Radical Transparency

Hal asked me about Michael Jackson tonight.

What kind of guy was he? Was he really a musician? He wasn't just a dancer that had other people write music for him? Why did he wear red lipstick? Why does a person wear red lipstick? Is there any reason for anyone, ever, under any circumstances, to wear red lipstick?

He told me he wasn't sure about Michael Jackson. He'd be interested to hear what people that knew him thought of him.

Then he told me that there are some musicians he really does like.

The three tenors, for example. And the guy I met in Israel. What's his name? Leonard Bernstein. I like him. And then there's the one that runs around on stage with a violin. You know who I mean?

I didn't, but Hal wasn't convinced...

H: You know who I mean. He's on TV all the time. And he plays all kinds of music. Really fast. One song to the next. Jumping around the whole time. You know that guy, right?
J: No idea. I don't really watch much TV...
H: Oh he's famous. He's been around forever. You've seen him.
J: Maybe if I heard his name or saw a picture...
H: No no. You know him. He has the violin in one hand, and he conducts the orchestra with the other. Shit. What's his name?
J: Maybe he was before my time?
H: Oh no way. He's probably on tour now. It's a whole big show. Jumping around all over the stage with a violin. And great music. Music everyone likes.
J: Hmmm. Well. Sounds awesome. I guess I'm drawing a blank...
H: Yeah. We both are. I'll tell you when I remember his name. You'll know him.

And maybe I will.

This doesn't work. FYI.

But maybe a blog post will...

I'm looking for a song. With lots of do do do dos.

A woman sings it, a singer to whom I remember my mother listening sometimes. Not as much as she listened to Tracy Chapman or Cat Stevens or Sam Cooke. But sometimes, which is kind of a lot.

The song doesn't have many rhymes. Maybe no rhymes at all, actually. That might be its thing: no rhymes. Which, if you happen to be writing a song for me, is probably a thing to avoid. I like rhymes.

Another one of the song's things is that the singer kinda talks it as much as she sings it. Which is an ok thing by me. Much better, in general, than the no rhymes thing.

The song also connects in my mind to In Liverpool. Maybe because Suzanne Vega sings them both. But maybe not.

Also, through In Liverpool, the song lives in a box in my memory with Fee and No Woman, No Cry. All three were on the first mixtape anyone ever gave me.  The do do do do song was not on that mixtape. Nor is this information relevant. I'm taking notes at this point. Notes about that first mixtape...

Fee, I liked immediately and still adore.

No Woman, No Cry I did not like, and that fact STILL blows my mind. It's still embarrassing. And it makes me sad. For myself at age 10 or however old I was. And for everyone else in the world that doesn't love No Woman, No Cry. I was missing out; so are those people.

The mixtape had two sides, each with different labels. One was called Like It's My Job. The other was called Like There's No Tomorrow. Both of those titles referred to peeing. I have to pee like it's my job. I have to pee like there's no tomorrow. Sanna, the babysitter that made me the mix, said those things, and I thought they were hilarious.

I think 10 is embarrassingly old to be answering to a babysitter. I'm pretty sure I thought that at the time too. But I also don't think I was the reason Sanna was around. My sister and cousins are all younger, and she was certainly in more charge of them than me. I think.

Anyway, it's time to wrap this up and post No Woman, No Cry. It's track 5 on Live! And it led off one of the two sides of that mixtape.

Click here to download:

No Woman, No Cry.mp3 (6573 KB)

Why are there so many gypsies in rock and roll?

Or is this just my imagination?

Of course, the only example my faulty memory can offer at the moment is Melissa by The Allman Brothers Band, and all my Eat a Peach tracks are scratchy and unpostworthy.

All of which leads me to the conclusion that the internets need a catalog of all beautiful and brilliant and otherwise influential gypsy lyrics.

Mom had a bunch of us cousins over for dinner on Friday.

Apparently I was attacked by an invisible vampire bat or something.

And, apparently, the moment was so traumatic (mind-blowing, life-changing) that I don't remember a thing.  Which is kind of a bummer.  Unless I'm a vampire now.  In which case, no big deal.

Catching up on The Bloggess, and I just learned that raccoons don't have saliva.  Granted, comments of the day from Bloggess readers are not the most reliable sources of zoological information (does zoology include saliva?), but, even if that's totally made up, isn't the thought of a saliva-less mouth really weird?  Like sort of unimaginable?  From the mouth perspective, anyway?  I mean we have seen snake and chameleon tongues, and, even if snakes and chamelons do have saliva, it looks to me like they don't, so my imagination can clearly handle the concept.  If a reptile is involved.  Or a fish, I guess.  Though I wonder if it's fair to call those things in the toungue-place in fish-mouths tongues.  Might we be anthropromorphizing, and the real function of the fishy-tonguey-thing is short term memory?  Though maybe it's not fair of me to define tongue so narrowly.  Who said tongues had to taste, and weren't allowed to remember or farm water-aphids?  If water-aphids exist and are beneficial to certain fish and their saliva-less raccoon tongues.

Ok.  Enough.  Sorry.  I get like this when I read The Bloggess.  It's weird.

Fun when you learn about a musician, start listening, dig the music, get deeper, and then find a song you already kind of knew.  Somehow.  From somewhere.  Vaguely.

Romeo's Tune is track 1 on Jackrabbit Slim.

Click here to download:

01 Romeo's Tune.mp3 (3320 KB)

Thought about Kip today.  I often think about Kip.



And I often misquote that scene.  My Kip voice always says:

You're just jealous because I've been chatting online with hot babes all afternoon

Which is almost the right line.  Not quite.  But close.  Not sure if I'm going to stick with my version or adjust for accuracy.  Not easy to stray from a sentence you've grown to love.

I wonder how often we remember the first time we heard a song, where we were, what was going on, who put it on, and why.

I heard this song on a dirt road in Michigan last August. I asked the friend in the back seat, the most musical among us, to play something nobody else had heard.
 
I was impressed.

Ragged Wood is track 3 on Fleet Foxes.

Click here to download:

03 Ragged Wood.mp3 (7204 KB)

The Carrot Project has me too excited to sleep much at night, and I'm starting to feel that ominous scratchy in the back of my throat, so I decided I needed a nap.

As I was settling into the couch, I remembered a Facebook status message from a couple of weeks ago:

Martha Blake is taking a loud music nap.

I took those at boarding school all the time. In CT's reclining dentist chair.

Bob Dylan Desire.
Beck Odelay.
The Temptations.
Let It Be.
Rusted Root.
Phish Billy Breathes.
Tupac.

Damn. Those were some great naps.

But I decided for low volume today, and, in honor of Martha, I fell asleep to Langhorne Slim.

Then I dreamt like crazy, stirred after every little episode, told myself to remember, forgot everything, and woke up 30 minutes later to Lauryn Hill philosophy.

Interlude 3 and I Find It Hard to Say (Rebel) are tracks 8 and 9 on disc 1 Lauryn's MTV Unplugged Set.

Click here to download:

08 Interlude 3.mp3 (3104 KB)

Click here to download:

09 I Find It Hard to Say (Rebel).mp3 (6413 KB)

I just read the first chapter of East of Eden again.  Because I couldn't resist.  Too good not to want back in, even if just for a moment.

And, of course, as not so secretly expected, I found something new.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers.

I don't have those kinds of memories.  I have snapshots and impressions and a handful of incomplete, skeletal stories, but I don't remember my imagination.  Not as far back as childhood names for grasses anyway.

I can tap imagination memory a little bit in relation to sports and music.  I remember counting down, commentating, and launching three pointers to take playoff games to OT.  I remember walking out on a spotlit stage, long hair swinging, and hearing the crowd explode as I picked up my guitar.

But I think that's where it stops.  Or that's where my access stops.  At the moment anyway.  I do hear faint echoes of crawling around pretending to be animals.  I know stories of my days dressed up as Robin Hood and carrying a quarterstaff.  I can't imagine my mind wasn't racing all day every day.  And I hope I'll someday dig deeper into those memories.

But not today.  No secret flowers for me.