This morning, on the way to the gym, I heard a song on WITR that I've liked whenever it came on the air for years but never bothered to pay attention beyond that. I never even knew what band played it. And, for the first time ever, I suddenly realized that it is a man singing. A man. Now it's so obvious. Especially when he starts screaming. How could I have ever thought otherwise?
It's the room, the sun and the sky. The room, the sun and the sky.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Friday, December 9, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Go Public (or Go Home)
On Wednesday night, I went down with the Chinchildren to our local NPR & PBS affiliate, WXXI, to watch the Chinchillas perform live for the music series OnStage. So much fun. I hadn't been in a TV studio since I went to see one of my old bosses get interviewed on Sally Jessy Raphael (remember her?). This recent taping was clearly a much more interesting experience, to say the least.
It felt so Austin City Limits-like. Groovy baby.
It felt so Austin City Limits-like. Groovy baby.
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| Photo courtesy of (aka "stolen from") the Stan the Man's Facebook page. |
Monday, August 15, 2011
Lost in Amsterdam
Not sure why I'm posting so many songs lately, your very own blogger DJ (hooker, waitress, model, actress). Regardless, today's song goes out to my niece who is not even a reader of this blog. Alas.
She was just a tiny little kid (one of the cutest, black haired, alabaster skinned kids ever) when I started dating the hubby a million years ago. I remember her reading a picture book aloud. She couldn't pronounce the Y in yellow; however, she called Indians, "yindians." "How can you say yindians and not yellow?" he asked and she started laughing. And then she started practicing her Ys.
We've watched from a far as she went through her goofy sock stage -- where she would wear two different crazy socks every day -- to her endless fascination, at a young age, with storm chasing. Of course, as the hubby's family is prone to intellectual pursuits, she was the valedictorian of her HS class and got a free ride not just to undergrad but also for her (not-just-one-but) two Master's degrees. She's now an environmentalist living in DC with her foodie boyfriend and having the time of her life.
Brainiac.
The one constant through all of these years: a love of Guster. When she was too young to go to alone, the hubby took her to her first Guster show. Tonight, she's going to her umpteenth Guster concert at Wolf Trap. My kids don't like the band at all but I have a bit of a sweet spot for them just because they remind me of Christine. All grown up.
She was just a tiny little kid (one of the cutest, black haired, alabaster skinned kids ever) when I started dating the hubby a million years ago. I remember her reading a picture book aloud. She couldn't pronounce the Y in yellow; however, she called Indians, "yindians." "How can you say yindians and not yellow?" he asked and she started laughing. And then she started practicing her Ys.
We've watched from a far as she went through her goofy sock stage -- where she would wear two different crazy socks every day -- to her endless fascination, at a young age, with storm chasing. Of course, as the hubby's family is prone to intellectual pursuits, she was the valedictorian of her HS class and got a free ride not just to undergrad but also for her (not-just-one-but) two Master's degrees. She's now an environmentalist living in DC with her foodie boyfriend and having the time of her life.
Brainiac.
The one constant through all of these years: a love of Guster. When she was too young to go to alone, the hubby took her to her first Guster show. Tonight, she's going to her umpteenth Guster concert at Wolf Trap. My kids don't like the band at all but I have a bit of a sweet spot for them just because they remind me of Christine. All grown up.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
C Jam Blues
We went to the fifth grade band concert last night to hear Son #1 playing his saxophone in the midst of a sea of instruments. Beautiful sound. Impressive talent for a group of 10-11 year olds who just began playing together this year. Because I'm a ball of emotions and a music lover, I got all teary eyed. The rest of the audience? Not so much.
The kids played everything from a patriotic medley including America the Beautiful to the Star Wars theme. My favorite was the Duke Ellington improv to C Jam Blues. It made me appreciate even more the wonderful education my kids are receiving in the Pittsford School District. We didn't have exposure to such fabulous music at Catholic school when I was a kid unless you count my parents forcing us to watch the Lawrence Welk show every week -- gosh, thanks mom :)
As I watched their teacher, Eva Regan, skillfully conduct all of the moving parts, I wondered if it's intimidating to teach some of these kids whose parents are on the faculty of the Eastman School of Music. (How am I doing folks?) Two of our neighbors alone include a celebrated jazz studies and improvisation professor and an international conductor whose kid is in a band with Son #2. Wanna hear them (meaning the kids)? Stop by our basement any weekend.
What fun.
The kids played everything from a patriotic medley including America the Beautiful to the Star Wars theme. My favorite was the Duke Ellington improv to C Jam Blues. It made me appreciate even more the wonderful education my kids are receiving in the Pittsford School District. We didn't have exposure to such fabulous music at Catholic school when I was a kid unless you count my parents forcing us to watch the Lawrence Welk show every week -- gosh, thanks mom :)
As I watched their teacher, Eva Regan, skillfully conduct all of the moving parts, I wondered if it's intimidating to teach some of these kids whose parents are on the faculty of the Eastman School of Music. (How am I doing folks?) Two of our neighbors alone include a celebrated jazz studies and improvisation professor and an international conductor whose kid is in a band with Son #2. Wanna hear them (meaning the kids)? Stop by our basement any weekend.
What fun.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Pink Ribbon Scars
In continuation of yesterday's morose musical theme, today's post is about another song that I heard last week that is also sad for me: the Smashing Pumpkin's Today.
In 1993, the summer when the hubby and I got married, friends Jack & Gisella (or as the priest who officiated their wedding called them, Gary & Regina) were planning to come our wedding from CO. Instead, Gisella had been experiencing some significant back pain and, when she went to the doctor, they discovered that her breast cancer had spread and she would be undergoing a new treatment that included, ultimately, a painful bone marrow transfer.
The big hit of that time, Today, will always remind me of the juxtaposition of my wedding and the sadness of Gisella's illness and death a handful of years later.
Today is the greatest
Day I've never known
Can't wait for tomorrow
I might not have that long
The last time that I saw her, my girlfriend DeeDee and I drove down from NYC to DC where Gisella lay in a coma in the hospital. Not at all how I would like to remember her. Instead, I picture us hanging out in the art studio at SU or meandering through the shops in Breckenridge. And I remember her to my kids often because she had a sweet habit of literally running and jumping into her bed every night like a little kid -- something that Son #2 likes to do, on occasion, too.
So that's how she's still with us today. Charming. Endearing. And missed.
In 1993, the summer when the hubby and I got married, friends Jack & Gisella (or as the priest who officiated their wedding called them, Gary & Regina) were planning to come our wedding from CO. Instead, Gisella had been experiencing some significant back pain and, when she went to the doctor, they discovered that her breast cancer had spread and she would be undergoing a new treatment that included, ultimately, a painful bone marrow transfer.
The big hit of that time, Today, will always remind me of the juxtaposition of my wedding and the sadness of Gisella's illness and death a handful of years later.
Today is the greatest
Day I've never known
Can't wait for tomorrow
I might not have that long
The last time that I saw her, my girlfriend DeeDee and I drove down from NYC to DC where Gisella lay in a coma in the hospital. Not at all how I would like to remember her. Instead, I picture us hanging out in the art studio at SU or meandering through the shops in Breckenridge. And I remember her to my kids often because she had a sweet habit of literally running and jumping into her bed every night like a little kid -- something that Son #2 likes to do, on occasion, too.
So that's how she's still with us today. Charming. Endearing. And missed.
Friday, April 8, 2011
In the Air Tonight
Like many people, music forms the soundtrack of my life. When I hear a song that's had an impact on me, for better or for worse, I am immediately transported to that point in time when the song was imprinted on my brain. For this reason, while I love the Clash, their classic Rock the Casbah will forever remind me of a party full of drunk, singing frat boys in college that my girlfriends and I hastily departed. Conversely, while I'm not a fan of Phil Collins, the crappy Genesis song Invisible Touch reminds me watching a bunch of grade school kids dancing their hearts out on a ferry crossing the English Channel which renders it almost tolerable to me.
Horrifyingly, the Phil Collins song that I heard this morning, In the Air Tonight, reminds me of SU's Day Hall my freshman year. We had one elevator in a bank of three that, when you pushed the "emergency stop" button, would skip floors. I lived on the eighth and top residential floor -- so we continually bumped every floor stopping for no one. We called it the Day 8 Express. The repair man was also a frequent sight on our floor, and in the control room in the empty floor above, as the elevator was forever stopping between floors with the doors wide open (i.e., where people would have to climb in and out) and/or simply breaking down (i.e., out of order).
One warm, sunny day, my friends and I spent the day studying, hiking and playing Frisbee at Green Lakes State Park. When we arrived back, the winding road leading up to our dorm was closed so we parked down the hill and walked up. As we got closer, we initially noticed crowds of people gathered outside the dorm fire drill style and a moment later we saw the coroner's van. It was a slow motion, surreal experience.
Based on what we were told, a blond kid from my floor named Matt was getting into the elevator and it went up, doors wide open, to the control floor above -- decapitating him and sending his body down the shaft.
When we were allowed back into the dorm, to say the mood on the floor was somber would be a gross understatement. To the best of my recollection, we were not given grief counseling. Maybe I just don't remember it. What I do remember was a group of us sitting in Fernando's dorm room in silence just listening to music.
Well the hurt doesn't show but the pain still grows
It's no stranger to you and me
Horrifyingly, the Phil Collins song that I heard this morning, In the Air Tonight, reminds me of SU's Day Hall my freshman year. We had one elevator in a bank of three that, when you pushed the "emergency stop" button, would skip floors. I lived on the eighth and top residential floor -- so we continually bumped every floor stopping for no one. We called it the Day 8 Express. The repair man was also a frequent sight on our floor, and in the control room in the empty floor above, as the elevator was forever stopping between floors with the doors wide open (i.e., where people would have to climb in and out) and/or simply breaking down (i.e., out of order).
One warm, sunny day, my friends and I spent the day studying, hiking and playing Frisbee at Green Lakes State Park. When we arrived back, the winding road leading up to our dorm was closed so we parked down the hill and walked up. As we got closer, we initially noticed crowds of people gathered outside the dorm fire drill style and a moment later we saw the coroner's van. It was a slow motion, surreal experience.
Based on what we were told, a blond kid from my floor named Matt was getting into the elevator and it went up, doors wide open, to the control floor above -- decapitating him and sending his body down the shaft.
When we were allowed back into the dorm, to say the mood on the floor was somber would be a gross understatement. To the best of my recollection, we were not given grief counseling. Maybe I just don't remember it. What I do remember was a group of us sitting in Fernando's dorm room in silence just listening to music.
Well the hurt doesn't show but the pain still grows
It's no stranger to you and me
Friday, April 1, 2011
Endless Summer
Thanks to one innocent Facebook post this morning, I've been listening to the Beach Boys all day. For the most part, they remind me of my childhood girlfriend Pam McColloch who lived up the street. In the pre-cellphone 1970s, we would spend nights chatting with each other over our walkie talkies while taking turns playing Beach Boys tunes on our turntables until the batteries (or our thumbs pressing the "speak" button) quickly wore out.
The song Sloop John B, however, reminds me of arriving at Day Hall, at Syracuse University, freshman year. My bestest friend Krissy and I requested rooms in the same dorm but asked not to be roommates so we could meet other people. On the day we arrived, there was a big dorm party with kegs out on the lawn (those were the days, huh!) and music blaring. I was so excited. Kris? Not so much. She sat on the front steps, crying and singing aloud to this song. "I feel so broke up; I wanna go home." Buzz kill!
The song Sloop John B, however, reminds me of arriving at Day Hall, at Syracuse University, freshman year. My bestest friend Krissy and I requested rooms in the same dorm but asked not to be roommates so we could meet other people. On the day we arrived, there was a big dorm party with kegs out on the lawn (those were the days, huh!) and music blaring. I was so excited. Kris? Not so much. She sat on the front steps, crying and singing aloud to this song. "I feel so broke up; I wanna go home." Buzz kill!
Friday, February 18, 2011
Going Waco
Years ago, when the feds were piping loud music into the compound at Waco in an attempt to drive out cult leader David Koresh and the Branch Davidians, our friend Jason made the following observation, "If you really want to drive people crazy, don't blast Alice Cooper to a rock 'n' roller, pipe in 'Pop Goes the Weasel' at loud decibels for days on end."
Made sense to me.
Makes even more sense now. Son #1's saxamaphone teacher has her students practicing that song night after night after night. It's been confirmed: that song WILL drive you nuts even in 20 minute increments. Calgon take me away.
I got no friends 'cause they read the papers
They can't be seen with me
Made sense to me.
Makes even more sense now. Son #1's saxamaphone teacher has her students practicing that song night after night after night. It's been confirmed: that song WILL drive you nuts even in 20 minute increments. Calgon take me away.
I got no friends 'cause they read the papers
They can't be seen with me
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Trading Places
Every once in a while (i.e., a dozen or so times per day), my coworker Jennifer and I get a bit jealous of someone we know or read about. A client with the proverbial money tree in his yard. The woman who found out she's Oprah's half sister (ka ching). Or today's 20+ year old entrepreneur who just graduated from RIT but also started her own business and made millions . . .
Envy is never, ever a good thing to allow to fester -- especially when we each have so much to be grateful for.
The other day, as I was driving along the snow swept highway to visit a client and feeling a little down about absolutely nothing, an old Nik Kershaw song came on the air and the lyrics made me laugh. "I got it bad, you don't know how bad I got it. You got it easy, you don't know when you've got it good."
Wouldn't it be good to be in your shoes even if it was for just one day?
In a semi-related note, why are Nik Kershaw and Marshall Crenshaw inexplicably intertwined in my synapses?
Envy is never, ever a good thing to allow to fester -- especially when we each have so much to be grateful for.
The other day, as I was driving along the snow swept highway to visit a client and feeling a little down about absolutely nothing, an old Nik Kershaw song came on the air and the lyrics made me laugh. "I got it bad, you don't know how bad I got it. You got it easy, you don't know when you've got it good."
Wouldn't it be good to be in your shoes even if it was for just one day?
In a semi-related note, why are Nik Kershaw and Marshall Crenshaw inexplicably intertwined in my synapses?
Friday, January 21, 2011
Gone Daddy Gone
I was on a WebEx this morning when the host's cell phone rang. Wait, I recognize that xylophone!
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Photo Per Day #20: Chinchillin'
Today's guest photo was swiped from the Internets courtesy of our friend Stan Merrell's Facebook page. Stan, who was dubbed the "omnipresent documentarian of western New York culture" by local music critic Jeff Spevak, captured a colorful, shadowy shot of last night's Chinchillas show at our favorite hotspot Abilene. Thanks Stan!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Rock n' Roll behind the Suit
Yesterday, one of my favorite clients, who is roughly my age, was telling me that he couldn’t schedule our next conference call for Friday because it conflicted with his guitar lesson which is sacrosanct. I shared that my hubby played lead guitar in a bunch of bands and asked him if he, too, had guitars and amps in his living room (i.e., not bearing the Martha Stewart seal of approval). Nope, he built an entire studio/band pit in his basement, complete with drum set, so no one would have to lug gear to his house in order to jam. Must be nice, huh!
Client: I bet your husband and I would get along great.
Me: What kind of music do you play?
Client: My son plays in an alternative band but I think our band is leaning toward Christian rock.
Me: Christian rock? Yeah, you haven’t met my husband. I don’t think he and you would get along that famously . . .
Client: Well, I also play a lot of Rush, Led Zeppelin, The Stones and The Who.
Game, set, no match.
On a related note, this song never gets old. Never.
Client: I bet your husband and I would get along great.
Me: What kind of music do you play?
Client: My son plays in an alternative band but I think our band is leaning toward Christian rock.
Me: Christian rock? Yeah, you haven’t met my husband. I don’t think he and you would get along that famously . . .
Client: Well, I also play a lot of Rush, Led Zeppelin, The Stones and The Who.
Game, set, no match.
On a related note, this song never gets old. Never.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Rated M for Mature
I originally intended to pepper this f*ing post with f-bombs as a tribute to last night's f*ing awesome Green Day show but I can barely f*ing stomach it thus far. So . . . f* that.
For the longest time, I thought I was the sole American idiot who would take an eight year old boy to Green Day. Little did I know, there are thousands of like families in this region alone. Preppy moms with kids in tow. Rocker parents with a litter of young rockers. Dads holding babies. I was not alone. The littlegirl boy in the row in front of us, possibly six years old, had hair down to his waist and spent the entire show playing air guitar and making amazing jumps like a tiny Angus Young. (Funny for the first five minutes. Not quite so endearing thereafter.)
Family friendly indeed. It was like spending the night at Disney World but Mickey and Minnie had been replaced with Ren & Stimpy. Come on kids, let's get drunk and have some fun. F* your parents. F* your teachers. (I kept putting my hands over Son #2's ears. Please, for the love of God, don't f* your parents or teachers.)
Not that any of this was surprising. When you've become famous for your angst-riddled, new generation, anti-war, Sex Pistols-like persona, then you didn't sign up to be a Boy Scout role model. I get it. But f* you anyhow, there are children here.
In addition to the families and expected teens, there was a large number of older couples surrounding us. And by "older," I mean in their late sixties/early seventies. The couple in front of us pounded beer after beer and danced the night away like old folks at a wedding. I was hoping there was a defibrillator nearby just in case the ol' ticker gave way. The tea-totaling, straight-faced, American Gothic couple next to us looked like they put their bong down at Woodstock and became organic farmers in the decades since. The most unlikely Green Day fans ever.
Regardless of where you were in the Green Day fan base bimodal distribution, the f* bombs were a bit much. Asking a 12 year old boy if he'd f*ed a woman yet? The poor kid was probably with his mom. Um, awkward. Introducing Mike Dirnt, the bass player, by telling us he has a huge cock? Come on. He probably already gets laid enough. Unnecessary. The dude next to me kept rolling his eyes. I hear ya Gramps. But in all fairness, this is Green Day (not Doris).
With all that behind me, I have to say, Green Day was a fan-f*ing-tastic live show. Just a great, great time like the rock and roll concerts from my childhood where the music, not the theatrics, was front-and-center. Unlike The Pixies and Weezer, these guys played their hearts out -- for three full hours -- throughout which lead singer Billie Joe Armstrong made comments like "We appreciate that you spent your hard-earned money to come to see us and we're going to give you the show of a lifetime" and "It's an honor to play for you tonight." And I honestly think he meant it. Bless his fuzzy, warm heart.
When it comes to audience engagement, they have all other bands beat. They brought everyone from the pit onto the stage to dance, the previously mentioned boy on stage to sing, and later three audience members (i.e., drummer, bass player and chick guitarist) to play a song. It must have been the dream of a lifetime for these kids -- especially when they told the girl keep her guitar. The crowd went insane.
Actually, the crowd went wild all night long. Like Pavlov's dogs, we collectively waved our arms in the air every time Billie Joe shouted, "get your arms up there." Yeah, how anti-establishment are we now? Punk anarchists who follow the rules. Go figure. He also threw out a gazillion crowd-thrilling references to Buffalo apparently not knowing that he was playing in a giant field between our two fair cities. (Somewhat presciently, he knows that the Bill's are going to win the Superbowl this year. Get your wagers ready.) He even gave a shout out to the Canadians in the crowd. Judging by the cheers, and license plates in the parking lot, this comprised maybe a quarter of the audience. But he only gave a few, lame shout outs to us in short, namby pamby "Buffalo and surrounding areas" references. Yea! That's me! Surrounding area! (I've decided that we need a strong Buffalo, Rochester, Canada coin phrase. I just can't determine what it should be. BuffaCanaRoch? Delightful.)
In a bizarre twist, when introducing musician Jason Freese, the crowd cheered like crazy. When Billie Joe followed up to say he used to play with the Goo Goo Dolls, there was an odd silence. Here in the epicenter of the Goo Goo Doll Nation, clearly no one gave a s*^t. This begs the question, are the audiences for both bands that divergent? My answer: who cares. (Or, more appropriately, who gives a f*ing s*&^?)
They played a million of their hits; so many that I cannot even begin to list them here. Songs from their new album interspersed with old school hits from the early '90s. Oh and what else you might ask? Introductory chords from songs like Iron Man, Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love, Sweet Child of Mine and Highway to Hell. Great fun. Huge crowd pleasers. We even sang the chorus to Hey Jude. Wasn't expecting that . . .
To add icing on the cake, when the lad and I were leaving the venue, a guy from the Green Day crew stopped us and handed Son #2 Tré Cool's drumstick. OMG, you should have seen his face. It was the perfect ending to an (almost) perfect show.
So thanks to my little man for taking me to Green Day. I would never, ever, ever have chosen to go to see this band on my own but I'm extremely grateful for the experience. They are true rock n' roll musicians and amazing, crowd-pleasing performers.
For the longest time, I thought I was the sole American idiot who would take an eight year old boy to Green Day. Little did I know, there are thousands of like families in this region alone. Preppy moms with kids in tow. Rocker parents with a litter of young rockers. Dads holding babies. I was not alone. The little
Family friendly indeed. It was like spending the night at Disney World but Mickey and Minnie had been replaced with Ren & Stimpy. Come on kids, let's get drunk and have some fun. F* your parents. F* your teachers. (I kept putting my hands over Son #2's ears. Please, for the love of God, don't f* your parents or teachers.)
Not that any of this was surprising. When you've become famous for your angst-riddled, new generation, anti-war, Sex Pistols-like persona, then you didn't sign up to be a Boy Scout role model. I get it. But f* you anyhow, there are children here.
In addition to the families and expected teens, there was a large number of older couples surrounding us. And by "older," I mean in their late sixties/early seventies. The couple in front of us pounded beer after beer and danced the night away like old folks at a wedding. I was hoping there was a defibrillator nearby just in case the ol' ticker gave way. The tea-totaling, straight-faced, American Gothic couple next to us looked like they put their bong down at Woodstock and became organic farmers in the decades since. The most unlikely Green Day fans ever.
Regardless of where you were in the Green Day fan base bimodal distribution, the f* bombs were a bit much. Asking a 12 year old boy if he'd f*ed a woman yet? The poor kid was probably with his mom. Um, awkward. Introducing Mike Dirnt, the bass player, by telling us he has a huge cock? Come on. He probably already gets laid enough. Unnecessary. The dude next to me kept rolling his eyes. I hear ya Gramps. But in all fairness, this is Green Day (not Doris).
With all that behind me, I have to say, Green Day was a fan-f*ing-tastic live show. Just a great, great time like the rock and roll concerts from my childhood where the music, not the theatrics, was front-and-center. Unlike The Pixies and Weezer, these guys played their hearts out -- for three full hours -- throughout which lead singer Billie Joe Armstrong made comments like "We appreciate that you spent your hard-earned money to come to see us and we're going to give you the show of a lifetime" and "It's an honor to play for you tonight." And I honestly think he meant it. Bless his fuzzy, warm heart.
When it comes to audience engagement, they have all other bands beat. They brought everyone from the pit onto the stage to dance, the previously mentioned boy on stage to sing, and later three audience members (i.e., drummer, bass player and chick guitarist) to play a song. It must have been the dream of a lifetime for these kids -- especially when they told the girl keep her guitar. The crowd went insane.
Actually, the crowd went wild all night long. Like Pavlov's dogs, we collectively waved our arms in the air every time Billie Joe shouted, "get your arms up there." Yeah, how anti-establishment are we now? Punk anarchists who follow the rules. Go figure. He also threw out a gazillion crowd-thrilling references to Buffalo apparently not knowing that he was playing in a giant field between our two fair cities. (Somewhat presciently, he knows that the Bill's are going to win the Superbowl this year. Get your wagers ready.) He even gave a shout out to the Canadians in the crowd. Judging by the cheers, and license plates in the parking lot, this comprised maybe a quarter of the audience. But he only gave a few, lame shout outs to us in short, namby pamby "Buffalo and surrounding areas" references. Yea! That's me! Surrounding area! (I've decided that we need a strong Buffalo, Rochester, Canada coin phrase. I just can't determine what it should be. BuffaCanaRoch? Delightful.)
In a bizarre twist, when introducing musician Jason Freese, the crowd cheered like crazy. When Billie Joe followed up to say he used to play with the Goo Goo Dolls, there was an odd silence. Here in the epicenter of the Goo Goo Doll Nation, clearly no one gave a s*^t. This begs the question, are the audiences for both bands that divergent? My answer: who cares. (Or, more appropriately, who gives a f*ing s*&^?)
They played a million of their hits; so many that I cannot even begin to list them here. Songs from their new album interspersed with old school hits from the early '90s. Oh and what else you might ask? Introductory chords from songs like Iron Man, Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love, Sweet Child of Mine and Highway to Hell. Great fun. Huge crowd pleasers. We even sang the chorus to Hey Jude. Wasn't expecting that . . .
To add icing on the cake, when the lad and I were leaving the venue, a guy from the Green Day crew stopped us and handed Son #2 Tré Cool's drumstick. OMG, you should have seen his face. It was the perfect ending to an (almost) perfect show.
So thanks to my little man for taking me to Green Day. I would never, ever, ever have chosen to go to see this band on my own but I'm extremely grateful for the experience. They are true rock n' roll musicians and amazing, crowd-pleasing performers.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Boy in the Plastic Bubble
On Friday night, I dragged the hubby to see the Flaming Lips at CMAC. True to form, it was a sensory explosion of lights, lasers, giant colored balloons, streaming confetti and beautiful, but deafening, sound. The giant, multimedia, onstage screen showed everything from trippy Woodstock-like images to footage of naked chicks dancing -- including the band emerging, womb-like, from a larger-than-life woman's light-emitting genitals. (You don't see that every day.)
As expected, the lead singer and major cutie, Wayne, crowd-surfed in a man-sized, plastic bubble. I have to believe that this is probably easier, or more dignified, when not rolling up/down a hillside. He was falling on his face a bit. (All in a day's work.) Legions of people were dancing on stage in orange, prison uniforms or orange dresses except the man in the over-sized, furry bunny costume who was more tastefully dressed. I heard later that the dancers were hand-picked locals which would explain why they barely had any rhythm. The talent scouts should have consulted with me before casting. I could have rounded up some babe-a-licious friends who can shake their booties with style. Next time: call me. (Insert pinky to lips/thumb to ear.)
The crowd was a mix of hippies (read: prep school kids) and middle aged suburban folks (read: us). As a result, the air was a delicate co-mingling of pot smoke and bug spray. The hubby offered me a dollar for every black person in the audience; I would have been better off spotting the misguided youth who were being escorted (or wheeled) out by security. Hey kids, save your drugs for a concert where the psychedelics aren't part of the actual show.
Aside: If I were the older dude wearing silver goggles and the suit/hat affixed with a case of Cheetos, I would have run for my life after the show when the munchies got the best of the audience. Just sayin' -- pick your outfits wisely.
For those of us who made it through the show without passing out like the slacker in the Batman cape next to us (or, in the hubby's case, feigning sleep), I'd say it was money well spent. (My husband would disagree. He wants both his $ and his eardrums back.)
I'm thrilled that they played their hit, Do You Realize, during the encore and a just a little sad that they didn't play Fight Test. The hubby is thrilled that it's over and a little sad that Wayne kept stating, rapid-fire, "come on, come on, come on" to get people engaged or "thank you, thank you, thank you."
But I had fun. So, to the Flaming Lips, my husband who joined me and my mom who watched the kids, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
As expected, the lead singer and major cutie, Wayne, crowd-surfed in a man-sized, plastic bubble. I have to believe that this is probably easier, or more dignified, when not rolling up/down a hillside. He was falling on his face a bit. (All in a day's work.) Legions of people were dancing on stage in orange, prison uniforms or orange dresses except the man in the over-sized, furry bunny costume who was more tastefully dressed. I heard later that the dancers were hand-picked locals which would explain why they barely had any rhythm. The talent scouts should have consulted with me before casting. I could have rounded up some babe-a-licious friends who can shake their booties with style. Next time: call me. (Insert pinky to lips/thumb to ear.)
The crowd was a mix of hippies (read: prep school kids) and middle aged suburban folks (read: us). As a result, the air was a delicate co-mingling of pot smoke and bug spray. The hubby offered me a dollar for every black person in the audience; I would have been better off spotting the misguided youth who were being escorted (or wheeled) out by security. Hey kids, save your drugs for a concert where the psychedelics aren't part of the actual show.
Aside: If I were the older dude wearing silver goggles and the suit/hat affixed with a case of Cheetos, I would have run for my life after the show when the munchies got the best of the audience. Just sayin' -- pick your outfits wisely.
For those of us who made it through the show without passing out like the slacker in the Batman cape next to us (or, in the hubby's case, feigning sleep), I'd say it was money well spent. (My husband would disagree. He wants both his $ and his eardrums back.)
I'm thrilled that they played their hit, Do You Realize, during the encore and a just a little sad that they didn't play Fight Test. The hubby is thrilled that it's over and a little sad that Wayne kept stating, rapid-fire, "come on, come on, come on" to get people engaged or "thank you, thank you, thank you."
But I had fun. So, to the Flaming Lips, my husband who joined me and my mom who watched the kids, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
You and Your Heart
A Jack Johnson song was playing last Saturday at the Crow's Nest as we ate lunch on the patio and watched the boats pass by.
Perfect music for a perfect summer day. Sunshine. Tubing. Swimming.
Now I can't stop listening to him as I sit in my sunshine-y office and write pages upon pages of copy for a client's website. And I love, love, love this client. So maybe I can inject a warm summer breeze into the mission critical, MIL-spec, JIT, lean six sigma gobbledygook that I'm spewing?
Cause you and your heart
Shouldn't feel so far apart
You can choose what you take
Why you gotta break and make it feel so hard
Perfect music for a perfect summer day. Sunshine. Tubing. Swimming.
Now I can't stop listening to him as I sit in my sunshine-y office and write pages upon pages of copy for a client's website. And I love, love, love this client. So maybe I can inject a warm summer breeze into the mission critical, MIL-spec, JIT, lean six sigma gobbledygook that I'm spewing?
Cause you and your heart
Shouldn't feel so far apart
You can choose what you take
Why you gotta break and make it feel so hard
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Higher Ground
In 1994, I spent "Holy Week" with my girlfriends Melinda (American) and Margaroo (Australian) visiting another friend, Anita (Irish), in London. I put it in quotes 'cause there was nothing particularly holy about that week for us. We spent the days shopping and the nights in restaurants and/or at shows.
Just being elsewhere is fun. Yet being anywhere with Melinda is fun. I could tour a rendering plant with her and get the giggles. Melinda is the epitome of the loud American; however, thankfully, she's also beautiful so she can get away with it. Big smile. Warm personality. Non-stop entertainment.
Anita's flat, at the time, was in Croydon which is a short train ride into the London city center. So every day Melinda would unintentionally have the entire train car laughing at her antics. Everyone loved her. Young men. Old women. Babies. Margaret and I thought it was hilarious. Anita, on the other hand, was absolutely mortified.
Having had enough of us toward the end of the week, Anita went out with other friends so we were left to fend for ourselves. Not knowing what to do, we walked into Croydon that evening looking for a pub. Being Holy Saturday, everything was closed. They're clearly more observant in Croydon than expected or desired. We were directed by a passerby to a disco but, upon arriving, weren't allowed in because we were in jeans. Oh no, where else can we go? The bouncer told us that there was only one other bar open that night: The Blue Anchor. Okey dokey. Sounds good to us!
So there we were: three fresh-faced girls in bright, preppy clothes, including Melinda in a short, vivid red raincoat, stepping over a large number of barely visible people who were splayed across the floor in a blackened hallway (doing God-only-knows-what) just to get into the only pub that would serve us. We entered a dark pub filled to the brim with leather coated, tattooed, grimacing, metal heads. Hi! It's us! (Can you spot the tourists?) As difficult as it was to get to the bar, we somehow managed -- where there's a will, there's a way. And then we never left. We spent the night fully immersed in dangerously high decibels of Green Day, Faith No More, Nirvana, STP, Hole, Radio Head and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. At some point we started dancing with the locals. We were finally kicked out at closing time.
Whew! Happy Easter!
We awoke on Easter Sunday with neck aches from a night of head banging. Literally. I could barely move my noggin from violently shaking it due to an abundance of overindulgent, "when in Rome" dance-like-the-natives moves. To recover, slowly, we went to the cold, gray beach in Brighton with Anita and her snobby, self-absorbed, not-fun-at-all friends who refused to partake in any of the arcade games.
Even 16 years later, this ranks as one of the best nights ever followed by a dreary day jam-packed with colossal buzz kill. And to this day, I would much rather be noticeably embarrassed with happy-go-lucky friends than invisibly carrying on a boring, politically correct conversation with elitist wannabes.
I just want to dance.
I'm so darn glad He let me try it again,
'Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin.
I'm so glad that I know more than I knew then.
Gonna keep on tryin' till I reach the highest ground.
Just being elsewhere is fun. Yet being anywhere with Melinda is fun. I could tour a rendering plant with her and get the giggles. Melinda is the epitome of the loud American; however, thankfully, she's also beautiful so she can get away with it. Big smile. Warm personality. Non-stop entertainment.
Anita's flat, at the time, was in Croydon which is a short train ride into the London city center. So every day Melinda would unintentionally have the entire train car laughing at her antics. Everyone loved her. Young men. Old women. Babies. Margaret and I thought it was hilarious. Anita, on the other hand, was absolutely mortified.
Having had enough of us toward the end of the week, Anita went out with other friends so we were left to fend for ourselves. Not knowing what to do, we walked into Croydon that evening looking for a pub. Being Holy Saturday, everything was closed. They're clearly more observant in Croydon than expected or desired. We were directed by a passerby to a disco but, upon arriving, weren't allowed in because we were in jeans. Oh no, where else can we go? The bouncer told us that there was only one other bar open that night: The Blue Anchor. Okey dokey. Sounds good to us!
So there we were: three fresh-faced girls in bright, preppy clothes, including Melinda in a short, vivid red raincoat, stepping over a large number of barely visible people who were splayed across the floor in a blackened hallway (doing God-only-knows-what) just to get into the only pub that would serve us. We entered a dark pub filled to the brim with leather coated, tattooed, grimacing, metal heads. Hi! It's us! (Can you spot the tourists?) As difficult as it was to get to the bar, we somehow managed -- where there's a will, there's a way. And then we never left. We spent the night fully immersed in dangerously high decibels of Green Day, Faith No More, Nirvana, STP, Hole, Radio Head and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. At some point we started dancing with the locals. We were finally kicked out at closing time.
Whew! Happy Easter!
We awoke on Easter Sunday with neck aches from a night of head banging. Literally. I could barely move my noggin from violently shaking it due to an abundance of overindulgent, "when in Rome" dance-like-the-natives moves. To recover, slowly, we went to the cold, gray beach in Brighton with Anita and her snobby, self-absorbed, not-fun-at-all friends who refused to partake in any of the arcade games.
Even 16 years later, this ranks as one of the best nights ever followed by a dreary day jam-packed with colossal buzz kill. And to this day, I would much rather be noticeably embarrassed with happy-go-lucky friends than invisibly carrying on a boring, politically correct conversation with elitist wannabes.
I just want to dance.
I'm so darn glad He let me try it again,
'Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin.
I'm so glad that I know more than I knew then.
Gonna keep on tryin' till I reach the highest ground.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Power Pop
I can't believe it's been over a week since I wrote in this space. Life is definitely taking over. But during that time frame, I had a really, really nice weekend with one of my BFF's, Margaroo, who was in town briefly from Australia. We didn't actually do much of anything but we hung out, ate cheeseburgers, visited our alma mater to buy t-shirts, took a walk along the pier, watched movies, and chatted about all of our typical mutual interests from music to (of course) God.
Thanks to the hubby for allowing (nay, encouraging) my parental absence for days and thanks to Mroo for driving all the way up here just to sit around!
Spiritual path aside, one question that Marg posed still has me baffled. When people ask "what type of music are you into," how do you respond? My typical response is "alternative" but even my version of alternative isn't really alternative anymore. It's mainstream alternative, if there is such a thing, and it's barely current. Nothing edge-of-your-seat underground for sure. But, then again, many of my friends have never heard of some of the mainstream bands I've liked over the past few years (e.g., Wilco, Rilo Kiley, Travel by Sea, New Pornographers) including Margaret's favorite, Supergrass.
On the radio yesterday, I heard an old school favorite: Matthew Sweet. As I sang along, I thought maybe "power pop" might be a better qualification. That definition allows my musical taste to span many decades and doesn't imply that I'm onto anything really cool. Now I have to Google what power pop really means . . .
Thanks to the hubby for allowing (nay, encouraging) my parental absence for days and thanks to Mroo for driving all the way up here just to sit around!
Spiritual path aside, one question that Marg posed still has me baffled. When people ask "what type of music are you into," how do you respond? My typical response is "alternative" but even my version of alternative isn't really alternative anymore. It's mainstream alternative, if there is such a thing, and it's barely current. Nothing edge-of-your-seat underground for sure. But, then again, many of my friends have never heard of some of the mainstream bands I've liked over the past few years (e.g., Wilco, Rilo Kiley, Travel by Sea, New Pornographers) including Margaret's favorite, Supergrass.
On the radio yesterday, I heard an old school favorite: Matthew Sweet. As I sang along, I thought maybe "power pop" might be a better qualification. That definition allows my musical taste to span many decades and doesn't imply that I'm onto anything really cool. Now I have to Google what power pop really means . . .
Friday, March 12, 2010
Wonderwall
It's not usually my style to tell other people's stories on this blog (that should be reserved for their blogs) but I heard Oasis on the radio this morning which always reminds me of one of the dads in the neighborhood next to ours. I barely know this man, aside from buying our kitchen floor from him this past year, but he's probably one of the funniest people I've ever met.
He's also a gigantic fan of Oasis and claims that the band changed his life. Specifically, "Oasis rocked my world."
One weekend a friend of his, a concert promoter in Philadelphia, invited him down to an Oasis concert. Backstage passes. The whole nine yards. Turns out that afterward, Oasis was playing a private show at an upscale nightclub in Atlantic City. These guys ended up getting invited by the band, taking a limo to Atlantic City in the wee hours of the morning and attending this private party filled with rich and famous people.
To make his story even more over-the-top, the party was sponsored by some high-end, Grey Goose-like liquor brand and atop the bar were a string of almost-naked, dancing models who were wearing, based on his description, a light steel-rim contraption that served as a bra (of sorts) complete with motorized propellers over the boobs.
Of course, this 40-something man -- who left his wife and kids at home in suburbia -- was completely agog. Just as he was ordering his martini, the model directly above him, stepped down from her perch to take a break and stood right next to him for a moment. He looked her in the eye and said, "You are so hot."
She replied, "No shit."
And then she walked away.
I simply love the obviousness of her response. No shit.
He's also a gigantic fan of Oasis and claims that the band changed his life. Specifically, "Oasis rocked my world."
One weekend a friend of his, a concert promoter in Philadelphia, invited him down to an Oasis concert. Backstage passes. The whole nine yards. Turns out that afterward, Oasis was playing a private show at an upscale nightclub in Atlantic City. These guys ended up getting invited by the band, taking a limo to Atlantic City in the wee hours of the morning and attending this private party filled with rich and famous people.
To make his story even more over-the-top, the party was sponsored by some high-end, Grey Goose-like liquor brand and atop the bar were a string of almost-naked, dancing models who were wearing, based on his description, a light steel-rim contraption that served as a bra (of sorts) complete with motorized propellers over the boobs.
Of course, this 40-something man -- who left his wife and kids at home in suburbia -- was completely agog. Just as he was ordering his martini, the model directly above him, stepped down from her perch to take a break and stood right next to him for a moment. He looked her in the eye and said, "You are so hot."
She replied, "No shit."
And then she walked away.
I simply love the obviousness of her response. No shit.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Spoon
Last Sunday, the New York Times ran a great story about the band Spoon. I definitely think Spoon is fantabulous and deserves more recognition (even if they're named after the one verb that men dislike the most) but then I came across the following line, "In December the online review aggregator Metacritic named Spoon the best artist of the decade, above acts like Radiohead and the White Stripes."
Above Radiohead? What the . . . ? Nobody puts Radiohead in a corner. Karma police, arrest this man.
Above Radiohead? What the . . . ? Nobody puts Radiohead in a corner. Karma police, arrest this man.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Baby It's Cold Outside
I have only heard my favorite (secular) Christmas song on the radio once this year. Boo friggin' hoo! But, for whatever reason, I keep hearing this. Ergo, I keep singing this. And, per my latest girl crush, I just downloaded the Leon Redbone/Zooey Deschanel version. So sweet. So really I'd better scurry . . .
Baby It's Cold Outside
Christine | MySpace Video
Baby It's Cold Outside
Christine | MySpace Video
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