that Bizet wrote “Toreador” in a contemptuous pique of needing to throw a sure-fire hit to the rabble. Problem is, that kind of apocryphal story is told about a LOT of artists, to the modern day. It creates an artificial bond between the artist, the purveyor of the bogus story, and the listener: “Only WE get [insert name of artist]. The swine out there who think [insert name of popular work by artist] is awesome don’t know how low the artist regarded THEIR kind of taste.”
Bought a studio recording of Callas in Carmen. It became a soundtrack for writing. Much of the score was familiar, of course. Visions of The Bad News Bears during the overture. I’m down with that, though. It’s a good movie.
At the end of this year, I caught a production of Carmen on its opening night and truly enjoyed it. The theater was only half full, motivating a shift to better seats during an intermission. Pavlovian conditioning also brought me to scribble writing ideas during the show.
Voices were good, music done well. I don’t have a discerning ear about opera so I can’t get too analytical there. Some of the acting was dull, especially the body language. But the biomechanics of singing opera capably AND being a nimble performer may be impossible. How many divas wear gowns/muumuus so vast you end up marveling they can ambulate their massive torsos around on anything not a downward slope?
I knew the opera was in French, but was worried I wouldn’t be able to follow the lyrics. Yet it was doubtful Eugene was THAT full of people fluent or conversant in French. Don’t get me wrong, a college town and all, but STILL – THOUSANDS of people paying money to hear and comprehend French sung operatically? Translated lyrics were projected above the stage. Ah! Bien merçi!
José was in good voice, mostly. Body language sluggish. Carmen was lusty and unapologetic and lived large. Escamillo was funny and preening and bold. Micaëla was lovely with a great voice and the performer seems destined for ascension.
Four acts in ‘Carmen’. Act one was okay. Got swept up in Act two. Laughed in Act three. Admired the countdown of ‘Carmen’ getting sacrificed for our benefit in Act four. Was impressed that I never caught any illuminated rectangles from cellphones or cameras in the audience the entire time. Also, there were no patronizing announcements asking people to turn off their cellphones. People just KNEW and … no phones rang during the show. A good experience both inward and a mass commisseration. Felt entertained, moved, and optimistic about being a human being.
Yes, I realize if this page is setup right the video played automatically, causing music to come out of your speakers as soon as you got here like a webpage from 1997. Kickin’ it old school. To compensate, check out this charming performance of “Habanera” by Callas below … and YOU get to control the playback. You’re welcome!
Girls in school seem to have taken on singing songs with great gusto. Tunefulness doesn’t really matter. That’s fine. And it’s a welcome change from singing like kittens, ring tones, or kewpie dolls. And it’s MUCH better from the decade-long tradition of most female vocalists relying on a male vocalist/rapper to cover the bridge or lend unhelpful “Yeah!” and “Uh-hunh” and “Worldwide!” while the female vocalist carries the heavy load. I hate that. Hated it. Hate it. Will continue to hate.
I understand the marketing aspects. These [“w/ …”] and [“feat. …”] songs appeal to gals and dude demographics. I’m asking the music industry: when the lady has a story to tell, if it’s not a conversation/duet with a dude, tell the dude to GTFO and let the lady do her thing.
Also, get rid of AutoTune. It sucks. In a soft moment I bought a post-Christmas discounted CD of Michael Bublé’s Christmas album, only to discover the songs had been soured by AutoTune. Just, stop it! And fuck you, producer David Foster, for your decades of purveying of cynical pap.
Hope young women continue to emulate strong singers like Adele. We don’t want them accustomed to sing two thirds of a song and then wait awkwardly for a man to chime in.
Two weeks ago I had a layover in the Minneapolis airport. Yes, THAT airport that tripped (tapped?) up Idaho Senator Larry Craig of the “wide stance” public sex scandal. Four years ago in the overworn, miserable “I’m not homosexual, I love Jesus, hard, but I am only truly happy doing homosexual things with homosexual men” trope.
ANY-hoo, I was taking care of business (I excrete gardenia petals and high-quality maple syrup, unlike you mortals) and an instrumental version of “The 12 Days of Christmas” was playing in the bathroom, LOUDLY. I’d never heard an instrumental version before, have you? ‘Cause it’s horrifying. Think of that song, without the lyrics, the repetitive rounds. “DUN dun dun da dun, DUN dun dun da dun…” And it built up to and went through all twelve rounds. Oy. Nightmarish. So far, I like the holidays and associate them with friends and family (and wistfulness, Christmas songs come in minor keys, too). But that moment was horrible, and for people who don’t have those associations with this holiday I salute you for enduring.
Didn’t get the camera phone in time for “12 Days of Christmas”, but here enjoy a few bars of “Jingle Bells” that followed, with the sounds of dreary travelers around.
December 24, 1986. My family had finished up giving our gifts to each other, the evening was open, and my girlfriend of a year and a half was over to give her present to me. She was excited and proud of it.
My parents that night had given me a CD player, a Very Big Deal. CDs were shimmering circles of beautiful, perfect music without the flaws, skips, nuisances of vinyl LPs and cassettes. CD players had been on the market a year or so, initially for about $2,000. Ever owning the technology seemed out of reach. Yet there we were, my younger brother and I, we each got CD players. This exceeded any concept we had for this Christmas, and we had greedy imaginations.
A new CD player in my happening teen bachelor bedroom, but no music to play on it. What to do? Wait until the next day? Christmas Day. Stores closed. Sorry, bub. TWO days before you can do boo with it.
Sweetheart to the rescue.
SIDETRACK! Ladies need to know that when high school women date college guys, it incurs resentment among high school men. We hate that situation. It renders us weak. We are forced to confront the possibility we have no mating appeal to a female peer of intelligence and self-esteem. To a lesser degree, this also applies to dating a peer outside of the high school. The resentment manifests as jibes about unsavory and anatomically impossible deeds. 25 years later, it occurs to me only now that at this phase of my life when dating a college gal I WAS THAT PERSON (she had graduated the high school the year before). Good golly, I hope that didn’t lead to any aspersions about my sluttiness thrown at someone above my station. Gals are classier than dudes, though. Right? RIGHT? *Whew*
On the radio in 1986, they bragged about how with their high-tech CD deck they could play an entire album without having to pause to flip the disc over. They would dedicate an entire HOUR to let listeners admire a full album played with perfect CD clarity. What? Are we living in Star Trek? CRAZY! Albums were intelligently designed by pop culture gods to only be played one half at a time, in 22 minute bursts before needing to be flipped or followed by a disc suspended above it. Wanted to make out? Turn on the radio and deal with ad interruptions (ever get intimate during a radio spot for acne medication? Seksi time!), or a cassette that could run 30-45 minutes per side before going *click* whirrrrr to auto reverse or stop entirely which demanded a break from whatever was going on (usually homework, Ma, we were good students) to restart, flip (or pull out & replace), then play.
Sweetheart handed over her wrapped square box that was album-sized. Which LPs? Opened the box. It was the 3 CD set: Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band: Live 1975/85. Wha? How? Whoah. WOW!
I didn’t know Springsteen’s music well. Had listened to Born in the U.S.A. a lot. Chortled as Reagan tried to co-opt the title song for his ’84 presidential campaign. Listened to Nebraska a lot. The most melancholy album I had in a collection dominated by Prince, The Police, Air Supply, and ABBA (though given Air Supply songs were all about dreary apologies, maybe they were more depressing). But, THREE CDs? Now? Wasn’t this boxed set, like, $75? How?
She simply did it. Full-time student, and spent most evenings working at a local radio station calling people asking them to rate prospective hit songs. Several friends were at the same job. I did a few shifts. Had some fun aspects, barely above minimum wage. And it meant dealing with getting hit on by sad sack radio d.j.s and managers who thought this little crew of clever young lasses held answers to fill their psycho-emotional chasms.
A $75 CD set meant a lot of work hours, when funds were tight. Having three CDs – where a few hours before having any seemed impossible – was a lot to take in. Considering the amount of time at work that translated to for her bowled me over even more.
The inaugural track we played was “Fire”, a song I had sung to her before imitating Robin Williams imitating Elmer Fudd singing it. Yes, I was a catch. “Born to Run” promo video for the box set is below. No obligation to watch. The cut from Springsteen’s wife at the time, Julianne Phillips, to the backup singer who became Springsteen’s next (and still current) wife Patti Scialfa makes me wonder if the the editor knew a transition was happening. If your time is limited, save it for the second video at the end:
In following years, I collected a lot of music. When I needed scratch, I sold a lot of the CDs. But even when I had stopped listening to Live 1975/85 for months or years, I could never part with it. The music was good, the moment of its gifting even grander. And it has paid dividends each decade.
Many friends are surprised that I don’t know much about Tom Waits. He’s an interesting actor. I bought & liked his album Bone Machine when Peter Gabriel touted it and the single “I Don’t Want to Grow Up” when hosting 120 Minutes on MTV. I watched him perform a few times on Late Night with David Letterman. But Bruce Springsteen’s cover of Waits’ “Jersey Girl” and the affection and enthusiasm in the crowd reaction first put Waits on my cultural radar. A proud song. Great. So, while not a Waits aficionado, I have never changed the music player when a Waits song comes on. Here he tells a charming, seedy story then gets to “Jersey Girl”:
He’s like a neighbor I’ve chatted amiably with a few times . Maybe we’ll hang out some day. And for that prospect — the assurance of great art nearby ready to encounter when needing a sense of triumph or wail or growl (or all three) — I have a magnificent present from 1986 to thank. Still grateful. Still awed that even in 2011, $75 means a lot of money and time, yet that gift has trounced more expensive gifts that did not hit the mark so well.
“Jersey Girl” and “I Don’t Want to Grow Up” are the only Waits karaoke songs I could do, but they would be done with feeling. And that is better than no Waits songs.
Cheers. Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you and yours.
My third (and fourth) Prince concert one right after the other. The first was in the Tacoma Dome in Washington. No opening act, two solid hours of hits. No tracks from new albums that he’s selling. A cover of “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” was a highlight. Prince and Michael Jackson had some mild back and forths over the 80s and 90s. Who knew Prince would end up the normal(ish) one?
Then got word of one of Prince’s common after-party shows which go late into the evening/morning. Got to the club in Seattle about 1:00 a.m. A house band was playing (and doing well). Then about an hour of a d.j. Then Prince’s band took the stage and worked the crowd for 45 minutes until Prince finally arrived. The only Prince “hit” played was “Musicology”, everything else was covers or jams. They were really good, including legendary saxophonist Maceo Parker. Prince didn’t take his sunglasses off the while time and left after an hour. About half the show I was dancing in place next to a young hippie dude with long strangly hair who felt obliged to loudly show how much he felt the groove by going “Woooo!” several times and doing a excited lean forward, lean back rocking twice every 4/4 measure in a way only done by demonstrative hippies and the mentally infirm with excited or anxious. Met up with a colleague from work, who sagely and kindly got a bottle of water for herself, for me, and her lifelong friend who is very funny.
Prince left about 3:50. Crowd inferred he wasn’t coming back when his band also packed up. Got in the car at 4:00 and drove 25 minutes to get back to the hotel in Tacoma.
During the big show, Prince asked “Do any of you remember the 80s?” It got a big roar. That decade would have been much better without that son of a bitch Reagan. Anyway, Prince seemed more interested and curious about the more free-form music after-party concert. Must be a slight drag being a jukebox, but he’s really good at it.
“When Doves Cry” and enough lens flares to be in the new ‘Star Trek’ movie.
“Purple Rain” showered us all in … strips of gold tinsel and purple crepe paper.
Prince has left the building.
At the club, NO PHOTOS OR VIDEOS WERE ALLOWED OF ANY KIND. Signs posted all over, announcements made from the stage, policy mentioned by bouncers at the pat-down. Didn’t keep assholes on two occasions from trying to take photos by holding their brightly illuminated rectangles high into the air above everyone’s heads for several seconds. It could not have been made handier of the security guards, who within a few seconds had their flashlights triangulate to pinpoint the sloppy guerilla photographer and bounce the person out. There ARE sneakier ways to take photos without holding a bright lamp over your head, kids.
Prince residue/holy relic. My dog suspects I have a treat for her in my hand (she was to be disappointed).
Went with the family to watch Hugo, a movie we all enjoyed. Nice to watch a kids film that didn’t feel obliged to make rapid fire jokes with pop cultural references to get an easy laugh of recognition without requiring any wit (HATE that!). Hugo is about art, cinema (ekphrasis alert!), orphans, inspiration. As portrayed in the film, all Parisians have British accents. Good to know! Will British ribbing of the French ever cease? Sascha Baron Cohen does a good job as a demi-villain, too. Oscar nomination for Best Picture seems likely.
Although, for less than a second, during a tumult in a Paris train station, JAMES JOYCE makes an appearance in a café! For this dormant Joycean, a pleasing touch.
On the way back home in the car, the kids insisted on listening to The Book of Mormon soundtrack. I am very proud when they start singing along. I skipped playing the song “Hasa Diga Ebowai” which has lyrics like “Fuck you god, in the ass, mouth, and cunt. Fuck you in the eye.” (with a bouncy melody!). They asked why I skipped it (which they’ve heard before).
My 11 y/o son: “Is it because of the bad words?” I said: “Yes, and it’s because your Mom is in the car and I don’t want to shock her.” That turned into a sarcastic flurry with me asking the kids in the back seat things like: “So, you’re telling me you kids continue to make good decisions about what words to use, and when, and don’t feel the need to say dirty words at every single opportunity?” When the joshing subsided, I STILL did not play the song. In role modeling that authority often involves erratic rules, my children are learning important life lessons.
We DID listen to the song “Man Up”, which has the line “Christ, he manned up.” Son asked what that was about. After a few seconds to compose my thoughts, I summarized the story of Jesus Christ’s passion, the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension in neutral language in about a minute and a half! Yes, I am bragging about that, have EARNED it, and…
Male baton twirler with the Oregon State University marching band in their halftime show against Oregon November 26. They lost 49-21. It’s a fair guess this baton twirlrer didn’t really give a shit about that.
My baton casts a glamor spell on the throngs stacked all around and above me in the stands. Eyes on me, drawn to my poise and flash as schoolmates waddle with bulk strapped to their trunks. I am unencumbered. I interpret the music. Many watch to thwart me, to hope I drop the baton. I will not let them win. I am here to instill triumph for those who trust in me. I am not asked to show my legs like my more common baton twirling sisters. Just as well as my legshow would incur mass envy. I am slim. I am quick. I can toss and catch on the beat. I am strong. I am fierce. I twirl the baton as a goddamned man. I am a warrior.
The Alarm, (left to right) Other guys, Not-BonoAchtung Baby came out 20 years ago. An occasion for curmudgeonly reflection and latent proclamation of mental ossification. First, I welcome being a curmudgeon. Second, I think the junk music today is loads better than the junk music of the 80s and 90s. Third, this may be the best era ever for quality television. There is no way to watch all of it. We live in days of wonder.
I caught onto U2 late. I am not, and have never been, cool. There was a span of time in the early 80s I confused them with The Alarm, a Welsh band deliberately trying to muddle kids on just that point.
Got into them during The Unforgettable Fire, (yeah, yeah. Boy and October and all that. If Casey Kasem or Dick Clark wasn’t talking about ’em they didn’t exist – remember, me = not cool). Loved the doo-wop part in the background of “Pride (in the Name of Love)” – really, it’s there. Got The Joshua Tree and decreed it with millions of others as a Very Big Album imbued with shamanistic powers. It took many months before the sanctimony blockade was broken and some of us peeped to each other that “Bullet the Blue Sky” was really annoying and doofy.
Rattle and Hum came out, people cried hubris. The cowboy ensembles were redonkulous, but the songs and the Think Big, Sing Big, Feel Big, and Rehash Our Hit Song as a Gospel Piece to Show We’re Down had highs and lows, but by golly, they were trying. And Bono critiquing lyrics with B.B. King? On film? And Larry Mullen Jr. crying after sitting on Elvis’ motorcycle? That shit is just funny. Remember, United Kingdomers grow up with Monty Python running 24-7 (or do they go by metric time there?) so they communicate only through irony. Get it now? Yes, see? Ha ha. U2 was having a laugh.
Word got out U2 was recording with Brian Eno (Bowie fan: So, what’s new?) in Berlin (Bowie fan: Whaaaa? Are they doing the “oblique strategies” thing? I don’t know what’s real anymore.). They ended up doing most of the work in Dublin, but, oh, for a while there…
When the first track off Achtung Baby came out, “The Fly”, it sounded really dense. Then the video came out with Bono putting on large sunglasses and a new personna, The Fly – studied poseur and oily, louche behavior – that caused a one-two reaction: 1.) Bono is taking control of the mockery by surpassing it? 2.) is he making fun of Michael Hutchence from INXS?
This was a big deal, the album was even better, and their Zoo TV shows took their cues from the video above. A great artistic maneuver, taking control of public perception and bending it.
Bono and supermodel Christy Turlington, Dec. 1992 Vogue (logo in black leather).But 20 years later, Bono has still not ditched the shades and the distance.
Side note: Henry Rollins Jr. has called Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen Jr. the worst rhythm section of any major band. Discuss.
I saw the Zoo TV tour in the Tacomadome in Spring 1992. I think the Pixies opened (?) but didn’t know the Pixies very well. They weren’t mainstream enough (me = not cool, though I respect the disdainful and wistful look you got on your face just now). The show itself was great. Huge flourishes, sensational, touching songs, big confidence and humor.
Drive back with my buddy was long. 6+ hours. We were exhausted. Risky driving on the road kind of groggy. A stop at AM/PM for provisions was a life-saver. Stayed up all night and went to class the next day punchy. A great 24 hours.
U2 was on the t.v. all the time about how t.v. is so pervasive in our culture. Bono smoking slender dark brown cigarettes, engaged in, using, bemoaning “Las Vegas trash” sensibilities. The phrase is short hand with my concert buddy for evoking the whole period.
Why was I in a years-long dating drought? All so clear now. Too late to rescue him, the dope.
Zooropa was a really good album, continued weirdness. Didn’t feel as big a statement, but it was fun to see the band stretching itself. Easy to suspect taking mushrooms or cocaine with Brian Eno in the studio, Daniel Lanois playing with Radio Shack kits to insert bleeps and blurps and to make Eno laugh. Who wouldn’t take up THAT opportunity?
Looking for pharmaceutical ads, found this awesomer image. Listen to any Coldplay or U2 song of the last 15 years while staring at this. It WORKS, right?POP Mart came out and U2 bored me for good. Save for the occasional uptempo single, their songs now sound like backing tracks for bucolic pharmaceutical commercials with kids frolicking in a pasture, or ads of people finding liberty granted them by a cell phone company boasting about its signal strength. Like Coldplay (sorry Linnae). Bought their album with the single “Vertigo” (the one in the iPod ads) in it as a final act of obedience/loyalty, then have stopped. One or two albums have come out since then. Mehhhh…
Listened to the whole album again the last few days. Doesn’t tug at me as it used to. Still like the Achtung Baby song “Ultraviolet (Light My Way)”, despite or because of lyrics: “When I was all messed up, and I had opera in my head/Your love was a lightbulb, hanging over my bed”. One of those naff things where he’s singing about a chick or Jesus or both (a bearded lady with messianic powers?). Video below is from a 2009-10 ish tour trying to sell a DVD. Still, a good performance:
By the way, I have a really funny joke about U2. Ask me to tell it to you sometime.
During a morning walk, a turn of brain had me switch from the audiobook for A Dance with Dragons (why, Roy Dotrice, must you lose track of your character voices from book to book?) to the two songs on my iPod by Neil Sedaka.
I know he’s recorded a lot more songs in his long career. I recall an odd love duet with his daughter. What trips me out about “Calendar Girl” and “Breaking Up is Hard to Do” is the forced cherubism. “Though sad inside, I shall for the sake of commerce and Tin Pan Alley heave a superhuman effort into PROJECTING MIRTH THOUGH ITS FORCE MAY REND TIME/SPACE ASUNDER!”
