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I’m obsessed with the idea of walking to stadium shows. This despite the fact that I might well never go to one again (so expensive! and for what?). I think the origins of this obsession come from growing up in the country. Our nearest so-called stadium was a 45-minute car ride away. We went to a surprising number of shows back in the day, though. They were mostly Billy Joel, but still.
Well after college, while I was a carefree single gal living in a four-bedroom apartment, one of my roommates invited me to see Bon Jovi with her. She had two tickets and no interest from anyone, nor a car. So she traded me a ticket for a ride. We drove 40 minutes south to the venue in what is now my hometown (though I’d never have guessed that turn of events then). We ROCKED our way through that show. And we sat in traffic forever coming home.
That same summer, TGOTS arranged for us to see her boys Aerosmith at that same place. Amazing show, horrifying traffic.
Oh, and then there was the time I saw the Grateful Dead in northern Vermont. Amazing show, horrifying traffic … you get the picture.
So I was so thrilled when I lived for a time in another city, within walking distance of an arena. I even took advantage of it, going to see Bruuuuuuce on his solo tour. Amazing show, no traffic!
That’s partly why I was so excited to go see him last month, at the venue-in-what-is-now-my-hometown — it’s 1.5 miles away, and I fully intended to walk. But that was during the whole double ear infection baby melodrama, and alas, we had to give the tickets away.
For me the sheen is sort of off the concert idea, so I don’t know if I’ll ever walk to that place. Oh, but the trigger for this fascinating anecdote is that friends came down to see The Fray a few years ago (really? like, they paid money for it?) and I was able to drop them off and pick them up at a halfway point, thus sparing them the horrifying traffic.
If only it had been an amazing show.
I hit the jackpot today, scanning to find a song that is at the heart of one of MamaKitt’s and my favorite stories from high school. Be forewarned: It’s possible I will remember it incorrectly. She’ll let me know.
M-Kitt and I had most of our high school classes together, along with the same other dozen or so people. Among these was one character named Josh, whom we adored. Always cracking wise, always teasing the lizz-adies, always making teachers laugh against their better judgement. I don’t think either of us has seen him since high school, and he’d probably be appalled (or, equally likely, delighted) to know how often we talk about him.
Other important things to know about Josh:
1) He wore MC Hammer pants.
2) He went gray when we were in second grade.
3) I have a picture of him making out with a mannequin at the Shaker village near our high school.
Anyway, as I remember the story, it was 1991 or thereabouts, and we were all in calculus class, and Josh was cutting up as usual. Our teacher (who was so icky, and not in the good way) had a difficult problem up on the board, and it was taking our collective brain trust a while to come up with a solution. The drudgery went on and on, til finally the sharpest tack among us, math-wise — who had probably known the answer all along — spoke up, and had the right answer. At this point, Josh threw up his hands, turned toward the sharp tack, and exclaimed, “Oh, you just think you’re Mr. Big, don’t you?!?!”
And friends, then he busted out with a loud, impassioned rendition of ”I’m the one who wants to be with you / Deep inside I hope you feel it too,” etc.
Because, um, remember that band Mr. Big? That had that one song? With those lyrics? Yeah, I’m realizing now that this story is potentially not that hilarious to anyone but me and MamaKitt, and that you DEFINITELY had to be there, but trust me: It was a flocking riot, and that song never comes on that MK and I don’t think of Josh and tell the story to each other and remember it as one of the funniest moments of our young lives.
Oh, Josh. How we miss you.
I had to travel yesterday for work, and so failed to put up my post. Despite it brewing in my brain all morning. (Also, close observers will notice I failed to post last Friday. This is because I spent the bulk of the day in the car, traversing the interstate to visit TGOTS! There was much good music involved in the trip, but no computer time. And then there was TGOTS, in her lovely house. And she introduced me to “Glee,” and all was right with the world.)
So back to yesterday. Several songs were sounding promising, and then I landed on the soaring soaringness of “I Will Always Love You.” The Whitney version, of course, since Dolly’s doesn’t get much play.
If there’s a better singing-embarrassingly-in-the-privacy-of-your-car song, I don’t know what it is. Since this song arrived on the scene, I have been compelled to swoop along with it whenever I hear it. I mean drop everything, put 100 percent into the ups and downs and belting outs. My god, what a song.
And what a terrible, terrible movie. I did actually see it once, in college. My friend and I laughed our way through it. I have this fuzzy idea that she had a poster from it in her dorm room, but now I could just be making things up.
And oh, Whitney. With the fall from grace and the questionable life decisions. But now? Is she pulling it back together? Might we be treated to another showstopper of the IWALY variety?
Operators are standing by.
On one sleepless night a year or so ago, I turned on the television and flicked restlessly throught the channels, looking for something that would distract my churning brain. That is when I discovered the utterly fab entertainment program known as “The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.”
I knew CF had a late-night show, but I had never had the slightest interest in checking it out. Not only does my usual bedtime come FAR before the late-night programs, I also knew CF only as Mr. Wick on “The Drew Carey Show,” and had found him fairly irritating.
Friends, I am here to tell you: If you have not seen CF do his thing on “The Late Late Show,” you must check it out. First of all, he is pretty much completely unscripted, which leads to moments of sublime silliness. Second, his interviews tend to only incidentally cover whatever the celebrity du jour is there to hawk, and wander instead into hilariously WTF areas. Third, he is a combination of smart and sincere and snarky and depressive and joyful that I find appallingly appealing.
Finally, and most importantly, he is a fan of the musical number.
HOORAY FOR MUSICAL NUMBERS!
CF’s shows often begin with him standing silently in front of the camera — and then a song will start to play. He will dance and lip sync, and then a couple members of his staff in elaborate costumes (one of which is almost always S&M gear) come out and join him. Sometimes there are extra dancers; sometimes there are puppets. It is thoroughly delightful!
But I know it may not sound so in my description, so please check it out for yourself. OH RIGHT this is the song I heard on my way to work this morning.
Nineteen eighty-something. Early enough that Ben & Jerry’s stores were a new concept, and dropping by one was still cause for excitement. Well, and it helped to be nine or so.
My parents and sister and I have bought our cones and are settled at a table in the back room, which you got to through a hallway that passed by the restrooms and janitor’s closet, so it felt like you were in a little secret universe. It had a door out to the street, so occasionally that secret universe was interrupted by arrivals and departures.
It was a sister I didn’t see as much as some others, one whose peaks and valleys of mood could put many a mountain range to shame. But that day she was happy. We were all happy. We had ice cream! Mine was probably coffee heath bar crunch or oreo mint. Yum.
Seems like I’m building up to something, doesn’t it? But here’s all it is: a couple was leaving out that back door. The woman said, “Let’s slip out the back,” and at the same precise moment, the man and my sister launched into Paul Simon’s “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.”
I’d never heard the song at the time, but I soon grew to love it and all things Paul. More on that another day. For now I’m just enjoying the warm, recaptured bliss of that moment: my sister’s glee, my parents’ happy indulgence, my comfort and security in them all, in ice cream, in strangers who sang together.
I missed most of the John Hughes movies until they were out on video years later, but I saw Pretty in Pink in the theater, and fell deeply in love with it.
(First things first: Poor John Hughes, part of this summer’s tsunami of dead famous people. I swear I have been hearing Simple Minds more often in the last few weeks, so perhaps deejays are playing all the songs from his movies more frequently in tribute.)
Andie! Duckie! Blane! Steff! Andie’s little car and Duckie’s pointy shoes and Blane’s swoony stare and Steff’s awful snottiness! LOVED IT. Love it still. And ohhhh, the teen angst and the questionable fashions and the fabulous Annie Potts! And the MUSIC.
I remember going to see this movie in the theater at the just-barely-a-mall in the next town over. My friend and I were the only ones in the audience, somehow, so the movie unspooled just for us. And I’m pretty sure I walked straight out of the theater to the music store next door to buy a cassette of the soundtrack.
All the music in Pretty in Pink is pretty great, but it’s that final song, over that problematic final scene, that is just the best. Now, of COURSE Andie should have chosen Duckie, as was apparently the original intent, but I’m not gonna lie: I swooned when she and Blane ended up together, with O.M.D.’s “If You Leave” playing on the soundtrack.
Talk about your one-hit wonders, but at least O.M.D.’s was a flocking great song. The plaintive singing, the surging and soaring strings — oh my. I am aware that this is a lowest common denominator moment — that Blane is the easy, conventional romantic option and that relying on music for emotional effect is a copout — but in Pretty in Pink (and, okay, 90 percent of the time) I’m a sucker for it.
If I pass this song on the radio, I HAVE to listen to it. If I pass the movie on the TV, I HAVE to watch it. I find Blane a little less dreamy now, with his weird bangs and his fecklessness, but I still wish he would hack into MY computer and ask ME out on a date.
Oh, Pretty in Pink. May I admire you again today?
(PS Also can we talk about how Jon Cryer just won an Emmy for that lame sitcom he’s on, and how sad it is that he does that nonsense when he was DUCKIE, for cry[er]ing out loud? And how Steff/James Spader got all weird and middle aged somewhere along the line? And how Andie/Molly Ringwald is now playing a MOM on some crap show? Terrible. Goodness, you’d think there’d been some passage of time or something since 1986. You’d think everyone had gotten OLDER, for heaven’s sake. I mean, REALLY.)
I can’t make up my mind about the Beck. Sometimes I like him, sometimes he gets on my nerves. And when “Loser” first came out, I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard, and that this Beck character would be a total flash in the pan.
He proved me wrong on the second count, of course, and has had some records I’ve really liked. And “Loser” actually really grew on me, years after its release. Twee lyrics, but ga-roooovy.
Also? When I was in grad school I ended up attaching theme songs to everything I read/taught/researched. This wasn’t a deliberate project, just the result of the screwy workings of my brain. When I was about to take my orals, I realized that a Sinead O’Connor song basically explained my history arguments; a chapter in my dissertation was titled after the song “Sisters” that Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen sing in White Christmas.
Another chapter’s theme song was, in fact, “Loser.” The song is perfect for the main character in Herman Melville’s novel Pierre, and as soon as I realized this I could not read or write about the book without hearing it in my head. It is PERFECT, I tell you! And you will have to take my word on that, because unless you have been in one of my classes, there is no way you have read the book, which is a sort of gorgeous rococo disaster. The “you can’t write if you can’t relate” line gets right at the heart of the novel (or at least my take on it).
I bet Beck and Melville would have gotten along splendidly. They could have gotten stoned together and commiserated about how the masses just didn’t get them. And then Herman would have decided he hearted Beck, and freaked Beck out with the intensity of his crush, and Beck would have been all “Dude, go back to Pittsfield, leave me the flock alone” and Herman would have been devasted but would have continued to send Beck florid mash notes that would have one day ended up in a Norton anthology.
That would have been awesome.
This blog is all about music and memories, right? Well here’s one for you: You know what I thought of when I heard the Black Eyed Peas singing “I Gotta Feeling” during my seven-minute scan this morning? I thought of yesterday morning. And the one before that. And every day for the last week.
Insipid, as previously mentioned. Impossibly catchy too. I’ll admit I bounced in my seat a little this morning. But if I’m hearing it that often in a short time in the car, how often is it getting played throughout the day? Even if it is The Song of the summer … um, summer’s over.
P.S.: Music reviews are more fun in the UK! “Barmy“!
I drove in to work this morning thinking that I needed some glee — some tune to lift my spirits on a blah gray morning. “Glee” itself had done pretty well in that department last night — friends, the football team performed “Single Ladies,” in a fabulous fusion of two of my favorite things – but the effects had waned. I needed some jolly goodness.
And OH DID I GET IT. In a form better than I could have possibly dreamed. Friends, this morning my scan offered up “Rubber Duckie.”
YES the one from “Sesame Street.” YES the one from the record that my sister and I played over and over as youngsters, sometimes whilst playing with our own Bert and Ernie puppets. YES the one YouTube wants me to think of now as “vintage.” YES someone on one of my local FM stations was playing it.
Turns out it was a rogue deejay from a local classical station, commemorating Jim Henson’s birthday. So sweet! She played the entire song, then gave a little corny but heartfelt eulogy in a grave, earnest voice, talking about Henson as the premier puppeteer genius of our time, of all time. Sure, all right, but mostly I was just happy to have heard the song. How could you hear that song and not be happy?
I can’t even really get into how much “Sesame Street” was a part of my pop culture life as a child, because it was pretty much the ONLY part of my pop culture life as a child. The only thing we watched on TV; the only records we had to play on our record player. Those “vintage” episodes and songs are burned into my consciousness.
We did watch “The Muppet Show” sometimes too — also genius. I’ve read that Jason Segel is fixing to relaunch the Muppet movies. If you’ve seen the end of Forgetting Sarah Marshall, you know he’s probably the man for the job. You should also know he’s my boyfriend. ADORABLE.
Finally I thought I had a memory about me, not about my family: the dulcet tones of a men’s a cappella group from somewhere-or-other College, cheezing their way through “Oh What a Night” in our women’s-college campus center, as we all giggled and shrieked and did other things befitting the Leaders of Tomorrow. It was actually the first time I’d heard the song, so I was mostly playing along with the “omg they’re singing THAT?!” Also, never been much of a giggler.
So there it was, my very own musical memory! But then I started thinking about a cappella, and how when my sister went to that self-same women’s college while I was in junior high/early high school, her roommate was in one of the groups, and how fascinated I was by them (in all their grown-up glamour, usual theme here in MamaKitt land), and how I was sure I’d grow up to join an a cappella group. And also how one of their songs was about amoebas, so I brought it into my seventh-grade science class to play it, and for some reason the teacher decided to “punish” us by hitting record on the tape player, and taped over the song, and how upset I was, and how he explained to me that the little tabbies should have been removed so it didn’t tape, but really why was he hitting record anyway? And how I then sent the tape back to my sister to exchange it for a new one from her roommate, who reportedly found the interruption of her vocal work by a classroom of teenagers very funny.
And then, as the song progressed, I heard my brother trilling “Oh What a Night” in his patented falsetto. I can never tell if he’s serious with that.
Furthermore, I just discovered that this song was apparently originally about Prohibition! And was “reworked.” That’s a hell of a rework.
